A Fair Claimant: being a story for girls, etc

Front matter

A FAIR CLAIMANT. "^ogo^ "MICHAEL, MICHAEL," SHE CRIED, " IS IT REALLY YOU?" A FAIR CLAIMANT: JiEING A STORY FOR GIRLS. BY FRANCES ARMSTRONG, Author ol " Hed IIvinDg;" " An Unsolrnl MjsUry:" " U<r Oim War; " i [i.uts m I Lot*;" Ac. ILLUSTRATED BT HKHTRMK P. HAVtfONl' LONDON: r.I.Ai'KIK .t SON, t.iMiTFn. i<< OLP RVII.r.Y. K.C. ,.l 18OOW, Klu.M-.i ROfi, AMi Ul'bLlN I-'.M CONTENTS. Chap. Page I. Blanche Bethune, 9 II. A Heart-broken Mother, 20 III. The Escape, 29 IV. The Search, 45 V. A Street Accident, 55 VI. A Fruitless Search, 69 VII. Mother and Child, 79 VIII. Alone in the World, 87 IX. Olive's Resolve, 101 X. The Lenhouses Ill XI. A Friend in Need, 119 XII. Olive's Pupils 132 XIII. The Christmas Holidays, 143 XIV. A Strange Likeness, 156 XV. In the Study, 168 XVI. Gerald Lenhouse, 181 XVII.

Tormenting Thoughts 193 XVIII. A Passage at Arms, 204 XIX. A Noun unal Au\ kntuke 216 XX. The Mi.mail iœ, CONTENTS. VI Chap. Page XXI. Dick to the Rescue, 237 XXII. Colonel Lenhouse is Angry, 251 XXIII. A Peaceful Refuge, 262 XXIV. Two Stories, 272 XXV. The Course of True Love, 282 XXVI. A Steadfast Friend, 291 XXVII. A Bolt from the Blue, 300 XXVIII. The Colonel Outwitted, 309 XXIX. Miss Bethune proves her Identity, 315 XXX. The Colonel makes the best of It, . . „ . . 322 XXXI. Dick's Congratulations, 330 XXXII. In the Soudan, 339 XXXIII. Olive's Birthday, ILLUSTRATIONS. Pago "Michael, Michael," she cried, "is it really YOuV'Front. 351 "Olive leapt into her mother's arms," 23 "Into Blanche's eyes came a look of abject terror,". 60 "Olive's eyes met those of a tall fair man," . . . 121 " You do look so beautiful," said Dick, 148 "What is the baby's name?" asked Olive 172 "Olive faced the colonel with wild, dilated eyes," . 218 Olive shows the tattoo marks on her arm, .... A FAIB CLAIMANT.

CHAPTER L BLANCHE BETHUNE.

Chapter II

A HEART-BROKEN MOTHER. SUCH had been the history of the day. The worst was coming — a calamity Blanche had never dreamed of. She had never doubted her right to the possession of her child, and now she was to be taken from her. She had not entreated her husband to recall his cruel words, because she knew entreaties were useless, and she had not trusted her self to speak, fearing what words would come to her lips in her anguish and despair. She was really thankful that he had at least left her to herself in her misery, at any rate he was not enjoying the sight of it. Often lately she had thought he enjoyed the power of paining her. A HEART-BROKEN MOTHER. 21 For two or three days at least she should have peace and rest. For these days she could make her darling happy, and when these days were over the old misery would begin again, with the horrible dread of separation hanging over her.

Could she bear this separation? No, she could not beai it; but how could she resist her husband's will? A father had power to do as he liked with his child, such was the English law. Her husband had pointed out this fact to her recently with reference to a case which was filling the news papers. There was then no appeal. A sudden thought, bred of despair, rushed into her mind. Sho would fly, sho would carry her child away and hide her, and sho should not bo found. Would it not be easy to hide ? she knew so few people in England. She was not afraid of chance acquaintances re cognizing her if she could once get away unobserved from her own neighbourhood. Any lifo however hard would bo easier and happier for her, and better for her child, than tho present one. Very soon now, Olive must understand all the sad circumstances of her parents' life, and how would she regard her father?

While, if sho were sent away, her loving heart would break ; for Olivo took nothing calmly, and who but her mother knew how to guide hor headstrong, generous nature? Tho thought became a resolve before Blanche had time to think of all tho difficulties in her path; and when sho did think of them sho put thorn aside ono after tho other, while hor courago rose as she threw off the hopelessness which had of lato almost crushed her. Sho would go, and a new life should begin for her and Olive. Not ono thought of any pain or sorrow that her flight mitrht cause her husband entered into her mind; she believed ho no longer loved her, that he had never loved his child. He would bo furiously angry, but he must never find them, then his anger could not touch her. Blanche shuddered at the thought of such a possibility.

It was better for her Olive to grow up a good, loving, happy girl in the poorest home, than for her to remain in the midst of all the luxury that wealth could give her, if daily her mind was to be poisoned, her evil passions fostered by her father's unjust treatment; or who could guess what dreadful place it might be, this school which her father would choose for her? For herself she cared nothing. What should she miss that she could not easily do without if she had her child? Very swiftly did the unhappy mother make her plans, though every difficulty presented itself with painful clearness. Her own small fortune was at her own disposal. There was money lying now, she knew, to her credit in the bank at Winchester; but if she drew out any considerable eum she might create suspicion, or the notes might be traced.

Blanche had a clear head, and love and fear sharpened her perception. Little as she knew of the world, she was alive to the danger she was going to run, and was ready to think of every possible precaution to ensure success. London, she told herself, would be the best place to hide in, at first at any rate. One woman and child could surely easily be hidden in that wilderness of streets. She must hide among the poor, and live as they lived. She must go to some part unfrequented by people of her own class. The more crowded the quarter the less chance would there be of notice. But she must be careful. To overlook one single precaution would mean failure. Darkness had fallen, but still Mrs. Bethune walked up and down mechanically. Then a light appearing in the window of her own sitting-room reminded her that Olive would be expecting a summons to share her tea, always a great treat, but one only indulged in when they were sure of being alone. 7S7 "olive leapt into her mother's arm-.."

A HEART-BROKEN MOTHER. 23 The child would have forgotten her trouble by this time, perhaps even forgotten her disappointment about the doll. Her darling was never sulky. Hurrying in she found that her dress was wet. A glance into her looking-glass showed her dark rings of suffering round her eyes, and a face so white that she was glad she had not rung for her maid. It would not do to run the gauntlet of curious eyes. She hurried down to her pretty boudoir, where she found the curtains drawn, the tea-tray ready, the silver kettle boiling merrily; and sent for Olive. Iu after days her mind often pictured this hour over again. The scene remained with her as a photograph which could never fade. In a few minutes the door of the room was opened, and a golden-brown head was thrust in. Then there was a pause.

Some toy was missing. Presently in the open doorway stood a charming little figure, dressed in black velvet, with wide cherry-coloured sash. Truly an ideal "little heiress," as people were already beginning to call her. A moment later and the child was in her mother's arms, raining kisses on her face, and half smothering her with the eagerness of her embrace. Olive was a pretty child, even her father vouchsafed at times to bo proud of her beauty. To her waist waved golden brown hair, and her large hazel eyes were beautiully fringed with black lashes; her complexion was dark, but very bright and clear. People said she was like her mother; but Blanche had otten seen her husband's expression in his child's face, as she had traced his strong will and passionate temper, and many a pang had the likeness given her when she thought of the future.

Those soft hazel eyes could blaze with anger as she did not think hers had over blazed. But then she had never been tried like her little daughter; nothing but rose-leaves had strewn her childish path. But how honest and truth-telling those dear eyes were ! And what a generous nature shone from them ! They were full of love now as they gazed into her mother's face, but just a little resentful. " It was very unkind of papa not to give me the doll after all, wasn't it, mammy?" she said, with a little pout and a shake of her fat white shoulders. "Hush, darling! never mind that now. Get your little chair and let us have a nice tea together," Blanche replied, covering the sweet flower-face with kisses. Very merrily, every cloud vanishing, the child scrambled from her mother's knee, and brought a low chair, placing it as close to her mother as possible.

For some minutes she munched her bread-and-butter in silence. Now and then the bright eyes scanned her mother's face inquiringly. "What is the matter, mammy? Have you been crying too ?" she asked at last. " Isn't papa horrid?" she continued. "I'm glad he's out. Where's he gone? I think he's gone to the train; he's got a box." "Yes," said Blanche with a sigh, taking no notice of the first part of her child's remark, " Papa has gone away for a few days." "Do you think he will stay away long?" asked the child eagerly. " I don't know, darling," replied Blanche absently. "Do you think he will give me the doll?" persisted the child. "You know I cannot tell." Olive heard the sadness in her voice, and with quick intuition tried to comfort. "My arm doesn't hurt one bit now, mammy, not one bit!" A HEART-BROKEN MOTHER. 25 Then resentment taking possession of her again, she con tinued, " He promised if I stood still he would give it me.

I did stand still, really and truly I did. And I only gave one little scream 'cos I couldn't help it, — just two or fee little screams. 'Twasn't fair not to give it me. Was it, mammy dear?" "No, darling; but please don't talk of it any more." "You are sorry, aren't you, mother?" said the child, getting up and clasping her somewhat buttery fingers round her mother's neck. "Yes, I am sorry." "Well, never mind. We won't cry any more, will we?" said the child, repeating a sentence which often fell on her ears. " P'raps papa will give it me when he comes home. Let us play dominoes." " Yes, ring the bell, and Stagg will take away the tea,' said Blanche, smiling in spite of herself. After all, how soon were childish griefs forgotten ! How very little it took to make her darling happy ! Was she ever anything but happy in her presence, and what would she do without her mother?

No, anything was better than such a separation. Game after game was played, tho child full of interest and excitement; the mother with a heavy heart and whirling brain found it almost impossible to fulfil her little daughter's requirements of attention and interest in the contest. " I've won every time, mother " (musser, Olive said). Just fancy, I've won every time!" she cried, clasping her fat hands in ecstasy. " I never beat you so often before, did I ? You did really try to beat me?" "Oh, yes; I really tried, darling." Then Olive brought a story-book and her mother read aloud to her, till a very severe-looking nurse came to the door and said it was her "bed-time." " Oh, let me stay up a little longer as papa is out, please do, mammy?" pleaded the child. " Miss Olive does not go to sleep if she stays up late, ma'am.

I had great trouble with her the last time you kept her up," said the nurse; and Olive's colour rose. "My darling, you had better go," whispered Blanche, holding her meantime in a close embrace. She felt at that moment as if she could not bear to lose her from her sight, but she felt too that she could not contend with this nurse's strong will. " Come, Miss Olive, be a good girl and come at once," said the stern voice, which always seemed to rouse Olive to contradiction. "Darling, go at once, just to please me," whispered her mother. Olive held her round the neck very tightly for some minutes, then with a cloud on her bright little face, and an air of dignified displeasure which would have amused Blanche at any other time, she preceded her nurse from the room. " No, I will not be led upstairs !

" she loudly announced, as the door closed behind her. All through her solitary dinner, all throngh her solitary evening, Blanche Bethune's brain worked out the problem of escape. Over and over again she decided every detail of her flight. There should be no chance of failure. If her husband found her he would have a good excuse for taking her child from her, perhaps he would even prevent her seeing her for years. The child belonged to her father; no one could give her the right to keep her if he willed it otherwise, and everyone would blame her. But what was praise or blame to her. She had never com plained of her husband to anyone, and if she did complain what could she prove against him ? He was not even cruel as the world held cruelty. A HEART-BROKEN MOTHER. 27 Other women's drunken husbands (lately the stories she found in the newspapers had held a fascination for her) half killed their wives and children, and they seemed to be able to bear it, even to defend these husbands.

They were braver than she was; but if she could bear all for herself in silence and patience, she could bear nothing for Olive. Bitter tears fell slowly from her eyes more than once, as she remembered she could never hope again to sit in her pleasant room among the beautiful things collected for her by her husband, through the first happy months of her married life. And when, later, she stood by Olive's little bed, draped in crimson brocade, a keen appreciation of all the luxury and comfort of her child's surroundings came over her, and she felt for a moment that it would be impossible for her to take her away into poverty, as she had planned, into a life where all these pleasant things would be wanting. Her darling might even have to suffer from hunger and cold. But no, that was impossible; she felt herself strong to work for her child, did not thousands of other women support their children?

But could she go to-morrow ? No, not to-morrow. Her husband might relent, at least for a time. She need not decide at once, she was too weary. After kissing her sleeping child and kneeling long by the little bed, she sought her own, but not to sleep. Over and over again came all the arguments, all the fears, all the doubts. At last she fell asleep, and when she awoke the sun was shining into her room. Everything was looking brighter and refreshed by the rest Her courage rose. After all, perhaps her husband had been only trying to frighten her, or perhaps he would forget he had ever uttered the threat; he often forgot what he had said. A delicious feeling of relief crept over her. She was dressing, when the door of her room was burst open and in rushed Olive, her face aflame with passion, her feet bare, her frock half off.

" Mother! nurse says papa is going to send me to school. That's not true, is it now ? She says she's going to school with me, but you won't be there. It isn't true ? ' Angry sobs interrupted each sentence. "Miss Olive?" sounded nurse's voice in the passage, "come back at once, you have no shoes and socks on;" and immediately nurse appeared at the wide-open door. " Miss Olive has been so naughty this morning, ma'am, she doesn't deserve to have her breakfast with you." Olive had reached her mother's lap, and was clinging round her neck. At the first words the child had uttered Blanche had sunk on a sofa, her heart beating wildly. Her husband had then, already, spoken of his intention; others besides herself knew of the horrible thing that threatened her. She strained Olive close to her as she tried to make her voice sound natural.

To herself it sounded far away and strangely hoarse, and there was a singing in her ears. Surely she was not going to faint ! " Miss Olive is going to be good now, nurse, so she will breakfast with me. Olive," she added, "go at once and make haste down, I'm nearly ready." And Olive trotted off in triumph, having quite forgotten the question which had remained unanswered. Then it was true after all ! Her child was to be taken from her, and already the household knew it. She hardly said a word in answer to her child's merry chatter during breakfast, as she ran over again and again in her mind, all the plans she had made the evening before. At twelve she sent Olive out with the nursemaid, who always made her happy, and going to the nursery she began a conversation on the safe subject of "clothes."

She felt sure that the woman was watching her, and had noticed her agitation in the morning. She tried hard, there fore, to appear unconcerned; and she thought she succeeded when she asked nurse for a list of things wanted in the town, as she was going to drive to Winchester after lunch and should tike Miss Olive with her. Nurse asked which frock her mistress wished Miss Olive to wear. " Oh, her serge, the one she has got on ; the weather is uncertain, and she is not fond of changing her frock," she replied hastily, and turned to leave the room. " The serge is very shabby, ma'am ; she let the puppy tear it the other day. I wish you'd forbid her to play with that puppy, ma'am," said nurse, in her most offensive tone. " Never mind about its being shabby, I prefer the serge," said Blanche haughtily, and she left the room.

She could not trust herself to notice the nurse's request. How she hated this woman who was always trying to bring blame on Olive, and who had already, it seemed to her, gained an influence over her husband. No! there could be no delay. For good or for ill she must go at once, or it would be too late ; her husband might even now be making secretly the final arrangements which were to separate her from her child.

CHAPTER IIL THE ESCAPE.

THERE was a train which left Winchester for London at 3.30 p.m. ; it went without a delay of more than a few minutes at any station, as far as Blanche could recollect She determined to take that train if possible. She had decided from the first that London would be the best place for her to hide in — at least for a time; though she longed to go to her beloved Edinburgh, where friends would stand by her, where she would feel at home, and not so utterly desolate. But no, such a plan would be impossible. Her husband would look for her first in Scotland, and she could not so easily be hid there. Onlyr in the most complete obscurity could she be safe from his pursuit. Olive dined at her mother's luncheon, and was in such wild spirits at the thought of the afternoon's pleasure that she did not care much for her dinner.

Anxiously her mother pressed her to eat, though she found that her own appetite had completely failed, and she was thankful there was no servant in the room to notice her. Olive's puppy and kitten had a great feast that day. After luncheon all Blanche's mind was concentrated on collecting the few things she could take with her. The small leather bag, which she was accustomed to take in the carriage with her when she drove to the town, was all she dared take; and into that she put the money^ghe had in her dressing-case, which was a little more than thirty pounds. A few old-fashioned trinkets which had belonged to her grandmother she also put into it. Her husband's gifts, some of them very handsome, she left — she would have none of them. He should not think that she had robbed him of anything that had once been his.

There was a miniature of Olive taken when she was two years old. Her husband had given it to her as a birthday present, taking some pains about it, and inviting the artist to stay in the house. She felt she could not leave that behind, she loved it so. . . . And her grandmother's Bible — she must have that. Blanche had used it ever since she could read, and in it was her grandmother's writing. No other relic of the past dared she take ; a few neces sary trifles sho put in, but tho bag was soon full. Then she thought of Olive, and remembered that it would bo through her sho would bo traced. She should have to disguise her somehow — but how? There was that pair of ■erge knickerbockers she had bought for the little boy at the lodge, who was about hor age. Sho would tako them. But then hor bag was full.

Nocossity is indeed tho mother of invontion. Blanche was not, long in devising a way out of hor dilliculy. A shoo bag was soon tied round hor waist under hor dress, and in it, she put tho knickerbockers and one or two other things. Her long mantle would hide all. In hor search through her drawers she came upon her grandmother's spectacles. Sho must take them too. They were dear to hor; besides, they might help in hor disguise, for sho must, disguise herself. What, a pity that she was so tall! Ilir height could not bo hid, and would always givo a due to thoso who tried to trace her; and for tho first time in her life Blanche rogrottod tho inches sho had often felt, proud of, and tho stately carriage her grandmother had prized so much. She had ordered tho carriage at a quarter before three, ami before that time she was downstairs expecting it with a, beating heart.

Sho felt so nervous for fear she was being watched that she was impelled to givo some excuse for her impatience to Stagg tho butler, an old servant of her husband's, who was, sho know, very devoted to his master. "What, only half-past two, Stagg! — thon my watch must, bo fast. Send up and ask if Miss Olive is ready. I do not wish to be kept waiting when the earriago comes round, tho afternoons are so short. Ami you can got me that large, rod book on the drawing-room table. I must return it to tho station." Blanche threw herself into an arm-chair in the hall, and pretended to read, but every minute seemed an hour, and, as it happened after all, the carriage was a few minutes late. "To Winchester," was the only order she gave as the footman closed the carriage door. Then she leant back with closed eyes and tried to feel calm and collected.

Should she be in time for the train ? Why had she run it so close ? She might have ordered the carriage earlier. "To the station first," she called from the carriage window as it left the lodge gates. She did not dare tell the coach man to drive fast. Olive chatted away by her side; but she did not often require an answer to her joyous remarks, and was too young to be critical, if the answers were not given with the interest they usually received. At that moment Blanche could only think of the proba bility of her missing the train, and of there not being another for some hours. But her fears were needless; the clock pointed to 3.25 when they reached the station. She had no time to lose, but yet the time was sufficient. " Drive to Fuller's, and wait for me there," she said to the footman, adding : " I have a good deal of shopping to do, so tell Berry to drive up and down."

Then feeling as if those around her must see how she trembled, with Olive's hand held very tightly in her own, she turned into the station and hurriedly made her way to the ticket-office. Supposing she met an acquaintance, what should she say? But fortune favoured her; she met no one, everyone else had taken their tickets, so she was not kept waiting. Remembering that she was well known by sight at the station, she took first-class tickets to a place a few miles off, where she knew the train must stop for at least five minutes There she would not be likely to be noticed, and could take fresh tickets. Olive was carrying proudly the big red book. " Put the book down on the book-stall," said her mother hurriedly as they passed it; and, with wide-open, wondering eyes at the sharpness of her mother's tone, Olive obeyed.

A minute later they were in the train. A guard, at a sign from her mother, had lifted Olive in, and she had been too taken by surprise to say anything. Now she found her tongue. "Why, where are we going, mammy?" she exclaimed in her shrillest accents. The carriage was empty, but Blanche felt she could not speak at that minute. She drew back and drew Olive back, and only breathed freely when the train rushed out of the station. " Where are we going, mammy ? " repeated the child again in astonishment. " Listen, darling," said the mother, drawing her into her arms. " Papa was going to send you away from me — to send you to school; and I am taking you away from him. Will you come with me, or shall we go back?" The words came against her will. In her misery she felt she must have the approval of her child, baby though she was.

Olive's eyes flashed. "I won't go to school, I won't go away from you; take me away from papa, mammy, — let's run away as fast as we can. Papa is very unkind to we, isn't he, mammy?" " Then, Olive, you must be very good and obedient, and you and I will go away and be very happy together," said Blanche drearily. Now that the step had been taken she began to feel acutely all the horror of it. What did she know of the life she was going into? If she could hide herself and (787) C Olive, how would they live when the money in her bag was exhausted? Thoughts of her husband would not be put aside. Would he mind at all? She had loved him once and he had loved her; perhaps he loved her still — a little. When the next station was reached she hurried out to get new tickets. She had just time to do this, as it was a junc tion, and a great many people were waiting to get into the train.

Even at that moment Blanche felt that if she had met a familiar face she must have given up her project, but she saw no one who seemed to know her or to take any notice of her. The guards and porters were engaged with those passengers who had luggage with them, and she hurried into a second-class carriage, which was already nearly full, just as the train started off again. She sat near a corner in which she had placed Olive, and, enjoining silence on the child, she began to feel for the first time that for good or for evil the step was taken which separated her from the past. She could not now go back without her husband, in some way, hearing of her journey. It was a slow train, and at each station someone got in or out of the carriage; but when the appearance of the houses first spoke of their proximity to London, Olive and her mother were again quite alone.

Never fora moment had Blanche's brain ceased to work. All must now depend on whether they were traced or not. " Now, darling," she said hurriedly, " I must do what I can to hide you from papa — I must cut off your hair." "Yes, mammy; cut it off, do," said Olive excitedly, snatch ing off her sailor hat. "Papa sha'n't find me, shall he?" She had been perfectly quiet all through the journey, cast ing wistful glances now and again at her mother's sad face. Taking a pair of scissors from her bag, in another minute Olive's wealth of golden-brown tresses lay in her mother's lap. Poor Blanche felt she was crying; and that the child might not see her tears, sho pulled down her veil, which she had never lifted before through tho journey. Olive, with close-cropped hair, was hardly recognizable. Folding tho precious locks in paper, with trembling fingers tho poor mother put them into her bag.