Flight [A novel.] (Fifth thousand.)

Front matter

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Preface

. In the simple narrative which this volume contains I have set down the record of certain terrible experiences, and of a fatal passion. The moral of the story may be left to take care of itself. It will not be hard to discover. For the rest, this book illustrates the subtle working and the far-reaching power of that mysterious organisation which lies underneath all European society. This power has been often derided, often sneered at ; its influence has been lightly regarded, its very existence doubted. Society pursues its course, and takes its plea sures, much as the dwellers on the vine-clad slopes of Vesuvius and Etna are accustomed to do, regardless of the imprisoned demon muttering and growling beneath their pleasant places. It is to be feared that as the volcanic fires in all geologic ages, bursting through the rock fissures to the daylight, have scathed and metamorphosed the strata through which they have passed, so, some day — it may not be far distant — tbe hidden forces which have so long gathered strength in darkness may burst forth in deeds of appalling violence, and change the strata of society and the conditions of life.

Aiming at the subversion of rule and order, the organisa tion of which I have spoken involves even innocent lives and harmless existences in its toils. As in the case of the poor lady of this story, a young and pure life and a guileless love may be caught and scathed by its baleful breath. j. j. a Continental Fashion and English Life. Continental Fashion and English Life. Continental Fashion and English Life. THE NEW LADIES' PAPER PKICE SIXPENCE. Lovely Illustrations of Coming Fashions AND LOVELY COSTUMES, LOVELY MANTLES, LOVELY HATS. SOCIETY NEWS chronicled by The Tattler, wUh comments on Art, Literature, and the Drama. Published 7th and 21st each Month. Price Sixpence, Annual Subscriptions, 16s. ; Quarterly, 4s., payable to TRISCHLER & CO,, 18, NEW BRIDGE STREET, LONDON, E.C. FLIGHT. — <*>—

Chapter I

As a survivor of the Middle-Age ordeal of the red-hot ploughshares might recount her experiences and feelings during that terrible though short journey, so I am about to relate my experiences in an ordeal which has burnt into my life and scarred, as I fear, my soul. When one has passed through such terrible things as I have, I wonder does one ever forget them ? Are the shadows of sin, of folly, of misery, ever totally dis pelled by whatever sunshine may flood one's later years ? Beowulf, as we know from the old saga, fought the great " Fire-drake " and conquered him, but the poisonous emanations of the loathly dragon's body clung about the victor, permeated his being, and killed him at last. And I was so young to go through it all ; so inexperienced. Yet I endured it, and am about to tell the tale.

I have been happy now for years, but yet often do I wake up in the deep of night with a half shriek and find myself bathed in clammy perspiration, and stiff with the horror of some portions of my past which a dreadful dream has brought back to me. Do I make too much of this ? Well, perhaps I may ; perhaps, surrounded as I am by all that a woman can reasonably desire, I should have power to throw away the past as an old soiled garment. It is not possible, however ; I B FLIGHT. am only a woman, aster all, and my nerves were sorely shaken. Few girls, I imagine, were happier than I was ; few lived in a more absolute calm, unknowing the world and its perils. My father's rectory at Rowchurch, a sleepy little village enough, set down in the midst of green Gloucestershire hills, was almost a typical English country rectory — lawns, orchards, gardens, a well-stocked fish-pond near; a sufficiently roomy though not large house; the kindly presence of tranquil cattle, of poultry; sufficient occupation in attending to the rather numerous wants of picturesque smockfrocked and hooded old rustic men and women ; a few pleasant neighbours ; a pony to pet, and dogs to bound about one's walks in the beautiful lanes.

Such were the surroundings of my own and my sister Clara's young days. Our father, as a father, was perfect. We had lost our mother when too young to remember more of her than an indistinct vision of grace and kindliness, of frail health and gentle piety. Our father was old ; a thin, white-haired, fragile, delicate man ; a devoted student and a great scholar, of whom, in his day, Cambridge had been proud. He was not great in the pulpit, I think, but he was loved in his parish. His hand and his heart were always open when trouble and sorrow were about, and the villagers were devoted to him. His sermons were too apt to be " over the level " of his congregation, but his kindliness and charity were perfectly understood by them. In his earlier life he had not been without his ambitions and his reasonable aspirations, but his rural deanery was the highest post in the Church he ever obtained.

Being anything but a rich man, he was almost ner vously anxious for the welfare of his girls, and his fa lit, if it were one, was an earnest wish that they should marry into fair competency, as well as into a good posi tion. His great hobby was his books, and when some FLIGHT 11 uld University chum, or distinguished scholar whom he had known as an undergraduate, used to drop in upon him, as sometimes happened, his enthusiasm over some learned discussion or other was delightful to see. On those occasions he seemed to be transformed ; and his eyes shone brightly, and what I suppose must have been his youthful vivacity of manner appeared to come back to him as if he had shaken his weight of inter vening years from his shoulders. His manner with us, as indeed with all, was delightful, and he used to enter into croquet, the game of the lady world in those days, with as much pleasure as if he had been a young curate.

He was, as I have said, a constant student, a botanist, an archæologist, and an antiquary. I suppose modern Church slang would have called him, as to his church manship, "high and dry" — I do not know; what I do know is that he was simple, reverent, and unstained in life and conduct. Clara and I were quite happy in our village home. She and I were like the " twin cherries on one stalk " in nearness of affection. She was a bright, healthy country girl, with a high courage and a vivacious manner — a pretty girl, as I and every one could see, with hair the French call chatain, and a lithe, supple figure. As for me — well, I was different in many ways, of a more romantic cast; that was the mischief of it, with now and then a sort of yearning outlook for the great world outside the circle of our mossy stone walls and orchards.

Clara was the elder by about three years, and at the time I begin my story I was nineteen. We had been fairly educated, and my good father had taught us Latin, and some French and German in a desultory kind of way, for though patient and good, yet he was, somehow, not adapted for a teacher of girls. Still we picked up a good deal ; and as to botany, and church architecture, and natural history, I suppose we knew far more than the generality of girls at that time FLIGHT Our special talent was for music, and our father knowing this, contrived that we should go together three days a week to Gloucester, to a professor of music and a singing master. These visits we greatly enjoyed, for there were shops to be seen, and sometimes pleasant meetings in Gloucester streets with other rectors' and vicars' wives and daughters, and sundry country friends ; and we enjoyed bringing home the news, as well as certain small dainties for our tea-table, and now and then a present of tobacco for our father, who was of Dr. Parr's way of thinking in the matter of smoking.

For a year we went regularly backwards and forwards to our music lesoons, and I believe made good progress. After we had had enough of the piano, we asked our father to let us learn, Clara the harp, and me the violin, of which instrument I was passionately fond. We had both good voices, too, though I thought Clara's the best. I dare say you wish to know what I was like in those days. I was taller than Clara, with not so brilliant a complexion, and darker hair and eyes ; I suppose I was reasonably good-looking — people took care to hint as much to me ; Clara, I know, was almost beautiful. It would perhaps have been better for me if I had been a plain brown, nondescript sort of girl, with no attractive ness about me — but who knows ? In going to and returning from Gloucester, we had to change trains at a certain junction ; and from our constant journeys on stated days and at the same hour, we were of course well known to the officials on the line.

One of these, the guard of the train which picked us up to do the last part of the journey in going, and in which we first entered on returning, was a noteworthy man. In the first place, he was very handsome, with dark brown hair, and most wonderful eyes ; a young man — at least, not over thirty years of age — having a military bearing, and with a smooth-shaven chin, and a dark moustache that would have done honour to a cavalry FLIGHT. 13 officer. These points about him Clara and 1 noticed the second or third time we travelled on the line, and we noticed them again every day afterwards. In the second place, he was in manners a gentleman, and his courtesy to ladies asking him questions or seeking his assistance during the few minutes his train stayed at the junction, was exceedingly remarkable.

It was not the mere politeness of a man in his apparent station of life ; it was absolutely the courtesy of a well-bred gentleman. The way he lifted his cap, not touching it in the manner an ordinary guard might do, and the half-bow he gave, confirmed one's idea, which I think Clara stated, that he was there in a position not suited to his proper station. His voice, too, was exceedingly soft and pleasant ; we fancied there was a foreign accent about it, slight enough — for his English was remarkably good — but just enough to give to his sentences that piquant turn which one notices in educated foreigners speaking our language, and which French people have told me is admired by them in English ladies, even when they speak good French. Clara and I became much interested in this man, and used to speak of him — not to our father, however — as " our guard."

He seemed after a time to notice us as much as we noticed him, and would, in passing near us, salute us with his courteous manner, and even — though this was quite wrong in him, of course — address a few remarks to us as to the weather, the punctuality of the train, &c He would come forward and ascertain that we were comfortably seated, or select a carriage for us with lady occupants. He was wonderfully kind and tender with invalids and children, and we often admired the gentle ness with which he sometimes assisted them. On one occasion a little boy was knocked down by one of the doors of the train and fell almost on to the line. The anxiety on our guard's face as he picked him FLIGHT. up and ascertained that he was not hurt, was almost paternal. " That's a very kind-hearted man, I am sure," I said to Clara.

" Yes ; and I feel sure he is a gentleman." " Any ordinary man, with feeling at all, would have picked up the child," I replied. " Yes ; but the way of doing it, and the expression on his face, were different from the looks and ways of an ordinary railway guard." " Ton my word, Clara, I shall have, to look after you. I do believe if he were a gentleman you would fall in love with bim. Take care, that's all." " Dear me, Margaret, can't one admire a good-looking man and a polite one without falling in love with him ? Life isn't a novel." " Well, I know, and confess freely, that if he were only in our station of life, I should not object to be introduced to him, and know him; he seems so nice." " What a pity he isn't a curate ! " laughed Clara. " Oh, I'm not so fond of curates as some people."

" I'll tell you what, Margaret ; it is I who will have to take care of you — why, I declare you actually blushed just now." " Don't be so ridiculous, Clara," I answered in a pique, and we dropped the subject. So passed a year or so, and our music lessons drew near to their close, when they were extended for a short time, in order that the violin and the harp practice might be further perfected. Clara and I were really in dread of the time when we should no longer be regular passengers on the line. The guard had really become a point of interest in our lives. One day we were very much disappointed with him. " Who's that our guard has got with him ? " Clara said. "A common sort of woman, he seems very FLIGHT. 15 intimate with her, and he doesn't seem polite at all ; look at them." I looked. The guard was walking up the platform with a thin, eager-looking woman clad in a very ordinary fashion — not a " lady," as we should say, from her appearance — with keen, ravenous-looking eyes, and bronzed complexion.

The conversation was absorbing for both of them, as it seemed, and of a very private nature ; for the guard looked over his shoulder once or twice as if to make sure that no persons were near. The face of the guard was anxious, as though he were troubled, and when I looked he had just given back to his companion a scrap of paper. As they walked on side by side, he stopped every now and again, and the conversation evidently grew more animated ; one would say that it was almost an altercation — she laid her hands on his coat in an imploring manner, but he shook them off, and turning round, shrugged his shoulders in a foreign fashion. The train was about to start ; I thought I caught the word, " Lebewohl," then he blew his whistle, jumped in the van, and we were off. The woman stood staring after the train in an absent minded manner.

" Oh, it's his wife, I suppose," I said in a tone that I dare say was one of disappointment. " He's a common man, after all — and a foreigner." " Yes, his wife," said Clara, " and he was not polite or even kind to her." " Oh, I think I've done with him now," I whispered ; for there were other people in the carriage. " Done with him, indeed ! What is he to us ? " replied my sister. What it was, I can't say, that made me bite my lip, like a little idiot that I was, or made me so bad tempered and snappish that day. Clara and I almost had a quarrel over some mere nothing connected with a FLIGHT. purchase at one of the shops. My music lesson that day was not satisfactory, and I found I had a headache when we returned home. We were, I know, cold and haughty enough when the guard next spoke to us, and studiously avoided seeing him.

We did not see the woman at the station again ; but one day a gentleman, as I suppose he was, evidently a foreign person, in a wonderful furred coat which must have cost a good deal of money, spoke to the guard in a confidential manner. This person was swarthy, high shouldered, with a ragged long moustache, peaked beard, and a sinister expression. I thought he looked like a cousin of Mephistopheles. He and the guard talked together hurriedly; and a document of some sort or other passed from the official to the traveller. We were not near enough to hear their conversation, but I felt sure it was not English. After a good deal of animated talk compressed into a short time, the fur-coated man gave the guard something ; he started, and let it fall on the ground, to the other's evident annoyance.

It looked to me like a purse. This raised the guard a little in our estimation. " Our guard is a mystery," Clara said. " And a mystery not worth troubling about," I replied ; but I did trouble about it, nevertheless, in silence. One day the even tenour of our journeys was rudely broken upon. It was a dark, foggy evening, and we were nearing the junction on our way home, when a terrible accident took place. How it happened, why it happened, I don't know; but I felt a crash, a blow, and then lost consciousness. When I recovered my senses I was in great pain, with a weight pressing on the lower part of my body. I just managed to scream "Clara !" and fainted off again. When I next recovered consciousness it was like awakening in Hades. I could not stir, there was a wild FLIGHT. • 17 tumult about me ; moans and cries, lamps were flashed up and down, hurried exclamations were heard on all sides.

I just turned my head. The wreck of the carriage was about me. A poor old lady who had sat opposite me was lying by my side. I felt sure she was dead, blood seemed to be about me everywhere. And Clara, where was Clara ? There was a noise of sawing, and I then became aware that some one — it was the guard — was sawing in two a piece of wood that jammed my body closely down, and by his side stood my sister wailing and crying. " Not dead, my darling," I heard her say. " No," I murmured. "What has happened? I shall be all right. Thank Heaven, you are safe ! " Another lapse into unconsciousness, and when I again opened my eyes I was wrapped up in a shawl and was being carried along in strong arms. I felt it was the guard who had me ; Clara was walking by me, and I held her hand, but could not speak.

I was in dreadful pain. I was borne into the waiting-room, and then swallowed some brandy that Clara procured for me. The guard was still bending over me, and his face was so hand some, so sympathetic, that I could have kissed him. " Oh, thank you, thank you, for all that you have done for me," I murmured, " I can walk now." Then first I became aware that my left leg was broken, and the pain nearly caused me to faint once more. " You must lie still, poor dear," said Clara. " A carriage will be here directly, and we will soon be at home. My own escape was miraculous ; see, I am all right." I looked, but what I saw was that her head was tied up with a handkerchief, on which were spots of blood. " Your head, my darling ! " I cried. FLIGHT. " Nothing — nothing — nothing," she said, but she was pale as ashes.

The waiting-room was full of moaning people ; men and women laid about on the floor and on the table, and there were evidently a doctor or two moving about among them. Some one or two forms there were that did not move ; and from under the cover thrown over a little figure strayed the golden curls that I knew must belong to a pretty little girl I had noticed on the Gloucester platform. A heap, covered with a furred coat, was lying near to me, from which escaped now and then a low moan. The guard saw this heap, and to my surprise I noticed him stoop over it, and feel in the breast pocket of the coat, from which he took something — a document, I think — hurriedly, and put into his own pocket. I shuddered. Could he be a thief? A doctor came in. "The foreign gentleman is not dead ? " he asked of some one.

" No. He is badly hurt, though." " Ah — let us see," answered the doctor, turning down the heavy coat. I was carried by the guard and another man on an extemporised litter to the carriage, and so got home, dear Clara kissing and fondling me all the way. The trouble and yet thankfulness of my dear old father was ever to be remembered, and even my dog Carlo seemed to know that there was a good deal the matter requiring sympathy, for he thrust his great brown nose into my hand in silence, and his tender, wistful eyes seemed to be filled with tears. A long interval of enforced rest followed this terrible night, but my leg took no unusual ways upon itself. My health was good, and I was able to enjoy the luxury of convalescence ; the read ing of novels sent me by sympathetic friends, and grew rather to love the invalid ease FLIGHT. 19 and rest, with my good old father and Clara paying attention to my every desire or wish.

Clara herself had a cut upon the head, but it was, happily, a surface wound, and though she suffered a good deal at the first from severe headaches, it was not at all serious. Often, lying with shut eyes, I indulged in the old speculations about the mysterious guard, but even when I thought of him with thankfulness, and I am afra:d with a touch of a warmer feeling, the spectre of his act in stealing — for was it not stealing ? — the document from the pocket of the unconscious foreigner laid its cold hand upon me with a repellent touch. And that foreigner, did he die ? I wondered, and what could be the dealings between the two, or their connec tion; and the lean, eager-eyed woman, was she — no, not his wife — but what then ? After all, what did it matter to me? My father informed me afterwards that from the accounts he had read of the accident, the stout foreign gentleman had sustained an injury to his thigh, but was going on well ; that the driver and stoker were both killed, but the accident had happened without any blame attaching to them or to the guard, which latter official was highly praised for his labours in extricating the dead and wounded from the carriages, and for having even assisted the surgeons in a wonderful manner in setting some broken limbs and bandaging wounds, both of which, the reports said, he did in a manner that suggested some previous experience, which was in a railway guard rather extraordinary.

His coolness and presence of mind had, moreover, been that of a man to whom the carnage of a battlefield was not unfamiliar. The passengers had subscribed for a testimonial to him, and the railway company had made him a handsome present of money. So ended this episode of my life. -O FLIGHT.

Chapter II

During my convalescence I was kept amused and interested by the visits of abundant lady neighbours and friends, who overwhelmed us with flowers and fruit from their hot-houses and conservatories, and brought all their store of gossip for my amusement. The peasants were in great excitement at Clara's escape and mine, and besieged the Rectory daily for news of us. I enjoyed, I think, most of all to lie on a sofa in my father's study, with Clara by my side, and the good old man writing at the table in the midst of his shelves of volumes of patristic divinity and classic learning. The lamplight shining on his beautiful silver hair, soft and fine as silk, as he bent his head over his papers, seemed to throw a halo about him, and to show him for the saint he was in reality. He delighted to sit before the fire, and, crossing his legs and folding his hands, entertain us with little historiettes of his youth and early manhood, his struggles and successes, his college experiences and mild dissipations ; and he used to speak of our mother to us, always with subdued and rather faltering tones, and with a gentle resignation in his looks and manner.

How we both loved him ! Among the neighbouring squires who rode over con stantly to inquire after us, or came with their wives and daughters, was a young bachelor, Squire Prescott, a great six-foot specimen of British humanity, as good natured and as simple as a sheep, with a broad expanse of clean-shaven countenance, florid in colour, and with kindly blue eyes and enormous calves, as his knicker bockers indicated. He was a right good fellow, no doubt, wvth not the least suspicion of guile about him, FLIGHT. 21 and with no vices unless an over-fondness for horses and dogs and a thirst for small beer can be ranked as such. He had a good estate hard by, and lived with his elder sister. Not a marrying man, people said. Our house seemed to have an attraction for him, how ever ; and he was constantly riding over with books or messages from his sister for Miss Stanhope or Miss Margaret.

My father loved a chat with him, and sang his praises when he left. " He was a good son, Prescott," he would say, " and is a good brother, and will make a good husband some day for somebody." " And he's strong enough to tuck his wife under his arms and carry her about with him to keep her feet out of the mud. He must be a good weight; I wonder how he ever finds a horse to carry him," I said. " He seems fond of coming here," mused my father, with his hands crossed on his knees, " and he really is very good and kind, like his poor father. I shan't forget in a hurry his grief at his father's death in the hunting-field, and how he helped to carry the body home on a gate, weeping like a child all the way, the big, tender-hearted fellow." "Yes, he's a good man," said Clara, "and I don't know why Margaret always loves to ridicule him as she does."