Doctor Victoria. A picture from the period

Front matter

DOCTOR VICTORIA. A PICTURE FROM THE PERIOD. BY MAJOR-GENERAL G. G. ALEXANDER, C.B. " Fiction is a fabric woven by Fancy with threads of Truth." IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. I. ICottiOtt : SAMUEL TINSLEY & CO., 31, SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND. 1SS1. [All Rights Reserved.] all £1 equation. Critic. A doctor heroine ! Sir, it will not clo. Besides, the story is all tags and shreds : It wants in sequence ; fits not with the taste Of modern readers, who must need have food That pricks the palate — toothsome and well spiced. Take my advice : it will not suit the trade. A utkor. Ah, there the note which gives the key to AVhich forms our judgment : "Will our action pay }, " It is in tatters " ? So is each man's life, And but for patches, small man's moral gear. " It wants in sequence "? Being thus, most true ; And morbid mouths may mumble it in vain, To find the flavour fits their appetites.

But, as it is, so every word shall stand ; For he who fears the verdict writes in chains : And without freedom, nothing worth remains. So to the Public I now dedicate This pen-sketched picture : in their hands its fate. CONTENTS OF VOL. I. CHAPTEB PACT. I. THE END OF A SH0KT LIFE - - - 1 II. TWENTY YEARS AFTER - - 10 III. "HOME" ------ 21 IA'. AX AFTERNOON " TEA " IX BELGRAVIA - 30 A'. THE HEAD OF THE HOUSE - - - 44 VI. A FEAV PAGES FROM A JOURNAL - - 57 VII. DEEFDALE AND ITS INMATES - - - 77 Till. CUPID SHOOTS HIS SHAFTS - - - 92 IX. JIIDSUMAIER-EA'E ----- 107 X. WAITING FOR THE VEKDICT - - 117 XI. EIGHT OR AVRONG ? - - - 129 XII. OUT IN THE RAIN - - - 144 XIII. THE MAJOR'S "LITTLE GAME " - - Contents. PAOB XI V. IN THE COUNTRY - - - - 183 XV. MID AUTUMN LEAVES - - - -191 XVI. WORKING FOR THE WORLD - - - 212 XVII. "DEAD AT LAST" ----- 227 XVIII. DEER WINS - t*i<

Chapter I. The End Of

A SHORT LIFE, " Its flight was upward : Let no cynic say It was not heavenward. What ! that one poor ray, Because it wandered — Hapless went astray — Is gone for ever, Quenched and cast away In endless night ! No ! it were false ; For Perfect Love stood by, And gave His aid To guide its path on high." The rays of the setting sun stream through the mountains which form the northern and southern shores of the beautiful lake of Thun, and light up with a roseate glow the glorious VOL. I. group of snow-clad peaks of which the Jung frau is the queen. The day is dying, and never, never could its beauty have been greater, more wonderful, than now. Brighter and brighter, higher and higher, that heaven born blush moves onward, upward, till, all aglow with golden light, the highest point retains it lovingly, then loosens its embrace, and cold, pale hues spread stealthily o'er all, and tell of night and darkness soon to come.

In a chalet under the Nieder Horn, perched high above the lake, the last flush of departing life had lighted up and brought back all the beauty — aye, in the presence of the sanctifier Death, all the purity which belongs to innocence and youth — to a dying girl. A girl in face and form, but yet a mother, for a sleeping babe lay folded in her wasted arms. Her bed had been so placed by the open window, that the full glory of this her last earthly sunset was spread out before her ; but it seemed as if she did not dare to gaze upon its beauty, for she had turned away her head from it. And as she now lay, with her cheek pressed against the slumbering babe upon her bosom, she, from time to time, gave a little low wail, which spoke of mental agony too deep for words. It was a little low wail, but low as it was, it attracted the attention of the only other person in the room, who rose from her seat — ■ she did so with difficulty, for she was very lame — and drew near the invalid's bedside.

"Violet, you must be calm." The speaker, whose naturally harsh voice seemed softened by emotion, was a person approaching middle age, with a pale and anxious face, bearing traces of many trials and much sorrow. To have judged from the ex pression of her mouth alone, it might have been concluded that those trials — whatever their nature might have been — had hardened her character and made her utterly unsym pathetic to the wants and feelings of others ; for it was one of those mouths which, though it would not have been without beauty in a man, had a stern determination about its every line — whether in movement or at rest — which took away from it every trace of that indescribable, though well-defined, sweetness of expression which is one of woman's most charming characteristics. But if the harsh lineaments of her mouth 1—2 repelled, there was a depth of tenderness in those dark-grey eyes which revealed a warm and loving heart.

Two distinct and opposite natures seemed to be united in one person. It was impossible to look at those eyes and not think of what she must have been in youth, or at that mouth without being reminded of the hardening effects of the lessons taught by age. " Violet, you must be calm." The soft grey eyes were dim with tears, but the voice seemed hard even to harsh ness. " The doctor says that if you would get well, you must keep quite quiet." " Aunt dear, I shall never get well. I am dying." The stern mouth quivered ; it was but for a moment. "My child, there is still hope. You are young. The doctor tells me you are only weak, and that you are free from all disease." " But one — a broken heart !" There was no hardness about the mouth now, and even the tone of the voice was softened : "Hush! My poor Violet, you must not speak like this !

You must live ! You must try — to live ! If not for your own sake, for the sake of this poor child !" There was something in the last word which seemed to renew the failing strength of the dying girl. " My child ! my child !" she said. " My curse ! my shame ! Oh that I had died before its birth !" Then, encircling it more closely in her arms, and raising its little hands to her lips : " My beautiful — my precious one — why did I give you life % Oh, it was shameless ! — a cruel, cruel wrong! But who had thought a man could be so base ? Ah, coward ! monster ! What ! forsake your child V She was silent for a moment. Then, softly, as if in supplication : " O God, forgive me ! I was so young and weak — so young and weak. Why didst Thou let it be ? Sweet Jesus, pity us, and take us both — my child and me — I dare not come alone !

She shall protect me with her innocence. Yes, I am guilty, but I do repent. Oh, save me ! save me ! Ah, His touch is cold — so icy cold ! It is the hand of Death !" Then, as if exhausted and worn out by the exertion she had made, she shuddered con vulsively and hid her face in her hands, as if to shut out some hideous object. The hard, stern mouth was closed more firmly than ever ; it seemed pitiless even to cruelty, but the dark-grey eyes were suffused with tears. For a time the ticking of a clock, on a table near the door, was the only distinct sound ; then the silence was broken by an occasional little bleat, which showed that the slumbers of the sleeping babe had been disturbed, and that it would soon awake. Again the sick girl spoke — this time slowly and calmly, with longer intervals between her words.

"Marmaduke," she said, "you will not leave me — 'twould break my heart — I know you will not leave me ! No — no ! — you are too good — too kind ! Did I not give you all ? My love ! — I had no more — and this poor little life I" Then, raising herself on her pillow, she stretched out her hands imploringly : " Marmaduke, you must not go ! You shall not leave your child! — it is your child!" Her voice had become loud and piercing ; in an instant it subsided into a low wail of despair: "What, gone? gone? Deserted in my need ? Oh, who shall hide me — save me ■from my shame ?" She fell back upon her pillow, and seemed to sleep, notwithstanding the shrill and pas sionate cries of the now wideawake infant, who resisted every effort made by the owner of the dark-grey eyes to soothe it. But they had the effect of bringing another actor upon the scene.

It was a young woman in the dress of a peasant, who, opening the door quietly but quickly, hurried up to the screaming child, and endeavoured to soothe it by her caresses. "You do not well," she said, in the peculiar patois spoken in the Bernese Oberland — " you do not do well to let the mistress talk. I heard her high-toned words. She, the good, gentle one. And this poor lambkin, too, has lost her sleep." So saying, she took the infant in her arms, and singing, only as loving nurses can sing, laid it upon her breast. She sang so softly, it was difficult to catch the words : " ' Hush thee ! oh, hush thee ! The angels are singing. To my white one, my wee one, A crown they are bringing ; A crown of bright stars Fresh plucked from the sky. Hark ! the angels sing softly ; Sleep, sleep ! God is nigh." ' The eyes of the infant were again closed in sleep, and as the nurse rocked it backwards and forwards, the clock seemed to tick more loudly, as if to mark the cadence, whilst she sang, again and again : " ' Hark ! the angels sing softly ; Sleep, sleep !

God is nigh,' " The roseate glow was passing from the mountains, as Margaret Marsh — she of the dark grey eyes — -knelt by the side of the dying Violet ; and as she pressed her lips — tender now as her eyes — upon that pallid cheek, a tear would not be restrained, but fell upon it. " Violet— dear Violet !" The tear — it fell before the words — seemed to bring back the ebbing tide of life. "Aunt, dear!" the voice was scarce a whisper now, " don't cry. I have been very weak and wicked. If I had not been so weak, I had not been so wicked. Forgive me !" " From the bottom of my heart, my child." " Promise me." " What can I promise ?" "To love my poor child as your own." " I will give her all my love. She shall be the child of my old age." " Do not let her be weak, like her mother. Let her have a good name — not Violet.

Call her Victoria — after a good woman and a good queen. Aunt dear, I die happy. Kiss me." The last ray from the setting sun had leapt from the highest peak, and as it did so, it seemed as if a chill had passed through Nature's heart, so pale and wan the shade which fell upon her. So too had the last hectic flush of life passed from the cheek of the dying girl : a few incoherent words, " It is dark !" " So dark !" " Marmaduke !" one deep-drawn sigh — and yet another spirit was released from its earthly bondage, and Violet Marsh had ended her short life. At the same moment, -whilst earth hid her face in the gloomy shroud of night, one soli tary star rose rapidly above the Jungfrau's snowy screen. It was but a lone star ; but as its silvery rays fell on that fair face, making it shine forth as the face of an angel, to the mourner by the couch, as she turned her eyes to heaven, it was more than a lone star — it was a messenger of peace from the Eternal.

Chapter II. Twenty Years After

Twenty years have passed away since the events in the last chapter. Twenty long years ! How difficult to realise what those few words mean ! Change upon change — a never-ending substitution of the new for the old ! And yet the stream of time rolls on so silently, that to those who float down it, it often seems as if it had neither currents nor motion. Change upon change ! With no two incidents of our lives alike ; those of the Past producing a Present never to be renewed. Change upon change ! The Future flying before us in our youth, and hastening to meet us in our age. An eternity of changes, with but one eter nal law — to change. And so our scene has changed. We are no longer amongst the mountains of the Ber nese Oberland, we are in the midst of the roar and movement of the great metropolis.

We are in London. A fine soft April day. In the Parks the trees are beginning to bud and the grass to grow. Everywhere Nature is casting off her russet garb, and as she does so, those who live in the country regard her changeful moods with anxious thoughts for the future fruits and flowers. Here in this great, grimy, smoke-stained city, Spring brings other cares ; for nowadays, all that we do is done so seri ously, that even our daily pleasures are made to assume that form. It was half-past three in the afternoon, and the sun, which had shone out somewhat brightly in the morning, was now peering through the spread of yellow smoke and fog which in London is the usual afternoon substitute for sky, when a continuous roll of carriages announced that Fashion was abroad, and about — according to the old phrase — ■" to take the air."

Poor Fashion ! who, when it is the season, must be content to take such air as the cold east wind, mixed with the city smoke and river fog, may chance to give her. But now the wind was from the west ; and if there were any fog few people observed it, for during the last few months they had seen little else. Amongst the many carriages which oscillated with pendulum-like precision between the ex tremities of that portion of the Park which Fashion has seized on and sanctified as her own, there was one which stood out from all its competitors — for there is competition now in all things, even in carriages — so that it could not fail to attract the attention of the most casual observer. Yet it was only a brougham, drawn by a pair of bright bays with plain black harness, and a coachman and footman in simple dark liveries.

But though nothing could have been more unostentatious than the whole turn-out, no one could see it without feeling that it was an æsthetic success. " A nice turn-out that of the Yorkes." So said the Hon. Pierrepoint Phipps, late of the Guards, to Major Decimus Fitz-Jones, late of the Greys, as they walked slowly side by side, with that air of contemplative dejection which is one of the most striking peculiarities of masculine loungers in the Parks. " Yes. Good steppers, and a perfect match. I positively believe " What the major's belief at that particular moment may have been, i*emains a mystery to this day ; for the word " match " had no sooner been uttered, than the Hon. Pierre point Phipps — commonly called P. P. by his intimates, and by some who were not his intimates, behind his back — exclaimed with unwonted animation, for he prided himself on his sang-froid : " How much do you think they are worth ?"

" At least four hundred. " My dear fellow, you are too absurd ! I meant the girls — not the horses." The gallant major was about to reply, but it seemed fated that on this day his brief utterances — Fitz-Jones was always brief — were doomed to be interrupted; for he had scarcely delivered himself of one of those deep gutturals with which languid men about town are wont to call their words together and set them up in sentences, when various exclamations and an excited movement in the crowd gave evidence of something un usual having taken place. Turning quickly in the direction of the spot towards which the attention of the public seemed to be concentrated, the cause of the excitement became evident. The carriage with the bright bays had driven on until it had reached, that portion of the line where from time to time the mounted policemen on duty, with that im posing air common to all who exercise authority, from an admiral of the fleet to a custom-house officer, waved back the advanc ing carriages, and brought them to a sudden stand.

Directly this was done a stream of pedestrians was graciously permitted to move on, and under another policeman's protecting care to effect a crossing, through dangers which, without his aid, would have been only inferior to those of a passage through the " pack " in the Arctic regions. The deaf old lady and her nieces from the country, who on such occasions always manage to be last, had just completed their frantic charge, and reached the opposite side in a state of breathless exhaustion ; the policeman had given the signal, and the bright bays who led the line, as if to spite the coachman, had answered his intimation that they were to go on by a playful plunge, when a young child, whose friends had arrived at the crossing just as the embargo on the carriages was taken off, rushed into the road, and before anyone could prevent it was apparently entangled in the horses' legs, and in another moment would have been trampled under their feet, but that through the horses rearing, partly from fright and partly from being pulled back upon their haunches, a short respite was given from what seemed all but certain death.

A cry of terror came from the bystanders ; but, as frequently happens when prompt action is needed, everyone, including the child's friends, seemed to be perfectly para lysed. Fortunately, however, there was one ex ception. A tall, well-dressed girl sprang forward, and seeing at a glance that it would be impossible, from the position of the child, to stoop down and lift it up before the horses were upon her, she seized them by their heads, and with an exertion of strength which seemed marvellous from so slight a form, swung them round, so that their fore feet came to the ground clear of the child, who was taken up all but unhurt. A sound which seemed almost like a sigh of relief came from the crowd, followed by loud cheers. " A monstrously plucky girl !" exclaimed the Hon. Pierrepoint Phipps.

" Knows how to handle a horse," chimed in the major. It was the highest compliment he was ever known to pay — even to a man. In the meantime she, whose courage and presence of mind had led to such a happy result, was endeavouring to escape from the overwhelming expressions of gratitude with which she was greeted. She had bent down and kissed the now weeping child, and was on the point of turning away, when a livery servant — the footman of the carriage — came hurriedly towards her, and touching his hat respectfully, informed her that her ladyship — Lady Arabella Yorke — desired to speak with her. A shade of annoyance flitted across the young lady's face ; it was but momentary, and she followed the servant without remark to the carriage, which had been drawn up by the side of the rails, a short distance off.

Lady Arabella Yorke, its occupant — the wife of Mr. Yorke, the richest of rich brewers, and most respectable of men — had lost no time in making herself acquainted with the details of the accident, and having assured herself that nothing serious had occurred, sent her footman in search of the young lady whose action in the matter had been pro nounced by her ladyship's coachman as "stun ning." Lady Arabella's carriage had been sur rounded by a small circle of sympathising friends ; amongst whom were the Hon. Pierrepoint Phipps and Major Fitz-Jones, and the conversation had become animated. " I shall never drive in the Park again," said Lady Arabella. " This has been a scene, and I hate scenes. Children should not be allowed to come near our public drives." " I wish you could have seen her," said the Hon. Pierrepoint Phipps.

" She was magni ficent. As she stood before the horses she reminded me of a — of a — beautiful Grecian statue." " She knows how to handle a horse," remarked for perhaps the thirteenth time the major; for it was no easy matter for him to get rid of an idea when it had once seized hold of him. " Do you know who or what she is V asked Lady Arabella. VOL. i. No one seemed to know more than that she was young, and tall, and ladylike, and good-looking. They had just commenced discussing whether she might not be this or might not be that, when the near approach of the sub ject of their discussion produced a sudden silence. All eyes were turned inquiringly towards her, but curiosity was changed into astonishment when Lady Arabella — whose near sight prevented her from recognising anyone at a distance — greeted the stranger as an acquaintance, and in a tone which clearly showed that the meeting, under other circumstances, might not have been a particularly agreeable one.

" Victoria ! Good gracious, child ! is it you ? How can you be so thoughtless ?" " In what way ?" asked the young lady, with a quiet dignity which rebuked the patronising petulance of Lady Arabella, though she spoke so calmly that it seemed as if she did not think it worth her while to resent it. "You might have been killed! Oh, Vic toria, Victoria ! when will you learn to act like other people and think of yourself? You really are too eccentric. Besides, it is not right that you should be walking in the Park alone." Lady Arabella's friends had bowed and walked on at the young lady's approach, yet it was not without a blush that she replied curtly : " It is the shortest and best way to where I am going." " But you should not go out in London by yourself. It is not comme ilfaut." The young lady had resumed her usual manner, and there was something of playful ness in her smile as she said : " Walking is not always a matter of choice, and I certainly should prefer an escort if I could find an agreeable one."

" Since you are going in the same direction, I will drive you across the Park." With a bow of assent — it almost seemed as if she did not realise that she was receiv ing a favour — the young lady stepped into the carriage. " Stop near the Marble Arch," was the direction to the footman as he closed the carriage-door. " A friend of the family's ?" asked the coachman — who had only been a short time in Mr. Yorke's service — of the footman, as 2—2 soon as the latter had reseated himself on the box. " Yes," said the footman. " She lives down in Middleshire, and is often at our place." " Lots of pluck. What's her name ?" " Her name is Marsh — Miss Victoria Marsh — but we always call her amongst our selves Miss Vic." " Home." 21

Chapter III

" HOME." Lady Arabella, with scant courtesy — for her temper had been ruffled, or, as she would have expressed it, her " nerves had been shaken " — took leave of her companion at the northern entrance of the Park. The short drive had been one continuous lecture, and she had talked herself into such a state of exhaustion that when the footman touched his hat inquiringly she could only gasp out the word " Home !" and fall back upon the pillows, which were always specially arranged for her support. Poor Lady Arabella ! She too has had to pay the penalty which would seem to belong to wealth and rank and fashion — a weak back. " Home !" The distance is not great, and it does not take long before the order has been obeyed. Lady Arabella has reached her home. A large house in one of our largest squares.

One of those localities where the senses be come oppressed by the weight of wealth which is exhibited on every side, and through which the poor man cannot pass without asking himself how.it is that he has escaped being rich. One of those localities which fashion favours and calls "good;" in which is brought together a crowd of people who are not only placed by fortune in a position which has spared them all those trials, humi liations, and heart-burnings which belong to poverty and form part of its heritage : but are enabled to gratify every taste, however noble or ignoble, and make all that is beau tiful in art or applicable in science, minister to their enjoyment. To some the sight of this may be an in citement to exertion : what others have done, they too may do. " Excelsior !" And the success of the few is made a rule of encouragement for the many.

But to those whose lot has been cast in the lowest depths of destitution, the sight of this superabundance of superfluities but serves to " Home." 23 intensify their misery through the contrast which it presents to their own sufferings. The sight of Paradise can bring no joy to those who are in Hades. Benevolence forgets this when it doles out its aid, and charitable people are shocked to find that there is so deep a gulf between the two extremes of poverty and wealth that even sympathy can scarcely bridge it over. , But Lady Arabella has reached her Bel gravian home, and a loud rat-tat-tat has in formed the neighbourhood of her having done so. On the instant the double doors fly wide open ; two tall powdered footmen hasten for ward to unroll a carpet so that the passage between the carriage and the mansion may be made undefiled ; two more, equally tall and powdered, stand motionless on either side of the entrance ; the footman who has been out with her ladyship is at his post, ready to open the carriage-door ; a page is to be seen at the foot of the staircase ; whilst in the distance, mounted some few steps above him, looms, in a graceful attitude, expressive of expectation, another model specimen of over-fed humanity.

The other servants had been chosen for their height, good looks, broad shoulders, and big calves, but the groom of the chambers, Mr. Mortimer — his enemies basely asserted that his real name was Chunks — belonged to that superior class who are required, in addition to those personal advantages, to possess great dis crimination, unfailing gravity, and undeniably good manners. All these were possessed by Mr. Mortimer in a very high degree : and were it not that his grammatical construction was somewhat peculiar, and that the letter H had been a source of trouble to him from his youth, he might easily have passed, amongst strangers, as a university man who had come out in honours — Oxford, not Cambridge — or even in his happier moments as a Privy Councillor, or an ex-Cabinet Minister. It is doubtful, however, whether Mr. Mortimer would have felt flattered had the latter mistake been made.

He had once walked across the park behind the, then, Prime Minister. He returned in a state of virtuous indignation. "Mr. Cox," he said, to the butler, "I am hignorant, and I know it. Had I been heducated " — his difficulty with his aspirates was chiefly in the long words — " I should not have been what I am, and there is no know ing to what I might not have rose to. I do " Home." 25 not know much, but this I do know, that if her Majesty were to make me the Prime Minister of this great and glorious country, I would act in a proper haristocratic manner, and I would not disgrace myself, nor demean myself, nor lower myself by awalking through the Park .in an old pair of boots a-busted at the sides. It made me sick to see it." Meanwhile, Lady Arabella has managed, with the assistance of — including the coach man and the footman of the carriage — seven full-grown men and a boy, to effect an entrance into her own house, and is now once more at home.