A MOMENT OF MADNESS.
A MOMENT OF MADNESS,
_AND OTHER STORIES_.
BY
FLORENCE MARRYAT,
AUTHOR OF ‘PHYLLIDA,’ ‘FACING THE FOOTLIGHTS,’ ETC., ETC.
_IN THREE VOLUMES._
VOL. II.
LONDON: F. V. WHITE & CO.,
31 SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND, W.C.
1883.
[_All Rights reserved._]
_CHEAP EDITION OF_
FLORENCE MARRYAT’S POPULAR NOVELS.
_Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d._
_At all Booksellers in Town and Country, and at all Railway Bookstalls._
=MY SISTER THE ACTRESS.= By FLORENCE MARRYAT, Author of ‘A Broken
Blossom,’ ‘Phyllida,’ ‘How They Loved Him,’ etc., etc.
=PHYLLIDA.= By FLORENCE MARRYAT, Author of ‘My Sister the Actress,’ ‘A
Broken Blossom,’ etc., etc., etc.
=THE ROOT OF ALL EVIL.= By FLORENCE MARRYAT, Author of ‘Love’s Conflict,’
‘Phyllida,’ ‘A Broken Blossom,’ etc., etc., etc.
=A BROKEN BLOSSOM.= By FLORENCE MARRYAT, Author of ‘Phyllida,’ ‘Facing
the Footlights,’ etc., etc.
F. V. White & Co., 31 Southampton Street, Strand.
COLSTON AND SON, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.
[Illustration]
_CONTENTS._
PAGE
‘SENT TO HIS DEATH!’—_Continued_, 1
LOST IN THE MARSHES, 21
THE INVISIBLE TENANTS OF RUSHMERE, 93
AMY’S LOVER, 147
LEOPOLD-FERDINAND, DUC DE BRABANT, 185
LITTLE WHITE SOULS, 211
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
SENT TO HIS DEATH
(_Continued_).
I had been dreaming of the ghost, and was conscious in a moment, and
sitting up in bed. Whatever I had thought of Bessie’s tales before, I
believed them now, for I could distinctly hear the low, gasping breath
which follows an inordinate fit of sobbing, drawn apparently close to us.
‘What time is it?’ I exclaimed.
‘It is just three. I have been listening to it for some time, but did not
like to rouse you till I was sure. Is the door locked?’
‘Yes; but I will unlock it at once,’ I said, springing out of bed.
‘No, no! pray do not,’ cried Bessie, clinging to me. ‘What are you doing?
It might come into the room.’
‘My dear Bessie, if it is a ghost, no locks can keep it out; and if it is
not a ghost, what harm can it do us by entering? Pray be reasonable. We
shall never clear up this mystery if we are not a little brave!’
I shook her off, and approached the door, whilst she rushed back to her
own bed.
I confess that as I turned the key in the lock I felt very nervous.
Do what we will, it is hard to accustom ourselves to think lightly of
communication with the dead; neither did I relish the idea of a trick
being played us in that lonely house at dead of night. The light was
burning brightly in my room, but as I threw the door open, the corridor
seemed dark and empty. I stood upon the threshold and looked from right
to left. What was that white, tall shadow in the doorway of the spare
room?
I called out, ‘Who are you? What do you want?’ The answer I received was
a quick sob and a rustle. Then I saw an indistinct figure move down the
passage with a hurried step, and disappear somewhere at the further end.
Shall I confess that for all my boasted strength I had not the courage to
follow it? It was one thing to have stood on the threshold of my lighted
room and addressed the apparition, and another to venture out into the
cold and darkness in pursuit of it. I retreated to Bessie’s bedroom
instead.
‘I have seen it!’ I exclaimed. ‘I believe that you are right, Bessie,
and for the first time in my life I have seen a ghost. I meant to have
followed it; but I really felt I couldn’t. To-morrow night I may have
more courage. But hark! what is that noise? Isn’t it baby crying?’
‘Never mind _baby_; Mrs Graham will attend to him,’ said Bessie. ‘Lock
the door again, Dolly dear, do, and get into bed with me, or I sha’n’t
sleep another wink to-night. I’m shaking from head to foot as it is.’
But the cries from baby’s room became more distinct; and my courage had
returned to me.
‘Let me go and see what is the matter with little Dick first,’ I said,
taking up the lighted candle.
Bessie yelled at being kept alone in the dark, but I could not have
lain down again without ascertaining what ailed the little fellow; so,
disregarding her remonstrances, I walked off to Mrs Graham’s room. Her
door was unlocked, and I entered without knocking.
The child was still crying lustily; and what was my surprise to find his
nurse, utterly regardless of the noise, sitting up in bed, with scared
wide-open eyes, talking vehemently.
‘Go away!’ she was exclaiming in a loud voice; ‘Go away! and don’t come
back again. You let the water in each time you open the door: I tell you
we don’t want you! Go away, I say, and _don’t come back again_!’
She halted for a moment at this juncture, and I was about to waken her
from what I perceived was a nightmare, when she suddenly clapped her
hands before her eyes and screamed.
‘Ah, Heavens! a wave—a fearful wave that covers the deck—that covers
everything. Where is he? Where is he gone to? I have sent him to his
death! Edward! Edward! come back to me! I didn’t mean it—I didn’t mean
it! Ah! Lord have pity on me.’
Her agitation was rising so rapidly, and the baby was crying so
violently, that I thought it time to interfere.
‘Mrs Graham!’ I exclaimed, shaking her by the arm, ‘wake up. Don’t you
hear the baby wants you?’
She turned her big eyes upon me in such a pitiful vacuous way. Then she
recognised me, and looked frightened.
‘Have I been dreaming? Have I been saying anything? Oh! I am so sorry,’
she said apologetically, as she caught up the child and held it to her
breast.
‘You have only been talking a little in your sleep,’ I replied
soothingly; ‘don’t be alarmed; you said nothing out of the common way,
and there is no one here but myself.’
She did not answer, but as she held the child I saw how her arms trembled.
‘Your agitation is the worst thing possible for the baby, you know; and
you must try and calm yourself for his sake,’ I continued.
‘I should be so sorry to hurt him,’ she murmured; ‘and I will try and not
dream again, if it is possible.’
‘Shall I fetch you anything?’
‘Oh no, madam, thank you. The best thing I can do is to go to sleep
again. There is nothing for me but sleep—and prayer,’ she added in a
whisper.
I felt deeply interested in this young woman. There was an air of
patient mournfulness about her that betokened deep suffering; and as I
returned to my room I resolved to do my best to be of use to her. She so
completely occupied my thoughts, indeed, that I had forgotten all about
the ghost, till Bessie asked me how I could possibly walk through the
corridor with so composed a step.
‘My dear, I was thinking about baby and his nurse, and quite forgot to
be frightened. Yes, they are all right now, and going to sleep again
comfortably; and I think the ghost must have followed their example, for
certainly there were no signs of its presence as I returned: so I think
we had better try to make up for our broken rest by a few hours’ sleep.’
Bessie was quite ready to do so; but for my own part I lay awake until
the loitering dawn broke through the shuttered windows.
Mr Maclean’s absence was really, I found, not to be prolonged beyond the
two nights; so I could write Dick word to fetch me home on the following
day; but I resolved, before I went, to have some sort of explanatory
conversation with Mrs Graham, with respect to her dream of the night
before. I told nothing of it to Bessie; for I felt she would spoil
everything perhaps by her awkwardness in handling the subject, or wound
the poor girl’s feelings by too abrupt a reference to her grief. But I
watched Mrs Graham leave the house at about eleven o’clock to take her
little charge out for his morning walk, and as soon as Bessie descended
to the kitchen quarters to give her orders for the day, I put on my
bonnet and shawl and ran after the nurse. There was a cold wind blowing
from the north, and I knew I should find her in the sheltered shrubbery,
where she had been told to take the child. It extended for some distance,
and when I came up with her we were quite out of sight and hearing of the
house.
‘A fine cold morning!’ I remarked, by way of a beginning.
‘Very cold, madam.’
‘With the wind in the north. A nasty day for the sea—I pity the ships in
the channel.’
To this she made no response.
‘Have you ever been on the sea, Mrs Graham?’
‘Yes! once!’ with a shudder.
‘And did you like it?’
‘Like it? Oh! for God’s sake, madam, don’t speak of it, for I cannot bear
the thought even.’
‘You were unfortunate, perhaps? You had experience of a storm? But the
sea is not always rough, Mrs Graham.’
She was silent, and I looked in her face, and saw the tears streaming
down it.
‘My dear girl,’ I said, placing my hand on her shoulder, ‘don’t think me
unkind. I have guessed somewhat of your history, and I feel for you—oh,
so deeply. Confide in me; my husband is a man of influence, and I may be
of use to you. I see that you are superior to the position you hold, and
I have conceived an interest in you. Don’t keep your sorrows locked in
your own breast, or they will eat out your very heart and life.’
As I spoke she began to sob piteously.
‘You are not doing right by this poor little baby, nor his parents,’ I
continued, ‘by brooding over a silent grief. You will injure his health,
when perhaps if you will tell us all, we may be able to comfort you.’
‘No one can comfort me, madam! I am beyond all relief.’
‘No one dare say that in this world, which God rules according to His
will. You cannot tell what solace He may hold in the future for you.’
‘I have no future,’ she said sadly. ‘If you think I am likely to injure
this little one,’ pressing it tightly to her bosom, ‘I am very, very
sorry; but to have something to love and care for, seemed to be the only
thing to prevent my going mad.’
‘Mrs Graham, I don’t wish to be impertinently curious, but I want to hear
your story. Won’t you tell it to me?’
‘If you do, you will hate me—as I hate myself.’
‘I hardly think that possible. Of what crime can you be guilty, to accuse
yourself so bitterly.’
‘_I am a murderess!_’
She brought out the words so vehemently that I started. Was it possible
she spoke the truth? And yet I had seen in our gaol, such young and
superior-looking criminals, that I knew it _might_ be possible. My
thoughts flew at once to her child.
‘Was it the baby?’ I cried. ‘Oh! my poor child! what drove you to such an
awful deed?’
‘Do you pity me still?’
‘I pity you with all my heart.’
‘Ah! madam; you are too good.’
She trembled so violently that I had taken the child from her arms, and
as I stood there in the wintry path, she sank down upon her knees before
me and kissed the border of my shawl, and hid her face in it and cried.
‘Mrs Graham, I cannot believe it!’
‘No! you need not believe it. In that sense I did not kill my child. God
took it away from me in anger; but I sent its father, my dearly-loved
husband, to his death.’
‘Sent him to his death!’
‘Ah, madam! have pity on me and listen. We had been married but six
months, and we loved each other, ah! so dearly. He was a clerk in a
city firm, and his employers sent him over to Ireland on business. We
could not bear to part—we went together. In order to return to England
we embarked in a small sailing vessel, and we had a fearful storm in
crossing. The sea ran mountains high, and the women on board were
assembled together in a deck cabin. The men to whom they belonged kept
looking in every now and then to tell them how we were getting on, and
every time the door of the cabin was opened, the sea rushed in and wetted
them. They grew impatient, I the most of all; and when my dear husband,
in his anxiety lest I should be frightened at our danger, put his head in
for the third or fourth time I called out, saying, ‘Go away, Edward, and
_don’t come back again_.’ And he went away, and he never did come back.
Ah, Heaven! have mercy upon me!’
‘My poor girl! how did it happen?’
‘He was washed off the deck, madam, by a huge wave that nearly swamped
the ship—so they told me afterwards. But I never saw him more! The
glimpse I had of his bonnie face as it was thrust in at the half-opened
door, beaming with love and anxiety, was the last glimpse I was ever to
have in this world—and I sent him to his death. I said, ‘Go away, and
don’t come back’—and he never came back!—he never came back!’
Her grief was so violent I almost thought she would have swooned at my
feet. I tried to direct her thoughts in another direction.
‘Have you no friends to go to, Mrs Graham?’
‘None of my own, madam. I was a soldier’s orphan from the Home when
Edward married me. And I could not go to his.’
‘How did you lose your baby?’
‘It died of my grief, I suppose; it only lived a few days. And then they
advised me at the hospital to get a situation as wet nurse; and I thought
the care of an infant might soothe me a little. But my sorrow is past
cure.’
‘You have bad dreams at night, I fear.’
‘Oh! such awful dreams! He is always calling me—calling me to go to him,
and I can find him nowhere; or else I am in the ship again, and see that
which I never did see—the cruel wave that washed him from me!’
‘Do you feel strong enough to take the child again?’
She had risen by this time, and was, comparatively speaking, calm. She
held out her arms mechanically. I put the baby in them, and then stooped
and kissed her swollen eyes and burning forehead.
‘I will not discuss this subject with you further to-day,’ I said; ‘but
you have found a friend. Go on with your walk, child, and may God comfort
you. I am glad you have told me the story of your grief.’
I hurried back to Bessie, fearful lest she might come in search of me,
and insist upon hearing the reason of Mrs Graham’s tears. There was no
doubt of one thing—another nurse must be found as soon as possible for
little Dick, and I must take on myself the responsibility of providing
for his present one. But all that required my husband’s permission and
advice, and I must wait till I had seen and confided in him.
Bessie, who had discovered that, notwithstanding my deplorable
deficiency in the way of children, I could cut out their garments far
better than she could do herself, had provided a delightful entertainment
for me in the shape of half-a-dozen frocks to be made ready for the
nurse’s hands, and the whole afternoon was spent in snipping and piecing
and tacking together. But I didn’t grumble; my mind was too much occupied
with poor Mrs Graham and her pathetic story. I thought of it so much
that the temporary fear evoked by the apparition of the night before had
totally evaporated. In the presence of a real, substantial human grief,
we can hardly spare time for imaginary horrors.
As bed-time recurred, and Bessie and I locked ourselves into our
stronghold, I refused the half of the bed she offered me, and preferred
to retain my own. I even made up my mind, if possible, not to sleep,
but to watch for the mysterious sounds, and be the first to investigate
them. So I would not put out my candle, but lay in bed reading long after
Bessie’s snores had announced her departure to the land of dreams.
I had come to the end of my book, my candle, and my patience, and was
just about to give up the vigil as a failure, when I heard footsteps
distinctly sounding along the corridor. I was out of bed in a moment,
with my hand upon the lock of the door. I waited till the steps had
passed my room, and then I turned the key and looked gently out. The same
white figure I had seen the night before was standing a little beyond me,
its course arrested, as it would appear, by the slight sound of unlocking
the door.
‘Now or never,’ I thought to myself. ‘Dick always says I am the bravest
woman he ever met, and I will try and prove him true. Why should I be
afraid? Even if this _is_ a spirit, God is over IT and us, alike!’
So I stepped out into the passage, just as I should sit down to have
a tooth drawn. The figure had recommenced walking, and was some paces
farther from me. I followed it, saying softly, ‘What are you? Speak to
me.’ But it did not turn, but went on, clasping its hands, and talking
rapidly to itself.
A sudden thought flashed across my mind. In a moment I felt sure that I
was right, and had solved the mystery of Poplar Farm. I placed myself
full in the path of the apparition, and as the end of the corridor
forced it to turn and retrace its steps, I met face to face my poor,
pretty Mrs Graham, with the flaxen hair she usually kept concealed
beneath her widow’s cap, streaming over her shoulders and giving her a
most weird and unearthly appearance.
‘Edward! Edward!’ she was whispering in a feverish, uncertain manner,
‘where are you? It is so dark here and so cold. Put out your hand and
lead me. I want to come to you, darling; I want to come to you.’
I stretched out my own hand and took hers. She clung to me joyfully.
‘Is it you?’ she exclaimed, in the undisturbed voice of a sleep-walker.
‘Have I found you again? Oh, Edward! I have been trying to find you for
so long—so long, and I thought we were parted for ever.’
I drew her gently along to her own room and put her in her bed, whilst
she continued to talk to me in the fond, low tones in which she thought
she was addressing her dead husband.
* * * * *
Bessie slept through it all.
Of course I told her all about it next day, and equally, of course, she
did not believe half what I said. She did not like the idea of parting
with her cherished grievance in the shape of the ghost, nor having the
trouble of changing her wet nurse. So I left her, as soon as ever Dick
arrived, rather disgusted with the manner in which she had received my
efforts for her good, but still determined to do what I could in the way
of befriending Mrs Graham. As I told her the last thing, when I ran up
to the nursery to say good-bye to little Dick, and received her grateful
thanks in reply. ‘Only nothing,’ she said with a deep sigh, ‘could ever
do her any good in this world again.’
‘But I’m determined to get her out of Poplar Farm,’ I said to Dick, as
we drove homeward, after I had told him this long-winded story. ‘She’s
killing the baby and herself too. She ought to have a much more cheerful
home and active employment. Now, can’t you think of something for her to
do about the gaol or the hospital, like a dear, darling old boy as you
are?’
‘Well, I don’t quite see how you can take Mrs Maclean’s servant away from
her against her will, Dolly. If Mrs Graham leaves, it will be a different
thing; but as things are, I’m afraid you ought not to interfere.’
I called him a wretch; but I knew he was right for all that, and
determined to take his advice and wait patiently to see how things turned
out. And, as it happened, I had not long to wait, for a week afterwards I
received this doleful epistle from Bessie:—
‘MY DEAR DOLLY,—I am perfectly miserable; nothing ever goes
right with me. Tom threw Charlie out of the wheel-barrow
yesterday, and cut his forehead right across. He will be
scarred for life. And nurse has entirely spoiled those frocks
you were so kind as to cut out for Lily and Bessie. She is
so obstinate, she would have her own way, and the children
positively cannot get into them. But the worst news of all is,
that Mrs Graham is going to leave me, and I have had to wean
baby, and put him on the bottle.’
‘Hurrah!’ I cried, ‘it’s all right. I shall get that poor child here
after all, and be able to patch up her broken life. No, I sha’n’t,
though,’ I continued, as I went on reading, and then, to my husband’s
astonishment, I fell on his neck, and burst into tears. ‘Oh, Dick, Dick,
Dick, I _am_ so glad!’
‘Halloa! what’s up now?’ said that vulgar Dick, in his own way of
expressing things.
‘My darling, she’s got him again.’
‘Who’s got which?’
‘Mrs Graham’s husband has returned. He wasn’t drowned, but let me finish
the letter,’ and drying my eyes I went on—
‘Just imagine how awkward and unpleasant for me. The other
evening there was an awful screaming in the kitchen, and when
I went down, I found Mrs Graham fainted dead away in the arms
of a man. I was very angry at first, naturally; but when she
recovered I found it was her husband whom she thought was
drowned at sea three months ago. It seems he was picked up
insensible by some ship, and taken to Spain, where he had a
fever, and was delirious, and all that sort of thing; and when
he recovered, he worked his way home before the mast, and had
only just found out where his wife lived. But I think it is
excessively unreasonable of people to take situations, and say
they’re widows, and then—’
‘Oh, don’t read any more of that rubbish, for heaven’s sake!’ said Dick,
irreverently. ‘The long and the short of the matter is, that the girl’s
got her man again.’
‘Oh! I _am_ so thankful!’ I exclaimed, with the tears still in my eyes;
I couldn’t help it, they _would_ come. ‘Poor child! poor, desolate,
heart-broken child! What a heaven earth must appear to her to-day. Dick,
will you drive me over to the farm directly after breakfast? I want to
see her and congratulate her.’
‘You seem to take a vast interest in this Mrs Graham, and her joys and
sorrows,’ said Dick; ‘why is it, Dolly?’
‘Because I can sympathise with them so deeply. Because—because—oh, Dick,
_you_ know—because God has given me—you, and I am the very happiest woman
in all the world.’
THE END.
[Illustration]
LOST IN THE MARSHES.
On the east coast of the county of Norfolk, there lay a village which
shall be distinguished by the name of Corston. It was bounded on the one
side by the sea, on the other by the open country, and beside the two or
three gentleman farmers whose possessions comprised all the agricultural
land within a radius of five miles, it could boast of a church and
resident parson—a coastguard with its attendant officer, and above all,
close contiguity with Rooklands, the estate of the Earl of Worcester.
And those who are acquainted with the moral and social aspect, as it
existed forty or fifty years ago, of the more insignificant villages of
Norfolk, will acknowledge that Corston was favoured above its fellows.
The sea coast in its vicinity brought many a gay riding party over
from Rooklands, either to enjoy the fresh breezes, or to bathe in the
sparkling waves from some sequestered nook, whilst the congregation
of the church was made up of drafts from some four or five outlying
hamlets which had not the advantage of a place of worship of their own.
Conceive then what a much larger audience the Corston parson could
depend upon, when the women had a prospect of seeing the bonnets from
ten miles round (to say nothing of a chance of the Rookland aristocrats
taking it into their heads to drive out), in addition to listening to
his somewhat uninteresting sermons. The coastguard, too, was a cause
of constant excitement, on account of the Admiralty having been in the
habit of bestowing the appointment on old, worn-out, half-pay lieutenants
who chose to expire almost as soon as they obtained it, and really,
notwithstanding the church and the parson and Rooklands, there was not
much in Corston worth living for. But at the time this story opens, the
charge of the coast had not long been put in the hands of (comparatively
speaking) a young and hale man who bid fair to keep anybody else out of
it for a long while to come. His office was no sinecure though, for,
notwithstanding the difficulty of landing, the coast was a celebrated
one for smugglers, and as soon as the dark months of winter set in there
was no lack of work for the preventive officers. For the village of
Corston did not, of itself, run down to the sea. Between it and the ocean
there lay the salt marshes, a bleak, desolate tract of land, which no
skill or perseverance could reclaim from apparent uselessness. Except
to the samphire and cockle-gatherers, the salt marshes of Corston were
an arid wilderness which could yield no fruit. Many a farmer had looked
longingly across the wide waste which terminated only with the shingled
beach, and wondered if it were possible to utilise it. But as it had
been from the beginning, so it remained until that day; its stinted
vegetation affording shelter for sea-fowl and smugglers’ booty only,
and its brackish waters that flowed and ebbed with the tides, tainting
the best springs on the level ground of Corston. It was the existence
of these marshes that rendered the coastguard necessary to the village,
which would otherwise have become a perfect nest of smugglers. As it was,
notwithstanding all the vigilance of Mr John Burton and his men, many a
keg of spirits and roll of tobacco were landed on the coast of Corston,
and many a man in the place was marked by them as guilty, though never
discovered. For they who had lived by the salt marshes all their lives
were cunning as to their properties, and knew just where they might
bury their illegal possessions with impunity when the tide was low, and
find them safe when it had flowed and ebbed again. Everyone was not so
fortunate. Lives had been lost in the marshes before now—ay, and of
Corston men too, and several dark tales were told by the gossips of the
village of the quagmires and quicksands that existed in various parts of
them, which looked, although they never were, both firm and dry, but had
the power to draw man and horse with the temerity to step upon them, into
their unfathomable depths. But if the smugglers kept Mr Burton and his
men fully occupied on the sea shore, the poachers did no less for Lord
Worcester’s band of gamekeepers at Rooklands; and Farmer Murray, who had
a drop of Scotch blood running in his veins, and was never so much alive
as when his own interests were concerned, had only saved his game for
the last three years by having been fortunate enough to take the biggest
poacher in Corston, red-handed, and let him off on condition that he
became his keeper and preserved his covers from future violence. ‘Set
a thief to catch a thief’ is a time-honoured saying, and Farmer Murray
found it answer. Isaac Barnes, the unscrupulous poacher, became a model
gamekeeper, and the midnight rest of the inhabitants of Mavis Farm had
never been disturbed by a stray shot since; though the eldest son, George
Murray, had been heard to affirm that half the fun of his life was gone
now that there was no chance of a tussle with the poachers. Such was
the state of Corston some forty years ago. The villagers were rough,
uneducated, and lawless, and the general condition of the residents,
vapid and uninteresting enough to have provoked any amount of wickedness,
if only for the sake of change or excitement.
* * * * *
It was the end of September, and the close of a glorious summer. The
harvest had been abundant and the Norfolk soil, which knows so well how
to yield her fruits in due season, was like an exhausted mother which had
just been delivered of her abundance. The last sheaves of golden corn
were standing in the fields ready to be carried to the threshing-barn,
the trees in the orchards were weighed down with their wealth of pears
and apples, and in every lane clusters of bare-headed children with their
hands full of nuts and their faces stained with blackberry juice, proved
how nature had showered her bounties on rich and poor alike. Lizzie
Locke, who was making her way slowly in the direction of the village,
with a huge basket on her arm, stopped more than once to wipe her hot
face, and pull the sun bonnet she wore further over her eyes, although in
another couple of days the October moon would have risen upon the land.
She was a young girl of not more than eighteen or twenty years, and, as
her dress denoted, bred from the labouring classes. Not pretty—unless
soft brown hair, a fair skin and delicate features, can make a woman
so—but much more refined in appearance than the generality of her kind.
The hands that grasped the handle of her heavy basket had evidently never
done much hard work, nor were her feet broadened or her back bent with
early toiling in the turnip and the harvest fields. The reason of this
was apparent as soon as she turned her eyes toward you. Quiet blue eyes
shaded by long lashes, that seldom unveiled them—eyes that, under more
fortuitous circumstances, might have flashed and sparkled with roguish
mirth, but that seemed to bear now a settled melancholy in them, even
when her mouth smiled: eyes, in fact, that had been blinded from their
birth.
Poor Lizzie Locke! There was a true and great soul burning in her breast,
but the windows were darkened and it had no power to look out upon the
world. As she stood still for a few moments’ rest for the third or fourth
time between the salt marshes and Corston, her quick ear caught the sound
of approaching horses’ feet, and she drew on one side of the open road to
let the rider pass. But instead of that, the animal was drawn up suddenly
upon its haunches, and a pleasant young voice rang out in greeting to her.
‘Why, Lizzie, is that you? What a careless girl you are—I might have
ridden over you.’
‘Miss Rosa,’ exclaimed the blind girl, as she recognised the voice and
smiled brightly in return.
‘Of course it’s Miss Rosa, and Polly is as fresh as a two-year-old this
morning. She always is, when she gets upon the marshes. It’s lucky I
pulled up in time.’
The new comer, a handsome girl of about the same age as Lizzie, was the
only daughter of Farmer Murray, of Mavis Farm. Spoilt, as one girl
amongst half-a-dozen boys is sure to be, it is not to be wondered at
that Rosa Murray was impetuous, saucy, and self-willed. For, added to
her being her father’s darling, and not knowing what it was to be denied
anything in his power to give her, Miss Rosa was extremely pretty, with
grey eyes and dark hair, and a complexion like a crimson rose. A rich
brunette beauty that had gained for her the title of the Damask Rose
of Corston, and of which no one was better aware than herself. Many a
gentleman visitor at Rooklands had heard of the fame of the farmer’s
pretty daughter, and ridden over to Corston on purpose to catch a glimpse
of her, and it was beginning to be whispered about the village that no
one in those parts would be considered good enough for a husband for
Miss Rosa, and that Mr Murray was set upon her marrying a gentleman
from London, any gentleman from ‘London’ being considered by the simple
rustics to be unavoidably ‘the glass of fashion and the mould of form.’
Mr Murray was termed a ‘gentleman farmer’ in that part of the county,
because he lived in a substantially-built and well-furnished house, and
could afford to keep riding-horses in his stable and sit down to a
dinner spread on a tablecloth every day. But, in reality, his father had
commenced life as a ploughman in that very village of Corston, and it was
only necessary to bring Farmer Murray into the presence of Lord Worcester
and his fashionable friends to see how much of a ‘gentleman’ he was.
He had made the great mistake, however, of sending his children to be
educated at schools above their station in life, the consequence of which
was that, whilst their tastes and proclivities remained plebeian as his
own, they had acquired a self-sufficiency and idea of their merits that
accorded ill with their surroundings and threatened to mar their future
happiness. The Damask Rose of Corston was the worst example amongst them
of the evil alluded to. She had unfortunately lost her mother many years
before, so was almost completely her own mistress, and the admiration
her beauty excited was fast turning her from a thoughtless flirt into a
heartless coquette, the most odious character any woman can assume.
But with her own sex, and when it suited her, Rosa Murray could be
agreeable and ingenuous enough, and there was nothing but cordiality in
the tone in which she continued her conversation with Lizzie Locke.
‘What are you doing out here by yourself, child? You really ought not to
go about alone. It can’t be safe.’
‘Oh, it’s safe enough, Miss Rosa. I’ve been used to find my way about
ever since I could walk. I’ve just come up from the marshes, and I was
going to take these cockles to Mavis Farm to see if the master would like
them for his breakfast to-morrow.’
‘I daresay they will be very glad of them. George and Bob are awfully
fond of cockles. What a lot you’ve gathered, Lizzie. How do you manage to
find them, when you can’t see?’
‘I know all the likeliest places they stick to, Miss Rosa, as well as I
do the chimney corner at home. The tide comes up and leaves them on the
bits of rocks, and among the boulders, and some spots are regular beds of
them. I’ve been at it half my life, you see, miss, and I just feel for
them with my fingers and pick them off. I can tell a piece of samphire,
too, by the sound it makes as I tread over it.’
‘It’s wonderful,’ said Rosa; ‘I have often been surprised to see you go
about just as though you had the use of your eyes. It seems to make no
difference to you.’
Poor Lizzie sighed.
‘Oh, miss! it makes a vast difference—such a difference as you could
never understand. But I try to make the best of it, and not be more of a
burden upon aunt and Larry than I need to be.’
‘I’m sure they don’t think you a burden,’ said the other girl, warmly.
‘But I wonder I didn’t meet you on the marshes just now. I’ve been
galloping all over them.’
‘Not past Corston Point, I hope, miss,’ exclaimed Lizzie, hurriedly.
‘Yes, I have! Why not?’
‘Oh, don’t go there again, Miss Rosa. It isn’t safe, particularly on
horseback. There’s no end of quagmires beyond the Point, and you can
never tell when you’ll come on one and be swallowed up, horse and all.’
Rosa Murray laughed.
‘Why aren’t _you_ swallowed up then, Lizzie?’
‘I know my way, miss, and I know the tread of it too. I can tell when the
soil yields more than it should at low tide that I’m nearing a quicksand.
When the Almighty takes away one sense He sharpens the others to make up
for it. But the sands are full of danger; some of them are shifting too,
and you can never tell if they’re firm to-day whether they won’t be loose
to-morrow. Do take heed, Miss Rosa, and never you ride beyond Corston
Point without one of the young gentlemen to take care of you.’
‘Well, I’ll remember your advice, Lizzie, for I don’t want to be
swallowed up alive. Good-bye.’
She put her horse in motion and cantered on some little way in
advance—then suddenly checked him again and turned back. All Rosa
Murray’s actions, like her disposition, were quick and impulsive.
‘By the way, Lizzie, it’s our harvest-home supper to-night. You must be
sure and make Larry bring you up to the big barn with him.’
The blind girl crimsoned with pleasure.
‘Oh, Miss Rosa! but what should I be doing at your supper? I can’t dance,
you know. I shall only be in the way.’
‘Nonsense! You can hear the singing and the music; we have made papa get
a couple of fiddlers over from Wells; and you can eat some supper. You
will enjoy yourself, won’t you, Lizzie?’
‘Yes, miss, I think so—that is, if Larry and aunt are willing that I
should go; but it’s very good of you to ask me.’
‘You must be sure and come. Tell Larry I insist upon it. We shall all be
there, you know, and I shall look out for you, Lizzie, and if I don’t see
you I shall send some one round to your cottage to fetch you.’
Lizzie Locke smiled and curtsied.
‘I’ll be sure and tell Larry of your goodness, miss’ she said, ‘and he’ll
be able to thank you better than I can. Here comes a gentleman,’ she
added, as she withdrew herself modestly from the side of the young lady’s
horse.
The gentleman, whom Lizzie Locke could have distinguished only as such
from the different sound produced by his boots in walking, was Lord
Worcester’s head gamekeeper, Frederick Darley. He was a young fellow to
hold the responsible position he did, being only about thirty years of
age, and he had not held it long; but he was the son of the gamekeeper
on one of Lord Worcester’s estates in the south of England, and his
lordship had brought him to Rooklands as soon as ever a vacancy occurred.
He was a favourite with his master and his master’s guests, being a man
of rather superior breeding and education, but on that very account he
was much disliked by all the poor people around. Gamekeepers are not
usually popular in a poaching district, but it was not Frederick Darley’s
position alone that made him a subject for criticism. His crying sin, to
use their own term, was that he ‘held his head too high.’ The velveteen
coat he usually wore, with a rose in the button-hole, his curly black
hair and waxed moustache, no less than the cigars he smoked and the air
with which he affected the society of the gentry, showed the tenants of
Rooklands that he considered himself vastly above themselves in position,
and they hated him accordingly. The animus had spread to Corston, but Mr
Darley was not well enough known there yet to have become a subject for
general comment. Lizzie Locke had never even encountered him before.
He was walking from the village on the present occasion swinging a light
cane in his hand, and as Rosa Murray looked up at the blind girl’s
exclamation, she perceived him close to her horse’s head.
‘Good morning, Miss Murray,’ he said, lifting his hat.
‘Good morning,’ she replied, without mentioning any name, but Lizzie
Locke could detect from the slight tremor in her voice that she was
confused at the sudden encounter. ‘Were you going down to the beach?’
‘I was going nowhere but in search of you.’
‘Shall we walk towards home then?’ said Rosa, suiting the action to
the word. She evidently did not wish the blind girl to be a party to
their conversation. She called out ‘Good-bye, Lizzie,’ once more as she
walked her horse away, but before she was out of hearing, the little
cockle-gatherer could distinguish her say to the stranger in a fluttered
voice,—
‘I am so glad you are coming over to our harvest-home to-night.’
‘One of the grand gentlemen over from Rooklands come to court Miss Rosa,’
she thought in the innocence of her heart, as she turned off the road to
take a short cut across the country to Mavis Farm. Meanwhile the couple
she alluded to were making their way slowly towards Corston; she, reining
in her horse to the pace of a tortoise, whilst he walked by the side with
his hand upon the crutch of her saddle.
‘Could you doubt for a moment whether I should come?’ said Frederick
Darley in answer to Rosa’s question. ‘Wouldn’t I go twenty—fifty miles,
for the pleasure of a dance with you?’
‘You’re such an awful flatterer,’ she replied, bridling under the
compliment; ‘but don’t make too sure of a dance with me, for papa and my
brothers will be there, and they are so horribly particular about me.’
‘And not particularly fond of me—I know it, Miss Murray—but I care
nothing at all about it so long as—as—’
‘As what?’
‘_As you are._’
‘Oh, Mr Darley! how can you talk such nonsense?’
‘It’s not nonsense! it’s sober sense—come, Rosa, tell me the truth. Are
you playing with me, or not?’
‘What do you mean by “playing”?’
‘You know. Are you in earnest or in jest? In fact—do you love me better
than you love your father and your brothers?’
‘Mr Darley! You know I do!’
‘Prove it then, by meeting me to-night.’
‘Meeting you? Are you not coming to the harvest-home?’
‘I may look in, but I shall not remain long; I shall only use it as an
excuse to come over to Corston. Mr Murray is suspicious of me—I can see
that—and your brothers dislike me. I don’t care to sit at the table of
men who are not my friends, Rosa. But if you will take an opportunity to
slip out of the barn and join me in the apple copse, I will wait there
for you at ten o’clock.’
‘Oh! Frederick—if papa should catch me!’
‘I will take care of that! Only say you’ll come.’
‘I should like to come—it will be so lovely and romantic. Just like a
scene in a novel. But I am afraid it is very wrong.’
‘What is there wrong in a moonlight stroll? “The summer nights were
made for love,” Rosa, and we shall have a glorious moon by nine o’clock
to-night. You won’t disappoint me, will you?’
‘No, indeed I won’t; but if anything should be discovered you will
promise me—’
‘What? I will promise you anything in the world.’
‘Only that you will shield me from papa’s anger—that you will say it was
all your fault. For papa is dreadful when he gets in a temper.’
‘If you should be discovered—which is not at all likely—I promise you
that, rather than give you back into papa’s clutches, I will carry you
straight off to Rooklands and marry you with a special licence. Will that
satisfy you? Would you consent to be my wife, Rosa?’
‘Yes!’ she replied, and earnestly, for she had been captivated by the
manner and appearance of Frederick Darley for some weeks past, and
this was not the first meeting by many that they had held without the
knowledge of her father.
‘That’s my own Damask Rose,’ he exclaimed triumphantly; ‘give me a kiss,
dear, just one to seal the contract; there’s no one looking!’ He held
up his face towards her as he spoke—his handsome _insouciant_ face with
its bright eyes and smile, and she stooped hers to meet it, and give the
embrace he petitioned for.
But someone _was_ looking. Almost as Rosa’s lips met Darley’s a
frightened look came into her eyes, and she uttered a note of alarm.
‘What is it, darling?’
‘It’s my brother George! He’s coming this way. Oh! go, Mr Darley—pray
go across the field and let me canter on to meet him.’ He would have
stayed to remonstrate, but the girl pushed him from her, and thinking
discretion the better part of valour, he jumped over a neighbouring stile
and walked away in the direction she had indicated, whilst she, with a
considerable degree of agitation, rode on to make what excuses she best
could for the encounter to her brother. George Murray was sauntering
along the hedge-row switching the leaves off the hazel bushes as he went,
and apparently quite unsuspicious of anything being wrong. But the first
question he addressed to his sister went straight to the point.
‘Who was that fellow that was talking to you just now, Rosa?’
She knew it would be of no use trying to deceive him, so she spoke the
truth.
‘It was Mr Darley!’
‘What’s he doing over here?’
‘How should I know? You’d better ask him yourself! Am I accountable for
Mr Darley’s actions?’
‘Don’t talk nonsense. You know what I mean perfectly well. Did he come
over to Rooklands to see you?’
‘To see me—what will you get into your head next?’
‘Well, you seemed to be hitting it off pretty well together. What were
you whispering to him about just now?’
‘I didn’t whisper to him.’
‘You did! I saw you stoop your head to his ear. Now look here, Rosa!
Don’t you try any of your flirtation games on with Darley, or I’ll go
straight to the governor and tell him.’
‘And what business is it of yours, pray?’
‘It would be the business of every one of us. You don’t suppose we’re
going to let you marry a gamekeeper, do you?’
‘Really, George, you’re too absurd. Cannot a girl stop to speak to a man
in the road without being accused of wanting to marry him? You will say
I want to marry every clodhopper I may dance with at the harvest-home
to-night next.’
‘That is a very different thing. The ploughboys are altogether beneath
you, but this Darley is a kind of half-and-half fellow that might presume
to imagine himself good enough to be a match for you.’
‘Half-and-half indeed!’ exclaimed Rosa, nettled at the reflection on her
lover; ‘and pray, what are _we_ when all’s said and done? Mr Darley’s
connections are as good as our own, and better, any day.’
‘Halloa! what are you making a row about? I’ll tell you what, Rosa. It
strikes me very forcibly you want to “carry on” with Lord Worcester’s
keeper, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself for thinking of it.
You—who have been educated and brought up in every respect like a lady—to
condescend to flirt with an upstart like that, _a mere servant_! Why,
he’s no better than Isaac Barnes, or old Whisker, or any of the rest of
them, only he’s prig enough to oil his hair, and wear a button-hole, in
order to catch the eye of such silly noodles like yourself.’
‘You’ve no right to speak to me in this way, George. You know nothing at
all about the matter.’
‘I know that I found Darley and you in the lane with your heads very
close together, and that directly he caught sight of me he made off. That
doesn’t look as if his intentions were honourable, does it? Now, look you
here, Rosa. Is he coming to the barn to-night?’
‘I believe so!’
‘And who asked him?’
‘I don’t know,’ she replied, evasively; ‘papa, perhaps—or very likely Mr
Darley thought he required no invitation to join a ploughman’s dance and
supper.’
‘Well, you’re not to dance with him if he does come.’
‘I don’t know what right you have to forbid it.’
‘None at all! but if you won’t give me the promise I shall go straight to
the governor, and let him know what I saw to-day. _He’s_ seen something
of it himself, I can tell you, and he told me to put you on your guard,
so you can take your choice of having his anger or not.’
This statement was not altogether true, for if Farmer Murray _had_ heard
anything of his daughter’s flirtation with the handsome gamekeeper, it
had been only what his sons had suggested to him, and he did not believe
their reports. But the boys, George and Robert, now young men of three
or four-and-twenty, had had more than one consultation together on the
subject, and quite made up their minds that their sister must not be
allowed to marry Frederick Darley. For they were quite alive to the
advantages that a good connection for her might afford to themselves, and
wanted to see her raise the family instead of lowering it.
Rosa, however, believed her brother’s word. Dread of her father’s anger
actuated in a great measure this belief, and she began to fear lest all
communication between Darley and herself might be broken off if she did
not give the required promise. And the very existence of the fear opened
her eyes to the truth, that her lover was become a necessary part of
life’s enjoyment to her. So, like a true woman and a hunted hare, she
temporised and ‘doubled.’
‘Does papa really think I am too intimate with Mr Darley, George?’ she
inquired, trembling.
‘Of course he does, like all the rest of us.’
‘But it’s a mistake. I don’t care a pin about him.’
‘Then it will be no privation for you to give up dancing with him
to-night.’
‘I never intended to dance with him.’
‘Honour bright, Rosa?’
‘Well, I can’t say more than I have. However, you will see. I _shall not_
dance with him. If he asks me, I shall say I am engaged to you.’
‘You can say what you like, so long as you snub the brute. I wonder at
his impudence coming up to our “Home” at all. But these snobs are never
wanting in “cheek.” However, if Bob and I don’t give him a pretty broad
hint to-night that his room is preferable to his company, I’m a duffer!
Are you going in, Rosa?’
For the young people had continued to walk towards their own home, and
had now arrived at the farm gates.
‘Yes. I’ve been in the saddle since ten o’clock this morning, and have
had enough of it.’
‘Let me take Polly round to the stables before the governor sees the
state you’ve brought her home in, then,’ said George, as his sister
dismounted and threw him the reins. He could be good-natured enough when
he had his own way, and he thought he had got it now with Rosa. But she
went up to her chamber bent but on one idea—how best to let Mr Darley
know of what had passed between her brother and herself, that he might
not be surprised at the caution of her behaviour when they met in the big
barn.
* * * * *
Meanwhile Lizzie Locke having left her basket of cockles at Mavis Farm,
had reached her cottage home. Her thoughts had been very pleasant as she
journeyed there and pondered on the coming pleasure of the evening. It
was not often the poor child took any part in the few enjoyments to be
met in Corston. People were apt to leave her out of their invitations,
thinking that as she was blind she could not possibly derive any
amusement from hearing, and she was of too shrinking and modest a nature
to obtrude herself where she was not specially required. She had never
been to one of the harvest-home suppers given by Farmer Murray (in whose
employ her cousin Laurence worked), though she had heard much of their
delights. But now that Miss Rosa had particularly desired her to come,
she thought Larry would be pleased to take her. And she had a print dress
nice and clean for the occasion, and her aunt would plait her hair neatly
for her, and she should hear the sound of Larry’s voice as he talked to
his companions, and of his feet whilst he was dancing, and, perhaps,
after supper one of his famous old English songs—songs which they had
heard so seldom of late, and the music of which her aunt and she had
missed so much.
It was past twelve o’clock as she entered the cottage, but she was so
full of her grand news that she scarcely remembered that she must have
kept both her relations waiting for their dinner of bacon and beans.