Robert Lynne. A novel

Front matter

LONDON: ROBSON AND SON9, PRINTERS, PANCRAS ROAD, N.C % H.ob.1. BY MAEY BEIDGMAK IN TWO VOLUMES. YOL. I. LONDON: TINSLEY BROTHERS, 18 CATHERINE ST., STRAND. 1870. [AU rights of translation and reproduction reserved.] CONTENTS OF VOL. I. — »MS-H— CHAP. PAGE i. Hampton ...... i n. Me. and Mrs. Campbell . . .n 111. Rose and her Mother . . . -23 iv. A Morning Walk . . . -39 v. Robert cogitates . . . . .66 vi. Uncle Charles . . . . -79 vn. Sunday Morning . . . . -97 vm. Sunday Evening . . . . . 113 ix. A new Arrival . . . . -127 x. Bertie introduces Rose to Margaret . 147 xi. A little Dinner-party . . . .. 162 xii. Differences of Opinion . . . 1S4 xm. Miss Gladwin makes a Discovery . . 203 xiv. The Plot thickens . . . -225 xv. The Discovery confirmed . . -239 xvi. Miss Gladwin makes two Visits . -255 xvn. Rose and her Father . . . .283 xviii. Suspense ROBERT LYNNE.

Chapter I. Hampton

'AMPTON is without exception the very dullest watering -place on the coast of England. Placed near the mouth of one of the largest rivers, and almost within sight of a considerable sea-port town, it has just escaped being of any importance ; and at the same time, blessed with a healthy bracing air, and within a few miles of a fashionable watering-place, it has just failed to achieve any distinction as a sea-side resort. It has certainly been a most un lucky and unhappy town ; but it has most gal lantly struggled against the difficulties of its VOL. I. B TvOBEKT LYNNE. position : twice has it tried to become famous, and twice has it been defeated by Fate. First it strove to rival a large oyster town, and started a fishery of its own ; but circumstances, or more likely its own horrible oysters, caused that to fail, and nothing now remains of the company that began with a set of fine offices and a most magnUoquent prospectus.

Then it determined to become a fashionable watering-place, and the last failure was even more lamentable than the first. Nature had blessed it with a fine air, a beach, and what more could be required ? Certainly the Hamptonians aUowed that there was one drawback, but so immaterial, that they did not permit it to interfere with their speculations, and it was this : instead of the fine sands stretching along the shore for mUes that Sandgate, its rival, boasted, Hampton could show nothing at low tide but a long desolate-looking sweep of black mud. Bnt this was not sufficient to damp the ardour of the Hamptonians ; they meant to be fashionable, and they meant to build a fine town. If visitors would not come, it was HAMPTON. their bad taste, and they were to be pitied — certainly not the fault of the place.

So a speculating builder (a Hamptonian) set to work, and a fine town was designed, squares laid out, several cres cents, two or three churches, a grand hotel, club, and baths. AU looked well on paper, but the result was not altogether satisfactory. As long as his money lasted, the builder went on swim mingly. The grand hotel and baths were finished, and one melancholy stucco crescent ; but there it ended. One or two visitors came down, and the Hamp tonians' spirits rose ; but the visitors soon went, and never returned. They said it gave them the blues, that the black mud was not pleasant to walk on, that the town was dull, and that the un finished houses gave the place a dreary and woe begone air. After that, Hampton began graduaUy to sink ; the builder was ruined and committed suicide; the grass grew in the place where the principal square was to have been; and sheep were turned into the half-built churches.

StUl there was a certain T.OBERT LYNNE. 4 amount of life circulating in it, and sometimes for a month or two in the summer it would start into activity, when a few invalids came clown recommended by their doctor, or some persons who, having large famUies and small means, were glad to go to a place where they could live economically. But unhappy indeed was the fate of those who ven tured to visit Hampton; for on their arrival the stagnant life of the town was stirred up, and there arose, eager for the conflict, the spirits of envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness. 'Who were they? Where do they come from ? Are they married ?' Nay, even to the minute inquiry as to what they had for dinner, did the Hamptonians descend. If any story, however ill-founded, could be discovered that was not to the credit of the un happy visitor, how rejoiced were the Hamptonians ! how they went spreading it amongst themselves! and if they once got on the subject, no reputation was safe against them.

Facing the sea was a row of houses, with small gardens attached, the gardens being divided from one another by a low wall covered w-ith creepers, HAMPTON. just high enough for the persons in them to hold converse across the said walls; and at the bottom of each garden was a gate leading into a dull road, on the opposite side of which stood a row of yet unfinished houses. These houses were called St. Dunstan's Cottages, and were occupied partly by residents, and partly by those sea-side harpies, lodging-house keepers. At the end of the row — there were not above a dozen houses — was a stone house surrounded by a gar den, standing apart from the cottages, with some what of a consequential and important air. Here lived the doctor ; and farther on, and turning to the left and passing by the church and the schools, stood the rectory, a pleasant-looking house, with a gay little garden attached.

In St. Dunstan's Cottages lived the principal independent residents of the place, who were thoroughly convinced that Hampton was the queen of watering-places, and that at St. Dunstan's Cottages was to be found the creme de la crime of sea -side society. They visited one another, and dined amongst themselves, and from these houses the scandal against any one was first heard. In one of these (at No. 2 St. Dunstan's Cottages) lived a maiden lady of independent means, named Miss Gladwin ; of age very uncertain, of temper more uncertain stUl, in person thin, wiry, and having a wintry aspect altogether. Miss Gladwin was one of the most active members of the Rev. Henry Wilkinson's flock. Summer and winter might she be seen tramping through the heat or the cold, indifferent to haU or snow, to visit the poor, or sallying forth to teach the young idea in the neighbouring schools.

If any one was sick unto death, Miss Gladwin appeared on the scene, armed with a heap of good httle books, aU of a dull and depressing nature, ready to seize the moment when she could pour into the ears of the sick person a most miserable picture of the future state that person was likely to have. If any one in Hampton was suspected of any peccadillo, any ' backsUding,' Miss Gladwin was ready at once ; ' feeUng it to be her duty, however disagreeable it might be to her feelings, to point out to the weaker vessels how imminent was the peril to their souls.' HAMPTON. No one, perhaps, more heartily disliked her than the rector ; for often it happened that, finding her words had no effect, as in the case where the offender was in a position to refuse to listen to her, her usual proceeding was to caU on the rector, pointing out in a few strong words the nature of the sin ; and then begging him, in his position of spiritual adviser to Hampton in general, to visit the person in particular with a solemn exhortation to repentance and amendment.

In vain was it to inform Miss Gladwin that her behaviour was an noying and even impertinent. Such remarks she waved aside with great dignity. No one, she would remark, was less inquisitive than herself, no one less given to prying into other persons' concerns ; but where an immortal soul was in question, every other consideration must give way. A word spoken in season often brought forth good fruit. NaturaUy she had made some enemies in the place, for she was continually coming into conflict with some one, and perhaps her most determined opponent was the doctor. He had not been settled many years in the town before Miss Gladwin discovered that his opinions were ' latitudinarian;' and accordingly she had one day, with her usual energy, called on Dr. Young before he went his rounds, to solicit a discussion of his religious views, and to offer a series of tracts for his perusal.

The doctor, who valued a patient, and therefore did not feel in clined to quarrel with her, received her politely, and accepted her tracts, and the matter might thus have ended amicably ; but with her usual perti nacity Miss Gladwin paid him a second visit, and, armed to the teeth with texts, prepared to catechise him. This time she was unfortunate. The doctor had returned from a long round, was tired, cold, and had had no dinner ; and, as she informed some lady friends a few evenings after at a tea party, behaved in a most ungentlemanly way, re fusing to listen to a word she had to say. From that time a sUent enmity was felt by both — silent on the doctor's part from indifference ; and on hers from not wishing to offend that rather important person, the only doctor in the town. But she nevertheless was always on the look-out for any little matter in which to annoy him; and HAMPTON. 9 this she often did, by concocting some horrible medicines of her own, which she distributed amongst her poor people, firmly believing, indeed, in their virtues.

One thing remains to be said in her favour. Notwithstanding all her disagreeable manners and interferences, she was really and truly sincere in her desire to do good, and of her income, the larger portion was devoted to charity; but she got littfe or no credit for that, even amongst the recipients of it. Generous and cha ritable she might be, work night and day and in all weathers; but it was all done with such an un amiable and awkward manner, that she offended even where her help was most welcome. She her self was aware of the fact, but put it down to the natural ingratitude of the human race, never sus pecting for a moment that the fault lay with her self. Leaving St. Dunstan's Cottages, and passing the rectory, you came to an open space, on one side of which stood the inn, and the other was bordered by a brick wall that formed part of the garden-wall ofthe largest house in the town.

This ROBERT LYNNE. was a large red-brick buUding standing in an old fashioned garden with two entrances — one leading straight into the principal road, and the other a low Uttle door opening on a field, and thence to the beach. Rose-hiU at this time was in posses sion of a Mr. Campbell.

Chapter II. Mr

AND MRS. CAMPBELL. LEXANDER CAMPBELL had come to London at fourteen years of age from Perthshire, burdened with a very small amount of that curse of mankind — money. He had walked the principal part of the way, getting now and then a Uft from some friendly carrier, and had reached London possessing the clothes he stood in and, I suppose, the traditional half-crown. But if deficient in worldly wealth, he was well provided by Nature, having an iron constitution, indomitable perseverance, and an intense self reliance. At first he had found it a hard life, as his Scotch manners and tongue had brought on him a considerable amount of ridicule. But Sandy had two fists of his own, and if wanting in science, ROBERT LYNNE. was certainly not in pluck, and after one or two encounters of a pugilistic nature, his contem poraries were very wiUing to treat him with respect.

After a year's tossing up and down in London, now in one place and now in another, he had finally settled into the employ of a large Scotch firm, Duncan Brothers, merchants ; and from that time he steadily rose, for Duncan Brothers soon found out that 3'oung Campbell had as clear a head for business as either of themselves. GraduaUy, from the junior clerk, he worked his way up, until, at forty years of age, the firm of Duncan Brothers had admitted him as partner. In this case the benefit was not altogether on the side of Campbell ; for the partners were getting old and unfit for business, and Campbell infused a new life and energy into their affairs. He had gained what he fought for, he had conquered aU the difficulties that had beset his path — and they were not few; but when he had attained his ambition, and had time to rest and look back, he felt he had not obtained his position without loss.

At forty, to be partner where he had simply been errand-boy, clerk, was something to be proud of; but he had, to gain that position, sacrificed every affection, every feel ing: at forty he was a solitary man. But to feel that he wanted a thing was the first step in Campbell to getting it; and accord ingly, having taken stock, as it were, of his do mestic wants, he next turned his attention to ex amining who would be best qualified to fill the position of wife ; and he did not go far. Duncan Brothers had one sister, a lady some ten years older than himself, who drew a certain income from the business, and who had sometimes ven tured to interfere with it. This lady had adopted, some ten years previously, the orphan children of a cousin, another Duncan, who had offended the firm by marrying, against their wish, a clerk in the business, a certain Selwyn.

Of course it was not to be expected that Duncan Brothers would give their countenance to a misaUiance, and ac cordingly Selwyn was discharged ; and he and his wife, after struggling for ten years to live, and finding that poverty was each succeeding year harder to struggle against, with one accord finaUy gave in, and, like most ill-conditioned people who marry against their relatives' express wish and command, they left, as Duncan Brothers said, ' two brats for somebody else to clothe and feed.' On this occasion, however, the ' brats' did not fall to their share; for Miss Duncan, much to the bewilderment of her friends in general, took for cible possession ofthe children. She had, indeed, more than once assisted the Selwyns with both money and advice — the first of which they accepted, the second invariably ignoring ; and on learning of the death of both parents, Miss Duncan, after remaining in a brown study for half an hour, had ordered her carriage and driven to their home, bringing back with her the two chUdren, who had ever since remained with her.

The elder, Clara, was nine ; the younger, Charles, seven. For ten years they had been under Miss Duncan's care. Clara at nineteen was handsome and accomplished, but with a certain languid air that incessantly worried her aunt, as Miss Duncan called herself; and to Clara Sel wyn, CampbeU turned his attention. Perhaps it was that their earlier years, spent amidst poverty and hardship, had operated on the Selwyns' character, but they were not as others were at their age ; there was an old look on their faces sometimes, and a far-away expression in their eyes that puzzled their aunt. One thing they both knew the full value of, and that was money ; Charles, indeed, had expressed more than once his behef that money made the man. With Charles Selwyn, Miss Duncan had been completely puzzled what to do.

He had no in clination for work; and even when his aunt had suggested the Church as a light and agreeable profession, he objected to it on the ground of be ing unfit ; though in private, to his sister, he had confessed he hated going to church at aU, and especiaUy objected to christenings and buryings. The army and navy met with like success ; and finally Miss Duncan, being at her wits' end, called in the junior partner for advice. At his sug gestion, Charles Selwyn entered into the employ of the firm; but six months had not passed before he had thrown up his engagement on the score of ill-health. Something must be thought of ; and just at this moment an old relation of the Selwyns died, leaving what property he had to Charles Selwyn. It certainly was not much, but it en abled him to give up the idea of work, and, as he told Clara privately, ' he should be all right when the old lady gave up the ghost' — Miss Duncan having made no secret of her intention of leaving her nephew aU her property; for, as often happens^ the very person who cared least for her she re garded with the most affection.

Perhaps there was this reason — Charles was so Uke his father; and it had been whispered years before that the handsome Selwyn had captivated more than one heart amongst the Duncans. Campbell had, as we have said, determined on making Clara Selwyn his wife, and he certainly set about it in his usual business-like manner. He first explained his intentions to Miss Duncan, and then, having obtained her consent, sought an interview with Miss Selwyn. If Clara had ever dreamed of any romance that life might bring her, or if her heart had longed for another being on whom to lavish all its love, who can say ? Youth has its daydreams always. But Fate was adverse, and courtship and matrimony came in no very romantic guise. Courtship — junior partner from Duncan Brothers, forty years of age, and looking older ; a portly person, whose hair is turning to gray, and far more interested in shares than poetry, with a decided objection to moonlight strolls, and a decided preference for a nap after dinner.

Matri mony — the same junior partner, getting a little bit grayer ; breakfasting at eight, and coming home to dinner very punctually at six ; a handsome house and carriage and servants of her own ; a solemn set of dinner-parties every year with the same set of people ; subscriptions to all the local charities ; on Sunday church regularly at 11 and 3.30. If the decision of her fate had been left in Clara's hands, Mr. Campbell probably would have met with a re fusal. To do Miss Duncan justice, she did not attempt to influence her niece in any way ; but Charles Selwyn was Campbell's best friend. With vol. i. c a wisdom beyond his years he told his sister that the best thing she could do would be to accept his offer. ' It's aU very weU in novels,' said the youth, ' to marry for love, and aU that bosh ; but take my word for it, Clara, you'U never have such a chance again.

CampbeU is a rich feUow, and we are as poor as church-mice. As for looking for me to give you a home when our aunt dies, that's out of the question. I may marry too ; and I shouldn't want to be bothered, even if I don't.' Probably Mr. Campbell would not have felt flattered at the reasons urged by his brother-in law to be ; but they sealed the fate of two per sons, and Clara became Mrs. CampbeU. Perhaps she might have done worse : although Mr. Camp bell was by no means a romantic man, and had not the faintest idea who Wordsworth or Tenny son might be (he knew they were not City men), yet there was in his heart affection that Clara never suspected. One thing was, she did not take the trouble to suspect it; and it lay dor mant till the day when the nurse placed in his arms a Uttle morsel of humanity, which she told him was his daughter.

Then, for the first time, Mr. Campbell felt how utterly his life had been without love ; and his heart softened towards his wife, and from that day a new life was possible between them had Mrs. CampbeU chosen ; but she was perfectly indifferent to the change. She noticed it, and wondered at it, and then thought no more of it. On his daughter, then, Mr. CampbeU lavished the fuU measure of his love. She was the pride and dehght of his eye ; her infantile sayings and doings had more charm for him than all the poetry in the world ; she was in herself a poem ever fresh and ever present. On his return from business, before he thought of his wife, his first inquiry was for his chUd, and it was not long before Mrs. Campbell felt that she held a secondary place in his heart; and, curiously enough, though she neither loved nor cared for him, she was jealous.

She noticed each day, with an absorbing interest, the unceasing love of her husband for his daugh ter ; and feeling that no affection for herself was mixed with it, she sometimes felt an almost posi tive dislike for her. At last, when Rose — for thus she was called — was two years old, a son was born to Mr. CampbeU; and then Mrs. CampbeU ceased to be jealous : her son was to her what Rose was to her husband — the idol of her heart. But her happiness was of short duration ; the child to whom she had given aU her love was taken from her, and only Rose remained. From that time Mrs. CampbeU altered gradu aUy ; a feeling of utter weariness and indifference to life came over her. Nothing seemed to rouse her, nothing to interest her. Her husband, Rose, even her brother, whom she had loved better per haps than any one, after her son, aU seemed alike of little importance.

Everything bored her, everything tired her, and at last she fell into the posi tion of a recognised invalid. Not that there was absolutely anything the matter with her; there was no ' organic disease,' said the doctor; simply there was a lassitude against which she never struggled, and which gradually conquered her. For her health, then, had Mrs. CampbeU come to Hampton. Change and sea -air were recommended; anything, indeed, that money could ob tain Mr. Campbell would have wilUngly got that could do his wife good. Not that he himself thought much about her illness or took it very seriously to heart. He had long found out the indifference his wife entertained for him; and although he had not married her for love, yet he resented her coldness, though his pride prevented him from showing his feelings.

Had he done so when his son died, perhaps it might have changed his wife's sentiments towards him; but he had not ; indeed, his wife had perceived that although he had grieved at their child's death, yet he had inwardly rejoiced that his Rose lived ; that if one child was to be taken, it was better that the boy should die; his heart was not wrapped up in him; and after a while he had almost seemed to have forgotten him altogether. Rose had lived and flourished, growing up full of health and spirits, ever cheerful and ever con tented, filling the air with a sense of gladness wherever she was ; so great a contrast to the fretful and invalid mother, that after a time Mrs. Campbell seemed to become almost a nonentity in her house ; indeed, often Mr. Campbell forgot her very existence, if after a day or two of iUness she remained in her own room.

Between Rose and her mother a curious feeling existed : Mrs. CampbeU was jealous of her daughter, jealous of her husband's love, and at times showed her ex treme affection or positive indifference ; Rose, unsuspecting the cause, loved her in return with a feeling of puzzled insecurity. CHAPTER IH, ROSE AND HER MOTHER. CSij|g|jpR. CAMPBELL and his daughter ' sat °Prosite one another at tbe j^^y^lg^ breakfast - table — a meal Mrs. CampbeU never graced with her presence, seldom appearing much before luncheon — and this meal was the one Mr. Campbell most enjoyed. Facing one another it was easy to trace the resemblance between them, notwithstanding the difference in their age. At sixty Mr. CampbeU was stUl a handsome man ; the black hair had turned gray long ago, and the whiskers were white ; but he still retained the brightness of his eyes and a com plexion many younger men might have envied him, thanks to a temperate and active life.

Rose CampbeU was then about nineteen, above the middle height, brown-haired, hazel-eyed, and with the same bright complexion. She had finished her breakfast before her father, and had moved her chair so as to superintend the morning meal of a rough little Scotch terrier, that was imploringly begging in front of her. 'Rose,' said her father, after having finished reading the pile of letters that lay by his plate. But Rose did not answer directly, she was ab sorbed in her occupation ; then suddenly turning round with an air of triumph, she cried, ' There, papa, look at Fluff; how beautifully he is begging ! I said I would teach him at last ; and now, you little darling' (addressing the terrier) ' you shall have your breakfast.' She proceeded to attend to her pet's wants ; and while she did so, Mr. CampbeU sat sUent, watching her with a slight smile of amusement. ' Perhaps when Fluff's wants are aU supphed you wiU give me your attention,' he said at last. ' I am going up to town to-day, and perhaps you have, as usual, some messages for me to take or orders to execute.

I have also,' he continued, ' got a letter here from Robert Lynne, accepting my invitation to pass a few days with us ; so you must have a room prepared, little housekeeper.' ' Robert Lynne ?' said Rose in an inquiring tone of voice ; ' I don't know the name at all, papa ; who is he ?' ' 0, the son of a very old friend of mine. I met him in town last week and asked him to come then, but he could not promise, as he was settling his affairs ; somebody or other was dead, and he had got the managing of it all.' ' Very well,' replied Rose ; ' I suppose the little south room wUl do, for uncle Charles wouldn't like his to be occupied ; and if he were to run down and find it so, how he would scold me, to be sure !' ' 0, well, Lynne won't be particular, I daresay,' said Mr. Campbell. 'Now, are there any commissions, Rose, for I shaU be going in half an hour ?' ' Certainly,' she replied ; ' I have a whole heap of things for you to do.

First you must go to Ma dame Ernestine, and tell her she is more neglect ful than ever — fancy, papa ! she promised my dresses should be here a week ago — and teU her seriously she must be more punctual. Then there are some books for prizes — you must select them yourself, for I want them to be very nice, as they are for my own class ; and I want you to bring a good cheese, and some blankets — ' ' Stop, stop!' cried Mr. CampbeU; ' the dresses and books I can comprehend the necessity of; but what on earth do you want with blankets ?' ' You ignorant darling ! to put on a bed, to be sure. There's old Mrs. Robinson, my particular old woman in the town, suffering from rheuma tism ; and as for the blanket she has over her, it is so thin that it is no good ; so I want to give her one. And there are one or two others I can give away, for the rector was telling me about the coming winter, and how the poor people suffered ; so you see they are necessities.

And I think there are one or two more things I want, for it is im possible to get anything in this stupid place.' ' I think I have got a sufficient list for this morning,' said Mr. Campbell ; and he then kissed her and left the room. Rose also departed to her various duties : first to speak to the servant about preparing the room, then to take a run down the garden with Fluff (which was equally important in her eyes), and then to pay her visit to her mother. A very pretty picture Rose made as she stood in the doorway with Fluff in her arms, her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkling after the exercise with her favourite. She stood for a little whUe silent ; then kissing the dog on the tip of his nose she put him down, saying, 'You're not good enough to come and pay a visit to mamma, so you must wait for me here.' Then slowly she turned to go upstairs, tripped lightly up and knocked at her mother's room door.