Wee Wifie. A tale. By the Author of 'Nellie's Memories'

Preface

The demand for AVee Wifie has led to a re-issue in a cheaper form, but as so many years have elapsed since the story first made its appearance, the Author considered that extensive alter ations would be necessary before its republication. It has therefore been carefully revised, and, though the characters and the salient points of the plot have been left untouched, several fresh chapters have been added to assist in the more thorough development of the story. The Author. CONTENTS Chapter Page i. Prologue — The Wanderer . . . . i ii. The Blind Vicar of Sandycliffe . .11 in. Under the old Walnut-Tree . . .20 iv. " When we two parted " . . . -3° v. The Little Princess . . . . . 38 vi. Beulah Place . . . . . . 4S vn. Nea ....... 54 vm. Maurice Trafford . . * . .62 ix. The Awakening . . . . -75 x. In Deep Waters . . . . .84 xi.

The Wee Wifie . . . . . 96 xn. In the Blue Nestie . . . . .105 xiii. That Room of Mrs. Watkins' . . .116 xiv. Crystal ....... 129 xv. Erle arrives at Redmond IIall . . . 140 xvi. Fay's Dilemma . . . . . 151 xvn. " I am only Wee Wifie " . . .162 xvni. Erle's Visit to the Grange .... 174 xix. Among the Shadows . . . . 1S5 xx. " Little Joyce " . . . . . 197 xxi. " Let me see Margaret " CONTENTS VIII Chapter Pace xxn. Two Strings to one Bow .... 216 xxiii. Crystal's Story ...... 225 xxiv. A Grave Decision ... ■ 238 xxv. Go back to Raby ..... 247 xxvi. The tall Young Lady in Brown . . 257 xxvii. Fluff Goes to see Grandpapa .... 269 xxvm. "I want Him so" . • • ■ 3&l xxix. A Glimpse of the Dark Valley . .291 xxx. " It is all over, Baby " . . . 299 xxxi. Fay's Mistake ...... 307 xxxn. " Good-bye— Good-bye "... 318 xxxm.

The Manse at Rowan-Glen .... 327 xxxiv. Tracked at Last ..... 336 xxxv. Raby's Wife ... 345 xxxvi. Sir Hugh's Repentance .... 355 xxxvn. Vanitas Vanitatis ..... 363 xxxvm. Nea and her Father meet again . . . 372 xxxix. Evelyn's Revenge . . 3S1 xl. Aunt Jeanie's Guest ..... 392 xli. Under the Rowans ..... 403 xlii. Knitting up the Threads .... WEE WIFIE

Prologue

— THE WANDERER lt Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, And thinking of the days that are no more." Tennyson's Princess. Not much of a picture, certainly ! Only a stretch of wide sunny road, with a tamarisk hedge and a clump of shadowy elms ; a stray sheep nibbling in a grass ditch ; and a brown baby asleep on a bench ; beyond, low broad fields of grain whitening to harvest, and a distant film and haze — blue cloudiness, and the deep monotonous sound of the great sea. Yellow sunshine, green turf, the buoyancy of salt spray in the air ; some one, trailing a white gown unheeded in the sandy dust, pauses a moment under the flickering elms to admire the scene. She is a tall, grave woman, with serious eyes and dead brown hair, the shade of withered leaves in autumn, with a sad beautiful face.

It is the face of one who has suffered and been patient ; who has loved much and will love on to the end ; who, from the depths of a noble, selfless nature, looks out upon the world i WEE AVIFIE 2 with mild eyes of charity ; a woman, yet a girl in years, whom one termed his pearl among women. Just now, standing under the elms, with her straight white folds and uncovered hair, for her sun -bonnet lay on the turf beside her, her wistful eyes looking far away seaward, one could have compared her to a Norman or a Druidical priestess under the shadow of the sacred oak ; there is at once some thing so benignant and strong, so full of pathos, in her face and form. Low swaying of branches, then the pattering of red and yellow rain round the rough -hewn bench, the brown baby awakes and stretches out its arms with a lusty cry — a suggestive human sound that effectually breaks up the stillness ; for at the same instant an urchin whittling wood in the hedge scrambles out in haste, and a buxom-looking woman steps from the porch of an ivy-covered lodge, wringing the soap-suds from her white wrinkled hands.

Trifles mar tranquillity. For a moment silence is invaded, and the dissonant sounds gather strength; for once infant tears fail to be dried by mother smiles, and, as if in answer to the shrill cries, flocks of snow-white geese waddle solemnly across the grass ; the boy leaves off whittling wood and chases the yellow-bills ; through the leafy avenue comes the loaded corn-wain, the jocund waggoner with scarlet poppies in his hat, blue corn-flowers and pink convolvuli trailing from the horses' ears ; over the fields sound the distant pealing of bells. The girl wakes up from her musing fit with a deep sigh, and her face becomes suddenly very pale ; then she moves slowly across the road towards a path winding through the bare harvest fields, where the gleaners are busily at work. From under the tamarisk hedge comes the shadow of a woman ; as the white gown disappears and the lodge -keeper carries off her wailing child, the shadow becomes substance and grows erect into the figure of a girl.

Of a girl in shabby black, footsore and weary, who drags herself with hesitating steps to the spot where the other woman's feet have rested, and there she stoops and hurriedly gathers a few blades of grass and presses them to her lips. Silence once more over the landscape; the glitter of sunshine round the empty bench ; the whirling of insects in the ambient air ; under the shadowy elms a girl smiling bitterly over a few poor grasses, gathered as we pluck them from a loved one's grave. Catharine, the lodge-keeper, sat rocking her baby in the old porch seat ; through the open door one could catch glimpses of the bright red-tiled kitchen with its wooden settle, and the tortoise-shell cat asleep on the great wicker chair ; beyond, the sunny little herb-garden with its plots of lavender, marjoram, and sweet -smelling thyme, the last monthly roses blooming among the gooseberry bushes ; a child cliqueting up the narrow brick path with a big sun-bonnet and burnished pail ; in the corner a toy fountain gurgling over its oyster-shell border, and a few superannuated ferns.

Catharine sat contentedly in the shady porch, on her lap lay the brown baby with his face all puckered up with smiles ; his tiny hole of a mouth just opened ready for the small moist thumb, and his bare rosy feet beating noiseless time to the birds ; he was listening besides to his mother's voice as she sat rocking him and talking unconsciously aloud. " ' Heaven bless her ! ' she muttered, with a cloud on her pleasant face; yes, those were her very words, as she stood like a picture under the old trees yonder." " ' Heaven bless her and him too,' — but there was not a speck of colour in her face as she said the words, and I could see the tears in her beautiful eyes. Oh, but you are a saint, Miss Margaret — every one knows that ; but, as I tell Martin, it is a sin and a shame to ring the joy bells for a feckless chit that folk never set eyes on ; while our darling, Miss Margaret, is left alone in the old place."

" What about Margaret, Catharine, for heaven's sake, what about Margaret ? " and the shadow that had come from behind the tamarisk hedge now fell across the porch straight before the startled woman. Catharine put down her apron from her eyes with some thing like a cry, and stood up trembling. " Good gracious ! is that you, Miss Crystal ? why, you come before one like a flash of lightning on a summer's day, to make one palpitate all over for fear of a storm." "And about as welcome, I suppose," returned the young stranger, bitterly, " my good Catharine, your simile is a wonderfully true one." " I don't know nought about ' similies,' Miss Crystal, but I know you are as welcome as the flowers in May. Come in — come in — my lamb, and don't stand scorching your poor face in the sun ; come in and I'll give you Martin's wicker chair by the open window, where you can smell the sea and the fields together, and I'll fetch you a sup of Daisy's new milk, for you look quite faint and moithered, like a lost and weary bird, my pretty.

Yes, just like a lost and weary bird." " You are right," murmured the girl through her pale lips ; then aloud, " have your own way, for you were ever an obstinate woman, Catharine, and fetch me a draught of Daisy's sweet milk and a crust of the old brown loaf, and I will thank you and go ; but not before you have told me about Margaret — all that you know, and that you hope and fear, Catharine." "Heaven bless you, Miss Crystal, it is the same tender heart as ever, I see. Yes, you shall hear all I know; and that's little enough, I'll be bound." And so saying, she hustled up her dress over her linsey petticoat, and, taking a tin dipper from the dresser, was presently heard calling cheerfully to her milky favourite in the paddock, on her way to the dairy. Left to herself, the girl threw herself down — not in the wicker chair, where the cat lay like a furry ball simmering in the sun but on the old brown settle behind the door, where she could rest her head against the wall, and see and not be seen.

She had taken off her broad-brimmed hat, and it lay on the table beside her ; and the sunlight streamed through the lattice window full on her face. Such a young face, and — heaven help her — such a sad face ; so beautiful too, in spite of the lines that sorrow had evidently traced on it, and the hard bitter curves round the mouth. The dark dreamy eyes, the pale olive complexion, the glossy hair, — in colour the sun-steeped blackness of the south, — the full curled lips and grand profile, might have befitted a Vashti ; just so might the spotless queen have carried her un crowned head when she left the gates of Shushan, and have trailed her garments in the dust with a mien as proud and as despairing. There she sat motionless, looking over the harvest -fields, while Catharine spread a clean coarse cloth on the small oaken table beside her, and served up a frugal meal of brown bread, honey, and milk, and then stood watching her while the stranger ate sparingly and as if only necessity compelled.

" There," she said at last, looking up at Catharine with a soft pathetic smile that lent new beauty to her face ; " I have done justice to your delicious fare ; now draw your chair closer, for I am starving for news of Margaret, and ' like water to a thirsty soul is news from a far country.' How often I say those words to myself." " But not bad news, surely, Miss Crystal ; and it is like enough you'll think mine bad when told. Hark, it only wants the half-hour to noon, and they are man and wife now." " Man and wife ! of whom are you talking, Catharine ? " "Of whom should I be talking, dearie, but of the young master ? " but the girl interrupted her with strange vehemence. " Catharine, you will drive me crazy with that slow soft tongue of yours. How can Hugh Redmond be married while Margaret stands under the elm trees alone ?

" " But it is true, Miss Crystal, for all that— as sure as the blue sky is above us — Sir Hugh Redmond weds to-day with a bonnie bit child from foreign parts that no one" set eyes on, and whom he is bringing home as mistress to the old hall.' " I don't believe you ! " exclaimed the girl stormily ; but in spite of her words the olive complexion grew pale. " You are jesting, Catharine ; you are imposing on me some village fable —some credulous report. As I love Margaret I refuse to be lieve you." " The time was when a word from Catharine would have contented you, Miss Crystal," replied the woman sorrowfully, and her honest face grew overcast. " Do you think Miss Mar garet's own foster-sister, who was brought up with her, would deceive you now ? But it is like enough that sorrow and pride have turned your head, and the mistake of having made the first false step beside."

" Forgive me," returned the girl hoarsely ; and she took the work-hardened hand and pressed it between both her own. " I will try to believe you, though I cannot realise it that Margaret -my Margaret — has been jilted." " No, nor that either, dearie. AVe must not blame the poor young master beyond his deserts. He loved her true, Miss Crystal ; he loved her that true that his heart was like to break ; but for all that he was forced to give her up." " I cannot understand it," in a bewildered voice. " AVhen I left the dear old home that summer's day a year ago they had been engaged nine months ; yes, it was nine months, I remember, for it was on her birthday that he asked her to be his wife, and they had loved each other long before that. Do you think I can ever forget that time ? " " I daresay not.

Anyhow, things went on well for a time ■ the young master was always at the Grange, or Miss Margaret and Mr. Raby at the Hall ; and when he was away, for he was always a bit roving, he wrote her a heap of letters ; and all was as right as it could be till the old master came home." " Ah, true ! I had forgotten Sir AVilfred." " Ay, he had been away for more than two years in the East, working for that fine book of his that folks talk about so much ; but he was in bad health, and he had a strange hankering to die in the old Hall. There is an awful mystery in things, Miss Crystal ; for if it had pleased Providence to have taken the poor old master before he reached the Hall, our dear Miss Margaret might have been happy now." "Do you mean that Sir AVilfred objected to the match?" "AVell, I don't rightly know what happened, but Martin and me think there is some mystery at the bottom.

Folks say, who know the young master, that he has a way of putting off things to the morrow as should be done to-day, and either he did not tell his father of his engagement to Miss Margaret, or his letters went astray in those foreign parts ; but when the old master heard that Mr. Hugh had promised to marry Miss Margaret, he made an awful scene, and swore that no Ferrers should be mistress of Redmond Hall." " Good heavens ! what reason could Sir Wilfred have for refusing his consent ? Margaret was beautiful, rich, and well born. Do you mean to say that Sir Hugh was so poor a creature as to give her up for a whim ? " " No, no, Miss Crystal, dear, we don't understand the rights of it. AVhen Mr. Hugh left the old master he just rushed up to the Grange to see Miss Margaret, and to tell her of his father's opposition ; but she had a right brave spirit of her own, and she heartened him up, and bade him wait patiently and she would win over the old man yet.

Well, it is a sad story, and, as I told you, neither Martin nor me know what rightly hap pened. Sir AVilfred came up to talk to Miss Margaret, and then she sent for Mr. Hugh, and told him they must part, that she would never marry him. That was before the old master had that stroke that carried him off, but she held firm to it after his death, and nothing that Mr. Hugh could say would move her." "And yet, if ever woman loved man, Margaret loved Hugh Redmond." " I know it, dearie, no one could look at her and not see that the light had gone out of her life, and that her heart was just breaking— how white you have gone, Miss Crystal ! " " I am so sorry for Margaret. Oh ! Catharine, Catharine, if I had any tears left I think I could shed them all for Mar garet." " Keep them for yourself, my dearie, maybe they will cool the fever in your heart, and make you see clear, and bring you back to us again."

" Hush, hush ! I will not hear you. I will only talk of my poor Margaret. She would not marry him you say." " No, she was like a rock, not all the poor young master could say could change her resolution. I know she told him that his father was right to forbid their marriage, and though it was a cruel trouble to them both, they must bear it, for it was God's will, not Sir Wilfred's, that separated them ; but he would never listen to her, and at last he just flung away in a rage and married the other." "The other! — whom do you mean, Catharine?" " Well, you have heard of Colonel Mordaunt, who lived up at AA'yngate Priory, the big place, up yonder, some of the land adjoins the Hall lands, but the house is no better than a ruin." " Yes, I know ; Colonel Mordaunt died in India." "AVell, maybe you did not know that the Colonel had a daughter, a bit bonnie lass, who was brought up by an aunt in the country.

It seems Sir Wilfred and the Colonel had always hoped to bring about a match between the young people, and after Sir AVilfred's death they found a letter with the will charging Mr. Hugh by all that was sacred not to marry Miss Margaret, and begging him to go down to Daintree, and see Colonel Mordaunt's beautiful young daughter. Miss Margaret told me with tears in her eyes what a loving fatherly letter it was, and how it prayed Mr. Hugh to forgive him for crossing his will ; but told him at the same time that no blessing could ever follow his marriage with Margaret Ferrers." " No blessing ? There is some mystery here, Catharine." " That is what I say, Miss Crystal, but reason or not, the poor young master was half-crazed with the disappointment ; he was for setting aside everything, and going on reckless-like, but Miss Margaret she was like a rock — she could not and would not marry him ; and in his anger against her, and be cause he did not care what became of him, he went down to Daintree and settled the matter with Miss Mordaunt, and that is all I know, Miss Crystal."

"One — two — three — four," counted the girl with a bitter smile, "four broken hearts, four mutilated lives, and the sun shines, and the birds sing — one hungers, thirsts, sleeps, and wakes again, and a benignant Creator suffers it ; but hush ! there are footsteps Catharine, hide me, quick." " My dearie, don't look so scared like, it is only Mr. Raby — he passed an hour ago with the parson; but there is only wee Johnnie with him now." " Is he coming in ? I am sure I heard him lift the latch of the gate; you will keep your faith with me, Catharine?" "Yes — yes, have I ever sailed you ; bide quiet a bit, he can not see you. He is only standing in the porch, for a sup of milk. I'll fetch it from the dairy, and he'll drink it and go." " If only Johnnie were not there," murmured the girl, anxiously.

" No, no, he has sent him on most likely to the Vicarage." "My good Catharine," observed a quiet voice from the porch, " how long am I to wait for my glass of milk ?" " I am sorry, Mr. Raby, I am indeed," answered Catharine's cheery tones in the distance. " Don't be sorry," returned the same voice ; " waiting will do me good." And then there was silence. The stranger stole out and peeped through the half opened door. There was a tall man standing in the porch ; a man so tall that the clustering ivy round the trellis-work quite trailed about him and touched his forehead ; a man broad-shouldered and strong, but with a stooping gait like a giant worn out with labour; he was in clerical dress, but his soft felt hat was in his hand, and the grand powerful head with its heavy dead brown hair and pale face were distinctly visible under the shadow of the ivy.

He did not move at the sound of the stealthy footstep or at the light shadow that fell across him, though the girl crept so close that he could have touched her with his right hand; but on Catharine's reappearance she shrunk back with a gesture of mingled entreaty and command. " There is the milk, Mr. Raby, and it is yellow and rich with cream to reward your patience, sir." " Thank you," he replied, smiling, and putting out a large white hand; the stranger took the glass from Catharine and held it to him ; he drank it with seeming unconsciousness and with lowered eyes. " A most delicious draught ; but your hand is trembling, Catharine; are you tired or unwell?" "Neither sir, thank you," replied Catherine, huskily, while the girl drew back in evident alarm. " Ah, there is Johnnie come for you, he is waiting at the gate ; here is your stick, Mr. Raby.

Don't forget your hat, for the sun is very powerful." " No, no," returned the clergyman, absently. " Good morning, Catharine." Then, as he walked down the little brick-paved path, " How strange Catharine's hand never felt like that ; it always seemed puckered and rough to me, but this felt soft and cold as it touched me, and shook so that it could hardly hold the glass. Johnnie, lad, is there any one standing in the porch with your mother?" " No, sir, only mother." "Strange," he muttered, "strange; I suppose it was my fancy, I am always fancying things ;" and then he sighed and put his hand on the boy's shoulder, for Raby Ferrers was blind.

Chapter II The Blind Vicar Of Sandycliffe

' ' Over proud of course, Even so ! — but not so stupid, blind, that I, Whom thus the great Taskmaster of the world Has set to meditate, mistaken work, My dreary face against a dim blank wall, Throughout man's natural lifetime, — could pretend or wish." Browning's Aurora I^igh. About five miles from Singleton, where Redmond Hall stands, is the little village of Sandycliffe, a small primitive place set in corn-fields, with long sloping fields of grain, alternating with smooth green uplands and winding lanes, with the tangled hedgerows, so well known in southern scenery. Sandycliffe is not actually on the sea-shore, but a short walk from the village up one of those breezy uplands would bring the foot-passenger within view of the blue sea-line ; on one side is Singleton, with its white cliffs and row of modest, unpretending houses, and on the other the busy port of Pierrepoint, with its bustle and traffic, its long narrow streets, and ceaseless activity.

Sandycliffe lies snugly in its green hollow; a tiny village with one winding street, a few white washed cottages grouped round a small Norman church, with a rose-covered vicarage inhabited by the curate's large family. The vicar lived a mile away, at the Grange, a large red brick house with curious gables, half covered with ivy, standing on high ground, with a grand view of the sea and the harbour of Pierrepoint. It might seem strange to any one not conversant with the facts of the case, that the small, sparsely-populated village should require the services of a curate, and especially a hard-working man like Mr. Anderson ; but a sad affliction had befallen the young vicar of Sandycliffe; the result of some illness or accident, two or three years after his ordination, had left him totally blind.

People who had heard him had prophesied great things of Mr. Ferrers, — he had the rare gift of eloquence; he was a born orator, as they said — a rising light in his profession ; it was absurd that such powers should be wasted on a village congregation, made up of rustics andold women ; he must preach from some city pulpit ; he was a man fitted to sway the masses in the east end of London, to be a leader among his fellows ; it was seldom that one saw such penetration and power united with such simple unobtrusive goodness. Mr. Ferrers would smile a little sadly when these speeches reached his ear. He was a man who cared little for the praises of his generation ; his one aim in life was to devote his talents to his Master's service — to work in the corner of the vineyard allotted to him. His inner consciousness, indeed, told him that he had capabilities for a larger sphere, a wider range of work ; when the call came he would be ready to leave his few sheep in the wilderness and go out into pastures new.

He was like a knight watching beside his armour until the reveille" sounded ; when the time came he was ready to go down to the battle. AVhen the call came ! Alas ! it never came in this world for Raby Ferrers. In the full prime of youth and strength the mysterious doom of blindness came upon the young vicar and left him groping in a darkened world. There was bitter trouble at the Grange just then ; a young cousin of Margaret and Raby Ferrers, who had lived with them from childhood, and had been the spoilt darling of the house, had left her home suddenly, leaving no trace behind her. THE BLIND VICAR OF SANDYCLIFFE 13 Gossip had been rife in Sandycliffe, but no one except Hugh Redmond knew the rights of the case, or why the girl should have abandoned her home when Raby Ferrers was lying on a bed of suffering, and Margaret was watching beside him in trembling anguish for the result.

There were weeks and months of bodily suffering and fierce internal conflict — bitter hand to hand fights with despair. And then the strong will and faith of Raby Ferrers triumphed ; back from the shadow of the valley of death he came, mutilated, scarred, and victorious ; and like blind Samson, led by a boy, he one day electrified his people by entering his pulpit again ; and at the sight of the changed pale face, and of the deep melodious voice speaking with its old tender authority, there was hardly a dry eye in the church. From that day Mr. Ferrers never flinched from the purpose he had set before him as far as lay in his power to do his duty. Bound by his ordination vows, he still gloried in the dignity of his priesthood. Sunday after Sunday saw him occupying the pulpit of his little church, which, as the fame of his rare eloquence went abroad, was always crowded with strangers.

He had secured the services of an earnest hard-working man, — the ill-paid, overworked curate of an east end parish with a large sickly family, — and installed them in the sunny pleasant vicarage. There was little work for either of them in Sandycliffe, but they carried their joint energies farther a-field. Pierrepoint had a large poor population, and the vicar was old and supine ; he accepted gladly the volunteered services of his zealous coadjutors, and, led by his faithful Johnnie, Mr. Ferrers penetrated into the winding alleys, and carried comfort to many a sick and dying bed. And as Mr. Brabazon grew more infirm, it became a rule for Mr. Ferrers to occupy his pulpit on Sunday evenings, and it was always remarked that on these occasions the church was crowded ; people would come ten or twelve miles to hear the blind clergyman from Sandyclifse.

It was even mooted by the Bishop whether, after Mr. Brabazon's death, Pierrepoint should not be offered to Mr. Ferrers. After the first few weeks Raby Ferrers never spoke of his blindness to any one ; even his half-sister Margaret who lived with him, and was his dearest and closest friend, never heard a repining word from his lips ; neither did he waste his strength by silent brooding — the activity of his life left him no time for this ; when he was not occupied with his ministrations, or pre paring his sermons, Margaret would read to him for hours. Yet, it was evident to any keen observer who studied the quiet face, that some load of care lay on the bowed shoulders of Mr. Ferrers ; some heavy weight that at times seemed to crush him. Sometimes when Margaret was reading to him, he would make a sign for her to stop, and, laying down the book, she wrould watch him pacing up and down the green alleys of the Grange garden with his sightless-eyes turned to the sunshine ; but she knew that it was not of his blindness he was thinking, but of a heavier trouble still.