Frank Lawrence; or, a Young Man's Fancy

Chapter I

Miss Walton was sitting alone at her writing-table, but her pen had not been em ployed for some minutes, and she was look iag sadly at the gathering gloom of the sky. A good deal had occurred that day to dis tress her. Her aunt had been recovering slowly sor the last week or two from an attack of bronchitis. She had insisted on venturing to church, contrary to Teresa's ad vice, and had been taken so ill there, that she was obliged to leave before the service was over. Pouring rain had come on before she could reach the cottage. The consequence VOL. II. B had been a violent chill, followed by a return of the former symptoms in an aggravated form. At her age this was a serious matter, and the doctor had that morning told Teresa, that it was more than doubtful whether she would get over it. She had now fallen asleep ; and her niece, worn out with long watching, had left her in charge of a village nurse, while she went downstairs sor a change.

Teresa was greatly distressed at her aunt's state. Between persons so unlike each other, there could not be any very warm attachment. But Mrs. Nunez was the sole remaining link connecting Teresa with the home of her childhood; with those bright, peaceful days, to the memory of which she clung so fondly. She had been kind too, in her rough, un demonstrative way — particularly kind since their recent settlement at Morecombe, and she had always been a mother to poor little Freddy, who would miss her sadly when he returned for his holidays. Nor was it only grief for the possible loss of her aunt that troubled her. What would become of herself, if she were to be deprived of her only protector. She had no near relative but her little brother — no relative at all so far as she knew ; nor any friend, who would so much as offer her a home.

Her thoughts naturally turned to the only person, who now claimed to feel any interest in her. Truth to say, her thoughts seldom now chose any other subject. During the two months of her residence at Morecombe, her love for Frank had grown with the rapid increase which belongs to the passionate southern temperament she inherited from her mother. Deeply as Frank was in love with her, the intensity of her affection far exceeded his. If he had been willing to brave the wants and trials, which an immediate union with her would bring on them, she would willingly have assented to it. But the fear that haunted her was, that when the real trial came, he would fail under it. She could not bear the thought of bringing disappointment and suffering upon him. But if her aunt were to die, Frank would inevitably urge their im mediate marriage more earnestly than ever ; and how could she either refuse or accept, without causing the greatest distress both to herself and him.

B There was also another circumstance which troubled her. Mrs. Nunez's illness had caused some disturbance in the church ; and she had been accompanied home by the Vicar's housekeeper, Mrs. Rice, a well-meaning, but fussy little woman, who dispensed her master's charities during his absence. She had hitherto abstained from visiting at Clematis Cottage, having received no encouragement towards making the acquaintance of its inmates. But Mrs. Nunez's illness was a sufficient excuse for dispensing with a formal invitation. She had overwhelmed Teresa with friendly offers of nurses, and medicines, and parochial visits. She was so sorry, she said, that Dr. Harper was away, and wouldn't be back much before Christmas from foreign parts. Mr. Todd, to be sure, was a good man, and preached long, grand, learned sermons ; but he wasn't much of a man for visiting the sick.

But then there was Mr. Pascoe, he was a won derful man for a sick room. He wasn't a parson to be sure, but he was going to be one, she believed, or as good as one anyway, among the heathen people abroad. She would ask Mr. Pascoe to come and see Mrs. Nunez, that is, if Teresa liked it. Miss Walton had answered civilly, that no doubt her aunt would be glad to see a clergy man, if he would be kind enough to call ; but if Mr. Pascoe was not in Orders — " You needn't mind that, my dear young lady," said the voluble Mrs. Rice. " He is just the same as a clergyman even now. He has prayer meetings in the village, and preaches sometimes at the cottage lectures, as well as the Doctor himself could do for the matter of that ; and Goody Williams, who is laid up with rheumatism, and has hardly moved hand or soot these two years, says he is the most comfortable man in a sick room she has ever known.

It's hard for you, being all alone here, Miss ; but I suppose you will be sending for your brother, and he'll be some comfort." " My brother !" exclaimed Teresa, in sur prise, " poor little fellow, it would only dis tress him to send sor him." " Little !" repeated Mrs. Rice, " I never saw him but once, when he was walking with you in Hazel Lane, and he was some distance off to be sure. But he looked to me as if he was quite grown up." " It was not my brother you saw," ex claimed Teresa, hastily ; the tell-tale colour rising in her cheeks, in spite of every effort to prevent it. " I have only one brother, and he is quite a little boy." " Not your brother," repeated Mrs. Rice, " who then, I wonder ?" " Excuse me," said Teresa, rising, " but I think my aunt wants me upstairs. I am afraid I must wish you good morning.

But thank you for your kindness in calling. If Mr. Todd is able to visit my aunt, I am sure she will be thankful to see him." And with out waiting for the good lady's reply, Teresa vanished from the room. Mrs. Rice got up to go. There was no good in remaining any longer. But she was like a hungry man, who has only been allowed one mouthful of food, whose appetite for more is, in consequence, keener than ever. She had been inquisitive for a long time past about the homely old lady, with her smart niece, who had come to settle in the quiet little village, and of whom no one knew anything. That was bad enough ; but they seemed determined that no one should know anything, and that was worse. Who was this handsome gentleman too, riding a horse as handsome as himself? Mrs. Rice had chosen to assume that he was Teresa's brother, but that was not her real opinion.

Gentlemen who could dress as he did, and keep a horse of such value, were not likely to have relatives of Mrs. Nunez's appearance, living in a cottage, rented at five shillings a week. The case looked rather suspicious, she was afraid, and the young lady's blushes, together with her evident desire to escape from the topic, confirmed her in this opinion. " There's a deal of wickedness in this world," she muttered to herself, as she wend ed along the path leading to the Vicarage, " a deal of wickedness ; and they that seems the best, are often the worst." (The good lady did not reckon uncharitable judg ments as part of the wickedness of the world, it is to be presumed, but in that par ticular she was not singular). " However, I'll talk to Mr. Pascoe about it. It's no use sending Mr. Todd to her.

He thinks of nothing but those books of his, and wouldn't know what to say. But Mr. Pascoe — he's just the person, and wouldn't be no way stopped by her not wanting to see him. I wish he was at home now. It's unlucky he's gone into Oxford to-day, of all the days in the week. But he'll be back this evening, and then I'll speak to him." Miss Walton did not know the visitation in store for her ; but the interview of the morning had rendered her very uncomfortable, nevertheless. She foresaw a good deal of vexatious gossip, which might possibly spread beyond the viUage, and which would vex Frank terribly. She was stUl brooding over these things, when a tap was heard at the door ; and Lawrence entered the cottage. " Teresa, dearest, all alone ? How glad I am to find you." Miss Walton rose from her seat in great surprise, mingled for the moment with some vexation.

It occurred to her that her lover had heard something of the rumours current in the village, and had come to inquire about them. But a moment's consideration told her this was most unlikely. She welcomed him with her usual warmth, and he sat down on the sofa beside her, listening to the parti culars of her aunt's illness, of which he had heard nothing. But his manner was con strained and absent. " Frank," she exclaimed, after a quarter of an hour's conversation, " there is something the matter, and you have come here to tell me so." " What makes you think that ?" asked Lawrence, uneasily, though in his heart he was not sorry to have the ice broken in this way. " I am sure of it from your manner. No misfortune has befallen you, has it? Tell me at once, what has happened." "Nothing, dearest, nothing at least that can be called a misfortune.

But you are right in some degree. Something has hap pened that may make me very unhappy. I have had a letter this morning — " " From your grandfather?" " Yes, from my grandfather." " And he has heard of our engagement, and insists on your breaking it off?" " Why surely," exclaimed Lawrence startled at the tone of assurance in which she spoke, " surely you have not heard — you know nothing about it ?" "Nothing whatever, but I have long been prepared for such an occurrence." Lawrence again regarded her with an un easy feeling, which he could hardly explain to himself. He remembered the suspicions which had occurred to him a few hours before. " It does surprise me though," he said, aloud. " I do not understand how my grandfather can have learnt anything about it. I know no one who is acquainted with the facts, or has any interest in them, except yourself and me, and Mrs. Nunez.

You do not think it possible that your aunt could have written to Keswick." " My aunt ? no, I am positive she has not. But though she has not done so — " she paused. " Go on, Teresa, what then ?" She did not answer. The same suspicion which had occurred to Frank, now entered her mind also. It was evident that Mrs. Rice had suspicions about Lawrence's visits to her. She was just the sort of person to busy herself about her neighbour's affairs, and ferret out all possible information respecting them. This Mr. Pascoe was an Oxford man — thus much she had casually learned — and might be acquainted with Frank. He might have written to the General, at Mrs. Rice's instigation. As sor the belief which the housekeeper had expressed, that Frank was Miss Walton's brother, she had not been deceived by it for a moment.

But then, though this suspicion seemed to have some likelihood in it, it was only sus picion, and Teresa hesitated to suggest it to Frank. She knew her lover's impetuosity, and the danger there would be of a quarrel with this Mr. Pascoe, if he should once entertain the idea that he had been meddling in his affairs. "I believe I had better not say anything on the subject," she observed. " Go on with what you were telling me. Let me know exactly what your grandfather says." Lawrence looked for an instant as though he were half disposed to press his question, but after a moment's thought he complied with her suggestion. " He says in the first place — what I am ashamed to say is true, that I deceived him ahout my reason for wishing to remain in Oxford this summer. I told him I wanted to read for my degree, and my real reason was to be near you."

Teresa looked on the ground, but she made no remark, and he went on. " He says he has learned on sure evidence — ' direct and positive evidence' are his words, that I am contemplating a — a — " " Pray do not fear offending me, Frank. I am most anxious to hear everything." " ■ — Contemplating, what he calls a mesal liance ; and he requires me to abandon it. Remember, darling, he knows nothing of you except by hearsay, or he would never speak so. But, he says, I must give you up, or I shall never inherit Derwent Court, or any of his property, except — " " Except what ?" asked Teresa, eagerly. " That is what I want to hear." " Except just enough to keep me from absolute want." " He does promise you that then ?" " Yes ; but I do not know what he may mean by that. I have thought he might intend to continue to me my present allow ance of four hundred pounds a year, during his lifetime, and secure it to me at his death."

" Four hundred a year, Frank !" " Yes, four hundred a year. You do not think that a very large income, I suppose!" " It is just twice as much as my father had to keep his wife and children on." Lawrence looked at her with an amaze ment that was almost ludicrous ; but his companion was too sad at heart to be amus ed. " Go on," she said simply. " Go on with what you were saying." " I was going to add, that if my grand father should make me this allowance, or rather continue it, in the event of my refusal to comply with his requirements, there would still be a difficulty in the way. There are debts, which I have been fool enough to run up since I have been in Oxford." " Debts ! I thought you had had your allowance during the whole of your resi dence." " Yes, darling, but I have been a fool, as many others before me have been.

I thought I was sure of my grandfather's money, you see. I don't know exactly how much I owe. I never liked to look it up. But I am afraid the total will amount to more than three or four years income !" " Three or four times four hundred pounds, do you mean?" " I am afraid four or five times would be nearer the mark. And now, Teresa, I have told you everything, as I had resolved to do, think of me as you might. I did very wrong in concealing things from my grandfather. I won't act more wrongly still by concealing things from you. I have sent no answer to Keswick yet. I resolved to see you, and tell you all, before I did so. And now let me hear, dearest, what you advise." Teresa made no answer. Her heart failed her as she heard of the debts This was the worst thing she had been told of yet.

She feared he was incapable of any resolute exer tion at all. And if he was, what hope would there be that he would be able to bear poverty and want ? Presently Lawrence spoke again. " Teresa, why do you not speak ? You are not angry with me, are you ?" " No, Frank, it's not that. " You are not afraid of the privations which — " " Hush, you do not understand, She was silent a few minutes and then added. " Come out into the garden. We must not talk any longer in the house. I wonder we have not already disturbed my aunt. And, somehow, I feel as if I could speak to you better under the open sky. This room oppresses me." Frank complied willingly enough. He opened the door, and they stept out. It was now night, a delicious autumn night. The moon had risen, and was pouring its soft lustre on the little plot of garden ground.

The per fumes rose in rich fragrance from the sleeping flowers ; and from the distant woods the notes of the lingering songbirds were faintly heard. The lovers felt the influence of the place. Frank clasped Teresa's arm, which she did not withdraw, within his own ; and they made the circuit of the little garden several times in silence — both unwilling to break the charm of what might be perhaps their last meeting. At length Miss Walton roused herself to speak. " Frank, there is but one course open to us. We must part. All that has passed between us must be cancelled." " Part, Teresa ? You cannot mean it !" " I do, Frank. Listen to me for a moment. I have been to blame, greatly to blame in allowing our engagement. I felt from the first it must come to this." " To this ? to what ? To the choice of poverty, or the breaking of the tie between us ?

That is what you mean, is it not ? Well then, why may we not choose the first ? I have already said, and I repeat it — there is no privation or suffering I would not cheer fully undergo, rather than lose you." " You think so now, Frank ; but you have never known what suffering and privation are. You know nothing of the hardships of a narrow income, of the sacrifice it involves of all the luxuries, nearly all the comforts of life. You have been accustomed to gratify every wish, to indulge every fancy. You have never compelled yourself to anything distasteful to you. No, Frank, you would not be able to bear such a trial, and you would be tempted to regret the step you had taken ; and that I could never bear. No doubt you will feel the pang of the separation " — Teresa paused a moment, for her own anguish at this thought was so great, that she could hardly force herself to speak the words — " but the pain will be softened as life goes on.

In a few years you will probably re joice " " Oh, Teresa, how little you know me. I could never have believed you would speak thus. Whatever I might have to bear, I made sure that you at least were true. If you love me no longer " " Hush, hush, you will break my heart. Oh, Frank, no one will ever love you as I have loved. I know we must part, but why make our parting so very bitter." " The bitterness is in your distrust — distrust of one, who trusts you so entirely. You say that I have never done anything that is dis tasteful to. myself. Teresa, I have no great love for study, and history has always been a thing I specially dislike. But for the last two VOL. I. C months, I have been working at it, all day, and every day, in the hope of getting a good degree, and thereby obtaining my grandfather's favour ; or if that should fail, of gaining the means of making my own way in life.

No man in Oxford has ever worked harder, or lived more plainly than I have done since the middle of August. And do you think I should be less willing to work, when I had you to strengthen and help me." Teresa's heart bounded with delight as she heard these words. Whatever her lover's faults might be, that of insincerity was not one of them. If he said he had worked in this manner, there was not a shadow of a doubt that he had ; and if he had so begun, why should he not go on. It had taxed her generous nature to the utmost to propose their separation. It was joy indeed to think the sacrifice would not be needed. But her heart was too full for her to speak, and she waited till he resumed. " If you love me, Teresa, we will never part. I will write to my grandfather as soon as I reach Oxford, and tell him all to the last particular.

I do not know what he may do. ■9 He may give us a competence, or he may not. In any case, doubtless, our lot must be poverty, compared with what might have been ; but promise me, Teresa, that you will share that poverty, that you will not cast me off?" Teresa was deeply moved. It was im possible to resist his appeal. She was on the point of unclosing her lips to give him the assurance he asked — to tell him that, come what might, her heart must ever be his alone, when the lovers were startled by a noise at the wicket gate, and a tall man whom, even by that light, Lawrence immediately recog nised as Pascoe, entered the garden. Greatly annoyed at what he regarded as an impertinent intrusion, and possessed with the suspicion, that in the man before him he saw the writer of the disastrous letter to his grandfather, Lawrence forgot the prudent demeanour he had hitherto maintained during his visits to Morecombe.

" Go into the house, Teresa," he whispered, " I will dis miss your unwelcome visitor." Anxious to escape an embarrassing inter view, Miss Walton at once complied, and c Lawrence, stepping up to the new-comer, asked him briefly and somewhat peremptorily, what he wanted. Pascoe started as he heard the voice. Frank's back had been to the light, so that his features could not be dis tinguished. " I have just returned from Oxford," he said, " and was requested by Mr. Todd to enquire, before going to bed, how Mrs. Nunez was. But — I think I am speaking to Mr. Lawrence, of St. Jude's College, Oxford, am I not?" " You can have no need to ask that ques tion, Mr. Pascoe. We are perfectly well known to one another." " Your person is known to me, doubtless, Sir, but not your purpose in visiting More combe.

I have no wish to intrude myself into your affairs — " " Nor have / any wish that you should do so. We had better therefore discontinue this conversation. I can answer the question you first asked. Mrs. Nunez, I am sorry to say, is somewhat worse this evening, and she is ordered to be kept entirely quiet. Good evening to you." Pascoe would have replied, but Law rence's decided manner prevented it. With a stern look, which was altogether lost on our hero, he turned away in the direction of the Vicarage, while Frank, remounting his horse, rode back to Oxford.

Chapter II

It was past midnight when Lawrence reached Oxford. He was tired and ex hausted ; but he could not retire to rest, until the letter to his grandfather had been written. He seated himself wearily at his desk, and took up his pen. The composi tion of the letter occupied him a long time, and he was far from satisfied with it when it was completed. But then how was it possible he could be satisfied with any letter, written under such circumstances? It was little but a confession of his own unworthi ness, for he had thought it better to attempt neither excuse nor extenuation of his conduct. He had begun by expressing his contrition for the deceit he had practised, with regard to his motives for remaining in Oxford. He freely owned that he had not been induced to do so by any real desire to study ; though he had studied nevertheless, harder than he had ever done in his life before.

He would gladly atone for his fault, he said, by sacri ficing his own wishes now. But his word of honour had been pledged, and he felt sure that the General — a man of the strictest honour himself, would not ask him to break it. He did not know from whom the General had received any information respecting Miss Walton ; but if he had heard anything to her discredit, he had been most entirely mis informed. She was a lady, qualified by birth and education alike, to adorn the highest station to which she could be raised. But on that subject, he desired to say no more. It was just that he should suffer the penalty of his offence, and he would only ask his grandfather to be as lenient to him as he could. He would thankfully accept whatever he might be willing to give him, to save him self and the woman who had consented to share his fortunes, and who, at least, was wholly blameless in the matter — from the poverty and want, which he was so ill qualified by his previous life to sustain.

If his grandfather would allow it, he wished to complete his career at Oxford. He had been reading hard for honours for the last two months. His tutor told him that he might not improbably obtain a second class, which would be a material help to him at the bar, or in literary work — one or other of which it was his purpose to adopt. He concluded his letter with another entreaty for forgive ness ; which, whatever might be his decision on other points, he trusted the General would not refuse. It was with a sigh of relief that he folded and directed this letter. But he did not feel sure that he should be quite satisfied with it in the morning. There might be some expres sions which he would like to alter, and there would be time before the early post. He left it therefore in the blotting-book ; and was on the point of retiring to bed, when it suddenly struck him that Teresa had not given him the promise he had asked of sharing his altered fortunes She had indeed professed unchanged affection for him ; but that had not prevented her, earlier in the interview, from insisting on the breaking off of their engagement.

" It was that tiresome brute Pascoe," he muttered. " He inter rupted us just as she was going to speak. I don't think there can be any doubt that she would consent, but I should like to be sure. Most likely my grandfather will send for me, and will be pretty sure to question me on this point. I ought to be able to answer him with absolute certainty. And it will be best to have her promise in writing to show him. There can be no mistake about that. I had better send her too a line by the early post." He took another sheet of paper and wrote ; — " My own Dearest, " We were interrupted last night by that meddlesome fellow, Pascoe, before you had time to answer my question. It is not be cause I doubt your constancy, that I now ask you to send me a line to assure me of your willingness to be mine still, notwithstanding the change in our prospects, which my grandfather's displeasure has occasioned.

I have written to him to say I am willing to accept whatever he may give us. It will not be much, but we may make it enough. Write and tell me you will share it with me, whatever it may be. Send your answer through the post, addressed to me here. All disguise is over now. " Your F." He sealed and directed the letter, and placed it in the passage where his scout would find it in the morning. Then extinguishing his candle, he threw himself on his bed, and sunk into a heavy slumber. He was roused, late in the forenoon of the following day, by a knocking at his outer door, and a voice loudly repeating his name. He sat up in bed and listened. It was not Dixon's voice. That worthy, who was aware of the hour at which his master had returned, aware also, that upon such occasions, little resulted from attempts to wake him, beyond grunts and incoherent abuse, varied occasionally by the launching of a boot-jack or candlestick at his head — had discreetly forborne from disturbing him.

It was not his scout's voice, yet Frank fancied that he knew it. Slipping on his dressing-gown, he reconnoitred his visitor through a small window which com manded his outer door ; a point of vantage, of which he not unfrequently availed himself during Term time, when there came a sus picious knock in the forenoon. His visitor was Nevinson, though he was the last person whom he had expected to see there. In another minute the door was opened, and he was shaking hands with his friend. " Why, Nevinson, who on earth would have expected to find you here ? Not but what I am heartily glad to see you. But what wind has blown you here ?" He asked the question in some trepi dation ; for, unreasonable as such an idea might seem, he fancied for the moment that Nevinson had heard something about Teresa, and had come to remonstrate with him.