Produced by David Edwards, Mary Meehan, and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced
from scanned images of public domain material from the Google Print
project.)
MARY GRAY
BY KATHARINE TYNAN
_Author of "Julia," "The Story of Bawn," "Her Ladyship," "For Maisie,"
etc., etc._
WITH FOUR COLOURED ILLUSTRATIONS BY C. H. TAFFS
[Transcriber's note: This book was produced from scanned images of public
domain material from the Google Print project. Only the Frontispiece was
included in the scans.]
CASSELL AND COMPANY, LIMITED
London, Paris, New York, Toronto and Melbourne
1909
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
[Illustration: "The men would salute their old General, the General
salute his old regiment"]
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. Wistaria Terrace
CHAPTER II. The Wall Between
CHAPTER III. The New Estate
CHAPTER IV. Boy and Girl
CHAPTER V. "Old Blood and Thunder"
CHAPTER VI. The Blue Ribbon
CHAPTER VII. A Chance Meeting
CHAPTER VIII. Groves of Academe
CHAPTER IX. The Race with Death
CHAPTER X. Dispossessed
CHAPTER XI. The Lion
CHAPTER XII. Her Ladyship
CHAPTER XIII. The Heart of a Father
CHAPTER XIV. Lovers' Parting
CHAPTER XV. The General has an Idea
CHAPTER XVI. The Leading and the Light
CHAPTER XVII. A Night of Spring
CHAPTER XVIII. Halcyon Weather
CHAPTER XIX. Wild Thyme and Violets
CHAPTER XX. Jealousy, Cruel as the Grave
CHAPTER XXI. Two Women
CHAPTER XXII. Light on the Way
CHAPTER XXIII. The News in the _Westminster_
CHAPTER XXIV. The Friend
CHAPTER XXV. The One Woman
CHAPTER XXVI. Golden Days
CHAPTER XXVII. The Intermediary
CHAPTER XXVIII. Noel! Noel!
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
"The men would salute their old General, the General salute his old
regiment"
"Sir Robin Drummond had come to Mary's side, and turned the page of
her music"
"'Do you know what I came here in the mind to ask you?'"
"'Miss Nelly is in the drawing-room, sir'"
MARY GRAY
CHAPTER I
WISTARIA TERRACE
The house where Mary Gray was born and grew towards womanhood was one of
a squat line of mean little houses that hid themselves behind a great
church. The roadway in front of the houses led only to the back entrance
of the church. Over against the windows was the playground of the church
schools, surrounded by a high wall that shut away field and sky from the
front rooms of Wistaria Terrace.
The houses were drab and ugly, with untidy grass-plots in front. They
presented an exterior of three windows and a narrow round-topped
hall-door which was a confession of poverty in itself. Five out of six
houses had a ramping plaster horse in the fanlight of the hall door, a
fixture which went with the house and was immune from breakage because
no one ever thought of cleaning the fanlights.
In the back gardens the family wash was put to dry. Some of the more
enterprising inhabitants kept fowls; but there was not much enterprise
in Wistaria Terrace.
Earlier inhabitants had planted the gardens with lilac and laburnum
bushes, with gooseberries and currants. There were no flowers there that
did not sow themselves year after year. They were damp, grubby places,
but even there an imaginative child like Mary Gray could find
suggestions of delight.
Mary's father, Walter Gray, was employed at a watchmaker's of repute. He
spent all his working life with a magnifying glass in his eye, peering
into the mechanism of watches, adjusting the delicate pivots and springs
on which their lives moved. His occupation had perhaps encouraged in him
a habit of introspection. Perhaps he found the human machine as worthy
of interest as the works of watches and clocks. Anyhow, in his leisure
moments, which were few, he would discuss curiously with Mary the hidden
springs that kept the human machine in motion, the strange workings and
convolutions of it. From the very early age when she began to be a
comfort and a companion to her father, Mary had been accustomed to such
speculations as would have written Walter Gray down a madman if he had
shared them with the grown people about him rather than with a child.
Mary was the child of his romance, of his first marriage, which had
lasted barely a year.
He never talked of her mother, even to Mary, though she had vague
memories of a time when he had not been so reticent. That was before the
stepmother came, the stepmother whom, honestly, Walter Gray had married
because his child was neglected. He had not anticipated, perhaps, the
long string of children which was to result from the marriage, whose
presence in the world was to make Mary's lot a more strenuous one than
would have been the case if she had been a child alone.
Not that Mary grumbled about the stepbrothers and sisters. Year after
year, from the time she could stagger under the weight of a baby, she
had received a new burden for her arms, and had found enough love for
each newcomer.
The second Mrs. Gray was a poor, puny, washed-out little rag of a woman,
whose one distinction was the number of her children. They had always
great appetites to be satisfied. As soon as they began to run about, the
rapidity with which they wore out their boots and the knees of their
trousers, and outgrew their frocks, was a subject upon which Mrs. Gray
could expatiate for hours. Mary had a tender, strong pity from the
earliest age for the down-at-heel, over-burdened stepmother, which
lightened her own load, as did the vicarious, motherly love which came
to her for each succeeding fat baby.
Mary was nurse and nursery-governess to all the family. Wistaria Terrace
had one great recompense for its humble and hidden condition. It was
within easy reach of the fields and the mountains. For an adventurous
spirit the sea was not at an insuperable distance. Indeed, but for the
high wall of the school playground, the lovely line of mountains had
been well in view. As it was, many a day in summer Mary would carry off
her train of children to the fields, with a humble refection of bread
and butter and jam, and milk for their mid-day meal; and these occasions
allowed Mrs. Gray a few hours of peace that were like a foretaste of
Paradise.
She never grumbled, poor little woman, because her husband shared his
thoughts with Mary and not with her. Whatever ambitions she had had to
rise to her Walter's level--she had an immense opinion of his
learning--had long been extinguished under the accumulation of toils and
burdens that made up her daily life. She was fond of Mary, and leant on
her strangely, considering their relative ages. For the rest, she toiled
with indifferent success at household tasks, and was grateful for having
a husband so absorbed in distant speculations that he was insensible of
the near discomfort of a badly-cooked dinner or a buttonless shirt.
The gardens of the houses opened on a lane which was a sort of
rubbish-shoot for the houses that gave upon it. Across the lane was a
row of stabling belonging to far more important houses than Wistaria
Terrace. Beyond the stables and stable yards were old gardens with shady
stretches of turf and forest trees enclosed within their walls. Beyond
the gardens rose the fine old-fashioned houses of the Mall, big Georgian
houses that looked in front across the roadway at the line of elm-trees
that bordered the canal. The green waters of the canal, winding placidly
through its green channel, with the elm-trees reflected greenly in its
green depths, had a suggestion of Holland.
The lane was something of an adventure to the children of Wistaria
Terrace. There, any day, you might see a coachman curry-combing his
satin-skinned horses, hissing between his teeth by way of encouragement,
after the time-honoured custom. Or you might see a load of hay lifted up
by a windlass into the loft above the stables. Or you might assist at
the washing of a carriage. Sometimes the gate at the farther side of the
stable was open, and a gardener would come through with a barrowful of
rubbish to add to the accumulation already in the lane.
Through the open gateway the children would catch glimpses of Fairyland.
A broad stretch of shining turf dappled with sun and shade. Tall
snapdragons and lilies and sweet-williams and phlox in the garden-beds.
A fruit tree or two, heavy with blossom or fruit.
Only old-fashioned people lived in the Mall nowadays, and the glimpses
the children caught of the owners of those terrestrial paradises fitted
in with the idea of fairyland. They were always old ladies and
gentlemen, and they were old-fashioned in their attire, but very
magnificent. There was one old lady who was the very Fairy Godmother of
the stories. She was the one who had the magnificent mulberry-tree in
her garden. One day in every year the children were called in to strip
the tree of its fruit; and that was a great day for Wistaria Terrace.
The children were allowed to bring basins to carry away what they could
not eat; and benevolent men-servants would ascend to the overweighted
boughs of the tree by ladders and pick the fruit and load up the
children's basins with it. Again, the apples would be distributed in
their season. While the distribution went on, the old lady would stand
at a window with her little white dog in her arms nodding her head in a
well-pleased way. The children called her Lady Anne. They had no such
personal acquaintance with the other gardens and their owners, so their
thoughts were very full of Lady Anne and her garden.
When Mary was about fourteen she made the acquaintance of Lady Anne--her
full name was Lady Anne Hamilton--and that was an event which had a
considerable influence on her fortunes. The meeting came about in this
way.
Mary had gone marketing one day, and for once had deserted the shabby
little row of shops which ran at the end of Wistaria Terrace, at right
angles to it. She had gone out into the great main thoroughfare, the
noise of which came dimly to Wistaria Terrace because of the huge mass
of the church blocking up the way.
She had done her shopping and was on her way home, when, right in the
track of the heavy tram as it came down the steep descent from the
bridge over the canal, she saw a helpless bit of white fur, as it might
well seem to anyone at a distance. The thing was almost motionless, or
stirring so feebly that its movements were not apparent. Evidently the
driver of the tram had not noticed it, or was not troubled to save its
life, for he stood with the reins in his hand, glancing from side to
side of the road for possible passengers as the tram swept down the long
incline.
Mary never hesitated. The tram was almost upon the thing when she first
saw it. "Why, it is Lady Anne's dog!" she cried, and launched herself
out in the roadway to save it. She was just in time to pick up the
blind, whimpering thing. The driver of the tram, seeing Mary in its
path, put on the brakes sharply. The tram lumbered to a stoppage, but
not before Mary had been flung down on her face and her arm broken by
the hoof of the horse nearest her.
It was likely to be an uncommonly awkward thing for the Gray household,
seeing that it was Mary's right arm that was injured. For one thing, it
would involve the dispossession of that year's baby. For another, it
would put Mrs. Gray's capable helper entirely out of action.
When Mary was picked up, and stood, wavering unsteadily, supported by
someone in the crowd which had gathered, hearing, as from a great
distance, the snarling and scolding of the tram-driver, who was afraid
of finding himself in trouble, she still held the blind and whimpering
dog in her uninjured arm.
She wanted to get away as quickly as possible from the crowd, but her
head swam and her feet were uncertain. Then she heard a quiet voice
behind her.
"Has there been an accident? I am a doctor," it said.
"A young woman trying to kill herself along of an old dog," said the
tram-driver indignantly. "As though there wasn't enough trouble for a
man already."
"Let me see," the doctor said, coming to Mary's side. "Ah, I can't make
an examination here. Better come with me, my child. I am on my way to
the hospital. My carriage is here."
"Not to hospital," said Mary faintly. "Let me go home; they would be so
frightened."
"I shan't detain you, I promise you. But this must be bandaged before
you can go home. Ah, is this basket yours, too?"
Someone had handed up the basket from the tram-track, where it had lain
disgorging cabbages and other articles of food.
"I will send you home as soon as I have seen to your arm," the doctor
said, pushing her gently towards his carriage. "And the little dog--is
he your own? I suppose he is, since you nearly gave your life for him?"
"He is not mine," said Mary faintly. "He belongs to Lady Anne--Lady Anne
Hamilton. She lives at No. 8, The Mall. She will be distracted if she
misses the little dog. She is so very fond of it."
"Ah! Lady Anne Hamilton. I have heard of her. We can leave the dog at
home on our way. Come, child."
The Mall was quite close at hand. They drove there, and just as the
carriage stopped at the gate of No. 8, which had a long strip of green
front garden, overhung by trees through which you could discern the old
red-brick house. Lady Anne herself came down the gravel path. Over her
head was a little shawl of old lace; it was caught by a seed-pearl
brooch with an amethyst centre. She was wearing a quilted red silk
petticoat and a bunched sacque of black flowered silk. She had
magnificent dark eyes and white hair. Under it her peaked little face
was the colour of old ivory. She was calling to her dog, "Fifine,
Fifine, where can you be?"
A respectable-looking elderly maid came hurrying after her.
"I've looked everywhere, my lady, and I cannot find the little thing,"
she said in a frightened voice.
Meanwhile, the doctor had got out of the carriage and had taken Fifine
gently from Mary's lap. Now that Mary was coming to herself she began to
discover that the doctor was young and kind-looking, but more careworn
than his youth warranted. He opened the garden gate and went up to Lady
Anne.
"Is this your little dog, madam?" he asked.
"My Fifine, my darling!" cried Lady Anne, embracing the trembling bit of
wool. "You don't know what she is to me, sir. My little grandson"--the
imperious old voice shook--"loved the dog. She was his pet. The child is
dead. You understand----"
"Perfectly," said the doctor. "I, too--I know what loss is. The little
dog strayed. She was found in the High Road. I am very glad to restore
her to you; but pray do not thank me. There is a young girl in my
carriage at the gate. She picked up your dog from under the wheels of a
tramcar, and broke her arm, I fear, in doing it. I am on my way to the
hospital, the House of Mercy, where I am doing work for a friend who is
on holiday. I am taking her with me so that I may set the arm where I
have all the appliances."
"She saved my Fifine? Heroic child! Let me thank her."
The old lady clutched her recovered treasure to her breast with fervour,
then handed the dog over to the maid.
"Take me to see Fifine's preserver," she said in a commanding voice.
Mary was almost swooning with the pain of her arm. She heard Lady Anne's
praises as though from a long distance off.
"Stay, doctor," the old lady said; "I cannot have her jolted over the
paving-stones of the city to the Mercy. Bring her in here. We need not
detain you very long. We can procure splints and bandages, all you
require, from a chemist's shop. There is one just round the corner.
What, do you say, child? They will be frightened about you at home! I
shall send word. Be quiet now; you must let us do everything for you."
So the doctor assisted Mary into the old house behind the trees. Lady
Anne walked the other side of her, pretending to assist Mary and really
imagining that she did.
The splints and the bandages were on, and Mary had borne the pain well.
"I'm afraid I must go," said the doctor, looking at his watch. "I am
half an hour behind my time. And where am I to visit my patient?"
"Where but here?" said Lady Anne with decision. "It is now half-past
eleven. I have lunch at half-past one. Could you return to lunch,
Dr.--ah, Dr. Carruthers. You are Dr. Carruthers, are you not? You took
the big house at the corner of Magnolia Road a year ago?"
"Yes, I am Dr. Carruthers; and I shall be very pleased to return to
lunch, Lady Anne. I don't think the little dog is any the worse for her
experience."
His face was flushed as he stood with his hat in his hand, bowing and
smiling. If only Lady Anne Hamilton would take him up! That big house at
the corner of Magnolia Road had been a daring bid for fortune. So had
the neat, single brougham, hired from a livery-stable. So had been the
three smart maids. But so far Fortune had not favoured him. He was one
of fifty or so waiters on Fortune. When people were ill in the smart
suburban neighbourhood they liked to be attended by Dr. Pownall, who
always drove a pair of hundred guinea horses. None of your hired
broughams for them.
"You are paying too big a rent for a young man," said Lady Anne. "You
can't have made it or anything like made it. Pownall grows careless. The
last time I sent for him he kept me two hours waiting. When I had him to
Stewart, my maid, he was in a hurry to be gone. Pownall has too much to
do--too much by half."
Her eyes rested thoughtfully on the agitated Dr. Carruthers.
"You shall tell me all about it when you come back to lunch," she said;
"and I should like to call on your wife."