A Dawnless Fate

Front matter

EY I VON HAMILTON CAMPION LONDON DIGBY, LONG & CO., PUBLISHERS 18 BOUVERIE STREET, FLEET STREET, E.C. " Oh, yet we trust that somehow, good Will be the final goal of ill, To pangs of Nature, sins of will, Defects of doubt, and taints of blood. ' ' That nothing walks" with aimless feet ; That not one life shall be destroyed, Or cast as rubbish to the void, When God hath made the whole complete ; So runs my dream : but what am I ? An infant crying in the night : An infant crying for a light : And with no language but a cry." — In Memoriam. CONTENTS

Part I. Chap

PAGE I. THE NIGHT OF LONELINESS I H. THE DAWN OF LOVE 9 III. THE DAY OF HAPPINESS 20 IV. MY UNCLE'S

LETTER 33

V. ERIC'S TROUBLES 52 VI. "THERE IS NO ARMOUR AGAINST FATE" - - 6l VII. ANOTHER LETTER FOR MY UNCLE - - - 74 VIII. A SUMMER NIGHT AT WESTREDE - - - 89 IX. MARRIAGE AND DEATH 96 X. PLEASURE AND PAIN 107 XI. COALS OF FIRE 1 17 XII. " THERE IS SHAME ONLY WHERE THERE IS GUILT, DARLING V I2S XIII. THE PASSING OF ERIC LISLE 137

Part II

I. I FIND MY FATHER 143 II. "I DID NOT KNOW!'' 155 III. "WHAT WILL YE DO IN THE END THEREOF?"- 162 IV. "O FOOL OF FOOLS" 170 V. KENDAL'S PAPERS 1 VI CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGE VI. KENDAL'S PAPERS— Continued - ■ - - iSS VII. KENDAL'S PAPERS— Continued - - - - 196 VIII. kendal's papers— Continued - 205 IX. KENDAL'S PAPERS— Continued - - - - 21 1 X. KENDAL'S PAPERS— Continued - - - - 217 XI. KENDAL'S PAPERS— Continued - - - 225 XII. "BY DEATH IN LIFE: THUS WILL I MAKE AMENDS!'' 234 xin. "dulce ulcisci" 244 XIV. "THE END OF A BROKEN VOYAGE" - - -

Preface

. Now, if I were considering my own feelings in the matter, then most assuredly this history had never been written by me. Men keep their sorrows, as their joys also for the matter of that, veiled from the world at large : one does not tear open old wounds merely to satisfy the curiosity of the public. " Surely the heart knoweth its own bitterness, and a stranger doth not inter meddle with its joy." But I personally have many reasons for writing this. First, then, that Truth alone may stand : for there are many voices in the world, and most of these are false. Secondly, that Justice may be for the dead • that people may accord here to the memory of the lost, that which doubtless is theirs on the other side the Vlll

PREFACE.

. grave, where God views matters in a clearer light than we. So now to my story without more words of this. And yet, one word beside. I am no fancy writer : they who would wish fine phrases, and sentences brilliant with all the beauties of rhetoric, must seek them elsewhere than here. I have no dreamy word picture of some softly lighted landscape to set before them : only a rough, crude outline of what has been.

PART I. CHAPTER

I; THE NIGHT OF LONELINESS. A thoroughly wet evening in July • the air close and muggy, and everything around looking generally moist and uncomfortable. The patient, emaciated horses of one or two cabs outside Blackheath railway station, are enveloped in a cloud of steam, and there is a dense mass of grey mist hanging over the Heath : hardly a pleasant evening to be out ! and the few unfortunates who are so, hurry along with streaming umbrellas, and with skirts well in hand or trousers tucked up, as the case may be, evidently of the same opinion. Let us follow their example, and make the best of our way to Dennis Street, which consists of a row of small houses with an area at the side of each of them, into which the kitchen entrance opens, and which is approached by a curly little flight of steps running down from the level of the road.

A Let us pause before No. 26, the first sitting-room of which, with the bedroom immediately above it, has been let, as the landlady would inform you, to "a gentleman as does business in London," a phrase perhaps somewhat wide, and admitting, when one comes to think of it, of many and varied interpretations. It is bright enough, however, and comfortable enough too, this little front sitting-room on the ground floor of No. 26 Dennis Street, when one has got inside ; in the street, all is rain and slush and fog and dreariness and gloom. Let us get inside. Two great arm-chairs stand one each side of the fire-place, while up against the .back wall and facing the window is a comfortable-looking, old-fashioned sideboard ; the walls are covered with engravings of all descriptions, sorts, and sizes, and in two deep alcoves, one each side of the mantelpiece, there are two mahogany book-cases, evidently well filled.

Besides all this there is a dining-table, at present covered with a gaily-coloured cloth, on which stands a large plated lamp topped with a blue silk shade. Add to the articles of furniture I have mentioned a few ordinary carved oak chairs dotted about here and there, and two small round tables, on which and on the mantelpiece stand numerous photographs in frames, and ornaments of many varieties and shapes • and you will get, I fancy, a very fair idea of the sitting-room of Mrs. Beale's front lodger — "the gentleman as does business in London." In one of the arm-chairs afore-mentioned, lying back wilh both his feet on the mantelpiece to the imminent danger of the articles thereon, was the individual in question ; his head thrown back, his eyes closed, his hands hangin» limply down at the sides of the chair, an empty pipe in his THE NIGHT OF LONELINESS. 3 mouth, and his whole attitude one of the greatest listless ness and dejection.

The blinds were down ■ the soft blue light of the lamp mingled with the dancing gleam of the fire that flickered on the opposite wall. For a while all was silent, save the tranquil breathing of the sleeper, the ticking of the travelling-clock upon the mantelpiece, and the steady dripping of the rain outside. Presently he awoke with a start, sprinkling his waistcoat liberally with the contents of his pipe in the movement ; then he laid it down upon a chair, and began languidly to brush the tobacco ash from his clothes. Finally he sat up straight, yawned slowly and deliberately, and rising, stood with his back to the fire, and took out his watch. He is standing up now, so we can have a better look at him : tall, thin, with rather a graceful figure, his face clean shaven, his hair, light brown, brushed back over his forehead, grey eyes, and a very ordinary-looking, rather plain face.

And yet a remarkable face too — the face of an old man on the shoulders of a youth — for there were lines across the sorehead and on each side of the mouth that seemed the work of the years ; in reality they were the result of misery ; and it was misery also that had brought such a pitiful look of sadness into the grey eyes. "Half past nine, is it? I must have been asleep for more than an hour. Pah ! what a headache I've got. There's no doubt about it, Ted, my boy, you're seedy — deuced seedy ' you've been so for a long while now, but you're a lot worse to-night. Quiet and complete rest is what you want, the doctors say that, and an utter change in all the circumstances of your life * easy enough for them to talk, but not so easy for their patients to carry the instructions out. However, this sort of thing can't go on much longer, that's clear at any rate ; something '11 have to be done, and done soon if it's going to be any good."

Then with a sigh that had something of a moan about it also, he flung himself wearily into the chair again, and con tinued to soliloquise. " I wonder what's come over me • weak and tired all day long at the office, and getting back at night with a head that feels as if it's going to split? Well, I've got my holiday now, that's one thing, and the next problem that arises is where and how to spend it. I'm really too bad to contemplate setting off on any kind of expedition by myself, while of relatives I have but one now, and he I suppose would look upon my advent with feelings of absolute aversion, if indeed he would receive me at all • he sent me away, he separated me even from my own mother while she was alive. I have not seen him since her funeral ; then we parted in anger. No, there is little chance of his letting me come down there now.

I know I'm feeling beastly miserable — few friends — no relations. Living alone here in London an isolated unit in all this vast, seething wilderness of souls. It's no good ; a chap can't live by himself altogether • he must have a little help, a little sympathy, a little love every now and then. God made Eve for Adam, they tell me ; why did he create me to be alone upon his earth ? I almost doubt whether this sort of thing's worth keeping up ; just a touch to a trigger, or a — " These somewhat doleful meditations were interrupted by the entrance of the landlady. " Mr. Symonds to see you, sir." " Oh ! ask him to come in, will you ? " " Well, Hansel, old boy, how are you feeling now? better THE NIGHT OF LONELINESS. 5 I hope. You seemed rather bad coming down in the train, so I thought I'd just look in after grub sometime and see how you were getting on.

Taking Jones' stuff regularly ? " Hansel smiled. " I'm just about the same, thanks, perhaps a bit worse; my head's aching more to-night. It's very good of you to come out again though on my account, especially on such a beast of a night as this. Have a whisky and soda will you ? " " Not for me thanks. Look here, what you want is a change ; you ought to go away somewhere." " No one to go with ; not well enough to set off alone." "You must have a few relatives or people to go to — country cousins, or something in that line." " Haven't one ; at least that would take me in." " Hum, that's bad ! " said Symonds. For a while they both sat silent, gazing into the fire, now almost out. At last Symonds broke the silence. " How about that old uncle of yours, the baronet, down at Seyeston in Westshire, that you told me about once, where you used to stay when you were a kid ?

" "I don't think he'd have me," was the reply; "you know he sent me away while my mother was alive, and wouldn't let me come back. 'When I went down there to her funeral I quarrelled with him, and I haven't heard from him since. Still, there's nothing else to be done. I've a good mind to write and chance it." " Seems a rum business altogether," said Mr. Symonds. "Rum " was a favourite adjective ofhis. "Still, that's it; you have a try. Write to-morrow and ask the old buffer to put you up ; it can't do any harm anyway." And with this con clusive argument Mr. Symonds rose to depart. " Thanks ; yes, I will fill up again," as the other tendered the tobacco jar. They talked for a few seconds on various subjects, and then both went to the door. " Bye-bye, old man, keep your spirits up ; rum business altogether; still, you write; can't do any — By Jingo! what a night it is ; dark as pitch, and raining like the very deuce.

Good-night." " I don't know whether to write or not," said Hansel to himself, seated again in the arm-chair a few minutes later ; " still, nothing venture, nothing win. I'll chance it. There's some mystery in all this. Why does my uncle shun me? Why did my mother let him send me away from her when I was little? Even before her he seemed reserved and cold. I'll write to-morrow; if he'll have me well and good ; if not I'm too bad really to travel alone. It's all very well saying a fellow can do by himself; he can't, at least not for long ; he wants someone to care for him, to love him, and especially when he is ill." He sat for some moments speaking thus to himself, and then burying his head in his hands burst into a fit of uncontrollable sobbing. Finally he cried himself to sleep ; the fire and the lamp died out, and darkness and silence reigned supreme at 26 Dennis Street.

Reader, I answered to the name of Edward Hansel; it is myself of whom I have been speaking. Then I was about twenty-three, and of myself before reaching that age I need say but little, except that I pray God that few young lives may be as miserable as mine. I could not remember my father; he had died, my mother THE NIGHT OF LONELINESS. 7 told me, long years ago, out there in New Zealand when I was young, too young to remember anything. But some times, every now and then, very faintly and hazily, somewhere on the furthest horizon of my memory, there would come to me a vision of a rough track running through a wide, wide waste of moor, stretching away on either hand as far as eye could see ; and my mother is there, and I am there, and there is a man there also lying quite still on his back upon the ground with his face turned up to the sky.

And my mother bends down over him, fondling him and caressing him, crying all the while as though her heart would break; but the man lies there quite still. After awhile the shadows begin to fall, and I grow cold and creep closer up to her ; and yet my mother crouches there with the man's head rest ing upon her lap, still crying on. But at last she rouses herself, and kisses the man once more straight upon the forehead, then turning says : " Daddy is asleep, darling ; kiss him dear, once for your self and once for mother," and she held me down with my face to his, and afterwards she took me up in her arms and carried me away. This is the memory that I have of my father; and perhaps it is but a dream, for my mother smiled when, once long ago, while she and I both lived at Westrede, I told her of it.

" It is strange," she remarked to my uncle, Sir Gilbert, who was standing beside her at the time, "what fancies children have." And he smiled also, but I, looking into his face, saw that he deemed it no fancy, and I saw also that she thought so too. For a time, the first few years of my life in England, I lived at Westrede with my mother, my uncle and his wife and daughter ; but soon after the episode took place that I have related I was sent away to school. There my holidays also were spent as. well as the term time, for once and once only had I returned to Seyeston — to my mother's funeral. So now, at the period of which I write, I had written to my uncle asking him to allow me to visit Westrede once again. I often used to find myself wondering, Was he really my uncle ? my mother's maiden name then must have been Leighte.

And now over me came the thought, Why did I put up with it all, — this air of mystery that had always en wrapped my life ? Well, of this I was resolved, that I would unravel it all some day.

Chapter II. The Dawn Of Love

The next day but one I received my uncle's answer to my letter. He should, he said, be happy to see me at Westrede, whenever I cared to come, and for as long as ever I should wish to stay. It did seem strange to me, this change of front on the part of my relative, and I puzzled my brain for some explanation of it, yet on the other hand I was only too glad to avail myself of the opportunity that it offered. So down to Seyeston I went. My uncle met me with the dog-cart at Twymouth; that is the nearest station, and about four miles away; he was very kind in his manner, I remember, and, on our arrival at Westrede, I was introduced to his wife and daughter. I must have seen them both years before, but I had long forgotten all about them ; they did not attend my mother's funeral. Lady Susan was getting on in years at the time of which I write ; evidently she had never been a beauty, and myself I thought that now, some little way down the further slope of the hill of life, she must be prettier than ever she had been on its summit.

But directly on its summit her daughter now stood, and a strikingly handsome girl she was; her hair a light brown, ever varying in its lights and shades, her eyes a dark hazel, her nose straight and long, her mouth and chin beautifully formed ; hers was such a face as might have been the study of some great painter of the early Renaissance. Westrede Park was not an old house ; my uncle had built it himself soon after his succession to the baronetcy, and to me, I must confess, it gave the idea of being the property of a man who possessed both a considerable amount of wealth and a considerable amount of ostentation besides. It was approached by a drive of nearly a mile ; the lodge through which one entered was large and showy, a smaller edition of the house itself; the gates were heavy and massive, painted a dark slate colour, bearing an emblazoned coat of arms, and the grounds were admirably laid out with a view to effect.

A long portico ran out at right angles to the house, through which one passed into the hall, the ceiling of which was beautifully painted ; and a splendid staircase ran up to the upper rooms. To the left of the hall lay the dining-room, and, beyond, the kitchen and servants' offices; to the right, the drawing-room, and, beyond, ths library and the billiard-room. My uncle himself was of average height, with dark hair and moustaches, now just beginning to turn grey; his eyes a dark blue, and his nose straight and thin ; rather a fine face altogether as I saw it then, one that spoke of power and determination ; alas ! when in later days I saw that face it had a very different tale to tell. As I have already intimated, nature had been very kind to my cousin Evelyn Leighte ; she had given her a face that was eminently one for a study; and I knew, ere I had seen them together five minutes, that it was the life study of one, Eric Lisle, the son of a widow lady living at Seyeston.

There were three of them in the family, Mrs. Lisle, her daughter Norah, and Eric. They came to dinner, I remember, one night soon after my arrival at Westrede. Mrs. Lisle had been a great friend of my mother's, she told me, and on that account, I suspect, was the more kindly disposed towards myself; certainly she evinced a great interest in me. But to all her gifts to Evelyn, nature had added yet another, and that a great one ; for she had bestowed upon her the voice of a song bird, clear and rich, and yet plaintive and sad beside, a voice that was the vibration of the wild, restless heart within. I had never heard her sing before ; it was Eric Lisle who persuaded her to do so then. The other four were playing whist; he and Evelyn stood talking in the shadow, while I sat quiet, doing nothing and dreaming of other things, as folk are apt to do after a good dinner.

I saw him bend towards her and whisper something into her ear; and in return she smiled, and rising, walked over towards the piano. The scene is before me, clear and plain through the years, now as I write. The great softly-lighted room, the gleam of the silver lamps with their large silk shades in the centre, and the semi-darkness of all the rest; the hum of the night that crept in through the opened windows, and Evelyn's voice ringing through the silence that enwrapped the whole. Have you stood in some dim garden, amid the hush and the starlight of a summer's evening, listening to the loud throbbing notes of a nightingale from out the copse beside you ? Doubtless you have done so many a time and oft, and — may I ask it ? — what were your thoughts then ? what dreams ? what memories did the singing and the night call up before the vision of your mind?

You do not know, you cannot analyse your feelings at the moment. And yet, you sat strangely still; across your face there flitted expressions that it had not worn for years ; perchance a tear trickled slowly down your face when, after the bird had ceased its song, you rose to go. Reader, I felt as you that night in the drawing-room at Westrede, when I sat gazing out from the room through the large French windows into the sweetness of the moonlit lawn beyond, and listened to Evelyn's song. It was short, but very sweet ; it ended almost ere I had realised that it had begun. The music I have forgotten, but the words were these : " The stream sings ever of thee, dear love — Ever of thee, When it rustles the water lilies gay, Hurrying on like a child at play. Oh ! it tells the tale of thy love al way To the morning sun above And me — To the morning sun and me.

" The wind sings ever of thee, dear love- Ever of thee, When it softly kisses the dying day, To rest in the arms of the twilight grey, Oh ! it tells the tale of thy love alway To the evening star above And me — To the evening star and me." The melody grew fainter, and fainter then ceased altogether ; but I heard it die away on the night outside long after there was silence in the room. Eric bent towards her again, " Thanks awfully," he said ; " it is a jolly pretty song that ; one doesn't get tired of it, you know. Sing another will you, Evie ? " "What a tease you are! "was the reply, "never satis fied ! " Perhaps she might have sung to us again, I know not, but it was not to be ; at that moment the whist party broke up, the rubber was over; the spell was broken, the enchant ment at an end.

Romance was dead, and over her ashes a buzz of chatter on casual topics reigned supreme. Thus day after day passed away like some sweet dream to me, and we spent almost all our time with the Lisles ; there was no other society obtainable in this secluded spot. Driving excursions, fishing excursions, pic-nics, and the like, till I awoke to learn two things ; first, that as before I had been miserable, now I was happy ; and secondly, that as before I had had no one to care for, now I cared for some one very much indeed, and that someone was Norah Lisle. Her brother Eric and I too had taken to each other from the start, and that mutual liking between us grew in later days into a great friendship and a true, that lasted till . . . the end. So after this I paid other visits to Seyeston. Sir Gilbert seemed always pleased to see me, though that cordiality did not perhaps extend itself to his wife ; and to Evelyn also my coming was always pleasant, since it helped in some degree to lessen the monotony of her existence.

And now I must chronicle a strange event in connection with this my first visit to Seyeston. It was the last night of my stay ; my holiday was over, and the next day must see me back to my work in town. I could not sleep ; I lay wide awake hour after hour, thinking on all that had passed, hearing the deep tones of the hall clock break through the stillness of the great silent house. I felt that I was a new man ; all the old lonely sadness of my life was over and done with now, for to me love had come; I had something to care for, something to hope for, something to live for; there was a definite future in front of me, and that future was Norah Lisle. Also I had seen my uncle, and had gained from him much information with regard to my own past life that I had been ignorant of before. "You are the child of my poor sister," he had told me, " of my only sister ; none regretted more than I the unhappy marriage that she had made, none opposed it more.

She would not listen to reason ; women never will, I suppose, in matters of this kind ; so she had her way, and awoke from her love dream to find that she had married a scoundrel and a forger. He was arrested in New Zealand, whither he had fled to escape his country's broken laws. ' De mortuis nil nisi bonum,' he is dead now ; your mother returned heart-broken to me with her child, yourself. Poor girl, poor girl, it seemed that she could hardly bear your presence in the house, since serving to remind her of the dreadful past. ' Let him go, Gilbert,' she told me; 'though it break my heart to lose him ; never from my lips shall he hear of his father's crime ; ' thus I sent you away. None knew of all this," continued he; "both your parents are dead ; you yourself are fairly well off under the terms of your mother's will, and for myself, your are welcome to visit here whenever you may please.

You have been miserable in the past, you say; there is no need for you to be so in the future; let 'the dead past bury its dead,' and begin life afresh from now." Thus my uncle spoke, and his words had infused new life into me. I loved Norah Lisle ; perhaps one day she would marry me ; then I would settle down with her to this fresh happy existence. My future should be joyful as the past had been sad. My mother, what of her ? I knew she had loved me, even as only a mother can love, with the love that is nearest God's ; she had given me up, had prayed that I might be sent from her, in order that never from her lips might I hear of my father's shame. I made up my mind then and there : I would visit her grave once more before I left — my mother .whom in life I had hardly known, whom I had learnt to love only now after that she was dead.

I dressed myself and passed out from the house in the dim grey light of the dawn, turning my steps towards Seyeston. Now the church, oddly enough, stood away from the village on the cliffs at the head of the bay, and as I plodded up the steep little path that led thither, I watched the sunrise away in the east, and the long patches of light in the clouds grow and widen over the silent sea. Soon I reached the churchyard, and made my way towards my mother's grave. And now occurred the strange part of it all ; there was someone there before me. By the side of the grave there knelt a dark figure ; his hands were clasped, his head bare, his hat lay on the ground beside him. I am not a particularly timid man, and I should say a singularly unsuperstitious one, but the sight of this unnerved me. Who could it be?

What was he doing there? I rubbed my eyes to make sure that I was not dreaming. There was no mistake ; it was all true enough. I crept aside into the shadow and watched the strange scene. Presently the man began to murmur something very soft and low ; I could not hear the words, but I could just catch the sound, and I saw his lips move ; then he rose and stood a moment gazing over the misty water, and there were tears in his eyes. I could not distinguish his features very distinctly in the uncertain light, but he was an elderly man, both in face and figure, I fancied, not unlike my uncle, but I could tell that it was not he. After awhile he turned, and walking slowly off down the rugged path, soon faded away into the haze ; whilst I marvelled in my heart as to whom it could be. It was broad daylight when I returned, and I saw no more of this mysterious visitor to my mothei's tomb.