Cranleigh of Cranleigh. A story

Front matter

CRANLEICxH OF CRA1NLEIGH. A STORY BY ANNIE CKOSSLEY CLOUGH. " Let Love clasp Grief, lest both be drowned, Let darkness keep her raven gloss ; Ah ! sweeter to be drunk with loss, To dance with death, to beat the ground, Than that the victor Hours should scorn The long result of Love, Alfred Tennyson. LONDON : HAMILTON, ADAMS & CO. BIRKENHEAD — CROSS & FLOYD, ARGYLE STREET. 1873. DEDICATED TO JAMES CROSSLEY, ESQ., F.S.A., PRESIDENT OF THE CHETHA3I SOCIETY, AS A SLIGHT TOKEN OF RESPECT AND ESTEEM, BY HIS AFFECTIONATE NIECE, THE AUTHOR.

Preface

. In launching the following small volume upon the sea of literature, I am actuated by no golden dreams of a "high and holy mission" which it is its "duty" to perform. I do not anticipate for it a career of unprecedented success and favour, any more than I expect it to sail triumphantly through every adverse wind, and live "Amidst the war of elements, " The wreck of matter, and the crash of worlds." If my little book attains the object I have in view

PREFACE.

. VI in sending it forth, every desire of my heart will be thoroughly satisfied. If, in the far-distant home in the wilds of America, in the heart of the Sister Isle, and beneath the soft fair sky of the sunny South; the stories of "A. C. C." have received a hearty and warm welcome, perhaps I am not hoping too much in fondly anticipating a similar kind reception for the foUowing pages. And if, in finding its way into many a dearly loved and familiar haunt, this little volume serves to brighten one dull hour; if, in any way, — however slight, — it helps to amuse or cheer, or if it is its high privilege to lift for one brief moment the cloud of care from the heart of my reader, aU the object I have in sending it forth wiU be attained. If any thought of mine, or sung or told, " Has ever given delight or consolation ; Ye have repaid me back a thousand-fold, "By every friendly sign and salutation.

PREFACE.

. "Thanks for the sympathies that ye have shown, _ " Thanks for each kindly word, each silent toketi, '• That teaches me, when seeming most alone, " Friends are around me, though no words be spoken ! " ANNIE CROSSLEY CLOUGH. Cheshire, 1873.

Chapter I

Never sun shone on a fairer spot than the pretty little viUage of Hanley, as it appeared from the top of Hernstone, the highest hill in the county of S . Amongst the country seats in and about Hanley, Cranleigh Manor ever ranked first and fore most. It was one of those glorious old-fashioned manor houses, which are at once the pride and boast of bonnie England. Of no one particular style of architecture, it afforded a specimen of many. Each successive squire of Cranleigh had added to the house, as his wants or his fancy suggested, until it presented, at the time of which I write, one of those comfortable, roomy, old-fashioned places, the very A sight of which fills the beholder with visions of yule logs and unbounded merry-making. The manor — which the greatest patriarch in Hanley never recollected belonging to other than a Cranleigh — was beautifully situated in its own pic turesquely-wooded park.

About a mile from the house stood the grand entrance and principal lodge, and there was no more romantic or lovely walk than the carriage-drive between the two. On either side tall giant elms towered like grim sentinels, the huge arms of which sheltered some hundreds of noisy rooks. At intervals the sound was broken by the rushing of a waterfall, which gleamed here and there amongst the shining green leaves and mosses, as the crystal wavelets hurried to the noisy brook. The shadowed drive terminated in a large open circle, in front of a broad flight of steps, which led on to the terrace running round the house. The pillars supporting the verandah, and the verandah itself, were completely covered with clematis and roses, which had been aUowed to flourish in a wild, untrained luxuriance, untended and uncared for.

The entrance-hall of Cranleigh was one not often seen belonging to the houses of the nineteenth century. It was a large square place, with a fire place at each end, where thirty couples might have danced at once, on the coming of age of an heir, and never knocked against each other. Looped back from the doors round the hall were heavy velvet curtains, so that no draught could penetrate in the coldest weather. Between the various doors stood handsome Indian vases, — perfect gems of workman ship, — while stars of swords and guns, stags' stately heads, foreign birds, Carrara sculpture covered with the dust of years, ornamented the walls and filled the niches. The rooms were all large, too large almost for comfort, and furnished with the heavy handsome furniture belonging to by -gone days. The smaUest and snuggest room at Cranleigh was its library, with its ponderous book-cases, its deep arm-chairs, and its warm cosy corners; but the wonder and beauty of the house were its staircases and gallery.

On the right and left of the hall, a marble staircase led up to a long gaUery, the walls of which were covered with gems of pictures, and portraits of the dead and gone Cranleigh s for generations ; while smaller passages led to the various suites of bedrooms. At the end of the picture-gallery, a fine oriel window of stained glass threw fantastic lights and shadows upon the floor of polished oak, and upon a small organ standing underneath, the keys of which had been pressed by many a Cranleigh whose hands were now folded in peaceful sleep in the great vault in Hanley church. The old housekeeper, Mrs. Stewart, was only too pleased when some stranger, staying in Hanley or its neighbourhood, would listen patiently to her long rambling histories and anecdotes, all connected with the family she had faithfully served for years.

Dust — dust lay everywhere, thickly on the floors and pictures, and so thickly upon the white marble statues, that they closely resembled grim guardians of the quiet gaUery, clothed in suits of sombre grey. It was a matter of curiosity and wonder to the neighbourhood of Hanley, that the heir of Cranleigh preferred to waste his years beneath the blue skies of foreign lands, instead of coming amongst them, and taking a Cranleigh's place amongst the squires of the county. Walter Cranleigh was left a motherless boy at the tender age of four. He remembered nothing of the mother's gentle Use, which calmly and quietly drifted away to the peaceful haven, where — Tempests never beat nor billows roar, just as he most needed her care and guidance. Upon her death the old squire took his little son abroad ; and, after spending a couple of years in an aimless, useless wandering life, he also died, leaving Walter a ward of his old coUege friend, Hugh Stapleton.

I have Uttle to write of the early history of Walter Cranleigh ; none knew except himself how the years were passed after the guardianship of Hugh Stapleton was ended. He was — " Lord of himself ; that heritage of woe." Hugh used to receive frequent and long letters from the son of his old friend, but they told little except the whereabouts of the restless wanderer ; and the old man used to wonder, after the receipt of Walter's letters, so full of the beauties and excitement of foreign life and travel, whether the young spirit could ever be chained to a quiet country life at Cranleigh. Hugh Stapleton lived on a smaU picturesque estate, called Fernvalley, which was situated midway between Cranleigh Manor and Bridport, the nearest town to Hanley, a distance of eleven miles of hills and dales.

A particularly strong, handsome man was Hugh, of lonely, solitary habits. No man in the neighbourhood was more popular, and no man turned his back upon the kindness of his fellow creatures half so much. The evening upon which my story opens was a bright, calm one in September. The sun was sinking into its bed of golden clouds, and tinging the tops of the distant Hernstone Hill with the roseate rays of its departing glory. All nature seemed sinking peacefully into the lap of Night, when Hugh Stapleton came out of a room which he called his " den," half library, half sitting-room, and, selecting a stick from a number in the haU, he prepared for his usual evening stroU. As men walk who have no particular object in view, so Hugh walked on this evening, when he closed the window after him, and proceeded down the pathway towards the gate, and between the neat beds of brilliant geraniums on either side.

As he passed beneath the shadow of a tall holly, a pair of strong brown hands were laid upon his shoulders from behind, and a deep rich voice, that the old man's heart knew well, but little expected to hear, greeted him. " The very man of all others I want to see most. Hugh ! my dear old friend, how are you?" " Why ! is it ? It is not ! Yes it is ! It is Walter ! " the old man said, seizing the brown hands, and earnestly shaking them. " Why the unexpected sight was enough to take away my breath ! Where did you drop from, boy, — the clouds ?" "From somewhere nearer than the dog-star," Walter replied. " Oh, Hugh, it does me good to see an English face once more, and to stand upon EngUsh ground." " I dare say it does, Master Walter ; but recollect you might have seen the faces, and stood upon the ground, ages ago, if you had wanted ; so your raptures are not flattering to either, as you would like to make out !

" The young man laughed. " I can afford to laugh at you now, Hugh," he said. "And if I were not so pleased to be here, and so unromantically hungry, I would stop to argue the point ; as it is, you do not happen to have such a thing as a game pie about you, do you ?" " Come in ! come in ! " Hugh said, taking Walter's arm, and turning towards the house. " I see very plainly that it is a dismal case of complete starva tion ; and until my housekeeper has done her best for the inner man, I shall not get much good out of him." As they retrace their way in the soft golden light of the dying sun, I will introduce Walter Cranleigh to my readers, so that they may know, and be familiar with, the outward form and features of one who has so much to do with my story. The heir of Cranleigh Manor was very tall, with strong broad shoulders, broad in proportion to his great height, a man apparently of Herculean strength.

His face — but there ! he has Ufted his hat from his head, and you can see it to perfection in the rosy light of the fading sun. It is a dark bronzed face, bronzed by exposure to the sultry heat of many a distant clime. A perfect mouth, proudly curved at the corners, the parted lips displaying small, white, even teeth, which would not have disgraced Helen of Troy herself. Large dark eyes, surmounted by a broad forehead, which, in turn, was crowned by a mass of rich dark curling hair. " Take him all in all," Walter Cranleigh was a man to be admired and loved ; ay, loved fondly, faithfuUy, passionately, as most true-hearted women love the one human life they willingly stake their all to entwine with their own. Walter Cranleigh had one other and very potent charm, and one which, in the possession of a hand some man, is certain to win its way to all hearts.

I mean a peculiarly deep rich voice. Its depth dis played the force and strength of his nature ; and its sweet rich tones were dangerously seductive in their almost passionately pleading cadences. A setting sun had rarely shone upon two finer specimens of the genus homo than did those soft September rays, as they rested upon Walter Cranleigh and Hugh Stapleton ; the one past the best energy of life, its trials, its temptations past and gone, while the other, who only numbered thirty years, had Life's storms and sunshine, to all outward appearance, before him. " I am tired of travel, Hugh," Walter said ; " very weary of knocking about. I think I have been everywhere, — everywhere worth going to, — from the poetry, music, and languor of fair Italia's seductions, to the excitement and daring of an Arctic expedition."

" And how wiU you manage to settle down after all that stirring life ?" Hugh asked. " And, I say, my boy, what is that, and where did you get it?" and the old man pointed to a seam an inch long across Walter's cheek. Hugh's eyes were fixed upon his face as he spoke, and it might have been only the shadow which fell upon him as he entered the house, but he imagined that Walter's face clouded, and the bronze deepened on his cheek. The young man answered with a light laugh, and a shrug of his broad shoulders. " It is nothing," he said. After a moment he continued dreamily — " They found the scattered dints of many a scar, Which were not planted there in recent war ; Where'er had passed his summer years of life, It seemed they vanished in a land of strife ; But all unknown, his glory or his guilt, These only told that somewhere blood was spilt."

Chapter II

, As Walter finished his quotation, and stepped over the threshold, a light musical laugh rang out merrily. It was a laugh that brought an involun tary smile to the hearer's lips — a smile of infinite sympathy with the happy heart. Almost imme diately, the young lady to whom it belonged came into the hall from one of the inner rooms. "Dear Mr. Stapleton ! your housekeeper has been trying to hurry me home in the most inhospitable manner, suggesting kidnapping because the sun has gone down. As if I were a kid ! "Another laugh foUowed before she perceived the presence of a stranger ; and, in the midst of a little blushing con fusion, Hugh introduced Walter to Miss Grace Goring. Everyone called Grace pretty, and yet correctly speaking she was not so. The beauty of her face consisted in its bright, joyous expression, and in a pair of eyes — " Deeply, darkly, beautifully blue," and shining and gleaming ever with merriment and happiness.

Long sunny curls surrounded a face that had not one good feature except its eyes, and yet Grace Goring was considered pretty from one end of Hanley to the other. " Is it possible ! " she exclaimed, in unutterable astonishment. "It is never Mr. Cranleigh of Cran leigh ! I fancied you were far away." " I have been far away, Miss Goring; and now I have come to Hanley to try and settle down, and become a useful member of society," Walter replied. " I have been telling him he will find it a harder matter than he dreams of, Grace," Hugh said. " It is none so easy for birds of passage to come to anchor." "Well, good-bye," Grace said, "Mamma will think I am lost. No, Mr. Stapleton, I will not have you with me, thank you," she added, seeing Hugh resume his hat. And before he could think even of following her she had turned down a narrow side path, and was lost amongst the trees.

We will follow Grace as she hurries homewards with rapid steps. She lived about a mile from Fernvalley, that is, a mile by the roads ; there was a much shorter way, through a pretty plantation of firs, which both Hugh and the Gorings used in passing from one house to the other. It was a nearer way, and much pleasanter than the road. Along this pathway Grace hurried, the short twigs frequently snapping beneath her tread, the rabbits bounding away at the sound. A few moments' quick walking brought her within sight of her home, upon which she slackened her pace, and burst into a song. It was a sweet voice, and singing was as natural to Grace Goring as to the birds. It mat tered little where she was or with whom, she would frequently burst into little scraps of melody uncon sciously. With her it was almost an expression of thought.

Coming out of the wood at the back of the house, she turned into a side path which brought her round to the front, and, stopping before an open French window, she ran lightly up the few steps and jumped into the room. " Grace ! how often have I requested you not to jump through the window in that unladylike man ner?" The words sounded harsh, but Mrs. Goring turned a pair of anything but severe eyes towards her daughter as she spoke. " It is no use, Mama ! You must let me do as I like ; I always forget those kind of things. If one has to go into a house, it is just as well to go through a window as a door to me, and twice as easy when the window is open," Grace replied, looking flushed with her walk, and smiling at her mother with loving impudence. " And now, guess whom I have seen?" she continued; "I have seen the very handsomest man to-day I ever saw in my life ; hand some as Apollo, strong as Hercules !

" The pale face of Grace's elder sister, Rose, flushed with a look of painful, anxious expectation. " Have you seen ? " she began, and stopped. " I have seen no one you know, dear," Grace said. " Comparisons are odious. In aU my life I never saw such a being ; he is splendid ! " " Whoever your Adonis is, he is gaining more praise than I ever heard Grace Goring bestow on mortal man," a very sweet voice remarked, from a distant dark corner. "Why, Vivie!" Grace said, "I never saw you. When did you arrive, dear?" B "Just too late to accompany you to Fernvalley," the young lady replied, "or I might have seen this Mr. , what name did you say, Grace ? " " I said no name, miss ! But I will torment you all no longer. It is Walter Cranleigh, of Cran leigh ; " and Grace's descriptive powers were exer cised largely in his favour, as she minutely described her meeting.

The conversation was terminated by the entrance of a man in handsome livery, bearing a large tray full of the necessary requirements for the evening meal, and, almost directly afterwards, Harry Gorinc, Mrs. Goring's eldest child and only son, made his appearance. In figure he was rather tall and slio-ht; in features he resembled Grace. He had the same light waving hair; the same clear, trusting blue eyes. A peculiar winning frankness of manner, an earnest sincerity about every word Harry Goring ever spoke rendered him a valuable friend and ally amongst the inhabitants of Hanley. Meanwhile, the curtains were drawn over the closed windows, and the lights came to disperse the shadows. And now, as the young lady whom Grace addressed as " Vivie " has risen and taken her seat at the table, I cannot find a better opportunity for introducing my heroine to my readers.

Just a trifle below the medium height, with a per fect, round, well-developed figure, Viviane Lismore, the rector's niece, looked, in her simple floating white drapery, one of the most engaging and fasci nating of women. Hair of the darkest brown was drawn straight off a low, square forehead, white and smooth as marble ; strongly marked dark brows sur mounted a pair of soft grey eyes, which possessed a peculiar characteristic of changing and darkening almost to blackness with varying emotion. An extraordinary winning power slumbered in the eyes, and round the mouth, of Viviane Lismore. The latter was small, and — what we so seldom see — perfect in shape; her smile displayed white even teeth, dazzling as snow. A pink and white clear complexion completes my picture. It was an earnest, lovable face — very lovable for its winning and unaffected artlessness.

There are two others about whom I must say a few words, and I can have no better opportunity than the present, when the full light from the tea-table is shining upon them. I desire that my readers should thoroughly know the outward appearance of the various actors in my story ; their characters will unfold themselves, for weal or woe. Mrs. Goring, the mother of three of the young people present, was a widow. She had a sweet, sad face, shaded by bands of soft white hair, a strange contrast to which were her large, melancholy dark eyes. Rose, her eldest daughter, resembled her mother. She had the same dark eyes, and hair as Mrs. Goring's might have been in her younger days, almost coal-black, and waving from the forehead. It formed a strange contrast to her face, which was unusually pale. From her childhood she had been colourless, and strangers were frequently mistaking for delicacy what really was constitutional.

No one, watching Mrs. Goring's calm, almost meek face, would imagine for a moment that in her heart an intense ambition was its greatest and strongest moving power. To see her two daughters married, and to men of position and unbounded wealth, was her constant hope and thought. For this, she was prepared to sacrifice their happiness, and with it every pure and natural feeling of their lives. How little do such women dream of the pathway of thorns and tears they are preparing for their children ; how little do they think that it is better a thousand times to close their eyes and fold their hands in the stUl sleep of Death, than devote them to the cursed battle of Life into which their sinful hearts would thrust them !

Chapter III

The moon was shining brightly and clearly, and throwing strong lights and shades amongst the trees in front of The Mount, which was the name of the home of the Gorings, as Harry stood upon the steps waiting to escort Viviane Lismore home. "It is perfectly lovely out here," he said, as she joined him, and they proceeded on their way; "just such a night as it was six months ago, when you promised me — what did you promise, Vivie ? " " To torment your life," she said. " Do you know, Harry, that often since that day I have been almost sorry that I ever gave you that promise ? " " Do not say it, darling ! for pity's sake, do not say it to me," he cried in a pained voice. " It is the one bright star in my life. Vivie, if you only could know how deeply and truly I love you, you would not say that you wished you had never promised to become my wife."

" I only said it for your sake, dear ! " she whis pered, slipping her little hand through his arm ; " not for my own, Harry. Your love seems always so much more than mine, that sometimes I wonder whether you might not be happier if some one with a deeper capacity for loving could be your wife." ■ " No, Vivie ! no woman in this world could ever be so much to me as you are," he replied. "I would rather be liked by you than loved by anyone else ; and you do like me, dearest ?" he asked, bendhig over her, and gazing into her face, which was turned towards him. " I more than like you, Harry ; I love you," she replied; "but, although mine is not so deep as yours for me, I have given it you, now and for ever." After a pause, she continued, changing the subject — " I was so sorry for poor Rose to-night ; speaking of love reminded me of her.

She started, and flushed painfully, when Grace asked us to guess whom she had met. She half imagined it was Mr. Stone, I am sure, from the expression of her face." "Poor Rose!" Harry said; "I am sadly afraid that she is dreaming of, and loving him still. My mother wiU find it a hard matter to crush out that Uttle romance." "Was there no other reason except poverty?" Viviane asked, feeling greatly interested in her friend's story. "None, so far as I know," was the reply. "In fact, I feel sure that had Stone only been wealthy, the heir of Cranleigh, for instance, my mother would never have had a word to say against it." " It is a great pity, Harry. I am always sorry to hear of such separations. Could nothing be done for them ? " ' ' Nothing that I know of, unless Stone could drop into something producing a considerable rent-roll.

My mother has no fortune to leave the girls, and she means them to marry wealth. The Mount is only a small estate, and it is strictly entailed. It seems a very hard case, darling ! but it is the case of many daughters amongst the upper middle class. What are people to do when they only live up to their means and cannot save ? " "It is easy for you to talk, sir ! You are not a woman ; but put yourself in Rose's place, and you would find that you would rather live upon an old crust with the man you loved, than feed sumptu ously with one you did not much care for." Viviane spoke earnestly, and Harry took her face between his hands and turned it towards the moon light. "Well?" she questioned, laughing. "Nothing much, dear! " he replied, smiling. "A half idea seemed to cross my mind that perhaps you might like someone more than me, and I wanted to see."

" Foolish boy ! " she said ; " will you never under stand that I like you most of all ? I have said so a hundred times." A bend in the moon-lit road brought the two in sight of the Rectory. Very pretty it looked in the soft silvery light, with its porch and walls covered with ivy and roses. A calm and peaceful home, it seemed as though nothing but happiness could ever dwell beneath its roof. The old grey haired rector stood upon the steps. He appeared to be quietly enjoying the beauty of the night. " Were you waiting for me, uncle ? " Viviane asked, as she held up her fair face to be kissed. " Yes, and admiring the night," he replied. " Goring, did you ever see anything so beautiful as that cloudless sky, and its countless stars ? " " So wildly, spiritually bright ; Whoever gazed upon them shining, And turned to earth without repining, Nor wished for wings to flee away, And mix with their eternal ray !

" he repeated softly. "I do not know, Mr. Lismore," Harry said, smiling. " That sounds very pretty, but I for one would prefer my present happiness to getting indis criminately mixed up with ' eternal rays.' " " Harry, you are dreadfully wanting in poetic feeling," Viviane remarked, when the laugh died away. " / should like to have wings, and fly away amongst the stars," — and the soft grey eyes were turned dreamily upwards, as though they would fain pierce the dark arch where the stars were shining. Ah, Viviane Lismore ! you can say so now, as you stand in the softened light, by the side of him to whom you are pledged. The time has yet to come when you will count such words as madness and folly ; when you would give the whole blue arch itself, were it your own, to stay for but one hour in the light that you love !

Very soon, and the curtain of sleep fell soothingly upon the inmates of Hanley Rectory, and dreams, from which she was soon to be awakened, filled the heart of Viviane Lismore ! CHAPTER TV One evening, about a month after Walter Cranleigh's return, he proceeded with leisurely steps towards a pretty little picturesque boat-house, situated on the bank of the river which ran through the park. It was a favourite pastime with him to row or drift down the river for miles, most frequently with no other companion than Wolfe, an enormous dog, which Walter had brought with him from abroad, and to whom he seemed very attached. On the evening in question, Wolfe and he proceeded to the boat-house, the former regarding the movements of his master with solemn eyes. When the boat was unmoored, and the dog had taken possession of a mat at the bottom, Walter took the sculls and pulled against the tide with strong, masterful strokes.

The river wound almost to Bridport, and passed Fernvalley and The Mount on its way. It was one of the chief beauties of Hanley, and added greatly to the picturesqueness of the scenery. Walter was pulling away, when a voice from the bank stopped him, and, turning his head, he saw Hugh Stapleton gesticulating. "Is Cranleigh on fire, Walter?" he shouted. "What in the world are you rowing at such a rate for?" " I did not know that I was rowing at any unusual speed," was the reply, as the young squire turned the boat towards the shore, and by a stroke or two brought it to Hugh's feet. " Jump in," he con tinued, ' ' I was on my way to Fernvalley." "Oh, indeed! Well, to tell you the truth, I imagined you were trying to get to the Antipodes before the morning," Hugh replied, as he stepped in and took his seat.