For Lilias. A novel

Front matter

FOR LILIAS ST. FOR LILIAS 3- ilobcl i:Y ROSA NOUCHETTE CAEEY „ AUTHOR OF 'WOOED AND HARRIED,' 'NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS,' ' NELLIE'S MEMORIES,' ET. LONDON RICHARD BENTLEY & SON, NEW BURLINGTON in ©rtmiaru ta $cr fHajcstg tfjc Citcni 1892 Ait rights rcsc'-ccd CONTENTS CHAP. PAGE I. Across Woodleigh Down ... 1 II. Raking up Dead Cinders ... 8 III. 'Marjory Daw' .... 18 IV. A Philosopher and a Baby-Witch . . 29 V. Mrs. Chard's Story .... 39 VI. At the Blue Boar .... 50 VII. Murrel's End ..... 60 VIII. 'Which is Popples?' .... 70 IX. 'I WILL NEVER WEAR BLUE AGAIN' . . 77 X. The First Evening at Whitkcliffe . . 85 XI. The Young Lady in Gray ... 91 XII. 'I WILL GO WITH YOU MYSELF ' . . . 103 XIII. On the East Hill . . . .113 XIV. 'I do not love mine' .... 121 XV. 'You must come to St. KildaV . . 131 XVI.

Pepper is a little Fresh . . . 140 XVII. 'I must sit there and watch' . . 150 XVIII. Lilias's Mother ..... 158 XIX. 'Wiki amI!' . . . - • 16G XX. 'Yes, Hazel— just like Philip's' . . 176 XXI. 'Please be serious a Moment' . . 188 XXII. Marjory comes Home .... CONTENTS VI PAGE _ „ Paul; chap. XXIII. 'Tell me what troubles you' . • 203 XXIV. Marjory is introduced to Cosy Nook . 213 XXV. The Seat in the Wood. . . .224 XXVI. 'Dr. Margaret Ainslie ' . • 232 XXVII. ' I dislike Light Eyelashes . . .210 XXVIII. An Afternoon at Redlands . . . 218 XXIX. 'There are no " Buts " here' . . 258 XXX. ' I wish I were like you ' . - 267 XXXI. The New Guest at Mavisba.nk . . 276 XXXII. ' I say, Poor Wentworth ! ' . . ,283 XXXIII. 'A Dropped Stitch' . . . .292 XXXIV. 'Then why not care for me?' . . 299 XXXV. ' I SHALL LIVE TO BE AN Old WOMAN ' . 307 XXXVI.

Cross Lights and Cross Purposes . . 317 XXXVII. 'Shall I bring him to you?' . . . 328 XXXVIII. 'We must take what Heaven sends' . 336 XXXIX. 'Marjory, I am here' . . . . 345 XL. 'Life's Fitful Fever o'er' . . . 355 XLI. 'You will speak openly to me?' . 364 XLII. 'For Lilias' ..... 371 XLIII. The Letter overlooked . . . 378 XLIV. Hope Deferred ..... 388 XLV. ' You knew me better ! ' . . . 398 XLVI. Unexpected Tidings .... 408 XLVII. ' It was a Terrible Mistake !' . . 415 XLVIII. 'Will you forgive your Mother'' . . 403 XLIX. Conclusion . . . 43, FOE LILIAS

Chapter I Across Woodleigh Down

This is the story of a woman who, like many another, in the mere foolishness and exuberance of her youth, dreaded nothing so much as the uniform monotony of a too well-known path ; preferring to explore unbeaten tracks in search of wider hori zons and pastures yet unknown. A woman who, in spite of many imperfections, won for herself much love ; who in after days would have annotated the Litany, adding to it a special clause, ' From the sins of youth and from the beguiling subtlety of our own will we would fain be delivered' — for she wrote these words in the margin of her Prayer-book, and signed them, not with her old, but with her new name. 'Of course I knew it must be Marjory ! — no one else in their sober senses would display such exquisite wisdom as to sit dreaming on an open bench in a public road, with a delicious east wind blowing freely round her ; only youth could indulge in such folly with impunity on a March day ! ' These words, spoken in a keen, incisive voice, might have been endorsed by the few passers-by, who one and all had cast wondering glances on the girl, who sat with her eyes fixed on the white dusty road in front of her — so lost in abstraction that the well-known tone of a friend made her start and change colour. ' Of course I knew it must be that wise woman Marjory ! ' repeated the voice, with aggravating and condemnatory calmness. ' And of course no one else but you, Mr. Frere, would have followed me with the express purpose of saying disagreeable things,' replied the girl, with an annoyed air. ' To some classes of mind truth is always disagreeable,' was the unruffled answer, as the speaker drew a dusty circle with his stick, and then whistled to a smaU gray terrier that was burrowing among the last year's dead leaves in a dry ditch.

He was a broad-shouldered, well-built man about forty-five, with a shrewd, kindly face, a face that was more remarkable for its intelligence and keenness than for its good looks. The thick, closely -cropped hair was already prematurely silvered, and so were the whiskers that were cut carelessly in a bygone fashion. Everything about the man was unstudied and uncon strained ; fine clothes could not have made him a dandy, and the finest manners would have matched quaintly with a blunts ness that was far from being ungentle. ' I have been all my life trying to draw a perfect circle,' he continued, in a cool, philosophical voice. ' It is something to make one's mark even in the dust of ages ; there is a humiliat ing affinity between us humans and these atoms. Some one said, " A peck of March dust is worth a king's ransom ; " I have an idea that not Solomon, but a descendant of the wise man said that.

It strikes me,' looking round him reflectively, ' that the world is in a mighty mess this afternoon. We have strong need of the old woman who essayed to sweep the cob webs from the sky. Nature is carpet-beating, I suppose ; pre paring, like a thrifty housekeeper — grand old soul that she is — for her spring cleaning.' ' Oh, I may as well go home with you,' interrupted Marjory impatiently ; ' it seems one can never be alone and enjoy one's thoughts in peace.' ' You were enjoying them, then ? I thought they were cheerful reflections, from the way you were puckering up your forehead. Anne will have to iron out the creases for you if you show her that sort of face.' ' What a tiresome mood you are in ! ' she returned, with decided irritability. ' I wish you had not followed me — you would have made an excellent detective, Mr. Frere.

I think an idle man about the house is created for the sole purpose of tormenting his womankind.' ' Come, now, I call that candid ; it is something after all to know your real opinion.' ' Desultoriness is such a mistake,' she observed ; ' every one ought to have a fixed purpose and occupation in life every man, and certainly every woman.' ' I am so glad you agree with me and Dr. Watts, my dear,' ACROSS WOODLEIGH DOWN 3 he returned, evidently delighted that he had driven her even into ill-tempered discussion, for she spoke with much sharpness and sense of injury. ' How often since your childhood — and what a naughty child you were, Marjory ! — have I inculcated this excellent maxim : " It is better to do nothing gracefully, than everything by fits and starts." Jerky virtues are my abhorrence.

If I were old enough to be egotistical, I would deduce examples from my own experience : ever since I was a youngster I have never taken a walk without trying to draw a perfect circle with my stick, and have never done it yet.' The pleasant humour with which this was said would have charmed a less self-absorbed listener ; but there are moods in which the voice of a siren would fail to please. And Marjory, leading the pace with swift, even steps, turned a persistently deaf ear to her companion's good-natured raillery. Not that this disturbed him in the least ; he was more quizzical than aggrieved, and more amused than either. It seldom suited Mr. Frere to be long silent — never when he was with this girl — so after a pause, during which he em ployed himself in whistling to his dog, he began again, this time putting his hand on Marjory's arm and compelling her to slacken her pace. 'There now, I call that worth looking at.

After all, these March days are not without their beauty. Look at the grand effect of those windy lights, and the shadow out yonder across the common. You can get a peep between those houses.' Hitherto they had been walking up a steep road, hounded on one side by houses, and on the other by a fir plantation ; but now they had reached the church, and before them lay tlie long lime avenue stretching across Woodleigh Down. It was a broad, picturesque road, pleasantly paved with red pantiles, and the houses on either side were handsome, well built residences, standing far back in charming gardens. In early spring — especially when the limes were in their tenderest green — Woodleigh Down was a delightful place for a morning or evening saunter. Now and then there were delicious peeps between the houses at the wide-stretching country that lay round Moorbridge ; and not many steps from where Mr. Frere and Marjory stood was one of the entrance -lodges to Frampton Castle, the cottage standing against a background of blue-black firs, and a broad white road stretching into the grand old park. ' How I wish we lived on the opposite side and enjoyed our neighbours' view over Moorbridge Common!' observed Mr. Frere, as they pursued their way more slowly. ' It strikes me, Marjory, now I come to think of it, that you have heard me make that remark before.' ' Only every day for the last seven or eight years — ever since we came to live at Murrel's End,' she returned, with a little scorn. ' I really believe that even Anne is beginning to find the remark monotonous, though she would not say so for worlds ; but then, aU your speeches are perfect in her eyes.' ' Oh, as to that,' he returned cheerfully, ' he is a poor fellow who is not a hero to somebody.

Even a harmless philosopher like myself, who coins the word " desultoriness " from year's end to year's end, must have one devoted foUower.' ' And of course that is Anne.' ' Cela va sans dire. You would not class yourself as a believer in the Frere philosophy. Do you know your incredulity is a splendid counterpoise to Anne's perfect faith ? It adjusts the balance admirably.' ' Oh, you wiU not provoke me into an argument,' she answered negligently. ' Anne's opinions and mine often clash. My nature is different from hers — it asks more, requires more ; but I cannot expect either of you to understand me,' dropping her voice a little sadly. ' Well, no,' he returned placidly. ' It is of course beyond the limits of possibility and common -sense to expect two sober-minded, middle-aged people, like Anne and myself, to comprehend the girl whom we have attempted (mark the word, Marjory) — attempted to bring up from the mature age of three.

E^ery one knows how deep, how many-sided, how altogether inaccessible is a girl's nature ; its profundity, how baffling ; its wisdom innate, and never purchased second - hand at the circulating library.' ' No, you shall not provoke me,' she repeated, clasping her small well-gloved hands together, and looking straight before her. 'You are bent on teasing me this afternoon, and I suppose you must have your way. If your remarks do not interest me as much as usual, it must be my fault. Anne would have been a more appreciative listener.' ' I wonder what Anne will say to us when I bring home the truant. Depend upon it she will treat you to a lecture if the east wind brings on my rheumatism. I wonder where you get your love of wandering ? Fluff and I are always discover ing you in unsuspected places.

I think you must have gipsy ACROSS WOODLEIGH DOWN 5 blood in your veins ; there is reaUy a trace of the Zingari about you in your brown skin.' He gave her a swift sidelong glance as he spoke, but his lip did not relax from its quizzical curl — for some reason, best known to himself, he seemed bent on rousing her. Then, for the first time, she turned her eyes fully to him, and the angry blood rushed over her handsome young face. ' This is generous of you, this is kind, when you know — you know ' pausing as though her breath were suddenly impeded ; but he took up her incomplete sentence and finished it. ' " When I know your mother," you were going to say ; well, and so I do, and an honest, hard-working creature she is, who seems to love her child better than herself — which is not the way with all mothers.

Still, I had no knowledge of your father, and there is no need to look at me so fiercely when I hint at a possible gipsy progenitor. I am rather fond of gipsies, and you are certainly a bit of a Bohemian in your way.' ' Why do you talk to me of my mother ? ' she said, panting a little, and looking at him with a sudden gleam in her eyes ; ' where is the need of bringing up such a painful subject 1 ' ' Has not Anne told you ? ' he returned pointedly — ' you and I are going to Whitecliffe next week. No, do not leave me, my dear, just yet,' for they had reached Murrel's End, and her hand had already touched the gate ; evidently she was used to obey him, for, though there was reluctance in her look, she suffered him to close it again. ' There is just one word I should like to say to you before you go in, Marjory : do try to be a little less hard and repellent in your manners to Mrs. Chard.

Remember that, though she is poor, she is still your mother ; there is no need for you to wound her so.' 'I owe her no affection,' returned the girl sullenly. 'From the hour in which she lost me — or rather left me a miserable little outcast child at your door — from that moment the renunciation was complete, and I only belonged to you and Anne.' ' True, and I love to hear you assert your claims on us. In one sense you are certainly Anne's adopted child, for she found you, not I ; nevertheless, we cannot wholly set aside nature.' ' In my case it must be set aside,' she returned, in a voice of great decision ; and her tone was singularly harsh and vibrating, as though her whole nature were jarred by his words. ' This once I will obey you. Anne has my promise, and I will not go back from it.

I will consent to accompany you to Whitecliffe next week ; but, if I live a hundred years, never once again — never once ! ' ' And what is to become, then, of my promise to Mrs. Chard —that as long as you are under my sister's care, she shaU see you once a year ? Is this fair on me, Marjory ? ' 'I have nothing to do with such promises,' was the firm reply. ' My mother does not care for me — do you think I do not feel that ? Oh, I am not so mean as you suppose ! What would her poverty matter if you could convince me of my mother's love 1 but I am not to be duped by fair words.' 'No,' he repeated gravely, 'you are only duped by yourself. You are truth itself, Marjory, so I know you believe every word you say ; but, nevertheless, your mother's lowly birth and want of education are heinous sins in your eyes, and make you blind to her virtues.

You are always bewailing things that cannot be helped, spoiling all the sweet wholesomeness of your youth by thoughts that ought not to belong to you ; every day you grow less like the old Marjory, and yet you will not let us know what ails you.' He paused here, and seemed to wait for her answer, as though he half hoped or expected some outburst of girlish confidence ; but she only turned . her face aside with a quick, impatient sigh, and made no response. ' Ah, weU ! ' he returned with a disappointed air, as he watched her ; ' Anne was always your confidante, not I. The walk has not been as cheerful as usual, has it, dear 1 It must be the east wind, I think : some natures are wonderfully subject to atmospheric influences. A day like this always brings to my mind all the disagreeable details of life — unpaid bills, for example ; the sins of youth ; smoky chimneys, and all other ills to which the flesh and spirit are liable.

But here we are again at Murrel's End, and you have been bored by my company long enough.' He opened the swing-gate as he spoke, and nodded to her with a smile as she looked back at him a little wistfully. She had been angry with him, but now there was visible relenting in her eyes. She even walked slowly, as though she expected him to overtake her ; but in another moment the gate had closed behind Fluff and his master. ' I have found out where the shoe pinches,' said Mr. Frere to himself, as he walked on rapidly in the teeth of the wind ' I could have sworn to her thoughts when I found her in that brown study on that bench yonder ; but I wanted to be sure— ACROSS WOODLEIGH DOWN 7 that is, if one can be sure of anything in this crazy world. There is a screw loose somewhere. How comes Marjory, for example, to be her mother's child ?

There is no sort of affinity between them. I knew the girl was right in what she said, only it would not do to let her see that I thought her so. I never liked that woman : I never believed in her. She is hard-working and respectable, a church-goer, and all that ; but there is something a little underhand, to my thinking. Marjory, with all her faults, does not take after her mother in that respect: she at least tells the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. That sort of character always rights itself in the end. But she is not happy — it seems to me she grows more restless every day : she is like a caged bird who wants to escape, heaven only knows where ! And yet, where would she find a home like ours, and a friend so faithful and loving as Anne 1 She seems to cling to Anne most.

I wonder, after all, if she confides in her?' He sighed, breaking off the thread of his reflections by a strong effort, and in another moment he was whistling cheerfully to Fluff as they descended the steep road that leads to the town of Moorbridge.

Chapter II

raking up dead cinders There are few spots more affected by Londoners than Moor bridge, and yet in some respects its glory may be said to have departed. The whole place, indeed, has the passe air of a faded belle ; its triumphs are only in memory, and belong to the age of patches and powder and sedan-chairs. Once beauty and fashion lingered lovingly on the old parade ; wits and beaux jostled each other on the Pantiles, or drank the famous chalybeate waters in the early morning. Scholars and actors, poets and divines, the belles, the dandies, and rou4s of the eighteenth century, loved to congregate in this Kentish retreat ; and the balls at the two assembly-rooms were so largely attended by a motley assembly, that a newspaper letter of the period mentioned 'no fewer than seventy-two coaches stood at the doors.' Now a curious drowsiness has crept over the quaint old town ; and as one strolls down the deserted parade, it is difficult to recall the days when Garrick, and Dr. Johnson, and Mrs. Thrale, with a host of other worthies, were to be met upon the pleasant promenade on summer afternoons.

And here, on one occasion, ' all the grand company on the Pantiles came to stare at Mrs. Elizabeth Carter, the woman who could talk Greek faster than any woman in England.' But though fashion has ceased to stamp it for its own, Moorbridge is still a favourite resort in summer-time, and to the inhabitant still more than to the mere visitor. The place is full of varied interest ; the wide stretches of furzy common, with its ling, and heath, and luxuriant brake ; the curious rocks ; the long straggling town with its steep wind-blown streets and old world mounts ; its fine views aud country roads winding round grand fir plantations— are all alike full of attraction. Some seven or eight years before this story opens, the Freres had bought a house on Woodleigh Down ; until then the brother and sister had lived in a quaint old Queen Anne's house in old Kensington, where their parents had lived before them.

Miss Frere's health had long been in an unsatisfactory state, and her removal to a more bracing place had been urged by their family friend and physician, Dr. Bartle ; and on this account solely they had fixed on Moorbridge, as its salubrious air and proximity to London were strong inducements in its favour. As Mr. Frere was an idle man, and likely to remain so, there was no real obstacle to their flitting, except that natural reluctance that some people feel to leave a home endeared by early associations. To Capel Frere the wrench was far harder than to his sister : women can more easily adapt themselves to a change of circumstance — they cling more to persons than to things. Miss Frere's home was with her brother ; with him were her Lares and Penates ; her affection and interest were all centred on him and Marjory ; with these two beloved beings she could have made her home happily in a desert.

But with Mr. Frere matters were somewhat different. He was essentially a creature of habit ; he found it more difficult to uproot himself, and plant himself afresh on a new spot of earth. Moorbridge was rather dead and alive after London ; he was farther from his club, from his friends ; he liked walking — no man was a more persevering pedestrian — but he abhorred rail ways, and any trouble concerning the taking of tickets was abominable to him. But, alas ! the mountain could not come to Mahomet, neither could his club in St. James's approach Mr. Frere's beckoning finger ; so twice or thrice a week he threw himself, grumbling a little over his hard fate, into the corner of a second-class carriage, from which he would emerge an hour later, still shaking his head and moralising over the enforced waste of time.

An unemployed man never has time for anything. Mr. Frere was no exception to this rule. Early rising was not classed among his favourite virtues — he allowed candidly that it was good for most men, but it did not agree with his constitution ; but as the day was never long enough for his purposes he encroached widely into the night. Omnivorous reading requires time and quiet, and Mr. Frere read prodigi ously. It could not be said that Miss Frere altogether approved of her brother's system of burning the midnight oil — it was bad thrift, she considered, and ruined eyesight ; but she was a wise woman who had learnt wisdom by virtue of necessity, and she knew men were wilful and would go their own way. When she differed from him, she held her peace. After forty, she thought, a man's habits become fixed, and need more powerful regeneration than a sister's influence.

So she let him alone — which in other words was making him completely happy — and never even complained of tobacco-smoke when he left the door of his den open — she would even have suppressed her cough, if she could have so far resisted nature. Anne Frere was two years younger than her brother. She was a tiny woman with a beautiful little head, and a countenance that was full of brightness and expression. In her youth she had been much admired. 'Little and good,' as people often said of her. And she still retained many traces of good looks. In a mixed company, or where she was not sure of full .sympathy, Miss Frere was a little silent and reserved ; but in her own small circle she could be garrulous enough, brimming over with gentle fun, sparkling, almost witty ; a charming com panion on wet days, not to be damped by east wind or a fog ; the sort of woman that a man might well love to see by his fireside when he came home tired and worn from his day's work.

At Murrel's End these virtues were almost thrown away. Mr. Frere was no day-labourer in this world's mart ; by his friends and by himself he was always considered an idler. He was a clever man — a man who could have left his mark among his fellows ; he would have made a capital barrister or an admirable preacher, and his few writings — chiefly essays and newspaper articles — bore distinct traces of talent ; but a few thousand pounds falling unexpectedly to his share, just as his university career had finished, had spoiled the plan of his life and robbed him of all energy. Perhaps this alone would hardly have sufficed to drive him from all public office ; but following upon this moderate ingathering of wealth was a certain failure, a love disappointment, which, meeting him in the full strength of his early manhood, took far too tenacious a hold of him, destroying for a time his faith in women, and depriving him of his greatest incentive to ambition.

So, instead of falling to work, he travelled ; then he came home and dropped into desultory bachelor ways. He was quite cured — a man was never killed yet by being jilted ; he had been shunted off the lines of matrimony, that was all, and had grown a little caustic in his wit on the subject of the fair sex ; but perhaps lie was better off as he was — he had his freedom, his club, a comfortable income, a sister who was ready to efface herself most slavishly at his merest whim ; what more could a man closely verging upon forty-five ask of life ? Such were his expressed opinions, with which he favoured his friends, but it may be doubted whether he found even such a large allowance of creature comforts sufficient for his inward needs. Under the outer crust of good-humoured indifference and mere indolence of will lay a deeper nature than the world ever imagined— large-hearted sympathies with wliich they would hardly have credited him.

He was a good fellow, they allowed, a capital companion, but rather too easy-going for this hard-working, go-a-head nineteenth century. He had plenty of brains, but was a little wanting in backbone. A man is bound to be something, thought these stern moralists. He was not even a philanthropist ; he did not take up any of the catchwords of society ; women would have had no rights, according to him, for he never allowed they had wrongs ; he left Outcast London to its own devices, and only observed, en passant, that in his opinion the modern Knights of the Round Table were sanitary commissioners — that they, more than the clergy, were fighting against the devil and all his works. He was a model Churchman, according to his own ideas, and always worshipped publicly once every Sunday ; but he would rather have subscribed for public wash-houses than for churches, and would have printed up in golden letters in every street, ' Cleanliness is next to godliness.' No one knew — not even his sister, though she might have guessed it — how largely Mr. Frere gave in charities, how his left hand literally did not know what his right hand dealt out : on this point he was secretive — he was even ashamed of his own magnanimity : nothing abashed him more in his own eyes than when a deed of mercy was traced to its source by some grateful recipient of his bounty.

He hated to be thanked. He reddened uneasily at the first word, and the second would drive him away to his harbour of refuge from annoyances, his beloved smoking den. In spite of his habitual good-temper, he could even be cross at such times, and find a vent for his modesty by indulging in splenetic speeches to his much-enduring womankind. ' Capel could be as choleric as a Welshman, on occasion,' his sister would say, laughing ; but so well did she know his idiosyncrasies, that she would exercise the greatest tact and ingenuity in preventing some unworthy applicant from reaching the ear of the master of Murrel's End : he would not believe the story in the least— he was far too keen-witted for that, she knew— hut at the first crocodile tear, at the first whimper of misery, his hand would play him false and find its way to his pocket.