The Family Honour

Front matter

THE FAMILY HONOUR, " Marian and Gertrude fell to the curate's care " (p. 245). Frontispiece. THE Family Honoub. BY Mes. c. l. balfoue, AUTHOR OF " THE WOMEN OF SCRIPTVRE," ETC. ETC. Cassell, Petter, Galpin & Co.: LONDON, PARIS $• NEW YORK. [all rights reserved.] CONTENTS. PAGE The Message 1 A Promise 8 Captain Austwicke's Revelation 13 Records, Past and Present 17 The Letters 23 Lost or Stolen? 26 Who Interrupted the Journey? 31 The Writing Master 39 The Orphans 46 The Basket of Game 52 The Packman 59 Gossip 63 The Interview 68 Conscience versus Honour 75 The Accomplice 79 Family Meetings 84 A Morning Call 91 Gertrude's Request 97 Committed 103 Collision 108 Rebellion VI CONTENTS. PAGE' Anger H° Light and Shade 123 Amid the Waves 129 Pitfalls 136 Unexpectedly Baffled 143 Mysie's Destination 149 Allan and Gertrude 152 Going Away •189 Self-deception 162 Gertrude's Alarm 167 The Wanderer 174 Wreckers 186 Progress 197 Catechetical 201 Professor Griesbach 208 Regimen 214 Retracing Steps 220 The Picture 229 Friends at the Hall 233 Twilight and Moonlight 245 A Clear Sky — All but 248 A Morning Visit 254 Youth and Pleasure 258 Exhumed 265 Dreamland and Daylight 270 The Relics 275 Investigations 279 A Lull in the Gale contents. vii PAGE Drifting on 295 Light and Shadow 299 Too Late 304 Struggling in the Toils 307 Night Watches 312 Removals 321 Gertrude 325 At the Hospital Door 337 Restored 347 Gertrude's Grief 352 Retribution 358 Investigations 363 Kindred Claims 369 Connecting Links 377 The End without the Ends 381 Conclusion

Chapter I. The Message

" For duty is but deeds of loveliness, And truth a power to make tlie spirit free ; And they whoso self -forged bonds their souls repress, No effort shall arouse from slavery." From the German. The last Sunday in September, some dozen years ago, was one of the very loveliest of autumn days, when the parting smile of summer lingered tenderly on the peaceful fields, and flushed the woodlands with a golden gleam that promised to kindle rapidly into yet richer splendour; while there was a pure, fresh breath of coolness in the quiet air, most grateful after the heat of the harvest days. For Austwicke Chace was in the south of England, about sixty miles from London, towards the Hampshire coast, and the harvest for that year was over, well over, in that district. The afternoon sunbeams fell softly on the stubble fields, and along the slope of some rich meadows that skirted a narrow winding river, on whose opposite bank there was an extensive flat common, or chace, as it was called, that was bounded in the distance by a stretch of noble woodland.

The whole scene, in its quiet rural and sylvan beauty, being improved by a little b village green and groups of nestling cottages at one end of the Chace, and in the foreground of the other extremity were some scattered farmhouses and homesteads. The church— Wicke Church, as, by the abbreviations of time it was called— was close to the village green, and also close to the old house of the time-honoured lords of the manor — the Austwickes, an untitled but very ancient English family, whose boast, indeed, it was, that, once in olden times, and once again in more modern days, the honour of knighthood and _ of baronet age had been offered to, and declined by, their family. _ It is just possible that pride, rather than humility, in both cases dictated that refusal of title and distinction ; for, without going into records of the past history of the owners of Austwicke Chace, it is certain that Honoria Austwicke, a maiden lady of mature age, who now, for the time being, was the only occupant of the old mansion, had no lack of what she called " true dignity ," and what others might consider overweening family pride, for per sonal and relative estimate is often very opposite in such matters.

Certain it was that, among the congregation of the village church now streaming forth from its shadowy aisles and ivy-mantled porch into the sweet calm sunshine that bathed the fields in Sabbath quiet, none were more troubled by the sermon that had been preached to them that afternoon than the before-named lady. The preacher was a young man, a curate only recently appointed, the incumbent of the living being an invalid, whose infirmities, of late years, had necessitated his residing at Harrogate. Mr. Nugent, the curate, was a mild, reserved young man, rather liked by the farmers and people of Austwicke Chace, and by no means disliked by Miss Honor, as the lady of the Austwicke family was generally called, for she had ascertained from inquiries that Mr. Nugent, though poor, was "well connected/' and she had concluded his principles were all that could be desired in a gentleman of good family THE MESSAGE. and refined feelings.

But the sermon of this afternoon was on humility, and instead of being soothing and suitable to her notions of the claims of station and the authority of rank, was against pride — especially family pride. She marched through the private wicket gate out of the churchyard into the grounds of Chace Hall with a stej> so firm, and a mien so erect, that it might be called defiant. Turning for a moment to look back towards the church, she saw Mr. Nugent coming towards her, and answered his bow by a curtsey at once so stately and so distant that it forbade any further approach ; indeed, she at the same time locked the wicket gate with her own pass-key, and went on by a path through the shrubbery, feeling, it must be owned, no pleasure in the tranquillity of Nature, no soothing in its beauty. Just then the soft blue sky, the slanting beams of the westering sun, that sent broad shafts of gold through the interlacing boughs of the shrubbery, were all unnoticed by her.

A sense of offended dignity shut out all other sensations but that of haughty anger. As she came to the wide lawn that spread before the old hall, she stood still an instant and looked at it intently. It was a heterogeneous mass of building, with no pretensions to architectural merit : a long, irregular-gabled front, with incongruous but convenient modern windows to the lowei rooms ; an ivy-covered turret at the far, or west, end, under which was the principal entrance, long unused, and now completely overgrown by a luxuriant Virginia creeper, that, in its autumnal garb of brilliant crimson, hung flaunting over the dark green ivy like trailing blood-red banners. At the end of the building next to Miss Honor was the east porch, an old oaken doorway that led into the east wing, the only part of the house at present occupied.

A belt of thick plantation and shrubs completely encircled the wde lawn — or, as Miss Honor called it, "the croft;-" but through some spaces skilfully left in the woodland there were peeps of tbe THE FAMILY HONOlsR. Chace beyond, the shining little river that girdled it, and the upland fields and farms stretching away in the distance. . c „ ■ i " It is a place to love, aye, and to be proud ot said the lady, as she scanned the house rather than the sur roundings, adding, after a moment's pause, as she heaved a troubled sigh, « and yet they do not value it— iiot as they should, not as I, in their place, would. Why chd not my brother Edmund stay here, and improve the property and keep up the family influence ? He might have been alive now, and have prevented — aye, prevented — as became his name, the growth of such opinions as I have heard this afternoon. 'Blessed are the meek!' Of course, that is Holy Scripture, and true ; but it surely means, teach the poor to be humble ; but as to talk ing about pride so pointedly, as if to me, it's sheer nonsense, or worse."

She untied the strings of her bonnet as she talked to herself, and in an absent way took it off and hung it on her arm, pacing to and fro on the thick mossy turf before the house. In her way she was quite as remark able-looking as the old hall itself. Her features were well cut and fine, but must have been always rather too strongly marked for female beauty. Now that she was something past her fortieth year, her high nose, lofty but narrow forehead, arched brows that nearly met, tremulous, irresolute mouth, and perfectly pale com plexion, gave her a distinguished and anxious, yet somewhat forbidding, or perhaps unapproachable look. And yet there was kindness enough in her clear, dark grey, restless eyes to compensate for the frigid hauteur of the face. But she had a languid way of drooping her eyelids that prevented most observers from noticing their usual benevolent expression.

If, indeed, such an observer had chanced to see her angry, then the flash and gleam that made her eyes glow like two wells of quivering light would not soon be forgotten. For the rest, her person was spare and of middle height, though THE MESSAGE. 5 the erect way in which she carried her head made her appear much taller than she really was. Her dress of steel-grey silk, trimmed with black lace, suited her face and form, and in particular harmonised with her par tially faded hair, which, yet thick and abundant, was pinned up on each side of her head in the stiff curls that had been in fashion in her early womanhood. She was still musing, when the Sabbath silence of the day was broken by the sound of a horse's hoofs galloping along the hard chalk road at the rear of the hall. There was such unmistakable speed in the sound, that Miss Honor Austwicke, with a startled pause, turned her head to listen if the horseman were merely passing, or coming to the hall.

The loud clangour of the bell at the stable entrance announced some messenger, whose tidings were of sufficient import to warrant his making the whole household hear. With her steps a little quickened, the lady walked at once towards the house, and without waiting to go into the east porch, turned the fastening of a side window, that led into a little drawing-room over looking a small flower garden. It was her own special part of the house, where, if she were wanted, the servants would immediately seek her. Whether it was part of Miss Honor's creed not to allow herself to manifest curiosity or surprise, the fa,ct is certain that she sat herself quietly down in her usual chair, and, taking up a book from the table, began reading, just as an old man servant, with a head as white as the silver salver he held in his hand, approached her with a letter, and, presenting it to her, lingered a moment after she took it, with an anxious look on his face.

The letter, though addressed to Miss Austwicke, was evidently in a handwriting unknown to that lady, for she turned it about in her hands a moment or two inquiringly before opening it, then, leisurely unfastening the envelope, the printed words, "Royal Sturgeon Hotel, Southampton," met her gaze, and the light began to leap out of her eyes as she read the words — THIS FAMILY HONOUR. Madam,— A gentleman, whose card is enclosed, lies danger ously ill at this house. In answer to inquiries made oi him about Ms friends, he requested that you might be written to, to como to him without delay. I am, madam, your obedient servant, Ralph Hobbins, Landlord. P.S.— Dr. Bissle considers the case very serious. Ill opening the letter the card enclosed bad dropped to the ground. The old servant, more alertly than might have been expected, stooped to pick it up, eyeing it all the more eagerly that his eyes, unaided by glasses, could not read it.

His mistress took it from him, and laying her disengaged hand ou her side, as if to still a throb that shook her, read aloud, with forced calmness, the name, " Captain Wilfred Austwicke ; " adding, as if unconsciously, " My brother — my brother Wilfred in England ! ill, at Southampton ! " " Master Wilfred come home from India, and no word sent ! " burst involuntarily from the old serving man, who immediately apologised — " I ask your pardon, Miss Honor — madam — I humbly ask your pardon. I'm getting a bit old, and I didn't expect to see Master Wilfred no more." Miss Honor bent her head condescendingly to the aged butler. Her pale face was a shade paler for the tidings that had come thus suddenly, and there was a tremor in her voice as she said — "Yes, Gubbins, you are old enough to know that 'Master Wilfred'' is now a foolish expression as applied to my brother, Captain Austwicke, and also you must remember that he is very sudden in his decisions.

How ever, his illness is the chief thing. Who brought this letter?" " A man o' horseback, Miss Honor. He hev rid post haste from the ' Royal Sturgeon,' Southampton a full twenty mile. I make bold, I know, a speakin c on 'em, but it seems but yesterday all three on 'em was boys here. And now one on 'em has gone, and the two THE MESSAGE. that's left is getting to be middle-aged men — gentle men, I mean." " Send Martin to me, and order the carriage; I shall go at once to Southampton, Gubbins," interposed Miss Honor, waving her hand in dismissal of the old man, who, bowing as he left, yet kept muttering to himself along the passage to the offices, " All boys, like as 't were yesterday, the three, and now on'y two left, and one ill — like to die, maybe — at Southampton. Come home all of a heat, jest like his old ways.

Oh, he jest was a bright 'un; and for quickness, such a highflyer he was ! Here, Martin, go to your mistress; she wants you to pack up quick. Do you hear, all of you ? Jem and Bob, where are you ? " Calling and coughing at intervals, the old man bustled away towards the stables, giving orders, and recalling, meanwhile, recollections which evidently showed that " Master Wilfred," as he called him, was the favourite of the three sons of the household in the old servant's estimation. The bustle of the domestics that soon filled the usually orderly dwelling, contrasted with the enforced calmness that was maintained by the lady up-stairs in making her preparations. Her waiting-woman, Martin, brought up a cup of strong tea, and implored her mistress to take it, alleging, with truth, that as Miss Honor had not dined, she would be faint for want before reaching her destination.

The lady yielded to her servant's entreaties, feeling in reality, notwithstanding her apparent calmness, too anxious and surprised by this sudden summons to the bed-side of a brother, who, half an hour ago, she had thought was in India, to take any precautions for her own comfort. As, however, she concluded that the removal of the invalid from his present quarters would be possible, perhaps, without further delay, she did not fail to remind Martin, who was to accompany her mistress, to take plenty of such cloaks and wraps for the use of the sick man as Indian luggage would not be likely to contain ; and in less than an hour from the time of the arrival of the message, Miss Honoria Austwicke and her maid were seated in the large, old-fashioned travelling carriage, and journeying on, behind two heavy grey coach-horses, at a pace that, however respectable on that cross country route, was certainly far more dignified than swift.

It is true that, by a seven miles' drive to a railway station, the lady could have gone the remaining fifteen or six teen miles in half an hour ; but she preferred going as her family had done, before the fiery horse was harnessed to the iron car; and, therefore, it was quite ten o'clock at night when the Austwicke carriage and its smoking steeds rattled under the bar of the High Street, and reached the portico of the " Royal Sturgeon Hotel," Southampton. A knot of people were waiting about the hall, and at a little corner eyelet window on the staircase, used, no doubt, for observation, there was a white square face, fixed in a stony stare at Miss Austwicke, as, assisted by her servants, she alighted.

Chapter II

A PROMISE. " The very tones in which we spake Had something strange, I could but mark; The leaves of memory seemed to make A mournful rustling in the dark." LongfellOV. As Miss Austwicke was shown up-stairs to a drawing room on the first floor of the hotel, and her maid was assisting her to take off her shawl and bonnet, there was a tap at the door, and a little bald-headed, glossy gentleman came into the room with a brisk but very A PROMISE. 9 quiet step, and making a low bow, in a formal, serious manner, somewhat at variance with his bright quick eyes and shining face, said, " I have the honour, I believe, of speaking to Miss Austwicke, of the Chace ? " The lady bowed in assent. " Ah, yes — just so ; and I regret to say our invalid — Captain- Austwicke, I think, is it not ? — is in a very unsatisfactory state — veiy unsatisfactory."

" Can I see him, sh — Dr. Bissle, I believe ? " " Yes, madam ; Bissle — yes, assuredly, my dear madam — assuredly, you can see him. The fact is, Captain Austwicke is not, I regret to say, as amenable to medical authority as I could wish. Cerebral ex citement — nervous irritation. But better, far better, than when I was called in on his arrival here yester day?" " Indeed ! then he came yesterday ? " " Landed — or, I should say, brought on shore, from Sir Gwithen Pentreal's yacht — a wonderful fast sailer — in which, it seems, he made the voyage from Falmouth, where an accident of some kind to her gear has detained for a few days, the — dear me ! I forget her name — the East Indiaman that he came home in. Sir Gwithen it was who sent for me to attend Captain Austwicke, but could not himself stay, for he was bound to Cherbourg or the Channel Islands, to fetch Lady Pentreal."

" And my brother, then, is ill ? " said Miss Aust wicke, in order to bring the rather pompous and prosy doctor to the subject that was more important to her than the mere narrative of how her brother had come home. " Unhappily — yes. A fit, it seems, had prostrated him before he was landed. He was making an attempt, a most injudicious attempt, to travel farther — to Aust wicke Chace — or, I rather think, some much more distant place than that, by what he said — and, notwithstanding my dissuasions, when another and worse attack prostrated him. He was unconscious during the night and part of this morning. I was not absolutely certain that he was of our Hampshire Austwiekes, or I might, on my own responsibility, have sent to you, madam. But this afternoon he attempted to write— a very undesirable thing in his state— and, as it proved, beyond his strength ; but I understand he ordered you to be sent for, and, I must add, declined— but that is, no doubt, part of the malady he suffers from— declined to consult me further, or to take his medicines : a very common symptom in some cases."

" I make no doubt, sir, your attention to my brother lays his family under great obligation," said Miss Aust wicke, in her loftiest manner ; " but I feel every moment an age until I see him." The landlady, Mrs. Hobbins, at this juncture entered the room, saying, " If you please, ma'am, the gentleman is calling for you." Miss Austwicke, who had been standing while the doctor spoke, immediately followed Mrs. Hobbins, Martin preparing to accompany her ; but the lady said decidedly, " I will see my brother alone." And after crossing a lobby, pausing for a moment in the doorway of a large chamber, dimly lighted by a single candle, she looked within searehingly, and then entered, shutting the door with all womanly tact, so as to make no noise, and, with quiet footsteps, walked across the chamber to the bed-side.

The gloom was so great she could only see the dim outline of the dark face that rested on the pillow. A laboured, ominous breathing fell distinctly on her ear, and told her more than her eye could of the invalid's desperate state. She stood motionless for some minutes at his bed-side, unable to speak a word ; and as her eyes became accustomed to the subdued light, could discern that restless hands, wasted to the bone, were twitching at the coverlet on which they lay ; and that the sunk, yet regular features, whose form she recog nised with amazement that so much could change and yet identity remain, were working nervously in what A PROMISE. 11 seemed mental as well as bodily agony. The invalid was the first to speak : — " Will she never come ? They said she was here." "I am here, Wilfred; I am here, brother — dear brother."

She bent over the bed, and took one of his hands as she faltered out, hesitatingly, the last part of the sentence. " Bear brother ! " said the sick man, repeating her words in a moaning tone, and turning on his pillow in the direction of her voice — " dear brother ! I don't know, Honor, that I have been dear to you ; or that any one of us but Edmund ever was dear to you ; and he was the heir of Austwicke. There never was much love among us — never enough, I now think, Honor." He paused, and reaching out his wasted and burning hands, and gripping hers, which had tightly clasped his fingers, he added, " Yet I am glad you have come, if a miserable and dying man can be glad at anything." " No, no, Wilfred, neither miserable nor dying," she interposed. As she spoke, his hold on her hand tightened until it was so painful that the tears sprang to her eyes.

" Dying, I say — and miserable. No need of many words. There" — releasing her hand suddenly, as if just conscious that he might be hurting her — " there, sit down ; give me that drink," pointing to a glass on a little marble table near the bed. Miss Austwicke looked a moment at the goblet con taining a liquid, whose pungent odour revealed the presence of some strong stimulant ; and said, as she gave it — " Did Dr. Bissle prescribe this ? " " I want none of Dr. Bissle's prescriptions. Doctors, indeed ! I 'm past their tinkering." " Brother, do be " " There, Honor — don't worry me or yourself " — drinking, and drawing a gasping breath after it, " There, that'll give me a fillip. I — I— want to tell you-^ something — something of importance, that must be told, Honor." "Not now, Wilfred; you will fatigue yourself.

To-morrow will do, or when you get home — not now." " To-morrow — home ! You don't know the meaning of those words to me. Raise me up, sister — raise me up, and hear me, I say, if I can manage to speak. It must and shall be told." She did as he requested, and piled up the pillows so as to raise his head nearly on a level with her own face. As she drew a chair and sat down, a feeble ray of the candle fell across her shoulder on to the face of her brother. The curtains along the other side and the foot of the bed were drawn, and thus closed in to the smallest space the scene that the gleam of light revealed. It was vain for Miss Austwicke to delude hferself with hope, as she now scrutinised her brother's features. There was the unmistakable moulding of the hand of death in the face, brow, and pinched nose and mouth.

She was so suddenly impressed with this, that she had some difficulty to control her impulse to call for help. But something in the eager gaze of the glassy eyes held her mute and spell-bound. " Get my pocket-book ; it 'sunder my pillow. Open it. There 's a letter — not that : no, a sealed letter — yes, that 's it. Lay it down a moment." Following his directions, she had taken from among some loose papers and memoranda in his pocket-book a worn and soiled blank envelope, sealed with the Aust wicke crest, and the initials " W. A." underneath it. She laid this within his reach on the bed-clothes, silently resumed her seat, and awaited his communication.

Chapter III. Captain Austwicke's Revelation

" Love is not to be reasoned down, or lost In high ambition." A Addison. " It 's a long story. I 've no breath to tell it, Honor," said Captain Austwicke ; " but I want you to know that — that long years ago — I — I — married." Miss Austwicke rose to her feet in surprise, and echoed the word — "Married?" " Yes, Honor. Don't — don't make a scene ; it 's no use — any words." " When, Wilfred, when ? " " In Scotland, sixteen years ago, when I spent the autumn in Dumbartonshire with Gertrude's brother." " Married ! when you stayed at Lord Dunoon's. Whom ? " repeated Miss Austwicke, still bewildered, and half suspecting her brother was delirious. " Isabel— but you'll learn her name there," pointing to the sealed envelope. " Brother, brother ! of what family is the lady ? " Something like the wandering ghost of an impatient smile flitted over the sight of the dying eyes as he answered — " Of the oldest family — the workers : a gardener's daughter — the gardener at Glower O'er."

" A gardener's daughter ? " gasped Miss Austwicke — " and you married her ? And you tell vie this ? " " Would to God I had told it long before —told it like a man to all the world ! I should not lie here with pangs of the spirit, that rack me more than the pangs of the flesh. I should not lie here telling my miserable, shameful, cowardly sin to one who, I fear, has no heart to understand my woe — no conscience to help me to set right the wrong I did." " Brother, what do you, what can you mean ? " " I mean what I say." He rose on his elbow with a strange access of strength, stretched out his hand towards the glass on the table, and, as Miss Austwicke involuntarily handed it, drank again eagerly, and re sumed — " Yes, it 's my misery — my curse that you will not see my sin as I now see it. Pride like yours made me shrink from avowing my marriage — made me cowardly and base."

" Wilfred Austwicke, even on that bed you have no right to say such words to me ! When, pray, was / cowardly or base ? " " Fear of the world and love of the world both work to sin. Bear with a dying man — a dying brother, Honor. After a brief delirium of passion— a young man's madness, that you cannot comprehend — in which I had made poor Isabel my wife, I stooped to the real degradation of deceiving her. I cannot tell you all the plan, but I led her to believe that I had been married before, and had a wife living, and that, therefore, she was not legally my wife." " You, Wilfred — you, an Austwicke, did this ? " " Yes, pride made me stoop to this deadly meanness — extremes meet, Honor. I shrank from owning my marriage, in the face of the aristocratic and wealthy marriages my brothers had made.

My humble bride would have shamed me with them and with you. Deference to man often means defiance to God. Yes, Honor, it does. I sent money by a sure hand, for Isabel wrote to me no more. I sent money for her and her children " "Children?" " Yes, my children ! Oh, that I could see them ! Oh, that my strength would hold out to crawl to them on my hands and knees. Surely, if they prayed for CAPTAIN AUSTWICKE'S REVELATION. 15 their father, the poor innocents — if tl py prayed, I might have some sense of forgiveness — something to cool the burning of heart and brain that maddens me ! " Miss Austwicke looked at her brother steadily, as his eyes rolled and his head moved restlessly from side to side. A conviction that greatly relieved her appeared to have entered her mind. " He is delirious," she whispered.

" Poor fellow ! it's all mere delirium." With the intense acuteness to which all his faculties were strung, he heard the purport of her whisper, and said, in a voice of piercing anguish, " I am not delirious, Honor ; it 's all true." " Hush, dear Wilfred. Don't excite yourself over a bad dream. How can it be true ? Children ? " " Twin children — a son and daughter, I tell you. I never saw them, except in dreams. How I hunger for them — mine — mine ! Oh, for life, a little longer life, to do something for them ! Oh, for a friend, who would help me in this bitter hour — -bitter — bitter — bitter ! forsaken of God and man ! " He sunk back and groaned deeply. Miss Austwicke visibly sh" ldered. " No, no, not forsaken," she said, sinking on her knees. " I do not, I confess, clearly comprehend what you tell me ; but if it will comfort you, I promise, if — if anything happens to you, to fulfil your wishes and intentions towards your children, certainly towards them, and — and your wife."