The White Ladye of Rosemount. A story of the modern stage

Front matter

ES Messrs. HUTCHINSON & Co.'s LIBRARY EDITION OF POPULAR NOVELS BY AUTHORS OF THE DAY. In crown %vo, cloth, gilt top, 2S. 6d. each The Ct-irdian says :— Messrs. Hotchinson's Popular Library is really a most Pjomis ine and remarkable »g_ of the times. Here we have the old-established novel docked of its superfluous spaces and margins, and offered to the reader neatly bound, nicely printed, comfortable to handle, with plenty of matter and loterest, and all for the modest HUD of 2S. 6d. Bit FLORENCE MARRYAT— BY MRS. RIDDELL. continued. Austin Friars. Gerald Estcourt. Love's Conflict. Too Good for Him. Too Much Alone. The Rich Husband. Maxwell Drewitt. Far above Rubies. Woman against Woman For Ever and Ever. A Life's Assize. Nelly Brooke. Veronique. The World in the Church. Her Lord and Master.

The Prey of the Gods. The Girls of Fe ver sham. Mad Dumaresq. Home, Sweet Home. Phemie Keller. The Race for Wealth. The Earl's Promise. Mortomley's Estate. Frank Sinclair's Wife. No Intentions. Petronel. BY JOSEPH HATTON. The Ruling Passion. The Princess MazarofL A Modern Ulysses. By Order of the Czar. Clytie. My First and My Last Love. City and Suburb. Above Suspicion. Joy after Sorrow. The Tallanls of Barton. In the Lap of Fortune. The Valley of Poppies. Not in Society. BY FLORENCE MARRYAT. Christopher Kenrick. Cruel London. Miss Harrington's Husband. The Queen of Bohemia Bitter Sweets. Mount Eden. Works Published by HUTCHINSON & CO. LIBRARY EDITION of POPULAR NOVELS— continued. In crown ,vo, cloth, gilt top, 2S. 6d. each. BY J. SHERIDAN LEFANU. BY SIDNEY S. HARRIS. The Sutherlands. Rutledge.

Checkmate. All in the Dark. Guy Deverell. Christine. The Rose and the Key. Tenants of Mallory. BY MRS. J. K. SPENDER. A Waking. Willing to Die. Wylder's Hand. BY ANNIE THOMAS. On Guard. BY F. W. ROBINSON. Walter Goring. Christie's Faith. Carry's Confession. Under the Spell. The House of Elmore. Milly's Hero. BY M. BETHAM EDWARDS. Love and Mirage. BY IZA DUFFUS HARDY. The Girl he did not Marry. Mr. Stewart's Intentions. No Man's Friend. Wild Flowers. Poor Humanity. Owen, a Waif. Woodleigh. BY JOHN COLEMAN. The White Ladye of Rosemount. A Woman's Ransom. Mattie, a Stray. BY COLONEL WALMSLEY. Branksome Dene. Slaves of the Ring. One and Twenty. BY SIR JULIUS VOGEL, K.C.M.G. BY G. A. SAL A. A.D. 2000; or, Woman's Destiny. Quite Alone. BY HELEN MATHERS. BY JE ANNIE LOCKETT. Judith Gram. Sam's Sweetheart.

Prologue

. " Yet here for me, though heart and will are master As strong as iron and as calm as death, The wili will waver, and the heart beat faster, Touched by the memory of a woman's breath." Herman Merivale. People said the Theatre House at Rosemount was haunted, and so it was — one room especially — a strange, weird room — a room with crannies and niches, and cupboards and cabinets, and a huge cm bayed window, in front of which stood the noblest minster in all broad England, perhaps in all the world. Besides the choice pictures, the quaint furniture, and rare books, this room was filled with rarer memo ries. If it could but speak, what strange stories it could toll ! In this house, more than a century ago, the poor nonjuring Savoy parson's famous son, whom beautiful, cruel Peg Woffington drove penniless from London, found a home.

Here, in this very room, he entertained the learned Bruia a»d obsequious Bozzy, on their way back from u the Hebrides ; and the Doctor smacked his lips over the larded capon and the good red wine, while he thanked Heaven he was in a Christian land once more, and on his way back to Fleet Street. Here jovial James Quin discussed John Dory, the Duke's venison, and the Bishop's claret with honest Tate. Here the great little Davy (prince of actors and of gentlemen) " set the table on a roar " at the expense of insolent Sam Foote. Hero young Dick Sheridan lost his last shilling at Faro, and then borrowed ten guineas to take him to town. Here, too, the red-coated bullies demanded that gaunt John Kcmble should apologize for becoming pretty Elizabeth Inchbald's champion, what time the brave lad, fresh from Douay, said,.

" My father is a gentleman, and my father's son can never be cajoled or coerced into an act unworthy of a gentleman. I will not apologize ! " Here great Sarah Siddons, descending from her pedestal, "took snuff sometimes, and sometimes tea." Here, too, a wretched, ragged girl from Ireland stood trembling before the despot of the North — a girl hereafter destined to witch all eyes and win all hearts, as the spirit of comedy incarnate, in the form of Doro thea Jordan. Here reckless, dissolute George Frederick Cooke — and, later, the divine Edmund, greatest of actors and blackguards — became "o'er all the ills of life victorious." Here John Emery, little Knight, Liston, and the elder Mathews came, quaking to hear the managerial verdict — actor or no actor ? OP ROSEMOUNT. 3 Here Elliston, the Dean, and . the manager, got "regal" together.

Here, too, in later days, gallant Charles Kemble, classic Charles Young, grim Macready, " Gladiator " Forrest, rare old Sam Phelps, genial Charles Kean, " Bucky " Ben Webster, the fascinating Fechter, the ever young Charles Mathews, poor Gus Brooke, glorious Charles Dickens and leonine Charles Beade have sat and laughed "o'er the walnuts and the wine," and many a time and oft have helped to speed the happy hours away. Alas ! the days that are no more ! Here, too, on this bleak winter's night, sat Frank Fairfax, the manager of the Great Northern Circuit, reading the faces in the fire, and conjuring up, amidst the glowing embers, " the loved, the lost, the distant and the dead." Suddenly a loud double "rat-tat" disturbed his reverie. Footsteps on the stairs followed ; then a gentle tap at the door of the historic room here described. ■ " Come in," said the manager.

To him enters Brown, his valet, with a telegram. " Any answer, sir ? " " No." " Please, sir, boy says, may he go into the pit ? " " Oh, yes — that is, if there is any room." Then, looking at his watch, " Stop ! how came it that this was not delivered before ? " " Boy said it was delayed in transmission, in con sequence of snow deranging wires, sir." " Confound the snow ! It may delay the train as well. We haven't a moment to lose. Go to the station, Brown. Mind you are there at a quarter to ten. Have a cab ready to meet the express from the North. There will be a young lady in the train — tall, slight, fair hair, dark eyes and eyebrows. You can*t mistake her. Make my compliments — say I have had a busy day at Castletown or I would have met her my self. Bring her here. " Stay ! "When you have brought her, run round to Mrs. Macnamara and secure Miss Vigo's rooms as soon as she leaves for Newcastle.

Post these letters as vou pass the post-office. Send these telegrams, and tell Mrs. Brown to come up immediately. Sharp's the word. Look alive." And off went Brown. The manager sighed as he murmured — " Twenty years ago ! and yet it seems as if it were but yesterday ! "She was a flirt, and I was a fool; but he, at least, knew his own mind — the scoundrel ! " Yes, and he subdued her to his stronger will. If I had only spoken then ! " Ah ! well — * He who will not, when he may — ' " Another tap at the door, and Mrs. Brown, the housekeeper, enters. " Mrs. Brown," said Fairfax, " in an hour's time let me have a plate of soup, an omelette, a macca roni cheese, a pint of mulled claret, and a bottle of Roederer. In an hour, you understand." " Yes, sir." "And tell Emma to clear my traps out, and put them in the Ghost Room."

"The G— ghost Room, sir?" " Yes, and be sure there are roaring sires. A young lady, who is coming, will sleep in my room to-night." " Lord, sir, you don't mean — " " Yes, I do ; so off you go, and be quick about the supper." And away went Mrs. Brown, sorely exercised in her mind about her instructions. The manager paced up and down in agitation, and half muttered to himself, half murmured aloud — "Yes, it all comes back. We were to have met as usual on the top of the Calton Hill at two o'clock. " I was at my post an hour before my time. The place was deserted. I sat looking at the blue Firth, counting the tardy minutes. Then I lighted a weed, and lost myself in a day dream — how happy we should be together — she and I. " I was brought back to earth by voices — hers and his. The sound arose from beneath my feet, ever so far down below.

" I rose, and looked over the edge of the precipice. I saw them — I can see them now — as he held her to his breast, and forced a ring upon her finger. I thought she seemed to struggle for one moment — but the next — their lips met — and then — ! " The very hour after that on which he discovered the treachery of his friend and the perfidy of his sweetheart, Fairfax broke his engagement, shook the dust of Edinburgh from his feet, turned his face to the south, and from that time he never crossed the Border again — never again looked upon her face in life ; and yet, even now, he saw a fair young girl and a boy strolling hand in hand together, plucking flowers on the Calton Hill on the young May morning, all those long years ago. Then came the obverse of the picture. He, that other one— the false friend, the profligate, the drunkard — he who had embittered the life of her whom he had sworn to love and cherish. « D— n him !

Oh ! d — n him ! " exclaimed Fairfax, chafing with the memory of that unforgotten, unforgiven wrong. After a time he paused and softened. Then he drew two letters from his breast coat pocket ; the first was written in a feeble, feminine hand ; it was blotted here and there, and ran thus : — " Dear Frank. " May I call you so once more for the sake of auid lang syne ? " Though so many years have passed since we parted, I have never lost sight of your bright career ; I have always rejoiced in your triumphs, though, alas ! — well, well — you have been amply avenged by my most unhappy marriage. "Long before I became a widow my sole consola tion was my child, my little Clara, soon, I fear, to be left an orphan. She was eighteen last birthday. Though proud and impetuous, she is tender, truthful, and affectionate.

I hope a mother's partiality does not mislead me, but I really think that there is a great future before her. My poor darling is eating her heart out in these obscure places, and she has made me write you. " It has been a great effort, lor I am very feeble to day. " Frank, dear Frank, you will help my poor child for ' Maria's ' sake, won't you ? I can write no more ; it has become all at once so — " Here the letter terminated abruptly. The manager paused, overcome with emotion. After awhile, he read the other letter, which was written in bold and vigorous characters, and was to this effect : — "Ivy Villa, Kilmarnock, "December 18th, 387—. "Dear Mr. Fairfax, " I send you my mother's letter just as she left it. Alter she had written the last line, she said to me — " f It is very dark, my child.' " Alas !

The darkness was in her own eyes. An hour afterwards she had found the light ! " I am glad that her sufferings are at an end ; of late they have been more than she could endure, or I could bear to see. " Your name was the last upon her lips. " I feel how almost indelicate it may appear to broach such a subject at such a time, but I have now to face the world alone. " If it should please you to entrust me with an en gagement in your company, I will endeavour to merit your commendation. " I am, " Dear Mr. Fairfax, " Most respectfully yours, "Clara Trevor." As he returned the letters to his breast, he mur mured, " Poor child ! Poor mother ! " More than twenty years ago Frank Fairfax made his first appearance at the Theatre Royal, Edinburgh, as Charles Surface. LADYB OF ROSEMOUNT. On that occasion he met for the first time, Lucy Seymour.

She was the " Maria " of the comedy ; it is but a small part, but " amidst the follies, the vani ties, the deceits and vices " of the fashionable crew of scandalmongers by which she is surrounded, this simple country maiden stands out an angel of inno cence and purity. How well he recalled the young, frdnk, lovely face, the symmetrical figure, the simple white muslin frock, the bunches of black ribbon, the large Leghorn hat, the sunny glory of the golden hair, the lustrous, timid, dark eyes. As he spoke the concluding lines — ' ' Though thou, dear maid, shouldst waive thy beauty's sway, Thou still must rule, because I will obey," he stooped and kissed her hand. He could see her now a3 she flushed to the temples, and looked up with her great wondering eyes into his — and then — he — " Psha !

" he exclaimed aloud, as he started up im patiently, " what avails regret ? Regret cannot recall the dead, and as for me, I'll stand — " ' As if a man were author of himself, And knew no other kin.' Hark ! what's that ? " The loud rattle of carriage wheels, followed by a louder rat-tat at the door. A moment later, and Brown announces, "Miss Trevor." The quick, light step of an elastic foot, the rustle of a woman's dress is heard, and Clara Trevor stands in the doorway. The cynic, who a moment ago resolved to stand henceforth alone — the man whose dreary home had never been illumined by the light of a woman's smile, or made glad by the music of a woman's voice — stands spell-bound as the apparition of the lost love of his youth starts into life again before him. The girl had bounded forward, as if about to spring into the room, but paused and stood upon the threshold irresolute, as if uncertain of her welcome.

Her little sealskin hat had fallen from her head, her beautiful hair, released at that very moment from its confines, fell in thick flakes of burnished gold down her shoulders and below her waist, over a rough cloak or coat of fulvous vecuna, on the right arm of which she wore a large black band of crape. Her cheeks were suffused with blushes, her eyes were fixed full on him, as if timidly appealing. He looked at her and through her, to years gone by, but stood still and spoke not. She trembled and turned pale as death. At last he extended his arms, and then, with a great tremor in his voice, as if in a dream, he uttered one word, and only one — it was " Maria ! " She understood the meaning and the memory, and ere the sound had faded from his lips she lay sobbing on his breast. He caressed and soothed her.

Then he said — " You know me ? " " Know you ? " she answered, smiling through her tears, " I should have known you anywhere from mamma's description. She has told me of you so often that I feel as if I had known you all my life." " You have your mother's eyes, your mother's smile, your mother's voice, child," he replied, gravely. Then, ringing the bell, he desired the servant to show the girl to her room. "While she is taking off her wraps above let me en deavour to describe the man in the room below. He was about forty-five, but might have passed for ten years younger. Tall, straight as a dart, rather slender, hair of deep brown, a little streaked with grey at the temples, a massive brow, piercing grey eyes, a straight Grecian nose, oval face, mouth firm, almost severe. He had a somewhat repellant demeanour to strangers or intruders — a sort of " stand off" air — but to those who knew him and esteemed him, whether in the theatre or in society, he was both engaging and complaisant.

He had literary tastes, wielded a facile and a fertile pen, was an admirable and accomplished actor and a great stage manager, and he knew it ; so did everyone for that matter. His whole career had been one social and artistic triumph, and yet he thought, on this particular night — yes — he — whatever he thought, his speculations were cut short by the return of his protegee. Truly she made a charming picture, with her black cashmere dress, fastened up to the throat, with its plain bands of white at the neck and wrists, and a jet buckle at the slender waist. This simple costume displayed to rare advantage the graceful curves and exquisite undulations of her supple and beautiful figure. She took the head of the table as if she had been accustomed to it. It seemed as if it really were as she had said — that she had known him all her life ; and, for his part, he felt as if he had taken up some link in his past exist ence that had been lost ever so long ago.

Aster supper he opened his cigar-case and said — " May I ? " " Certainly," she replied, ".if I may light it for you. I always lighted papa's." A slight cloud came over his brow. He hesitated a moment, and then said — " Very well, you shall light mine if you will call me papa." " May I ? " she inquired, shyly. " Yes," he answered ; " and I will call you Clara." They chatted away until he had finished his cigar. Then he rang the bell, and said — "To-morrow you shall do as you please, but I must be master to-night. You had better go to bed, child." "You forget; you promised to call me Clara, papa." 19 " Well, Clara, then. God bless you, Clara." And he kissed her as her father might have done, as he bade her good-night. When she reached her room (his chamber that was) she heard the moaning of the wind soughing round the gables of the old house.

Save for this gruesome sound, all was still. The theatre was over long ago, and the heart of the city was at rest. From afar, through the stillness of the night, came the shriek of the steam-whistle and the throbbing of the engine, as the iron horse ploughed his way through the snow up to the bleak North. The great bell of the minster tolled the midnight hour. The sound vibrated through the house, which it filled with a strange weird music ; then each church tower in the city rang out its answer, and ere the melody had melted into morning she lay sleeping with a smile upon her lips. Meanwhile the lonely man below still sat reading the faces in the fire. At last he started up, ejaculating sadly and bitterly ■ — " And she might have been my child ! " Passing forth, he paused upon the landing while he called for his valet.

" Have you taken those rooms for Miss Trevor ? " he inquired. " No, sir ; it was too late." " Very well, then ; I've altered my mind, and you needn't trouble Mrs. Macnamara. Good-night." " Good-night, sir." And with that Fairfax entered the Ghost Room, A strange eerie place it was ; so, in fact, was the theatre itself. It was built amidst the ruins of an ancient convent, many of the walls of which had been utilized in the construction. The pit was laid over the oldest Norman arch in England, and in excavating the " well " of the stage a subterranean passage had been discovered which communicated with the abbey on the other side the river's bank. From time immemorial the legend of "The White Ladye" had impermeated-the place. It was an all too common story of the Dark Ages. A poor nun, who had been faithless to her vows, had been buried alive with her baby in a niche within those gloomy walls.

There was not a servant about the theatre who was not prepared to swear that he or she had seen at some time or other the apparition of " The "White Ladye " in or about, going into, or coming out of, the " Ghost Room." Leigh, the London manager, an old chum of Fairfax's, slept there one night. He declared that at six o'clock in the morning, in the open day, with the summer sun streaming through the window, he awoke and saw a beautiful young woman in a nun's habit, with a baby in her arms, standing at the foot of his bed ; that he got up to speak to her ; that she disappeared through a recess, which he opened, and found to be a false cup board, merely masking a niche in the old convent wall. "Whether this was an hallucination or not, it is certain that, although he had accepted an invitation to remain a week, Leigh precipitately loft Rosemount the very next morning.

The wealth of the Indies would not have tempted Mrs. Brown to have slept a single night in the haunted chamber, and whenever that estimable woman arranged the room she always had Emma, the house maid, to assist her, and Brown within hail. Fairfax, however, did not believe in ghosts ; he used to say he had seen too many of them — from "The Bleeding Nun" and "The Castle Spectre" up to "The Corsican Brothers." Yet, sceptic as he was, that night Frank Fairfax saw, or perhaps he only dreamt that he saw, a ghost ! As he laid his head upon the pillow, fixing his eye3 upon the fading fire, which filled the room with a dim mystic light, the face which had haunted him all through the night emerged from the embers and grew and grew until it took the shadowy semblance of a fair woman in white, with bunches of transparent black about her lovely shoulders ; a large fleecy hat, with gauze-like ribbons, thin as a spider's web, hung from her slender wrist; thick, long flakes of fair hair streamed down her shoulders, around her fair head was a golden nimbus, beneath which her large dark eyes shone like stars.

The shadow glided towards him, and he faced it without fear. It placed its arms around his neck, and pushed the hair from his brow, and kissed him, and murmured in a low, soft voice- — " Love her, Frank, dear, love her ! " Then he made answer — " Oh ! my love, my lost love \ I will be a father to her for your dear sake ! " "Whereupon " The "White Ladye " smiled with a radiant smile, and kept watch over his pillow while he slept, and chased the evil spirits of the night away. BOOK THE FIRST. CHAP PAOl I. LOVE, LORD OF ALL ........ 17 II. ROMEO AND JULIET 27 III. "T1IE GIRLS THEY LEFT BEHIND THEM" . . . .33

Chapter I. Love, Lord Of All

" Love lacked a dwelling, and made him her place." " She lifted up her eyes And loved him with that love which was her doom." Three years had passed rapidly away since Clara Trevor's advent at Rosemount — three years of happi ness for Fairfax and his adopted daughter — who had become light, life, air, and sunshine to him. For those three years he had been brighter and happier than he had ever been since that day on the Calton so long ago. Had she been his own flesh and blood she could not have been nearer or dearer to him. As for her, she adored the very ground on which he walked. It was a blessed night for both when that train from the North brought the orphan girl to the theatre house at Rosemount. Her mother had not overrated the girl's ability. In addition to the breeding and education of a gentle woman, she had all the gifts requisite for her art.

A magnificent physique, a wonderful voice, an emotional temperament, vivid imagination, acute sensibility, poetic fancy, a quick study, the natural instinct of o JHE WHITE LADYE OF ROSEMOUNT. rhythm, both of voice and motion, combined with industry, application, sincerity, earnestness, and power. Obviously time and opportunity were only needed to enable her to develop into a great actress. By degrees, and with admirable tact, Fairfax ad vanced her step by step, until she had almost reached the topmost rung of the ladder. His perfect mastery of the grammar of the stage rendered him an invalu able preceptor, and she was an apt pupil. Then her youth, her beauty (for she had ripened into a woman of surpassing loveliness), and her accomplishments combined not only to make her a valuable acquisition to the company, but a great popular favourite ; indeed, she had already become the most successful leading lady known in the circuit since the days of the Siddons and the Jordan.

Her attraction was perhaps enhanced by her inac cessibility. No Infanta of Spain was ever more jea lously guarded. Her studies were all-engrossing, and when it is remembered that from night to night, she roamed from Lady Teazle to Lady Macbeth, from Beatrice to Rosa lind, from Portia to Parthenia, it will be obvious that she had little leisure. Fairfax's society (of which she had a monopoly) was enough for her ; then, besides the fascination of her beloved art, she had her books and her music. In the theatre she was affable and complaisant, but not particularly cordial ; indeed, the young men of the company complained that she was particularly cold. Notwithstanding her frigidity, they admired her — ■ much as stars and comets are admired — at a distance. Certain it was, that as yet no one had made the LOVE, LORD OF ALL. 19 slightest impression on that virgin heart ; as yet the steel had not been forged to strike fire from that beau tiful but invulnerable bosom.

The fuel was there, certainly — combustible enough, and needing but the Promethean spark to leap into life and burst into a flame ; but as yet the hour and the man had not come. Now, were I a woman, I could devote a chapter, or a series of chapters, to a diagnosis of this innocent young creature's hopes, fears, and aspirations, while as yet she moved "in maiden meditation, fancy free,'' but I have a queer old-fashioned notion that a young maid's heart is too sacred a thing to be laid on a dissecting table and exposed to the public view ; besides which, and apart from the fact that I am not versed in the mysteries of the feminine mind, this is a story of incident, and not a psychological study of character. I can only therefore chronicle the fact that, up to this "moment, Clara Trevor was heart-whole, that her soul was as transparently pure as her body was beautiful, that she was as cold as an icicle, and chaste as sweet Artemis herself.

For all that, the invincible Prince was coming from " over the hills, and far away." Yes ! Eros, the omnipotent, was coming to claim his own and this was how he made his appearance, The arrangements of the Circuit took the company from town to town — sometimes for a few nights, some times for a season. In those days important London combinations were not wont to travel, and wherever the Great Northern Company went their visit was the event of the year ; indeed, they were always sure of a cordial welcome, both in the theatre and in society. At the time about to be described they had returned to Rosemount for the winter season. The — th Lancers was a theatrical regiment. The officers dined early, came to the theatre nightly, and behaved, I am glad to say this, like gentlemen, for I am constrained to admit with regret that at that period the good breeding of the gallant defenders of their Queen and country was not the quality most conspicuous during their visits to the boxes of a country theatre, or for that matter to any other place of public resort.

Fairfax was fond of hunting ; he was a capital horseman, and a welcome guest at every hunt breakfast, and at many a pleasant dinner afterwards. Clara was not only an accomplished horsewoman, but had become one of the most attractive features of every hunting field in the county. Now, it so happened that one morning, blessed with "a southerly wind and a cloudy sky," the manager and his ward put in an appearance together at the Marquis of H — 's meet. Leaving Clara outside the Castle, attended by the groom, Fairfax went into the breakfast-room to fetch her a cup of tea. As he was returning, whom should he encounter but the Marquis himself. He had been Lord Chamberlain, and had seen Frank act all his crack parts in town. The old gentleman accosted him with a cheery " good morning," and then in quired — "Where are you off to, Fairfax, with that cup of tea?"