Florence Manvers

Front matter

ln 1 vol. Price 12s. ON CHANGE OF CLIMATE, A GUIDE FOE TRAVELLERS IX PURSUIT OF HEALTH. By THOMAS MORE MADDEN, M.D., M.R.C.S Esg. Illustrative of the Advantages of the various localities resorted to by Invalids, for the cure or alleviation of chronic diseases, especially consumption. With Observations on Climate, and its Influence on Health and Disease, the result of extensive personal experience of many Southern Climes. SPAIN. PORTUGAL, ALGEP.IA, MOROCCO, FRANCE, ITALT THE MEDITERRANEAN ISLANDS, EGYPT, &c. " Dr. Madden has been to most of the places he describes, and his book contains the advantage of a guide, with the persona* experience of a traveller. To persons who have determined that they ought to have change of climate, we can recommend Dr. Madden as a guide. — Athenæum." ' It contains much valuable information respecting various favorite laces of re-ort, and is evidently the work of a well-informed physician, — Lancet."

"Dr. Madden's book deserves confidence— a most accurate and excel lent work." — Dublin ifedical Review. " It cannot but be of much service to such persons as propose leaving home in search of recreation, ora more benign atmosphere. The Doctor's observations relate to the favourite haunts of English invalids. He criticises each place seriatim in every point of view." — Reader. "We strongly advise all those who are going abroad for health's sake to provide themselves with this book. They will find the author in these pages an agreeable gossiping companion as well as a professional adviser, who anticipates most of their difficulties." — Dublin Evening Mail. " To the medical profession this book will be invaluable, and to those in ill-health it will be even more desirable, for it will be found not merely a guide for change of climate, but a most interesting volume ef travel." — Globe.

" Dr. Madden is better qualified to give an opinion as to the salubrity of the places most frequented by invalids than the majority of writers on the subject."— Liverpool Albion. " There is something, and a great deal too, for almost every reader in this volume, for the physician, for the invalid, for the historian, for the antiquarian, and for the man of letters. Dr. Madden has rendered a necessary service to the profession and to the public upon the subject under notice." — DubhnEvening Post. "Dr. Madden's work is fraught with instruction that must prove useful both to practitioners and patients who study it" — Saunders' News Letter. "Dr. Madden deserves the thanks of all those persons afflicted with that dire disease, consumption — as well as of those who suffer from thromc bronchitis, asthma, &c. It is the best work on change of climate that has ever been presented to the public." — Daily Post.

Chapter I

It is said, and we believe in the saying, that there is no human heart — no matter how far gone from its first goodness, that has not one spot of good left in it — some one little spot that the enemy in sowing tares did not reach. And so, in the most artificial character, there is perhaps always one touch of nature yet remaining unobscured by art. That one spot in the present constitution of Miss Thomas was occupied by a now well- VOL. II. B grown nephew, who had been for many years, as she said, the only thing she had to care for. That lady was now seated at a writing table inditing to this nephew the following epistle — " What can possess you, my dear Tom, to cause you to act in such a manner ? It ap pears to me that of late you neither understand my conduct, nor appreciate my motives. I have reasons, important reasons for writing to you, as I have latterly done.

You say you do not understand these reasons. That may be so, but again I say rest quiet and trust me. Read this letter calmly ; I know you do not read long ones, but I want you for once, to review the whole case between us. " YTou know that I was left a poor orphan, with an only sister. Somehow we did not suit each other, and at a very early age she married your father, merely, I believe, to have a home. After your birth, whatever was the cause, she became insane : when you were nine years of age, your father's health sailed ; I went to take care of him and you, and after eighteen months he died, and you were left, a little helpless darling, dependent on me, for your mother was in an asylum, and the £50 per annum which jour father possessed in his own right was appropriated to her maintenance.

I went again into a situation, such as I had filled before, and struggled to pay your expenses out of my hard earnings. You now say your father left money in my care for that purpose. I know not who can have put such notions into your head. But I have had enemies all my life long. I have been plotted against and b undermined wherever I have been ; so I do not wonder at or even think of answering such observations as these. Rather let me beg of you, dear Tom, to reflect on your own career; it may yet be bright ; but think over what it has been. By my own strenuous exertions I procured you a first-rate education, first-rate at least for the position you were in. I had you apprenticed, as an out-door apprentice, to a respectable profession or trade. You know what came of that. Your prevailing taste was for doing nothing.

I did not blameyou — boys will be boys. Who can put an old head on young shoulders? My head was never young ; my shoulders were always old with care. But I wished you to be young. I wished you to have every indulgence I could afford you. Y7ou were my only object in life, I looked forward to ending my days with you. Even after you had broken away from your apprenticeship, I got you, by unparalleled exertions, a capital place with a broker — that was four years ago — well you know how that ended. You have been staying at Boulogne while your poor comrade has been — I need not say where. " Now, my dear Tom, I am willing to pass over all this as juvenile indiscretions. Let by-gones be by-gones. But now what has come to pass ? You poor mother dies in the asylum, and you unexpectedly come into the fortune hitherto appropriated to her — £50 per annum.

Tom, I say, that is a beginning in life ; more than a beginning ; a setting-up in life. Ah ! if I had had that how different would have been my lot! But what do you do ? You post over from Boulogne, and, of all the rash acts of your life, commit the rashest. You come to Beechwood, and before I can see you present yourself to the young heiress — to my sacred charge ! What madness possessed you ? did you once reflect on what the consequences to me might be ? Well, I managed that matter, I believe. I met you in the evening and found your purpose was — I will not say to extort, but, in short, to get more money from me, your annuity not being yet payable. I gave you some, I need not call it lending. I now write to tell you I can neither lend nor give any more. My position here becomes pre carious.

I see clouds in the horizon. The widower, I begin to think, will marry again, if he can ; his ward, a tiresome boy, is deci dedly in love with the heiress, and, I fear, she is only too well disposed towards him. He has always endeavoured to undermine me ; so if he wins her there is an end to all my hopes and prospects. You know what a mere accident, should I not say a peculiar providence, placed me in my present most honourable position. Some mischance may displace me; therefore, I say it is time I begin to think of myself and lay up for an evil day. You have now an independent income ; it is not large, but with management it may be made to look large, at least larger. The very name of an independent income, be it what it may, is a great thing to trade on. How often do you see advertisements from gentlemen of independent income ?

Now, if you would make a step in life for yourself, without looking to me, what a happiness it would be for us both. You might get on well ; and in the evening of my days I could come and spend them with you, bringing my little savings to cast into your treasury. I told you this when you were here ; I said it was never expedient to let the amount of your income be known ; that you were a gentleman of independent income was enough to carry you on, and I advised you at once to get some employ, or enter into some trade that would increase it. " Tom, what did you reply ? That you had no head for business, and could live on the Continent on £50 a year better than on £200 in England ! Is this your plan, a plan fraught with ruin to yourself ? But mind my words, it shall not bring ruin to me. I will not help you further.

You fancy I have stores of gold. No ; I only now feel the necessity to lay up. I am not a person to see a cloud gather without looking for shelter. Often, often, I wake in the stillness of the night, and feeling the comforts around me I gratefully say, — and here I am ! but now it is beginning to be uncertain where I yet may be. Take then this warning, and provide for yourself. Do not listen to those enemies of mine, who suggest that I have had money from your father, but begin to provide for yourself now that you have an independency to commence with. " Y'our loving and anxious aunt, "A. Thomas. The letter was only just consigned to the care of an envelope when a peculiar sort of tap at the door announced to the writer an un accustomed visitor. She rose, and opening it beheld the widower, looking diffident and res pectful.

He had never before come to this private sitting-room. He did so no w because he knew he could leave it when he pleased; whereas if he sent for the lady to wait on him his politeness would not permit of a hasty dis missal. He looked so apologetic, so graceful in his fear of intrusion, that even Miss Thomas felt a degree of captivation, and forgetting b her recent wrong, smiled in her blandest manner. Apologies ended, the widower opened at once the reason of the intrusion he apologised for. He was sorry that his daughter should feel disappointed, even unreasonably. He wished to arrange some plan for her during his absence. " Your paternal solicitude, sir," said Miss Thomas, speaking very slowly, and gathering time for mental calculation, while her lips uttered words quite unconnected with that mental work, "and your continual recollec tion, and ever increasing sense of the pain fulness of your loss and hers, must naturally cause anxiety even during your very brief absence."

"I shall feel she is under excellent care," he replied curtly, and with his usual comp li mentary bow. " I do endeavour to discharge the duty of my sacred trust," she answered, with a heavy sigh, " inadequately — perhaps inade quately." " Do not say so — no — pray do not. But, Miss Thomas, the question I wish to ask is whether you do not think Florence ought to have some additional amusement, some recrea tion when she is left alone ?" " Alone, sir !" " Well, I mean, when I am absent ; and my ward, you know, used to be her companion." "Yes, sir; but I concluded you did not object, otherwise I — " " Of course — naturally — I understand," said the widower, with the unanswerable wave of the white hand. " But what I meant to ask is — can you propose any plan that might amuse or occupy my daughter during our — or my absence ?' ' A moment's reflection was even more than Miss Thomas required.

The letter she had just written had left her mind still embarrassed and this question seemed to come with singular appropriateness. "If, sir, some plan could be devised that united instruction with amusement, it would be, I imagine, that which would meet your approval." " Precisely ; but is not Florence too old now for those amusing games ; she really grows a great girl." " She is nearly seventeen, sir. More than sixteen and a half, I think." " Impossible ! but yes ; I believe so. Six teen years and about seven months. But then I married so young ; a mere boy. Yet if these instructive games are too childish, what would you recommend, Miss Thomas? " Miss Thomas paused in her reply ; but her mind had been busy, and her answer was really ready. " I scarcely know, sir ; you thought of some little change for her, I believe — if she could go where mental improvement would be combined with change of scene and recreation.

I know no place, except indeed London, and perhaps you may think — " " I think it would be just the place," said the widower hastily. " Florence has not been in London since she was a little child. What then would your arrangements be, Miss Thomas; you, of course, will accompany her ?" " Where she goes I will go," said the lady meekly. " I scarcely know any one there," he responded ; " I fear you must take apart ments." " Yes, sir, in fact as mourners going for the first time from a mansion con — at least from the house of affliction, seclusion will be most suitable to us." " Certainly — perhaps so. But as recreation and instruction are to be combined, I suppose you will think it proper my daughter should see something of London — the sights, at all events?" Assuredly at that question another bright idea came into the lady's brain.

" If it can be managed, sir. I know little of London myself; it is possible one or two of my former friends may be there, who might be useful, but you might not like me to introduce them." " I am sure, Miss Thomas, any friends of yours must be eligible as acquaintances for Florence ; and if they can assist her in seeiug sights, I shall consider it a favour. Elderly ladies, I suppose." Miss Thomas bowed, and in words replied that she had been so long out of society, she scarcely knew whom she might find there. " You will then be so good, perhaps, as to make all the arrangements as you judge best. My time is short and I am much engaged on my ward's affairs. Take any of the servants you wish for. Florence must have her maid, and I think Jackson, as an elderly, married man, will be the most suitable of the men ; if you wish for the cook she can go.

I will leave you a cheque for the amount of a month's expenses in London, as nearly as I can guess them, and will write to you here, or to Florence, until you send your London address. Be so good as to recollect that I do not wish you to limit your expenditure; if my absence is extended over a month T will send another cheque." The widower made his bow and withdrew. The lady stood for some moments in deep thought. Then her eyes slowly wandered round the room, and she uttered aloud her usual soliloquy ' And here I am !' but she added 'here to-day and gone to-morrow,' such has always been my fate, and something tells me that fate is once more approaching. That man will marry again, I am sure of it." She resumed her pen, wrote a long ad denda to her letter, and put it into the same envelope. "My feelings always are prophetic," she wrote, " changes are taking place ; my brain is almost confused by the rush of events, after nearly two years of calm, uninterrupted repose.

All I can say now to you is, be quiet, keep still, do nothing - rashly . It is more than probable we shall soon meet. We are to go to London ; the young heiress and myself— alone. The widower wants me to take a retinue of servants. I will not take one. Servants have eyes, ears, and tongues ; far better to be without them. Who can for see what may happen before we return to this once peaceful home. The widower's grief is passing away, that is evident. Cer tainly he is not likely to meet a second wife in Germany, but having once begun to go about he may not settle down again. At all events, I must be prepared. I will see you in London ; remain quiet till then, if you can." A breeze was, indeed, beginning to pass over the sluggish stream of daily life at Beechwood : the writer of this postscript was too keenly susceptible not to feel it, even while to her young charge that stream of daily life appeared to be more torpid than ever ; although the fuss and bustle caused by her father's journey were quite as great as if an expedition to Africa had to be undertaken.

Mr. Manvers had never crossed the chan nel ; never been on water in his life, even for a moment. Murray and Bradshaw were laid in close propinquity ; but he consigned himself, he declared, to his ward's guidance alone. On the morning of his departure he told his daughter of the arrangement that had been made for her the preceding evening. Florence would have hailed with rapture the prospect of going to London if her heart had not been set on going to the Rhine, and also that the notion of being there with Miss Thomas only, was rather distasteful. Besides, she was offended, deeply offended, and con sidered herself an injured girl. " I have arranged this plan, though rather an expensive one, to give you pleasure, Florence — pleasure combined with improve ment. Mental improvement is essential at your age."

" I am sorry you should be at any trouble or expense forme, sir," she answered, with a haughty and dissatisfied expression. " As I am not permitted to go where I wished I would rather stay at home." " You are unreasonable, and most self willed," said her father, rather angrily. " I talked the matter over with Arthur Courte nay, who has been up and down the Rhine and knows all about it. Yet, when I substitute a possible enjoyment for one that proved impossible, you are discontented." Florence looked in her father's face ; it was annoyed, worried, but not unkind. Some strange feeling crept to her heart ; she knew not what it was, or why it came there ; but she thought of it in after years. It led her to wish to throw herself into his arms, to cling to him as she had never yet done — to implore him to keep her, to protect her, she knew not from what.

She did not yield to the impulse. There are two voices in times of trial or temptation speaking to most human hearts. The good voice moved her to that action — the bad one whispered she was un justly treated ; and she retained the haughty offended aspect that was so displeasing to her father. " This self-will/' he said, in an altered tone, " is entirely the consequence of the folly — I mean the mistaken conduct of your dear mother;" he was going to add, "in leaving you in some degree independent of me," but the girl's face almost frightened him, and he stopped short. Florence Manvers was almost in a rage. The sacred memory of her mother she felt to be outraged. " Don't let us talk any more, my dear child," her father said, hastily ; " I must really be off. I am sure I hope you will make your self happy.

I have doubled your allowance, and told Miss Thomas not to let you deny yourself any indulgence. There is a cheque, Florence, for two quarters' allowance, instead of one, for this time." He kissed her, patted her on the shoulder, told her to be a good girl, was sure she would be very obedient and docile with Miss Thomas, shook hands with that lady, and holding his hat over his head, as they both stood at the door, was driven away, while Florence twisted the cheque in her finger, and felt the surging blood still tingling in her cheeks. And thus Florence Manvers saw the last of her widowed father.

Chapter II

Florence Manvers was standing at the window of a London lodging that looked into the Regent's Park. " Would you like a turn in the Park, my love, this sweet morning?" asks Miss Thomas. " I don't care in the least ; we have been e ight days in London — if this is London — and we have walked in the Regent's Park eight times," replied the girl. " Dear me ! what can we do ? It is impossible to go about London without a gentleman." " Then I don't see any use in coming." " Not much, certainly ; but you know it was your father's will, Florence. The plan doubtless suited his arrangements." " I do not think it signified anything to him whether we were at home or here," said Florence, petulantly. " Perhaps not. No, most assuredly not, except as a means of giving you pleasure. But will you walk, dear?

I have a head ache, and besides a walk in the Park is the only recreation that is possible to us without an escort." " If you have a head-ache and wish it, I will get ready at once," says Florence, and goes off to do as she says. Her only London amusements had as yet* consisted in feeding the swans in the Park : she brought her usual biscuits and went direct to them, leaving her companion a little behind. A little half-smothered shriek made her look back, and to her amazement she saw Miss Thomas slowly sinking to the ground, while a large rough dog that had burst out from the cover of some trees, was describing a circle round her, crouching down and bounding up, until seeing her prostrate, he made a slower advance, and sniffed over her as if wanting to understand what it was all about. At the animal's first bound towards her, the lady's arms rose slowly up, and like an ill-executed fall on the stage, she went down as if calculating how to do herself the least possible injury.

Florence ran towards her : but she was an ticipated by a man, who now-a-days would be called a gentleman, as all persons are : he carried a stout stick, and the poor dog might, indeed, consider himself most unjustly treated when it sent him howling away. vol. u. c Its owner had got hold of Miss Thomas, and was raising her up when Florence ran to assist. " My gallant deliverer," sobbed the poor lady, hysterically ; " how can I thank you ! I might have been torn to pieces, or died of hydrophobia." The gentleman shewed all his teeth, which were large and white, and it appeared that his broad grin could have been extended into a loud laugh if propriety had permitted. Florence could have indulged in one also, if she had not known that Miss Thomas had almost as strong an antipathy to dogs and horses as she had a love for both, But if she restrained the smile on her lip, her deep grey eyes -were full of laughter as she turned them on the face of the man whom Miss Thomas called her gallant deliverer : yet as she met his broad stare, she slightly started, and coloured at recognising the green-house hero, who had called her its Eve.

Holding Miss Thomas by one arm, he raised his hat with the other, and swung it to the ground with an air as that lady after wards observed, full of foreign and courtly grace. He looked only at Florence, spoke only to her, as he asked if the sufferer were badly hurt. "I hope not; I am sure not: it must be fright only : the dog never touched her," Florence replied. " I may release you, sir," said the lady, pressing her hand on her side, and gasping — " I think I can walk." She looked at her deliverer, and uttered a little cry of surprise. " Llewellyn Williams ! — is it possible." She held him her hand, which he took, looking as if it would do him good to be able to burst into a roar of laughter. " What an adc venture," said Miss Thomas, with a sigh. " But I must not detain my young charge : Miss Manvers, of Beechwood," she added, with an introductory wave of the hand, in answer to which her deliverer flourished his hat again.

Miss Thomas tried to walk, but she was weak, and apparently crippled : her gallant deliverer accompanied her back to the house she had left, and taking leave at the door with his hat again to the ground, presented llorence with a card, and said he would have the honour of calling to enquire for the sufferer. '' Was there ever anything so ridiculous !" said Florence, looking at the card : ' Mr. Thomas C. L. 'W illiams !' " Why he is the very man who made me that absurd speech about Paradise and Eve, in the green-house at home !" " That sweetly pretty comparison — yes, I said at the time it emanated from a gentle man ; Mr. Llewellyn Williams is a gentle man.' ' " But his name is Thomas on this card." " My, love, Lewellyn is a surname ; you know, when the second name is a surname, even when given in baptism, the first name is dropped.

His name is Cadwallader Llewellyn Williams — an ancient Welsh family. He is always called Llewellyn Williams." "Don't you think he is odd-looking — a little wild ? he stares so." Miss Thomas looked at her with a smile, that seemed to wonder at her simplicity. " There may have been a cause for his doing so. When a gentleman is taken by surprise — but why should I apologise for his inadvertence. You have been so happily reared in seclusion that what other young ladies might call the wondering gaze of startled admiration, you almost laugh at as an unmeaning stare." " Well, I am sure, I never thought that day he was in the greenhouse that he would ever hand me his card," said the girl, with a laugh, and yet a blush, as she tossed it away. Poor young girl ! could she have foreseen what that name was to become to her, some thing more like the blackness of darkness than the pink tinge of naturally flattered vanity would have overspread that youthful counte nance.

Chapter III

It was nofat once that the honour of bavins' Mr. Cadwallader Llewellyn Williams to es cort her to all " the sights " of London was apparent to Florence Manvers. At first she thought him a disagreeable, vulgar, but very conceited person ; with staring eyes, and, as as she said, staring hair, and even whiskers ; tall, but with short legs and long back ; and attired in an absurdly showy style. Her notions became corrected gradually by Miss Thomas : his wildness of aspect was only the accompaniment of genius : his manner and dress the acquirements of a re sidence on the continent. She wondered in fact that he had not forgotten to speak Eng lish ; he ought by rights to be styled Count Williams ; as a foreign potentate had con ferred on him that dignity. There did not appear to be much pretence about the man ; he often seemed ready to laugh when such al lusions were made ; but he openly declared his preference for continental life, and could not endure England.

As to the style of living in each country he explained the difference one day, in this manner — " In England they give you mutton chop or beef steak, but in France you have cotilette ; or boof-take-opum-deter." The ringing laughter of the young girl was gravely checked by her protectress. " Miss Manvers has never been abroad," she said ; " the true foreign accent is, of course, unknown to those who have not travelled." Yet notwithstanding her laughter, Florence became soon impressed by what she listened to : the allusions to foreign courts : the facili ties for presentations : the great people one could mix with so familiarly: the beauty of the scenery : the gaiety and pleasure which were so easily attainable. " And all that I might have enjoyed, if Arthur — ah ! I won't think of him ! It was shameful — but he may explain it yet."