In a New World

Front matter

BY MRS. HANS BLACKWOOD IN ONE VOLUME LONDON : HURST AND BLACKETT, LIMITED, 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 1894. All rights reserved. CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGE I. COMING SHADOWS ... ... ... 1 II. THE CLOUD WITH THE SILVER LINING... 14 III. IN THE LAP OF LUXURY ... ... 24 iv. ' there's nothing half so sweet in life' 32 V. ' AS love's young dream ' ... ... 43 VI. ' FAR FROM THE MADDING CROWD ' ... 55 VII. RETURNING HOME ... ... ... 75 VIII. A WOMAN OF THE WORLD ... ... 87 IX. ' UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE ' ... 93 X. FLEEING FROM SHADOWS ... ... 118 XI. 'IN POPULOUS CITY PENT ' ... ... 131 XII. IN SEARCH OF THE RUNAWAY ... 140 XIII. 'MUSIC HATH CHARMS '.. . ... ... 151 XIV. ' KIND HEARTS ARE MORE THAN CORONETS' 167 XV. THE SPELL OF THE SIREN'S SONG ... 177 XVI. THE GALLING CHAIN BROKEN ... ... 194 XVII. ' BE SURE TO BE OFF WITH THE OLD LOVE ' CONTENTS.

VI CHAP. TAGE XVIII. ' BEFORE YOU ARE ON WITH THE NEW ' 228 XIX. DISMISSED ... ... ... ... 238 XX. BACK AT EXTON PARK ... ... ... 250 XXI. A MISUNDERSTANDING ... ... ... 262 XXII. DAISY GOES ABROAD ... ... ... 268 XXIII. A CHANCE ENCOUNTER ... ... ... 277 XXIV. IN THE TOILS ... ... ... ... 286 XXV. OUT OF TRIBULATION ... ... ...

Chapter I. Comixg Shadows

' But who shall tell, when want and pain have crost The clouded light of some forsaken day, What germs of beauty have been crushed and lost, What flashing thoughts have woke to fade away ? ' The Hon. Mrs. Norton. It was a dull autumn day; the leaves of the sycamores had nearly all fallen, and strewed the short drive (avenue it could hardly be called) which led to Exton Park. The trees were so diminutive, that to an eye not accustomed to the stunted growths on the northern coasts of England, they would immediately have suggested the idea of Chinese trees, B whose branches, in the circumference of a flower pot, imitate those of the gnarled, knotted forest oaks. ' Park ' too — the place had nothing of that about it, excepting the name, for ' down of our country ' they call fields ' parks,' and a large one which lay in front of the house was nearly all the ' acreage which belonged to the mansion.' An iron railing separated the field from a few stiff flower-beds which fronted the windows.

The frost had blackened the dahlias, and nothing seemed to prosper except the box edging, which was both luxuriant and disorderly. Several iris, growing in spite of the east wind, stood on the grass, and were the only things which gave an idea of shelter about the house — a dark-grey stone building, with three heavy stone windows on each side the portico. The sea, some half-a-mile off, hardly formed a redeeming point in the landscape, seen as it was through the gaps in the low sand-hills, behind which were the ' golf-links,' but only temporary ones, for along the shore their size and shape often altered as the sea encroached, when every strong wind and tide covered the smooth ' greens ' with COMING SHA DO WS. 3 shingle, and the bright little scarlet flags were for ever being swept away. Flat fields, red-roofed cottages, a coal-pit in the distance, and the straight lines of the plantations, were the principal features of the country, which could be seen from the front windows of Exton Park — nothing picturesque or in the smallest degree interesting.

A girl was looking from one of the deep mullioned windows in the drawing-room, sometimes working, sometimes studying the land scape, with that expression of face which may betoken either deep thought or utter vacancy, one cannot always decide which. She rose as she heard the sound of wheels on the carriage drive, and then one saw that she was thin rather than slender, but she was well and strongly built. She was fair, very fair, and her grey eyes large and handsome. Her mouth too was rather large, showing a some what irregular row of pearly white teeth when she smiled. It was a sweet, bright, winsome face, on which the sun seemed ever shining, glint ing in the golden hair, kissing the rosy lips and peach-like cheeks, shooting his beams into the large wondering eyes, lurking in the dimples in IN A NEW WOULD. 4 cheek and chin, altogether making his home with her.

She went to the hall door, and met a tall, middle-aged man, with a face clean-shaven except for a well-tended moustache, the usual military adornment. Her voice was low and full as she welcomed her uncle, and asked for news in a general way, although she must have known that nothing very remarkable had iu all probability happened that day at Burton, the large manu facturing town where her uncle drove in most days to shop. ' Women are always insatiable about news ; I never knew such creatures,' answered Colonel Burgoyne, with an air of benignant superiority. ' No, I saw no one, and heard nothing ; met Bob Stanley twice in the street, that's all ; bought some mackerel cheap, they've had a great haul to day. Got seven for a shilling ; tell your aunt to have them all pickled, they'll save the butcher's bill.

But stop, Daisy, I am forgetting. I have some news for you.' 'Well, uncle?' ' Well, miss, I have heard from Charlie Herrick. You won't have him home yet ; I don't know but what it is as well. You are young enough in all conscience ; time enough, time enough,' and the Colonel smiled in a meaning sort of way. There was but little disappointment visible in Daisy's face, but fortunately her uncle was not observant, and besides, had his own opinions as to the nature, habits, and customs of girls, into whose dispositions he believed that he possessed a special insight. 'Here is the letter, and one enclosed for you; and now be off, my dear, for I have plenty to do before dinner.' Daisy Burgoyne slowly betook herself to her own room, and sat down leisurely to read her letter. Letters in this handwriting had never stirred up in her heart any feelings of love ; was it that they reminded her she was no longer free, or was it that she had no heart to be stirred into love ?

She was an orphan, and had but a childish recollection of either father or mother. She had lived at first with her grandmother, and at her grandmother's death had come to Exton. Five years had passed since, at fifteen, she had become one of her uncle's family. He had taken on him self even from the time that she was left an orphan all the material responsibility of a father. He had always cared in his way for her, her interests, if they did not in any way interfere with his own, self being ever his first consideration ; but he never suffered his wife to fail in any outward forms of affection towards his niece Daisy. Her father, the eldest son of a poor country gentleman, died soon after he succeeded to his property, worse than penniless. Whether the little money that yet remained to Daisy would ever be recovered for her seemed doubtful, very doubtful.

It was invested in collieries, from which it seemed inclined never to arise, and had all been muddled away in some inexplicable manner of which nobody could even desire to attempt an explanation. Nearly a year ago Daisy had become engaged to Captain Herrick, the man whose letter her uncle had just given her. Colonel Burgoyne and his wife were both on the matrimonial side. There was no other special vocation for her in view. Mrs Burgoyne's own girls were growing up (and growing up very plain, short, square, and uninteresting, like their mother), and it was more than urgent that pretty Daisy Burgoyne, with her sweet winning ways and graceful figure, should be removed from the family circle at Exton Park. This, with all the other little considerations which generally influence so largely great decisions, carried the day, and Daisy was told that she must accept Captain Herri ck's offer ; marriage, loveless or otherwise, must be her fate.

She opened her letter, a very uninteresting composition, with many desires for a speedy return, and some very dull particulars of the society of Cape Town and the customs and manners of the natives. It seemed to tell the tale of the writer's character — an upright, finikin handwriting, and in spite of the uprightness a something wavering and uncertain about it, like that of a school-girl. If he had not taken great pains it would have sloped and straggled untidily. There was little or nothing of love in it, only one or two set phrases on the subject, which, altered and transposed, were originally the same ; these generally appeared just before he signed himself — ' Yours most heartily and affectionately.' A few days before he joined his regiment, the 8th King's Own, and sailed for the Cape, an accident had brought his proposal for Daisy to a climax.

He had known her for nearly a year, but he had never ventured to tell her how much he loved her, or to ask her to be his wife. He would probably have gone away, and his declara tion have remained unspoken, had not Colonel Burgoyne one day, when they were sitting smoking in the garden, remarked that he did not know what the deuce he was to do with Daisy. He had made an unlucky speculation which involved the loss of part of her small inheritance, and he could not afford to keep her with six children growing up, expenses increasing every day, and income decreasing in alarming measure, with those dreadful collieries going to the bad. Captain Herrick felt his moment had arrived ; he told the Colonel how he loved Daisy Burgoyne. He had, besides his pay, some few hundreds a year of his own, and if the Colonel, as her guardian, would give his consent, he would try to win her love, which he did not feel at all sure of at present.

And so the matter was settled, and Colonel Burgoyne was really pleased. She could not have done better — so he thought — and if her father were alive he would be, or at all events ought to have been, satisfied. The Colonel had Daisy into his room for a few minutes' talk ; he told her all the advantages she would have in promising to be Captain Herrick' s wife, and all the dis advantages of refusing him, and after a little hesitation Daisy was talked into it. Of course her aunt, Mrs. Burgoyne, heartily approved, for Daisy had been rather an anxiety to her in many ways ; she was so tall, and took so many yards of stuff to make her a gown, which meant so many shillings more out of her slender purse than what she had to spend on her own dear dumpy girls. Mrs. Burgoyne was kinder to her than usual that evening, and sat chatting about her future prospects, which from a worldly point of view were fairly good, and Daisy felt that she had somehow grown taller and broader, and the flounces of her dress seemed to rustle consequentially along the passage as she went towards her room.

It is hopeless to attempt the description of a woman ; all that is most attractive in her beauty can be neither rendered by pen nor pencil, nay, not even by the boasted sac-simile of a photograph. Large grey eyes, deep, soft, winning; a colouring like the delicate pink of the inner petals of a moss rose ; silky hair, golden brown in the shade and a glorious hue in the sun ; a rounded outline of form, less that of the nymph than of the god dess, and the graceful yet dignified bearing of a queen — what is all this but a commonplace, good looking girl, defined in commonplace words as a botanist might define a flower ? Does it not utterly fail to paint that rarest and most dangerous combination, the ideal united with the physical type of womanly perfection ; the form that can alike win devotion and command respect; the beauty to dream of, to worship, and to caress ?

Daisy Burgoyne made a pretty picture as she sat half hidden by the red damask cushions on a sofa in the drawing-room at Exton Park. The morning after Captain Herrick had got permission to ask her to be his wife, the door was thrown open wide and he was announced. Daisy rose to meet him with just a shade of shyness about her. The proposal was soon made, without much demonstration or sentiment. Daisy listened silently — she rather liked being liked, everybody does. To be honestly and heartily made love to always carries some weight with it, even though the feeling be all on one side, and she felt a certain degree of responsibility at being the recipient of such an expenditure of deep feeling. It was altogether a new experience, a new sensation to her. She had lived in such a cold world. She did not say much herself; she was not quite sure if she cared for Charlie Herrick ; certain she was that she did not love him.

But her youth had not been an enviable one, and indeed her share of happiness in life was none of the largest, therefore she thought that life with any one else would be better than vegetating with her uncle and aunt at Exton. A young lady's first offer, like a young sports man's first partridge, combines the two very agreeable elements of novelty and success, nor does the one or the other devote much consider ation to the intrinsic value of the bird in the bag. Charlie refused to stay for the Exton Ball which was in prospect ; it was the one piece of dissipation, the only one ball in the year, and Daisy had rather looked forward to having him there. He could have stayed if his fidgety, punctilious love of order had not taken him to Portsmouth two days earlier than he really need have gone.

Daisy found that this her first wish was disregarded, and Charlie's energetic declara tion, ' that all through life she might do what she liked with him,' was, in point of fact, but a figure of speech. She was not in the least hurt, but the heights of responsibility upon which she dwelt the day before were somewhat lowered. Charlie set calmly forth on his three years' devotion to his country, well pleased and con tented with his lot. He was a matter-of-fact sort of lover, and attached no idea of insecurity to a long engagement. Aunt Charlotte would have regarded too hasty a marriage as absolutely indecorous ; with her narrow-minded ideas she thought all young people should really know one another thoroughly before they took the sacred vow, and Colonel Burgoyne, who had settled all things without consulting either of them much, had no idea of a woman not waiting three years, or even thirty, if her parents or guardians wished it. M

Chapter II

'HIE CLOUD WITH THE SILVER LINING. ' Why are we weighed down with heaviness, And utterly consumed with sharp distress, AVhile all things else have rest from weariness ? Tennyson. A few errant gleams of sunshine found admit tance through the small panes, and danced and flickered about — some on the bare walls, with only here and there a text or coloured print, and some on the faded carpet in Daisy's room, as the autumn breeze capriciously tossed the rustling leaves outside. One of the golden intruders fell across Daisy's often-washed white dress, and seemed to linger tenderly on the slim fingers that were holding her letter, which, when she had finished, she pushed impatiently away from her. When she lifted un her face it looked cold and distressed, yet even with such disadvantages the yellow sunbeams might have travelled far and wide before they found a sweeter and lovelier face on which to rest.

But the revelation of her beauty has yet to come to Daisy Burgoyne. As she stood up, pushing her wealth of hair carelessly back, and looked into her small mirror, she knew of course that she was beautiful, but she realized no more than the merest child what a potent power in this planet of ours — a power setting at defiance all other powers — such beauty could be made. She went hastily down to dinner, which passed off much as usual. Aunt Charlotte was occupied by an impartial examination of the shortcomings of Miss Dobson, the governess who taught the children French and music, and heard the eldest boy his declensions, though herself quite ignorant of the Latin tongue. Uncle George never talked when he had nothing to say, and was therefore silent. Aunt Charlotte was a short stout woman with a florid complexion.

In her youth it had been often compared to lilies and roses, but now, alas ! the roses reigned supreme, though at a distance, well dressed, she still made a show. She would have bullied her husband if she could, but as it was she fell back upon the children, servants, Miss Dobson, and Daisy, who, as she grew older, was gradually losing the dread she had once felt for her aunt. Mrs. Burgoyne was called a kind hearted woman; that is to say, she was kind wdien neither her self-love was touched nor her jealousy aroused ; easily flattered, and jealous of the affections of others, very spiteful, in a sancti monious, self-righteous manner if she conceived herself in any way injured, eager for authority, and always insisting upon giving everybody else advice. She was intensely limited, but possessed a simple, undoubting faith in her own capacity ; perhajjs she was right, for she was often called amongst her friends a most agreeable and superior woman. ' There is an invitation for you, Daisy, to stay at Eversholt Hall.

Mrs. Garside will be there ; they are not my style of people ; she is agreeable, I believe, but it is not the sort of agreeability which I like.' Mrs. Burgoyne said this with the air so many people affect when owning to the cleverness of others, with an air of reluctant defiance, when it intrudes itself upon them too evidently to be denied. Their manner seems to express : ' Yes — well — So-and-So may be amusing, and I dare say is. I could be amusing too if I liked, but I don't like.' ' I give Daisy leave to go,' said Colonel Bur goyne dogmatically to his wife. ' It is good for girls to see a little of the world — a little of the world — not too much.' Daisy was rejoiced ; here was emancipation from her gloomy life. She was really delighted at the prospect of her visit, she had so few pleasures, and going to Eversholt stood to her in the place of balls, flirting, and all such female diversions, for none of which she had the least taste, that is to say, she firmly believed so, but then so far in her life she had had little chance of trying.

Sir Henry and Lady Parker were the owners of Eversholt Hall. It was a fine old house, and stood on an eminence overlooking the wellc timbered park that sloped down to the sea. I say well-timbered, but only in the number of trees, certainly not their size, for nothing in the way of a tree ever grew higher than twelve feet in the bleak, cold sea air that blew across the hills of Blankshire. The Parkers, or rather Sir Henry, who was an old college friend of Daisy's father, had always taken an interest in the little orphan girl, and since Daisy had grown up generally asked her to stay with them at least once a year. So the question of Daisy's visit was settled, and the conversation returned to its usual monotonous course. One other person yet remains to be described, and the family party will be complete — Miss Gordon, commonly called Aunt Gordon, Colonel Burgoyne's aunt, and consequently Daisy's great aunt.

She was old and rich — very rich. Mrs. Burgoyne principally valued her for what use she might be to the children now, and what she might possibly do for them in the future. Colonel Burgoyne thought his aunt rather a tiresome old lady in her way, but still had a certain amount of affection for her ; and Dais}r, who was young and impulsive, did not very deeply regard her seemingly passive amiability — ' she was good and kind, but certainly very wearying occasionally.' If Aunt Gordon had only known what the three thought of her she would not perhaps have been so generous and civil. The large hampers at Christmas, with turkeys, Stilton cheese, and many other excellent viands, besides sundry clothes for each member of the family, these would have ceased to find their way to Exton ; but she did not know, and so they came each year with the most rigid punctuality, two days before Christmas Day.

She had just now asked Daisy to go back to London with her and pay her a visit, but such a needless, frivolous expense her aunt would not hear of. London was a bad place for girls, and she easily persuaded the Colonel that Daisy was not to go. 'Well, when I'm married you'll just ask me, aunt ? ' whispered Daisy in a defiant under-tone ; ' when I'm married.' 'Yes, my dear, I will; but you know matrimony cannot be all visiting, pleasures, and amusements,' said Aunt Gordon, reprovingly. ' Oh, of course not,' said Daisy. ' I mean to set up a little Exton of my own, a well-ordered paradise,' — mockingly — ' but I mean to have some fun, and I'll get an outing sometimes,' she added in the true North-country chant. ' Don't be foolish, my dear, and reckon upon marriage only as a means of ' ' Oh, all right, dear aunt, certainly not.

Shall I read to you ? I know your eyes are weak to night,' said Daisy, not wishing to have the sermon continued. ' No, thank you, my dear. I want to finish this stocking, and I cannot count the stitches when you read.' None of the party was more grateful than Daisy when bed-time came ; the evenings at Exton were more dreary and monotonous than the days. Aunt Charlotte was always occupied in mending the children's clothes, or knitting stock ings and socks for them. The Colonel went off to his den to smoke his pipe — not always one of peace, for there were certain financial difficulties which would always flutter through his brain when he sat down in his room alone. Daisy was left to amuse herself in the evenings as best she could. Aunt Charlotte had always more or less looked upon Daisy as a needless expense, as a needless trouble, and she could not hide from herself the fact that her niece wras growing into an exceedingly lovely girl, and consequently might be a certain anxiety.

When sometimes Daisy's spirits rose in childish mirth, they were the next moment crushed out of her, and she felt as though she must run away from it all somewhere — she knew not where. It seemed as if her longing could almost wrench from fate the arrears of life and love that were due to her. It was an undefined desire, this craving for happiness ; she honestly believed that mere freedom would satisfy it, and she knew she never, never could get it at Exton. Aunt Gordon went back to London, and the days passed away as many more had done before. Mrs. Burgoyne never came into the drawing-room in the morning, so Daisy had it all to herself, when not working or acting as a sort of vice-housekeeper for her aunt, who thought part of a young lady's education was to be taught to do the useful things of life.

This was the only quiet part of the day for Daisy ; in the afternoon she always had to take a constitutional with Aunt Charlotte, and a drive into Burton occasionally with Colonel Burgoyne was the only variation in her monotonous life. It was a very dull, comfortless existence that she led ; no wonder that she longed to get away from it. It was but a gloomy home for a young thing like Daisy to grow up in ; the cold, bleak rooms would re-echo drearily to her light, springy step, and she felt out of place. They did not want her there — they could not want her. She had never received any tenderness from either of them ; but her uncle had been kind to her in all material things, and she was burdened with a sort of remorseful gratitude towards him. She did not know always how to express her gratitude, and she constantly re proached herself for not loving him better.

He was an irritable, imperious man, something of a martinet, not enduring that one of his family should have an opinion of their own. Mrs. Burgoyne would sometimes assert herself, and then would ensue a conjugal dispute, in which the lady generally got the best of it ; — luckily these did not often occur. He was a curious man in some ways. Daisy's reserve and pas siveness did not always please him ; he would have taken contradiction better from her. She had the habit of being afraid of him, and all her efforts at approach only made her feel distinctly that they were far more familiar than intimate. She had no friends of her own age ; her only girl friend was a Miss Sawyer, who lived with her father about six miles from Exton ; but she was so patronizing, Daisy did not care to see much of her, and Aunt Charlotte considered herself ' County,' and did not wish to associate with the Burton society.

Their county friends were few and far between, so that no young life could possibly be much more wretched. She didn't expect letters by every rjost like other girls ; the coming of the postman never stirred her pulse in the least. She had no one to write to her except Charlie Herrick, and his letters never stirred up any feelings of excitement.

Chapter III. In The Lap Of Luxury

' A still small voice spake unto me, Thou art so full of misery, Were it not better not to be V Tennyson. It was a very different life at Eversholt Hall, and though only in the next county, you might well have fancied it another country altogether. The last days of September were going out with the rich tints of autumn and the sunny skies of June. The scarlet geraniums in the flower-garden surfeited the eye with their bright masses loading the shaven sward ; the tall hollyhocks reared their gaudy rosettes above a splendid confusion of verbena, petunia, anemone, and calceolaria spangled with spots of gold. The pendant fuchsias drooped in their last loveliness, and the sweet heliotrope exhaled her dying fragrance ere she sank to decay ; only the roses were past. All was left that could extort admiration, but the balmy scent that gives its dearest charm to the summer garden was gone with the summer prime.

The Hall stood rather low down on the side of a hill amid a lovely scene ; the old oaks grew apart one by one, dotting the undulating park, where the deer browsed lazily in the shade, and the white swans glistened on the burnished surface of the lake. The distant voices of the harvestmen came sweetly blending with the hum of insects in the sun-dried air, and the wood pigeon cooing softly in the leafy depths of the trees ; and ever and anon, smiting sweeter and sweeter upon the ear, sounded the chimes, striking faintly from the square tower of the far-away village church. It was a dear old place, with its red-brick wings and white portico, with all sorts of architectural incongruities. There was still sunshine on the hills opposite the house. The gentlemen had not yet come in from shooting, and Lady Parker and Mrs. Garside were sitting over the fire, in the midst of a long and intimate conversation.

Dress and sentiment, intellectualities and actualities, people one culti vates for pleasure and those you are obliged to know ; all these were talked over and despatched in that quick, womanly way, where one word must explain the whole. What can the weaker vessels do when left to follow the devices and desires of their own hearts; what but enlarge upon the follies from which, happily, they are exempt ? Evelyn Garside was not pretty in the strict acceptation of the word — not pretty, if regular features are all that make the beauty which dwells the longest in our recollection ; but a thousand pretty women have faded from my memory, while this one, with her faults and her graces, her enthusiasm and her worldliness, her simplicity and her vanity, is still before me. She was fair, if not ' divinely tall,' though enemies would have called her colouring fade ; but no one who had ever seen her face change as she told a thrilling story, or felt her smile when she wished to please (and it was her wish pretty often), could have thought her so.