Florence; or, Loyal quand même

Chapter I

Bear through sorrow, wrong and ruth, In thy heart the dew of youth, On thy lips the smile of truth. — Longfellow. ~^vEAR me, Nellie, what a time the carriage is A\f coming ! We shall be very late for dinner. Old Matthew will have to hurry himself. I dare say the message reached him. long ago." " How it pours, Margaret ! How lucky we were to be near shelter ! " The speakers were two young ladies, elegantly dressed, pretty, and evidently prosperous. They had been caught in a heavy shower, and had taken refuge in a small pastry-cook's shop, in the most unfashion able part of a quiet little country town. The rain continued. The young ladies fidgeted and wondered, and ate a few biscuits to please good Mrs. Ford, who knew them well by sight as the daughters of a Mr. Harwood, a country gentleman in the neighbourhood.

There were no passers by, and Miss Nellie had walked to the little glass door for the fifth time, in vain ; no carriage appeared, and her patience was sorely tried. The sisters had just started a topic of FLORENCE. 2 conversation which promised to be interesting, when tinkle, tinkle went the little bell fixed to the door, and there entered a little girl of eight or nine, with a large cotton umbrella, and an utterly drenched appearance. The child glanced with shy curiosity at the young ladies as she placed a penny on the counter, and asked Mrs. Ford for a plum bun. " You are very wet, Miss Florence," said Mrs. Ford, as she wrapped it up; "you had better make haste home." " Have you far to go ? " asked Nellie. "No, not far, thank you," answered the little girl, and she turned a pair of such eager, wistful eyes on her questioner, that Nellie was fascinated, and tried to prolong the conversation by asking her whether she minded the rain ; but little Florence was not to be detained ; a quiet " No, thank you," and she hurried away, turning back at the door to say, with a bright smile, " Good-afternoon, Mrs. Ford."

They all watched her as she trotted down the street, well-nigh extinguished by her big umbrella. " What a lovely little girl ! " exclaimed Nellie. " Who is she, Mrs.'Ford ? " "Well, miss, she is a stranger here ; she lives with an aunt, a Miss Moore ; quite the lady, but not very rich, I think. Miss Florence is often in and out for a bun or a roll, and I am always glad to see her pretty face ; she has a sweet tongue too ; " and Mrs. Ford would have grown eloquent in the praises of her little customer, had not the carriage at that moment pulled up at her door, and the young ladies hurried away, with many thanks for the shelter she had given them. The shower had been a heavy one, but now the sun began to shine, and, congratulating themselves on the cessation of the rain, Margaret and Helen Harwood stepped into their carriage.

The drive from Shepton to the Hall was more than two miles. Florence's FLORENCE. 3 beauty was discussed by the sisters for some time, and then gave place to home topics ; they feared they would be late for dinner, which was provoking, as guests were staying in the house. The gentlemen had been shooting all day, and the evenings at Harwood Hall were very pleasant, especially to the young ladies of the house. As they drove up the avenue they overtook two young men, with guns over their shoulders, sauntering along as if the word " haste " was unknown to them. " There are the boys ! " exclaimed Margaret. " Now, Matthew, you are not to stop," called Nellie to the coachman ; " drive on quickly, or Master Harrie will make you do it somehow." " The boys," as Margaret termed them, evidently in tended to stop the carriage, and, failing to do so, con tented themselves with the threat of " Wait till by and by!"

The sisters laughed, and congratulated themselves on the fact that they would certainly be in better time than they had expected ; not that Jack and Harrie, as Nellie remarked, were any rule for them, yet even they could hardly wish to be very behindhand. Sir Henry Trevor and Captain Mansfield were honoured guests, and the squire was now and then put out even with his spoiled boys. So the girls ran up to dress for dinner, and the young sportsmen talked over the events of the day, and wished civilized society did not require so much of them. "It is such a nuisance to put on war-paint every evening," grumbled Jack. " You will get used to it in time," laughed his com panion ; " by the time you are an M.P. you will quite enjoy it, paint, feathers, and all." FLORENCE. 4

Chapter II

Quick at a jest and smiling repartee, With a sweet laugh that sounded frank and free, Pitiful to the poor ; of courage high ; A soul that could all turns of fate defy : Gentle to women : reverent to age. — Lady of la Garaye. THE dining-room at Harwood Hall was a delightful room, and the party assembled in it was a merry one. Mr. Harwood was a capital host, always ready for a joke, and so happy in his own home that he seldom left it. The young people were especially lively this evening, and good Mrs. Harwood had looked reprov ingly once or twice towards the other end of the table. There were only three guests, Sir Henry and Lady Trevor and Captain Mansfield, and they were staying in the house. Nellie sat opposite her cousin, Harold Grey, and their conversation had been very lively and rather personal.

Harrie was a great favourite with his uncle, and was quite like the son of the house ; " chaffing " his pretty cousins he considered his legitimate amusement. "What is the matter, Nellie?" said Mr. Harwood. " What do you want to make him believe ? " Thus called upon, Nellie felt herself obliged to tell her story over again, which was that of the afternoon and the lovely little girl she had seen in Mrs. Ford's shop. " The most lovely creature ! Such hair ! such eyes ! such a nose ! " laughed Harold. " What about her mouth, Nellie ? had she one ? I forget what you said about it." " Who was this wonderful creature ? " asked Lady Trevor superciliously, and all the company listened. Nellie felt brought to bay, and provoked with FLORENCE. 5 Harrie, but she answered with a smile, for her tormentor clasped his hands in mock astonishment : " Her name is Florence Moore, Lady Trevor, and she has lately come to live at Shepton with an aunt ; that is all I know about her."

" I tell you what, Nellie," exclaimed the incorrigible Harold, after a pause, " I bet you a new pair of gloves this beauty of yours has a snub nose ! " " Come, come, you impudent fellow," said his uncle ; "Nellie has a witness ; what do you say, Peggie, about this little beauty ? " " I endorse everything Nellie has said, papa. Harrie is jealous because he did not see her himself; that's the truth," answered Margaret. "You will have to buy the gloves to-morrow, Hal,'' said the squire. " Not I, uncle ' I will see the little lady first ; trust me for that." The speaker gave a comic glance at his cousin, and lolled back as if tired of his own eloquence. Let me describe Harold Grey before I go further : he was em phatically pleasant to look at ; his complexion was still as fair as a girl's, but nearly black eyelashes made his blue eyes look dark ; his light brown hair, which in childhood had been flaxen, curled over a wide, smooth forehead, full of power and intelligence : the general expression of his face was great sweetness, but a look of determination redeemed it from all weakness.

Harold had that sort of attractiveness which is often very dangerous to its possessor. Men and women loved him and petted him ; he had his own way without seeming to care about it ; every one who knew him smiled on him, and the world was very pleasant. At the time my story begins he was little more than seventeen, and had not left Eton, where he had been for six years, with his cousin, Jack Harwood. Captain Grey, Harold's father, had been a gallant FLORENCE. sailor, and died early, leaving a young widow and three little children but scantily provided for. His brother in-law had promised to look after his only boy, and had kept that promise faithfully. At seven years old Harold had come to the Hall, and shared all the advantages of the squire's son ; had gone to Eton with him, shot, hunted, and fished through man)' happy holidays, and soon, these pleasant idle years being past, would have to carve his own way in the world.

Harold's mother and sisters had settled in Devon shire ; he had spent part of every holiday with them, and was the centre of affection in two happy homes ; I say the centre, for it was an acknowledged fact that his uncle, aunt, and cousins loved him and Jack with equal devotion. The boys when at home ruled the squire, Harold ruled Jack ; so without much doubt he ruled the household. Why the young follow was not spoiled every one " outside" wondered ; the reason, only those who knew him best found out. I have made a long digression; the ladies are moving into the drawing-room. Lady Trevor looked inquir ingly at her husband, who stood grasping the back of his chair, looking as pale as death. " What is the matter ? " she whisperedas she passedhim. " Nothing, nothing ; go on, do ! " and she went on.

CHAPTER HI. Let our unceasing, earnest prayer Be too for Ught — for strength to bear Our portion of the weight of care That crushes into dumb despair One half the human race. — Longfellow. FLORENCE MOORE ! Florence Moore ! " muttered Sir Henry Trevor, as he almost staggered FLORENCE. 7 into the open air. Immediately after the departure of the ladies, he had complained to his host of a violent headache and left the room. "Florence Moore, my own, my darling! am I dreaming ? It is not an uncommon name ; I must get over this ; " and with an unsteady hand he lit a cigar. I can not follow him through his painful musings ; they were interrupted by his friend, Captain Mansfield. " Tell me what ails you, Trevor," he said, slipping his arm through his friend's ; "it is only the name ; " and his face was almost as pale as Sir Henry's. " I have never liked to tell you, Mansfield," said Trevor, hoarsely, " but I will now.

" I married Florence Moore the morning we left Devonport. You remember we went to Dublin ; well, she followed me there ; she died whilst we were in India, and left a daughter." " And you have never owned her ! " exclaimed Mans field, dropping his friend's arm, and facing him. " No," said Sir Henry, with a deep sigh ; " Florence remained with her mother and sister. I should have declared my marriage on my return, but she was dead. Don't blame me too heavily, Mansfield," he continued ; " you know what my father was. I was utterly worn out, as you remember. What good could I have done by making my sorrow public ? The child was well cared for ; it was too young for me to be of any use to it. I have tried to see it several times, but Miss Moore is very bitter against me ; says if I loved her sister, I will leave it with her.

Barbara, as you remember, was devoted to Florence ; she thinks, poor thing, that I robbed her of her sister. — Well, I married again, as you know; and I am sure," he added, and his voice grew very sad, " the little one is better off with her aunt than she could be with me. Pity me, old friend, don't be hard upon me. You loved Florence, I know ; tell me, surely I am not wrong in thinking of the FLORENCE. 8 happiness of her child and sister ; it would be heaven indeed if I could ensure my child's happiness under my own roof, but it is out of my power to do so." Sir Henry's face was very stern as he finished speak ing ; the friends walked up and down for some minutes, and then Captain Mansfield said gently : — " I have been thinking it over, Henry. I think that perhaps you are quite right, as matters stand; claiming her would at present do her no good ; by-and-by you may be able to do so; it would be cruel, under the circumstances, to take her from poor Barbara."

" I must see her," exclaimed Sir Henry, excitedly. " I have so often wished to do so and failed ! " " Yes, you can see her without any difficulty ; I mean no one need know of it," said Captain Mansfield. " And I must offer Miss Moore some allowance for the child," said Sir Henry. " Well, yes, you ought to do that," answered Mans field. "Leave me now, Arthur," said bis friend; "my thoughts are not happy ones. I must try to get over this, or I may be missed. I suppose you said you followed me to know how I was ? " " Yes, the squire was quite unhappy about you." " Tell him I am better, anything you like ; I shall join you in the drawing-room." When, half an hour later, Sir Henry appeared among his friends, he was ghastly enough to create anxiety, but his answers to all inquiries were so brief and repelling that he was soon left to himself.

It was not the first time his wife had seen that look on his face, and, though not gifted with much tact, she knew that if he were really suffering from illness, it was one he had suffered from before. The cause of these sudden attacks had always remained a mystery to her ; so she talked more than usual, and told Mrs. Harwood her poor husband was subject to dreadful headaches, while FLORENCE. 9 she determined in her own mind to ask no questions in private. Lady Trevor was a wise woman in her generation ; she liked her showy, luxurious way of life, her fashionable friends, her seasons in town, and all the good things of this world which fall to the lot of a wealthy baronet's wife. She was reasonably fond of her husband and children ; cared more for the latter perhaps than for the former, because sometimes he thwarted her wishes, and she could do what she liked with her children.

She was fairly amiable when she had all her own way, and had never had any very serious dispute with her stately husband, whom she had married eight years before, almost immediately on his return from India. Four children had been born to Sir Henry and Lady Trevor; the first three were boys, and then came the longed-for little daughter. Sir Henry was never so near loving his wife, as when he first held this treasure in his arms. Lady Trevor was pleased, but did not understand her husband's rapture, and thought him very tiresome and fidgety about the child, who after all was not as valuable as her brothers. The little one's name was almost a cause of quarrel. Sir Henry insisted on " Florence " being one of them, and his wife thought him unreasonable not to be content with the names of "Blanche Augusta," which she had fixed on.

As they were both obstinate the dispute ran high. Two days before that intended for the christening Sir Henry's precious daughter began to ail, and before the week was over she was laid in her little coffin ; she had been privately baptized in her father's arms, and had hardly lived through the service. After the funeral Sir Henry left the house for some weeks, without giving any clue as to his intentions. When he returned he looked as usual ; no one could say FLORENCE. 10 whether he mourned or not ; he resumed his old pur suits, was active as ever among his tenantry, and no one ever heard him allude to the child he had lost. Lady Trevor had not been long recovering her spirits," and she was delighted to find her husband so reasonable, willing to be as gay as ever, not even post poning their yearly visit to Belgravia.

" Men very seldom care for young children," she said one day to the wife of a neighbour. Sir Henry seldom notices his boys ; I do just what I like with them." The children's nurse could have told a different story, and the children's joy at their father's rare visits to the nursery would have convinced any looker-on that they at least did not doubt his love.

Chapter IV

Alas, for love ! if thou wert all, And naught beyond, 0 earth ! — Hemans. SIR HENRY'S story need be no secret to my reader ; it was one to those who thought they knew him best. Two years before his present marriage, as Captain Trevor of the 300th, he had been quartered with his regiment in a dull old cathedral town in the south of England. He had never been in the country before, and had but lately joined the 300th ; his brother officers knew he was rich, and heir to a baronetcy ; he was handsome, agreeable, and all-accomplished. Captain Trevor soon became the admiration of the quiet neighbourhood, and every house was open to him. People said he was proud, he was certainly fastidious ; many fair ladies would have welcomed him as a suitor, but he distinguished none by his attentions. At last his fate came, — bright-eyed Florence Moore entranced him.

She was the daughter of a widow who FLORENCE. 11 had lately returned from Italy, where her husband had been a British chaplain. Florence had one sister, Barbara, who was twenty years older than herself ; the only other inmate of the house was Florence's former nurse. Captain Trevor found no difficulty in becoming inti mate at Mrs. Moore's ; they had made few friends, and Barbara was not surprised that her darling should win the admiration of the handsome soldier ; she ruled the household, and loved her sister as a second mother. Florence was the light of her home, a winsome creature, whose gay voice was seldom silent ; her foreign education had given her many advantages ; she chafed at the dulness of her present life, and soon looked upon Henry Trevor as the hero of her romance. Trevor loved with the intensity of a calm nature.

He had often said he could never love, and now he felt that life would be useless to him without Florence. Orders came for the regiment to leave that station ; he must bid her farewell, or do something. The wife of a brother officer thought she was helping a very harmless flirtation when she asked Florence Moore to pay her a visit at Plymouth, to which town the 300th was now to move. Florence was delighted to accept the invitation. Who could refuse her ? Certainly not Barbara, though she had her misgivings. Mrs. Moore was an invalid, and only hoped her daughter would enjoy herself. Weeks passed away of bright spring-time, and yet Florence did not return ; her letters were full of Cap tain Trevor, but became, Barbara thought, strangely short and constrained. At last she wrote to say she was coming home ; joyful preparations were made for the household's fairy, but on the long-looked for morning came a letter which stunned the poor sister who received it.

Florence had married Captain Trevor the FLORENCE. 12 day before at Devonport. Mrs. Judes knew nothing about it ; no one must know anything, or it would ruin Henry ; she would be as happy as the day was long, if Barbara and her mother would send their forgiveness ; she longed to see them again, but Henry was ordered to Ireland. This was the pith of the letter, but it was a long and plaintive one, full of longings for her mother's and sister's kisses, entreaties that they would be satisfied, hopes that she had not grieved them, assurances of Captain Trevor's love and perfections; she had been over-persuaded. " Poor little Florence ! " thought Barbara, who had had her own love story; "she was always so easy to persuade ! " And no other reproach was uttered ; loving letters were written, and the faithful women told their few acquaintances that Florence had prolonged her visits, and was not expected home for a time.

Poor Barbara ! The only bitter thoughts she had were for the man who had stolen her darling, and now feared to acknowledge her ; she could not blame Florence. Captain Trevor was quartered at Dublin ; his wife was never tired of writing of him. She entreated Barbara not to be angry with him ; his father was a dreadful man, and had the power to disinherit him ; he had no choice ; he could not make his marriage known ; she went by the name of Mrs. Moore, and knew no one. Barbara never quite understood how Captain Trevor concealed his marriage from his brother officers. She had no one to inquire of, so waited and hoped for brighter days, as such a state of things could not last for ever. Six months passed, and Captain Trevor's regiment was ordered to India. Mrs. Moore moved to a village FLORENCE. 13 in Devonshire, and once more saw her favourite child.

They lived in such perfect seclusion that if any one troubled themselves to wonder who young Mrs. Moore was, it was only to suppose she was a son's wife. The ladies were seldom seen or heard of; Mrs. Moore was evidently dying ; Florence was very delicate, and Barbara had enough on her hands; the faithful Hannah was their only domestic. Letters reached Florence at intervals, and she tried to be patient. Barbara thought her more lovely and lovable than ever, and had almost forgiven Henry Trevor. One bright morning in the early spring, Florence went to the little bookseller's for the daily paper, and while waiting for a parcel eagerly searched for news. A list of officers wounded in some skirmish in India met her eye ; she read on, as if fascinated, till she saw her husband's name; he had been dangerously wounded.

She sat in the little shop as if stunned ; when Barbara, who had followed her, asked her to come home, she rose mechanically. That night Florence died, leaving a little daughter, whom Barbara received as a treasured trust. I need not describe the anguish of the little household. Mrs. Moore was soon laid beside her child, and Barbara would indeed have been desolate had it not been for the infant. She wrote to Captain Trevor, and waited some time for an answer. She found out he had recovered from his wound, and then her old resentment against him revived. He had never owned his wife, and now he disowned his child. She determined she would never ask him to help to support her niece ; she had enough for them both. Her mother's death had lessened her means, but with extreme economy she could still live in comparative comfort.

As months passed on, and the child became dearer FLORENCE. 14 to her every day, a fear seized the faithful woman that the treasure would be claimed, and she changed her residence ; disappeared so suddenly that the little hamlet was hardly aware that she had left, and none knew her refuge. Once a year, during the month she had buried her loved ones,' Barbara returned to visit and restore their graves. She always called at the post-office, and trembled with fear as the answer was given to her question whether letters were waiting for her. Once a letter had been waiting; it was in Henry Trevor's well-known hand; he told Miss Moore of his intended marriage, and offered a yearly allowance for the nurture of his child. Barbara declined everything, telling him if he had ever loved her sister he would not interfere with the only being she now had to love.

Barbara had no belief in his sorrow ; was he not on the point of another marriage ? Would he own his child to the world ? Even while she blamed him bitterly, she never wished things otherwise. Did not this little one now belong to her ? What misfortune could be greater than to g-ive DO up this second Florence to a heartless father and step mother ? So the years went by, and Barbara heard no more of her grand brother-in-law, save what the public knew, — that he was now a baronet ; that he had several sons to perpetuate his name ; that he was all-prosperous and rich. Of bis inner life she knew nothing. Florence had spoken of him as good, loving, and true. Barbara believed him to be deceitful, cruel, and black-hearted. FLORENCE. 15

Chapter V

That loss is common, would not make My own less bitter, rather more : Too common ! never morning wore To evening, but some heart did break. — Tennyson. HENRY TREVOR'S feelings, as, lying in his tent on the plains of India, he heard of his young wife's death, were overwhelming. His wounds were serious, and for long he hoped to die. No wish for life remained to him. That he should never again, in this world, behold his darling was hard to realize. Earth seemed a desert without her. That she should have died without his last kiss ; that she should never have been his acknowledged wife, — all added to his misery. But he was young and strong, and youth and strength declared their power ; he slowly recovered, to find himself a bankrupt of youth's hopes. He felt an old man, though hardly five and twenty, and oppressed by the thought that be had many years to live.

When he returned to England, — for he was in valided home as soon as he was strong enough to travel, — his friends were shocked at the change which had taken place in him, and wondered. Some said it was his wound; some the climate; a few sharpsighted ones, that he looked as if he had sustained some dread ful shock or disappointment. One friend alone knew of Trevor's love for Florence Moore, and that she had died in his absence ; he knew nothing of the marriage, but he had loved Florence himself, and he felt deeply for his friend's grief, and was silent. When Barbara's letter reached him, Trevor was still too ill to write. He could not care for his baby; he FLORENCE. felt only that it had robbed him of Florence ; he could not even think of it ; and when, a short time after his return to England, a marriage was proposed to him by his father, he agreed without a demur, and then wondered at himself.

He felt he was living in a dream of the past ; his present life was an effort to him, and he longed to leave the service. If he did his father's bidding, this was possible at once. The young lady chosen for him was as well as any other young lady ; she was rich, and called beautiful ; he did not care ; he must change his way of life ; he could not be more miserable than he was already ; so Henry Trevor went to the altar, and bound himself to a second wife, very unlike the one he had lost. Even while the service was going on, his thoughts were far away, and he tried to conjure his lost darling to his side ; tried to fancy himself once more in the little church at Devonport, and to feel life fresh and bright again. But the dream passed away as he was congratulated by the many friends and acquaintances assembled to give glory to his grand wedding.

Florence had had no congratulations ; his love had been her only thought. Was she watching him now ? If so, she could pity ! She would never think him heartless ; had he not indeed buried his heart in her grave ? He must live on, and some day would meet her in that "other world." He would try to be worthy ; had not his angel wife taught him many things ? He would be true and kind to the woman he had married ; perhaps she would learn to love him, and some day he might tell her the story of his youth, and claim the child of his darling. With this thought, gradually there sprang up in Henry Trevor's heart an intense love for the child he had never seen. FLORENCE. 17 Barbara had refused his help, and he knew the little one was well off; better off than she could be under his own roof. This fact became more and more patent to him, till he thought with horror of presenting Lady Trevor with a stepchild.