A Man's Undoing

Front matter

BY MRS LOVETT CAMERON author of 'a soul astray two cousins and a castle' 'little lady lee' 'in a grass country' etc. LONDON P. V. WHITE & CO. 14 BEDFORD STREET, STRAND, W.C. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. A rainy august 1 II. IDLE HANDS 6 III. SATAN'S MISCHIEF 15 IV. PLEASANT SINS 25 V. GOSSIPING TONGUES 36 VI. LADY BEECHER 46 VII. AN EVENING VISIT 58 VIII. A COMPACT OF FRIENDSHIP 67 IX. TEA — AL FRESCO 77 X. FROM OUTSIDE THE WINDOW 85 XI. AN EVENING WALK 93 XII. THE EVIL TONGUES 101 XIII. FALSE WITNESS 110 XIV. PLANS AND FAREWELLS 120 XV. LUCY'S LITTLE SCHEMES 132 XVI. FACING THE CONSEQUENCES 145 XVII. THE NEW LIFE 156 XVIII. HOW CLARE BORE IT 168 XIX. HELEN DRURY 180 XX. THE SKELETON IN THE CUPBOARD . . . . 193 XXI. A REVELATION 202 XXII. HOME TROUBLES 212 XXIII. THE EDITOR'S NAME 223 XXIV. THE TRAGEDY - 230 XXV. THE PITY OF IT 237 XXVI. A CONFESSION 248 XXVII. A SUDDEN DEPARTURE 257 XXVIII. THE WONDERFUL

LETTER 267 XXIX.

THE FATE OF THE ' FOAM FLOWER ' . . . . 280 XXX. AFTER THE STORM — PEACE By the same Author. TWO COUSINS AND A CASTLE. Cloth gilt, 3s. ed. A SOUL ASTRAY. Cloth, 2s. ed. ; picture boards, 2s. F. V. WHITE & CO., 14 Bedford Street, Strand.

Chapter I

A RAINY AUGUST It had rained every day for three weeks. There had indeed been transient gleams : a sine afternoon once or twice, a little rise of the glass, a golden sunset hour, or a starry night — but always these hopeful signs had ended iu nothing, and tbe heavy black clouds had come looming up once more from the west, and the pitiless rain had drenched down again upon the already saturated eartb. Even the farmers, wbo had clamoured for it all the summer — even they had had enough of it, and admitted that it was sun shine that was most wanted now. But then your British farmer is never satisfied, and must always have something to growl over. Meanwhile, the newspapers went daily into statistics concerning the rainfall, and after enumerating the experiences of all the past months of August during tbe last twenty years, were unanimously agreed tbat this particular month of August was tbe very wettest that had as yet been recorded witbin tbe memory of living man — especially was it so, they were careful to add — in the south-western counties of England. a Now Tarrant Abbas was a village in a south-western county.

It must be admitted tbat it was a dull village, even at the best of times, and under the bluest of skies, for it stood off the main road at tbe bottom of a steep winding lane that led to nowhere else on earth. The little squat church tower and the small cluster of houses were nestled together in somewhat melancholy seclusion amongst tufted elms and apple orchards along the green slopes that fell away steeply into tbe valley beneatb, where the river Tarrant wound its placid course between tbe long sedges and drooping willows tbat bordered its tranquil stream. If it was dull, it was at least pretty and rural and homelike — a place in which to rest and be at peace after tbe toil and turmoil of life. Tbat is what Guy Ripley had thought of it when he had been brought home three months ago, after ten years of absence from England; ten years that bad been full to the brim of all tbe mingled hardships and excitement of a soldier's life on tbe north-western frontier of India ; years that had brought to him much distinction and tho promise of future fame, and. that had kindled the name of an ardent ambition within. him.

Then bad come tbe downfall of everything on eartb to him. A hot corner and the tumult of battle — a, sudden onslaught — and then sharp agony — followed by black darkness, as of death itself. After the battle was over they picked him up amongst twenty others as for dead; but be was alive still, although fearfully mangled and wounded, and somehow he was carried safely down thirty miles across the rough mountain country to the nearest shelter for the wounded. Six months in hospital — for the wasting ravages of fever followed upon the acute dangers of gunshot wounds and sabre cuts — left him still alive, but utterly prostrate and fit for nothing. A Rainy August 3 ' You had better send in your papers — you'll never be fit for active service again,' the head surgeon of the Hospital at Lahore said to him when he began to creep feebly from bis bed to the couch on the verandah.

And it seemed impossible indeed that he could ever be well again. ' With care you may live years,' said the doctor, ' but I am bound to tell you you'll never be able to stand another campaign. Better send in your papers, and go home to your own people.' Guy Ripley firmly believed that he was going to die, and he took the surgeon's advice. He sent in bis papers as a matter of course, and was carried down by slow stages to Bombay. He did not wish to live now ; to give np his profession just when success in it had seemed within his grasp was the death-blow to every hope he had on earth. To go home and lead the life of a confirmed invalid was a worse doom than death itself. He was carried on board tbe ship, and he scarcely believed tbat he would reach England alive, neither in fact did anyone else expect him to do so.

Instead of which, he actually picked up a little strength on the voyage, and when England's white cliffs came in sight he bad been able to be carried on deck to see them. Nevertheless, he bad been wasted and worn — a mere shadow — a living skeleton — when they brought him back to Tarrant Abbas three months ago. It had been a lovely evening in May, and tbe little valley seemed to smile at him in welcome. It was green as an emerald, and sweet-scented with summer flowers, and bis mother had stood under the porch to receive him into her arms, with his two elderly little sisters behind her, and they had all three wept and rejoiced over him, and had made much of him to their hearts' content. b2 And then it was that Guy had said to himself, with a sense of restful peace : ' After all, it is good to be at home ! ' But after three months of it he was scarcely of tha same opinion.

To begin with, he was strangely and unaccountably better. He no longer lay all day upon the sofa, waited on hand and foot by an adoring family. He began to get up to breakfast, to take walks ; his appetite came back, and with it his bodily strength ; and a horrible thought haunted him day and night that he bad sacrificed his career in vain, that tbe surgeon bad been mistaken in his verdict, and that at some not now far distant day he would be as well again as ever. He never spoke of this haunting thought, but it was terribly bitter to him to think it. Had he been in too great a hurry to believe himself a doomed man ? But there was nothing now to be done, and Guy was not a man to make a vain moan over the inevitable. Neither was he entirely out of tbe wood as yet. There came the month of August, that wet August of which mention has been made.

The doctor who had attended him since his return had wTarned him against tbe dangers of damp and chills, but a contemptuous dis regard of this advice had resulted in a fresh and some what sharp attack of fever ; so tbat he found himself reluctantly constrained to obey orders and remain indoors. And it was very dull. The lawn was a swamp ; the flowers in the garden beds were all dashed and draggled ; tbe river was swollen, and had overflowed its banks ; the trees buns limp and dripping ; and the rain beat unceasingly against tbe window panes. For want of something to do Guy began to look out A Rainy August 5 his guns and his fishing tackle, and to wonder whether he would be wTell enough to throw a fly or strong enough to carry a gun when September came. By degrees he began to feel certain that he would be able to shoot partridges if he got a chance of doing so, and tbe conviction would have been a consolation to him, for he was a good shot and a keen sportsman, but for that other haunting thought that embittered all else in life for him — tbe thought tbat he need not after all have given up his profession !

Meanwhile it rained, and rained, and rained, day and night, and night and day, without cessation. He was perforce compelled to remain indoors, and the house was not a particularly cheerful one to be shut up in from morning: till ni^ht.

Chapter II Idle Hands

It was a good bouse in its way, of moderate size ; yet it was bv no means a mansion, neither were the grounds around it an estate. Its real name was ' The Chestnuts,' presumably because of two giant chestnut trees that flanked the entrance gate on either side as you turned into it out of tbe village. But as a matter of fact it was seldom called by its correct name, and was more generally known as ' Mrs. Ripley's.' It belonged to her in fact for her life, and was left unconditionally to her son after her death. Old Ripley bad been a banker in tbe neighbouring country town of Dorminster. His family was not aristocratic in origin, and he could boast of no ancient pedigree ; he was in fact a self-made man. Yet he had been a very respectable specimen of bis class, and he had been fortunate in bis marriage.

Mrs. Ripley was the daughter of an old but impoverished county family ; she brought him no fortune, but a great many social advantages. He retired from business in his sixty-fifth year, and on doing so he had purchased the small freehold property of ' The Chestnuts' at Tarrant Abbas. It was a good, solid, square bouse, well built and well arranged, standing in about five acres of ground. There was a greenhouse at one end of the house, and there was very good stabling for four horses. There were also two paddocks, an orchard, and several out houses all in good repair, and the garden was large and pretty, sloping down in terraces to the river, the fishing of which, such as it was, was also included in the pur chase. Old Edward Ripley called it a ' snug little property,' and thought himself lucky in becoming the owner of it.

He thought, too, that he was doing his duty well to his family in bequeathing ' The Chestnuts ' to his wife for her life, and to his only son after her. There was something settled upon each of his daughters as well, sufficient to maintain them in comfort should they eventually set up house together. ' They aren't likely to marry, poor girls,' had said old Ripley to bis wife, and Mrs. Ripley sighed, and said she supposed not. For tbe Misses Ripley were deficient in those outer graces which are said to entrap the unwary sex more surely than either talent or virtue. They were good little women in their way — contented and cheerful, and anxious to do their duty in life. Either of them would have made an excellent wife and mother; and yet it was as self-evident to their parents, as to all the world beside, that no man alive would ever invite them to become so.

Guy, by one of those freaks of nature which make or unmake tho lives of human beings, had in his own person united all such charms of face and manner as bad fallen to the share of the family. Not that he could exactly be called a handsome man, for he had neither the statuesque proportions nor the regular features which are the attributes of the popular hero of romance. Nevertheless, be was distinctly good to look at. Although not very tall, his figure was broad shouldered and manly enough, and his face was very decidedly a pleasant one, even in repose ; and when he smiled it became singularly winning. Moreover, although, as I have said, from neither father nor mother could he claim any very remarkable advantages of family or ancestry, yet it is certain that ' not all the blood of all the Howards ' could have made of Guy Ripley a better and a truer gentleman than he was.

And, after all, a man cannot be more than a gentleman, according to the best interpretation of the word : there can be no higher praise to be said of him than that. But although he would not have pained the heart of his mother for the world by telling her so, there is no doubt that, after a whole month of incessant wet weather, Guy Ripley began to find home and home life very dull indeed. The little family party was always the same, Mrs. Ripley not having cared since her widowhood to entertain strangers. They sat together, all four of them, as they were doing to-day, from morning till night. Just now Captain Ripley, to whom was given over the biggest and deepest arm-chair in the room, was smokiDg his pipe ; also, a concession to his invalided condition, with a novel lying open face downwards upon bis knee.

The novel did not amuse him ; and whatever its other merits may be, if a novel fails to amuse, of what profit is it ? It is guilty of the sin for which there is neither pardon nor palliation. His eyes strayed indifferently from his mother, who sat near him knitting worsted stockings, destined for tbe adornment of his own nether limbs, to his sisters on the further side of the room. He looked at them both, not unkindly, but dispassionately, as a stranger might have looked at them, and their utter lack of attraction struck him forcibly. They were both several years older than himself, and their lives, poor souls ! had been spent in that dead level of monotony to which so many excellent women seem to be doomed from the day of their birth. There had come no stirring times to Ellen and Agatha Ripley — nothing of a personal nature had ever ruffled tbe even course of their existence ; their hearts had never throbbed with delight or with despair ; they had seemed to be born only to stand aside, as it were, to be lookers-on at tbe game of life, in which others played an active part, whilst they themselves were merely the passive spectators of things in which they had no share.

Thus it had come to pass that small matters filled their minds unduly, that they became narrow in their limitations and somewhat foolish in their conceptions. A little gossip, flavoured per chance with a grain of scandal, and a good deal of silly if harmless tittle-tattle, was what they lived upon from year's end to year's end. Their brother's return was a great and important event to them — his illness, his wounds, his intercepted career, constituted endless topics of dis cussion and of speculation. Guy had, in truth, been a very God-send to them, and they were never tired of talking about him to each other and to tbe small circle of their acquaintances. If he had known of it, he would have been driven to distraction, but mercifully he did not know ; only — poor little things ! — they irritated him somewhat, and they bored him indescribably'.

Ellen was making clothes for the poor : they were badly made, and the poor people on whom she bestowed them usually had to unpick them and make them up all over again before they could wear them ; but her intentions were praiseworthy — she meant to be useful. Agatha, less serious in her views, was paint ing a border of flowers — very indifferently — in an album of autographs — tbe autographs of nobodies — whom she pestered incessantly to inscribe their names in her book. Every afternoon for a week past these three women had sat in the same places, occupied in precisely the same manner, and every afternoon it had continued to rain steadily. Guy found himself wondering if things would go on like this for tbe rest of his mortal life. He yawned audibly. His eyes strayed idly out of window towards tbe gentle slopes, dotted with clumps of fine trees and crowned with thick woods, that bounded the view on tbe further side of the river.

On the summit of the hill stood Tarrant Hall, a solid and venerable grey stone edifice, whose long rows of square windows looked back across the valley towards his mother's house. At the moment Guy was not thinking about it at all ; his thoughts were far away. Between his eyes and the vivid greens of the rain-soaked and swampy landscape other scenes arose — scenes of life and of action — mighty mountain passes, up which had swarmed the men of his company, deep gorges through which a great river rushed and foamed. Once more he seemed to see and hear the smoke and din of battle : the wild rush to the heights above, tbe storming of forts, the roar of the big guns, and tbe sharp cracking of tbe rifles, the shouts of the victors, tbe cries of the wounded ; and then, again, the camp-fires at night, the long talks with friends and comrades, some of whom were dead and gone, and the rest far away, the pros and cons for the morrow's march, the hopes, the stir, the excitement!

Ah, that had been life indeed! — a life to set the blood on fire and the pulses tingling, a life worth living, worth dying for if needs be ! And yet when be had been in the middle of it all, he had often, be remembered, longed ardently for Tarrant Abbas and the peace and rest of home ! Well, he had got it now with a vengeance — tbat home rest and peace ! Then with a start bis wandering thoughts came back to the present and to the old grey stone house that lay opposite. ' I wonder if old Beecher will give me some shooting next month,' he remarked presently in his quiet, practical voice, breaking tbe long silence that had now reigned for many minutes in Mrs. Ripley's drawing-room. ' My dear Guy ! ' cried his mother, ' do you not re member ? Oh, but surely you must remember about poor Sir James !

I am sure we wrote and told you, did we not, Ellen ? ' ' Ob, yes, mother. Why, we all wrote, and described bis death, and how sudden it was. He died three years ago, poor man, after only a few days' illness ; just a cold it bad seemed at first, nothing worse.' ' And there was such a grand funeral,' said Agatha, looking up from her paint-box ; ' twenty carriages at tbe least, and no end of white wreaths and crosses. Tbe church was crammed and the village was quite gay all day.' ' What exhilarating gaiety ! But, really, I have no recollection of your telling me of his death. Poor old Beecher ! I wonder if I ever got that letter— some of them did miss me altogether, you know, about then, when I was un at the front. Who does the place belong to now then ? ' ' Why, to bis son.' Guy sat bolt upright in his chair, and the dull novel slipped down off his knee on to the carpet. ' His son ! but old Beecher wTas tbe most confirmed old bachelor I ever met!

You don't mean to say tbat be ever married ? Oh, I must have missed some of your letters, for I should certainly have remembered tbat. When did he marry ? ' ' Only a year before he died, poor old man.' ' It was a foolish marriage, I consider,' continued Mrs. Ripley, regardless of sundry frowns and signs from her daughters. ' She was so young— young enough to be bis daughter. I really don't know what she could have married him for, but bis money, poor fellow. And there she is, left a widow, poor thing, with the responsibility of a small boy on her hands and nobody to help her, for he left ber sole guardian.' Captain Ripley was but moderately interested in all this. Man-like, his chief point of attraction to Tarrant Hall were the partridges. He interrupted his mother's lengthy history of Lady Beecber's widow-hood and position to inquire who had the shooting. ' I am sure I can't say, my dear.' ' Mrs. Worsall was telling Mr. Green the other day that the shooting was to be let,' said Ellen. ' If Mrs. Worsall said so, she probably had it straight from Mr. Blackett, the agent,' remarked her mother. ' Mrs. Worsall hears all the news.' Mrs. Worsall wras the wife of the vicar. 'If it is to be let, I wonder if I could get any of it,' mused Captain Ripley. ' I could not, of course, afford the whole, but I might manage a bit perhaps.

I wonder what she wants for it, this lone lorn widdv.' ' The " lone lorn widdy," as you call her,' laughed Agatha, 'is away. Fancy describing Lady Beecher, of all people, in such a way ! She is mostly away. She gads about tho world, paying visits to smart country houses. I wish she wouldn't. I wish she would stop at home. There would be something to talk about at least, if she wero here, but I expect she finds Tarrant Abbas dull.' ' No wonder ! ' muttered Guy under bis moustache, and then he coughed to bide the involuntary exclamation which he felt an ingrate to have uttered. ' Perhaps if you were to write to Mr. Blackett you could find out ? ' suggested Ellen. ' Mr. Blackett is Lady Beecher's cousin ; ho manages her property for her. He would be sure to know about the shooting.' And so the conversation dribbled on, and Guy yawned and said be would write to Mr. Blackett, but he didn't suppose it would be any good — they wouldn't want to cut up tbe shooting, he imagined, or else they would want a lot of money for it, more than he would care to give. lie wished to goodness Sir James Beecher wasn't dead ; he was a good-natured old fellow, and was always ready to give him a day's shooting the last time he was at home. ' He was very fond of your poor father,' remarked Mrs. Ripley. ' Your father was able to be of great service to him once — he advanced him a large sum of money when he was in a temporary difficulty.

I have often heard him speak about it, and Sir James never forgot anyone who did him a kindness. No one was more distressed and unhappy at your dear father's death than was Sir James Beecher.' And then the subject dropped, and conversation lan guished, and silence settled down once more upon the dull little drawing-room. ' The rain has nearly stopped. I think I shall go out for a stroll,' said Captain Ripley presently. ' My dear ! are you wise ? it is only a lull between tbe showers, there will be another storm directly.' ' One can't stick in the whole blessed day,' he said wearily. ' I must get some air.' ' Then pray wrap up, my love. Ellen, go into the hall with your brother, and see that he puts bis coat on, and a woollen comforter round bis neck. And if you only would put on those goloshes I got for you, Guy ' It must be confessed that all this was rather irri tating.

I am sorry to say that Captain Guy Ripley shook off the anxious solicitations of bis sister Ellen, who had meekly obeyed her parent's directions, with a somewhat impatient gruffness. He consented, indeed, to put on a coat and to arm himself with an umbrella, but he was as adamant concerning the comforter and the goloshes. And then, after he had actually started from the front door, because he was a kind, soft-hearted fellow, and because his conscience smote him, he turned back again into tbe bouse in order to kiss tbe pale drab-coloured little woman who stood looking sadly and wistfully after him. ' Thank you, Ellen dear,' he said to ber; 'it is very kind of you to bother after me, and I am afraid I am an ungrateful sort of chap. Please forgive me, dear, for being cross to you.' And Ellen Ripley smiled and became happy once more, because of those kind wrords, whilst Guy set out on his walk with a light heart.

And yet, if he bad known all that the future had in store for him, Guy Ripley would assuredly have died of dulness within the four walls of his mother's drawing room, sooner than have gone out for a walk on that wet and dreary August afternoon. *5

Chapter III Satan's Mischief

Guy Ripley was not the only person in the parish of Tarrant Abbas who was dull on that wet afternoon in August. Lucy Weaver stood leaning against the window in her brother's house, half a mile beyond the village along the Dorminster road, and told herself that life was too deadly dull to be endured. She had nothing to do. But then if Lucy Weaver had had fifty things to do she would probably have left them undone ; for she was the idlest and most useless creature on the face of the eartb. As it was, she might with great advantage have tidied and put straight the little square sitting-room behind her, for it was in a sad state of confusion and chaos, and if she had taken a carpet broom and a duster she would have found sufficient employment for the remainder of the afternoon. But such a thought never came even remotely into her mind.

She stood leaning against the window-frame swing ing the tassel of the blind backwards and forwards, and occasionally yawning — great gaping yawns — such as a woman never indulges in unless she is completely alone, and which for the moment distorted her pretty faco into tbe most unlovely contortions. For she was a very pretty girl, there was no denying that. Her prettiness would have been acknowledged in any class of life ; it would have equally well adorned a very much higher sphere than the one she actually occu pied, or a very much lower one. It was the prettiness of a flower, of curly golden hair and clear blue eyes, of a transparent pink and white skin, of a rosebud mouth and of the clean healthiness of youth. Lucy often looked in the glass and admired herself immensely ; she also de plored the fact that there was no one else to admire her, and that her good looks were, she considered, wasted and thrown away in the dead-alive parish of Tarrant Abbas. 'If only I'd been a lady born, and lived in a big house,' Lucy used to say to herself discontentedly, as she surveyed her pretty face in her mirror.

But she was not a lady, and she lived in a little bouse — a cottage almost. She was the sister of the parish doctor, and Dr. Alfred Weaver's house stood by the roadside, with a narrow strip of garden between it and the hedge, and a tiny stable behind it for his long-legged horse and shabby dogcart ; and there was a surgery with a red glass lamp over tbe door of it, built out at one end of tbe house, through which came the poor people at certain hours of the morn ing and evening ; at all other times the doctor and his ' man ' — an individual who was groom, gardener, butler, and cowherd in one — were driving about the country roads for a ten miles' radius on visits to the patients. And during all the hours of bis absence Lucy was left to her own devices and to the society of Jemima, the servant girl.

It was certainly a dull existence ; and yet many girls in Lucy's position would have made duties and occupations for themselves, and have so led a useful and busy life. She might, for instance, have made her brother's home very much more comfortable for him. He had at least been a good brother to her, and she owed everything to him. He was many years her senior, she was only in fact his half-sister, the daughter of his father's second wife. Yet when that second wife died Dr. Weaver took her orphan child home, and installed her in his house. He had fed, and clothed, and housed her ever since she had been ten years old ; and in return for all this Lucy had never done one single thing to make his daily life either pleasanter or more orderly. His dinners were still ill-cooked and unpunctual, bis socks in boles, his shirts without buttons, and his little house a veritable Augean stable of dust and disorder.