I
The sea was very calm. There was no ship in sight, and the sea-gulls
were motionless upon its even greyness. The sky was dark with lowering
clouds, but there was no wind. The line of the horizon was clear and
delicate. The shingly beach, no less deserted, was thick with tangled
seaweed, and the innumerable shells crumbled under the feet that trod
them. The breakwaters, which sought to prevent the unceasing
encroachment of the waves, were rotten with age and green with the
sea-slime. It was a desolate scene, but there was a restfulness in its
melancholy; and the great silence, the suave monotony of colour, might
have given peace to a heart that was troubled. They could not assuage
the torment of the woman who stood alone upon that spot. She did not
stir; and, though her gaze was steadfast, she saw nothing. Nature has
neither love nor hate, and with indifference smiles upon the light at
heart and to the heavy brings a deeper sorrow. It is a great irony that
the old Greek, so wise and prudent, who fancied that the gods lived
utterly apart from human passions, divinely unconscious in their high
palaces of the grief and joy, the hope and despair, of the turbulent
crowd of men, should have gone down to posterity as the apostle of
brutish pleasure.
But the silent woman did not look for solace. She had a vehement pride
which caused her to seek comfort only in her own heart; and when,
against her will, heavy tears rolled down her cheeks, she shook her head
impatiently. She drew a long breath and set herself resolutely to change
her thoughts.
But they were too compelling, and she could not drive from her mind the
memories that absorbed it. Her fancy, like a homing bird, hovered with
light wings about another coast; and the sea she looked upon reminded
her of another sea. The Solent. From her earliest years that sheet of
water had seemed an essential part of her life, and the calmness at her
feet brought back to her irresistibly the scenes she knew so well. But
the rippling waves washed the shores of Hampshire with a persuasive
charm that they had not elsewhere, and the broad expanse of it, lacking
the illimitable majesty of the open sea, could be loved like a familiar
thing. Yet there was in it, too, something of the salt freshness of the
ocean, and, as the eye followed its course, the heart could exult with a
sense of freedom. Sometimes, in the dusk of a winter afternoon, she
remembered the Solent as desolate as the Kentish sea before her; but her
imagination presented it to her more often with the ships, outward bound
or homeward bound, that passed continually. She loved them all. She
loved the great liners that sped across the ocean, unmindful of wind or
weather, with their freight of passengers; and at night, when she
recognised them only by the long row of lights, they fascinated her by
the mystery of their thousand souls going out strangely into the
unknown. She loved the little panting ferries that carried the good
folk of the neighbourhood across the water to buy their goods in
Southampton, or to sell the produce of their farms; she was intimate
with their sturdy skippers, and she delighted in their airs of
self-importance. She loved the fishing boats that went out in all
weathers, and the neat yachts that fled across the bay with such a
dainty grace. She loved the great barques and the brigantines that came
in with a majestic ease, all their sails set to catch the remainder of
the breeze; they were like wonderful, stately birds, and her soul
rejoiced at the sight of them. But best of all she loved the tramps that
plodded with a faithful, grim tenacity from port to port; often they
were squat and ugly, battered by the tempest, dingy and ill-painted; but
her heart went out to them. They touched her because their fate seemed
so inglorious. No skipper, new to his craft, could ever admire the
beauty of their lines, nor look up at the swelling canvas and exult he
knew not why; no passengers would boast of their speed or praise their
elegance. They were honest merchantmen, laborious, trustworthy, and of
good courage, who took foul weather and peril in the day's journey and
made no outcry. And with a sure instinct she saw the romance in the
humble course of their existence and the beauty of an unboasting
performance of their duty; and often, as she watched them, her fancy
glowed with the thought of the varied merchandise they carried, and
their long sojourning in foreign parts. There was a subtle charm in them
because they went to Southern seas and white cities with tortuous
streets, silent under the blue sky.
Striving still to free herself of a passionate regret, the lonely woman
turned away and took a path that led across the marshes. But her heart
sank, for she seemed to recognise the flats, the shallow dykes, the
coastguard station, which she had known all her life. Sheep were grazing
here and there, and two horses, put out to grass, looked at her
listlessly as she passed. A cow heavily whisked its tail. To the
indifferent, that line of Kentish coast, so level and monotonous, might
be merely dull, but to her it was beautiful. It reminded her of the home
she would never see again.
And then her thoughts, which had wandered around the house in which she
was born, ever touching the fringe as it were, but never quite settling
with the full surrender of attention, gave themselves over to it
entirely.
* * *
Hamlyn's Purlieu had belonged to the Allertons for three hundred years,
and the recumbent effigy, in stone, of the founder of the family's
fortunes, with his two wives in ruffs and stiff martingales, was to be
seen in the chancel of the parish church. It was the work of an Italian
sculptor, lured to England in company of the craftsmen who made the
lady-chapel of Westminster Abbey; and the renaissance delicacy of its
work was very grateful in the homely English church. And for three
hundred years the Allertons had been men of prudence, courage, and
worth, so that the walls of the church by now were filled with the lists
of their virtues and their achievements. They had intermarried with the
great families of the neighbourhood, and with the help of these marble
tablets you might have made out a roll of all that was distinguished in
Hampshire. The Maddens of Brise, the Fletchers of Horton Park, the
Daunceys of Maiden Hall, the Garrods of Penda, had all, in the course of
time, given daughters to the Allertons of Hamlyn's Purlieu; and the
Allertons of Hamlyn's Purlieu had given in exchange richly dowered
maidens to the Garrods of Penda, the Daunceys of Maiden Hall, the
Fletchers of Horton Park, and the Maddens of Brise.
And with each generation the Allertons grew prouder. The peculiar
situation of their lands distinguished them a little from their
neighbours; for, whereas the Garrods, the Daunceys, and the Fletchers
lived within walking distance of each other, and Madden of Brise,
because of his rank and opulence the most distinguished person in the
county, within six or seven miles, Hamlyn's Purlieu was near the sea and
separated by forest land from other places. The seclusion in which its
owners were thus forced to dwell differentiated their characters from
those of the neighbouring gentlemen. They found much cause for
self-esteem in the number of their acres, and, though many of these
consisted of salt marshes, and more of wild heath, others were as good
as any in Hampshire; and the grand total made a formidable array in
works of reference. But they found greater reason still for
self-congratulation in their culture. No pride is so great as the pride
of intellect, and the Allertons never doubted that their neighbours were
boors beside them. Whether it was due to the peculiar lie of the land on
which they were born and bred, that led them to introspection, or
whether it was due to some accident of inheritance, the Allertons had
all an interest in the things of the mind, which had never troubled the
Fletchers or the Garrods of Penda, the Daunceys or my lords Madden of
Brise. They were as good sportsmen as the others, and hunted or shot
with the best of them, but they read books as well, and had a subtlety
of intelligence which was no less unexpected than pleasing. The fat
squires of the county looked up to them as miracles of learning, and
congratulated themselves over their port on possessing in their midst
persons who combined, in such excellent proportions, gentle birth and a
good seat in the saddle with adequate means and an encyclopedic
knowledge. Everything conspired to give the Allertons a good opinion of
themselves. They not only looked down from superior heights on the
persons with whom they habitually came in contact--that is common
enough--but these very persons without question looked up to them.
The Allertons made the grand tour in a style befitting their dignity;
and the letters which each son of the house wrote in turn, describing
Paris, Vienna, Dresden, Munich, and Rome, with the persons of
consequence who entertained him, were preserved with scrupulous care
among the family papers. They testified to an agreeable interest in the
arts; and each of them had made a point of bringing back with him,
according to the fashion of his day, beautiful things which he had
purchased on his journey. Hamlyn's Purlieu, a fine stone house goodly to
look upon, was thus filled with Italian pictures, French cabinets of
delicate workmanship, bronzes of all kinds, tapestries, and old Eastern
carpets. The gardens had been tended with a loving care, and there grew
in them trees and flowers which were unknown to other parts of England.
Each Allerton in his time cherished the place with a passionate pride,
looking upon it as his greatest privilege that he could add a little to
its beauty and hand on to his successor a more magnificent heritage.
* * *
But at length Hamlyn's Purlieu came into the hands of Fred Allerton; and
the gods, blind for so long to the prosperity of this house, determined
now, it seemed, to wreak their malice. Fred Allerton had many of the
characteristics of his race, but in him they took a sudden turn which
bore him swiftly to destruction. They had been marked always by good
looks, a persuasive manner, and a singular liberality of mind; and he
was perhaps the handsomest, and certainly the most charming of them all.
But the freedom from prejudice which had prevented the others from
giving way too much to their pride had in him degenerated into a
singular unscrupulousness. His parents died when he was twenty, and a
year later he found himself master of a great estate. The times were
hard then for those who depended upon their land, and Fred Allerton was
not so rich as his forebears. But he flung himself extravagantly into
the pursuit of pleasure. He was the only member of his family who had
failed to reside habitually at Hamlyn's Purlieu. He seemed to take no
interest in it, and except now and then to shoot, never came near his
native county. He lived much in Paris, which in the early years of the
third republic had still something of the wanton gaiety of the Empire;
and here he soon grew notorious for his prodigality and his adventures.
He was an unlucky man, and everything he did led to disaster. But this
never impaired his cheerfulness. He boasted that he had lost money in
every gambling hell in Europe, and vowed that he would give up racing in
disgust if ever a horse of his won a race. His charm of manner was
irresistible, and no one had more friends than he. His generosity was
great, and he was willing to lend money to everyone who asked. But it is
even more expensive to be a man whom everyone likes than to keep a stud,
and Fred Allerton found himself in due course much in need of ready
money. He did not hesitate to mortgage his lands, and till he came to
the end of these resources also, continued gaily to lead a life of
splendour.
At length he had raised on Hamlyn's Purlieu every penny that he could,
and was crippled with debt besides; but he still rode a fine horse,
lived in expensive chambers, dressed better than any man in London, and
gave admirable dinners to all and sundry. He realised then that he could
only retrieve his fortunes by a rich marriage. Fred Allerton was still a
handsome man, and he knew from long experience how easy it was to say
pleasant things to a woman. There was a peculiar light in his blue eyes
which persuaded everyone of the goodness of his heart. He was amusing
and full of spirits. He fixed upon a Miss Boulger, one of the two
daughters of a Liverpool manufacturer, and succeeded after a
surprisingly short time in assuring her of his passion. There was a
convincing air of truth in all he said, and she returned his flame with
readiness. It was clear to him that her sister was equally prepared to
fall in love with him, and he regretted with diverting frankness to his
more intimate friends that the laws of the land prevented him from
marrying them both and acquiring two fortunes instead of one. He married
the younger Miss Boulger, and on her dowry paid off the mortgages on
Hamlyn's Purlieu, his own debts, and succeeded for several years in
having an excellent time. The poor woman, happily blind to his defects,
adored him with all her soul. She trusted him entirely with the
management of her money and only regretted that the affairs connected
with it kept him so much in town. With marriage and his new connection
with commerce Fred Allerton had come to the conclusion that he had
business abilities, and he occupied himself thenceforward with all
manner of financial schemes. With unwearied enthusiasm he entered upon
some new affair which was going to bring him untold wealth as soon as
the last had finally sunk into the abyss of bankruptcy. Hamlyn's Purlieu
had never known such gaieties as during the fifteen years of Mrs.
Allerton's married life. All kinds of people were brought down by Fred;
and the dignified dining-room, which for centuries had witnessed
discussions, learned or flippant, on the merits of Greek and Latin
authors, or the excellencies of Italian masters, now heard strange talk
of stocks and shares, companies, syndicates, options and holdings. When
Mrs. Allerton died suddenly she was entirely unconscious that her
husband had squandered every penny of the money which had been settled
on her children, had mortgaged once more the broad fields of his
ancestors, and was head over ears in debt. She expired with his name
upon her lips, and blessed the day on which she had first seen him. She
had one son and one daughter. Lucy was a girl of fifteen when her mother
died, and George, the boy, was ten.
It was Lucy, now a woman of twenty-five, who turned her back upon the
Kentish sea and slowly walked across the marsh. And as she walked, the
recollection of the ten years that had passed since then was placed
before her as it were in a single Sash.
At first her father had seemed the most wonderful being in the world,
and she had worshipped him with all her childish heart. The love that
bound her to her mother was pale in comparison, for Lucy could not
divide her affections, giving part here, part there; her father, with
his wonderful gift of sympathy, his indescribable charm, conquered her
entirely. It was her greatest delight to be with him. She was
entertained and exhilarated by his society, and she hated the men of
business who absorbed so much of his time.
When Mrs. Allerton died George was sent to school, but Lucy, in charge
of a governess, remained year in, year out, at Hamlyn's Purlieu with her
books, her dogs, and her horses. And gradually, she knew not how, it was
borne in upon her that the father who had seemed such a paragon of
chivalry, was weak, unreliable, and shifty. She fought against the
suspicions that poisoned her mind, charging herself bitterly with
meanness of spirit, but one small incident after another brought the
truth home to her. She recognised with a shiver of anguish that his
standard of veracity was utterly different from hers. He was not very
careful to keep his word. He was not scrupulous in money matters. With
her, honesty, truthfulness, exactness in all affairs, were not only
instinctive, but deliberate; for the pride of her birth was so great
that she felt it incumbent upon her to be ten times more careful in
these things than the ordinary run of men.
And then, from a word here and a word there, by horrified guesses and by
a kind of instinctive surmise, she realised presently the whole truth of
her father's life. She found out that Hamlyn's Purlieu was mortgaged
for every penny it was worth, she found out that there was a bill of
sale on the furniture, that money had been raised on the pictures; and,
at last, that her mother's money, left in her father's trust to her and
George, had been spent. And still Fred Allerton lived with prodigal
magnificence.
It was only very gradually that Lucy discovered these things. There was
no one whom she could consult, and she had to devise some mode of
conduct by herself. It was all a matter of supposition, and she knew
almost nothing for certain. She made up her mind that she would probe no
deeper. But since such knowledge as she had came to her only by degrees,
she was able the better to adapt her behaviour to it. The pride which
for so long had been a characteristic of the Allertons, but had
unaccountably missed Fred, in her enjoyed all its force; and what she
knew now served only to augment it. In the ruin of her ideals she had
nothing but that to cling to, and she cherished it with an unreasoning
passion. She had a cult for the ancestors whose portraits looked down
upon her in one room after another of Hamlyn's Purlieu, and from their
names and the look of them, which was all that remained, she made them
in her fancy into personalities whose influence might somehow counteract
the weakness of her father. In them there was so much uprightness,
strength, and simple goodness; the sum total of it must prevail in the
long run against the unruly instincts of one man. And she loved her old
home, with all its exquisite contents, with its rich gardens, its broad,
fertile fields, above all with its wild heath and flat sea-marshes, she
loved it with a hungry devotion, saddened and yet more vehement because
her hold on it was jeopardised. She set the whole strength of her will
on preserving the place for her brother. Her greatest desire was to fill
him with the determination to reclaim it from the foreign hands that had
some hold upon it, and to restore it to its ancient freedom.
Upon George were set all Lucy's hopes. He could restore the fallen
fortunes of their race, and her part must be to train him to the
glorious task. He was growing up, and she made up her mind to keep from
him all knowledge of her father's weakness. To George he must seem to
the last an honest gentleman.
Lucy transferred to her brother all the love which she had lavished on
her father. She watched his growth fondly, interesting herself in his
affairs, and seeking to be to him not only a sister, but the mother he
had lost and the father who was unworthy. When he was of a fit age she
saw that he was sent to Winchester. She followed his career with passion
and entered eagerly into all his interests.
But if Lucy had lost her old love for her father, its place had been
taken by a pitying tenderness; and she did all she could to conceal from
him the change in her feelings. It was easy when she was with him, for
then it was impossible to resist his charm; and it was only afterwards,
when he was no longer there to explain things away, that she could not
crush the horror and resentment with which she regarded him. But of this
no one knew anything; and she set herself deliberately not only to make
such headway as she could in the tangle of their circumstances, but to
conceal from everyone the actual state of things.
For presently Fred Allerton seemed no longer to have an inexhaustible
supply of ready money, and Lucy had to resort to a very careful economy.
She reduced expenses in every way she could, and when left alone in the
house, lived with the utmost frugality. She hated to ask her father for
money, and since often he did not pay the allowance that was due to her,
she was obliged to exercise a good deal of self-denial. As soon as she
was old enough, Lucy had taken the household affairs into her own hands
and had learned to conduct them in such a way as to hide from the world
how difficult it was to make both ends meet. Now, feeling that things
were approaching a crisis, she sold the horses and dismissed most of the
servants. A great fear seized her that it would be impossible to keep
Hamlyn's Purlieu, and she was stricken with panic. She was willing to
make every sacrifice but that, and if she were only allowed to remain
there, did not care how penuriously she lived.
But the struggle was growing harder. None knew what she had endured in
her endeavour to keep their heads above water. And she had borne
everything with perfect cheerfulness. Though she saw a good deal of the
neighbouring gentry, connected with her by blood or long friendship, not
one of them divined her great anxiety. She felt vaguely that they knew
how things were going, but she held her head high and gave no one an
opportunity to pity her. Her father was now absent from home more
frequently and seemed to avoid being alone with her. They had never
discussed the state of their affairs, for he assumed with Lucy a
determined flippancy which prevented any serious conversation. On her
twenty-first birthday he had made some facetious observation about the
money of which she was now mistress, but had treated the matter with
such an airy charm that she had felt unable to proceed with it. Nor did
she wish to, for if he had spent her money nothing could be done, and it
was better not to know for certain. Notwithstanding settlements and
wills, she felt that it was really his to do what he liked with, and she
made up her mind that nothing in her behaviour should be construed as a
reproach.
At length the crash came.
She received a telegram one day--she was nearly twenty-three then--from
Richard Lomas, an old friend of her mother's, to say that he was coming
down for luncheon. She walked to the station to meet him. She was very
fond of him, not only for his own sake, but because her mother had been
fond of him, too; and the affection which had existed between them, drew
her nearer to the mother whom she felt now she had a little neglected.
Dick Lomas was a barrister, who, after contesting two seats
unsuccessfully, had got into Parliament at the last general election and
had made already a certain name for himself by the wittiness of his
speeches and the bluntness of his common sense. He had neither the
portentous gravity nor the dogmatic airs which afflicted most of his
legal colleagues in the house. He was a man who had solved the
difficulty of being sensible without tediousness and pointed without
impertinence. He was wise enough not to speak too often, and if only he
had not possessed a sense of humour--which his countrymen always regard
with suspicion in an English politician--he might have looked forward to
a brilliant future. He was a wiry little man, with a sharp,
good-humoured face and sparkling eyes. He carried his seven and thirty
years with gaiety.
But on this occasion he was unusually grave. Lucy, already surprised at
his sudden visit, divined at once from the uneasiness of his pleasant,
grey eyes that something was amiss. Her heart began to beat more
quickly. He forced himself to smile as he took her hand, congratulating
her on the healthiness of her appearance; and they walked slowly from
the station. Dick spoke of indifferent things, while Lucy distractedly
turned over in her mind all that could have happened. Luncheon was ready
for them, and Dick sat down with apparent gusto, praising emphatically
the good things she set before him; but he ate as little as she did. He
seemed impatient for the meal to end, but unwilling to enter upon the
subject which oppressed him. They drank their coffee.
'Shall we go for a turn in the garden?' he suggested.
'Certainly.'
After his last visit, Dick had sent down an old sundial which he had
picked up in a shop in Westminster, and Lucy took him to the place which
they had before decided needed just such an ornament. They discussed it
at some length, but then silence fell suddenly upon them, and they
walked side by side without a word. Dick slipped his arm through hers
with a caressing motion, and Lucy, unused to any tenderness, felt a sob
rise to her throat. They went in once more and stood in the
drawing-room. From the walls looked down the treasures of the house.
There was a portrait by Reynolds, and another by Hoppner, and there was
a beautiful picture of the Grand Canal by Guardi, and there was a
portrait by Goya of a General Allerton who had fought in the Peninsular
War. Dick gave them a glance, and his blood tingled with admiration. He
leaned against the fireplace.
'Your father asked me to come down and see you, Lucy. He was too worried
to come himself.'
Lucy looked at him with grave eyes, but made no reply.
'He's had some very bad luck lately. Your father is a man who prides
himself on his business ability, but he has no more knowledge of such
matters than a child. He's an imaginative man, and when some scheme
appeals to his feeling for romance, he loses all sense of proportion.'
Dick paused again. It was impossible to soften the blow, and he could
only put it bluntly.
'He's been gambling on the Stock Exchange, and he's been badly let down.
He was bulling a number of South American railways, and there's been a
panic in the market. He's lost enormously. I don't know if any
settlement can be made with his creditors, but if not he must go
bankrupt. In any case, I'm afraid Hamlyn's Purlieu must be sold.'
Lucy walked to the window and looked out. But she could see nothing. Her
eyes were blurred with tears. She breathed quickly, trying to control
herself.
'I've been expecting it for a long time,' she said at last. 'I've
refused to face it, and I put the thought away from me, but I knew
really that it must come to that.'
'I'm very sorry,' said Dick helplessly.
She turned on him fiercely, and the colour rose to her cheeks. But she
restrained herself and left unsaid the bitter words that had come to
her tongue. She made a pitiful gesture of despair. He felt how poor were
his words of consolation, and how inadequate to her great grief, and he
was silent.
'And what about George?' she asked.
George was then eighteen, and on the point of leaving Winchester. It had
been arranged that he should go to Oxford at the beginning of the next
term.
'Lady Kelsey has offered to pay his expenses at the 'Varsity,' answered
Dick, 'and she wants you to go and stay with her for the present.'
'Do you mean to say we're penniless?' asked Lucy, desperately.
'I think you cannot depend on your father for much regular assistance.'
Lucy was silent again.
Lady Kelsey was the elder sister of Mrs. Allerton, and some time after
that lady's marriage had accepted a worthy merchant whose father had
been in partnership with hers; and he, after a prosperous career crowned
by surrendering his seat in Parliament to a defeated cabinet-minister--a
patriotic act for which he was rewarded with a knighthood--had died,
leaving her well off and childless. She had but one other nephew, Robert
Boulger, her brother's only son, but he was rich with all the inherited
wealth of the firm of Boulger & Kelsey; and her affections were placed
chiefly upon the children of the man whom she had loved devotedly and
who had married her sister.
'I was hoping you would come up to town with me now,' said Dick. 'Lady
Kelsey is expecting you, and I cannot bear to think of you by yourself
here.'
'I shall stay till the last moment.'
Dick hesitated again. He had wished to keep back the full brutality of
the blow, but sooner or later it must be given.
'The place is already sold. Your father accepted an offer from
Jarrett--you remember him, he has been down here; he is your father's
broker and chief creditor--and everything else is to go to Christy's at
once.'
'Then there is no more to be said.'
She gave Dick her hand.
'You won't mind if I don't come to the station with you?'
'Won't you come up to London?' he asked again.
She shook her head.
'I want to be alone. Forgive me if I make you go so abruptly.'
'My dear girl, it's very good of you to make sure that I don't miss my
train,' he smiled drily.
'Good-bye and thank you.'