A Commonplace Girl

Front matter

AT ALL THE LIBRARIES. MORTON VERLOST. Marguerite Bryant. Sophie F. F. Veitch. Katharine Tynan. A MODERN CRUSADER. AN ISLE IN THE WATER. DR. QUANTRILL'S EXPERIMENT. T. Inglis. THE UNWRITTEN LAW. THE VEIL OF LIBERTY. POSTE RESTANTE. Blanche Loftus Tottenham. Peronne. C. Y. Hargreaves. Mrs. Andrew Dean. Douglas Sladen. THE GRASSHOPPERS. A JAPANESE MARRIAGE. JOHN DARKER. Aubrey Lee. THE COMEDY OF CECILIA. Caroline Fothergill. EY BLANCHE ATKINSON ■ AUTHOR OF "THE WEB OF life" "they HAVE THEIR reward" etc. etc. " This world's no blot for us Nor blank ; it means intensely, and means good " LONDON ADAM AND CHARLES BLACK i«95 [All Rights Reserved] TO MRS. TALBOT IN REMEMBRANCE OF HAPPY DA YS SPENT IN THE NORTH COUNTRY AND AS A SLIGHT TOKEN OF GRATEFUL AFFECTION THIS BOOK IS INSCRIBED CHAPTEE I A YOUNG man — evidently on the best of terms with life — and a girl — on whose fair face rested a cloud of half - repressed trouble — sauntered side by side through flower - scented fields, and talked together with the famdiarity of tried friendship.

It was the close of a perfect day in June ; the hour of softly blending colours, and slowly fading lights, and the deepening of dreaming shadows, which, in the North of England, compensates by its rare loveliness for much unsatisfactory weather. The bewitchment of it suddenly struck the young man, though he was not burdened by acute æsthetic susceptibilities. " What a jolly evening, Judith ! " he exclaimed. " The sky, and the birds — and altogether. It's just the kind of thing to make poets and painters tear their hair, and give up, isn't it ? I wonder if they have anything better than this in America ? " " And I wonder how you can wonder. Of course not — in America, or anywhere else. Nowhere in the world can be so lovely ! Besides, in America you wdl always be frozen to death by cold, or broiled alive by heat, or swept away by a tornado, or eaten up by flies — they do nothing in moderation.

How anyone can want to go to America " — He interrupted her with a peal of laughter, and Judith, blinking away a tear, laughed also. But as they reached the brow of the hill, and came in sight of Ernthwaite, the sped of the beauty of the place and hornfell upon them — hushed his careless laugh, and checked her impulsive speech. The path passed through fields of flowery meadow grass, ripe for mowing, sprinkled with the white and gold and purple of large daisies, and tall buttercups, and nodding heads of burnet. All the summer wealth of flowers clustered at their feet along the borders of the path — the starry stitchwort, the deep pink campion in its brown sheath, the blue speedwell, the wild pansy — purple and yellow. The clumps of low wood all about the valley were freshly green, and the thrushes sang in a rapture of joy over the lovely world ; the sweet twilight lingered as though the day had been too beautiful to end; the crimson bars in slrv ictf\ar\ alnwlT?- "Rnf Ytanai had been warm, the sun had drawn moisture from the earth, and a faint mist floated along the hills, aud veiled the blue distance, where a chain of moun tains rose beyond the grey lake.

Chapter II

Judith went through the dusky woods slowly, her heart aching with pity for herself. Geoffrey was going away for years — perhaps for ever ! She felt sure that she could never be even moderately happy again ; and that is a terrible conviction to arrive at when one is only eighteen. Moreover, she had to carry the double burden of wounded love and wounded pride. For pride's sake she must keep up a pretence of happiness ; and so, before turning out of the woods into the avenue, she dried her tears, and stoically assumed an aspect of cheerfulness, which she felt would deceive anybody. " Anybody " meant Mrs. Sylvestre, Judith's " Cousin Mary," her guardian and dearest friend. As the girl expected, she was walking up and down in front of the Hall, waiting, in calm enjoyment of the lovely eventide.

" You are late, chdd ; and alone ! " was her greeting. " I thought that, of course, Geoffrey would come with you to say good-bye to me. Old women don't like to be neglected. I suppose he is ready going to morrow ? " " Oh yes ; he will come in the morning and see you. He wanted to come to-night ; but I didn't wish it." Judith spoke abruptly, and Mrs. Sylvestre looked at her keenly. " Have you had a pleasant evening ? " Ye — es. . . . Just as usual — tennis, and tea, and talk. George Tyson is tiresome ; he always wins. And Mr. SmaUman will play, and can't play. And, do you know ? I begin to think tennis is over-rated. Those two Jackson girls make one sick of it ; they talk as if there was nothing in the world to Uve for but tennis ! " " You are severe, Judith. What is the matter ? I suppose you are only tired, and that to-morrow you wdl love tennis again."

" I don't care if I never play another game ! " Judith's tone was so tragic that Mrs. Sylvestre laughed softly, as she put her arm through the girl's and went up the shallow steps to the open window of the room where she had been sitting. " You might be renouncing paradise," she said. " Believe me, my dear, tennis wdl have charms for you again, some day. And, if not, there are other things in the world." But though Mrs. Sylvestre pretended to think that Judith's dejection was merely fatigue, and took no notice of her red eyes, and cheeks blotched with crying, she was not deceived. The state of affairs had been evident to her for some days past, and she was very sorry, and somewhat vexed. Long after our poor lovelorn maiden was asleep, Mary Sylvestre, who indulged in the bad habit of sitting up late at night, was thinking about her, and wondering what was the best remedy for heart break.

" Of course it was sure to be," she mused. " Per haps I ought to have taken her about more, and let her see other people, and not have waited quietly for this to happen. The boy is very nice-looking and pleasant; and she was always fond of him, even when they were chddren. But it is tiresome ; and it wdl be dreadfully stupid for me until she gets over it. Poor child ! of course she thinks that wdl be never. And she wiU take it rather badly, because she is always thoroughly in earnest, and as constant as — as pain. I suppose I must take her on the Continent — and I hate the Continent ! To-morrow it wid be no use to speak of such a thing. To-morrow must be devoted to tears for the dear departed. I shaU get nothing from her to-morrow but spasmodic snatches of cheer fulness, poor chdd ! But in a day or two I must try Paris and Italy !

" It was as Mrs. Sylvestre foresaw. Geoffrey came to the Hall early to bid her good-bye. He was in rcapital spirits, and in a tremendous hurry. But he found time to say to Judith (Mrs. Sylvestre had sug gested that she might as well take him through the wood and see that the gates were closed after him) — " By the by, Judith, I wanted to teU you that you were quite mistaken about the old man. I offered last night to give up my journey if he objected to it ; and he said it was much better for me to go. So you ought to apologise for slanging me as you did ! " " I am glad you offered to stay," she said ; " and you wdl be happier too that he approves. Good-bye." And when he had gone — gone, and all her world was a dreary blank, it was a kind of poor comfort to Judith to think that, because of her words, Geoffrey had been magnanimous enough to offer to give up the expedition which he had so much at heart.

Now, Miss Judith Mordaunt always prided herself upon her self-control, and had no pity for sentimental sorrows. Many a time that day she said to herself, " Judith ! no weakness ! " She spent most of the morning rambling alone in the woods, as she loved to do, and came in with her hands full of flowers, and talked enthusiastically of the lovely mid-summer weather. After luncheon she disappeared again, and Mrs. Sylvestre heard her practising diligently one of Chopin's most difficult nocturnes. Later on, she announced her intention of walking three miles to see an old woman who lived, as many did, upon the bounty of Mrs. Sylvestre. Judith came in very tired ; and the next morning her eyes were heavy, At luncheon Mrs. Sylvestre said, "Do you think Ernthwaite could do without you, and you without Ernthwaite, for a few months, Judith ?

Could you leave your native shores without much regret ? I have an idea that it would be good for me to try a change. It is fifteen years since I was abroad ; and as for you — you have never been out of England — a fact you ought to blush for, in polite society. It is quite disreputable not to know Italy and Switzerland better than Kent or Cumberland. I ought to have taken you long ago. But I am getting very idle " — " But — but — are you in earnest, Cousin Mary ? You have always said you never wanted to go out of England again. It would be too delightful — if you are in earnest ! " Judith revived marvellously at the prospect of Paris to begin with, leading on to Switzerland and Italy. A girl of eighteen, and a first visit to the Continent, mean rapture. And if the prospect was enchanting, the reaUty was better.

Judith enjoyed everything, and was young enough and healthy enough to be indifferent to all drawbacks. Not even her broken heart could interfere materially with her delight in the magical beauty of the Alps. She found, to her surprise, that she often forgot how unhappy she was ; and in the deep interest, to an in telUgent girl, of days spent in the old Itahan cities, culminating in Venice and Eome, she even lost the aching sense of wishing for the impossible which had seemed as if it could never leave her again for a moment. At the end of a year, when the travellers came home, Mrs. Sylvestre flattered herself with justice that her cure had been a success. Judith was the picture of health, and in her usual equable and happy spirits. Mrs. Sylvestre was a woman who generally suc ceeded in what she undertook.

Partly because she always limited her undertakings to her resources; partly because she eschewed all extremes. " Make compromises with life and things, if you want to succeed," she often said. " Never aim high. Be content with second best — for perfection does not appertain to here and now. Moderate desires forestall disappointments." Mary Sylvestre at forty-five was an exceedingly beautiful woman. The only fault which the severest critic could find in her almost classical face, was that the blue eyes were cold — and that was a fault which the critic himseU forgot if he became a friend. At seventeen she had been a lovely girl, with her mind full of romantic ideals. Her parents, anxious to see her " well " married, adowed her to become the wife of Reginald Sylvestre, who belonged to a county famdy and was wealthy — without having the least knowledge of his character or antecedents.

Mary was dazzled by his fascinating manners and passionate admiration, and dreamt of a happy future with the man between whom and herself there was no single bond, except the brief flame of passion which they caUed love. His coarse and sensual instincts were as a dead letter to her; there were necessarily no common terms in her character and in his ; and for a few weeks even after her marriage the pure-minded girl beheved him to be the spotless hero of romance which her fancy had idealised. The awakening to the truth was a horrible experience. The six years of her married life seemed ever afterwards as a black nightmare to Mrs. Sylvestre. She never spoke of that time even to her dearest friends ; never men tioned her husband's name, nor allowed anything to be about her which could recall his presence.

She had no chdd; her father and mother were dead, and she was alone in the world when her husband's death set her free from the hideous bondage of her marriage. The brilliant, romance-loving girl was changed into a cold, self-contained woman — " cynical," said those who did not like her. Mary Sylvestre might have regained freedom by legal means before then, but shrank from the publicity of such a step. Many a time during those six years she had prayed for death, and wondered that she could not die ; and when the end came, it seemed as if all power of getting good or pleasure out of life was extinct in her. Her husband died in Paris, and they had lived chiefly abroad. Mrs. Sylvestre at once returned to England, and settled at Ernthwaite, her husband's estate in the North. She had never been there with him ; in this place, therefore, she made her home, and strenuously set herself to wipe out as far as possible the memory of the past, and to begin a new Use.

The rich and beautiful young widow did not remain a widow for lack of suitors. But she shuddered at the thought of marriage, and avoided the society of men. Society, in any form, had little attraction for her ; but she was too sensible to allow herself to indulge in morbid desires for soUtude, and recognised the dangers of too self-absorbed an existence. She Uved as other wealthy people Uve ; did not deny her seU to visitors, nor refuse social intercourse. She took a sUght interest in the affairs of the parish, a large part of which was her property ; and was hberal to all parochial needs. But the wisest thing Mrs. Sylvestre ever did — so she always maintained — was to adopt Judith Mordaunt, when, at the age of five, the chdd was left an orphan. Judith's mother was Mrs. Sylvestre's cousin and friend.

She died when the Uttle one was born ; the father five years later. He had been twice married ; but Judith's step-brother and sister were already grown up, and in homes of their own. The question arose what was to be done with little Judith. " Let me have her," wrote Mary Sylvestre to Mrs. Grosvenor-Smith, Judith's step-sister. " You have your own babies. I have no one, and it will be some thing to interest me to bring up the chdd ; and if I ever love her, as I did her mother, it wdl keep me from getting de-humanised. Only, if you all consent to this, no one must interfere henceforth. I must educate her my own way. Her money can accumu late untd she is of age — or marries, if I do not teach her to do something better with herself than that. And if I die meanwhile, she shall have what I can leave her.

The estate is entaded. Let me have her ! " The child proved a godsend to the lonely woman. People who always see the worst side of other people's affairs said that Mrs. Sylvestre was too cold to be a mother to the motherless Uttle one, and wasted un necessary pity upon the child. As a matter of fact, Judith's chddhood was as happy and cloudless as chddhood ought to be. She was a bright, healthy, happy-hearted little maiden from the first ; an easy chdd to deal with because of her frank, honest, and fearless disposition. There was a wholesomeness about her which was exactly what was wanted to counteract the unnatural sorrows of Mrs. Sylvestre's former Use ; and she found her heart soften and her bitter thoughts vanish in the sunshine of chddish innocence and merriment. Someone asked Mrs. Sylvestre once what system of education she intended to pursue with the child.

Mrs. Sylvestre answered that she had no theory — except that education ought to make a chdd happy day by day, and fit her to be happy in the future. To that end Mrs. Sylvestre believed that the first thing to consider was bodily health with skdled activity of Umb and muscle ; the second, a sound moral sense of the difference between right and wrong ; and thirdly, the development of intellectual tastes and the cultivation of mental faculties. " If " — so wrote Mrs. Sylvestre to Mrs. Grosvenor- Smith — " if a girl can ride and row, dance, walk, and play tennis, she has those five physical defences against unhappiness. Then, if she has also some love for music and art and books, and cares a little, intelU gently, for flowers and animals, or for sewing, or even cookery, she has so many sources of happiness in her own control.

If one fads, another may be possible. I do not trouble much about playfellows for Judith. I mean her to learn to be content without companions. People just as often as not make one another miserable. Judith shall learn not to depend upon anyone but herself for happiness. Women suffer chiefly through others, because they are never taught to be self-reliant and self-sufficing (not self-sufficient). Affection is not everything, though girls are often brought up to think it is. I love the child, and she loves me, and we are very happy together. But I want her also to be happy without me, and not to look to me, nor to anyone, for happiness, but to learn that it depends upon herself. " No doubt she will have to be unhappy, like the rest, sometimes — if she Uves to be a woman. But I want to put it off as long as possible.

I think characters ripen and blossom best in happiness. I am not a believer in the salutary discipline of east wind and frost in youth. I believe that if this were a happier world it would also be a better world ; and I think the best specific against unhappiness is self dependence." Judith certainly took very kindly to the regime, and justified Mrs. Sylvestre's method. In the holidays she had Geoffrey Fielding for a companion, and the five daughters of Dr. Tyson. But as they aU went away to school in turns, she was left a good deal to herself. She had a governess ; and as she grew up, Mrs. Sylvestre went several times to London for two or three months, in order to give her good music lessons — music being her chief gift. Judith was not remarkably clever, and she was entirely free of the romantic tendencies to which Mrs. Sylvestre attributed the fatal error of her own youth.

Most carefully did she watch for any sign of senti mentality in Judith, and was quick to show the absurdity of it, and to laugh it out of existence. Another extract from Mrs. Sylvestre's letters, written when Judith was sixteen, is characteristic : — " Thank Heaven, Judith promises, as far as I can judge, to be a commonplace, matter-of-fact woman, so I think she may have a chance of being a happy one. She is at present what one must call very ordinary, I am glad to say. She does not show the least inclination towards poetry, or pessimism, or idealism, or hysteria in any form. " She is simply a dear, good girl ; and is intensely blissful to-day because the hyacinths are making the ground blue in the woods, exactly as they do every spring. I never saw anyone love flowers, and fields, and trees, and open air generally as she does.

Not in any poetical or artistic way, but merely as if they were all friends, and part of her Use. Her one trial, hitherto, has been the necessity of leaving Ern thwaite now and then. But when we get to town, she enjoys the music, and the theatres, and the sights, and is never discontented. Her favourite companion at present — after the dogs — is the gardener's little boy, whom she bribes with toffee not to take birds' eggs. They have expeditions together after wdd flowers, and watch the bees and beetles together, all in a very unscientific manner. No; I do not mean to send her to school. I think she knows quite as much as most school-educated girls I see; and as for passing examinations, the preparation would weary her brain, and perhaps weaken her health — and to what end ? She will never need to earn a living.

And if she differs from the regulation pattern of young ladies, what does it matter ? I trust she will never want to marry, and I like her as she is. Most people find her a pleasant girl. She is not very pretty, for which also I am thankful ; but she is growing tall and straight, is beautifully erect and graceful, and in perfect health." One of Dr. Tyson's five daughters, Gladys, was the Bame age as Judith, and the two girls were chief friends ; while the doctor's lively house gradually became more and more attractive to Judith as the daughters came home from school. George Tyson, the one son, was seldom at home, and Geoffrey Fielding spent less time in Ernthwaite as he grew up. But he was there quite enough to keep up his intimacy with Judith — the melancholy consequences of which have already been related, and Mrs. Sylvestre's prompt action thereupon.

When they came home from their long tour on the Continent, Judith was able to talk openly about Geoffrey, and to share Gladys Tyson's regret at his absence from the tennis parties. She even expressed her opinion that his letters to his father, which Mr. Fielding gave her to read, were remarkably uninteresting. Mrs. Sylvestre fuUy concurred ; but while she found them so uninteresting that she could not even take the trouble to read any more, Judith read every word of every letter, and knew a great deal better than Mr. Fielding himself where Geoffrey had arrived on such or such a date, and where he was likely to be next. The wanderer made no mention yet of a probable return, and his programme of travel seemed to extend indefinitely. He wrote with fair regularity, and still spoke hopefully of the " opening " for which he was on the lookout.

But the letters were Uttle more than a Ust of names and dates. They always ended with the formula — " Kind regards to all inquiring friends," and expressed affectionate hopes for his father's health and welfare. Meanwhile, Mr. Fielding was more than ever absorbed in his work, and showed himself less and less capable of fulfilling the duties of his position. Whispers were heard that complaints were about to be made to the bishop ; and the dissenters loudly asserted that such a vicar was a scandal, and ought to be removed. One day, a month or two after Mrs. Sylvestre and Judith had returned to Ernthwaite, Dr. Tyson came to the Hall in great trouble about the vicar. " I don't know what is to be done," he said. " If you don't know, who does ? " said Mrs. Sylvestre. "But tell me all about it. I suppose there is always something that can be done in every emergency."

These two were fast friends ; each admired and trusted the other ; and " when they put their heads together," Judith used to say, " the result was always nice for somebody." " Well, you know," said the doctor, " it's quite true that he isn't up to his work ; and yet we can't tell him so, and turn him out of the Vicarage. He thinks — if he thinks at all about it — that if he gets himself into his surplice, and proses through the services on Sundays, and mumbles out one of his old sermons (it don't matter which — the girls tell me they've had the same three weeks running, and a Christmas sermon on Whitsunday), he has done all that is expected of him. It's getting almost more than Humphrey can do to rout him out of his study to take a funeral, or to wed folks when they are waiting at the altar.

And as for visiting the sick, my dear lady, he never goes near 'em ! It isn't want of right feeling. I don't believe there's a kinder-hearted man nor a better Christian in the land. I've known him nigh thirty years, and I never heard him say a hard word of any man. But it doesn't do, you know, in these days, for a parson to depend upon that. It isn't so much to be a Christian, and a good, honest gentleman, that's wanted nowadays. That used to be enough thirty years ago. But this is a day of paying by results, Mrs. Sylvestre. In the good, easy old days we used to let one another alone, and if a man did no harm to anyone, we let him be. Now the parson is expected to be the Use and soul of the parish — so my girls say. Preaching's not of so much account as fussing, and poking into every thing, and ' organising,' as they call it. ' Look at Stonethwaite,' they say.

There's a live vicar setting this on foot, and that on foot — interfering, as / call it, in matters that are no business of his. We want a ' live ' church, a ' Uve ' vicar, perks up my little Winifred, as if she knew anything about it ! " The doctor paused to laugh goodhumour edly. " She is 'an extremely ' Uve ' young lady," Mrs. Sylvestre said, " and I daresay she is right." " Then George comes down from London," Dr. Tyson went on, " and he sneer3 at the whole business, aud says that a mummified parsou like poor Fielding is more harmless than a galvanically active one ; and that if all the vicars in England were like ours, the old superstition would die out sooner, and the dissolution of the Church be a more peaceful business than looks likely since its latest revival. Now, George is a very clever fellow, but I don't Uke this kind of talk ; and I am sorry when I see that matters are not satisfactory about our own Church.

I'm oldfashioned enough to believe hi the Catechism still, and I don't see that because it's old-fashioned it's false ; nor that we are to be told we've been a pack of idiots to beUeve in it, until they show us something more credible and better." Doctor Tyson's kindly, shrewd face had clouded, and Mrs. Sylvestre hastened to say — " George is getting on splendidly, I hear." " Splendidly ; " and the father's pride quickly over came his vexation. " He's clone remarkably well in his last exams. He is to be at Guy's now for work in the wards for a twelvemonth. Sir James Biggun wrote me a most complimentary note the other day, and assures me that he is one of the most promising young men of his day." Judith was standing at the table arranging roses in a china bowl. She tossed a flower impatiently from her when George was mentioned, and hardly waited for Dr. Tyson to finish his eulogy before she broke out — " Well, but, Dr. Tyson, it doesn't matter a bit what George and Winnie think of poor Mr. Fielding.

What can be done whde he lives ? You would not disturb him — turn him out, or anything unkind . " " No, no, certainly not. But something must be done. If the papers took it up, or the bishop, poor old Fielding would get into trouble. Then he has no more idea of financing than a baby. He is in debt for books and parchments and things of that sort, and goes on increasing his liabiUties. And he gives away money to anyone who asks for it, and though he lives upon next to nothing, he seems to let money sUp through his fingers. I'm afraid his housekeeper cheats him." Judith nodded. " I've been afraid of that too. She is a stranger ; a south country woman and"— " My dear Judith, how absurd you are ! She need not cheat because she does not belong to the north country," Mrs. Sylvestre broke in, laughing.

" Now, Dr. Tyson, what do you say to this suggestion ? Why should we not get a curate, and let him ' organise,' and set things on foot, and bury and marry the people, and then the vicar can be left in peace. Would not that put things right ? or as right as they can be put in a wrong world ? " " Exactly ; a curate is the article we want. But a curate must be paid decently to come here, where he would have all the work." " Oh, that can be done. Set up begging machinery in the parish for one thing. Beatrice understands all that business. And then, I will take care that the poor man gets paid. Curates are not very dear, are they ? " " That depends upon the age and appearance — doesn't it, Judith ? Girls find them ' dear ' generally, don't they ? It wdl be a rare excitement for the lasses. Seriously, Mrs. Sylvestre, I'm afraid there is nothing for it but the curate.