Dual Lives

Front matter

i. a BY J. C. Chillington. "Our lives are interwoven here below, frequently, indeed most frequently, with out our knowing it. We are in great pait moulded by unconscious interaction.' John Tyndall, F.R.S. In Three Volumes. Vol. I. London : Richard Bentley & Son, Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen. 1893. (All rights reserved.) TO THE READER. MM HIS is not a novel with a purpose. If a pervading idea suggests itself, it is not that the characters were created to personify it, but that the writer, in trying to depict imaginary people in imaginary circumstances, stumbled on the thought that all lives are dual, except those that are entirely selfish, and that these sink into the lowest types. The story was not written up to the title, but christened after it had attained maturity. J. C. C. CONTENTS OF VOL. I. CHAPTER PAGE I. A Day of Surprises ... ... i II.

Unexpected Arrivals at Shirley Hall 21 III. The Love of Knowledge ... ... 36 IV. Looking Back... ... ... 49 V. Early Days ... ... ... 68 VI. Tares... ... ... ... 84 VII. Tears and Smiles ... ... ... 101 VIII. Circe... ... ... ... 117 IX. Past Recall ... ... ... 133 X. A Gleam of Sunshine ... ... 152 XL The Clouds break ... ... 161 XII. The Perfect Day ... ... 176 XIII. Shadows ... ... ... ... CONTENTS. VIII CHAPTER PAGE XIV. All for Love ... ... 204 XV. Beyond Endurance ... ... 220 XVI. To the Rescue ... ... ... 230 XVII. Witchcraft ... ... 244 XVIII. Retribution ... ... ... 257 XIX. An Animal Soul ... ...

Chapter I

A DAY OF SURPRISES. lip! ITUATED in a picturesque hollow, '•^~M in one of our southern counties, is the little town of Nether Melcombe. The old church stands grey and stern in the centre of the market-place, and round it cluster all the principal habitations — the hall, the bank, the bookseller, the chemist, and the Red Lion inn — where, in the days of which I write, two coaches used to stop twice daily, thus making four points of pleasant excitement in the work-a-day world. vol. I. I About half a mile along the high-road, towards the west, was the dark, low-lying Melcombe Wood, with Rushey Lake, which, skirting its outer border, turned a long arm into the gloomy recesses of thick under growth and covert. Here, a detached and solitary house marked the commencement of Widbury parish. Detached and solitary the house was, but hardly to be called lonely, for other dwellings could be seen dotting the hillside, and a little more than a quarter of mile away was Widbury village itself, the very centre and heart of it, namely, the trickling spring so placed by nature, and the solid well so placed by art, that dry seasons brought no stint to the dwellers in this favoured spot.

Here the gossips, making domestic neces sities an excuse for a chat, would linger of an evening with their jugs and pails, until the cheerful sound of the horn, borne over the woods and across the lake from Nether Melcombe, warned them that the coach had started on its night journey, and the day was at an end. This evening the country-side was in a dreamy quiet — a haze of autumn mists rising and growing over the undulating fields and meadows. The morning sky had been thick with clouds, but towards noon their dark ranks had broken up, and now stars began to glimmer ; and the keen cold air seemed to whisper that the first white frost might be about to visit the land. There was to be a tea-party in Widbury village. For Mrs. Watson, who lived at Rose Cottage, below the church, was going to entertain a rich lady from the East Indies, who was " own aunt " to the grandson of whom she was main proud.

Now, as it is an established fact that neighbours always know every detail of family affairs better than the principals themselves, we will not enter Mrs. Watson's room to await her guests, but stand by the well in the village street and watch for their arrival. Two women and a man already stood there. One woman, tall, gaunt, and hatchet-faced, with an arm capable of self-defence and domestic rule, and a large mouth, that opened wide to give exit to an equally large and somewhat nasal voice — this was Eliza Hanmer. The other, small, draggled, and flimsy, with a soft, con fidential purr that seemed only to murmur replies and assents, but was in reality a sort of extracting and suggesting power, a leaven in the lump of any tale that might be going the rounds — this was Anna Birt. The man was the new gardener at the rectory.

He leant against the semicircular stone wall that supported the rising ground at the back of the recess, where stood the well, and had his pipe in his mouth, and his ears open. He had come to the rectory on a month's trial, and was looking around to see if things suited. The ladies, therefore, playing to this male audience, held forth in their best style ; and, while airing their knowledge in mutual exchange of sentiments (thereby letting in some side lights), imparted to the stranger, in that quaint western tongue to which I am unable to do justice, the follow ing facts in reference to the pending fes tivity : — Mrs. Watson was the oldest inhabitant of Widbury ; much loved and respected by all her neighbours, and honoured by the friend ship of the "squire" and "madam." She lived in a pretty little house, standing in its own grounds, with the grandson to whom she was so devoted.

" Surely she wur a bit fess about the lad ; but there ! his mother, poor thing, she was her only one." And then, in hushed tones, they went over the village tragedy of seventeen years ago, when they were all young together, and Miss Tilly Watson, that for beauty and goodness was the flower of the country-side, had been " called home " in Widbury Church, and had married " handsome Mr. Willam Downs," the young farmer at Upper Mel combe. The dear lady herself from the hall had come to the weddings, to wish them "fay" on their road; and little Miss Letty, just settling on her feet, had given the bride a big bunch of foreign blooms at the church door, and cheers and rejoicings had followed them down the street, and as far as the Lake Cottage. Alas ! in a few short months, the poor young lady was carried back into her mother's house — dazzed with the sorrow — a strong rider thrown — a widowed bride, nothing more.

The young mother lingered awhile, gave her life to her infant son, then followed his father into the unknown country. " It was Mr. Downs's own sister," Mrs. Hanmer said, "just from the Indies, as had come to visit at Upper Melcombe Farm, and Mrs. Watson had fixed for the meeting with the lad to her own parlour that eveningas she was a bit 'stomachy' about Mr. Willy, and had never taken bit nor sup out of her own house since her daughter died — and oh ! there they corned, sure enough, in Mistress Rowton's own pony-trap — and Mistress Rowton would be going in too ; " and " Oh my ! " chimed in the soft murmur of Anna Birt's voice, " Mr. Willy bean't home yet. It was pity he sud sour his aunt ; for cocksure she would be flush, just home from thic gold-growing land ! Doan't ye say so, Liza ? " The lapse of seventeen years had lightened the weight of Sarah Watson's heavy cross, and had even wreathed it round with flowers, so that in the flush of her present pride and pleasure a genial smile lit up her comely old face as she received her guests.

The little room, hospitably prepared to receive them, was bright and comfortable, almost luxurious, and very unique in one particular, which gave it an added air of refinement, that the shelves upon its walls were lined plentifully with books. To these she proudly pointed as all belonging to Willy. A delicious odour of hot tea-cakes pervaded the atmosphere, and the ladies were quite ready to begin, after their drive in the cool air. The first exchange of greetings and politeness being over, the non-appearance of the hero of the occasion seemed un avoidably to change the cheerful aspect of everything. The old lady, after waiting as long as she decently could, very re luctantly commenced the sociable meal, feeling, as she said, "quite in the dark without him." Meanwhile, Willy Downs was speeding along the lane to Shirley Hall, the bearer of a message that, had its purport been known, would have spoilt every tea in Widbury that evening ! — a message that, combined with other things, had completely erased from the boy's memory his grandmother's parting injunction that morning : " Don't be late for tea, my lad !

" It was indeed strange that he should forget this important charge, on this im portant occasion ! But everything is com parative, and poor Willy had been caught in a mesh of circumstances that left no manner of doubt as to magnitude, and, in fact, as we shall see, extinguished the question altogether. A dreamy and contemplative child, set apart from other children by the melancholy story of his birth, the far-away, soft look in his eyes had seemed to those about him the special dowry of his broken-hearted mother. It was no unusual thing that suddenly amidst his childish play his laughter would be stilled by a sort of questioning sigh, and he would leave his mirthful companions for some solitary occupation that he could follow in silence, or sit for hours absorbed in the pages of some old-world story.

At the age of sixteen he found himself, to his perfect satisfaction, apprenticed to an old-established firm of publishers in Nether Melcombe. Trade in those days was not as rapid as it is now, and though Mr. Cockrane was supposed to have a very prosperous business, there was many a quiet hour when the lad who was learning the routine could indulge his naturally imaginative temperament by the perusal of such spirit-stirring romances as were then delighting the world ; a joy that, alas ! can never dawn again on this fiction-surfeited age ! In all these dreamy wanderings through magic pages, his vivid fancy gave him almost a personal share in the loves and hates, the joys and sorrows, of his heroes and heroines ; and not only that, but, once out of his books, his busy mind endowed his immediate neighbours and companions with attributes not openly declared !

He put histories to the familiar commonplace lives around him, and often, by some strange intuition, saw further into hidden links between acts and motives than many who were older and accredited with superior wisdom. In the detached cottage we have men tioned, which Willy passed each day on his way to and from Nether Melcombe, dwelt the wife of George Phillips, the guard of one of the coaches that changed horses at the Red Lion inn. She was very considerably her husband's senior, and had been for many years with Squire Ashley's invalid sister as trained nurse and companion. In a childish illness of Willy's very early years, kind Miss Ashley, who had always taken a great interest in the motherless boy, had sent her "good Emma" to give her skilful help to the anxious grandmother. On this occasion a chord of sympathy had been touched between the nurse and her little charofe, and when, in course of time, after the death of her mistress, Emma had married and settled in Widbury village, Willy Downs had remained her staunch friend, following the story of her life with a keen appreciation of the simple romance that his dreamy faculty had woven round it.

Emma's superior education, her delicate and refined appearance, and the quiet man ner that had become a second nature after her long and intimate association with Miss Ashley, would under any circumstances have placed a barrier between her and her village neighbours. This barrier was not rendered less thorny by the fact that her elderly charms had subdued the genial and hand some guard of the southern coach, who, in addition to his personal attractions, was sup posed to have " expectations." There was no doubt that Mrs. George Phillips held her head rather high, and, having roused some envy, and the bitterness that follows in its train, received a good many slaps from the village ladies. They, too, had their ideas of the comparative nature of rank and position ; and felt in no way disposed to bow down before one who had been " in service " all her life, and never lived " on her own floor !

" That morning, at the well, Eliza Hanmer had given her view to a comparatively new comer. " She is that proud and set up, is Mrs. Phillips, she won't let help come anigh her ; and, lawk-a-mussy, she'll never rear that child. I said from the first, as soon as ever I clapped eyes on the poor lean bit of a thing, says I, ' There's sorrow brewing in that pot ! ' You see, her man be good bit younger nor she, and he be set on children, and they're married nigh five year now. Lor ! one day the two was passing my gate, and my boys had been mixing up the mud by the roadside, and I caught Tommy and touched him up with the flat of my hand, and he called out a bit, and Phillips says, ' Have you one for sale ? ' says he. ' Doan't be in such a hurry,' I says, ' or you'll have the missis at you ' — and she looked real sore and never passed the time of day or nothing, but just walked on.

Yes, it's anearst five years, and, oh my ! but she wur proud, and looked kind o' ten years younger. Poor soul, it's main hard on her ! There'll never come another." Mrs. Hanmer's view was the popular one, and very correct, so far as it went ; but, as an illustration of this unvarnished tale, Willy Downs had evolved a fact — though he had given it no form, mentally or vocally — that roused in him a pity and tenderness the wisdom by the village well could not partake or understand. This fact was — to dress it in the words in which he had not clothed it — that there is an adoration of the human creature so intense it almost ceases to be a happiness, and in mother-love and mother sorrow there lies an added depth and bitterness, when they seem to comprehend a golden link holding another treasure, which else might glide out of grasp !

That morning, on his way to Cockrane's, looking in, according to his daily custom, to see if there was any message for Phillips, Willy found the mother sobbing on bended knee beside the bed. On it there lay the poor little prison-house from which the stranger-spirit was struggling to depart. The boy was painfully moved. " Let me bring granny to you," he said. But she rose, almost fiercely, then placed her hands on his shoulder, and with a gentle force pushed him towards the door. " Willy," she said, " I would never have let in any one but you. Don't tell you've seen baby, and say to him only this, ' Emma says you are to hope and pray.' There, my dear, I am better alone." He left her, and did her bidding, and his heart ached for her all day long. In the evening, on his return journey, though as yet he remembered that " granny " wanted him at home, he had a slip of paper with a message that he was bound to deliver to the sad woman at the Lake Cottage, and he lingered in his walk, and shrank from entering that abode, where, he could not doubt, another messenger had preceded him.

The mysteries that overwhelm poor human reason were pressing hard on his mind, not with personal pain, however, — which makes a good deal of difference — and nature seemed to lay a soothing hand upon him as he stepped off the high - road and took the lower path beside the lake, where he loved, of an evening like this, to watch the long weird arms of the approaching mist grope over the surface of the water, then wave its filmy banner in and out, and round and round, among the nearly naked stems and branches of the autumn wood. In a clear space of sky above him gleamed one star. It awoke in him that which in very varied guise is called " prayer." As his glance turned back to earth again, the light in Emma Phillips's cottage shone clearly through an open door. Why was it open this foggy night ?

Hark ! there was a splash out in the lake a few yards in front of him, and then a low plaintive wail. He started. The plunge might be anything — the cry was human pain. He looked towards the spot whence the circling ripples widened to his feet, but, with a sudden sweep, the mist wraith doubled her filmy wings over the spot and all was hidden from him. Something white moved swiftly through the undergrowth to his right. An exclamation, almost a name, burst from him ; but, as he stepped towards the place, the form too had vanished in a dense haze, and with outstretched hands he groped his way under the shadow of the high bank to the left until he reached the rough steps that led into the garden of the Lake Cottage. The light shone through the glass above the door — it was no longer open ! He paused a moment to collect himself, to shake off the feeling of bewilderment that possessed him, looking back at the cloud that now hung dense and unmoving over the woods and water.

Then, with slow and hesitating steps, he approached the door by which Emma Phillips always admitted him. VOL. 1. His knock was answered by an excited, almost shrill, "Who's there?" instead of the slow step and carefully unlatched door to which he was accustomed. " It's me," he replied— " Willy Downs. I have a line from Phillips ! " The door opened cautiously, and Emma came outside. "Oh, Willy, I'm glad it's you! I want some one with a clear head and a short tongue." She spoke quickly and nervously, and beckoned him to follow her inside the door. The hurried glance he gave round the room showed him that the whole appearance of the place had been changed since the morning. But he had no time to make observations, for, holding up her finger with a warning "Hush !" she whispered excitedly, in a voice that was not like her own — rest lessly, as if to force his concentrated attention on what she had to say, and on that alone — " Miss Letty, Willy, our sweet Miss Letty, came here on foot — her baby was born here — go tell them at the hall !

Tell it straight to the mistress. Say, ' I thank God she came to me.' She and the baby lie there safe. No one knows but you and me, and we wait the lady's will. There, there ; go, my lad ! You'll do it better than I can teach you." Stunned by the amazing tidings that had burst on him, while all his thoughts and feelings were already surging^ together in a kind of mental tempest, he hesitated a moment, then silently moved towards the door she had again opened. Here he paused, laid his hand on her arm, and looked her boldly in the face. " How is baby ? Your baby ? " Flinging her arms above her head with low hysterical laughter, "My baby," she repeated, " my baby ! " Then suddenly clasping her hands before her, she returned to her former excited whisper — " Better, Willy, oh, much better ! " and she pointed up the lane with earnest gesture.

He turned away. It was an hour for action, not for solving dreams, and soon he was speeding at his best pace along the quiet road. Emma Phillips stood a moment at the door. Thick mist over all the earth, faint stars in heaven, no light to show her tell tale face, no human ear to listen to her moan — "My lamb, __ my little lamb! God! how can I bear it ? "

Chapter II. Unexpected Arrivals At Shirley Hall

ijT^l TTERLY forgetful now of granny's parting words, " Don't be late for tea," Willy ran, as fast as the fog would allow of haste, up the green lane that led to the south gate of Shirley Hall. Painfully anxious to discharge the message he had in trust, the lad hastened towards the pic turesque old house that was so well known in all that country-side — so completely did all the inhabitants of Widbury, and even of Nether Melcombe, identify themselves, as is rarely the custom nowadays, with the " eert house" and the dwellers therein. There had been arrivals at the hall that day. First of all, Colonel Graham and his wife, a sister of Mrs. Ashley's, who had been absent many years in India; and this pleasant family meeting had, greatly to the chagrin of all concerned, been followed by ordinary visitors, who, nevertheless, having come some distance for interchange of civilities, could not be suffered to depart without rest and refreshment for man and beast.

This sacrifice at the altar of hospitality was now over. The white headed rotund butler and his tall thin assistant remained stolid and statuesque to let the ladies, who had been speeding the parting guests, re-enter the house. With ever so faint a sigh, followed by as faint a smile, as if to contradict the passing existence of its predecessor — unwilling, even under such extenuating circumstances, to confess to neighbourly kindness grudo-ino-ly given — Mrs. Ashley drew her sister's hand on her arm, and led her up the wide oak staircase to her own boudoir. Standing in this cosy sanctuary, alone at last, the sisters regarded each other for a time in silence. The beauty, that had been all in its freshness when they parted, had not quite faded yet. They had both toned down, naturally enough, as to colouring, but the changes that made themselves most manifest, lay in the expression and mien, which had been shaped by the experiences of their varied and parted lives.

Mrs. Ashley's fair face and rather portly form had de veloped in the midst of cosy luxury, sheltered from every cruel blast of anxiety or thought for the morrow. Her kindly nature had found its chief happiness in promoting, with the means that lay so freely at her command, the good and happiness of all those who came within her reach. Her married life was exceptionally happy, and her child was beautiful, clever, and good. True, it was a girl, and the only one — and here was the one cross that had been given her to bear. No boy to be his father's heir ! But even the bitterness of that was over now, and hope reigning in its stead ; for the entail was on heirs male in the direct line, and even now she was anxiously looking forward to the arrival of a grandchild — possibly a son — and the passing over of a generation in such a case ceased to be a present sorrow.

If there was a wistful shadow in the soft grey eyes, it came from some recent, half awakened cause, that had, as yet, no time to leave lines of suffering on her sweet, calm face. Lettice Graham was taller and slighter than her sister, and on her face were lines such as patient sorrow and self-repression only write. Her beauty may have lost in softness what it gained in the look of strength — strength won by conquest over self, and the foes that storm the citadel from without, and are helped by allies from within. Too early in life she had married and left home for strange lands and new acquaintances ; and, owing to events — in no way connected with this history — she had seen all the good, the best of life, gleam just beyond her touch, like the golden apples in the fabled garden, so near, so desirable, but never to be gathered by her hands ; the light of life glancing and brightening beneath her gaze, and then off over dark morass and treacher ous quicksand, where she dared not follow !

But the school in which she had learnt to live rather for others than for herself, had ripened all her powers of sympathy, and en dowed her with the gift of imparting her own strength to others in their need. The ladies, women-like, concluded their long, earnest regard by a warm embrace ; and, drawing their chairs closer to the fire, sat down for a quiet talk. " And now tell me about Letty, Mary," said Mrs. Graham. " You know of late you have said so little about her, that I was be ginning to fancy there was something wrong. Surely her marriage has not disappointed you in any way ? Are you unhappy about her ? " "Well, no, Lettice," Mrs Ashley slowly replied; "not exactly unhappy, but dis turbed and anxious. I saw a good deal of him before the marriage. I thought him very fascinating and charming, and did not at all wonder that he had won my Letty's love ; but since then they have only been here on a short visit, and he was so anxious to get her away.

There was a change in him — a kind of reticence, a something I can hardly explain — and now, when I am natu rally so anxious for news, he never writes to me. I even proposed to Letty that I should .be with her for a few weeks ; and, yesterday, I received what should have been a reply, but was only a short note asking for letters, and utterly ignoring my offer ! I must confess it troubles me. What did she say to you ? " "Well," said Mrs. Graham, half-reluctantly, " I have had no answer to my letter yet. " No answer ! That is very unlike Letty. I cannot understand it. I told Harry the other day that I must go and see the child ; but he calls me a fidget, and says a mother in-law is a time-honoured firebrand. All the same, I am sure he is beginning to think it strange." Here there came an interruption in a gentle but decided knock at the door ; and, in answer to Mrs. Ashley's rather querulous " Come in," the old housekeeper entered.

" I am very sorry to disturb you, ma'am," she said, " but Master Willy Downs is below. He looks hot and flurried, and says he wants to speak with you — very impor tant." Mrs. Ashley raised herself in her chair, and made an effort to recall her thoughts from the all-absorbing topic that was filling them, but it seemed a little hard to realize the meaning of the interruption. " Mrs. Watson's grandson ? " she said slowly. Willy Downs ? " " Yes, ma'am." " Did he say what he wanted ? " " No, ma'am ; only it was something im portant to say to you himself. He seemed very anxious-like." " How strange ! Well, I suppose I had better see him. Let him come up here, Mrs. Moray." "Who is it ? " asked Lettice Graham. " The grandson of an old lady in the village for whom I have the greatest regard ; but I do wish she did not want me just now."

And so saying, Mrs. Ashley rose and lit the wax candles in their branched holders that stood on either side the mantel shelf. Willy Downs was ushered into the room, and the door closed behind him. Pale with excitement, dazzled by the cheerful glow, feeling that his errand brooked no delay, and yet reluctant to say the dreadful words, the boy stood silent, cap in hand. The candle-light fell on his colourless face and earnest eyes, so that, struck by his expression, Mrs. Ashley came towards him, and said in a soft kindly voice — " I hope your grandmother is well, Willy ? " " Quite well, thank you ; but I have a message " He hesitated and looked at Mrs. Graham leaning calmly back in her chair. Mrs. Ashley answered his look. " That is my sister, Willy ; we have no secrets." His voice failed him.

How could he tell the strange and terrible tidings ? He mustered all his strength, took one pace forward, and with the tears filling his honest eyes — " I come from Mrs. Phillips," he said, "to tell you they were quite well — both of them — but — but, Miss Letty is there, and the baby." It was now Mrs. Graham who started up, while the poor mother, with a smothered cry, sank down on a couch and covered her face with her hands. Lettice Graham put her hand on the boy's arm, and looking inquiringly into his tearful eyes, gave him courage, and, in a low distinct voice, he added — " I went to Mrs. Phillips's cottage with a message ; she sent me on here. She said Miss Letty came — the baby was born there. All was well," he eagerly added, " and waiting for Mrs. Ashley's wishes. No one knows but me " There followed a short pause, Mrs. Graham thinking what was best to be done, and the mother rousing herself from her first shock, and preparing to fly to her darling's side.