Merevale

Front matter

--$ ill 3=!§!sl :^vS!Kl '>'H. ?L#xfi2i-. * fi»-y k '.fryy-- JWOTE ' ' kS \JiiMRRL. ..-' ffi ■ V - -! t> i - ■ i,/ ..■: tx . V, 1 i.:.'l % E :; I U ' 'i ■ A a* ■ •- M ; hi '■' I 11 il a m i 3 '■ T ii- Ci' Sfr.'"ii S r- %•). . P ' - y -- ■ A m s_ ! J L I ' 1 '' iM > r-vf 5,_, 77 •^ Sh I - II o ; >f-V^ f :: i I : t- P . :! w, i' ' ? ' At idl ' t i'''l I 1 -?.' - 'l r : s> * m || ■ J; j: ti a. 'r : /?, t; « T — -" J • , ,-. »*: >_« .! . ffl ,! ,'.(• i MEREVALE MEREVALE r,v Mrs. JOHN BRADSHAW, AUTHOR OF "ROGER NORTH," ETC. " There is in man a Higher than Love of Happiness : he can do without Happiness, and instead thereof find Blessedness !" — Carlyle. LONDON : SWAN SONNENSCHEIN, Le BAS & LOWREY, TATERNOSTER SQUARE. 1886. PRINTED BY FRANK MURRAY, 9 AND II YOUNG STREET, EDINBURGH. CONTENTS. CHAI-TER PAGE I. Two Brothers 1 II.

Mr. Merevale's AVorries 9 in. With the Otter-Hounds 19 iv. Madame Delacroix 31 v. A Daughter's Promise 41 vt. Mat proposes Theatricals 49 VII. Hopes aud Fears 60 VIII. Lady Lightfoot Intervenes 69 ix. A Climax 81 x. The Strings and Pipes Club 92 II. A Sleeping Beauty 1°2 xn. Two Visits 112 xm. A Lock of Hair I2' xiv. John's Success 129 xv. John and Rose 13S xvi. Duty versus Love . . • • ■ ■ ■ ■ .1-17 xvii. A Broken Idol 154 xvin. A Discovery 1 7Q xix. Patience xx. Cross-Purposes xxi. Rose Returns Home 197 203 XXII. Conquered at Last 215 xxm. Disappointment VLLL CONTENTS. >. HAPTEB xxiv. The Break-up at Merevale 228 xxv. Forestieri 240 xxvi. A Hard Alternative 250 xxvii. Under Changed Conditions 264 xxviii. " For Better for AVorse " 276 xxix. Brought to Bay xxx. A Voice from tlie Past . . . . . . .303 xxxi.

True to Herself 312 xxxil. " Sweet Bells Jangled, Out of Tune aud Ha . . 322 xxxin. " Into the Silent Land " xxxiv. The News Reaches Merevale 33S xxxv. A New Dawn . xxxvi. A Runaway xxxvii. Once for All 367 XXXVIII. Michael cries, "Peccavi" 377 xxxix. Bitter-Sw-eet 384 XL. Forgetful of Self 390 XLI. The Silver Lining MEREVALE

Chapter I. Two Brothers

IT was spring-time ; spring-time also in the lives of three persons who stood upon a bridge which carried a country lane across the babbling stream below. Two out of the three were girls — apparently sisters, for their dark blue dresses were alike. The third was a young man, wearing a light suit of rough tw-eed and a coarse straw hat. He was leaning against the stone parapet of the bridge, and looking eagerly into the face of the taller of his two companions. " Then you promise to come, Rose," he was saying. "Yes, since Nesta wishes it so much," replied the one whom he addressed as Rose; "but," and her countenance assumed a half pathetic expression, " you both know how dreadfully tired I was last year." " Rut I will stay with you," he answered, persuasively, " and the carriage will never lie far off, so that I can take you to it at any time."

There are few faces to which the epithet beautiful can in strict truthfulness be applied ; though many people who looked upon Rose Merevale applied it to hers, and perhaps they were right. Her father called the girl his rosebud ; and her rich brown hair, her soft, brilliant complexion, her coral lips, gave a colouring that might not inaptly be compared for freshness to an opening summer rose. She was tall — considerably above the average height of A Tu'o Brothers. 2 woman — with every line of her figure full of grace, preventing her stature from attracting observation until it was compared with that of others. " AVe lost the carriage last year, John," she said, in answer to her companion's remark. "That shall not happen again," he replied, with an expression half serious, half comic. " I'll make Bates drop peas or bread crumbs along the road like another Hop-o'-my-Thumb, to show us which way he has gone."

" And possibly with the same result," remarked the other girl, with a clear, ringing laugh. " They would all be eaten up ! Rut, Rosie, the meet this time is in a better place for the carriage to keep withineasy distance." " Nesta is right ; it's a capital place for that," said John, eagerly. " The road runs almost parallel with the stream, and there is always enough noise with otter-hounds to guide Bates in the right direc tion. I saw Mat Wrigley yesterday, and he made me promise to persuade you to be there. He said he meant to have ridden over himself and asked the Squire to bring you, only he was too busy." "Too busy!" repeated Nesta, rather scornfully; "too busy! Doing what ? " " Too busy providing for our amusement," answered John, quietly. " You should not pretend to despise his labours, Miss Nesta, when there is no one who more enjoys the sport than you do yourself."

Nesta coloured. " I am a girl, and only go occasionally for fun — he is a man, and I like to see men doing real work." "Poor Mat!" said John, compassionately, "I do not suppose his father would allow him to do any real work if he wished." "He is content to do none," retorted Nesta. "Pray do not begin to argue again," pleaded Rose. "I have had quite enough of that, this afternoon." Nesta linked her arm within that of her sister, and a smile broke over her face. And Nesta's smile was one which altogether changed her countenance. When she spoke in contempt of Mat Wrigley something of severity and determination had contracted her brows. But now, as her lips parted, they showed two rows of even pearly teeth, and created deep dimples which played about the corners of her mouth, giving to it an attractive expression.

" Then we won't talk about Mr. AArrigley," she said ; " we will talk about Owen instead. Do you think he will go with us, John?" " Of course. Why should he not go 1" "He is so wrapt up in his music that I thought perhaps he would not care about an otter-hunt." " Hush ! " said Rose, raising her hand, " I hear the organ now." They all listened. At a little distance from the bridge stood a church, almost hidden by trees, some of which lifted their heads above its grey tower. And, as they listened, the strains of an organ, now swelling, now sinking, reached their ears. "He has been there long enough," said John, "I shall go and bring him away." " It is time that we were returning home also," remarked Rose. They left the bridge and followed a road which sloped gently upwards. Before the church was reached they came to a gate and gravel drive, which led to an old Elizabethan house.

They parted at the gate, and John walked a few steps further, crossed the churchyard, and entered the building. " Improvising again," he murmured, as he stepped inside ; and then he stood listening. And, as he listened, he forgot the organ, forgot even the individuality of the player, and seemed only to hear the cry of some eager soul that longed and strove after a something beyond and above itself. The strains were always solemn, but at times came soft and wailing, then they would grow more passionate, until their volume filled the nave and echoed from its vaulted roof. And in these more stirring chords he seemed to recognise a voice, calling men from out the land of dreams, and bidding them go forth into a world replete with toil and suffering. Then a serious ami resolute expression deepened on John's face — an expression which bespoke a harmony between his thoughts and the inspiring music.

At last he moved ; and, stepping nearer to the organ, stood for a moment where he could see the player. The hitter was a young liinii, singularly handsome. His brow was broad and white; his > hair fair and wavy ; and his delicate features gave evidence of a highly strung and sensitive nature. So entirely was he absorbed in producing the harmonies which were the expression of his inmost thoughts, that he heeded not the approach of another; and when John advanced yet nearer and laida hand upon his shoulder, he started, turned round ; while his fingers remained motionless upon the keys. "Go on, old fellow — I like it," said John. " You have broken the spell," replied the other, recalled from his dreamland. " I cannot think myself back into it again." "Then I am sorry to have spoken so soon. But you have played long enough ; and that wretched little urchin must be tired of blowing the bellows — I shall tell him to be off."

John passed to the back of the organ. "Here, Tim, you can go — Mr. Owen has done with you." The lad dropped the handle of the bellows, and came a step towards John. Then he stood still, looking red and sheepish. " You can go, I tell you," repeated John ; and he was turning away when the boy began to mumble some incoherent words. " Eh 1 " said John, " what are you saying "\ what is the matter 1" "Please, sir," blurted out Tim; ".Air. Owen said as he would pay me last time, and he's never done it yet ! " " Just like him," muttered Jolm ; then he asked, " how much does he owe you 1 " "Two shillin', with to-day." John produced the coins from his pocket. "Don't spend it all on toffee," he said, good-naturedly, as he dropped the silver into the boy's extended hand ; and then he returned to Owen who had closed the key-board, and was gathering his music together.

"Your blower will be striking work, ( (wen. You had forgotten to pay your just 'debts." " So I had ! and I know that poor Tim wanted the money, for his mother is ill ; " and Owen looked vexed. " It's all right, I have paid him now. Only don't forget that I have done so, and pay him twice over." Anil then the brothers — for brothers they were — left the church, and turned in the direction of the brid "What was in your mind, Owen, as you were playing just now 1 " " Did not the music tell you 1 " said Owen, raising his dreamy blue eyes to his brother's face. " If it did not neither can I. It is the only voice I have — without music I am dumb." " It told me something ; it spoke of unsatisfied longings. But, my dear fellow," John continued, with a quick change of voice and manner, " is it good for you always to be dreaming like that 1 AVould it not be more bracing for your musical and mental powers to spend your time in studying the works of some great master 1 " "I bad only just begun when you came in," said Owen, apologetically.

" I had been working hard at glorious old Beet hoven all afternoon. And that was it," he exclaimed ; " that was the very thing that started me off ! I began to think of his deafness and the terrible trial of it ; and then I thought how all human nature is hampered in .one way or another ; and how one feels something within that just eludes the grasp — a something impossible to seize and embody in verse or music, as one longs to do; and yet, if one could but give it utterance, it would be a voice able to raise and ennoble oneself and all who listened — and — and — so I played." " You dear old dreamer," said John, and he threw an arm round his brother's shoulder, and so, reaching the bridge, they stood and leaned upon the low stone wall. "Yes," said Owen, sadly, "I am a dreamer, and you will lie a worker, Jack;" and he looked into the other's face with an expression partly of envy and partly of admiration.

And that face was a strong contrast to his own. Jolm was considerably the taller of the two, for he was over six feet in height and his shoulders were broad and his figure was well proportioned. In all this he had the advantage, but not so when it came to beauty of outline and harmony of colour. Owen's features might have been chiselled in a sculptor's studio, while ■ of John were strongly defined and manly, but with no claim to be called handsome. Yet when he smiled, his smile was so genial that few of his friends ever troubled themselves to criticise John Daintree's looks. " A worker ! " repeated John, "yes, that is what I hope to be." And then both gazed silently on the scene before them. Directly to their front, the stream widened into a sheet of ornamental water, and, on either hand, parklike meadows sloped gently to its edge.

To the right — and not far off— stood Merevale Hall, a picturesque old place of Elizabethan date. Originally the building had formed a quadrangle round a courtyard, but of this only one side remained, in which was the wide and lofty archway formerly the entrance to the courtyard, but now bricked up and converted into a front hall. That part of the edifice which had weathered the destroying hand of centuries was in good repair, for Mr. Merevale, its present owner, had spent large sums on its restoration, when money was comparatively plentiful, and before he brought home his bride. Within a stone's-throw of the Hall, and nearer to the bridge, stood the church. And the grey stone of the church and the old brick-work of the house formed a pleasing contrast. To the left, and at about an equal distance from the water, was another house.

It was of smaller dimensions, built of brick with many gables, and sheltered by handsome trees. This was the Rectory ; where lived Mr. Daintree, father of the young men who were lounging on the bridge. Although the church was in part surrounded by the gardens of the hall, the living had passed out of the gift of the Merevale family. Almost two generations ago it had been sold, and Mr. Daintree was the second of his name who had filled the post of Rector. His eldest son John was to follow in the same path, take orders, and in due time succeed to the living. Owen's future career had not yet been determined, and for the present both young men were pursuing their studies at Oxford. A pleasant unruffled life had so far been the lot of the two brothers. A congenial home and easy circumstances had developed their power of making friends, and their somewhat divergent dispositions seemed to make each the complement of the other.

But a year divided them in age, and they had seldom been separ ated. AATith no other brothers or sisters they had always remained singularly attached to one another, had been educated at the same schools, and now were at the same college. Perhaps Owen's gentle and artistic nature made John feel for him something of the protecting affection that he would have experienced for a sister ; and, on his side, Owen looked up to John's stronger and more decided character with unbounded admiration and esteem. As they stood upon the bridge, any person who chose to study their faces, nay, their very attitudes, might have divined something of their different dispositions. Owen gazed with dreamy eyes on the scene so familiar to them both, yet ever changing with the changeful seasons, and never more charming than it would be when a few more warm spring days had opened the tree-buds which showed as yet but as tiny points of vivid green.

John also gazed awhile ; then bent down, and choosing a flat stone, sent it skim ming along the water. Once, twice, it touched the surface ; then bounded on to sink at last, leaving a ripple of ever widening circles to mark the spot. Owen watched until these died away ; and then he said, " I suppose you don't mean to come to Merevale when you are ordained?" " No indeed ! what would there be for me to do here % I hope the dear old dad may be equal to the care of the parish for many a long year. I must go to some large town, and learn what real work is. I should like to be under Canon Perceval at Bidminster. But 'tis a year yet before I go in for my degree, so there's time enough to think about it. Meanwhile I feel sometimes very much like a boy ;" and John picked up another stone, and sent it in the wake of the first.

" The girls have promised to come to the otter-hunt," was his next remark. " Nesta thought that you would not go. Apparently she believes that nowadays you have a soul above such trivial amusements." "Does she," said Owen. "Then she is wrong, for I certainly intend to go. And I will show her, too, that I have not forgotten how to run, for of course you will have to stay lagging behind with Rose." " You cannot expect every girl to run like Nesta," remarked John. "And if I have to take care of the Rose of Merevale there will be plenty who would willingly take my place. How lovely she is!" he continued, enthusiastically. "Each time we come home it strikes one more. I often wonder that she does not inspire your muse. A beauty and a musician born within a stone's-throw of one another, what could be more natural?

Tell me, Owen, have you composed no melodies to her beaux yeux '! " "Not one." " But surely you think her lovely ? " "Not to be compared to the mater, and for my part 1 admire Nesta more." " What an idea ! Nesta is one of the nicest girls possible ; but she is not like Rose." "No," replied Owen, quietly, "she is not like Rose." They left the bridge and walked toward their home. When they reached the garden they saw a lady gathering violets from a bed under the south wall of the house. The young men strolled thither, and hearing them approach she stood upright, aud turned her face towards them. And a lovely face it was ! Although a little past the prime of womanhood, not a grey hair was to be seen among her bright brown tresses, and her skin was still soft and delicate. But hers was a face whose beauty of feature was equalled if not surpassed by its purity of expression.

When she spoke her voice was low and musical. " Well, my sons, where have you been all afternoon ? " "I walked with Rose and Nesta to see an old pensioner beyond the Heath," answered John, " and Owen has been strumming on the organ. But, motherling," he added, "let me gather those violets for you — you will tire yourself." Kneeling down by her side he began to pluck the big czar violets from beneath their broad leaves ; and when he had picked a few he placed them in her ungloved hand. "Pretty little hand," he said, as he kissed it. "It was never made to do any hard work, not even to gather violets ! " "You silly buy,'' she replied, with a gentle laugh. And then John picked more violets, while Owen leaned against his mother with one arm thrown round her neck, and Mrs. Daintree looked what in truth she was — a proud and happy woman.

Chapter II. Mr

merevale's worries. THE great clock over the stables had just struck nine, warning Mr. Merevale to turn his steps towards the breakfast-room. He had been out of doors an hour or more, for it was his habit to stroll round in the morning, and visit his favourite horses. The stables were close to the house — almost touching it at one end, and it needed but a few strides to bring him to the front door. He stood for a moment on the wide flight of steps ; and his eye rested with pleasure on the fresh aspect of all things that bright spring morning. Standing thus he looked well fitted to be the owner of the venerable mansion, and the representative of a long line of country squires. Of old, a title had been held by the head of the family, and many a doughty deed had been achieved by flu- Barons of Merevale.

But, a break having occurred in the direct descent, the Barony had lapsed, and the property had passed thri nigh the female line to a certain Richard Stafford who had assumed tinname and arms of Merevale. Anel this tall handsome man, who stood upon the steps, was his grandson — Stafford Merevale. Like that of his daughter Rose his face was oval ; and his features were classical. His figure was almost as upright and active at fifty as it had been at thirty; and his hair hardly less bright in its brown tint than that of his daughter. In dress he was scrupulously neat, and his tout ensemblt gave evidence that he was by no means careless of personal appearance. At a first glance he looked the picture of a prosperous and happy man. But even now a little cloud came over his face, and he turned with a half-suppressed sigh to mount the steps.

He had a staircase to ascend before reaching the breakfast-room, for Merevale :i Hall had a peculiarity not shared by country houses of n modern date — all the living rooms were on the first story, while the basement was appropriated to domestic offices. A wide cor ridor ran the entire length of the building. Into this, along one side, opened room after room; while, on the other, windows looked out upon a flower garden which occupied the space where once had been the courtyard. Above, there was yet another story with a similar corridor, and a long range of sleeping apartments. It was to a pleasant mullion-windowed room of no great size that Mr. Merevale found his way. The dining-room was large and square, jutting out at right angles to the main building, and situated at the far end of the corridor.

But when the family were alone they preferred this smaller chamber which faced the west, and looked over the water toward the Rectory and its gardens which formed a boundary to the view. The girls were already there. Rose, in right of being the elder, was busy about the tea, and Nesta stood by a side table sorting letters and papers that had arrived by the early post. Mr. Merevale's face brightened as his daughters each came to him for their morning kiss. And in truth they formed a charming foreground to the walls of the old room. Rose was by far the more beautiful of the two. She was in fact a fairer likeness of himself. Mr. Merevale knew this, ami perhaps the knowledge did not diminish his pride in her beauty. But Nesta's earnest face always touched a tender chord in his heart. She was but six years old when his wife died, and the first time that the child was brought to him, when he sat bowed to the earth by his great grief, the sight of her golden hair and wondering blue eyes had made him turn away, and burst into one of those fits of weeping so terrible in a strong man.

But, afterwards, the likeness to her mother had brought its consolation ; though even to this day a passing expression on Nesta's face would cause Mr. Merevale a yearning, not to be controlled, for that other face which it recalled so vividly. "Father," said Nesta, when she had kissed him, "there are a great many letters for you this morning — business letters most of them; one from your London lawyers, and one from Aunt Clarissa. ' " Put them on one side, child, till after breakfast," said Mr. Merevale, a little testily. " Let me eat in peace. There, take them off the table. I don't want even to look at them — they spoil my appetite." "What," said Rose, "won't you read Aunt Clarissa's?" "No," replied her father, "it is sure to contain something to worry me. Pour out the coffee, Rosebud;'' and he took his seat at the table.

The girls knew his habits, and said no more ; but they had themselves each received a letter that morning ; and of these they felt at liberty to speak. " I have heard from Miss Ruth Mason, father," said Rose. " She gives a better account of our Miss Mason, and says that they hope soon to move her to the seaside." " I am glad to hear it, Rosebud, but I fear that she will never be other than an invalid, poor woman. She tried to go on too long, and the breakdown has, in consequence, been all the more complete. How many years was she with us ?" " Ten. Dear Miss Mason ! I wish that she could have stayed with us always." " Yes, she was a good soul ; and I expect few men, with two troublesome girls to look after, have been less bothered than I was whilst she was here. But, thank goodness ! you have done with governesses now!"

"Don't you mean to have anyone to teach me?" inquired Nesta. " Why, what do you want with more schooling, puss V' "I am dreadfully ignorant," she said, gravely, "and I was only seventeen last week. Most girls stay in the school-room until they are eighteen, and I know Aunt Clarissa thinks that I ought to do so. She said something of the kind the other day, in a letter to Rose." "Bother Aunt Clarissa," exclaimed Mr. Merevale. "I don't want you to be a blue-stocking, Nesta — you know quite enough already. But what have you got in your hand? it looks from here like Bertie's writing." " It is. And oh, father ! he says that his regiment will move to Deansborough next month. Won't it be delightful to have him so near? Sometimes the same regiment remains there for two years, doesn't it?" "Yes; and if his does so it will be first-rate.

He can get plenty of hunting from here next winter. I must look for another mount or two before then. By the way what were you telling me last night about otter-hounds?" " Didn't you understand?" said Nesta, eagerly. " We want you to take us to the meet at Eirswood on Monday. Mr. Wrigley's cousin has brought his hounds to Smethurst, and they are to hunt three days next week." "Monday," said her father, reflecting; "no, there's nothing to prevent me from taking you on Monday. But do you expect me to run along the stream like a four-year-old?" " Not unless you like, father. John and Owen are going with us. There are sure to be some old gentlemen in the rear who will keep company with you;" and Nesta laughed saucily. Breakfast over, the girls went to their various occupations ; and Mr. Merevale, at length gathering up the obnoxious letters, sought his private sanctum.

This was a cosy room on the ground floor, near the front entrance, and divided from the offices by swing ing doors. It was used for business purposes, and often for a quiet morning pipe. Pipe and tobacco were close at hand, and be took them up absently ; then, placing himself in an easy-chair he laid his letters — still unopened — on a table at his elbow. He appeared older now than he had done when with his daughters; and a strange, irresolute look, came over his face. At last, with a sigh, he took up the letters and opened several which were seemingly of no great importance — and, for the most part, were consigned to the waste-paper basket. Still, two remained — one a square envelope of the fashionable texture and colour of the day, with elaborate monogram, and addressed in ladylike characters — the other bore a clerkly writing, with the name of Penn and Simcoe, printed in neat, red letters on the flap.

Before Mr. Merevale opened the letter, his expression was not unlike that of a child who bas nerved itself to swallow a black draught or to place itself in a dentist's chair. He ran his eye quickly over the contents ; then he laid the letter on his knee with a long-drawn sigh of relief, and his countenance cleared as if by magic. Penn and Simcoe had written to inform their client that, according to his instructions, they had succeeded in effecting a mortgage on his Blackwater Farm. Mr. Merevale drew forth a pencil, and made some rapid calcula tions on the envelope, the result of which appeared to give him satisfaction. " That will set us right for some time to come," he mused. " And though I don't wish the old boy any harm, 'tis impossible that Uncle Netherby can last many years longer, and then we'll start fair again with his money.