On the Cards; or, the Return of the Princess. A novel

Front matter

The ' Unknown ' Authors' Series OF ORIGINAL ONE VOL. NOVELS Cr.wn Svo. Cloth 216 each. Uniform -with "On the Cards." The Burning Mist. By Garrett Leigh. On the Cards. By Mary Allen. Brenda's Experiment. By Major Greenhow. The Minister's Man. By M. G. Fairbairn. Was He a Gentleman? By Francis Geldart. Geraldine's Husband. By Mary Macleod. OTHERS IN PREPARATION. London: larrold and Sons, 10 and EX, It'ai-u-ick Lane, E.C. or the Return of the Princess A Novel By M. ALLEN "All common things, each day's events, That with the hour begin and end, Our pleasures and our discontents, Are rounds by which we may ascend." Longfellow LONDON JARROLD AND SONS WARWICK LANE E.C. CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I. A Summer Eve's Stroll ... ... 7 II. Consulting the "Cards" ... ... 17 III. Brook Farm ... ... ... ... 26 IV.

Helen's Temptation ... 36 V. Prince Hafiz ... ... ... ... 45 VI. A Spoiled Envelope ... ... 54 VII. So Near; So Far! ... ... ... 62 VIII. El Zimilah 72 IX. The Little Door 80 X. Mdlle. Romayne ... ... ... 89 XI. Harem Life ... ... ... ... 99 XII. On the Banks of the Nile ... ... 108 XIII. Dr. Layton at Cairo ... ... ... 118 XIV. An Escapade ... ... ... 128 XV. Another Wife ... ... ... ... CONTENTS. CHAPTER tags XVI. For Her Children's Sake ... ... M7 XVII. The Baptism ... ... ... 157 XVIII. The Garden-Party 167 XIX. After Long Years ... ... ... 174 XX. Freel 183 XXI. In the Hospital .. ... ... ... 193 XXII. La Dame aux Camelias ... ... 303 XXIII. The Finding of the Tablet ... ... 213 XXIV. Death of Prince Hafiz ... ... 222 XXV. Philip at Brook Farm ... ... ... 232 XXVI. Hope's Mirage ... ... ... 241 XXVI 1. The Return of the Princess

Chapter I

A Summer Eve's StroM. " Lo giorno se n'andava, e l'aer bruno Toglieva gli animai, che sono in terra Dalle fatiche loro " . ... " Day was departing, and the embrowned air Released the animals that are on earth From their fatigues " .... Dante — Inf. c. ii. , v. I. The assistants in George Harwood's shop looked well pleased, when, at the close of a broiling day in August, the signal came for their deliverance. There had been little to do, for the inhabitants of Sandstown had kept well indoors, reserving their shopping for less tropical weather. The country customers were busy in the harvest-fields. The visitors in the lodging houses near the Esplanade, had found even the beach too hot, so that the young people in the shop had really no right to complain, seeing that they had only been idling about all the day.

At least this was what George Harwood thought, as, not in the best of humours, he took the keys from the foreman, and walking upstairs, entered his wife's drawing-room. o Mrs. Harwood, in the daintiest of Parisian costumes, was reclining on a low couch, a piece of embroidery on her lap. She roused herself, languidly, at her husband's entrance. "Wh.it a day it has been," she said, as he threw himself down on an ottoman near the open window. "You may say that," he replied, wiping his forehead. " The shop has been unbear able." "Is Helen gone?" she asked, after a little pause. "Yes! I met her just now, with Miss Penrose, they talked of going to the Espla nade." Mrs. Harwood's lip curled. " What a taste that girl has for low society ! " she said, in a contemptuous tone. Mr. Harwood's face flushed angrily, as he rejoined — " I do not call any of my assistants low.

Helen must have some companionship, and as you do not seem inclined to raise her above the level of the others, you must not complain if she makes friends with Miss Penrose, who seems to me a nice, quiet girl." " A tailor's daughter," murmured the draper's wife, in a tone a countess might have adopted, when speaking of the preten sions of a country squire. George Harwood had some difficulty in keeping down the angry retort which rose to his lips, but he knew of old, the folly of trying to make his wife see with his eyes. So he changed the subject, by asking if she would go out for a walk, as a little breeze had sprung up from the sea. She gladly assented, and they went out together. It had been considered a great rise, when George Harwood, the farmer's son had, after serving his apprenticeship to the drapery in the little Devonshire town, been taken on as an assistant in a West End shop.

While there his handsome face and fine figure had won for him the affections of the daughter of a wine merchant. Her father had reluctantly con sented to their marriage, just settling on the young couple a sufficient amount to start them in business. An opening had occurred at Sandstown — a pretty place on the Cornish coast — the owner of one of the shops being about to retire, after twenty years of shop keeping, with a fortune of twenty thousand pounds. This seemed a good opportunity, so the young couple bade adieu to the gaieties of London, and settled down quietly in their Cornish home just five years before. Robert, George Harwood's elder brother, stayed on at the old farm, but things had not prospered for some time, so that, just one year ago he had written to his brother asking him to receive Helen, his only daughter, as an apprentice in the shop, and in time give her a salary as assistant.

George had consented, very much to his wife's annoyance. She could not bear the idea of her husband's niece beino known to occupy such a servile position, and treated the girl with the same cold hauteur which she used to the other "young ladies" when they met. This was not often. Mrs. Harwood rarely entered her husband's shop ; when she did, it was only to select some delicate bit of finery for her toilette. She passed her time between the nursery and drawing-room, where she enacted the part of fine lady to perfection. Sandstown is Liberal. It always returns a Liberal member. The neighbouring gentry are Liberal. Their wives and daughters talk loudly of Universal Suffrage, of Working-men's rights, and so on. They go about canvassing before an election, offering their delicately gloved fingers to the grimy hands that held the wished-for vote.

Soon after her arrival, Mrs. Harwood was waited upon by some of these ladies, headed by the member's wife. They conversed so affably, took refreshments with such a gracious appear ance of feeling at home, that poor Mrs. Harwood felt sure that she had effected an entrance into Sandstown society. Meeting the member's wife on the Esplanade soon after the election, she bowed and would have spoken, but found to her surprise, that Liberalism does not imply equality, that to the Sandstown gentry a draper's wife — however elegant in appearance — would always be a draper's wife, and her smiling greeting was met by a bow so stiff and formal, that she felt quite mortified, and never again sought a recognition from one of the " Upper Ten " of Sandstown. The Esplanade was crowded. Many were the admiring glances turned in Helen's direction, as with her companion, she sauntered up and down, listening to the inspiriting strains of the band playing selections from " Faust," and inhaling with girlish delight the fresh breeze that ruffled her golden-brown hair, and played over her face, causing it to glow with a bright colour, that gave an additional charm to its fresh delicate beauty.

" Let us go home through the fields, Grace," she said, when Miss Penrose sua-o-ested it was time for them to return. " It is so close and stuffy indoors, that I should like to stay out aU nicdit." '5 " And be yawning in the customers' faces all day to-morrow," laughed Grace, "that would never do. Are not the fields rather lonely now?" she continued, as Helen turned to leave, "it must be past nine o'clock, and we might meet some queer characters. " " Now, Grace, what nonsense you are talking! Who will speak to us? and if they did I can give them an answer, so come alono-." Suiting the action to the word, she drew her reluctant companion into the path leading to some pretty fields that skirted the town on its western side. A favourite promenade in the day-time from the lovely view they commanded, but generally deserted at this hour on account, as Grace said, of the loneliness of the spot.

The girls walked on in silence. Grace's fears had somewhat infected Helen's spirits, and it was with a sigh of relief, that she paused on the stile leading into the last field, and turned to gaze on the scene below. All was calm around them. Through the hushed still air the strains of the band floated upwards at intervals, swelling out, then dying away, "like the faint, exquisite music of a dream." The loiterers on the Esplanade looked like little black dots, moving about in the flood of radiance which the moon was flinging over the whole scene. The sea was glorious. Scarcely a ripple broke the broad expanse of light which rested lovingly on its surface and invested it with a fairy-like beauty, that was destined to recur agsain and again with vivid distinctness to O C*> Helen's memory, when, in after years, beneath the burning sun of the tropics, she drooped and languished for the sweet airs and green fields of her native land.

Miss Penrose's voice broke the stillness. " Dear Helen ! it is getting very late, and the dew is taking all the curl from your new feather. Do let us go on." " How prosaic you are," said Helen, taking off her hat, and gazing ruefully at the limp condition of its chief ornament. " Now my thoughts were far beyond feathers at that moment, but I suppose we had better be going, as your people will be nervous, and I shall have a nice little job to recurl my poor feather before we go to bed." A slight scream from Grace nearly made her fall over the stile. Looking round quickly to discover the cause of alarm, she saw that they were not alone. Close beside them, so near as almost to touch their dresses, stood an old woman. Her tall figure, bent by age, was supported by a stick, which she grasped with both hands.

An old black cloak, reaching to her feet, an equally old black bonnet, tied under her chin by a red cotton handkerchief, made her look a somewhat weird figure in the ghostly light, still, nothing to give real cause for alarm. She gave a little chuckling laugh as she apolo gised to the girls for having startled them. " Though, indeed, there's nowt to be afeared of," she added, "for Marget Collins in her best days, never injured mortial ; now the touch of a little child would knock her off her legs." " We should not have been frightened if we had seen you coming," said Helen. "There's no harm done," she added, laughing, "so we will wish you good-night." "Wait a moment, my bonnie young lady. I see in your face that there is something great before you. If you would learn your fate just cross my hand with a bit of silver, and I can tell you what it will be."

"A fortune-teller, are you really?" exclaimed Helen eagerly, while Grace whispered — " Oh ! Helen, dear, this is not right, do come away." "Call me so, if you will," the woman answered coldly. "The stars have given me power to read the destinies of men. I know the past and the future. I see luck in store for both of ye ; but for you," and leaning forward, she whispered rapidly in Helen's ear, " Royalty itself shall sue at your feet." " I cannot stay now. Where shall I see you again?" said Helen, excitedly. " To-morrow evening, by the old barn, under Beacon Hill," replied the gipsy, as she hobbled away ; while the two girls made the best of their way home, too much excited by their adventure to think or speak of any other topic, and longing for the morrow that was to unveil to them the hidden mysteries of the future, through the agency of an old gipsy and a pack of cards.

Chapter II

Consulting: the "Cards." " Legno e piu su che fu morso da Eva, E questa pianta si levo da esso." The tree of which Eve ate is higher up, And out of that one has this tree been raised. " Dante. — Purg. c. xxiv., v. 115. To know the future. To gaze, for one brief moment, beyond the veil — impalpable as mist, impenetrable as adamant — that hangs before our eyes. Ever receding as we advance, its mysterious folds encircle the present as in a shroud, effectually hiding from our baffled vision what "the morrow may bring forth." Throughout all time, through all classes and conditions of society, the desire to grasp at knowledge unrevealed, has been found to exercise a wondrous fascination over the mind of man. And as in " Eden's garden " the tempter was ready with the fruit that promised B to gratify this fatal curiosity, so ever since there have not been wanting persons, who have found it profitable to practise on the credulity of their fellows by assuming preten tions to this extraordinary power.

They are to be found in every rank. From the hoary astrologer of former days whose nod ruled a court. The elegantly-dressed clair voyante of our own times, who, at half-a guinea a ticket, holds her stances in densely crowded assemblies ; down to the swarthy gipsy, who, spreading out her well-thumbed pack of cards before her, will, for a small gratuity, read out all sorts of possible or im possible predictions therefrom. Beacon Hill was, as its name sucro-ests, a landmark for many miles round. Seamen saw it from afar, and were thus enabled to avoid a treacherous sandbar, which lay at some little distance out at sea, and which was marked in the chart as being in a direct line with it. An object of interest to the antiquary, from some old ruins on its summit, about whose origan no one could decide, it was still more so to the artist, from the magnificent views to be obtained un every side.

It was still early when the girls, excited, eager, trembling at their own rashness, reached the place of rendezvous. No one was visible. They walked around the old barn, scanning its bare walls, as though they expected the spirit of the future to start forth from them suddenly, and shriek out, through the hushed stillness of the evening air, the secrets they had been so anxious to penetrate. " I feel so frightened, Helen," said Grace, at last, when after pacing up and down, for some time in silence, she found that the gipsy did not appear. "Had we not better go home, and give this up ? for indeed, I fear that it is not right, and that we shall be punished in some way. " You can go, if you like," answered Helen, hau^htilv, " I see nothing to be afraid of, and shall wait here, at any rate, while there is a chance of the old woman's coming.

Let us go up the Beacon," she added, crossing the stile, which separated the winding path leading to the summit, from the road which wound round the foot of the hill, "we shall then be able to see her a long way off, and need not wait so long, either." Governed always by Helen's stronger will, Grace followed her companion in silence. Ten minutes' rapid walking brought them to the ruins, from whence they gazed downwards, not in admiration of the panorama stretched before their eyes, but in eager expectation of a bent, aged figure, with head tied round by a red cotton handkerchief. Yet it was a scene of beauty. Directly under their feet, the town lay as in a nest, in a hollow formed on three sides by a semi-circle of green hillocks. To right and left extended the long, low reaches of yellow sand that gave the town its name, while in front, far as the eye could reach, vast, illimitable, was the sea, now bathed in the crimson glories of sunset.

Here they waited some time. The crimson had become purple, and this was now rapidly giving place to grey, when at length they turned their step homeward. Passing by the barn, the girls uttered an exclamation of surprise. In the doorway stood the old woman, looking as if she had been awaiting them for hours. "Where did you come from ? we have been here such a long time," said Helen, "and thought you were not coming after all ; we did not see you either, though we were both watching." " I have ways of coming and going unknown to mortials," answered the old woman solemnly, as she entered the barn, and beckoned the girls to follow her. Grace with difficulty repressed the inclination she felt to rush off at full speed down the hill. Instead of doing this, she entered with her companion, when the old woman shut the door and hung against it her long cloak, which she took off for the purpose.

" Now no one will see us," she said, light ing up a little oil lamp, as she spoke ; then crouching down, she spread out a very dirty pack of cards on the floor, and bending over them, examined each one attentively, mutter ing to herself at intervals, sentences which the girls strove in vain to catch the meaning of. Some time passed thus. At length the gipsy rose and made a sign to Helen to approach. " Cross my hand, young lady, if you would learn what is before you." Helen laid half-a crown on the old woman's palm. She gazed at it lovingly, seeming to forget in her greed for what purpose the coin had been given. Consigning it, at last, to her pocket, she spoke again. 'to " There is a great destiny awaiting you, wealth, rank, and power will be yours, but there is danger too. I cannot see clearly to night, and will deal out the cards again, perhaps that will throw a little more light upon it, and I shall be able to read plainer."

A wild scream from Grace interrupted her. A flood of li»ht from the bull's-eye of a policeman suddenly flashed upon the scene, lighting up every nook and stone of the old barn, exposing to view with merciless distinct ness the terrified faces of its occupants. " Caught you at last, Mother Collins ! You will have a month for this, for the mayor is detarmined to put down all fortin-tellin, so come along. Miss Harwood, I am sorrv for you, your uncle will be angry ; but you ought to a'knowed better," and P.C. Brown looked severely virtuous at the shrinking figures before him. Helen tried in vain to soften him, promising for herself and companions that they would never offend again, and entreating him to let the affair pass unnoticed, as no one else knew of it. " I must do my dooty, miss," was the only answer vouchsafed by the stern guardian of the peace, to all her pleading.

" Howsumever, I will ask his worship to give the case a private hearing, as you belong to respectable people like. You will be ready to appear in the morn ing, young ladies, when you be summoned. As to the ould witch here, she will be took charge of to-night." So saying he motioned the old woman to precede him down the hill, leaving the weeping girls to follow at their leisure. Great was Mr. Harwood's astonishment the next morning to receive a note from the mayor, requesting his presence, with that of his niece and her companion of the preceding evening, at his private room in the Guildhall, where, in consideration of his (Mr. Harwood's) feelings, a private hearing of the case — which it was his (the mayor's) painful duty to investigate — would take place. Poor Helen nearly died with shame and remorse, when, at the conclusion of the trial, and the long exordium which the mayor thought it his duty to pronounce, she saw the old woman led away to undergo the sentence of the court — one month's imprisonment — with regret, the mayor said, that he could not, on account of her age, add with hard labour.

It was a stern lesson. In spite of all pre cautions, the story got whispered about, so that Helen did not venture to appear any where in public, or even go for a walk. She fancied that every eye regarded her with contempt, that every voice was repeating the tale of her disgrace. Mrs. Harwood made matters worse, by studiously avoiding all com munication with her, and, by constant allusions to the subject, keeping alive her husband's resentment towards his niece for having made him the subject of such a scandal The close confinement, coupled with the strain upon her mind, began to tell upon her health It was a relief, therefore, to all parties when, after a few weeks of this uncomfortable state of affairs, Helen asked her uncle to use his in fluence in procuring her another situation, that, far away from the scene of her late folly, she might commence life afresh, and by a more decorous conduct in the future, win for giveness for the past, and, in time, hope to obliterate from the minds of her relatives all rememberance of the pain and trouble she was now causing them.

Mrs. Harwood was well-pleased at the idea of Helen's departure, having always considered her presence in the shop as compromising to the family dignity. Mr. Harwood, though fond of his niece, was glad to purchase peace at any price. The necessary inquiries were set on foot. After a few weeks' delay, a short visit to the loved ones at the dear old farm, Helen obtained her wish, and found herself installed in the show-room of a large establishment in the West End of London. Her pleasing manners, still more than her good looks, soon won for her a most favourable impression among the assistants, and as the weeks passed on her new surroundings and associates bid fair to obliterate from her memory, some, at least, of the painful reflections which had accompanied her in her exit from Sandstown. In our next chapter we will take a brief glance at the home and chief incidents of Helen's girlhood

Chapter III

Brook Farm. " Se tu segui tua Stella, Non puoi fallire a glorioso porto." . . . . " If thou thy star do follow, Thou canst not fail thee of a glorious port." Dante. — Inf. c. xv., v. 55. Brook Farm, the residence of the Harwoods, was situated in one of those sunny nooks which abound at the foot of the Dartmoor range. Here Helen had grown up, free and untrammelled as the winds which blew over her beloved hills. There being no school in the neighbourhood, Mrs. Harwood had devoted all the time she could spare from her farm duties to the education of her only child. She was, therefore, if not a brilliant scholar, no mean proficient in English literature. Her uncle had been very fond of her, and had kept her well supplied with books. It had been her greatest delight to steal away from the house, through the great rambling orchard, across the little stream which babbled along its whole length, and gave the house its name, up the steep path which led to the moor, where, with book in hand, she would ramble about, or seated in the shadow of a giant tor, would gaze for hours on the distant line of silver that denoted the presence of the sea.

It was a quiet, but not unhappy life, for it was sur rounded by love. Time slipped on, unbroken by any event, save her uncle's marriage, till Helen had reached her seventeenth year, when the little circle at the farm was increased by the arrival of a stranger. Things had been going badly for some time. Crops had failed. Three or four fine cows had been carried off by the rinderpest. Altogether Robert Harwood found himself very short of cash. The farm was his own, so there was no rent to think of. Still a little money would be very acceptable. So when he saw one day an advertisement for lodgings in a farmhouse for an invalid gentle man, he consulted with his wife, and they both decided to offer their spare bedroom, with the best parlour, which they rarely used, to the advertiser on very moderate terms.

The offer was accepted. Helen was in a rare flutter of excitement on the day fixed for the lodger's arrival. She flew about from room to room, filling every vase with flowers from the old-fashioned garden. She loaded the table with good things, sufficient for half-a-dozen healthy per sons instead of the one delicate invalid who was expected. Having put the last finishing touches to bedroom and parlour, she sat down in the large clematis-covered porch to catch the first sight of the stranger. He came at last. A great throb of pity shook her whole frame as she saw a tall, gaunt figure tottering from weakness, slowly descending from the fly which had brought him from the station. She forgot her shyness. Running down the garden to the road, she put out her hand to help him down the steps, then with the driver's aid got him safely into the parlour, where he lay down on the hard sofa to recover from his exhaustion.

He was not at all handsome, Helen thought. indeed, rather ugly than otherwise, as he lay there, helpless almost as an infant, acceptimr Mrs. Harwood's ministrations with a feeble protest ; while she, with her motherly instinct all roused, bustled about to procure him the refreshment he needed. No, he was not hand some, certainly. His head had lately been closely shaved, and now presented a mass of short, stubby points, leaving exposed a broad, massive forehead, on which intellect was unmis takably written, and which, by a habit its owner had of contracting his brows while study ing, presented an almost perpetual frown. The cheeks were sallow and worn, causing the mouth to appear unnaturally large, and there was a stern, resolute look about this feature and the square chin underneath, that made you feel that the owner was not one to be trifled with.

A pair of piercing dark eyes, surmounted by shaggy eyebrows, completed the picture of Mr. Harwood's lodger as he appeared to Helen on this first evening of his sojourn at the farm. And what had he thought of her, as she first met his sight, stepping out in her girlish loveliness from the mass of clematis that framed her round as a picture, to offer her support to the stranger, who was too feeble to walk alone ? He had gazed at her with an admiration not unmingled with envy. It was not her beauty, not even her ready sympathy which attracted him then. It was because she looked so strong, so vigorous. It was because she possessed in such rich abundance the treasure we so rarely prize — till lost — the inestimable blessing of perfect health. Philip Layton had been left an orphan at a very early age.

His parents had only been able to leave him a small sum, just sufficient to start him in business when of age, but not enough to provide him an education that would enable him to follow one of the professions. But his mother's uncle had come forward, offering to take the boy and give him every facility for embracing his own profession — Medicine. Philip had gladly accepted. His receptive mind drank in his uncle's instructions, as the earth drinks water. But he soon went beyond them. The theories of the old school in which his uncle had studied, could not long satisfy one who was ambitious above all to contribute towards enlarging the scientific, rational basis of his profession. He was convinced that it was the finest in the world, and carried to his studies in London the determination to leave no stone unturned in the path of discovery.

He soon made himself a name amonohjs fellow-students, who prophesied brilliant things for him. The professors held him up as a model of patient, untiring labour. Possessed of a splendid constitution, he set all the rules of health at defiance in his endeavour to grasp at the laws which should place the government of disease in his power. But nature is her own avenger. During the term which preceded his final examination, he deprived himself of food and sleep, in his anxiety to win a scholarship. He won it. Took his degree with honours, but was carried, insensible, from the hall to his bed, where he lay for many days between life ancl death, in the delirium of brain fever. So we find him an inmate at Brook Farm. Was it to be wondered at, therefore, that he gazed at Helen's youthful bloom, watched her firm elastic step, with something like envy, as he compared them with his own shrunken figure, and feeble, unsteady movements.