SONS OF FIRE
A Novel
By Mary Elizabeth Braddon
THE AUTHOR OF
"LADY AUDLEY'S SECRET," "VIXEN,"
"ISHMAEL," ETC.
_IN THREE VOLUMES_
VOL. I.
LONDON
SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, HAMILTON, KENT & CO.
LIMITED
STATIONERS' HALL COURT
[_All rights reserved_]
LONDON:
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.
CONTENTS OF VOL. I.
I. A STRIKING LIKENESS
II. ALLAN CAREW'S PEOPLE
III. "A HOME OF ANCIENT PEACE"
IV. "IN THE ALL-GOLDEN AFTERNOON"
V. MORE NEW-COMERS
VI. LIKE THE MOTH TO THE FLAME
VII. "O THE RARE SPRING-TIME!"
VIII. NOT YET
IX. "SO GREW MY OWN SMALL LIFE COMPLETE"
X. "OUR DREAMS PURSUE OUR DEAD, AND DO NOT FIND"
XI. THE MASTER OF DISCOMBE
SONS OF FIRE.
CHAPTER I.
A STRIKING LIKENESS.
The meet was at the Pig and Whistle, at Melbury, nine miles off. Rather
a near meet--compared with the usual appointments of the South Sarum
hounds--the ostler remarked, as Allan Carew mounted a hired hunter in
the yard of the Duke's Head, chief, and indeed only possible inn for a
gentleman to put up at, in the little village of Matcham, a small but
prosperous hamlet, lying in a hollow of the hills between Salisbury
and Andover. He had only arrived on the previous afternoon, and he was
sallying forth in the crisp March morning, on an unknown horse in an
unfamiliar country, to hunt with a pack whose master's name he had
heard for the first time that day.
"Can he jump?" asked Allan, as he scrutinized the lean, upstanding
bay; not a bad kind of horse by any means, but with that shabby,
under-groomed and over-worked appearance common to hirelings.
"Can't he, sir? There ain't a better lepper in Wiltshire. And as
clever as a cat! We had a lady staying here in the winter, Mrs.
Colonel Parkyn, brought two 'acks of her own, besides the colonel's
two 'unters, and liked this here horse better than any of 'em. She was
right down mashed on him, as the young gents say."
"I wonder she didn't buy him," said Allan.
"She couldn't, sir. Money wouldn't buy such a hunter as this off my
master. He's a fortune to us."
"I hope I may be of Mrs. Parkyn's opinion when I come home," said
Allan. "Now then, ostler, just tell me which way I am to ride to get to
the Pig and Whistle by eleven o'clock."
The ostler gave elaborate instructions. A public-house here, an
accommodation lane there--a common to cross--a copse to skirt--three
villages--one church--a post-office--and several cross-roads.
"You're safe to fall in with company before you get there," concluded
the ostler, whisking a bit of straw out of the bay's off hind hoof, and
eyeing him critically, previous to departure.
"If I don't, I doubt if I ever shall get there," said Allan, as he rode
out of the yard.
He was a stranger in Matcham, a "foreigner," as the villagers called
such alien visitors. He had never been in the village before,
knew nothing of its inhabitants or its surroundings, its customs,
ways, local prejudices, produce, trade, scandals, hates, loves,
subserviencies, gods, or devils. And yet henceforward he was to be
closely allied with Matcham, for a certain bachelor uncle had lately
died and left him a small estate within a mile of the village--a
relative with whom Allan Carew had held slightest commune, lunching or
dining with him perhaps once in a summer, at an old family hotel in
Albemarle Street, never honoured by so much as a hint at an invitation
to his rural retreat, and not cherishing any expectation of a legacy,
much less the bequest of all the gentleman's worldly possessions,
comprising a snug, well-built house, in pretty and spacious grounds,
with good and ample stabling, and with farms and homesteads covering
something like fifteen hundred acres, and producing an income of a
little over two thousand a year.
It need hardly be stated that Allan Carew was not a poor man when this
unexpected property fell into his lap.
The children of this world are rarely false to the gospel precept--to
every one which hath shall be given. Allan's father had changed his
name, ten years before, from Beresford to Carew, upon his succession
to a respectable estate in Suffolk, an inheritance from his maternal
grandfather, old Squire Carew, of Fendyke Hall, Millfield.
Allan, an only son, was not by any means ill provided for when his
maternal uncle, Admiral the Honourable Allan Darnleigh, took it into
his head to leave him his Wiltshire property; but this bequest raised
him at once to independence, and altogether dispensed with any further
care about that gentleman-like profession, the Bar, which had so far
repaid Mr. Carew's collegiate studies, labours, outlays, and solicitude
by fees amounting in all to seven pounds seven shillings, which sum
represented the gross earnings of three years.
So, riding along the rustic high-road, in the clear morning air, under
a sapphire sky, just gently flecked with fleecy cloudlets, Allan Carew
told himself that it was a blessed escape to have done with chambers,
and reading law, and waiting for briefs; and that it was a good thing
to be a country gentleman; to have his own house and his own stable;
not to be obliged to ride another man's horses, even though that other
man were his very father; not to be told after every stiffish day
across country that he had done for the grey, or that the chestnut's
legs had filled as never horse's legs filled before, nor to hear any
other reproachful utterances of an old and privileged stud-groom, who
knew the horses he rode were not his own property. Henceforth his
stable would be his own kingdom, and he would reign there absolute and
unquestioned. He could choose his own horses, and they should be good
ones. He naturally shared the common creed of sons, and looked upon
all animals of his father's buying as "screws" and "duffers." His own
stables would be something altogether different from the drowsy old
stables at home, where horses were kept and cherished because they were
familiar friends, rather than with a view to locomotion. His stud and
his stable should be as different as if horses and grooms had been bred
upon another planet.
He loved field-sports. He felt that it was in him to make a model
squire, albeit two thousand a year was not a large revenue in these
days of elegant living and Continental holidays, and eclectic tastes.
He felt that among his numerous nephews, old Admiral Darnleigh had
made a wise selection in choosing his god-son, Allan Carew, to inherit
his Wiltshire estate. He meant to be prudent and economical. He had
spent the previous afternoon in a leisurely inspection of Beechhurst.
He had gone over house and stables, and had found all things so well
planned, and in such perfect order, that he was assailed by none of
those temptations to pull down and to build, to alter and to improve,
which often inaugurate ruin in the very dawn of possession. He thought
he might build two or three loose boxes on one side of the spacious
stable-yard. There were two packs within easy reach of Matcham, to say
nothing of packs accessible by rail, and he would naturally want more
hunters than had sufficed for the old sailor, who had jogged out on his
clever cob two or three times a week, and had gone home early, after
artful riding and waiting about the lanes, or to leeward of the great
bare hills, and in snug corners, where a profound knowledge of the
country enabled him to make sure of the hounds. Allan's hunting-stable
would be on a very different footing; and although Beechhurst provided
ample accommodation for a stud of eight, Allan told himself that one of
his first duties would be to build loose boxes.
"I shall often have to put up a couple of horses for a friend," he
thought.
The morning was lovely, more like April than March. The bay trotted
along complacently, neither lazy nor feverishly active, but with an air
of knowing what he had to do for his day's wage, and meaning honestly
to do it. Allan was glad that his road took him past Beechhurst.
Possession had still all the charm of novelty. His heart thrilled with
pride as he slackened his pace to gaze fondly at the pretty white
house, low and long, with a verandah running all along the southern
front, admirably placed upon a gentle elevation, against the swelling
shoulder of a broad down, facing south-west, and looking over garden
and shrubbery, and across a stretch of common, that lay between
Beechhurst and the high-road, and gave a dignified aloofness to the
situation; seclusion without dulness, a house and grounds remote, but
not buried or hidden.
"Nothing manorial about it," mused Allan; "but it certainly looks a
gentleman's place."
He would naturally have preferred something less essentially modern. He
would have liked Tudor chimneys, panelled walls, and a family ghost.
He would have liked to know that his race had taken deep root in the
soil, had been lords of the manor centuries and centuries ago, when
Wamba was keeping pigs in the woods, and when the jester's bells mixed
with the merry music of hawk and hound. Admiral Darnleigh, so far as
Wiltshire was concerned, had been a new man. He had made his money in
China, speculating in tea-gardens, and other property, while pursuing
his naval career with considerable distinction. He had retired from
active service soon after the Chinese war, a C.B. and a rich man, had
bought Beechhurst a bargain--during a period of depression--and had
settled down in yonder pretty white house, with a small but admirable
establishment, each member thereof a pearl of price among servants,
and had there spent the tranquil even-tide of an honourable and
consistently selfish life. He had never married. As a single man, he
had always felt himself rich; as a married man he might often have
felt himself poor. He had heard Allan at five and twenty declare that
he had done with the romance of life, and that he, too, meant to be a
bachelor; and it may be that this boyish assertion, carelessly made
over a bottle of Lafitte, did in some measure influence the Admiral's
choice of an heir.
Allan's father and mother were of a more liberal mind.
"You are in a better position than your father was at your age," said
Lady Emily Carew, on her son's accession to fortune. "I hope you will
marry well--and soon."
There was no thought of woman's love, or of married bliss, in Allan
Carew's mind, as he rode through the lanes and over a common, and
across a broad stretch of open down to the Pig and Whistle. He was
full, not of his inner self, but of the outer world around and about
him, pleased with the pleasant country in which his lot was cast,
wondering what his new neighbours were like, and how they would receive
him.
"I wonder whether the South Sarum is a hospitable hunt, or whether the
members are a surly lot, and look upon every stranger as a sponge and
an interloper," he mused.
He had ridden alone for about half the way, when a man in grey fustian
and leather gaiters, who looked like a small tenant farmer, trotted
past him, turned and stared at him with obvious astonishment, touched
his hat and rode on, after a few words of greeting, which were lost in
the clatter of hoofs.
He had ridden right so far by the aid of memory; he now followed
the man in grey, and, taking care to keep this pioneer in view,
duly arrived at a small rustic inn, standing upon high ground, and
overlooking an undulating sweep of woodland and common, marsh and
plain, one of those picturesque oases which diversify the breadth of
wind-swept downs. The inn was an isolated building, the few labourers'
cottages within reach being hidden by a turn of the road.
Hounds and hunt-servants were clustered on a level green on the other
side of the road, but there was no one else upon the ground.
Allan looked at his watch, and found that it was ten minutes to eleven.
The man in grey had dismounted from his serviceable cob, and was
standing on the greensward, talking to the huntsman. Huntsman and whips
had taken off their caps to Allan as he rode up, and it seemed to
him that there was at once more respect and more friendliness in the
salutation than a stranger usually receives--above all a stranger in
heather cloth and butcher boots, and not in the orthodox pink and tops.
The man in grey, and the hunt-servants, were evidently talking of him
as he sat solitary in front of the inn. Their furtive glances in his
direction fully indicated that he was the subject of their discourse.
"They take a curious interest in strangers in these parts," thought
Allan.
Two minutes afterwards, a stout man, with a weather-beaten red face
showing above a weather-beaten red coat, rode up with two other men.
Evidently the master and his satellites.
"Hulloa!" cried the jovial man, "what the deuce brings you back so much
sooner than Mrs. Wornock expected you? She told me there was no chance
of our seeing you for the next year. When did you arrive? I never heard
a word about it."
The master's broad doeskin palm was extended to Allan in the most
cordial way, and the master's broad red face irradiated kindliest
feelings.
"You are under a misapprehension, sir," said Allan, smiling at the
frank, friendly face, amused at the eager rapidity of speech which had
made it impossible for him to interrupt the speaker. "I have never yet
enjoyed the privilege of a day with the South Sarum, and this is my
first appearance in your neighbourhood."
"And you ain't Geoffrey Wornock," exclaimed the master, utterly
discomfited.
"My name is Carew."
"Ah, your voice is different. I should have known you were not Geoff if
I had heard you speak. And now, of course, when one looks deliberately,
there is a difference--a difference which would be more marked, I dare
say, if Wornock were here. Are you a relation of Wornock's?"
"I never heard the name of Wornock in my life until I heard it from
you."
"Well, I'm--dashed," cried the master, suppressing a stronger word as
premature so early in the day. "Did you see the likeness, Champion?"
asked the master, appealing to one of his satellites.
"Of course I did," replied Captain Champion. "I was just as much
under a delusion as you were--and yet--Mr. Carew's features are not
the same as Wornock's--and his eyes are a different colour. It's the
outlook, the expression, the character in the face that is so like our
friend's--and I think that kind of likeness impresses one more than
mere form and outline."
"Hang me if I know anything about it, except that I took one man for
the other," said the master, bluntly. "Well, Mr. Carew, I hope you will
excuse my blunder, and that we may be able to show you some sport on
your first day in our country. We'll draw Wellout's Wood, Hamper, and
if we don't find there we'll go on to Holiday Hill."
Hounds and servants went off merrily across the down, and dipped into
a winding lane. A good many horsemen had ridden up by this time, with
half a dozen ladies among them. Some skirmished across the fields,
others crowded the lane, and in this latter contingent rode the master,
with his hounds in front of him, and Carew at his side.
"Are you staying in the neighbourhood?" he asked; "or did you come by
rail this morning? A long ride from Matcham Road station, if you did."
"I am staying at the Duke's Head, at Matcham; but I only arrived
yesterday. I am going to settle in your neighbourhood."
"Indeed! Have you bought a place?"
"No."
"Ah, going to rent one. Wiser, perhaps, till you see how you like this
part of the country."
"I have had a place left me by my uncle, Admiral Darnleigh."
"What! are you Darnleigh's heir? Yes, by-the-by, I heard that
Beechhurst was left to a Mr. Carew; but I've a bad memory for names.
So you have got Beechhurst, have you? I congratulate you. A charming
place, compact, snug, warm, and in perfect order. Stables a trifle
small, perhaps, for a hunting man."
"I am going to extend them," said Allan, with suppressed pride.
"Then you are going to do the right thing, sir. The only part in
which Beechhurst falls short of perfection is in the stables. Capital
stables, as far as they go, but it isn't far enough for a man who wants
to hunt five days a week, and accommodate his hunting friends. Besides,
the owner of Beechhurst ought to be in a position to take the hounds at
a push."
"I hope it may be long before that push comes," said Allan.
"Ah, you're very kind; but I'm not so young as I was once, nor so rich
as I was once--and--the Preacher says there's a time for all things. My
time is very nearly past, and your time is coming, Mr. Carew. When do
you establish yourself at Beechhurst?"
"I am going back to London to-morrow to settle a few matters, and
perhaps have a look round at Tattersall's, and I hope to be at
Beechhurst in less than a fortnight."
"I shall do myself the pleasure of calling upon you. Any wife?"
"I am still in the enviable position my uncle enjoyed till his death."
"A bachelor? Ah! that won't last long. It's all very well for a
sun-dried old sailor to keep the fair sex at arm's length; but
_you_ won't be able to do it, Mr. Carew. I give you till our
next hunt-ball for a free man. You've no notion what complexions our
Wiltshire women have--Devon can't beat 'em--or what a lot of pretty
girls there are within a fifteen-mile drive of Matcham."
"I look forward with a thrill of mingled rapture and apprehension to
your next hunt-ball."
"It'll be here before you know where you are. We have postponed it till
the first of May. We shall kill our May fox on the thirtieth of April,
and dance on his grave on the first."
"I shall be there, my lord," said Allan, as Lord Hambury galloped off
after his huntsman, who had just put the hounds into the covert.
A whimper proclaimed that there was something on foot, five minutes
afterwards, and the business of the day began--a goodish day, and a
long one--two foxes run to earth, and one killed in the twilight. It
was seven o'clock when Allan Carew arrived at the Duke's Head, hungry
and thirsty, and not a little bored by having been obliged to explain
to various people that he was no relation to Geoffrey Wornock.
He had been too much bored at this enforced reiteration to make any
inquiries about this double of his in the course of the day, or during
the long homeward ride; but when he had taken the edge off his appetite
in his cosy sitting-room at the Duke's Head, he began to question the
waiter, as he trifled with the customary hotel tart, a hollow cavern of
short crust roofing in half a bottle of overgrown gooseberries.
"Do you know Mr. Wornock?"
"Yes, sir; know him uncommonly well. Wonderful likeness between him and
you, sir; thought you was him till I heard you speak."
"Our voices are different, I am told."
"Yes, sir, there's a difference. It ain't much--but it's just enough to
make one doubtful like. Your voice, begging your pardon, sir, ain't as
musical as his. Mr. Wornock's is a voice that would charm a bird off a
tree, as the saying is. And then, after the first glance, one can see
it ain't the same face," pursued the waiter, thoughtfully. "You've got
such a look of him, you see, sir. That's what it is. One don't stop
to think of the shape of a nose or a chin. It's the look that catches
the eye. I suppose that's what people means by a speaking countenance,
sir," added the waiter, garrulous, but not disrespectful.
"Has Mr. Wornock any land in the county?" asked Allan.
"Land, sir? Yes, sir," replied the waiter, with a touch of wonder at
being asked such a question. "Mr. Wornock is Lord of the Manor of
Discombe, sir--a very large estate--and a fine old house, added to by
Mr. Wornock's grandfather. The old part was built in the time of King
Charles, sir, and the new part is very fine and picturesque--and the
gardens are celebrated in these parts, sir--quite a show place--but
Mrs. Wornock never allows it to be shown. She lives very secluded,
don't give no entertainments herself, nor visit scarce anywheres. They
do say that she was not right in her mind for some years after Mr.
Wornock's birth, but that's six and twenty years ago, and there may not
be any truth in the report. Gongozorla, sir, or cheddar?"
"Neither, thanks. Are the Wornocks an old family?"
"Very old family, sir. Old Saxon name. Came over with Edward the
Confessor."
"And who was Mrs. Wornock?"
"Ah, there's a little 'itch there, sir. Nobody knows who Mrs. Wornock
was, or where she came from--and they do say she wasn't county, which
is a pity, seeing that the Wornocks had always married county prior to
that marriage," added the waiter, proud of his concluding phrase.
"Mr. Wornock is abroad, I understand. Where?"
"Inja, sir. Cavalry regiment, the Eighteenth South Sarum Lancers."
"Strange for a man owning so fine a property to go into the army."
"Well, sir, don't you see, the life at the Manor must have been a
very dull one for a young gentleman. No entertainments. No staying
company. Mrs. Wornock, she don't care for nothink but music--and,
after all, sir, music ain't everythink to a young man. He 'unted, and
he 'unted, and he 'unted, from the time he 'ad legs to cross a pony.
Wherever there was 'ounds to be follered, he follered 'em. But hunting
ain't everythink in life, and it don't last long," added the waiter,
philosophically.
"Mrs. Wornock, as dowager, should have withdrawn to her Dower-house,
and left the young man free to be as jovial as he liked at the Manor."
"Ah, that may come to pass when he marries, sir, but not before.
Mr. Wornock is a devoted son. He'd be the last to turn his mother
out-of-doors. And he's almost as keen on music as his mother, I've
heard say; plays the fiddle just like a professional--and the organ."
"Well," sighed Carew, having heard all he wanted to hear, "I bear no
grudge against Mr. Geoffrey Wornock because he happens to resemble me;
but I wish with all my heart that he could have made it convenient to
live in any other neighbourhood than that in which my lot is cast. That
will do, waiter; I don't want any more wine. You may clear the table,
and bring me some tea at nine o'clock."
The waiter cleared the table, in a leisurely way, made up the fire,
also in a leisurely way, and contrived to spend a quarter of an
hour upon work that might have been done in five minutes; but Allan
questioned him no further. He flung himself back in an easy-chair,
rested his slippered feet upon the fender, and meditated with closed
eyes.
Yes, it was a bore, a decided bore, to have a double in the
neighbourhood. A double richer, more important, and altogether better
placed than himself; a double in a Lancer regiment--there is at once
chic and attractiveness in a cavalry soldier--a double who owned just
the fine old manorial estate, and fine old manorial mansion which he,
Allan, would have liked to possess.
Beechhurst might be a snug little property; the house might be
perfection, as Lord Hambury had averred; but when a house of that
calibre is said to be perfect, the adjective rarely means anything more
than a good kitchen, and a convenient butler's pantry, roomy cellars,
and a well-planned staircase; whereas, to praise a fine old manor house
implies that it contains a panelled hall, and a spacious ballroom, a
library with a groined roof, and a music gallery in the dining-room.
After hearing of Wornock's old house, Allan felt that Beechhurst was
distinctly middle-class, and that his sailor uncle must have been
a poor creature to have found pride and pleasure in such a cockney
paradise.
He jumped up out of his easy-chair, shook himself, and laughed aloud at
his own pettiness.
"What an envious brute I am!" he said to himself. "I dare say, when
Wornock comes home, I shall find him a decent fellow, and we shall get
to be good friends. If we do, I'll tell him how I was gnawed with envy
of his better fortune before ever I saw his face."