Roger North

Front matter

VOL. BY MRS. JOHN BRADSHAW. VOL. III. LONDON : W. SWAN SONNENSCHEIN AND CO., PATERNOSTER SQUARE. -1885. Printed by Hazell, Watson, & Viney, Limited, London and Aylesbury. CONTENTS. VOL. III. CHAPTER PAGE I. IN PLENO — IN NUBIBUS .... I II. TAKEN BY SURPRISE 20 III. LADY ISAAC'S STORY 4 1 IV. CALLED TO ACCOUNT 64 V. A PARTIE CARREE 80 VI. SIR LEOPOLD'S HEART . . . .91 VII. MAPLE PLACE 108 VIII. CHE SARA, SARA 1 26 IX. AN OLD HOME — A NEW TROUBLE . . 1 44 X. MRS. NORTH RELENTS . . . . 1 63 XL KATE'S VISITOR 181 XII. AT LAST 200 XIII. RE-UNITED 2l6 XIV. UNTIL DEATH

Chapter I. In Pleno In Nubibus

Within the drawing-room of a country house, situated in the south of England, was assembled a family group. The room was long, though somewhat narrow, and lighted at each end by deeply-mullioned windows. Originally there had been two rooms, but these had been thrown into one, and were now only separated by wide folding-doors. Though early in September, the day had turned chilly ; for rain had fallen all the afternoon, and a fire looked pleasant and season able. Outside, the garden, as seen indistinctly through diamond panes, appeared grey and gloomy ; but within the firelight blazed and sparkled, casting bright reflections on the polished woodwork, and giving a ruddier glow to the rosy faces and shining hair of the children there assembled. VOL. III. i It was between the hours of five and six, a time which with many families is emphatically the children's hour.

Near the fire sat the mother. She held a three-year-old girl, blue-eyed and golden-haired, in her arms; while a sturdy boy, a year or so older, pressed his eager face against her shoulder. Both the children were looking at the gaudy pictures in a volume which the mother held ; both were listening with the deepest interest to the adventures of" Puss-in-Boots," as though they had not heard them twenty times before. Beyond the open folding-doors could be seen another group. Seated on the floor was a girl of barely twelve, and by her side a toddling baby brother. With one hand she built towers of bricks, with the other held him back, until screaming with joyous laughter he escaped her grasp, and in a moment his mischief-loving hands had levelled her structure to the ground. In the same room as the mother other members of the family were gathered round a table — two school boys, a girl of ten, and a younger boy.

These were occupied with a race game, and the mother looked up from time to time when their voices grew noisy over some piece of good fortune or the reverse. By-and-bye the eldest boy, tired of the game, and leaving the rest, came and flung himself upon the hearthrug at his mother's feet. " I say, mother, will Aunt Agatha be back before we return to school ? " " I am afraid not, dear." "What a bore!" said the boy, rolling over on the rug. " She promised that she would help me to arrange my stamp book, and lots of things. The girls are no good for any thing of that sort. When shall you hear from her, mother ? " " To-day perhaps. There may be a letter by the afternoon post." " Oh, mamma, don't talk to Ralp, please go on," said two little eager voices. So Mrs. Maxwell resumed the interrupted story ; and Ralp, after rolling about discon tentedly for a while, suddenly thought he would go and see if the post had arrived.

He was absent some ten minutes, and returned with a leathern bag in his hand. Meanwhile, the nurses had taken the three youngest children away, and the eldest girl had joined her mother. Ralp sat down again on the hearthrug, un locked the bag, and proceeded to sort M:he letters. " One — two — three — for you, mother," he said, tossing them towards her. " Ah ! here's another — four, and that is Aunt Aggie's writing. Do open it first, and let me know which day she comes home. Here, Lizzie, get out of the way, and let the mother read in peace." " I want to know just as much as you do," said Lizzie. " It will be horrid if she is not here when Miss Sharp returns. You don't know how cross Miss Sharp always is the first few days. She says it is low spirits because of leaving home ; but if any of us were like that it would be called nothing but ill-temper.

But when Aunt Agatha comes and talks with her, she is never half so disagreeable." Mrs. Maxwell had opened her sister's letter. After reading a few lines she uttered a cry of surprise. '• What is it, mamma ? what is the matter ? " cried Lizzie. ' Be quiet, Liz, can't you ? " said Ralp, in a low tone, and giving his sister a warning kick. "Don't you see it is something which makes the mother cry ? " and with a boyish, though delicate, consideration, he turned away. But Lizzie kept her eyes fixed on her mother, who presently looked up, smiling through her tears. " I suppose I may as well tell you children at once — Aunt Agatha is going to be married." " Going to be married ! " cried Lizzie and Ralp in chorus, so loud that the other children left their game and gathered round. " Aunt Aggie going to be married !

" was then repeated in varying tones, but with an unanimous groan of disapproval. " Who is going to marry her ? " asked Ruth, the younger girl. "Mr. Leslie, a clergyman ; none of you have ever seen him." " Shall we have to call him uncle ? " inquired little Cyril, with a solemn face. " Yes, of course,1' answered his mother, smiling. " I don't care, I never shall ! " cried Ruth, vehemently; " I know that I shall always hate lm. " You silly girl, much he'll care ! " said Ralp, scornfully. " But upon my word it is a shame. I never thought Aunt Agatha would want to get married, and leave us all. I thought she had grown too old for that sort of thing." " I am afraid you are all very selfish children," said Mrs. Maxwell, reprovingly. "You seem to think that Aunt Agatha was only made to be a slave to all of you.

Ah ! she has learnt here to be so unselfish, that she always thinks of other people's wants and little of her own. No wonder some one has found this out. Dear Agatha ! how I shall miss her ! But no one better deserves a happy home." And thus was the news of Agatha's betrothal received in the house where she had so long lived. But to return to Belton. Leslie found no opportunity to tell Roger of what had passed between himself and Agatha until the next day. Other visitors were staying at the Hall ; and Roger, singularly grave and preoccupied, failed to see that his friend had something of importance to communicate. Leslie was obliged to leave directly after breakfast, but he eagerly accepted Roger's offer to drive him to the station. There was no groom in the back seat of the dog-cart, so they could talk unrestrainedly ; and Leslie only waited until the lodge gates were left behind.

" North, old fellow, I want your congratula tions — I am engaged to be married." Roger turned, and looked him in the face, almost dumbfounded with astonishment. " Married, Leslie ? you ! " " Yes, why not ? " said Leslie, colouring and laughing. " Well, you do astonish me. But to whom ? do I know the lady ? " " Of course ; who should it be but your cousin Agatha ? " " Agatha ! How thick-headed I am ! Why, Mrs. Stephens said as much only yesterday, and I would not believe her. But since it is true, I can only say that I am heartily glad," and Roger gave his friend a cordial hand grasp. "Well, no two people could be better suited. It is the best news I have heard for a long time. But you have taken me completely by surprise. When did you settle matters ? " " You gave the desired opportunity," said Leslie, with a quiet smile, " by leaving us yesterday in that unceremonious manner.

I won't find fault, because I was extremely grateful for the chance ; but what made you run off in such a hurt-y ? " " I — oh ! I heard some sad news about a friend," answered Roger, with an effort, "and it drove everything else out of my head." He paused a moment, and then continued, " I apologized to Agatha last evening, but never guessed that my apology was so little needed. In fact, now I think of it, she was so confused and incoherent that I wonder I did not suspect something. But tell me, have you been think ing of this long ? " "Yes and no," said Leslie, growing serious. " I began life rather resolved never to marry. I thought marriage might interfere with my work, and the resolution cost nothing, for I had no desire to break it, never, in fact, until I met your cousin, now some years ago.

Then my resolution was put to the test, and I found myself beginning to think of her as I had thought of no other woman. We met several times, and the feeling deepened, but I believed it was only on my side. I thrust it from me, and was glad we were not thrown too con stantly in each other's society, for I was foolish and blind enough to think that I could order my life for usefulness better than it was being ordered for me. But when we met here last winter, by no seeking of my own, I began to think differently. Gradually it came home that I had no right to refuse the greatest earthly blessing that man can have. We cannot look into the future, we cannot tell what lies before us, and foresee as little whence our helps as our hindrances are to come. So," concluded Leslie, with a smile, " I gave up trying to be over wise, and am likely, in consequence, to meet with a reward richer than I deserve."

" Indeed, it is a step that you will never regret. Agatha is one of those women who will always be a help rather than a hindrance to her husband. Why, Leslie, just think what she will be in your present parish ! " " Yes ; my asking her at all looks like an arrant piece of selfishness." " You will be made to think so, I can tell you, when you face the Maxwells." Then Roger half pulled up his horse. " But why are you going away in such a hurry ? Had you not better return with me now r "Oh no, I can't; but may I come on Mon day night ? " " Of course ; you are always welcome." Roger had a solitary drive home. And on reaching the grounds he turned straight into the stable-yard. He gave the horse into the charge of a groom, and was walking towards the house, when he heard a boy's voice raised in loud and angry tones.

" Bring the pony out at once, you mean hound ! I will have him out, I tell you." Roger turned into the stable whence the voice proceeded. With his back towards the open door was Charlie North. He had evidently just un loosed a pony from its stall, and had been stopped by a stable-boy some years older and bigger than himself. The latter had gained the pony's head, and was keeping Charlie off. The pony, with head back and snorting nos trils, was startled by the scuffle. The stable boy caught sight of Roger, and tried to silence Charlie by a significant gesture. But Charlie was in a passion, and heeded not. " I tell you I will have him out ! I shall be master here some day. I wish I were your master now, and then see if you wouldn't obey me a little quicker!" Roger stepped forward, and laid a hand upon the boy's shoulder.

"What is the matter, Charlie? What is all this about ? " Charlie started, turned crimson, and hung his head in silence. The groom answered more readily, — " Please, sir, Mr. Miller said as Bobby weren't to go out again till he were shod, and Master Charlie there wouldn't take no heed to my telling him, and wanted to have him out." "All right, Jim; fasten the pony up," said his master, quietly. Then he led his cousin away. When they were out of hearing, he said, gravely, — " I am sorry to hear you speak so rudely to a servant who was only doing his duty. If I am not here, you must attend to what Miller says about anything in the stables." "Very well, I will." Then the boy looked up half shyly at Roger's grave face, grew red again, and asked quickly, — " Are you angry with me for what I was saying when you came in ?

" " No," said Roger, kindly, " not angry, only sorry that any foolish people should have put such ideas into your head. Of course were I to die childless this property would become yours ; but nothing can be worse for you than to grow up with expectations which may never be fulfilled. I may marry, and have sons of my own. But in any case, Charlie, I wish you always to look upon me as an elder brother. Only, I would have you remember that you have your way to make in life. The future depends upon your own exertions." " I know," said Charlie, hanging his head. " I would never have said that, only I was in a passion. And," he added, with a burst of boyish affection, " I don't wish such a thing in reality, for it could not be until — until you were dead. You are so kind to me, of course I don't wish that."

" No, I never dreamt that you did, Charlie." They walked on in silence for a minute, and then the boy began again with some vehemence, — "When I get into a passion I am always saying things that I don't really mean ; and I can't bear that you should think me such an ungrateful fellow. Since I was here last Christ mas, and you talked to me, I have tried to work harder at school, and I will when I go back, if it is only to show that I intend to get on by myself." " Quite right, my boy," said Roger, with approbation ; "there is no way by which you can please me better. I want to see you do well, Charlie, and have reason to be proud of you. Have you thought seriously yet of what we talked about last Christmas ? Are you sure that you prefer the army to any other profes sion ? If you do, it may make a difference in your course of education."

" I have quite made up my mind. I shall never change," answered the boy, decidedly. And they reached the house. Mrs. North had learned from Agatha what Roger had heard from Leslie, but she had been far from receiving the news with the same cordial approval. One of the causes of her attachment to Agatha lay in the fact that in years gone by Agatha, then a mere child, had been the special pet and plaything of her two soldier sons. When the death of first one and then the other had nigh broken the mother's heart, Agatha's deep, though childish, grief had created a powerful link of sympathy between them. On rare occasions she spoke of these two sons to Agatha, and it was to her alone that she ever did so. Hence it pleased Mrs. North that Agatha did not marry, and she looked upon her as almost consecrated to their memory.

This was one of the deeply-rooted feelings in Mrs. North's reserved nature which she revealed to none. Agatha was perfectly unconscious of its existence. To her it only appeared natural that the mother should speak at times of her dead to one who remembered and had loved them. Therefore she was per plexed and grieved at the cold reception her news received. Her affectionate nature was pained, and the first few days of her new-found happiness were not without alloy. But when the following Monday brought Leslie, all this was changed. His happiness was so radiant, he was so obstinately blind to any coldness on Mrs. North's part, that the latter became ashamed of her former feeling, and brought herself to look upon Agatha s marriage with some approach to cordiality. From the members of Leslie's family Agatha met with a warm reception.

One and all rejoiced that their brother had found a wife in every way suited to share his life. They cared not that she brought no dowry. Leslie's means were ample, though but a small portion was spent upon himself. And so it came to pass during the autumn that Roger North and his mother were present at two marriages. The first was celebrated with much splendour. For the wealthy baronet's only daughter was not allowed to wed with the equally wealthy Viscount Loraine without all suitable dcldt. The beauty of Constance Erskine was rendered yet more dazzling by the magnificence of her bridal satin, and lace, and diamonds. Some who were present regarded Roger with no small measure of commiseration. There were still whispers afloat that he had been a rejected aspirant to his cousin's hand. Little did they guess that the marriage gave him unmixed satisfaction.

He was sincerely attached to his uncle and aunt, and now he was at liberty to renew his intercourse with them on the old pleasant terms. The second marriage was that of Leslie and Agatha, and took place from the Maxwells' house. Though very simple, this was the one with which Roger felt far more in harmony. Who could look on the earnest faces of that bride and bridegroom, as they knelt before the altar, and doubt that, come weal, come woe, they would ever be each to the other a solace and support ? Agatha Leslie left the house where she had been the selfforgetful sharer of the joys and sorrows of others to become, in the home of her husband, a centre of sunshine, cheering and warming all who came within her gentle influence. No bride could go forth to the fairest of earthly homes with a gladder, happier heart than she carried with her to that smoke-begrimed parsonage.

What mattered it that the atmosphere without was murky and black, when all was so bright within ? And the happiness of Leslie and Agatha but made them tenderer to the blemished lives of those among whom they laboured. Roger still continued to give his help in the night-schools, and to him there were no pleasanter hours in the week than those which found him under the Leslies' roof. His was a nature which experienced the keenest pleasure in contemplating the happiness of those it loved. No self-pitying comparisons rendered the sight of his friend's wedded joy a source of pain. If the unselfish have a double portion of sorrow to bear in sharing that of others, so, too, they find an equal compensation in the joy of those around them. The autumn and winter months had passed. Spring came with its new life and promise of fertility, and still there was no intimation of Kate's return.

All these months none knew how Roger yearned to see her face, to hear her voice once more. When he had resigned himself to the thought of a lonely life — lonely in the sense that it would never know the sweetest of domestic ties — he had quelled all such longings.- But with the knowledge that he might cherish hope, these longings came upon him with redoubled force. At times he could hardly subdue the impulse which urged him to go and seek Kate in her sister's distant home, pour out the story of his love, and implore her to let it bring what comfort and brightness it might to her saddened life. Then came reflection ; and he knew how vol. in. mad such a course would be, and how likely to frustrate the very end that he most desired. No ! he must wait — wait patiently until time had laid a healing hand upon wounds which as yet bled too freshly to be stayed by another tale of love.

Wait, until some time in the distant future ; when, maybe, she would listen to the wish that her father had once breathed ; and the voice of the beloved dead would return to lend to him its powerful aid. For the first time he dwelt upon the fact that Kate had believed him to be engaged to his cousin. Deeply he mused over the significance of that belief. Was it possible that she might have loved him until she believed his troth plighted to another ? The thought gave birth to a great joy. No one year of Roger's life had ever seemed so long — until late summer came, and once more the harvest had ripened in the field. Then at last he heard news which made his heart beat quicker and his pulses throb. Kate was coming home ! Until this date Mr. Beaumont had written repeatedly, but in vain, to urge her return.

At last, the Ramsays had joined their influence to his. Mary, though loth to part with her sister, had become uneasy about her health. Sorrow had left upon Kate an apathy and unwillingness for exertion, and Mary hoped that were she removed from the scenes which had such sad associations the elasticity of youth would re assert itself. It happened that the Ramsays were anxious to send their two eldest boys to a school in England. Mary persuaded Kate that she would never be easy were they to make the long voyage all alone, and begged her to accompany them. To this plan Kate had at length consented. The sisters looked forward to no long separation ; for George Ramsay intended to return home so soon as he could put things in train, and leave a capable manager to take his place on the estancia. And so, while the leaves in their autumnal glory still hung upon the trees, Kate was on her way to England.

Chapter II. Taken By Surprise

One November afternoon, Mrs. Vale was very busy about the house in Portland Place. As a matter of fact, she had not much to do, as everything was in the most perfect order ; but she found it an impossibility to sit still. Each room was visited again and again. Not a single detail escaped her critical eye. Yet on retiring to her parlour and sitting down, as she thought to rest, some doubt would arise whether all was just as she wished it to be ; and her tour of inspection was recommenced. Of all rooms in the house none appeared to give her more thought than one of the prin cipal bedrooms. Nothing could be fresher and brighter than its aspect. The chintz hangings were new and tasteful ; choice flowers were arranged upon the toilet table ; a fire burned cheerfully in the grate — the room bore every sign of preparation for some loved and honoured occupant.

It was the hour of four when Mrs. Vale stood looking round with eyes that saw none too clearly. The good woman had aged since the days when she was the rector's able helper at Belton. Attacks of rheumatism during the past two winters had caused her movements to be more stiff and angular than ever. Her face was thinner, sharper, redder. " Oh," she would often say, shaking her head, " I'm getting old, I shall only be fit to lie on the shelf, soon. The old woman won't be of use much longer." More than once she had spoken to Mr. Beaumont of a desire to leave his service, and make her home with a widowed sister ; but he would not listen to such a proposal. " I'm no manner of use to you now, sir,' she said. " Yes, you are, Mrs. Vale. As long as you can keep the books and go round the house to overlook the other servants you are of the greatest use.

You must stay where you are unless you want to quarrel with me." And so she. stayed on ; and to-day found her still there, with a heart divided between joy and sorrow : joy at the thought that the child who had made the sunshine of her later years would that night sleep once more under the same roof ; sorrow because she was returning a young and childless widow. " Ah ! " mused the old nurse, gazing round, "it is just three years since I was preparing the first time for my poor darling in this house. It wasn't all sunshine for her then, with her dear father lately dead, and she leaving the old home. But those things must be, and I hoped that a happy life lay before her. To be sure, I hoped and prayed for that still when she went from here a bride. Such a handsome, fine young gentleman as Mr. Ferrars was, and so nice spoken !

Who would have thought that he would turn out so ill ? Ah ! it must nigh have broken her tender heart ; and losing the precious baby too. If we could only have had the little lamb here it would be different. Ah, well ! 'tis the Lord's will, and we must not murmur. Dear child ! I wonder if she'll think as much of her old Mamsie now as she used to do. But I'm a foolish, jealous old woman, or I shouldn't doubt it, when I have all the dear letters, which she has never forgotten to write to her old nurse." Then Mrs. Vale gave the fire one last stir, and went downstairs. She took up some mend ing which lay on the table, but her fingers so trembled that the needle would not move as she desired ; and, laying the work aside, she sat still with hands folded on her lap. Now and then her lips moved, and the indistinct words which fell from them sounded not unlike a prayer.

A loud ring of the bell, followed by a hurried movement in the house, told that the travellers had arrived. She rose and went upstairs as quickly as her shaking limbs permitted. The hall door was already open. But suddenly she felt cold and faint. She could advance no farther, and hid herself behind a sheltering door. Mr. Beaumont had been to Southampton to meet his niece ; and now, when she alighted from the carriage, he drew her arm within his own and pressed it kindly as they entered the house together. " Welcome home, dear child ! " he said, in a low tone, as they crossed the threshold. Mrs. Vale came forward, and dimly saw advancing the black figure. She steadied her self to curtsey low, but in a second two arms were round her neck, and the sweet voice that she loved so well was whispering in her ears, — " Dear, dear Mamsie! how glad I am to see you !

No ! her child was not changed in anything that made her dear to the old nurse's heart. One morning, a few days later, Kate sat alone in the drawing-room, her work and book un touched upon the table. She was dreaming — dreaming of the past, the present, and the future. In these early days of return to her uncle's house there was much to make her think, much to give rise to a comparison between what was and what might have been. Such thoughts must ever be begotten by the sight of a familiar place, unchanged itself, while the change in heart and life of the beholder is greater than that upon the shifting sandy shore after ocean's tide has come and gone. Morbidness formed no part of Kate's nature. She did not intend to pass her life in mourning over vanished hopes ; and even now she was trying to see all that was bright and happy in the life before her.

One cause for true happiness had already cheered her, and that was the altered relations between her uncle and herself. The cordiality with which he welcomed her return was genuine; the regret which the circumstances following her marriage had occasioned him was of no evanescent character. He could not do enough to show his affection and solicitude, and was surprised to find what pleasure this new interest added to his life. He had been much concerned by her delicate appearance, and to see how thin her cheeks and how slender her hands had grown. Already he had taken her for advice to an eminent phy sician, and this morning had gone to consult with him again. There was no doubt she did look sadly delicate. She wore no widow's weeds, but the heavy folds of her black dress, with no ornament to relieve its severe simplicity, made her appear taller and slighter, and rendered her fair hair and white skin still more pale and colourless.