Sebie Dorr; or, 'A Dream of the past.'

Preface

. ■' I had a dream, which was not all a dream." Even so, for the following pages record (with the exception of the alteration of names) many a scene of a waking reality. My readers, supposing I am fortunate in having any, will perhaps incline to the words of the gifted poetess Jean Ingelow : — If all did love, as some do love, The world would never be well." ELIZABETH ("BESSIE") R. H. ALLNATT. The Firs, Frant, 1879.

Chapter I

The merry homes of England ! Around their hearths by night, What gladsome looks of household love Meet in the ruddy light ! There woman's voice flows forth in song, Or childhood's tale is told, Or lips move tunefully along Some glorious page of old. The blessed homes of England ! How softly on their bowers Is laid the holy quietness That breathes from Sabbath hours ! Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime Floats through their woods at morn ; All other sounds in that still time Of breeze and leaf are born. Mrs. Hemans. it^U'-Mgyi CANNOT remember the time when I did Cft bM not — Ponies, birds, my father's dogs, my |la-o<Ri[ dolls, the trees surrounding the house, the flowers in my own little garden, all called forth the deep affection of my childhood. I need scarcely say, that all the higher objects, parents, brothers, sister, had the proper pre-eminence B in my affections.

I was alluding to what I must call the "outlying" love beyond these, and which was given with a tenacity which, in the maturity of after years, caused such pleasurable pain and such painful pleasure. The passionate tender care which, as quite a child, I lavished on the dogs — old faithful friends, than whom, in later times, I found none more true ; the longing to console them when whipped by the keepers — my mortal enemies for their sakes ; my heart-breaking tears shed over their dear rough heads, while I clasped my childish arms round their necks, and tried to make them forget their blows and sorrows; — all this gave but too painfully an earnest of what would be the intensity and depth of my love in maturer years, should any higher object arise to call it forth. Of all my early pets the dogs caused me most grief, and to them was given the greatest portion of what my child-heart had to bestow.

They reigned supreme. They seemed to understand all I said, and to know how I sympathized with them, and I used to fancy that, in return, they entered into my childish troubles. To begin my chronicles in correct order, I must give some account of my home and its surround ings. My father was a man of high connections, good position, and considerable income — holding one or two lucrative posts in London. He passed a great deal of his leisure time with an uncle, a certain Lord Seddon, who had advanced him in his career, and gave him the appointments in consequence of which a London residence was necessary. My father, however, loved country pursuits, and had been a member of the celebrated Northampton Hunt, to which he reluctantly bade adieu on his marriage and settling in London. As time drew on and his family increased, there was a reasonable excuse, he felt, for a country house for the benefit of the chil dren's health, and he purchased a handsome estate in Sussex.

Here we children spent the happiest portion of our childhood. My father himself was always delighted to come down to us when he could snatch time for it : my first riding lessons were from him in those bright, joyous days. My mother alone disliked " Courtlands;" it was too retired for her, fond as she was of the country, for her friends were for the most part in London or in a county some distance off, and those were not the days of railways. I remember well when our departure from Portland Place arrived annually, and the tall trees that en circled our pleasure grounds came in sight, as the tired horses at the close of the day drew near to Courtlands, so annually did my mother's tears begin to flow, and her lamentations break forth. To us it was sur prising. At this time there were five of us, two elder brothers, I and Hetty, and Norcliffe, and later came baby Ernest.

My sister Hetty and I differed in taste, — she could not enter into, or understand my love for the dogs, my pride in the ponies, and my anxiety to learn to saddle them myself. It was to my elder brothers — Tom especially — that I looked for sympathy, and there fore it was that when they came from_ school, it was a gala time for me. They were always impatient the first thing for news of the pets, and there was of course a shout for " Sebie," to which I joyfully respon ded. Oh, the delight of those days ! the scrambling over hedges, not unfrequently leaving portions of my frock behind on brambles or gates, " trophies," as Tom said, to those who came after of my " climbing qualities." Sometimes I accompanied them to the pond, carrying the basket for the fish which were never caught, but for which "great expectations" were raised.

We could see the silvery little fellows gliding about in the water in a most provoking way ; but I was con tinually told that there was a " nibble," and I came to think that a " nibble " was a particular species of fish that would never be caught, and I wondered if all the ponds held " nibbles." As my brothers seemed perfectly satisfied and even very exultant on the score of their fishing, I never asked any questions. Then the rides with my dear father ! Sometimes on his shooting excursions, sometimes off to see some new purchase of a cow or horse at some distant farm, all this made up a delicious child-life to me. Riding has ever been a second existence with me, and God enabled me long to find in many trials a solace on horseback. God also endued me with a feeling of great har mony with, and deep enjoyment of, nature.

I can scarcely describe what I mean ; but trees, the sky, a field over which the wind waves the seedling grass, produced feelings sad, but exciting passionate longing of I know not what ; wild thoughts, aspirations after the noble and beautiful. I longed to soar upwards, — in the words of David, " Oh that I had wings," — but I am afraid I did not think then of rest, it was a yearning to look beyond what I would call the horizon of sense. Perhaps, by the bye, my readers may think that of common sense I had already passed the rubicon. Ah well ! the feeling of enjoyment in na ture has been a blessing to me. When heart and mind have been oppressed, the sight of a field of waving corn, the scent of a bean-field, has carried me into regions above earthly troubles. As a child, I would lie stretched on the lawn, with my pets around me, my hands crossed on my breast, and my eyes to wards the heavens.

I would watch the clouds chasing one another, as if in sport, across the blue sky. In their forms and shapes I would picture to myself worlds beyond. There I would lie, my thoughts in a tangle or whirl. I now wonder that I did not injure my sight or brain by the continuous looking upwards in the dazzling summer days. Perhaps a paw laid upon me by one of my fourfooted friends, or a peck from one of my pigeons, or a tug at my hair, would recall me to reality, and I would start up for a romp with the dear patient dogs. I was a delicate-looking child, not at all made a hoyden or tomboy by being so much with my elder brothers. They were very gentle to me, and it was my delight to try and add to their happiness. If any boyish trouble grieved them, I would try and soothe them ; and so, too, if my pets came to grief, so surely it was grief to me, and I would try to comfort them.

Well do I remember the bitter sorrow Peter the house-dog caused me ! He was a large heavy animal, half mastiff half Danish pointer ; he had been sent to the keeper before we left home one summer ; it was an experiment, for he was to be broken in, for some sporting purpose for which as a mastiff he was not suited. SEBIE DORR. One window of our nursery looked into the yard where was Peter's house ; beyond was a shrubbery adjoining a broad road for exercising the horses. Each morning, as the nurse dressed me by the window, Peter's empty kennel was a daily melancholy sight to me, and daily did I teaze her with the question, when did she think Peter was coming back ? One morning I was as usual looking at the overturned trough and empty house, watching in the faint hope of the day when Peter would come back, and the kennel have clean straw, and the trough be put straight.

I was turning away with a great sigh, which provoked nurse to say, " I would not worry so, miss, about a dog." I thought I saw in the horses' exercising road a brown speck. I strained my eyes, the speck took the shape of a dog's head. For an instant I was rooted to the spot, and as the whole object came in view I saw my dear Peter — his head weighed down, not by unhappiness (wretched as the dog looked), but by a piece of broken chain ; he looked a despairing, dejected, careworn, half-starved dog, not half the size he was when he left us. It was the work of a minute, shaking off the nurse's hand, sending the brush flying, the comb hanging in my flowing hair, down the back stairs to dash, to catch Peter round the neck, to kiss him, to cry over him, and with more thought than could be expected from a child, to endeavour to drag him to a hiding place.

I feared from the broken chain, that he must have stolen away, and perhaps would be pursued and flogged. I led him into one of the unused stables, put him into one of the empty stalls, kissed him again and hid him, telling him to lie still, and I would come back. The noble intelligent fellow seemed to understand me, laid his head down and sighed (a dog can sigh truly). I was too small to reach the door to lock it, so I ran off to my mother. She was always very tender-hearted : to see an animal ill-treated would rouse all her indignation, and I knew she would not sanction any harshness to Peter. My mother usually breakfasted in her own room, and it was the custom for myself and my sister to take our morning lessons to repeat to her while she was dressing, after which we had an hour's play-time in the garden or with our pets ; however, my lessons were now forgotten.

I ran to my mother's door. Knocking with sharp little raps, I was eager for admittance, and to tell my tale. " Come in ; what is the matter ? something I am sure, for you do not rap so impatiently for lessons," said a faint voice from the bed. " Is it baby ? " " Oh no, mamma ; poor Peter," I half sobbed out ; " he has been cruelly treated ; I think he will die ; pray don't let anybody catch him." In my childish terror I almost fancied some evil would happen to him while I was interceding for him. " Oh, mamma, please let me tell James to lock the door, and that I am to bring you the key, till you can get up and come out. Oh, please do. I know they will kill him ; but he has grown so little, I think he will die." " Sebie, my dear child ! don't cry in that way ; you will make yourself quite ill.

Ring for Wilson, and I will get up. In the meantime you may go and get the key for me." " Mamma, may I take him some food ? " " Yes, of course you may, Sebie ; and now run oft and wipe those red little eyes." SEBIE DORR. One hug of my mother, " a bear's hug " as she laughingly called it, and I was again in the stable, unfolding treasures from my pinafore for Peter, who delighted me by bolting his food in a most approved dog fashion. Of course when my mother came out, everything was set right, but Peter was a great anxiety to me for many, many days ; I was in perpetual dread of his being found and taken away by the keeper. Keepers are autocrats on their own ground. I used to creep out of bed of a night when all were asleep, and peep through the window to see in the moonlight if Peter were there : his chain rattling, was one of the pleasantest sounds I could hear, and I would wait shivering in the cold till I could hear it, or see him, and then with little chilled feet, patter back to bed.

Somehow, the nurses found out my night watchings, and it was told to my mother, who, on my father's return, expostulated with him, and it was then decided, though I did not know it, that no more dogs were to be under my loving ken. It really injured my child health. Peter was kept at the farm in happy indolence as a watch-dog, where I often saw him.

Chapter II

There is a Reaper whose name is Death : As with his sickle keen He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, And the flowers that grow between, He gazed at the flower with tearful eyes, He kissed its drooping leaves ; It was for the Lord of Paradise He bound it in his sheaves. And the mother gave, in tears and pain. The flower she most did love ; She knew she should find it once again, In the fields of light above. Oh ! not in cruelty, not in wrath, The Reaper came that day ; 'Twas an angel visited the green earth And took the flower away. Longfellow. B"VJ5r»y|Y mother brought us up to be strictly truthful, iMyJi 3 and rarely punished us if we at once told her t_a)T*l*_i| 0f any naughtiness of which we had been guilty, or for any accident with which we had met. If we had in any way wronged any one, she made us almost invariably go and confess our fault.

I will give one instance, as it will show our early training. Hetty and I had one morning a commission from my mother, to carry a basket of fine plums to an old paralytic woman in our village, which was about three-quarters of a mile from our house, Courtlands Park. " I have picked out two dozen of the best and ripest plums, Sebie ; take care how you and Hetty carry the basket. Nurse cannot go to-day as baby is not well, and you are old enough to go by your selves now." A few messages with instructions not to forget them, and Hetty and I set off. We went quietly and peaceably for about half an hour, and then, alas ! there came a temptation which our childish instincts were unable to resist. At the top of the hill we had just ascended, on one side was the rector's gate, and on the other a sign-post where two roads met.

Around the sign-post were large loose stones, and heather, wild clover, and broom were growing profusely in the interstices. Wasps were flying all around, and their noise soon arrested our attention. " Hetty," said I, " I think those wasps are going to make a nest. Let us put the basket in the shade by the gate and go and see." Nothing loth to get rid of the weight of the basket, which to our little hands seemed very considerable, we both agreed, and then stealing on tiptoe we approached the post. There were sure enough wasps all round it, some creeping in under the stones, some hovering about, but we were not afraid, as we knew that they would not attack us if we left them alone, especially when they were so busy. We stood with our hands behind us for some time watching the little yellow creatures ; at last an idea flashed over me : " Oh, Hetty ! how they would like a plum ! and they must be tired too.

How surprised they would be to find one just before their little mouths without any trouble ! " " I think I had better give them one," said Hetty, this time quite entering into my ideas and feelings. " I won't get a large one, and if they don't like it, we will take it away." "We must not let them eat it," I replied hastily, "only we may just see what they will do. Be quick, Hetty." Hetty needed no second bidding, and soon returned with one of the ripest of the plums, and which she thought would be very attractive. " You must put it down, Sebie ; I am afraid to go too near," and she laid the plum in my hand. Slowly I approached with my prize, but I could not get very near the hole at which the wasps were creep ing in, there were so many hovering about. So I placed it near on the heath, and pushed it gently with a stick.

Instantly the plum was covered, and to my great dismay I saw it was beyond the power of Hetty or myself to recover it. The wasps were in a state of frantic delight ; they hummed louder than ever, they crawled over the plum in numbers, others came out of the hole and made inroads into it. Alas ! Hetty and I stood by in the greatest con sternation, not daring to interfere. And the plum was entrusted to us ! We had broken our trust ! We looked at one another, then at the wasps. Then Hetty broke silence, " Oh Sebie, what can we do ? " " We must tell mamma the truth, Hetty ; but I shall be so afraid ; will you tell her ? " " No," said Hetty ; " you are a year older than I, and you first thought of it — you must tell her." " If I did think of it first, you went and got the plum," I retorted ; " but I suppose I must.

I wish I had never seen those horrid wasps. Let us get rid of the plums now, before we do anything more that is naughty." Our hearts were now as heavy as the basket. We slowly took our way ; tried to remember all the mes sages we had to deliver ; shrank under the old woman's thanks, feeling that we had robbed her of a portion of what was hers, and reluctantly returned home. I had been making up my mind to go in at once and tell my mother before my courage oozed away ; but baby was ill, and my mother was in the nursery. In the evening, when we came to wish her " good night," she had as usual a little talk with us, com menting upon our acts during the day. If we had been naughty, this was the time she spoke of it to us, and if she had seen our attempts to do right, to be good at lessons and kind to one another in play, she use to allude to it wisely and well.

This evening she spoke to us of little kind acts towards those around us, and told us if we had tried to please God in them, we could look up to the lovely stars and know that far, far above them is Jesus Christ, watching over His little children as they lie down to sleep. " Oh, mamma, mamma ! " I exclaimed, " I don't like to look up at the stars, for He won't love me and watch over me. I have been so naughty. I didn't give all the plums to old Martha." " Not give them to Martha ! though I trusted you and Hetty ! " said my mother reproachfully ; " I hope you did not take any for yourself or Hetty." " Oh no, mamma, that I could not do, but we gave one to the wasps. Oh, please forgive us," I sobbed out. " I am glad to find that you have told me the truth," said my mother, when I had finished my tale.

" I shall not punish you any further, for I think your conscience has punished you, Sebie ; we must just kneel down and ask for forgiveness for you and Hetty for Jesus Christ's dear sake, and to-morrow you must take another plum to Martha and tell her all." I remember my pang of shame, as I stood before the old woman the next day ; and though she could only take into her mind the fact that we might have been severely stung, and could only reiterate her ex clamations of "Massy, now! think of the dear children so nigh being stung by them ' wapses,' and all along of my plums," yet it was a lesson of shame which I never forgot. I have thus touched upon these few incidents of my childhood, to explain, first, the intense longings of something to love, and the intensity of my affection from my earliest remembered days ; secondly, to show the truthfulness which was impressed upon me so deeply that it became a part of my nature, and from which I could not sever myself, and which perhaps combined to produce the frank manifestation of any preference I might feel in after days.

My little baby brother Ernest was very ill ; he was a favourite plaything with us all, of a sweet angelic temper. He never cried when teased, only opening his beautiful eyes a little wider as if in surprise; he seemed scarcely to have any baby naughtiness. The nurse used to spread a large white cloth on the ground when in the house, and on it he would lie for hours quietly amusing himself. In his last illness he would lan guidly watch us as we ministered in our child ways to his amusement ; sometimes a lighting up would pass over his face, as if he saw beyond us into some bright region unknown to us, then he would close his eyes and lie so still, as if in his last sleep. He apparently suffered no pain, or rather not in certain positions or when lying down ; at other times, he would restlessly move himself, as if no posture rested him.

A consultation was held by my mother, nurse, and the doctor, and it was decided that we should move to London earlier than usual that spring, so that baby Ernest might at once be under some eminent medical man there. Day by day the little darling faded, his rosy cheeks became of a pale pink, and then the pale pink became white, and before his young life had attained the short space of a year, our darling was taken to a brighter land. It was on the first of May ; and in the days of which I write, very many years ago, May-day was a gala merry day. Who does not remember the dressed-up sweeps and the wonderful Jack in the Green, rolling about like some uprooted tree about to topple over? We children used to save up our pocket money for gifts to these merry dancers, and we used to be on the qui vive for some days previous.

Early on this May morning, nurse came into our nursery, her eyes red, and quietly pulled down the blinds, which had been drawn up by the under-nurse in order that we might watch for the mummers. " Your mamma wants you in the other room, dears," said nurse, in reply to our looks of surprise. We saw something was the matter, and quickly we obeyed. My mother was crying, and as we entered, she called us to her, and putting her arms round me and Hetty, she said, " My children must try and be very good and love Jesus Christ, and one day they will see dear baby Ernest again : he is now in heaven, a bright angel with wings." " Oh, mamma ! is baby gone ? Has he got wings and flown away, away from us ? oh, why did he go ? " and I sobbed bitterly ; Hetty's tears also flowed freely. Baby had been such a plaything, such a pet.

Moreover, we had never, of course, understood the dangerous nature of his illness, and could not realize that our darling was dead, and that we should see him no more. "Would you like to see him in his little cot ? He looks so lovely," asked my mother. Hetty shook her head. I could not understand how baby could be there and yet have wings and fly away, and I wondered at the question. " I thought he was in heaven, mamma," I replied. " Yes, Sebie, his soul is there, but his body lies quiet in his little crib." " I should like to see him then, mamma," I said in a low tone, as I put my hand in hers, but I was fright ened at the idea. She led me into the darkened room to the cot's side. At first I felt such deep awe, looking at the cold marble features, that I scarce dared move. At last I said under my breath : " Mamma, where are his wings ?

I don't see them." No answer did my mother give, I don't think she heard ; she was crying bitterly. Then nurse turned and led me from the room. What a sad May morning was that ! Long past as it is now, every returning first of May, memory brings before me that morning. Again I see nurse drawing down the blinds, shut ting out the bright spring sun. Again I go with my mother to the cot, and see the white little face, and the tiny hands folded on the breast. My mother thought it would be bad for us to be kept (fretting as we were) in the darkened house of mourning ; so the carriage was ordered, and I, Hetty, and nurse were placed in it, the blinds down till we had cleared the streets. Old James had his orders to drive us into the country round about Kilburn and Windmill fields ; it was really country in those days.

Houses are now, where we " gathered buttercups in the yellow mead ; " and where the London and North Western Railway sends forth its steam engines screaming and hissing, then larks would be warbling their glorious songs, and blackbirds would sit on the blossoming thorn, singing sweet trilling songs to their mates as they sat on their soft warm nests.

Chapter III

Heigh-ho ! daisies and buttercups ! Mother shall thread them a daisy chain ; Sing them a song of the pretty brown sparrow, That loved her brown little ones, loved them full fain ; Sing, " Heart thou art wide, though the house be but narrow," Sing once and sing it again. Heigh-ho ! daisies and buttercups, Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall, — A sunshiny world full of laughter and leisure, And fresh hearts unconscious of sorrow and thrall, Send down on their pleasure, smiles passing its measure, God that is over us all. Jean Ingelow. ONTHS — two or three years — passed by; my mother was often laid up by indisposition ; we did not see so much of her as formerly. Once or twice little babies came into the world for the brief space of a few hours, but none came in to take the place of baby Ernest.

Though my mother was so much of an invalid, she was a woman of quick action and great presence of mind. In fact, she was a woman of great contrasts, clever and impulsive, yet patient and meek, very strict with us in many things, and too indulgent in others. Extremely kind-hearted and charitable, she was much beloved by the poor around, and our tenants thought that there was no one like Madam St. Clair, and from Courtlands Park none were turned harshly from the door. C At this time, throughout the country there were great disturbances, " Agrarian " riots they were termed. The military often had to be called out to quell them, and almost a panic had seized on the large landholders. I have often heard my mother speak of an incident I am about to relate. One fine summer afternoon, as we children were playing on the lawn, we heard in the distance sounds quite unusual in our quiet retired country place — distant music and a drum.

My mother was reading in her boudoir when she heard a sharp knock at the door, and Davis the butler entered in haste. " Oh, ma'am, if you please, Browning (one of the tenants) wants to speak to you. He says there is such a to-do in the village ; some of the rioters are come from a distance to the two public-houses there, and the landlords of them don't know what to do with them. Mr. Lock, of the Star Inn, sent off a lad to tell you, and Browning met him as he was just entering the courtyard. Browning says he saw some strangers last night, here and there about the lanes, and he wants to see you at once. He and all the others are so frightened." " I will come down, Davis, at once. Tell him to go in the servants' hall." As my mother entered the hall, Browning, whose usually ruddy face was quite blanched, pulled his lock of hair in front as he made a bow.