Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
Friends I have made
By George Manville Fenn
Published by Cassell, Petter, Galpin & Co, London, Paris, New York.
This edition dated 1883.
Friends I have made, by George Manville Fenn.
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This version was made from a set of scans that were actually defective.
Two sets of sixteen pages were missing, resulting in the absence of
chapters 10, 11 and 16. In addition some text is missing from chapters
15 and 18. Since the book consists of a collection of almost unrelated
anecdotes it was felt worth our while to make available as much as we
can, as it is certain that a better set of scans of this book may become
available, for instance from the microfilmed set held by Cambridge
University. There are 21 chapters, of which we present 16 in full,
and two with a few paragraphs missing.
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FRIENDS I HAVE MADE, BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN.
CHAPTER ONE.
MY LIFE.
May I ask your patience while I introduce myself--the writer of the
following chapters? I am sitting before the looking-glass at the end of
my room as I write, I not from any vanity, you will readily perceive
that as you read on--but so that I may try and reflect with my ink the
picture that I wish to present to you of a rather sad--I only say
_rather_, for, upon the whole, I am very cheerful,--thin, pale,
careworn-looking woman, with hair that has long been scant and grey--
whiter, perhaps, than that of many people at eight-and-forty.
Eight-and-forty! What a great age that seems to the young; and yet how
few the years, save in one period of my life, have appeared to me! At
times I can hardly realise that I am decidedly elderly, so busy has been
my life, so swiftly has it glided away, thinking so much as I have of
other people and their lives as well as of my own.
I never knew how it was, but, somehow, those with whom I came in contact
always seemed to look upon me, because I had had trouble, as one in whom
they could confide. I never sought their confidence, but when some
weary wayfarer in life's journey has held out a hand to me, asking help
or advice, it has grown into my pleasure to try and aid or counsel as
far as in me lay. And it is strange how relieved some have been, what a
quiet solace it has seemed, to pour out into my sympathetic ear the
salient passages of their troubled lives. "You have suffered, so you
can feel," has always seemed to be the thought, expressed or
unexpressed, of their hearts, and hence, without being inquisitive, I
have been made the storehouse, so to speak, of that which I without any
breach of confidence propose to tell.
I should first, though, tell you of myself, for why should I lay bare
the sorrows of others without prefacing them with my own?
A strangely quiet, uneventful life mine has been; its incidents simple,
its troubles many, and its pleasures--I was about to say few, but that
would be false, for its pleasures have been great. They have not been
the boisterous joys that fall to the lot of some; but, feeling, as I do
most thoroughly now, that the greatest delights, the purest and most
unalloyed are those which are unselfish, I can think and believe that my
pleasures have been many.
I will, then, tell you my own little history first, slight as it is, and
you may, in reading, find that it is the key-note to the simple chords
that I afterwards strike in passing, and perhaps it will explain why
others have come to me to tell me what they knew.
It is a tale of early sorrow, but you shall hear, and you will bear with
me when I tell you that the wound has never healed, and if I put my hand
above it, the place still throbs, even as it will beat and ache till
kindly nature says to me, "Sleep, poor weary one, and rest." And then
peacefully, trustingly, and with a simple hope of forgiveness, may I
sleep that long sleep which they say so flippantly has no end; but which
has a waking, as every lesson which we learn in life persists in
teaching.
You will smile, perhaps, when I tell you that I was once what people
call pretty--that this pale, lined face was once plump and rosy, these
sad eyes bright, and this grey scant hair golden-brown, long, and
flowing. But why should I think you would smile? Do I not know that
you must have seen the gay young plant putting out its tender leaves in
spring, growing green and luxuriant of foliage in summer, ripe and ruddy
in autumn, and grey, bent, and withered in age? And should I be pitied
because I have but followed in the way of nature? Surely not. It is
not for that I ask your sympathy, but for the blight that fell upon the
young plant, and seared and scathed it so that it seemed for months as
if it would die; but it lived, as I have lived to tell you this.
Do you know that wondrous feeling which comes in the early year, and
that strange sense of keen delight, that elasticity of spirit, when,
full of youth and hope, the very tears of joyous sensibility start to
the eyes as you wander amidst the trees and flowers in spring? I
remember how I felt, oh! so well, even though it is now thirty years
ago, and I was but eighteen.
Jack and I were engaged. It was all such a simple, homely affair. We
had known one another for years--the children of neighbouring farmers.
Jack--I still call him by the simple old pet name of those days--Jack
had been away at a good school, and being bright, and shrewd, and
clever, he had won his way on, taking to engineering instead of his
father's farm life; and now it had come to this, that he had been
staying at home for a month, previous to going out to a good appointment
in Melbourne.
That month in spring, how it passed! We had met again and again, and in
his honest, manly way he had asked me to be his wife.
"You know, Grace, that I have always loved you," he said; "and now I
have hopes and prospects, it cannot be wrong to ask you for your
promise."
We were walking by the river-side as he said this, and how well I can
picture it all--the soft gliding water mirroring the trees on the
opposite bank, the young green buds just breaking from their cases, and,
above all, the soft tender blue of the spring sky--the blue, he had told
me, that was like my eyes.
"Do you want me to promise, Jack?" I said, simply, as I looked up in
his face.
"No, darling; I am satisfied," he cried, as his strong arms held me to
his broad breast, and that was all. No oaths could have bound me more
tightly to him. I felt that I was his wife when he should come to claim
me some day--when?
We were late that evening, and entered the house shyly, for there had
been so much to talk of and plan. In a month's time Jack was to sail
for Melbourne; then he was to work very hard for three years, and come
and fetch me to be his wife.
That month glided by, and the last day had come. It was, as I told you,
spring-time--joyous spring-time, with the hawthorn's snowy blossoms, the
apple-trees pink; and the pear-trees pearly with their pyramids of
flowers. Every meadow I passed was starred with golden buttercups, and
from every spray the birds trilled or jerked forth their merry songs of
hope and love.
I could not feel sad, even though I was going to meet Jack for the last
walk before he went away; but mingled with the feeling of ecstasy there
was a strange tearfulness of eye, and my breath would come at times with
a sob.
He was by the stile, waiting for me--the stile down by the long mead,
half-way between the two farms--and as he took my hand in his, we
neither of us spoke, but stood gazing away over woodland and meadow, all
clad in their wondrous beauty, and listened to the birds. Now it was
the soft tender coo of the stock-dove from the wood, now the jerked-out
twittering song of the linnets; then, soft and mellow, from the thick
hedgerows floated towards us the fluty notes of the blackbird, while far
on high trilled away the larks, singing one against the other to their
mates, sitting in the tall grass of the golden meads.
We could not talk, our hearts were too full, for Jack was to be off at
daybreak the next morning. But there was no need for words. We loved
each other in the simple nature-taught way that has been since the world
began, and we knew that every joyous song around that thrilled upon our
ears meant love, and even in our sorrow we were happy.
"Only three years, darling," Jack whispered to me, "and then--"
The tears rose to my eyes as I tried to answer him, but I could not
speak a word.
"And you will let me find a long letter when I get there?" he said
tenderly.
"Yes, Jack, I promise," I said, and then it was time to return, for the
hours had glided by, how we could not tell.
Jack spent the evening with us at home, and then he left us hurriedly,
for our farewells had been said in the wood, and it was one hearty kiss,
given and taken before the old people, and then good-bye.
But I saw him pass soon after daybreak, and he saw me, and waved his
hand, for I had sat by the window all night, lest I might let him go by,
and I asleep.
And then time glided on sadly, but pleasantly as well. Mine was a busy
life, for soon my father took to his bed, ill--a bed he never left
again, for he gradually bank and died, leaving my poor mother in very
indifferent circumstances.
It was a hard blow for us both, for he had been one of the kindest and
truest of men; but while poor mother pined and waited, I had my hopeful
days in view, and from time to time letters from dear Jack, all so frank
and honest, and full of trust in the future, that I felt as if I could
not repine, even when greater troubles fell upon me.
For at the end of two years I was standing by the bedside where lay poor
mother sinking fast. She had had no particular ailment, but had
literally pined and wasted away. The bird had lost its mate of many
years, and when at last she kissed me, and said, "Good-bye," it seemed
to me to be in a quiet rest-seeking spirit, and she spoke like one
looking hopefully forward to the meeting with him who had gone before.
But she could think of me even then, and almost the last whispered words
were--
"Only eleven months, Grace, and then he will be back to fetch you."
Poor mother! she would not have passed so peacefully away if she had
known that which I withheld--namely, the news that had come to me from
our lawyer. For, through the failure of the enterprise in which my
father's savings had been invested, and which brought us a little income
of sixty pounds a year, I was left penniless--so poor, in fact, that the
furniture of the cottage in the little town, to which we had moved when
we left the farm, had to be sold to defray the funeral expenses.
It was very hard to bear, and for a month I was terribly depressed; but
there was that great hopeful time ever drawing near--the end of the
three years, when Jack would come to fetch me to be his wife.
It was now for the first time that I remember feeling particular about
my personal appearance, and I studied my glass to see if Jack would find
me looking careworn and thin, and my glass told me truly--yes.
But I had to be up and doing, and before another month was over, through
the kindness of people whom we had known, I was placed where I could
work contentedly for the bread I must earn till Jack should come to
fetch me away.
It was at a large West-end dressmaker's, and it was hard work to get
used to the hurry and excitement of the place, where there were twelve
girls living in the house, and as many more came every day.
There were all kinds of petty pieces of tyranny to submit to at first,
and I suppose some of the foolish girls were jealous of me and my looks,
so much so that I found they nick-named me "The Beauty." Poor girls!
If they had only known how little store I set by my looks, they would
have behaved at first as they did later on.
The first thing that won them to me was when Mary Sanders was taken ill
with a terrible fever. Madame Grainger was for sending her away at
once, on account of her business, and the infection; but the doctor who
was called in, a young, impetuous, but very clever man, told her that it
would be at her peril if she did so, for Mary Sanders' life was in
danger. So the poor girl was shut up in her bedroom, without a soul to
go near her except a hired nurse, and after the first night this woman
stayed away.
No one dared go near the poor girl then, so I timidly asked leave to
nurse her, for I felt no fear of the infection, and it seemed so hard
for her to be left there alone.
I obtained leave, and went upstairs, staying with her till she
recovered; and from that day there was always a kind look for me, and a
kiss from every girl in the place.
What was more, oddly enough, perhaps because I was so quiet and
restrained, first one girl and then another came to make me the
confidante of her love-secrets, and ask my advice.
I gave it, such as it was, though heartsore myself, for Jack's letters
to me had suddenly ceased. We had corresponded so regularly; but it had
struck me that his last two letters had been formal and constrained;
they were full of business matters too, and he had hinted at its being
possible that he should not be able to keep time about the three years,
in consequence of some contract.
I did not think this when I first read these letters, for then I had
kissed and cried over them; but when no reply came to my last, I re-read
them, and the coldness seemed apparent.
But I waited and waited, and then news came from the country. Jack's
father, a widower, had died suddenly; and I said to myself, with
throbbing heart, as I longed to be at his side to try and comfort him in
his affliction, "Poor Jack, he will come home now."
But he did not come, neither did I get any reply to my last two letters.
Another month, and the three years would be up; and as I sat over some
work one spring morning by the open window, with a bunch of violets that
one of the girls had brought me in a glass, the soft breeze that came
floating over the chimney-pots and sooty roofs, wafted to me the scent
of the humble little blossoms, and my eyes became full of tears, for in
an instant the busy work-room had passed away, and I was down home by
the river-side, listening to dear Jack, as he asked me to be his wife.
Only a month! only a month! my pulses seemed to beat; and as it happened
we were all busy upon a large wedding order, and I was stitching away at
the white satin skirt intended for the bride.
I tried so hard to bear it, but I could not, the rush of feelings was
too great. Another month, and he was to have fetched me to be his wife,
and I had not had an answer to my last fond and loving letters.
As I said, I tried so hard to bear it, but I could not, and stifling a
sob, I hurried out of the work-room to reach my attic, threw myself upon
my knees by the bed, and burying my face in my hands, I sobbed as if my
heart would break.
For the terrible thought would come now, fight against it as I
would--"Jack has grown tired of waiting, and has married another."
I fought so hard with the disloyal thought, but it would come, and I was
sobbing passionately, when I felt a soft arm steal round my neck, a
tender cheek laid to mine, and I found my poor tear-dewed face drawn
down upon the bosom of Mary Sanders, who had stolen out of the
work-room, and come up to try and comfort me.
"Pray, pray, don't fret, my darling," she whispered. "Madame will be so
cross. Those wedding things must be in by to-night, and they want you
to help try them on."
I don't know how I got through that day and night, but I believe I did
such duties as were expected from me mechanically, or as if I had been
in a dream, and at night I lay wakeful and weary, with aching eyes and
heart, thinking of that dreadful idea that was trying to force itself
upon me.
I waited till the three years had expired, and then, with what anguish
of heart no words could tell, I wrote to Jack again--my fourth letter--
begging him, imploring him to answer me, if but to tell me he was weary
of his promise, and wished to be set free; and then, making a superhuman
effort over myself, I waited, waited, month by month, for an answer,
though I knew that it must be at least six months before one could come.
I had given up expecting one in the interim, and I was too proud to send
to his relatives--distant ones, whom I had never seen, and who had
probably never heard of me. The thought had taken root now, and grown
to a feeling of certainty: but I waited for my answer.
Three months--six months--nine months passed away, and hope was dead
within my heart. They said I had grown much older and more careworn.
Madame said I worked too hard, and the sharp business woman became quite
motherly in her attentions to me. It was then I learned for the first
time how good and true a woman was she whom I served. Her battle with
the world had made her keen and firm in her dealings with her
work-girls, for hers was no life of ease. The ladies she had to toil
for were exacting and thoughtless to a degree, and constant business
worries had made her at times most cold and strict, but she was always a
lady, and more than once I felt that she must have moved in a sphere
superior to my own. She had of late become most kind to me and pressed
me to have a holiday. But I would not take any change, for work was
like balm, it blunted my thoughts; and knowing that I was daily growing
pale and thin, I still waited.
I knew the girls used to whisper together about me, and think me
strange, but no one knew my secret--not even Madame, who had more than
once sought my confidence; and so twelve months passed away--four years
since Jack had left me.
It was not to a day, but very nearly to the time when he had parted from
me, and it was almost two years since I had heard from him. I was
trying hard to grow patient and contented with my lot, for Madame
Grainger had gradually taken to me, and trusted me, making me more and
more her companion, when one glorious spring morning, as I was coming
out of the breakfast-room to go upstairs to work, she called me into her
little room, where she sat as a rule and attended to her customers'
letters, for she had an extensive _clientele_, and carried on business
in a large private mansion in Welbeck Street.
"Grace, my dear," she said, taking me in her arms, and kissing me, "it
worries me to see you look so ill. Now, what do you say to a fortnight
in the country?"
A fortnight in the country! and at her busiest time, with the London
season coming on.
I thought of that, and then, as I glanced round at the flowers and
inhaled their scents, the bright fields near Templemore Grange floated
before my dimming eyes, a feeling of suffocation came upon me, and the
room seemed to swing round. I believe that for the first time in my
life I should have fainted, so painful were the memories evoked by her
words, when a sharp knock and ring at the door echoed through the house,
following instantly upon the dull fall of a letter, and the sharp click
of the letter-box.
It was like an electric shock to me, and without a word I darted into
the hall, panting with excitement, and my hand at my throat to tear away
the stifling sensation.
But it was a letter. I could see it through the glass in the
letter-box, and I seized it with trembling hands, inspired as it were by
some strange power.
"Jack! dear Jack at last!" I gasped as I turned it over, and saw it was
a strange, blue, official-looking letter, formally directed to me.
Even that did not surprise me. It was from Jack, I knew, and I tore
open the blue envelope.
Yes, I knew it! The inner envelope was covered with Australian
post-marks, and, ignorant as I might be of its contents, I was raising
it to my lips to cover it with passionate kisses, when I saw it was
open.
Then a mist came over my mental vision for a time, but only to clear
away as, half stupefied, I turned the missive over and over, held it
straight for a moment; and then, with a sigh of misery and despair, I
stood mute, and as if turned to stone.
"Grace, my child! In mercy's name tell me--"
It was Madame, who passed her arm round me, and looked horror-stricken
at my white face and lips. The next moment I dimly remember she had
caught the letter--his letter--my letter--from my hand, and read it
aloud: "Mr John Braywood, Markboro, R. County Melbourne," and then, in
her excitement, the great official sentence-like brand upon it--"Dead!"
CHAPTER TWO.
THE SORROWS OF MADAME GRAINGER.
I tried so hard to bear up, to keep secret my loss, but it was all in
vain. My long days of waiting for that answer had weakened and
undermined my constitution, so that I had not strength to bear up
against the shock, and the result was a very serious illness during
which I was given over by the doctors, but somehow they were wrong. The
change was long in coming, but it came, and by degrees I was
convalescent, but only the shadow of my former self.
Poor Madame, as we always called her, the French title as she laughingly
used to tell me, bringing her ten times as many customers as would have
fallen to her lot had she called herself Mrs Grainger, she tended me
through my long illness as if she had been my mother, and I believe she
loved me dearly. At times I had hinted at being sent away; at the
expense and trouble I must be, but she used to lay her hand upon my lips
and kiss my forehead.
"Don't be silly, my child," she said. "You know I make money fast, and
how could I spend what little you cost better than in taking care of
you.
"Grace, my child," she said one night, after a feeble protest on my
part, "sorrow brings people closer together. You are a widow now like I
am, although you never were a wife. We two, my dear, must never part."
I could only kiss her hand and cry silently, as I lay back in my easy
chair, thankful that if I could live my lot would be made less hard to
bear. For all through my weak and weary illness, when I was not
thinking of dear Jack, the thought that I must be up and doing was for
ever intruding itself, and that thought of going out to battle with the
world once more seemed to keep me back.
I need not have troubled about my future, for that was to be my home.
With returning health came greater intimacy, and by degrees I learned
that Madame Grainger's troubles had been greater, perhaps, than mine,
for after a brief spell of married happiness her husband, a clergyman,
had succumbed to poverty and overwork, leaving her almost penniless, to
drift at last into the life she had led and become a busy thriving
woman.
"Yes," she said to me more than once, "I have often regretted the
society in which I used to move, but it is better to depend upon
oneself, Grace, than to be a burden upon one's friends. I offended many
by taking to this life, but I should have ceased to respect myself had I
remained a poverty-stricken widow existing on the charity of those who
blame me the most for my course."
"You must have had a hard fight," I said.
"I did, my child," she replied, "a very hard fight, and it was at a time
when I used to think that it would have been better to have lain down
and died, as just one year before, my poor husband had closed his eyes."
"How well lean recall it all," she said dreamily, "long as it is ago.
You told me your little life Grace, let me tell you mine. Did I ever
say to you that Mr Grainger was a clergyman?"
"Yes," I said, watching her intently, "you told me so."
"Poor fellow!" she said with a sigh, "he asked me quite suddenly one day
to be his wife.
"I was astounded, and yet pleased, and in a moment I had said quietly
that it was impossible.
"Mr Grainger rose from his seat, looking inexpressibly pained, and
walked slowly up and down the room, while I sat back in my chair by the
window, with my heart beating violently, and a sense of suffocation upon
me that was absolutely painful. But I was pained, too, for him: grieved
that he should ever have asked me--more than grieved to have caused him
sorrow. For in his suffering he looked so calm and gentle--he, the
tall, stalwart man, with his fast-greying hair, and countenance marked
with the lines printed by maturing age and thought. He had been so kind
and friendly, too, ever since he had been at the parsonage, and in our
daily work we had been drawn so imperceptibly together, that I had hoped
ours was to be a firm and lasting friendship; and now this meeting
seemed to have brought it to an abrupt conclusion. Suddenly he stopped
before me again, and stood looking down, while I crouched there almost
fascinated by his gaze.
"`Miss Denison--Laura,' he said, in a low soft voice, `you must forgive
me, and if you cannot accede to my proposal, let us be as we have been
during the past happy year.'
"I tried to speak, but he held up his hand.
"`Hear me out, dear friend,' he said, `and let me speak again, for I
still hope that I may have taken you by surprise. I have known you now
for a year.'
"I tried to speak once more--to beg of him that he would let me leave
the room--that he would bring our interview to an end; but my heart went
on still with its heavy beat, and the suffocating sensation was still at
my throat, so that I half lay there with my eyes closed, listening to
his words, every one of which seemed to wake an echo, and increase the
heavy throbbing of my heart.
"`I had a love-dream once,' he said; and his voice became very rich and
soft. `I was tutor in a noble house. There was a daughter there whom I
could have loved, had I but dared. Honour, position, all forbade it.
She was heiress to thirty thousand pounds, and I was the young tutor to
whose care the education of her brother had been trusted. She never
knew my fancy, and I saw her married to a nobleman--happily, I hoped--
while I--I returned to my books.'
"He paused again, and I sat up watching his half-averted face, as in
those few words--so few but so pregnant of meaning--he laid bare to me
his heart; and as he sighed, the heavy throbbing in my breast began to
subside, and a strange feeling of pity for him to grow.
"`I thought it but fair to tell you this,' he said sadly, `to show you
that I have no youthful first love to lay before you; but I felt that
here, in this village, if your lot were joined to mine, the down-hill of
life would be made happy for me, as God knows I would try to make it
ever green and pleasant for you, while those around us should be taught
to bless us for the help we gave. It is no romantic offer,' he said,
more cheerfully. `It is very matter-of-fact, I know, but it was upon
these grounds, dear friend, that I asked you to be my wife.'
"He looked down at me once again, and as our eyes met, something within
me seemed to say, `Withdraw your refusal, and lay those trembling hands
in his, for he is a man that you could love.' But I only shook my head
sadly, as I murmured--
"`No, it could never be!'
"`You are agitated,' he said tenderly, as he took my hand and reverently
kissed it. `I will leave you now. Mine is too solemn a proposal for us
both to be replied to without consideration. Let all be as it was for a
month, and then I will renew my suit. If, after this lapse of time, you
shall think as you do now, believe me, I will never pain the woman whom
I hope to retain as my best and dearest friend, by the faintest allusion
to that which we will agree to bury in the past.'
"`No,' I said, with a firmness which surprised myself. `Stay Mr
Grainger. Let me speak.'
"He bowed his head in his old pleasant manner and took his seat once
more.
"`I must undeceive you now--at once,' I faltered. `It would be cruel to
you--to us both, to let this rest only to be renewed at the month's
end,'
"He bowed his head still lower, and my heart gave a throb of gratitude
as I saw the tender consideration with which he averted his gaze from my
agitated face.
"There was again a terrible silence in the room, broken only by the
distant murmur of the sunlit sea, as it broke upon the fine shingle
three hundred feet below. There was a soft rustle, too, amongst the
leaves around the window, and--I remember it so well--the pale pink
petals of a rose kept falling slowly, fluttering down like the withered
hopes of my past sad life, as I struggled hard for the calmness that
should enable me to speak.
"There was no other man living to whom I could have made this
confession, and not even to him an hour before; but after the way in
which he had bared the secrets of his own heart to my gaze, a bond of
sympathy seemed to have joined us, and something within me forced me to
speak--agitatedly at first, but with a growing calmness, that was even
piteous to me, as I seemed to listen to my own words, and once more
grieved over my sorrows, as if they had been those of another.
"`Ten years ago,' I said, `when I was in my nineteenth year, my mother
in her widowhood and sorrow took this quiet cottage by the sea, to end
her days in calmness and repose.'
"`Yes,' he said, `I know, she died two years ago, beloved by all.' This
in a tone of sympathy that seemed to give me strength.
"`When we first came, we found that there were frequent mistakes made,
for at the great house there was another family named Denison, and
little confusions arose about our letters.'
"`Yes, I have heard of them,' he said pleasantly. `I have studied up
the past history of the village. They were very wealthy, and there was
a beautiful daughter, an heiress.'
"`Yes,' I said, `you are quite right, she was very beautiful and very
rich. She used to call on me, and we were very friendly, for she was
not spoiled by her position, and would have been my inseparable
companion but for the duties I owed to my mother.
"As it was, we used to sit for hours in the nooks of the cliff, reading,
or she would spend her evenings at the cottage, till Mr Denison fetched
her himself, and playfully bantered me, telling me how jealous he was of
her affection for the cottage and its occupants.
"Those were very bright and happy days, and the Isle seemed to us both a
very Eden, though it is as beauteous now as it was then. But our dream
was to be broken, for in consequence of Mr Denison's failing health,
their medical men ordered a change to a more bracing atmosphere, and the
family left to spend a few months in Scotland.
"On the morning when I parted from Julia, I was so low-spirited that it
was hard work to keep back my tears; but I fought with my folly, and
getting the better of my trouble, I took some work and a book to go
along the cliff path, and sit in one of our favourite nooks far above
the sea.
"It was a dangerous place, inasmuch as the way was along a narrow
sheep-track, and the slope down to the beach was very steep; but we were
so accustomed to the giddy cliffs that the idea of danger never crossed
our minds any more than it did those of the village children, who would
run along the edges or scramble down the rock-face where there seemed
hardly foothold for a goat.
"I suppose I must have been there about two hours, not reading or
working, but thinking of how long the time would be before Julia Denison
returned, and there I sat watching the passing vessels far out on the
blue water where it seemed to melt into the sky.
"My musing came to a sudden end, for I felt that it was neglectful of me
to stay away so long, and I began to hurry back.
"To reach the road above, after climbing a zig-zag path, I had to pass
round a bold bluff of chalky rock which projected from the cliff, and
effectually concealed the path on the other side.
"I was so used to the way that I almost ran round, when to my horror and
astonishment I came roughly in contact with a gentleman walking in the
opposite direction.
"I hardly know how it occurred, but partly from the collision, partly in
consequence of my hasty step back, my foot slipped over the edge of the
path, the crumbling stones gave way, and I fell.
"It would have been no very terrible fall, only a severe scratching and
a sprain, for the cliff there was only a steep slope; but I was saved by
the gentleman catching my wrist, and at the expense of a severe wrench,
dragging me back to the path; and before I could recover from the
surprise and the sick faint feeling that came over me, he was carrying
me along the path to a grassy slope, where he tenderly laid me down, and
poured between my lips a few drops of spirit from a flask.
"`Lie still,' he said, in a low, sympathetic voice. `Thank Heaven, my
poor child, you are safe!'
"There was such a tone of command in his voice, and he seemed to imply
that I had been saved from such a terrible danger, that in my weak state
I accepted it all, and with a girl's romantic folly began to feel
gratitude to my preserver, as I lay there blushingly glancing at the
handsome face so full of solicitude that was hanging over me.
"There was something in his words that went to my heart every time he
spoke, and at his wish I did not attempt to move for some time, till he
yielded to my solicitations, and agreed that I was sufficiently
recovered to walk home.
"`You are more hurt than you think, you brave little woman,' he said
tenderly. `There take my arm and I will see you home.'
"`Indeed I can walk,' I said, but a faint cry of pain escaped me as I
tried, for my ankle was slightly sprained, and I was glad to lean upon
him, and accept his escort home.
"`Am I right in thinking I am speaking to Miss Denison?' he said on the
way.
"`Yes,' I said, surprised at the knowledge on the part of a stranger;
`but how did you know?'
"`Know!' he said laughing; `did you suppose that in this little Isle of
Wight a beautiful flower could blossom without its fame reaching through
its length and breadth?'
"I started, hardly knowing whether to feel pleased or annoyed, and my
replies were in monosyllables, till we reached the cottage, greatly to
mamma's surprise and alarm. Here, with the most gentlemanly
consideration, my companion took his leave, and I was helped to the
sofa, where my little sprains were seen to, and the pain soon forgotten.
"Recollect I was but nineteen, and such attentions were quite new to me.
I think, then, I may be excused for listening the next day with
fluttering pulses to a voice that I heard through the open window,
inquiring after my health; then feeling something very near akin to pain
as I heard the retiring footsteps; while when mamma took from the
servant a card and read aloud, `Captain Hansleigh, Raypark Barracks,' a
vivid blush overspread my cheeks, only to deepen as I caught her
searching gaze and heard her sigh.
"I know now how foolish I was to let my weak young heart go forth to the
first fowler that laid for it his snares, but I was innocent and
unskilled then. I was but a girl in ways and thoughts, and the brave,
handsome young officer, who had been in India, and bore a scar upon his
forehead, made the poor weak heart beat whenever he approached. For
what was I--was my argument--that this man, who could pick and choose in
society, should be ever coming over to our cottage to seek me out?
"Then I was, as I said, but young and vain, and in a few short weeks
Julia was almost forgotten in this new, strange, wondrous feeling of
love."
Mr Grange's head went down upon his hand, but I hardly noticed it as I
proceeded, wound up now by a strange desire to tell him all, even though
my heart was torn by the old recollections that were so vivid as I
recalled them from the past.
"Captain Hansleigh was constantly calling. His manner won mamma to his
side, and at, last he told her that he was but a poor officer who loved
his profession and hoped to rise, as he begged her leave to tell me how
he loved me.
"How he loved me! He had already told me a score of times, and I, weak
child, believed and loved again with all my fond young heart, sitting
day after day book in hand, pretending to read, but understanding never
a word, as I listened by the open window for the easy, careless step on
the gravel beneath the vine-clad verandah, till he came by in his easy
_nonchalant_ way, perhaps pretending not to see me as he passed on
towards the door.
"I used to think afterwards that what befel me was a punishment for my
selfish happiness. For I was happy then, listening to the music of his
words, while we wandered along the cliff. The sea with its rich deep
undertones seemed to sing of endless love and joy; there was music in
the very air, sweet music that filled my heart with delight, and I was
blind to all else but the one belief that I breathed in thankfulness
with my prayers from my knees at night, again as my eyes unclosed to the
bright morning, and felt ever beating in every throb of my pulses--`He
loves me! he loves me! he loves me!'
"Three months fled like magic, and still my dream was unbroken. He had
left me, as he won from me my confession that I would be his, and his
alone--that I loved him with all my heart--and then I had in the sorrow
of my parting gone down upon my knees, to thank God for giving me the
love of that great, strong, brave man.
"His regiment was called away to another part, but he had said that he
would be always near in thought, and had questioned me about our family,
and papa, who had died so suddenly; though I did not think it was
strange then, and the recollection of it all did not come to me till
long afterwards.
"His head-quarters were two hundred miles away; but letters would
constantly be passing to and fro, and as soon as the bitterness of the
parting was over I began to look forward to our next meeting, and to
write down my loving thoughts; besides which, I felt how neglectful I
had of late been towards mamma and my ordinary duties. I redoubled then
my efforts, and in these busy occupations the time glided on.
"I wrote almost daily, covering page after page with my fond happiness,
feeling disappointed that the replies were few and short, but reading
the words and investing them with rainbow hues, as I treasured each
expression of fondness, and excused him on the score of his military
duties. `And besides,' I said, `men never write as a woman does; it is
not right they should.'
"It was long before distrust crept into the heart so full of love.
There was no room for other than loyal thoughts. Letters grew fewer and
more brief, but there were always excuses ready, and I wrote to him the
more. But at last constant sapping began to undermine, and though I
fought long and hard, till my cheek was sunken and pale with my
sleepless nights, distrust and doubt carried the citadel one day, when I
had written many letters in a month, and only had one brief reply,
telling me in answer to my agonised inquiries that he was quite well,
but busy. Those two enemies to my peace carried the citadel at last,
for the question now in my mind was--`Does he love me?'
"I could not bear it at first, and an agonising week passed by, during
which I wrote to him again, and then again, imploring him to come to me
if he could, or else to write to me at length, or my heart would break.
"Another week of misery passed away, during which my heart seemed to
sink and wither, while the fount of my tears, long since drained, dried
up. I went about the place like a ghost, or sat watching the lane
through which the postman came.
"At last a letter; I knew that there was one, for seeing me at the
window, instead of looking another way as had been his custom of late,
as soon as he came in sight the postman gave me a friendly nod, and the
next moment waved a letter in the air.
"I darted out to meet him, with feverish haste, caught the letter from
him, and saw that it was in the well-known hand. My mother was in the
passage as I rushed in.
"`From Arthur, mamma, from Arthur!' I panted joyously, and I hurried
into the little parlour, kissing the paper with delight, as I told
myself that here was balm for my sore aching heart--and then a strange
fit of trembling came over me, and I felt cold and as if seized by a
chill.
"I did not dare for a time to open my letter, but at last with my eyes
dim, and dread feeling of sickness upon me, I made the effort and tore
open the envelope. How my thin white fingers trembled as I took out the
enclosure! But my strength came back with the effort I made, and I read
the few lines it contained in the midst of what seemed to be a deadly
calm, wherein feeling and sound were frozen up, and I was as it were
alone.
"The words were very few, saying in measured terms that it would be
better that the engagement should be at an end, for it had been
commenced in error, and could never end in happiness for me. In short,
he had during his absence tried his heart and found that he did not love
me as it would be his duty, and therefore the present course would be
the best for both.
"I remember that I gave a hysterical laugh as I finished the heartless
lines, and then I mocked at myself. But that hard feeling passed away,
and I sank down by the window softened--broken--and as my head went down
upon my hand, I asked for help to bear the bitter, bitter blow that had
bruised and beaten me to the earth.
"I fell into a dreamy state then, from which I was aroused by my poor
mother, who came and knelt beside me. I was quite calm, and placed the
letter in her hands with a sad smile, rising when she had read it, and
kissing her before sitting down and taking up my work.
"I was not ill, but for the next month seemed dull and stunned, trying
to bear all patiently; the greatest pang being when I heard from Julia
Denison that the error of Captain Hanleigh had been that he had mistaken
me for the heiress, to whom he afterwards proposed, and was indignantly
refused."
"That is my story, Mr Grange," I said, rising and standing flushed and
trembling before the second suitor of my bitter life. "It was right
that you should know; and now, good-bye!"
The strength that had sustained me through my narrative was fleeting
fast, and my heart had resumed its painful throbbings, as he stood
before me and took my hand.
"I knew that there must have been some terrible grief," he said in a low
voice full of emotion; "but, Laura, can you tell me truly, for your own
future happiness, and for mine, that this gentle heart can never love
again?"
A thousand thoughts flashed through my mind of endless loving-kindness,
of gentleness to the suffering, of watchful nights by sick couches, of
the many acts of this man for whom the deadliest diseases had no terror
even when others fled. I knew him to be the soul of truth and honour,
and he, had told me of his love. Could I then say that this heart could
never love again, when in spite of sadness, sorrow, and the past, it had
leapt to him even as it had leapt once before? I struggled hard asking
myself if this was not self-deceit, but there was none, and I knew that
if I said no it would be a lie.
He saw it all and knew, for a calm sweet smile of ineffable joy
overspread his face, and the next moment I was sobbing gently on his
breast.
"My dream of happiness was more than fulfilled, Grace," continued Madame
Grainger, "but it was too joyous to last. Two years glided away and
then I was alone once more with a future before me that was one weary
blank. Ah! Grace, how little the world knows of others' sorrows, and
what histories are hidden often behind a smiling face."
CHAPTER THREE.
MY LITTLE HERO.
It was not long after that Madame Grainger gave up business on account
of her ill-health, and the kindness she had rendered to me I was able to
return, nursing her constantly, till one sad day when I found myself
alone--a very dear friend had passed away, almost her last coherent
words being an assurance that I was beyond want; and so I afterwards
found when her solicitors told me that she had left me all of which she
died possessed.
It was some time before I could realise the fact that I possessed an
independence; and at times I hesitated as to whether I should not refuse
to accept what was to me a fortune, but a little consideration showed me
how I could be, as it were, the steward of that which I held in trust,
and there were plenty of ways in which I might dispense help to those
around.
One of my first friends who seemed to ask was little Bill, a boy I used
to meet in my visits to the solicitor's in the City. He was a
diminutive, sharp-faced boy, carrying a bit of stick covered with
india-rubber rings, which, in a shrill, piping voice, he called at a
penny a dozen.
I knew Bill, not personally, but well; and for quite two years we had
often encountered, and sometimes done a little business together. For
Bill had not always sold india-rubber rings, but was engaged in a good
many commercial transactions in our big city, while trying very hard to
solve that most difficult of problems: Given a mouth: how to fill it.
It was Bill who used to shriek after me, "Box o' lyats," and would not
believe that I never smoked and had no use for the cascarilla scented
vesuvians. It was Bill who used to make me nervous to see him in front
of the Mansion House at three o'clock of an afternoon, paddling
barefooted in and out of coach, carriage, cab, and 'bus, like a muddy
imp; now under a wheel almost, now amongst the horses' legs, now nearly
run over, and taking it as a matter of course; but ever fearless and
busy, darting in and out to vend the newspapers beneath his arm.
Up on 'bus steps, beside Hansoms, splashed, earnest, and busy, it was
Bill that was eagerly seeking to earn the universal penny--that
foundation of fortunes. It was Bill that set up an opposition box, and
shrieked, "Clean yer boots, sir. Hey, ear yer are, sir," till the
competition and ferocity of the brigade proved too much for him. It was
Bill who used to run about with three oranges in his hand till they were
sold for a penny. In short, it was Bill, who puzzled me to count up the
sum of his commercial transactions, or the many phases in which he had
presented himself to my notice.
Yes, we were old friends, Bill and I, and to do him justice, I never saw
the boy idle. An old-fashioned boy was he--quite a man in his way.
Used to knocking about, and being knocked about in the streets, his
experience of London life was something startling. Living so much in
the mud and amongst the dregs of our busy city, he always reminded me of
an eel, and well he acted up to his part--little, lissome, and quick, he
would wind in and out of a crowd, no matter how dense, and somehow or
another Bill grew to be one of the "common objects of the shore" of that
busy sea of life--London.
A quiet, earnest, pale face, sharp, dark eyes, and an old, careworn
look, that seemed to whisper of the pinchings of hunger, while--yes,
there certainly was more dirt than looked good for him.
I had dealt with little Bill several times before we became intimate
enough for questioning, but at last, after a purchase, I asked him where
he lived.
"Down by Brick Lane, mum, and mother does mangling. Three brothers and
two sisters, and they're all younger nor me. I'm the only one as goes
out to work."
"And what does your father do?" I asked.
"Father, mum? Ah, he's dead, mum. Fell off a scaffle, and they took
him to the 'osspital, where mother and me used to go to see him till one
day, when I had to take mother back, for she said she was blind, and
held her head down and kept her hands over her face till I got her home,
when she did nothing but cry for three days. It was then as mother got
the mangle, and Tommy and Sam helps turn, only they're such little
chaps, and don't do much good. I always turns when I gets home o'
nights, and have had my tea, and that's after I've done selling the
papers."
"I've got my living for three years now, and never makes less than
sixpence a day, and sometimes I've cleared a shilling; and mother says
it's so useful, for the t'others eat so much bread that a quartern
loaf's gone directly. But mother says she reckons that what I bring
home always pays the rent and keeps me--which helps, you know."
And this was all said with such a quiet ease, free from want or desire
to show up the family troubles to a stranger: though being perhaps
something more, almost one of a familiar face, Bill did not scruple to
talk of the family affairs and his own prospects.
"I'm going to have a barrer some day, when I gets big enough to manage
one. That's a fine trade, you know; selling all them beautiful fruits
round about the 'Change--waiting and stopping when you gets a chance,
for the pleece won't let you stay anywhere. There's Harry Sanders makes
ever so much, only he's a big married man, wife and two little 'uns and
a dawg. Sometimes it's pineapples his barrer's full off, then it's
cherries, or plums, or peaches, or apples, or pears; at early times,
strawberries or sparrowgrass, and all done up nicely in baskets or
bundles, so as the big City gents will buy them to take home down in the
country. But mother says I must wait ever so long yet, 'cos I'm so
little for my age."
"Might I come and see you, Bill?" I asked.