A North Country Maid, etc

Front matter

A NORTH COUNTRY MAID, A NOVEL. BY Mrs H. LOVETT CAMERON, AUTHOR OF 'JULIET'S GUARDIAN,' 'DECEIVERS EVER,' 'POOR WISDOM'S CHANCE,' 'PURE GOLD,' etc., etc. IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. I. 1 A North Country maid Up to London had strayed, Although with her nature it did not agree. She wept and she sighed, And she bitterly cried, " I wish once again in the North I could be." ' Old Song; ijth Century, LONDON : F. V. WHITE & CO., SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND, AV.C. 1884. F. V. WHITE & CO.'S SELECT NOVELS BY POPULAR AUTHORS. Crown Zvo, doth, y. 6d. each. The following Volumes of the Series are now ready, and can be obtained of all Booksellers in Town and Country, and at all Railway Bookstalls :— BY FLORENCE MARRYAT. MY SISTER THE ACTRESS. A BROKEN BLOSSOM. PHYLLIDA. THE ROOT OF ALL EVIL. FACING THE FOOTLIGHTS.

PEERESS A1ND PLAYER. HER WORLD AGAINST A LIE. BY ANNIE THOMAS. ALLERTON TOWERS. FRIENDS AND LOVERS. JENIFER. BY MRS ELIOART. THE DEAN'S WIFE. SOME OF OUR GIRLS. BY LADY CONSTANCE HOWARD. SWEETHEART AND WIFE. MOLLIE DARLING. ONLY A VILLAGE MAIDEN. By the Author of 'RECOMMENDED TO MERCY.' BARBARA'S WARNING. BY MRS ALEXANDER ERASER. A PROFESSIONAL BEAUTY. A FATAL PASSION. BY HARRIETT JAY. TWO MEN AND A MAID. BY IZA DUFFUS-HARDY. LOVE, HONOLLRAND OBEY. CONTENTS.

Chapter I. The Vicar's Daughters

' ||j3pfTAND in a row> sirls ' ' &~*fz^| There was a general scuffle iy||gl! round the table, a hurrying of IKaSKWS* light feet, and a flutter of feminine skirts, and then they all stood together as their father had told them ; all four of them in a row — as goodly an array of daughters as a man might wish to own. The room was barely furnished and shabby, the table in front of them was covered with a faded and ink-stained red cloth ; the car pet below their feet was ragged and thread bare, but then what a background there was VOL. I. A As aid. 2 behind them ! Such a wild tumble of all the Cumberland hills ! One behind the other, tier above tier they rose — brightest greens and russet browns in front, fading away into every shade of purple and blue in the dis tance, till far, far off the faint outline of Scafell's two rushed heads seem to melt away altogether into the blaze of the noon day sky.

The uncurtained windows were thrown wide open, and through them came in the humming murmur of bees, honey - laden, straight from the scented heather, and the faint sounds of the children's voices from the village. Below the house lay the gar den, gaudy with scarlet geraniums, and speckled tiger lilies, then a stone wall, and beyond it the bare brown side of the rough moor, sloping steeply down to the brawling, tumbling beck that dashed its clear brown waters noisily and merrily along, far down at the very bottom of the shadowy little valley. And near at hand, up at the vicarage house, great bunches of cream and crimson roses looked in at the parson's dining-room windows, and nodded their heads as though in pleasant approval of the parson's lovely daughters. Four of them, all in a row they stand.

The vicar lifts his eyes from the letter in his hands, and surveys them over the The Vicar s Daughters. 3 o top of his spectacles, critically and atten tively. He is a thin, worn, scholarly-looking man, and like his house, is thread-bare and shabby ; his cheeks are pale and hollow, his scanty hair falls in scattered, limp locks over his high, white forehead, his clothes hang loosely upon his tall, shrunk figure, but the eyes that look up at his girls are bright and keen, and there is a twinkle in them now as ii he was enjoying a very good joke indeed. ' Upon my life, I haven't the least idea ! ' he says, taking his spectacles off and look ing up appealingly at his daughters. ' I am really afraid, my dears, that I shall have to ask you to help me to decide.' ' To decide what, papa ? ' ' Was ever an impartially affectionate father placed in such a predicament by a selfish old woman before?' continues Mr Goring, the smile in his eyes deepening and broadening, till it spreads all over his face, and lights up its pale, careworn lines with the reflection of the gentle, pleasant nature of the man him self. ' My dear girls, do you happen to know — have you the slightest idea — I hope you won't think I am losing my wits, but can you tell me which of you is the prettiest ? ' A chorus of laughter follows. ' Is it a riddle, papa ? ' cries one. ' Are you about to make a joke ? ' inquires another.

Afaid. 4 'We could never answer your question, papa, ' remarks, with great gravity, the wag of the family, a young person who inherits her father's love of fun more than any of the others. ' We are all equally beautiful.' 'What can you want to know for?' in quires Louisa, the eldest, who is three-and twenty, and a very sensible young woman indeed. ' There is no one here to see us but the crows and the sheep and the Cumber land yokels, so what does it signify whether we are plain or pretty ? ' ' Well, I never thought about it myself before,' Mr Goring owns candidly, w7ith rather an injured air. 'It is a sort of question one does not find much time to think about. But here, you see,' tapping the letter witrh his forefinger, ' it is forced upon me. I've no choice in the matter. I've got to think about it.

Worse luck for me ! And — But why on earth are you standing with your backs to the light ? Move a little round, please, so that I can see you — there, that is better ! I suppose a stranger could tell directly, but I, that have seen you all, every day of your lives since you were born, how on earth can I be expected to have noticed ? Louisa, my dear girl,' this quite piteously, ' do help me, my dear. Which of the four of you can be honestly called the best looking. Don't The Vicar's Daughters. 5 laugh, you tiresome children ; it is no laugh ing matter, I can tell you. The post goes out at five, and I've got to decide it by then.' At this juncture Louisa made a practical suggestion. ' Suppose, papa, you were to tell us what this letter is about, that has given you such an extraordinary problem to solve ?

You see we are quite in the dark.' ' Quite right, Louisa. You always speak to the point ; an excellent, but rare quality in a woman. Well, this letter is from your grandmother — -your poor mother's mother.' ' Lady Dungarron ? ' ' The same. You have all heard, dear children, of the foolish marriage your dear mother was good enough to make.' A soft, tender look stole into the vicar's eyes. ' How, like a couple of headstrong children, we took our lives into our own hands and ran away together, and were married without our parents' leave.' The girls grouped themselves about their father's chair, putting forth their hands in mute caresses of sympathy— they had heard the story so often ; but they were never tired of listening to it, it was the great romance of their family history, and the interest they took in every detail of the long by-gone tale, was always fresh and unabating.

The vicar As aid. looked at them fondly, then, as though suddenly reminding himself of his vocation as a man and a father, he forced a very ferocious frown on to his smooth, mild brow. ' Of course it was very wrong — very wicked in deed, I may say ; if any of you girls ever were to do such a naughty thing — I should — I should blame you excessively.' ' Ah ! but you and mamma were very happy, papa,' murmured the daughter who sat on the arm of his chair, and who rested her smooth, pink cheek against the crown of his head. ' Yes,' and the frown died away into a smile and a sigh. ' Yes, we were happy — very happy. Ah, well ! we had many troubles too. I was so young, hardly more than a boy ; then I took holy orders and got a curacy, and we were very poor indeed, and you children began to arrive.' ' We were more than either you desired or deserved ! ' said that same daughter, cooingly, kissing the head she w7as coaxing. ' We might have been strangled with great propriety at an early age,' suggested another, ' or drowned in the water-tub like Effie's kittens.' ' Not so, if you brought a few troubles, you brought your joys too, my darlings.

Ah, well ! though no one helped us in our dark days, yet we managed to struggle through The Vicar ' s Daughters. 7 them — and then, as you know, the great blow fell upon me. Soon after Effie's birth,' passing his hand softly over his youngest daughter's head, ' my Lucilla left me.' A little silence — the vicar's head was bent, the girls pressed their faces and hands closer to him ; he never spoke of his wife's death, although it was fifteen years ago, without emotion. Oh, blessed and holy fountain of a true great love, that can thus spring eternally fresh and pure within the heart ! whose waters even the cold, pale hand of death is powerless to quench ! In these days of hurry and pro gress, who remembers their lost dead ? who has the time to cherish that frail, delicate blossom of lost human love, that is so rare and yet so lovely ?

Only here and there — here and there, thank God, there are some faithful hearts, for whom love has outlasted the narrowed borders of this common-place life — it is they that are the salt of the earth. Presently he recovered himself, and smiled. ' But your grandmother never forgave either her or me — not even when your dear mother died did she answer my heart-broken letter.' ' She was a wicked woman ! ' cried Louisa, with indignation. ' No, no ; do not judge her hastily ! we had offended her deeply. Your mother was of a Asaid. 8 noble family, she had rare talents and great beauty, and no doubt I wrecked her life and ruined her prospects. I can well understand Lady Dungarron's anger. The only thing I cannot understand, is that she should have written to me to-day— that is incompre hensible indeed, after twenty-five years !

Now listen to what she says.' Mr Goring fixed his spectacles on his nose and opened the letter in his hand ; his daughters listened eagerly, feeling that some thing important was at issue. '91 Cavendish Square. ' Dear Son-in-law Goring,' — ' That is the funny way she begins' interpolated the vicar, with a twinkle of intense amusement in his eyes, ' but she was always peculiar in her ways.' ' Dear Son-in-law Goring, — I dare say you will be surprised to hear from me after so many years. Now that I am grow ing old, I feel that perhaps I was too harsh to poor Lucilla and to you. I am willing to make my peace with you on this side of the grave, and to do something for one of my granddaughters. I have heard that they are all very good-looking girls, perhaps if they were not I should let them alone.' — ' That is candid at all events ! ' ' But I will have none but the best.

You must choose me out the handsomest and send her off to me by Monday week at the latest. I will keep her for this season, and if I like her, and she is good and pleases me, I will help to settle her well in life, and perhaps after wards I will help her sisters too. ' You always were a fool,' — ' She has no great opinion of me, you see!' — ' but I suppose you won't be such a fool as to refuse a good offer like this. But mind I will have the prettiest. I trust to your honour for that. — Yours, Elizabeth Dungarron. 'P.S. — Please answer by return of post, telling me which girl is to come to me — her name, her age, her height, and her size round the waist.' A dead silence fell upon the little group. There were no more smiles and laughter, only a deep solemnity on the four blooming faces. This was indeed beyond a joke — one of them was to be expatriated !

Each girl said to herself, with a thrill of terror, in which there was possibly a keen sense of excite ment too, — ' Will it be me ? ' It did not occur to any of them to rebel, or to imagine for a moment that their grand mother's request could be disregarded. From Louisa, whose daily toil caused her to know down to a fraction what was the sum total of the doctor's bill for the winter before last, As aid. 10 of the butcher's ' little account ' that came in quarterly with exasperating regularity, of the grocer's book that gathered length and O O <z> strength every day, and never by any means could be paid off entirely, — from Louisa down to little Effie, every one of these young women was acquainted with poverty as a bitter and practical reality. That there should be one mouth less to feed, one body less to clothe, was a boon that not one of them could hesitate to acknowledge gratefully.

It would be so much off the burden that was laid upon their father. Lady Dun garron's offer would certainly have to be accepted by one of them, dutifully and gratefully — but by which ? The silence was broken by Effie — the baby, as they called her. 'Why does she want the size round her waist ? ' ' To see if the victim is too stout to be clasped to her grandmotherly bosom!' replied, without a smile, Christabel, who was the young woman who sat on the arm of her father's chair. Effie opened her eyes. ' That is one of Bel's queer jokes. It won't be me, at all events, because my nose turns up ; that's a comfort ! ' ' It's a visitation, my child,' replied Chris tabel seriously, alluding to the nose. \ 11 But she twisted her face down upon her father's shoulder, and curled her arms tighter round his neck.

She knew what was coming. Possibly her father knew too, for he clasped her tighter. The two elder girls' eyes were fixed upon her. ' Bel, it must be you,' said Ruth, the second daughter. ' I am afraid so,' assented Louisa, nodding. ' Poor little Venus ! ' murmured the vicar, with an unsteady voice. ' Oh, give me one more chance ! ' she cried, lifting up the bright, dark eyes that were dimmed now with unaccustomed moisture. Bel, who was so brave and quaint, it was strange to see her now. ' I — I don't want to be selfish, but if I might have but one chance ! If we drew lots, how would it be ? ' ' Yes, yes ! ' cried Effie ; ' let us draw lots. Where is your hat, papa ? ' ' Fetch the old one, baby — the dear, greasy, disreputable old wide-awake, with the trout flies round it.' Effie flew to get it from its peg in the hall.

With great solemnity the ceremony was inaugurated. A sheet of writing-paper was torn into four equal portions. On each one. was inscribed the name of each girl. They were then shuffled together by the vicar in the crown of his old hat. Louisa tied a handkerchief firmly round Effie's eyes, and Maid. 12 the child drew out the papers one by one. The lot was to fall upon the last one left in the hat. Mr Goring opened the three folded pieces of paper one after the other. They ran thus : — 'Effie.' ; ' Louisa.' ' Ruth.' ' Kismet ! ' exclaimed Christabel, jumping down off her father's chair ; ' it is my fate ; there is nothing more to be said about it ! Papa, get a foot-rule and measure my waist. She was evidently determined to make the best of it. ' You are decidedly the best-looking, Bel ; there is unfortunately no doubt of that,' said Ruth, with a sigh. ' And are, moreover, the one who can best be spared from home,' added Louisa. ' Yes ; I feel that,' assented the girl, rather sorrowfully.

There was a good deal in this last con sideration. Louisa kept her father's house, managed the maids, ordered the dinners, and struggled with the weekly accounts. Ruth did the parish work, taught in the Sunday school, played the organ in church, visited the sick and the old. Effie was a child, too young perhaps to make it wise to launch her all alone into the great world of London, of which they were all so ignorant. But Christabel had no special place, no peculiar duties ; she was only the pet and pride of them all. It was but right and fitting that she should be the one to go forth and reap all the advantages and benefits of their un known grandmother's position and patronage. And as to her looks. Why, about that there could be no doubt. The vicar's daughters were all tall and well-grown ; they all had dark eyes and small dark heads, and hands and feet that marked them out for the thoroughbred ladies they were ; but Christabel's eyes were darker and lovelier than any of her sisters ; her features were clearer and better cut ; her lips were of a fuller, rosier red ; her cheeks of a more delicate wild rose bloom.

It was but a shade, but in that shade lay all the difference. All four of them together they made a lovely group ; but if you came to pick them to pieces, Louisa, Ruth, and Effie were simply pretty girls. Christabel was more ; she was a beautiful woman. When the evening shadows came creeping down over the Cumberland hills, bathing them all in one cool uniform veil of grey — when Scafell's distant heads were shrouded in a mist of cloud, and deep and black lay the gathering darkness in the depths of the narrow valley below — at that hour the village As aid. 14 postman, stumping along the highroad with his shambling, uneven gait, bore away in his leathern bag, amongst fifty or so other missives of more or less importance, the letter that decided the destinies of Christabel Goring. It was very short, but it was quite to the purpose.

Mr Goring showed it to Christabel before he sealed it up. ' Dear Lady Dungarron, — I thank you for your kind intentions towards one of my girls, which (although I am a fool) I gratefully accept, in token that the past is to be forgiven. My third daughter, Christabel, is, I believe, the best looking of my children. I will therefore send her to London on any day and by any train that you may think fit. She is nineteen years of age ; her height is 5 feet 6 inches, and she measures 19J/2 inches round the waist. — Yours sincerely, ' Robert Goring.' There had been a good deal of fun about the measurements, not one of them having the slightest idea why Lady Dungarron de sired to be informed on these particulars ; the fun served to conceal the heart-heaviness that had fallen upon the vicar and his family.

It was a calamity, not a stroke of good fortune that had visited them. They did not say so, but at their hearts they knew that, but for their poverty, they could never have con sented that one among them — and that the dearest and the best loved — should be thus torn away from the home circle and trans planted to another atmosphere. For these girls had been brought up simply, and with out ambition ; they loved each other, and they loved their father. They rejoiced in their life, poverty-stricken and narrow as it was. There could be nothing in the whole world so beautiful in their eyes as the lights and shadows upon their beloved hills — no delight so keen as to climb their breezy slopes, and to watch the sunshine and the storms sweep over their undulating bosoms. They were quite free from the deep conviction — with which nineteen out of twenty young women arrive at their teens in this country — that marriage is the end and aim of female exist ence.

They did not think that a woman who has been given eyes to see, brains to think, and hands to work, need be seriously pitied because no man happens to come her way, nor did they imagine her lot to be a melancholy one should she go down single to her grave. Marrying men did not, it is true, frequent the secluded valley where their lot had been cast; but it had not occurred to the Miss Gorings to deplore their absence as a cala mity, or to consider that the gifts of beauty and attractiveness which it had pleased God to bestow upon them, were necessarily either wasted or thrown away, because of the almost total absence of male appreciators in their own station of life. Nevertheless, as regarded Christabel, they felt now that another element had undoubtedly been infused into the family fortunes, — the change that was to come upon her portended other changes more important still. ' You will never come back to us, Bel ! ' said Ruth to her sadly, on one of the last of those quickly-flying days that preceded her departure. 'She will marry, of course,' said practical Louisa. ' All London girls do.' ' Don't turn me into a " London girl " be fore my time, Louisa ! and as to marriage why, that is as it may be, — perhaps no one will come forward to request the honour of my valuable hand ! ' ' Trust grandmamma for that !

No doubt she has the happy man already in her eye.' ' She will have to transfer him to mine before she will do any good,' laughed Bel lightly. The three elder girls were alone together when this conversation took place. Effie had gone to bed, and their father was writing his sermon in his study — the sermon that Christabel would not be there to hear ! Louisa looked very grave. ' I hope, Bel,' she said, earnestly, ' that you will not be foolish ; that you will remem ber how poor we are — what a hard struggle it has been for papa to make two ends meet — what a comfort it would be to him to feel that one of us, at least, would be provided for, — if grandmamma should have any plans for you, it will become your duty to papa, and to all of us, to fall in with them.' Bel sat crouched up, knees and nose to gether, upon the deep, old-fashioned window seat.

She leant her small, dark head against the shutter, and gazed out into the darkness. The heavy scent of the roses came in at the open casement, the dim outlines of the moun tains rose darkly and mysteriously against the moonless, star-flecked sky. The two sisters behind her in the old, shabby schoolroom, where they had all been taught, and quarrelled and chattered together for so many years, did not see, in the vague twilight ofthe midsummer night, how Bel's eyes filled with sudden tears. Louisa's words impressed her. ' Yes,' she thought, ' I am going to new duties, new difficulties, a new life altogether. How can I tell what it may not be right for me to do ? In any case, I shall never forget them all at home.' But what she said aloud, after a pause, was very different to this. VOL. I. B ' Well grandmamma will have one advantage in her favour.

I shall come to her at all events, as the poets say, like an unwritten page — quite fancy free. Now, if it had been Ruth ! ' They all laughed. Ruth had been popu larly supposed, for many years, to nourish a hopeless affection for a very old miser who lived by himself in a cottage near the church. Later on that night, Bel looked again at the same darkened landscape out of the window of her own bedroom. The moon was rising behind the shoulder of a dusky hill ; a bat fluttered by in the darkness. ' Good-bye, good-bye,' murmured the girl. ' I shall perhaps never see you again ; never surely with the same happy eyes with which I see you now ; and never with the same happy heart with which I have loved you so long.' And she was right.

Chapter II

A FELLOW-TRAVELLER. N, on rushed the express train from the north, through the hot midsummer afternoon. Dust in front of it ; dust in a whirlwind cloud behind it ; dust lying thickly on every chink and crevice of the groaning and creaking carriages ; dust on the cushions ; dust on the window panes ; dust on the travellers' bags and bundles ; dust on their tired and wearied faces ; dust everywhere. Most penetratingly did the common enemy seem to have permeated into one particular first-class department, where a restless young lady sat by herself, vainly endeavouring to battle with the insidious foe. In vain did she shake out her cool cotton skirts, and blow the grimy particles off her once clean, but now hopelessly dirty peau de suede gloves ; in vain did she fan her soiled and heated countenance, and hang her pretty head out of the open window, in the hope that the passing breeze might scatter away the thick, soft coating that lay like powder on her hair.

At last she gave up all such attempts in despair, and resigned herself to her fate. ' I am hopelessly filthy ! ' she said to her self, aloud. ' A chimney-sweep by the side of me might sit for a model of purity. My sisters would not know me ; my own father would disown me ; as to my grandmother, she will probably label me " soiled goods," and return me by the first train to-morrow morning. Well, it can't be helped ; my only comfort is that I am alone ! There is no stranger's eye to gaze upon my dismal plight, that is a mercy indeed. Oh ! how tired I am ! ' Her head sunk back upon the dusty cushions ; her eyes closed wearily ; her head ached with the noise and the heat. She had never been such a long journey before. She had left her home early, very early, in the grey summer dawning. There had been the fatigue of her packing beforehand, then the grief of parting with those she loved, next the long drive to the station, the excite ment of the start, and the keen eagerness with which, with the readiness of youth to be comforted, she looked forward to the new life that was about to begin for her.

And A Fellow-Traveller. 21 then came the long, endless hours in the hot, dusty, railway carriage, that had depressed and wearied her once again. At four o'clock in the afternoon Christabel Goring did what she had never done at such an hour in all her young, healthy life before — she fell fast asleep. So sound were her slumbers, that even when the train stopped next at Nuneaton Junction — she did not awake. No, not even although her solitude was at last invaded by the en trance of another traveller, who got in on the further side of the carriage. She was still dreaming — dreaming of Cumberland and the fells ; wandering with her sisters over the fresh, heather-scented uplands. The train moved on again. The stranger who had entered disposed his bags and his wraps con veniently about him, and glanced for the first time at the small dusty figure huddled up in the far-away corner of the carriage.

Christabel was sleeping soundly. The traveller who had entered was a man in the very prime of life — that is to say he was probably five-and-thirty — he was tall and broad shouldered. His features, without being regular, were striking, and there was a certain look of power in his face that impressed persons who did not know him well with a great opinion of his strength of character ; indeed his square-cut chin, and the firm lines of a somewhat hard mouth, gave evidence of a strong will. This was, however, in a great measure counteracted by the extreme softness and gentleness of a pair of expressive, though not very large, grey blue eyes ; his forehead, again, was wide and thoughtful. He had dark hair, and a carefully trimmed auburn moustache. He was alto gether a good-looking fellow, and was essen tially a manly-looking man, which did not pre vent his being scrupulously well dressed, and in the very best made of clothes.