Effie Vernon; or, Life and its lessons

Front matter

EFFIE VERNON; OR, LIFE AND ITS LESSONS. "3m (Sanjcn, Gluten, TOafcmi, rcfclut ju Men." Goethe. BY JULIA ADDISON, AUTHOR OF "EVELYN LASCELLES," "SISTER KATE," ETC. LONDON: E. MAKLBOKOUGH & CO., AVE MARIA LANE. 1861. LONDON : PItIKTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, STAMFORD STREET. CONTENTS. CHAP. pAGE I. THE SHADOW OF DEATH . . . .1 II. GLIMPSES ...... 9 in. FITZROT SQUARE . . . . .20 IV. SCHOLASTIC ..... 29 V. GERTRUDE . . . . . .40 VI. LORD ROSEBEBRY ..... 49 VU. ARISTOCRATIC . . . . .59 vin. DOMESTIC ..... 65 IX. DAY DREAMS AND REALITIES . . .74 X. THE LIFE OF THOUGHT .... 85 XI. THE " BLACK HORSES " . . . .91 XII. CHANGES AND CHANCES .... 101 XIII. FEMALE FRIENDSHIP ..... 113 XIV. "THE RAVEN" ..... 122 XV. EDWARD ...... 134 XVI. THE CRYSTAL PALACE .... 150 XVII. RANDOLPH ...... 164 xvni. "canaille" ..... 175 XIX.

TWO UNQUIET HEARTS .... CONTENTS. IV CHAP. PAGE XX. " WHO SHALL BE INVITED ? " . . ■ 189 XXI. A PHILOSOPHER AND A MILLIONAIRE . . 195 XXII. THE CEDARS ...... 201 XXIH. THE HEIRESS ..... 208 XXIV. THE BETE NOIRE ..... 215 XXV. THE POETRY OF COMMON LIFE . . . 222 XXVI. NEWS AND SMALL TALK1 .... 226 XXVH. A BALL ...... 232 XXVIII. EARLY RISING ..... 247 XXIX. "THE GRAND OLD GARDENER" . . . 255 XXX. HARD WORK ....... 264 XXXI. "AND BITTERLY THOUGHT OF THE MORROW " . 273 XXXH. THE MORROW ..... 281 Him. " EQUAL TO EITHER FORTUNE " . . . 292 XXXIV. " SICKENING OF A VAGUE DISEASE " . . 297 XXXV. AN UNSEEN FOE ..... 307 XXXVI. THE SHAFT STRIKES HOME .... 320 XXXVTI. "BEATING ABOUT THE BUSH " . . . 328 XXXVIH. THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW . . . 338 XXXIX. ANOTHER PHASE ..... 354 XL. BRIDE AND BRIDEGROOM .... 360 XLI. EASTWARD HO ! . . . . . 368 XLn. THREE YEARS LATER .... 376 XLIU. HOME AGAIN ..... 385 XLIV. THE DOCTOR'S WORK IS FINISHED . . . EFFIE VERNON.

Chapter 1. The Shadow Of Death

It was a still moonlight evening towards the close of autumn. The air was soft and balmy, and perfumed with geraniums and heliotrope, which, through the mildness of the climate, yet grew in rich profusion round a small picturesque villa in the west of England, sheltered by rocks and overgrown with the bright Virginian creeper. The beauty of the scene and evening had tempted two of the inmates to take a stroll amongst the flowers. One of them was a lady, still young, and evidently in very delicate health ; the other, whose dark deep eyes and pensive expression denoted thought and feeling in advance of her years, was at that sweet age when childhood begins to merge into girlhood. She clung fondly to her companion's hand, and looked at her anxiously when a cough shook the frail, slight frame.

The mother and daughter, for such was their relation ship, were joined by a grave, earnest-looking man, whom the younger lady welcomed with an exclamation of pleasure as Dr. Moore. E EFFIE VERNOX. " I believe he has something fresh for the aquarium," she said, "and — how kind! he has brought the micro scope." " You will make my child a philosopher like yourself in time, Dr. Moore," said the mother, smiling. " She is a promising pupil," he answered. " The cellularia ciliata might have been still on its native rock but for her ; and with the zoophites she can boast an intimate acquaintance. More than this, she has the true philosophic spirit which goes beyond mere knowledge of names and facts, which seeks to trace the connecting link between the parts and the whole, the relation of one science to another, and of all to the grand scheme of Nature."

" You do, I doubt not," said Mrs. Vernon. "As for Effie, she picks up many crumbs of learning from such a master. How dull and lonely we should have been these last two years but for you !" "Consider then what your friendship must have been to me, a solitary bachelor. But you are coughing ; I must be the physician, not the philosopher, and order you into the house." He gave his patient his arm ; and his grave face became still graver as he marked the painfully quickened breath, the deepening hectic caused by slight exertion. Lights were brought into the pretty sitting-room, and after the fragrant beverage, about which so much has been written and said, had been duly prepared by Effie, and partaken of, the invalid reclined upon her favourite couch, while the master and pupil examined some very minute objects, the former making learned observations, to which the latter listened with profound reverence and unfla°'o-ino interest; then, her mother growing restless, the girl glided THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 3 to the piano and sang.

Effie seemed to pour out her whole child-soul in singing. Her voice was clear and sweet and flexible as a bird's, and her perfect ear precluded the possibility of faulty intonation. The young girl had a store of imaginative fancies and strange wondering thoughts more than she could express in ordinary language. It appeared to her that the wild and beautiful melodies, the exquisite harmonies she had, as it were, made her own, spoke more truly than words. Who, even later in life, has not felt how far thought and feeling transcend verbal expression — felt -what volumes of unwritten poetry lay hid in the heart, scarcely revealed to that heart itself unless when music or some kindred art stirs its depths and wakens it to emotion ? So Effie sang on, song after song. sometimes interweaving wild dreamy symphonies of her own with strange fitful melodies she had invented to suit words that struck her fancy.

A distressing fit of coughing broke the spell, and brought Effie to her mother's side. " I fear I am not so much better as I had hoped," said the patient. " I fear not," said the doctor in a tone that sent a chill to Effie's heart. The day previous there had been a consultation on the invalid's case. One of the physicians, whose verdict no one disputes, whose fiat for life or death is, humanly speak ing, irrevocable, had come to visit a noble patient whose sands of existence even his skill could not retard in their rapid course beyond a few short weeks, and Dr. Moore had brought him to Mrs. Vernon. That lady now asked what was the great man's opinion. " Like my own— unfavourable," was the low, deep toned rejoinder. EFFIE VEENOX. A few clear, brief sentences, tenderly but decisively spoken, and the invalid knew that beyond a few lingering weeks or months she must not count on life.

She was not wholly unprepared, and heard the sentence with at least out ward calm. Her husband, Captain Vernon, had fallen fight ing his country's battles in a foreign land some years ago ; she had loved him devotedly : their child was her only tie to life. Could there be one much stronger? A fatherless girl, without brother or sister or any near relatives but a selfish aunt all but personally unknown. This individual now became of importance, for to her in a great measure must the young Effie's future be intrusted. As far as money went, the girl would be independent, as she would inherit rather more than three hundred pounds a year. Mrs. Vernon wrote to her husband's sister that very night ; also to a gentleman who was sole trustee of her property. The physician had departed, not until he had given a solemn promise, in answer to the mother's earnest request' to watch over her child as much as lay in his power.

The two so dear to each other, so soon to be parted, were alone. What concentrated grief was hidden in that long close silent embrace,— silent but for Effie's half-suppressed sobs — the Searcher of Hearts alone knows ! At length the mother spoke. " God will raise you up friends, my child — the Father of the fatherless. Ah, that, word — that holy word Father— it implies all ! Dearly as I love you, darling, his love far transcends mine, as the divine ever must the human." Then the girl looked in the face of her beautiful young mother. Those large dark glistening eyes, the fair smooth forehead, the clear delicate complexion, and sweet features — how well Effie knew that face ! how it was mingled with THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 5 her dreams, her thoughts of ideal loveliness ! how it had smiled on her joys, and soothed her sorrows !

" She is too young and too beautiful to die," was the substance of Effie's thought, though she did not put it in words. Another person stood in the room ; a faithful servant, Effie's nurse in former years, now the devoted attendant and humble friend. She had gathered the truth from a few broken words, and sympathy and grief were written in her honest face. " There now, dont'ee be cast down," she said, in her Dorsetshire dialect. " Them great doctors be not always right ; keep a good heart up, now do'ee, marm ; do'ee, my pet." " Little mother, dearest little mother," said Effie, using her favourite epithet of endearment, "perhaps Nursey is right. Dear Ann, we will take such care of her, and love her so much, will we not, that perhaps " Her voice broke into a sob. " Yes, yes, my dear," said Ann.

" Now it isn't good for no sick people to be sitting up so late o' nights " (" Dear Ann, it is only just ten," threw in Effie) ; " so come along both of you to bed. I'll not have you sit up no longer," she added, with the respectfully dictatorial manner of a privileged domestic. " Little mother will come, and I too," said Effie, with affected cheerfulness. Effie read, as was her wont, for a short time to her mother after she had retired to rest. Then she sat still, thinking. " Ah, how happy we might be," she whispered, " if only there was no sickness or sorrow in the world." Mrs. Vernon pressed her hand fondly on the fair, bended head. " It seems so to us," she said in her low sweet voice ; " but are not sickness and sorrow two of the cords by which God draws us -to himself? Even death! — Ah, Effie; shudder not— shall we not pass through death to a higher life than perhaps we could ever have attained to without ?

In the words of the spiritual Tennyson : — Xot die, but live a life of truest breath — ' The dusky strand of Death euwoven here AVith dear Love's tie, makes death itself more dear.' And murmuring these words which Effie often — oh, so often, recalled afterwards, the gentle invalid composed her self for slumber, and her child, softly kissing her mother's brow, stole away to her own room. She had not long laid her head on her pillow, and sobbed herself into happy un consciousness, when Ann, pale and trembling, called her by name. The hæmorrhage from which Mrs. Vernon had twice before suffered had recurred, the rupture of a blood-vessel in the lungs. Effie read the truth in her nurse's face, and hurried with a trembling heart to her mother's chamber. Mrs. Vernon was perfectly sensible, though it was only by her eyes that she could answer her child.

Dr. Moore speedily arrived ; turning from the patient, he pressed Effie's hand and shook his head. Then the girl knew that there was no hope. A look asked the friend and physician to share her vigil, and he stayed. All through that night they watched, the grave man and the child ; the former pacing noiselessly to and fro, or sitting by the bed, and whispering a few words of comfort to the child, who crouched at its foot, whilst Ann, in an arm-chair by the fire, tired with her day's work, THE SHADOW OF DEATH. dozed fitfully, though rousing at the slighest sound. But there was nothing for her to do. Her mistress lay in a stupor, an occasional low moan or faint gurgling sigh the only sign of life. The young girl's eyes never closed : her mind, like that of her thoughtful companion, was too active for slumber.

With the dim spectre Death hovering near, how are we awed, affrighted by " thoughts beyond the limits of our souls !" When the spirit of one we love is about to go forth into the night of the unknown, do we not yearn, and wonder, and speculate ? Into what region does it take its flight ? how does it go ? Does it immediately become enlightened, or is it desolate, imperfect, waiting, hovering somewhere in space, till reunited to a more glorious body ? The firmest believer in revelation feels that in all this he is left in deep ignorance. Is Hades, the abode of disembodied souls, about and around us ? is the air, as some have deemed, thronging with myriads of shadowy beings, with whom for a time human souls mingle ? Then that shrinking from the spiritual world, which even the most spiritual — perhaps they most strongly — experience as a " horror of great darkness ;" all this we feel for ourselves as for our friend : the time must come when we too shall go out upon the "sea of death," must leave the warm hopes and loves of life and be — What ?

As the Eoman poet has expressed it— dust, and a shade ! If, as we watch the dying, the wind raves in the awful midnight hours, we pray for the soul with the inconsistency of physical weakness — " Let it not go forth in the bleak stormy night ; call it away through the daylight and the sunshine. Let its last look De on earth's flowers." Then spectres rise up, hideous, grim, gigantic, hiding from us the face of the infinite Father ; eclipsing even immortality, or fearful visions, born of creeds too dim yet too definite, of which that of annihila tion is the least terrible. Faith perhaps triumphs— faith in the one Allloving, All-creating, Omnipotent ; but after what struggles, what rending asunder of the spirit, what more than mortal agony ! And despite the momentary victory, Thought, the uncurbed, the untamable, travelling in a circle, returns to its starting-point, restless as ever, to wander on, and again pursue the same eternal round.

The long night hours crept on, hours which to the lonely watcher, especially when that watcher is a child, seem so interminable, so mysteriously, so awfully solemn ; the pale gray dawn appeared, faint streaks of light gleamed through the oppressive blackness, a few sounds as of life returning to the world broke the soul-chilling hush of night. The faint chirp of a waking bird, a ploughboy's shrill whistle, as his brisk step shook the trembling early dews from the grass blades, the soft lowing of cattle, the cheery voices of labourers going to their work, were all hailed by the young girl with a sense of indescribable relief. Asking leave, by a sign, of the physician, she extinguished the lamp, and gently put back the curtains. Again, close by his side, she gazed at the loved face. Ah, that cold, clear, all-pene trating daylight, remorseless as truth, revealed the ravages of the last few hours !

Scarlet and fresh the life-blood oozed from the parted lips, lips but yesterday still rosy, showing out in stronger relief the waxen, though yet delicately rounded cheek. A faint hope, born of her very despair, which the girl had half unknown to herself che rished, ebbed away, leaving a desolate waste behind. The white lips moved, but the voice came as the faintest mur mur, only audible to one whose perceptions love and fear had rendered preternaturally acute. GLIMPSES. "See," it said, "how they stand, bright — bright and beautiful, with golden harps and white angel-wings out spread ! They close round me " " Ah ! mother, mother !" cried the agonized young voice of the child, unutterable tenderness thrilling through the agony. " Little mother ! " As if the words reached, and for an instant arrested the half-freed soul, the eyes of the dying one moved slightly upward, the face lightened, and lightened, then as the lamp of the spirit burnt fainter within, so did its brightness fade, the slow-coming breath faltered, paused, stopped.

Chapter II. Glimpses

Nature claimed her right to repair the undue exhaustion of mind and body ; and it was not until late in the day that the motherless girl woke from the deep sleep into which she had fallen. Her heavy wistful eyes rested on Ann's honest, loving face, wet with crying. She sobbed out her sorrow to the affectionate nurse, who pressed her in her arms, as when she was a little child, consoling her with those homely sayings and simple truths which in a time of trouble come more home to the heart than the most eloquent sermons, or the most profound thoughts. " Poor dear missus was taken away from a troublesome world," Ann suggested. " It was better to be in heaven than to be here — heaven was our home, not earth ; we had only to do our duty for a little time, and then we should go to her, and there would be no more partings, and no more tears, but all would dwell in that beautiful city, the New Jerusalem."

Ann then quoted largely from the Book of Revelation and the Pilgrim's Progress ; and then she observed that " we were all sinners, but that God had made a way for us to escape through the atonement of his Son." Then melting again into tears, she passionately declared that no one ever had, or ever could have, such a mistress as that dear, blessed angel God had just taken to himself. She lavished the fondest epithets on her nurse ling, and promised never to leave her, not even to go and serve the Queen, she wouldn't, that she wouldn't. The poor darling's lips were dry and parched ; (Effie owned that she was thirsty,) and Ann, hastening away, brought up a mug of nice milk and a slice of bread. The girl could not touch the bread, but she drank the milk, and felt much refreshed. Ann lighted a fire for her, and she sat before it, with her head nestled against the faithful creature's bosom, and little was said ; and the nurse put the young girl to bed early, and stayed with her that night.

Strange, that mysterious awe of the dead that creeps into our hearts the instant that the spirit has left the form once so loved and cherished, — loved and cherished still, but with feelings how different ! For an hour the next day Effie was alone in the chamber of death. "Who shall say what solemn, what holy influences passed into her young spirit, fixed and made permanent by the seal of a first grief? When she came forth she was fearfully pale, and trembling in every fibre of her delicate frame. Ann, who had been watching near, unseen and unobtrusive, led her charge into the garden. " To lose thee, oh to lose thee ! to live on And see the sun, not thee !" GLIMPSES. Effie remembered hearing her mother say those lines soon after her father's death, when she herself was too young to feel more than a passing shock for the loss of one whom she knew chiefly by name.

Poor child ! she now half wondered to see the sunlight still brilliant, the flowers un withered, when the cloud and the blight had fallen on her own life. Fair and fragile, she seemed, the young orphan who had not yet seen fifteen summers, as she stood with drooping head, the tears on her cheek glittering like the pearly drops on the late rose ; fair and evanescent as these children of nature, whom an early frost, or a rude wind might in an instant shatter. This picture — the girl and the clustered roses — was framed in by rich brown rocks and the pale azure sea. A kind hand was on her shoulder, and the physician stood by her side. " She used to love this garden," he said, " and that sweet view beyond." "Ah, yes!" sighed the orphan, bursting into tears. " To think she will never see it all again.

They say heaven is beautiful^; but I cannot realize heaven. Very little more would make earth so perfect, so happy, so glorious ; but heaven seems so — " " So vague, you would say. But that vagueness vanishes when we reflect that (as I firmly believe we are taught, both by analogy and revelation) our future abode, when our souls are united to new and glorious bodies, will be this earth in a renovated and purified state. Here (if I read aright) will be our head-quarters, though privileged to roam the universe ; here our physical, moral, and in tellectual powers (all immeasurably heightened) will have fullest scope. Through all eternity, eminently human, though of a perfected humanity, then, as now, having nought to do with ' the nature of angels,' retaining the individuality of our own. " Philosophers tell us," continued the doctor, observing he had fixed the attention of his young listener, " that were the position of this planet with regard to the sun, even slightly altered, we might have, over all its regions, a per petual spring.

What a difference would that alone make ! The icy poles thawed ; soft balmy airs coming from what is now a frozen ocean, many of our worst diseases con sequently banished ; deserts fertilized in all their vast extent, luxuriant vegetation replacing arid sand. I am only hinting at one of the most palpable ways of improving the world — the world of man, who is, in the words of the deeply learned and deeply religious Hugh Miller — ' alike the deputed lord of the present creation, and the chosen heir of all the future.' " The doctor came every day, and without fatiguing her grief-strained mind, suggested fresh trains of ideas, and interested her in subjects congenial to her present tone of feeling. His views of religion were pure and lofty ; he never degraded that holiest theme by uttering common places on it, or insulted the heart and intellect of one so tender in conscience, and so well trained as Effie, by meet ing her sorrow with truisms.

If he quoted from the Book of books, it was with deep reverence, and with strict re gard to the aptitude of the quotation ; accompanied often by some comment of his own, which showed research and study worthy (so far as aught human can be worthy) of the subject. Ann did her humble but valuable part in supporting her young mistress under her heavy trial ; leadinoher to continue the schemes of charity commenced by her mother GLIMPSES. 13 towards their poorer neighbours, whose sympathy and grief was genuine and soothing. A portion of the orphan's solitary hours were employed in making clothes for a poor baby whose mother had died in bringing it into a world of troubles, and in superintending the manufacture of broth and other nourishing compounds for a family recovering from fever. The first thought of the future, at least the first definite thought, was suggested by Ann's remark apropos of her mourning, that her young lady must be suitably dressed to receive her aunt, who would doubtless soon appear.

" My aunt ! oh, I do not wish to see her. I am much happier with only you and Dr. Moore." " I should think she'd be sure to come. The doctor wrote and told her : she will take you back to live with her, no doubt, miss." " I had rather stay here." " Young ladies cannot live alone, my dear. Missus used always to say if anything happened to her — there, dont'ee cry so, darling ; perhaps she is not so bad as you think. She is your dear father's sister, you know." " But brothers and sisters are very unlike, Ann ; and from words and hints that I have heard dropped, I feel sure my father and she were." " She has children of her own ; she cannot be hard hearted to my darling," said the nurse, tenderly. Effie, Dr. Moore, and the faithful servant, were the only mourners at the simple funeral, which they followed on foot to the little churchyard.

The young girl's face wore an almost unnatural calm, and her manner was grave as that of one twice her years ; yet her nerves were tried to the uttermost, the more so that she was aware of a crowd of loving, but humble friends, showing the last mark of respect to their gentle benefactress. Returning, she clung tightly to her friend's arm, blind and dizzy, and when, tenderly removing her outer clothes, he laid her on the sofa, her firmness utterly broke down. The doctor had not long left her in charge of Ann, when carriage wheels rattled on the unaccustomed gravel. Effie's heart beat fast, for she knew it was her aunt. She started from the sofa just as Ann announced " Mrs. Monro." A stout, middle-aged lady, with a red face and hard features, entered and said, in a voice that Effie thought resembled the grating of saws : " How do you do, my dear ?

So you have lost your poor mother. Very sad, no doubt ; but we must all go when our time comes. I am sorry I was not here in time to see the last of her, poor soul. This is a pleasant little house, but a world's end situation," she added, as Effie vainly tried to command herself so as to make some rejoinder. " Won't you sit down, and will you take anything, aunt ?" asked Effie, at last. " Thank you," said Mrs. Monro, seating herself. " I am rather exhausted. A glass of stout is what I usually take — if you have any in the house." Effie was afraid not ; should she send for some ? No : sherry and water would do. " Will you bring luncheon," said Effie to Ann, who appeared opportunely at the door. It was one of Ann's valuable qualities to be always in the way when wanted. The poor girl was shocked and surprised at her aunt's indifference ; but she endeavoured to bear in mind that Mrs. Monro had known little of her mother, and that it was very kind of her to come all the way into Devonshire to see a child like herself.

GLIMPSES. 15 " Come here, my dear," was Mrs. Monro's next observa tion. " Turn your face to the light, and let us see who you are like. Humph ! not much like my poor brother, except a little about the forehead. A fine forehead he had — like all our family. You are the image of your mother, as far as I recollect her, and I never forget faces — it is a faculty I have, like the royal family. Devonshire is a very out-of the-way county, I must say. You will like London much better. You will live with us, of course — that is, if you get on with my young people ; if not you shall go to school. A nice chance for you to see town and something of life, instead of moping down here among the dead leaves and the fogs." " I was very happy here," faltered Effie. " How many servants," resumed Mrs. Monro, " did your mother keep ?

Only one ! Oh, a maid-of-all-work, or general servant, as they call themselves now. Everybody must be so genteel. Go and tell your general servant to make haste with the luncheon." " She was my nurse," said Effie, colouring. " My beloved mother had a great respect and affection for her." " Respect and affection for a servant!" said Mrs. Monro, with undisguised disgust. " Pshaw !" For some minutes Mrs. Monro was so busily engaged with the refreshments that she did not speak. Presently she said : " You must get all your things packed up to morrow, or the next day at farthest. I can't stay down here ; my health and spirits couldn't stand it." " So very soon !" exclaimed Effie, regretfully. "Yes; the sooner the better. Come, show me my room, and then we will take a turn round the garden, and you shall tell me about your mamma's illness and death, and the funeral, and all that.

I always like to hear particulars. Don't cry ; you cannot think what a horror I have of tears, and Jemima, my eldest daughter, is just as bad." Effie tried to be composed ; but after two more weary hours she found her companion so utterly uncongenial, that when at last she could escape, she flew to Ann, exclaiming passionately, " I cannot bear it, I never can ! I never will live with her : she is too insufferable. Ann, you and I will live here all by ourselves ; or, if that is too expensive, we will go into a nice little cottage just like that one old Mrs. Prowse lives in ; and we will take the pianoforte, and the books, and the pictures, and you shall take all your things, and we will get a boy to help you, like Dick, or perhaps Dick can come with us ; and Chota must come, won't you, puss ?" she added, stooping down to stroke her favourite tortoise-shell kitten, which was crossing the kitchen ; " poor pretty little pussy-cat, we won't leave you, and — oh, it will be so nice !"