Stormbeaten and Weary. A novel

Chapter I

If any Painter drew her, He would paint her unaware— AVith a halo round her hair. Elizabeth Browning. DTLT was my last night at the old convent ; for $> ten long years I had looked on the same grey walls, Avhich shut out the world and all the storm of human passions that sweep across it. My eyes wandered along the straight walks over which my steps had so often passed ; the trees stood motionless in the calm moonlight, for there was not a breath of air to stir a single leaf : I had Avatched them bare and storm-beaten, and received lessons of usefulness and truth under their rich green shade. My heart swell'd with sorrow7 and I hid my face in my hands for fear, while all the dangers and difficulties of my future life presented themselves to my imagination. I can even now see the pipture which my childish fancy painted, and how unlike is the reality !

I kneAv nothing of the great theatre in which I was to act, for the world was forgotten in that quiet home where my childhood had been passed ; or if the struggles of life were remembered by B STORM-BEATEN. those Avho surrounded me, they were silently looked back upon with trembling fear, least a single regret should cast a shadoAV across the road to Heaven. I had been placed at the convent of St. Croix, by my mother, when I Avas only six years old, with the little portion she had gained by untiring industry. It amounted to about three thousand francs, a tolerable sum for a girl in our station of life. My father had been a violin player at the King's Theatre in Paris, and died when I Avas an infant, leaving my mother scarcely enough to pay his debts, but in her eyes that was no fault, she only remembered that ou earth she could see him no more, nor seek by her constant love and devotion to lighten every care which cast a shadow over his existence.

I remember hearing her say that when I was born she had but one regret, and that Avas, she could not trace on my baby face the likeness to his OAvn, which her Avoman's love made her seek f 01 Avith such anxiety. Then came his death and her broken heart, eAen I could not take his place in her affections, nor fill up the void which his absence caused. When I was six years old an uncle of my mother's died and left her part of the little fortune Avhich secured my entrance into the convent. With this help my mother's Avishes Avere fulfilled with regard to myself, and at this early age my education began under that quiet roof which sheltered me for ten years. My mother only lived long enough to see that I Avas happy and well-cared for, and then her gentle spirit found the rest she STORM-BEATEN. 3 had so long sought, and I A\ras alone in the Avorld — a child in years, but Avith a mind that grew beyond them — I sought knovdedge with eagerness and avidity, and my lessons AA'ere never tasks to me as they were to many of my com panions.

Music I passionately loved, and with very little assistance I managed to play tolerably avcII ; but this was an accomplishment regarded as use less for a girl in my station of life. The sisters of Ut. Croix belonged to one of the strictest Orders, and the two priests avIio attended the convent were unremitting in their attentions to my spiritual welfare. Few were my temptations and constant were my prayers to be kept from them, and surrounded as I Avas by those Avho Avatched over me, the seeds of sin Avere kept from taking root, and all that Avas good in my dis position encouraged. Child as I Avas, I felt at times a longing for more active employment, and the idea of devot ing myself to a religious life at last became insup portable, and on my sixteenth birthday I ventured to say this to Father Joseph.

With great kind ness he pointed out the trials and difficulties I should have to surmount, and dwelt on the dangers Avhich would cross my path, and bid me think if I had courage to face them. Tavo friends of mine wrere leaving school about this time, and I was influenced by their descriptions to fancy it Avas only the bright world without the convent Avails and the dark ones Avithin. Listless and dissatisfied I told STORM-BEATEN. Sister Louise I could feel no call to the sacred profession she had adopted, ancl implored her to intercede with the Lady Abbess, to find me some employment as soon as the term of my school days was ended. Accordingly one even ing I was summoned to her presence, and with a beating heart I found myself before her : " Sister Louise tells me, my child, that you do not desire to spend your life amongst us, but that you Avish to gain your livelihood beyond these quiet walls.

Is it so ? Speak freely and do not be afraid." " I do not wish to take the veil, my Mother, that is, I do not feel holy enough to do so," I replied, AArith hesitation. " Then are you fitted to struggle with the Avorld of Avhich you know so little ? And dare you trust yourself alone in the battle, ever going on around you ? Poor child ! You know not Avhat you undertake ! You Avill have so many quicksands to pass over — such temptations to resist — so many difficulties to bear up against. If you do not feel holy enough to watch and pray here, where will you be Avhen snares and pitfalls surround you on every side ? " " Mother, I seek only active employment ; I Avish to Avork and be useful ; I could not be idle and do nothiner, and haAre vou not tauarht me Avhere to look for help in every danger, and may I not come back to you, dear Mother, if I find the world such a sorroAvful place ?

" " Indeed you may, my dear cliild, but God grant you His aid, and give you strength to fight STORM-BEATEN. against the sin which wdll surround you. My early years were not as peaceful as yours have been — (and a dark shadow crossed her usually placid face as she spoke) — and here alone, and in my holy calling have I found rest and peace. But your request shall be granted, and in a few days I will see you again and let you know what has been arranged for you, in the meantime search well your own heart, and pray for guidance and strength." I knelt to receive her blessing Avhich was silently given, and I went back to the schoolroom with a lightened heart. A feAV days passed away — no further allusion was made by any one to my probable change in life, only my spirit knew no rest. I struggled against the bars of my cage, feeling them to be of iron.

At last I was promised freedom — in a feAV words the Lady Abbess told me she had made application to a relation of my mother's, who had Avritten to her several times during the ten years I had been at school, and who had signified her willingness to take charge of me, if I felt no desire to remain an inmate for life at the convent of St. Croix, and so my last evening came. Joy and sorrow, love and hate, march on hand in hand, and expectation passes into certainty, and life into death. I trembled for fear as I looked out of my little casement, seeing before me the broad ocean on which I had to sail and knoAAing no course which I could safely steer by, but my courage rose, and brilliant lights spread themselves over STORM-BEATEN. the dark outline ; hope whispered SAveet promises to me, and I lay down to dream that I Avas walking in a garden of roses shut in by cypress trees, and that a scorching wind obliged me to close my eyes.

My heart SAvelled with grief as I said farewell to all those Avho had loved and cared for me. It was the second sorrow I had ever knoAvn, that leave taking, I half repented of my decision, I hesitated, but the die AA'as cast, the convent doors closed upon me, and the Avorld opened to receive me. When I left the convent I Avas not alone, Father Joseph wras sent on a mission to England, and I remained under his care until Mrs. Johnson, my mother's sister, should meet me in London, as that was my destination, and in that Babel we arrived on the evening of a Avarm day in the month of May. I had never seen so many human beings before, nor heard such strange sounds, the language was scarcely intelligable to me, al though for my mother's sake, I had striven to remember her native tongue. " This is London, dear cliild," said Father Joseph, as we rattled over the uneven streets, " it is a strange place, and I always feel a dark in fluence spread over me Avhen I enter it."

"You will come and see me often, wdll you not, Mon Pere?" I asked AA-ith a trembling lip, for I began to dread my loneliness in the midst of the great city. " As often as I am permitted to do so, my child," he replied, "but, alas! you are going to be placed with one aaIio belongs not to our Holy STORM-BEATEN. Church, and though she has promised ahvays to permit you to follow the blessed faith in which you were horn, yet I may not have that free access to you I could otherwise obtain Avere you with those of our own religion. Remember the lessons I have endeavoured to teach you, listen not to the evil counsels of those Avho may tempt you into forbidden paths, observe all the ordi nances of the Church, and fail not in your monthly confession. The Priest of St. Margaret's will watch over you, and I Avill make such arrangements with your Aunt as will secure you his advice and protection Avhenever you need it." 1 replied with a burst of tears, which I could only hastily wipe away as the cab drove up to 104, Grosvenor Square.

Father Joseph got out, rung the bell and in quired of one of the smart looking footmen if Mrs. Johnson was at home. " The housekeeper here you mean, I suppose," (and calhng to a page) said " William run to the housekeeper's room and see if Mrs. Johnson expects visitors." " This is her niece," remarked Father Joseph in his quiet dignified manner, unused to such a familiar style of conversation, " I do not think her coming can be unexpected." " Perhaps not, but you must wait until the boy comes back, he will be here directly, and will sheAV you to Mrs. Johnson's apartments. I have nothing to do with them, and dont know what company she keeps." All the time this conversation was going on I STORM-BEATEN. stood aAvkAvard and ashamed by Father Joseph's side, terrified at the impertinence of the servant Avho presumed to speak so to him.

At this moment a handsome carriage rattled up to the door ; the servants left off talking, and we stood aside to alloAV the ladies to enter. Both were young — the one Avho stepped out first I hardly observed, my Avhole attention Avas directed to the younger of the two, who slowly and languidly passed us, casting upon me, as she did, a look I have never forgotten — a Avorld of thought, of beauty and Aveariness was in that loA*elv face, so expressive of every fancy which crossed her mind. Just as she passed me she stopped and turning round said, in a soft clear voice, "Are you waiting for anyone ? " Father Joseph ansAvered for me, and explained that I Avas a niece of the housekeeper's, and that one of the servants had gone to see if she was at home. At that moment the page returned with the message that Mrs. Johnson would be with us in a moment, and that he would shew us to her room.

I made a curtsey to the lady who kindly bid me " good eATening," and folloAved our guide into my aunt's apartment. It was a large room but very dark, as only one stream of sun shine struggled across it ; the walls looked dusty and dingy, and yet there Avas every comfort in it. Sofas and arm chairs, a bookcase, and even a vase of faded floAvers stood on the table, and on an old fashioned sideboard Avere costly china dishes filled with various kinds of fruits, a clock stood on the mantel-shelf, aud one dirty feathered canary kept up an incessant Avhistle which almost STORM-BEATEN. 9 drowned the voice of the wheels in the street above. My observations were ended by the entrance of my aunt wdio bustled into the room, kissed me before I could see what she was like, made a how to Father Joseph, asked if I Avas tired and then sat down.

I looked at her Avith wonder, for I had not seen many women out of the convent and she was not one to be passed over without observation. " I have brought Marie as you desired, Mrs. Johnson," said Father Joseph, " and therefore my trust is at an end, I Avill not trespass on your time longer than to beg you will allow me to see her occasionally Avhile I remain in London ? She has been under my care since she Avas a child, and it is painful for me to part from her." His eyes were full of tears, and mine overflowed. " Marie, or Mary in English," said my aunt quickly, " will be glad to see you I am sure, when she is at liberty, but I have employment for her which will greatly occupy her, and leave httle leisure for visitors." Father Joseph only bowed, whispered to me a few words of encouragement, declined the re freshment my aunt pressed upon him, and left the room, whilst I buried my face in the corner of the sofa and sobbed aloud.

" Why Mary " said my aunt, taking my hand in hers, " surely you dont mean to say you are sorry to leave school and be a Avoman ? Why I thought you Avould be glad enough to come away from that dull old convent ancl see England, and STORM-BEATEN. you are to help me too, and be useful, and didn't the Lady Abbess say you wished to gain your own living ?" " And I do aunt." said I trying to stop my tears, "• only only it was home to me, and not dull at all, and they were so very kind ! " " And shan't I be kind — and isn't this a better home — and aint I your mother's sister? Come, come, my girl, cheer up, and don't look as if you were going to the Avorkhouse. I will send Emma to shew you your room, and Avhen you have taken off your things and have made yourself comfortable, you can come down here again, and a cup of tea will do you good.

There's company to-night and I am very busy, you can help me if you are not too tired. " I shall be very glad to do so. Is this Emma, and shall I go with her ? " " Yes. Take Miss Duval and shew her the way to her room," said my aunt to the smart-looking little waiting maid. " Miss Duval," how odd ii sounded ! I had only been " Marie" at the convent, now I was changed to English " Mary," and finally I saw myself as '" Miss Duval." My wonder at everything increased so that I had little time to feel sorrowful, and then my aunt was really kind only her manner was brusque and odd. " However, I shall get used to it by and bye." I said to myself in French as I walked up the dark staircase. " I wonder if I ever shall be able to talk English as well as she does." " Shall I uncord your box for you, Miss," said Emma, as I stood looking round my room in dismay at the one STORM-BEATEN. small window, which seemed only to let in hot stove like air.

My little casement at St. Croix opened to admit the fresh summer breezes and the sweet scent of flowers. " Merci si il vous plait — how hot it is ! " I exclaimed all in a breath. " Not so bad as it was yesterday; there's more air, but may be you have come a long way, and 'tis close being packed up in the railway,' said Emma. " Yes, I have come from St. Croix, in France, and we crossed the sea last night, but it was not half so hot theie as here, and how close the houses are to one another — London seems a vast place." Emma laughed and stared — "Dear heart, you should just see Avhere I Avas born." she said — shaking her head — " why this is the best part of Lon don, where all the grand folks live, but I can tell you there are different places to this, where you would say the houses was close together !

One day, wdien we have a bit of time, I should just like to shew you the streets and squares here abouts, oh, they are beautiful, and this is a mansion and the rooms are splendid, you will see them some day " " Are they Emma, who lives here ?" "Why, Lord Ernest Camden, to be sure; a great nobleman, don't you knoAv ? Why your aunt is housekeeper to my lady." •' What lady? The one who spoke to me in the hall?" " Perhaps, if you was standing there, but Iioav did you see her ? " " While the servant was gone to tell Aunt Johnson of our arrival, such a pretty lady came in a carriage ; Father Joseph and I stood back to let STORM-BEATEN. her pass, she asked me if I was waiting to see any one?" " And what did you say ? " " I ? Oh — nothing — Father Joseph answered for me." " Who's Father Joseph ? " " The priest at the convent."

" Well to be sure, are you come out of a convent ? " " Yes, I was at school there " " Then may be you are a papist ? " I don't know what that means." " Why a catholic." " To be sure I am, ain't you one ? " " La — no, Church of England to be sure, no body is papist here. How came you to be one ? " " My father and mother were catholics, and I thought everyone in the world was a catholic. There is only one religion, is there ? " " One indeed ! Hundreds! Methodists, church people, papists, and ranters. Why you are foreign not to know that ! How shocking ! " " Not at all, why shouldn't we go to heaven our own way ? You pray to images and I to God, when I have a bit of time, but I declare I get very little of that to say my prayers, anyhow." " Oh, Emma ! " " 'Tis truth." "Jam to go to mass every Sunday, and to con fession once a month."

" Well, perhaps you can, because you won't STORM-BEATEN. 13 have to work so hard as a servant like me does. I wonder what you are going to do though ? " " Help aunt. What do you do ? " " Slave from morning to night in the season, and mind the house and do needlework when it is over. My goodness ! There is always plenty to do, winter and summer." " When do you go to the country ? " " Oh, never, father and mother lives in London, that is to say far enough from here, in the back streets, but I don't know much about the country. I walk in the park now and then, and that's most like it." " How far is it away ? I wish I could get to it before breakfast." " Well, you could, for it is close here, only I don't expect Mrs. Johnson would like you to go out alone, and you would be sure to lose your way."

" Very likely. I will wait until you go too; and I hope it will be soon, it is so hot here." " Oh, you will get used to it, and speak better English too, I can scarcely understand you." " Or I you ; can't you speak a word of French ? It is so much easier than English." " Hey, dear ! Easier than English, indeed ! No, I don't know a Avord, and never shall Come, now if you are ready we must go down, or missus will scold me. There is a large dinner party to-night, and a sight of work to do." " Ah, yes ! My aunt said I could assist her : I am quite ready ; you go first, I scarcely know my way." My aunt Avas bleaching almonds when I entered, STORM-BEATEN. and just looked up, bid me bring a chair and help her, while Emma got the tea. " You are tall of your age, Mary, if you are only just sixteen."

" My birthday was in April." '' Do you recollect your mother? You are like her." " Yes, I remember her perfectly well, although I was very young when she died." " Your father's death broke her heart, she never ought to have married him, but she had a fancy for foreigners" — " She was very happy," I answered, while my colour rose, and I resented the tone in which she spoke — " And was almost starved to death, I hope you will do better; England must be your home, and you must learn to wotk — you speak English very poorly. Can you write it?" " I fear not very well," I replied, " but I can learn ; there were English girls at St. Croix, and I used to talk to them for practice, but French is easiest to me." " So it appears. Can you work — sew I mean?" "Oh yes, and embroider! I have brought a collar for you, if you will wear it."

" Thank you ; I am glad you can use your needle, that is a woman's business, and you can be useful to me. Lady Isabella Camden has kindly allowed me to have you here, it will afford you a good opportunity of doing something for yourself, and I hope you will be grateful." " Indeed I am aunt Can I thank her?" STORM-BEATEN. 15 " Some day, perhaps, if you get on well. So we have finished our job and you will be glad of your tea." I ivas hungry, but I did not quite like the tea, for we had been used to coffee abroad, but it was part of the entire change, and I watched my aunt and listened to all the orders she gave, while she went in and out of the room with Emma When we had finished the table was cleared and all sorts of sweetmeats and cakes were brought in, and I assisted to place them in glass and china dishes ; thinking all the time of the pretty lady, and of what Emma had told me about the different religions in England.

I was allowed to go up stairs to see the guests arrive, carriage after carriage roll'd up, and each contained one or two ladies and as many gentle men, all looking so fresh and gay. I thought they must be very happy. Then the last guests arrived and I sat looking over the great dust-covered square, watching the rays of the setting sun as they grew fainter and fainter. There was a hum of many voices and the roll of carriages passsing along the streets and by the houses, quickly moving figures of men and women flitted backwards and forwards, all seeming intent upon some weighty business; children were carried home by smartly dressed nursemaids, and the dogs congregated in little groups to fight. One by one the twinkling stars appeared overhead, and as I watched, the silver cresent shed its pale and feeble light over the dark world below.

Could it be the same moon I had looked upon so far away ? Had I seen those little stars from the convent gardens, and were they visible to STORM-BEATEN. those who, perhaps, were now praying for me ? I sat quite still and thought — looked back upon my peaceful childhood and wondered with a strange awe, as I tried to lift up the veil which hides the future from all eyes. It is a dark and misty picture to those whose lives are pretty clearly mapped out — to me it was a chaos. I felt all an orphan's loneliness, that sad feeling which only those can under standwho have no right to pronounce the word home. I was not left long alone to meditate, for Emma appeared to tell me to go down to my aunt who was disengaged, and who thought I had better go to bed as soon as the supper was over. I felt very tired although my nerves were too excited to alloAV me to sleep.

" You will hear the music," said Emma, " if you listen at the door." I did so, and the soft strains reminded me of the vesper hymn — some lady was singing and the clear tones came full upon my ear. I longed to be nearer, to catch the words, but we dared not open the door, and it was soon over. Then came the buz of many voices and merry laughter, and I envied them their supposed happiness, little dreaming of the sinking hearts and weary spirits which too often belong to those who seem gay. Emma would not let me remain long, so I followed her down stairs into the supper room, where a place was kept for me close to my aunt. All the servants avIio were disengaged sat at the table without speaking, and I scarcely raised my eyes from my plate, it seemed all so new and odd to me. When the meal was ended my aunt arose and took me with her to my room, bid me sleep well and left me with a kiss for the night. STORM-BEATEN. 17

Chapter II

Ihis is the place.— Stand still my steed Let me review the scene, And summon from the shadowy past The forms that once have been. Longfellow. f AWOKE the next morning with that bewildered feeling most people experience when they open their eyes and find themselves in a strange place. My bedroom in Grosvenor Square, was very different to the one I occupied at St. Croix, and when I opened my window I was glad to find that something like fresh air could come in ; but how was I to keep it open when so many others looked down upon mine? "Perhaps people did not live in those houses," I thought, all the blinds were down and no one seemed stirring. I had to learn that London life, even among servants, begins only after the cocks have crowed their early salutations to the sun. I dressed myself and then took out my books to read, and when my prayers were ended I examined the many little gifts that had been pressed upon me by those whom I had so lately left.

All recalled happy hours, Imean those calmer moments of one's life when the feelings are all awake, though the passions are asleep. Intense delight, rapturous joy — are emotions which have no affinity to happiness, that one soothing influence only continues with us Avhile the sunshine of our childhood c STORM-BEATEN. remains unbroken. As soon as the cloud of grow ing passion arises, even though it be but the size of a man's hand, happiness vanishes — wilder and more intoxicating feelings take its place, but Ave receive it into our heart no more. It was born with Adam, in Paradise, and we shall meet it again in heaven. Duty fulfilled, sorrows passed over, self denial practised, bring forth sweet fruits which bear the bloom of happiness ; but that one seed, from God's own hand, is like the sensitive plant which cannot bear a touch — the wind passes over it and it is gone.

Is it happiness to be with one Ave love? There is too much delight to call it by that name, too much fear of the thread breaking to permit the heart to have perfect rest. Is friendship happi ness ? Alas, no ! For minds are not formed alike, and differences of opinion and absence, damp affection. The struggle against self brings forth contentment; and the exercise of self denial — resignation. Happiness has always appeared to me, as different, from these feelings, as spring is to autumn ; there may be an affinity the one to the other, but they are widely separated. So these little tokens of affection, which I held in my hand, recalled happy hours, and to these I said farewell when I walked out into the world. I did not think so then, but such are the reflections time has brought in its train, and which I often dwell upon now.