A Daughter's Grief. A novel

Front matter

Fiction. THE SPECTA TOR (September 26th), speaking of a series in which the tales "run too much upon the lines of the modern problem fiction," says: "We wonder, by the way, how long it will take publishers to find out what a large and respectable reading world there is that has not yet bowed the knee to this new Baal, and is eager to welcome a good story with a motive of more whole= some and universal appeal." [Messrs. BELLAIRS & CO. think that the following Tales of Mystery, Imagination, and Humour, published at low (net) prices, will be found to suit that "reading world" to which the Spectator refers.] A HUSBAND'S ORDEAL; Or, The Confessions of Gerald Brownson, late of Coora Coora, Queensland. By Percy Russell. Cloth, 3s. 6d. net. " Originality of idea marks ' A Husband's Ordeal.' The story, once begun, is certain to be read, and the excitement is sustained from start to finish." — Black and White.

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Will prove enthralling to readers of all ages." — Black and White. London : BELLAIRS & CO., 9 Hart Street, Bloomsbury. Fiction. NEW SPORTING STORIES. fij I . It Cloftl, JS ! ■ ■ . -. nl.. 1 hi i ■ Writing ■ ■ ■■ I - ' A BRIDES EXPERIMENT. A story erf '. Biish Life : - Cloth, 3s. 6d. net. " A bright and clever novel with a double interest. . . . The bride's misunderstandings and reconciliation with her devoted husband show no trivial power of intellectual analysis." — Times, June 17th. THE TANTALUS TOUR. A Theatrical Venture. Chronicled by W alter Parke, Joint- Author of " Les Manteaux N'oirs," and other Comic Operas. With numerous Illustrations by J. Harrison. Cloth, 2s. 6d. net. " A boisterously funny book." — Referee. " Extremely droll." — Whitehall Review. " A clever and amusing book." — Liverpool Daily Post.

Chapter I

A RETROSPECT The grey twilight was falling over the landscape, a dreary scene of dull November gloom. The breeze brought the sound of the village bells from a distance ; and as Ethel Newborough listened to their chime whilst walking through a solitary lane, her imagination conjured up the memories of the past. Not altogether a joyful train of thought ; rather a chequered, fitful gleam of sorrow and regret. She looked back on her childhood, her early days in a secluded Devonshire village, made happy by her mother's love, suddenly brought to a close by the presence of mourning in the house — mourning for her mother, whose love she had enjoyed for too short a time. But other associations soon occurred to her mind. Her father, since he became a widower, lived much in London ; and when she reached the suitable age, he was naturally anxious that she should make her appearance in society with all the Mat due to their position.

For this purpose he summoned her to London, and while she lived in his house, she was practically under the chaperonage of his half-sister, Lady Westville, a woman well advanced in years, not popular in society, but of considerable wealth and still more considerable social energy and ambi tion. " Marry her well," said the fond father to Lady Westville the day he introduced the girl to her notice. But really this injunction was unnecessary, as she had already quite decided within her own mind that such should be her object. "Marry her well," he repeated, and then troubled himself no more about her, but went his own easy way, lounging at his club, indulging in moderate play, flirting with such women as took his fancy, but not such flirtation as would lead to another marriage, for he loved too well his easy bachelor life, its freedom and variety.

A somewhat selfish man, but still at heart fond of his daughter, he liked to see her becomingly dressed, and to watch the graceful girlish form glid ing about his rooms, and exhaling, as it were, a fragrance of freshness and mirth. One evening— how well she remembered it ! — she was dressed for a party at Lady Westville's, and she stood in the hall impatiently waiting for the carriage, when her father came towards her with an additional wrap and threw it over her shoulders, saying— " The wind is cold, and the rooms are sure to be hot; you must take greater care of yourself." A RETROSPECT 3 She thanked and kissed him for his thoughtful kindness, and the carriage driving up, she sprang gaily into it, and as it moved on, she pulled down the window, looked out, and waved her hand merrily to her father.

Little did she think that she was destined never to set eyes upon him again in this world. Some hours later, when the party was at its gayest and Ethel's spirits at their highest, a mes senger came towards her with an alarmed face and said — " I am sorry to say, Miss Newborough, your father is ill — very ill. Tour return is immediately imperative." "My father ill!" she exclaimed. "Is it serious — is he dead ? " "Yes," was the answer incautiously given. "He is lying dead — foully murdered." At these terrible words her brain reeled, her blood froze, and she fell senseless to the ground, to be borne quickly away by her terrified friends. It was only too true. After seeing his daughter drive away, Mr. Newborough went to his study, and there remained reading and writing letters, as he often did of an evening.

The study had a low window, opening on to the small patch of grass which did duty for a garden, the exigencies of space not allowing greater development to floral beauty. Some unusual sounds were heard by the servants, and proceeding to the study, a terrible sight met their eyes. Mr. Newborough lay unconscious on the floor, felled to the ground by a terrific blow. There had evidently been a previous struggle, for his clothes were torn, and in his tightly-clenched right hand they found a button of greyish colour, with mottled blue spots npon its surface, evidently in the conflict torn off the tweed suit which the assailant was wearing. The window was open, having afforded means of escape to the murderer. The strictest investigation was made by the police, but unhappily without any result. No one suspicious in appearance had been seen about the house.

No one was known who entertained a grudge against the deceased. The question of motive remained unsolved. Robbery it was not ; Mr. Newborough's watch and chain, his purse and signet>ring, had not been taken ; the silver ink stand and candlesticks on his writing-table had not been removed ; the drawers had not been ransacked. As Mr. Newborough left no male heirs — only two daughters, Ethel and Caroline — three members of another branch of the family — Mr. Reginald New borough, Captain Newborough, and Mr. Thornton — came into considerable property, real and personal, which had been left to the deceased and his male issue, and failing such, to the above-mentioned relatives. Much as they profited by the sad event. the monstrous thought that these gentlemen should be concerned in so terrible a crime was immediately dismissed from consideration, added to which, they A RETROSPECT 5 were all, with the exception of Mr. Thornton, out of London at the time of the catastrophe.

No, a mystery it was, and a mystery it remained, although many people, and Ethel in their number, inclined to the belief that the motive was robbery, but that the criminal had been disturbed before seizing his booty. What Ethel suffered in this terrible grief would be difficult to imagine and impossible to describe. Of a sensitive and finely-strung organisation, she felt acutely the sorrow which would have made an indelible impression even on a less emotional nature. Lady Westville took her abroad for a time — the best thing she could possibly have done — and the change of air and scene proved undoubtedly beneficial. On her return to England Ethel went to stay with Mr. and Mrs. Orpington, old friends of her parents ; and it is while on her visit to them at their Devonshire place that she is introduced to the reader.

Her sister Caroline, five years her senior, had been happily married for some years to a Captain Cowley, and had gone out with him to India, so that Ethel had not seen her for a long time. Both sisters had an ample provision, as all their father's property that was not entailed, and all the sums of money that he had a right to dispose of, were bequeathed to them in equal shares.

Chapter II November Gloom

Ethel Newborough had no companion save her melancholy reminiscences that afternoon. It was not often so, but it happened that Mr. Orpington had been summoned up to town on business, and Mrs. Orpington was engaged in some household affairs, so that Ethel was left quite to herself. She would have wandered farther on her solitary path, had not the piercing wind and the overcasting of the sky warned her that a storm was approaching. She turned back and retraced her steps to the house, a handsome, red brick structure, with creepers like a mantle covering its front, and looking upon a garden which in the period of blossoms and flowers offered a lovely appearance. Nor was the comfort within unworthy of the promise of the exterior. Mrs. Orpington had a thorough appreciation of everything that was snug and cosy, but her taste was not quite unimpeachable ; indeed, if the truth must be told, her notions of ornament were un deniably crude, and Ethel had, during her visit, frequently effected a subtle change, which gave a certain relief to tbe garishness which her hostess was only too fond of introducing.

But the rooms were of handsome proportions, and some of the furniture was costly and choice, so that Rowley Manor — such was the name of the house — proved really a desirable abode, and was made more so by the cordial hospitality of its owner. As usual, Ethel went to the drawing-room, where she found Mrs. Orpington presiding at the tea-table, with a flaming spirit-lamp under the silver urn, and looking "like a Roman vestal tending the eternal fire," as the village schoolmaster told her once when he was honoured by an invitation to partake of the fragrant beverage, though the resemblance was not very striking, and did more honour to the worthy man's imagination than to his accuracy. " You wouldn't believe," Mrs. Orpington said to Ethel when they were seated together, "all the trouble I have had with the people down there."

"Down there" meant the neighbouring village, of which she always spoke as if she dwelt at an im mense height above it, and as if she were looking down upon it from a frowning fastness, whereas it was pretty well on the same level as Rowley Manor, and in a direct line from the hall-door. " Old Mrs. Nudgett has her rheumatism again worse than ever ; her daughter Sarah has left the place I got for her with such difficulty ; her son Jack has taken to drinking ; and her niece's children all have the measles. Jim Dobbins has been taken up for poaching. I suspected him of it for months ; and now the thunderbolt has fallen, and his wife and children will have to digest it." How any human organism could digest such a formidable article the voluble lady did not pause to explain, but went on with unabated rapidity — " The Rooks want to emigrate to Canada, and have asked me to supply them with the passage money.

I am sure I would do so gladly if I saw the slightest chance of their making their way ont there ; but they are so drunken, so lazy, so dishonest, that they are not likely to get any more work in the New World than in the Old. Keziah Baker is on her last legs. Her daughter was telling me all her troubles. Her brother tramped all the way to London in search of work, and tramped back again in a condition too pitiable to describe. How he and his wife and his family of nine children will keep out of the workhouse, I'm sure I don't know ; but Mr. Linmore, the new clergyman, has been very kind to them. By the way. I have asked him to dine with us this evening, and, much to my suq^rise, he accepted." " Why to your surprise ? " Ethel inquired. " My dear, he is so ascetic, so unworldly, so averse to all pomps and vanities, that I believe he almost invariably refuses invitations.

I know at his former living he greatly offended some of his parishioners by rejecting their hospitality, so I suppose we must consider ourselves honoured by the condescension of the holy man in visiting sinners like ourselves." She laughed merrily, aud shortly afterwards they went upstairs to dress. The candles had not been lighted, and Ethel found her room still in darkness. She stood at the window, looking at the bare branches swaying to the wind, at the grey sky above and the wintry landscape beyond ; and the bleak scene appeared to her like a symbol of her life since her father's tragic end. "Would it ever assume a brighter aspect?" she asked herself sadly. Soon Mrs. Orpington's maid appeared to help her. The candles were lighted, the fire burned merrily, and its glare fell on the beautiful girl as she stood before the mirror, arrayed in a simple but choice dress of a filmy material of shimmering white, to which no uninitiated pen could ever do justice, only the inspired organs of fashion.

She took out of its case a string of small but exquisite pearls, which she clasped round her neck with a sigh. It was the last gift her father had ever presented to her — a gift of considerable value, but more precious by far by reason of the donor. Within three weeks after making her that present he fell a victim to the terrible tragedy which was destined to cast such a gloom over her life. Thus arrayed, and with a parting glance at the mirror, which reflected a form of which even the least vain would be proud, Ethel left the room, and glided with light step down the stairs into the drawing-room, lighted and at the same time involved in a mellow shade by the covered lamps, chased and costly, that stood on the inlaid tables. She found Mrs. Orpington was not the sole occupant of the room. There was another lady present — a gorgeous vision of tomato-coloured satin, with sleeves inflated like balloons — introduced by the name of Miss Pringle.

"So delighted to make your acquaintance," she said to Ethel. " I knew your sister, Mrs. Cowley, in India, and you are so like her, that I feel as if I had met you before. Wonderful country India — quite the most wonderful place on the globe ! I wouldn't have missed seeing it for any considera tion. When next I go to Germany for the waters, I shall take India on my return." "Rather out of the way," said Ethel, with a smile. " Oh no, quite handy. From Homburg to Bombay is nothing — nothing, I assure you. If there is a place in the world I dote on, it is Homburg. So English — you don't feel you are on the Continent at all, which is such an advantage." Miss Pringle would doubtless have dilated further upon her travels, had not the door opened and Mr. Linmore been announced. A tall, dark figure advanced, a stern, almost fana tical face was turned towards the hostess and her friends, a face softened only by the great beauty of the deep-set, lustrous eyes.

The man's appearance was such as could not fail to strike even the most unobservant as indicating rare force of character and fervour of intellect. He was no carpet-knight to dance attendance on Miss Priugle and soothe her ear with well-chosen flattery, and therefore the fact cannot be disguised that his presence was not over-welcome to her ; but Ethel, on the other hand, found him one of the most interesting men she had ever met, with a natural magic about him at once delightful and unusual. They were but a small party, no further guests being invited. It was a pleasant evening for Ethel. She was amused at Mrs. Orpington's staid and guarded demeanour, indicating, as it did, that she stood rather in awe of her clerical guest, and feared to be set down by him as worldly and frivolous. Mr. Linmore had heard of the tragic end of Ethel's father, and this knowledge excited his in terest in the lovely girl, an interest which her pleasing conversation was calculated to enhance.

When they were assembled in the drawing-room after dinner, and when Miss Pringle's carriage was driving away from the hall-door with its fair burthen of tomato-coloured satin, Ethel was standing at one of the windows looking out at the dark avenue beyond, when Mr. Linmore came up to her and said — " Seeing, as I do, so many scenes of misery and sorrow, I often wonder whether I have a right to enjoy pleasure and to partake of luxury— whether it is not an insult to my suffering fellow-creatures to be light-hearted with the merry, and extravagant with the wealthy." Struck by these unexpected words, Ethel fixed an inquiring gaze upon him, and said, " Surely, by mingling with all alike, far from deadening, we rather enliven our sympathies, and we learn to embrace all humanity in our generous love."

" You speak, prompted by your liberal nature," he replied; "but I am different. I am conscious of my failings, conscious of my love of pleasure and ease, conscious of my unworthiness to serve in the Master's cause." As he spoke, he sighed and looked at Ethel with an expression which revealed the mental struggles he had gone through. Truly a strange man ! The last, Ethel would have thought, really to be what he reproached himself with being ; surely one in whom egoism could never strike root, to whom self-indulgence was impossible. But that he was sincere could not be doubted ; only a conscien tious nature could look within and find so much to blame. "Take this," he said to Ethel, picking up a blossom which had fallen from one of the plants which adorned the window7, "take this, and keep it as a memento of a lonely man."

Saying these words, he abruptly withdrew, as if unwilling to betray more of the emotion to which he had momentarily yielded. A sensitive, impres sionable nature, eager to respond to the magic voice of love. Ethel looked with pleased surprise at the flower and leaves which she held between her delicate fingers. Who, she wondered, was destined to be the companion of that lonely man ? Many were the thoughts that passed through her mind as she looked through the plate-glass of the spacious windows on the nocturnal sky, dark with sullen November gloom.

Chapter III An Aching Heart

We have now to ask our kind reader to accompany us to a circle far less select than that which engaged our attention in the previous chapter. Not a hand some and spacious country house, but a dingy, un inviting street forms the background of our present picture. A young woman, alighting from an omnibus in the Caledonian Road, struck into a street branching off the principal thoroughfare, and went on until she reached a house, neither more nor less grimy than the others in the same locality. She rang the bell and rapped, and during the rather long interval before she was admitted, we may examine her per sonal appearance. A good figure of medium height, hair that would have been an ornament had it been more carefully arranged, a pale face, and long, slender hands en cased in cotton gloves, made an ensemble of some what depressing monotony, which was enhanced by the expression of suffering in the eyes of somewhat undecided blue, an expression so marked, that it could not fail to attract the attention of any one who looked upon her face.

Her age could hardly have been twenty-eight, but all the buoyancy of youth was gone ; the fire had spent itself, and nothing but the ashes remained. The spectator would involuntarily ask himself what sudden blight had fallen upon her days, what heavy grief had made this young woman old before her time. It was so strange, so pathetic to see her in her silent, uncomplaining depression, that it was impossible not to wonder what malign influence deprived her of all youthful elasticity and vigour. Ill-health it was not : her complexion, though pallid, was not sallow ; her figure indicated nothing of the lassitude of suffering. No ; not the body, but the mind it was that stamped her with the mark of suffering ; and hard must have been the life, and joy less the days, that could thus sap the foundations of her happiness.

The door at last opened ; an elderly woman stood within. "Well, Mrs. Wilkins, you must have wondered at my being so long, but the truth is, I went to see my sister, and time went by so fast that I quite forgot I was due again at four. Is my husband come in ? " "Yes, he is," said Mrs. Wilkins. "He soon makes hisself heard in a 'ouse." With a sigh, the younger woman went slowly up the stairs and entered a shabby sitting-room on the second floor. The room was not empty. At a table, covered by a dingy red cloth, sat a man, brooding gloomily, with his chin resting on his left hand. Under favourable circumstances he would certainly have appeared good-looking, almost handsome, but now he is unshaven and unkempt, with a loose, frayed jacket hanging over his stalwart shoulders, an un tidy collar and tie, whilst his heavy, fair moustache could not conceal the savagely ill-tempered expres sion of his mouth.

As his wife enters the room he does not vouch safe any other recognition than an angry scowl. She takes off her hat and gloves, and busies herself about the room, and finally kneels by the fender and stirs the waning fire, and places a kettle on it to boil. Been to your sister's ? " he asks at length "Yes, and she is much better, and the baby is doing well." " Much I care," he muttered. " I am doing badly, as you may tell the whole world by letter, telegram, or telephone. Has she given yon any thing ? " "No; I didn't ask her." This reply evoked a volley of oaths. " Then why the devil didn't you ? What have you got a tongue for ? To tell me lies, I suppose ? " " Alfred, I have never told you a lie in all my life." " You had better not," he retorted. " Your sister is a selfish beast, or she would have given you some thing without asking, hang her !

Every man, woman, and child is so selfish, that I swear it's enough to make a fellow take a revolver and shoot Vm all round, and himself to wind up. Get the tea.*' he added, with another volley of oaths, and abruptly rising from the table, he took some papers from a box which stood in a corner on the floor, and began assiduously reading. Alfred Aston was one of those miserable beings who are a nuisance to their friends and a curse to themselves. Brought up as an engineer, he was doing fairly well, and seemed a bright, promising youth, when, unfortunately, in an evil hour he embezzled some money belonging to the firm by which he was employed Of course he was dis charged from their service, but owing to the humane forgiveness of the senior partner, he was not pro secuted ; still, the fact of his misconduct was an open secret, and he found it impossible to find employment in the city of his birth, a great industrial centre in the North of England.

He came south wards, trying many avocations, and succeeding in none. He had been a sailor in the merchant-service, but a seafaring life did not afford sufficient scope to his roving inclinations ; he had been a book keeper in a large drapery business, but the office work and the regular hours were by no means to his taste ; he had been a super at various West-End theatres, and owing to his fine appearance was in great demand, but his insolence and irregularity had told heavily against him ; he had been assistant to a dentist in good practice at Leeds, but a brutal assault on a fellow-lodger brought upon him a fine and B imprisonment, and of course he was discharged by the dentist, who did not at all approve of teeth being knocked out by violence, only of their being ex tracted by art. Thus it happens that at the present moment we find him without any employment what ever, sullen and penniless, associating with people of doubtful character, and, I fear, ready to participate in any lawless or desperate deed that would bring him in a little money, if indeed he had not already been guilty of more offences than he could venture to avow.

In the course of his chequered career he married. A cousin of his had once been imprudent enough to befriend him, and he had not been ten days in his house before he made violent love to his wife, and in less than three weeks eloped with her. The irate husband pursued the fugitives, less anxious, it was rumoured, to secure the lady than the watch and chain, the cash and securities, she had abstracted. However, their flight soon had an unexpected ter mination. A lodging-house to which they went had had several bad cases of fever before their arrival, and she caught the infection and died within a short time. During her illness she was tended by a young girl who aspired to become a hospital nurse, aud was proud aud eager to be entrusted with the care of a real patient. After the sufferer's death the disconsolate survivor sought comfort in the girl's com pany, and so effectually, that within a short time she said farewell to hospitals aud married Alfred Aston.

An unhappy step for her, for no sooner were they married, than he tired of his prize, and secretly regretted that he had encumbered himself with a wife, when freedom would suit his way of living so much better. She was foolish enough to be devotedly attached to him, and when he cursed and reviled her, as he often did, for being a burden to him, she was nearly broken-hearted. However, she bore it patiently, and clung to him with all the greater constancy, as by her marriage she had incurred the displeasure of her relatives, who, being poor them selves, were only too delighted at having this pretext to shake her off. Her sister was the only person of her family whom she ever saw, and that sister had many children of her own, and was unable to be of use to her in any way. It so happened that at the time our story opens Mrs. Aston had been rather fortunate in getting employment as help to a lady of large property, who had taken a liking to her, and on leaving town had made her a present, with the promise of future favour, so that she and her husband were occupying poor, but decent, lodgings, and she was looking forward to getting other employment through the recommen dation of Mrs. Herbert — such was the lady's name.

Unhappily, Alfred Aston himself had a knack of spending lavishly all his and his wife's earnings, so that even in the most favourable cir cumstances the wolf was never long absent from the door. Tea being made, Mrs. Aston poured it out, and her husband drank two cups and ate a slice of bread and butter, after which repast he seemed in a some what better humour. "Heard from Mrs. Herbert?" he asked, after a long silence. "No, Alfred, not again. " She is like all the others," he grumbled, " selfish and mean." " Indeed she isn't," his wife expostulated. " Look at all the presents she made me." "Much they are for a rich woman like that!" he sneered. " Why, you told me yourself that she was rolling in wealth." " So she is." " Very well, Eliza ; then don't you make so much of the few paltry things she has given.