A Girl's Loyalty, etc

Front matter

A GIRL'S LOYALTY fsp?» By FRANCES ARMSTRONG. In crown 800. Cloth elegant. Illustrated. 5s. A Fair Claimant. Bein^ a Story for Girls. *' The story is a great success— one of the best tales for girls that we have seen for some time." — London Quarterly. "There is a fascination about this story. The splendid character of the heroine, together with the happy m;itiuer in which the interest is sustained to the end. combine to make this one of the most acceptable gift-books of the season. "—Church .Review. London: BLACKIE & SON, Limited, 60 Old Bailey, E.C. "AND SO THE TALK WENT ON AND HUGH TANCRED URGED HIS SUIT." A GIRLS LOYALTY BY FRANCES ARMSTRONG Author of "A Fair Claimant", "Old Caleb's Will", &c. WITH EIGHT ILLl-STRATIOXS BY JOHN H. BACON LONDON BLACKIE & SON, Limited, 50 OLD BAILEY, E.C. GLASGOW AND DUBLIN CONTENTS.

Chap. Tage I. A Message 9 II. Friendless, 18 III. Caught in a Trap, 29 IV. An Escape 41 V. A Disappointment, 49 VI. Going out into the World, 59 VII. A Great Surprise, 70 VIII. Mouse gives her Message, 81 IX. Trouble, 93 X. A Stormy Interview, 108 XL Is he Friend or Foe? 120 XII. A New Acquaintance, 133 XIII. Roscrow, 144 XIV. An Interesting Discovery, 154 XV. The Little Brown Book, 100 XVI. Warning Nicholas, 185 XVII. The Secret Drawer 202 XVIII. Mouse to the Rescue, 215 XIX. An Unexpected Meeting, 22 VI CONTENTS. Chap. Page XX. Hugh Tancred tells his Story, 238 XXI. Plots and Counterplots, 252 XXII. A Reconciliation, 264 XXIII. An Encounter of Wits, 274 XXIV. A Dinner-party, 286 XXV. Sad News, 299 XXVI. The Drawer gives up its Secret, 310 XXVII. Most Wonderful News, 322 XXVIII. "What shall I call you?"

ILLUSTRATIONS. Page "And so the talk went on and Hugh Tancred urged his suit," Frontis. 347 "Tell Uncle Guy to look in that old bureau," . . 11 "There are five young ladies, ma'am," said the ticket-collector, 43 "Nonsense, Hal, I don't believe a word op it. . . Tell me just everything," 98 "All this is quite beside the mark," said Tancred, "I do not accuse him," 118 "you may mean that for a compliment or you may not," said Rhoda, 152 "Miss Grant," exclaimed Tancred, "it is I who am SUSPECTED, AND NOT HOWARD," 230 "Miss Munro met her with a cordiality which set Mouse at her ease,"

Chapter I

A MESSAGE. P^j^pJST was a large and somewhat gloomy room, rBs and anticllle furniture added to its rSlLiPfl sombreness. A big fire burned in the high old-fashioned grate, and now and then a flame flashed out and lit up the room, which other wise would have been almost dark, for the light had faded and the blackness of a November evening' had set in. When the little jets of flame flashed out they shone on the outline of a handsome mahogany bedstead, whose carved posts supported a canopy draped with crimson curtains, which bore the stamp of a fashion of another century. Silence reigned in the room, save for the tickinc of a ponderous marble clock which stood on the mantel piece, and week in week out had counted the hours of nearly a hundred years. In the bed lay an old man with a long white beard.

He was motionless, but his eyes were wide open, and he could watch the flickering flames between the half-closed curtains. At the head of the bed, and leaning against his pillow, crouched a little girl of ten. Her eyes, too, were wide open and fixed on the fire. They were like his own, dark, and deeply set beneath eyebrows which were strongly marked; but while his were faded and life less, hers were full of thought and vitality. As long as there had been light enough little Mouse had read, and her finger was still between the pages of a book. The light had gone long ago, and she rested now, very willingly. - She was in no hurry to leave the quiet room and her watch by her grandfather's side ; she was listening, but when she heard the footsteps of his nurse return ing, she would hear them with regret.

This evening her watch had been longer than usual, and her grandfather had said hardly anything, though his eyes were very bright, and Mouse thought he was like herself, thinking and telling himself stories, for his lips often moved. She was quite content to crouch there, with her little dark head on his pillow, watching the darts of flame which now and then flickered up and illumined the room, or the bare branches of the trees as they waved to and fro in the north wind before the uncurtained window. Suddenly she was aware that her grand father was trying to say something to her; his first words often came with difficulty. She was all attention at once, and sat up, watching his face intently, while she gently stroked his long white beard with her thin, somewhat grimy little fin gers. She often found it very difficult to understand what he said, but she knew he sometimes spoke of her Ml' ill "tell uncle guy to look in that old bureau." mother, and sometimes he talked of someone called " Guy ", to whose identity she had no clue ; but she knew her grandfather feared some injury would be done him, so she always listened with keenest interest when his name was mentioned, while with a quaint childish deceit she enjoyed the knowledge that nobody knew that her grandfather ever spoke to her at all.

" Tell Uncle Guy to look in my old bureau," he said at last; and though his voice was thick, she heard the words distinctly. "What's a bourow, burrow, bro?" she said wonder ingly, as she tried to pronounce the new word which he had spoken with difficulty. " There by the window," said her grandfather. "That sort of chestof - drawers?" asked Mouse eagerly. "Yes, yes," said her grandfather, in an excited whisper. "But don't speak so loud, they'll hear you; it's a secret." Mouse slipped down on the floor, ran lightly across the room and patted the piece of furniture she had pointed to, then darted back to her place; she was full of excitement now. " That's what you meant, wasn't it, Grandpapa?" "Yes," replied the old man, and he spoke more plainly than she had ever heard him speak before. "You must tell no one else, Mouse, no one at all; promise me that."

" I promise, Grandpapa," said Mouse solemnly, and a frown made her little face look years older than it had done a few minutes before ; " I will tell no one in the whole world. I can keep a secret, Father always said so; he told me lots of secrets. " What shall I say to Uncle Guy?" she asked presently, as her grandfather's eyes closed. Again the old man roused himself. " Put your arms round his neck and whisper in his ear, Look well in the old bureau." " Bourr — o. What an odd name!" said Mouse. "Promise me, child, promise," said her grandfather fretfully. " Yes, T promise," said Mouse, putting her lips close to his ear, for she thought he was going to sleep again; " I promise, and I'll tell nobody else at all. Who's Uncle Guy, and where is he?" But her grandfather did not answer, and his face worked painfully.

At this moment the nurse's heavy footfall was heard in the passage. Mouse slipped off the bed in a fright; it would never do to be caught there; some dreadful order might be given by her aunt that she was not to go there again. So the nurse coming in found the little watcher crouching on the rug as usual, with a book in her hand. " He's been quiet, I s'pose," she said carelessly. " He's not been so well to-day, I think ; I have just told Mrs. Tenant so, and she's written a note to ask the doctor to come early to-morrow. It's time for you to go to bed now, Miss Mouse; so make haste, run away." Mouse did as she was bid, and never again did she keep watch in her poor grandfather's room. The next day she heard him called " very ill ", and she was not even allowed to go into that part of the house in which his room was; and then she was told that he was dead.

Mouse stood with her two cousins, Lenora and Rhoda, at the schoolroom window, and watched the funeral procession leave the house. Her cousins soon grew tired of watching it, but she did not leave the window till the last carriage had passed out of sight, though there had long been nothing to see but spots of black in the distance, as it wound along under the avenue of leafless trees which led to the lodge gate. Then she turned away with a sigh, and her eyes filled with tears; her face was very pale, and the dark lines under them made them look even sadder than usual. " Come and play, Mouse, we are going to have a feast," said Lenora imperatively. " You are to be the maid. Make haste, we're losing all our time; that horrid old Mallow says we must do half an hour's lessons before tea; which is awfully unfair, for Mama said we were to have a whole holiday."

"I do not want to play," said Mouse sorrowfully. " Nonsense! We shall tell Mania if you don't," said Lenora, who was two years her senior, and ruled the schoolroom with a heavy hand. Mouse made no further resistance, for she knew it was useless; she did as she was told, and the hours passed slowly. When the children were called to prepare their lessons for the next day she very thankfully sat still with her books before her. " Mouse, you are doing nothing," was said very sharply more than once by Miss Mallow; and she knew that the accusation was a true one, and tried to take in the words before her. But her head was aching, she could not learn, and at length pity for the little white face made the governess send her to the nursery. Mouse slipped gratefully away. She walked slowly through the passages, listening intently.

The house was very quiet, no one seemed to be moving. She passed the nursery door walking on tiptoe, then turned down a thickly carpeted passage, and reached the door of the room which had been for her as a harbour of refuge. o It was wide open, and she looked in with a beating heart. The room was empty, and the bed in which she was accustomed to see her grandfather was with out bedclothes. The red curtains were folded up and placed on the bed. The grate was polished and bare. Everything looked desolate. Her eyes wandered from one familiar object to another, till they rested on a quaintly-carved old oak bureau which stood undeu a window. " Bourro — no, burro," she repeated doubtfully. What was it Grand papa had called it? And what had he said? What had she promised? She pushed her hair back from her forehead — she must try to remember.

She was to tell nobody; but she must remember what it was she had to tell. . . . " Look well in the old bureau." That was what Grandpapa said she was to tell Uncle Guy. She was to whisper it into his ear. . . . No one else was to hear it — it was a secret. She repeated the sentence several times to herself, and a tinge of colour came into her face with the exciting recollection. But who was Uncle Guy, and how was she to find him ? " Well, I won't forget," she said confidently ; then her eyes wandered again to the bed. Yes, Grandpapa was certainly dead ; he had gone away just as her father had gone away. The mystery of life and death crushed poor little Mouse with a sudden unbearable sorrow, and she threw herself on the floor and sobbed bitterly. After a time she grew calm, and then with a little quiet sigh she crept back along the passage towards the nursery.

The house was profoundly still. No one had seen or heard her. " I've got a headache, and Miss Mallow says I may have tea here," she said timidly to the party assembled round the nursery table — Nurse, and Sarah the nurse maid, Hugo, Arthur, and baby Ethel. "Well, come along," said Nurse good-temperedly; "but you're very late; Miss Mallow might have sent you before. Make haste, I don't want the tea about all night." Mouse was quite ready to make haste, and it soothed her to be kissed by the fat baby, and pulled about by Arthur's sticky fingers. Tea over, she sat on the floor and kept the little ones quiet by building brick houses for them, as she was always expected to do when she was allowed to stay in the nursery. She had learned never to ask questions, and never to repeat what she overheard; and the nurses had fallen into the habit of regarding her as they did the little ones, believing that she neither understood nor cared to listen to what they said, as long as they veiled their woi'ds in a certain mystery.

" Do you think that he's left anything to that poor child?" were words she would perhaps not have noticed save for nurse's manner. "Not he; it all goes to master. Jones says even Mister Guy (that's master's brother) wasn't mentioned. Mouse poised a brick over the palace she was build ing and said, "Hush! I must think," in answer to her little cousins' clamour of "Go on; what did he do next?" as she came to a sudden stop in the story she was telling. Who was Mr. Guy? Nurse knew who he was, but it would not do to ask. She said he was ''master's brother" — that was Uncle Henry's brother. Was that Uncle Guy? Perhaps they would say some thing more about him. " Well, I'm sorry for her, that I am. I always pity the poor little thing, with nobody belonging to her, and everybody hard on her," said Sarah, who was a newcomer.

" She has neither father nor mother, hasn't she? And came from Australia, didn't she?" Mouse now knew that they were talking about her. The children were chattering together, and she could listen. " Some such place," replied Nurse. " She has been here about a year. The mistress told me 'twas the old gentleman insisted on her coming just before he was taken ill, but by the time she had come he couldn't take much notice of her. Master and mistress were not pleased by no means, I can tell you, but they didn't like to send her away again while he was alive; he was quite bright in his mind sometimes. Mrs. Bond said the other day he was as sharp as possible, and he kept asking for her, and would see her every day, though he didn't take any notice of her when she ( M 291 ) came into the room. Jones says they only kept her on to please the old gentleman."

"Do you think they'll keep her on now?" Nurse shrugged her shoulders, then, catching sight of Mouse's dark eyes fixed intently on her, she hurried her off to bed, saying, "Little girls with headaches have no business up." Mouse went obediently to her little room, which was close to the nursery. She had no objection to go to bed, but she would have liked to have heard more. They were talking about her, she was sure of that. Her father and mother were dead, she had come from Australia, and it was Grandpapa who had sent for her; and now perhaps she would be sent away again. Per haps some other place would be better than this. But there was " Guy", "Uncle Guy", where was he? Sarah had forgotten to pull down the blinds, so the child lay very quiet for long, gazing into the clear sky, which was full of stars, and thinking.

Sarah had asked Nurse if she thought they would keep her on now. Where should she go next? She did not know if she wished to go away or not. " I wish I knew if they were up there behind that blue curtain. It is only a blue curtain, and there are tiny holes in it, and I can see the lamps inside." Her thoughts wandered on. "They" meant her father and mother, and now her grandfather had been added to them. "I daresay they're very happy up there, and I shouldn't mind going up there too. I wonder if they can see me. I wish they could. I don't suppose it's any good expecting them to come back; dead people never do come back. Perhaps Guy has gone there too. I don't 2£- (M291) B B want him to be an uncle, I don't like uncles. Then if he's there I shall never be able to tell him about the burro; but I will tell nobody else, nobody else at all." And here Mouse fell asleep.

Chapter II. Friendless

LENORA TENANT had met Paul Grant in the hunting-field, and an attachment had sprung up between them without the knowledge of her father and brothers. She was of age, and had inherited her mother's small fortune. So, as no one could prevent the marriage, it had been reluctantly allowed, with the proviso that Mr. Grant should farm in Australia instead of in England, and the petted daughter had left her home under a cloud of displeasure. Being high-spirited, and angry at the way her lover had been treated, she had ceased writing home almost at once. Both her father and elder brother were too unforgiving to care ___ o to make the first advances towards a reconciliation, so nothing more had been heard of her till news of her death reached England. Then some years later came the news of her husband's death on a racecourse, and the information that a little daughter survived, who was unprovided for.

Lenora had refused to have her money settled on herself, and it had melted away in a struggle with bad seasons even before she died. It was then that the grandfather's heart had grown tender, and he sent for FRIENDLESS. 19 his little grandchild, but before she reached England he had been seized with sudden illness which left him a helpless invalid. Henry Tenant, being the eldest son and the only well behaved member of the family (as he thought), had been especially rude and contemptuous to his sister's husband, and the young man had met his rudeness with a contempt even greater than his own. Grant was not a man to be easily trampled on, and Henry Tenant felt himself defied, and his thoughts of his dead brother in-law had remained as bitter as on the first day of their meeting, when in questioning this impudent young upstart, his insinuation of inequality of birth had been met with quiet scorn.

"Pray don't agitate yourself over my pedigree; it will compare favourably with your own," Grant had said, wTith a calmness which was an insult in itself. And now when this man's child looked at him with the same frank eyes, he felt again and again that, child as she was, she was ready to defy him. Now and then the thought of his dead sister had prompted him to take the child's part, but he knew in his heart that he was glad his wife disliked her even more than he did himself, and that his brother Guy — who after all was but a prodigal, a wasteful and dis reputable wanderer on the face of the earth — did not even know of her existence. Guy Tenant was some years younger than his brother and sister, and as children they had both been jealous of the love their somewhat stern father gave him, and often combined against him; but when Lenora was out of favour Guy had sided with her, and this had drawn the younger brother and sister together and added to the bitterness of the elder.

But this was an old story. Nearly twelve years had passed since Lenora Tenant had left the home of her youth. Her name was almost forgotten. Very soon after that Guy, too, had quarrelled with his father, and since then neither the one nor the other had crossed the threshold of their home, so that Henry Tenant had no cause for jealousy. Now the old father was dead, apparently unfor giving. He had left no token of peace to either his rebellious son or his daughter's child, and so Henry felt that he had a good right to enjoy his inheritance and forget them. It had greatly displeased Mr. and Mrs. Tenant when they heard that the Grants' only child had been sent for by the grandfather. This was about a year ago. But just before her arrival at Grampian Lodge old Mr. Tenant had a stroke of paralysis, and his son with his large family had come to live with him perma nently, as he was too helpless to be left alone with his servants.

Hitherto they had only paid him a long annual visit. Mouse arrived to find them in possession, and herself a most unwelcome addition to their schoolroom. She had been tossed about from one friend of her father's to another, since his death, meeting with much, if rough, kindness, but she had never felt herself so complete a stranger as in her grandfather's house. She could remember her mother faintly, but more because her father had talked of her than from any clear recollection of her own. The memory of her FRIENDLESS. 21 father even was fading from her mind, though his loving care and goodness to her, and her grief when he went away from her, were still passionately remem bered and brooded over, and never a day passed but some thought of him was with her. She wove all sorts of stories about him, mixed these up with all the fairy-tales she read, and lived in a world of her own imaginings, the end of the story being sometimes that this good and powerful father should come back and turn her into a princess, when she would have everything her cousins had, besides all the wonders depicted in her books.

Or, when more sober thoughts reigned, she pictured him just coming to open his arms wide to her, and then she would jump into them and be clasped close, as she was that hot day when, under the verandah which ran round their Australian home, she had climbed into his strong arms as he sat on his horse, and received his last kiss in that " long ago" which seemed so far off now. Yet Mouse knew she had been told that her father was dead, and that dead people never come back. She had ascertained the certainty of this cruel fact soon after he had left her. She had been told he had been thrown from his horse (people said he had been riding some race), and he had been killed. She did not remember who had told her this or where it had been told her; she had been accustomed to hear a great deal about races.

She had seen many herself, and she remembered seeing a horse fall and roll over, while the man who was under it lay still on the ground. She had been in her father's arms at the time, a very little child, and had clapped her hands and laughed at the disaster. She often shuddered now as she thought of this, for though she could remember nothing else of that day she could never forget this . . . and this was how her father had died. After his death some neighbours had taken her in, rough people whose house she had never entered before. They were too uncouth to be very tender, and Mouse had shrunk from them. She had been sent from stranger to stranger, till at last one day she had been placed on ship-board, and after a long voyage, which she still remembered with horror, she had landed to shiver in a cold London fog.

Again a stranger met her who had no word of welcome for the little wanderer, and she was brought to Grampian Lodge, which she found very beautiful, full of comforts and luxuries which she had never dreamt of, but as empty as any other place of love for the little waif, save that given by the helpless invalid, — which she rather felt than heard, — and which had been her one solace enjoyed in secret. The day following the funeral was wet, and with their usual caprice her cousins declared that they did not want Mouse to play with them ; they did not even want her in the schoolroom, she must go to the nursery. Miss Mallow was in her own room, and Mouse never complained of unjust usage. No one had ever yet accused her of "telling tales". She generally had a story-book in hand. They were often taken from her, these same story-books, but she generally managed to hide one.

She had been forbidden by her aunt to sit in her own room, but with the swift cunning bred of FRIENDLESS. tyranny, she remembered that there were other rooms in the house where no one need find her. If she went to the nursery, Nurse would take her book away and tell her to amuse the baby ; so with this precious book hidden under her pinafore, after a few minutes' watchful pause Mouse ran downstairs. There was a room at the back of the house where the chil dren sometimes played during the holidays, when the boys of the family were at home. It was a room she knew nothing of save in this aspect, and seldom went into for months together. She remembered a pleasant window-seat there, and a curtain, which had before now made her a happy hiding-place. The door of this room was standing ajar. She peeped in, nobody was there.

She left the door as she found it, and was soon ensconced very snugly behind a heavy curtain, which was partly drawn. She knew that she was completely hidden if any one happened to look into the room, and the knowledge added considerably to her contentment. The rain beat drearily against the window, but she smiled a happy smile; what did it matter, she did not want to go out. When Mouse smiled, her whole face changed; her dark and somewhat lustreless eyes lit up and became full of expression, a dimple came out on one cheek, and the sad little face became full of fun. Now she smiled at the rain-drops, and turned over the pages of Andersen's Fairy Tales. She had just begun to read "The Ugly Duckling", and it was going to be very interesting. No thought of likening the poor duckling's story to her own came into her head, but she knew exactly what the duckling felt.

She had become deeply interested in the story, and when Mouse was interested she was quite absorbed; it was one of the peculiarities which brought her into much trouble. No one in the house believed that when she was read ing she did not know what was going on around her, and that she often did not even hear when she was spoken to; but so it was. She had come to the end of a chapter, and was turning over a page, when a great terror seized her, and she held her breath. . . . She was no longer alone in the room, she could hear her uncle's and aunt's voices quite close to her! Had she been brave she would have jumped down from her comfortable perch at once, and faced the consequences of her rashness in coming to a room where her presence would be looked on as a fault, but she could only tremble and hold ber breath, and hope that no one would think of looking behind the curtain.

All her interest in the story, however, vanished; she could not read a word, and found herself listening intently to what her uncle and aunt were saying. Their words held no meaning for her till her uncle said: "Of course I must write to Guy at once; I have found the address he last gave." o Everything was now forgotten in her intense eagerness to hear more of this " Guy ". That it was wrong to listen to what was not intended for her ears never came into her head. " You see, Moreton sticks to it that another will was made after that first stroke, and that Guy was left the Roscrow property, but my father kept the will himself, so he knows no more about it," was the next FRIENDLESS. 25 sentence, which Mouse understood because of the repe tition of this name. " Then no doubt he destroyed it himself in a lucid interval," said her aunt; "every possible place has been turned out.

Had it been found you would surely have contested it. He has not been in a state to make a will since his first attack. The doctors could have proved that." " Nonsense, Isabella ! " replied her uncle sharply (that anyone could say " nonsense " to her Aunt Isabella thrilled Mouse with astonishment). " But are you sure that you have looked everywhere?" her uncle continued. " A pretty business it would be for us if it were found after all, just as we had taken possession." " He never left his room, as you know, since he was first taken ill, and never alluded to this will to any one that I can find out," said her aunt. Mouse's ears were wide open now. What was " a will " ? " As Moreton says this, I suppose you believe him," replied her uncle snappishly, and then Mouse lost some words. Presently her aunt said, " It was no doubt made, and also no doubt burnt.