Jack o' Lanthorn

Front matter

By HENRY FRITH. JACK O' LANTHORN: A Tale of Adventure. By Henry Frith. With 4 full-page Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, 2s. 6(2. A story of the days when George the Third was king. The hero gets into certain scrapes, and at the sea-coast makes the acquaintance of Jack o* Lanthorn. Drifting out to sea in an open hoat they discover in a singular manner the approach of the Spanish fleet, and Jack accompanies the hero of the tale to report what they have seen. Seized by a press-gang they are taken off to sea, and eventually take part in the defence of Gibraltar. "Full of movement, picturesque situations, and illustrations of histor ical events, 'Jack o' Lanthorn' will hold its own with the hest works of Mr. Henty and Mr. Manville Fenn."— Morning Advertiser. "The narrative is crushed full of stirring incident, and is sure to be a prime favourite with our hoys, who will he assisted hy it in mastering a sufficiently exciting chapter in the his tory of England." — Christian Leaser.

BLACKIE & SON, LIMITED: London, Edinburgh, and Glasgow. Zbc lips-Cat Series. NEW EDITIONS NOW PUBLISHED IN UNIFORM VOLUMES. Price 3s. 6d. each. By THE AUTHOR OF "LADDIE." TIP-CAT. By THE SAME AUTHOR. PEN. OUR LITTLE ANN. By HELEN SHIPTON. DAGMAR. By C. R. COLERIDGE. JACK O' LANTHORN. By SARAH TYTLER. A HOUSEFUL OF GIRLS. London : A. D. INNES & CO. Late Walter Smith & Innes, 31 & 32 Bedford Street, Strand. JACK 0' LANTHORN. " Hold on to my shoulder." — p. 398. JACK O' LANTHORN BY C. R. COLERIDGE, ArTHOR OF "LADY BETTY,'' "AN ENGLISH SQUIRE," ETC. ** Rain, rain and sun ! a rainbow in the sky ! A young man will be wiser by and by ; An old man's wit may wander ere he die. Rain, rain and sun ! a rainbow on the lea ! And truth is this to me, and that to thee ; And truth or clothed or naked let it be."— Tennyson.

" It is not cockatoos only who have sometimes to live and be happy in this unfinished hfe with one wing clipped."— Mrs. Ewing. NEW EDITION. LONDON: A. D. INNES AND CO. • Late WALTER SMITH AND INNES, 31 & 32, BEDFORD STREET, STRAND, W.C. 1891. [All rights reserved.] Richard Clat <fc Sons, Limited, London & Bungay. CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGE I. A HAUNT OF ANCIENT PEACE ... ... 1 II. AT MONKS' WARREN .... ... ... 13 III. THE BONE OF CONTENTION ... ... 23 IV. CORDELIA ... ... ... ... 33 V. FRIENDSHIP ... ... ... ... 43 VI. HERO AND CONFIDANT ... ... ... 53 VII. FAMILY AFFECTION ... ... ... 61 VIII. THE TUG OF WAR ... ... ... 71 IX. TWO WORLDS ... ... ... ... 83 X. THREE ROADS ... ... ... ... 92 XI. MY UNCLE! ... ... ... ... 102 xii. Cordelia's conscience ... ... ... 112 xin. alaric's heart's desire ... ... 121 XIV.

Chapter I

A HAUNT OF ANCIENT PEACE In a pleasant pastoral district in a midland county there stood, some few years ago, a group of buildings possessing that mixture of picturesque dignity with homely comfort, which gives to so many ecclesiastical residences a peculiar charm. There is often some thing in common between an episcopal palace and a set of humble almshouses; a grave and peaceful beauty, under the influence of which it would seem that grave, peaceful and beautiful characters might be sheltered and grow to perfection. The Ridley Hospital was a relic of the charity of other days. It was under the exclusive protection and patronage of the great nobleman by whose an cestress it had been founded, and had a chaplain and a chapel of its own. The quaint old houses occupied three sides of a green quadrangle, and, on a sunny morning in summer, when the red aud white roses were blossom ing on the gray walls, when the little belfry of the B JACK O' LANTHOKN. chapel stood out clear against the deep blue sky, and when each of the thirty little gardens round the court was brilliant with gaudy colour, this old charitable foundation was a very pleasant place.

On such a morning, every one of the thirty old men and women who had a leg to stand upon would come out into the sunshine ; the men in their queer green gowns, with a red leopard, the crest of the Ridleys, worked on the left shoulder ; and the women — who were a modern addition to the institution — in costumes also green, but more like those of their nineteenth century neighbours. There they would stand, grumbling out an occasional greeting to each other, and admiring their snap-dragons and sweet williams till it was time to retreat into their clean, red-tiled kitchens, and get breakfast over, before the chapel bell rang out through the sunny air. The chaplain's house, the gayest of all with flowers and creepers, filled up one side of the quadrangle, and was opposite the arched gateway, beyond which was a straggling village, in the midst of the hedgerow elms and hillocks green, the low-lying fields, lanes, and commons, which form the chief characteristics of English midland scenery.

From his dining-room windows the chaplain could look across at the dwellings of his flock, and guess at once how Brother Walton's rheumatism might be this morning, by his presence or absence at his front door. This dining-room was a small room with dark oak panels and deep window-seats ; but the sun shone radiantly in through the crimson and white roses, and lighted up the pleasant-looking breakfast table set for three. The room contained no living presence but that of a sleek, comfortable tabby cat. All the furniture had a settled, long-established look, and nothing about the place had an air of novelty A HAUNT OF ANCIENT TEACE. 3 except the morning papers and a thick letter lying by the master's plate, and directed to — The Rev. Martin Lambourne, The Ridley Hospital, Homesworth. The clock on the mantel-piece struck eight, and the master of the house came in, and, walking over to the window, looked out into the sunny quadrangle.

Manifestly this was not a house where the post was expected with any especial dread or desire. Mr. Martin Lambourne was a middle-aged man, with grayish hair and a fresh complexion ; he wore old-fashioned whiskers, and a small white tie ; and even had his dress been less carefully clerical, no one could have mistaken him for anything but an English clergyman of orthodox and slightly old world ways. A young kinsman of his had once observed — " If cousin Martin were dressed for the villain in a melodrama, he would still look as good as gold." He had a face which won confidence and promised kindness, and his well-shaven lips and bright gray eyes had the happy expression of a mind at peace. The cat rubbed her head against his ankles, and all the old men and women nodded and curtsied their morning greeting with cheerful smiles breaking out on their withered old faces.

" Papa, here is a letter for you — from Monks' Warren," said a voice behind him, as a tall girl in a blue cotton gown came into the room, and began to busy herself with the tea-things. " From Uncle Alaric — a lengthy communication," said Martin Lambourne, taking it up; but as his wife at that moment ajjpeared, aud the servants JACK 0' LANTHORN. 4 followed her, ready for prayers, he put the letter down again unread ; and while breakfast was in progress, looked instead at the morning paper. There was a little cheerful talk about a garden party, to which the ladies were going, and about a clerical meeting, after which the chaplain would join them ; but presently the chapel-bell rang, and then the three together crossed the quadrangle — through which the old men and women were slowly making their way — and entered the little chapel.

It was small, cool, and still, plain in its appointments, according to modern notions, but perfectly orderly. Martin Lambourne read the service slowly and with careful distinctness ; he never forgot that his flock were mostly deaf, and all old and illiterate ; and as he did not like shortening the appointed service, it lasted some time. Why not ? No one was busy or in a hurry. And when it was over the chaplain took his new Guardian and sat down on a bench in a shady corner, to enjoy it at his leisure. He took great interest in the correspondence which it con tained on small disputed points of doctrine and observance. He had nothing to hurry his mind away from it, and no point, to his thinking, that promoted order of worship and edification could be really unimportant. Only he regretted any hasty expressions towards opponents.

Sometimes he wrote letters for the press himself, in which he ahvays expressed himself with careful courtesy. But before opening his pet paper, he took out his uncle's letter and read it through. When he had finished it, he looked up at the blazing bright flowers, at the fair, severe outlines of wall and ropf — the boundaries of his little world — but he saw them with different eyes. He drew a long sigh, the place would never be quite the same to him again. This was the letter — "Monks' Warren Park, " Warrenstoke, Heatltshire, " June 2Wi, 18—. "MY VERT DEAR NEPHEW, " Twenty-two years ago, on the death of my son, so soon after that of his wife, your unselfish rectitude and your perfect sense of honour saved me from committing an act of injustice. Had I, as I then wished, disinherited my infant grandson in your favour, in anger at his father's most culpable marriage, I should never have been free from the yearning desire to reinstate the child in the position which he, at least, had done nothing to forfeit.

You then gave up, of your own free will, and from your sense of the duty of a Christian gentleman, wealth and position ; and I therefore have the best guarantee that the same principles will still guide your conduct. I am told by my doctors that I cannot expect to live long, that my long-standing heart disease must ?oon be fatal. Strictly and carefully as I have brought up Alaric, the son of Katie Burnet has in herited qualities with which I do not know how to reckon. He is handsome and intelligent. I am told by his tutors that he is free from vicious tendencies ; but he has every taste and proclivity which I most dislike, and I can never calculate on his conduct. " He persists in intercourse with his mother's family, who, in the much changed state of Monks' Warren (the sale of the Worthings' farms opened the way to new-comers), have, as you know, found means to settle here, and, in short, he is quite unfit to be left to his own guidance.

He should take his degree at Christmas, but I have no hope that he will ever be fit or willing to assume the spiritual care of the parish ; he will never enter holy orders, and so the double charge which has been so precious to me must be divided. " Alaric has a hundred a year from his godmother, already in his own power ; but I have arranged that he shall not come of age till he is twenty-five, until which time I have left the whole management of his estate and himself in your hands. As his guardian you will have to present to the living, and I beg you to present yourself to it without delay. Further, I have so tied things up, that no part of the property can at any time be sold without your consent, and should Alaric marry against your will, the entire management of his property will remain in your hands, he receiving the income from you ; and I have placed it in your power, either at your death to leave him free, or to appoint a successor to this trusteeship, as you may then deem right.

You are of course Alaric's next heir, and I have entailed the property upon you and yours after his children. I have only to beg that you will by every means of coercion which I have placed in your power check his intercourse with his dead mother's family, and especially with his cousin, Clarence Burnet, who exercises upon him a most mischievous influence. " He needs a father's authority and care, and I have done my best to place you in that position towards him, making his home yours for the present. When he comes of age no doubt you will desire to make other arrangements, and I have provided for the restoration of the vicarage house ; but for the next three years, I earnestly entreat you to live in this dear house of mine, and show Alaric what it is to have such a home as your wife can make.

His life has perhaps been too solitary with me. " I have suggested that you should, as you will no doubt prefer, pay rent for the house to the estate, and you will find that I have so arranged matters' as to make this easy to you ; you, therefore, and not Alaric, will for the next three years be master of Monks' Warren. May God bless your life and work in it! You will, I am sure, find in Michael Worthing a perfectly trustworthy and satisfactory agent. Fleetwood is a hard-working, conscientious curate ; but there is much to say as to Church matters in the parish, and as to how best to stem the tide of innovation, which is ruining the simplicity of dear Monks' Warren. Come and see me at your earliest convenience, there is much that I wish to say to you, and I feel that I dare not delay. " With the most entire confidence, I remain, " Your most affectionate uncle, " Alaric Lambourne.

" P.S. When I remember the terms of confidence on which you and I stood together, in the days when you as my orphan ward looked to me for guidance, and gave me affection in return, I feel keenly the contrast of Alaric's perverse indifference. He is nearer to me in blood than you were ; I give him at least an equal regard. The same principles have been instilled into him, and the same methods pursued in his education, but with how different a result ! Soon it will be your turn to stand in my place — may you have better success with him than I have ! " Nothing puts the past so far away from us as years of monotonous, peaceful living. Martin Lam bourne was not in the habit of thinking of his refusal to profit by his young cousin's wrong and foolish marriage. The line he had then taken had seemed a matter of course, and, being in accordance with all his instincts, had cost him no effort, excepting that of contending with so positive and wilful a person as his uncle Alaric, by whom he had been brought up and who had done much to mould his opinions.

He had hardly found out that he had made any sacrifice until his future wife had shed tears of mingled pride in his generosity, and of regret for what he had given up. He had been curate of Monks' Warren for several years, when his uncle's interest obtained for him the chaplaincy of the Ridley almshouses, so that his marriage became possible, and he was then entirely content. If his duties were few, he must fulfil them all the more perfectly ; if he had more leisure than most of his brethren, there were studies which he could pursue, and there were little extra claims, troublesome details of clerical work in Homesworth and in the diocese at large, which it became his place to fulfil, and which he worked out with un tiring care and patience. And for more than twenty years Martin Lambourne had led a life which in the careful perfection of all its details was almost ideal.

The cross old men and women were less cross than they would have been without him ; there was light in their darkness which he let in, they were much happier than ignorant old age can be without such special training. And he was more than content, he was happy and at peace, and as he now raised his eyes and looked round him with the thought that the end of all this was at hand, there was nothing but regret in his heart. He had no thought that his means would be doubled, and his position one of much more import ance ; nor, on the other hand, had he any doubt as to obeying the call, or, it may be added, any suspicion of the wisdom that called him ; he being a man not given to question the wisdom of authorities once accepted. He read the letter twice through, and put it in his pocket, folded up his Guardian, and instead of beginning his usual round among his old friends, went into the house to his wife and daughter.

Mrs. Lambourne lifted her bright brown eyes from her account books as her husband came in, in some surprise at his entrance at such an unusual hour. They were clever, lively eyes, and she was a pretty and charming woman, full of energy and faculty, equally helpful and pleasant at a dinner-party, and on a charitable committee ; whatever she took in hand turned out well. " My dear," said her husband, " I have had a very important letter, — a letter that must be the prelude to great changes in our lives." Mrs. Lambourne took the letter and read it rapidly through. " Well," she said, when she had finished it, " this is the very wisest thing uncle Alaric ever did in his life. What a blessing you will be to that poor boy, and you will be able to carry out all dear uncle's wishes at Monks' Warren, and save the place from destruction; and, my dear Martin, you have de served it."

" It will be a difficult task," said Martin, in the slow, gentle tones habitual to him. " So it will," said Mrs. Lambourne, cheerfully, " but with tact and good sense we shall not find the difficulties insurmountable." " I believe it to be indeed a call and a duty," said Martin, " but I had hoped to end my days in this dear place." "It will be a great uprooting," said Mrs. Lam bourne, more gravely ; " but we are too young to talk of ending our days in that sense, anywhere. There are possibilities, especially in a professional man's life, and besides, we belonged to Heathshire first." " It was the home of all my youth, I love it dearly ; and Alaric has seemed a pleasant lad when he has been here," said Martin. " Oh, yes. And you know, with regard to the difficulties of which dear uncle Alaric speaks, his home has been very dull, and boys want to be managed with a little tact."

Mrs. Lambourne was a great believer in tact, and had found it answer on many occasions. " There is Emily ? " said Martin, in an inquiring tone. "Yes," said the mother, with a smile; "but Emily is very discreet, and used to varieties of cousins. Besides, having known Alaric more or less from childhood, there will be no difficulty on that score." As she spoke, the said Emily came into the room, in readiness for the morning's reading which she still pursued under her father's directions. Emily Lambourne, at twenty, was a tall girl, with a pure pink and white complexion, red-brown hair and eyes, and a charming look of youth and health. She united a certain stateliness of carriage w*ith the freshest prettiness. "Exquisitely pretty" was the verdict passed on her ; but she was not vain of her good looks.

What she did enjoy was the conviction that she was sensible, clear-sighted, and self-con trolled — quite the reverse of " silly." "What is the matter?" she said, as she became aware of something unusual in her parents' looks. " Emily shall read the letter," said her father. "It will make a great change in her life." Emily sat down in the sunny window-seat and read the letter slowly through. It did indeed suggest a change to her, and she did not feel that change in her happy life was welcome. " We shall have to go," she said, with a sigh. " Oh, yes, my dear," said her mother ; " and though it will be a grievous parting from dear Ridley, I am proud that papa should find a wider sphere, and I feel how much he may do for Alaric." " If being put in his charge like this does not make Alaric dislike him," said Emily.

" We must not suppose Alaric to be so perverse, Emmy," said her father. " I dearly loved my guardian." Emily still sat looking at the letter. " Shall we have to live in Alaric's house ? There is no vicarage, is there ? " she asked. " There is no available vicarage at present," replied Mrs. Lambourne. " There is a poor little house ; but it has always been let. You see, the squires of Monks' Warren have been in orders for three generations, and served the Church themselves. We shall have, when we are called on to go there, to make Alaric's home pleasant for him." " I don't like the idea of living in another person's house," said Emily. " I think it might be awkward." She was accustomed to express her mind with perfect freedom to her parents, but it was not often that she found herself so much in opposition to them; and perhaps she felt that her objections were ungracious, for she added, after a moment, " Though Alaric was very nice when I met him at the Lakes three years ago."

" Oh, yes, dear," said her mother, " we shall not have any difficulty with Alaric. Your father, no doubt, will go to Monks' Warren directly; and I hope he will find that dear uncle Alaric's health is oood enough to give us a long time to prepare our minds for this change. But we must ask Alaric to come here, that we may see something of him. And, of course, not a word must be said to any one of the matter. It is all in the future." Emily stood looking across the quadrangle, at the quaint old figures familiar to her whole life, at the forms and the colours for which she had never looked in vain. " There is the telegraph-boy coming across the court," she said suddenly. There was a startled pause till the yellow envelope was brought into the room. From Michael Worthing, Monks' Warren, To Rev. Martin Lambourne, Bidley Hospital.

"Reverend Alaric Lambourne died suddenly last night. We await your coming before making any definite arrangements." Even after the letter just received, this news was a great shock, for this uncle Alaric was an important and familiar figure, both to Martin Lambourne and his wife. They felt personal grief for him, besides the natural regret of middle-aged people at the passing away of the last of the older generation. But there was no time to indulge in regrets, for Monks' Warren lay south-west of London, and to reach it that evening an early train had to be caught at Homesworth. Emily and her mother ran about, packing Martin's bag for him, while he, in spite of his haste, hurried round to all his flock, and parted from every one with a shake of the hand and a warmth of affection hardly explained by his proposed few days' absence.

He started off on his mile's walk across the common to the station, refusing either his wife's or his daughter's company, and choosing to carry his bag for himself. There were tears in the kind eyes when he looked back and waved a general farewell as he stood under the arch of the gateway. " God bless them all ! " he said to himself. " I shall never find kinder friends. May they have a better pastor ! "

Chapter II. At Monks' Warren

The bell of Monks' Warren Church was tolling for Mr. Alaric Lambourne, squire and rector for forty years, and owner of a good three-fourths of the land in the parish. The man whose natural inheritance should have been the remaining fourth was riding slowly along the outskirts of the village, and looking out over a broad tract of open country, now glowing in the clear evening light. Monks' Warren park and village lay on the border of the wild tract of uncultivated moorland, which south and west of London still stretches away, free, open, and to spare — food for the ever-spreading suburbs and towns. As Michael Worthing rode along, on his right hand were fields and hedgerows and low, richly wooded hills, at the foot of which were the church and village ; and on his left a wide space of budding heather, varied here and there with plantations of fir trees.

Beyond, the yellow light caught the steam of the railway, which within the last few years had disturbed Monks' Warren in its primeval rest, and had caused the rows of little red houses, that now stood vivid and new, incongruous alike with the wild heath and with the rustic village, to spring up en every side. JACK 0' LANTHORN. 14 Michael Worthing never got used to the little red villas, for they were built on lands which he remembered in all the picturesque beauty of bad farming ; and part of which, but for the misfortunes and errors of his family, would now have been his own. Forty years ago, the only rival near the throne of Monks' Warren had been his grandfather, George Worthing. He was not the squire's social equal, for he sprang from the yeoman class, and had no claim to rank among the country gentry ; but he farmed his own land and had his own claims to respect, and the Worthings and Lambournes were at once friends and enemies, as old neighbours are apt to be.

Of course they differed on many points. The squire was High Church, the farmer was Low, and they opposed each other tooth and nail on every ecclesiastical and parochial detail. Nevertheless, old Mr. Worthing did not believe that England, and there fore the world, contained a greater potentate than the squire of Monks' Warren. And when the old farmer died, and his affairs were found to be in great disorder, Mr. Lambourne was the first to hold out a helping hand to his son, who, however, was a rough, ignorant man, unable to meet the requirements of the new generation. He fell to the level of a work ing farmer, took to drinking ; his property came to the hammer, and finally he shot himself in despair, leaving his wife, his son Michael, and a little daughter to get on as they could. Michael Worthing would never forget how Mr. Lambourne came to the rescue, managed all the painful details as quietly as possible, and secured a small provision for the widow.

He could not afford to buy the Worthings' property, and it fell into the hands of a builder from Warrenstoke, who soon proceeded to erect the unwelcome red villas and terraces. Then he considered what to do with the handsome, uncouth lad, rough and strong as a young lion, with auburn hair, and eyes to match of peculiar light and brightness. " / like study, sir," the boy said, " I'd get on if I had an education." And as his mother declared that Michael was always poring over every book that he could find, and took after her grandfather, who was a scholar and a clergj*man, Mr. Lambourne con trived that he should go to a great Church middle class school in which he himself was interested. Mrs. Worthing rented a small house in the village, and lived quietly and respectably with her daughter. Michael, though profiting by his education, found that it had begun too late to make him a scholar, and after some time spent at an agricultural college, took to land-surveying as a profession, obtained Mr. Lambourne's agency, and that of Sir James Manningham, another neighbouring gentleman, and came back to live in Monks' Warren, where, after his mother's death, he took charge of his young sister.

His life contained many other elements, of which more will be said hereafter ; but on this melancholy evening of the old squire's death his thoughts were entirely full of his early life, of the people from whom he sprang, and the kind friend whom he had lost. The break-up of his family had taken place some time after Mr. Martin Lambourne had ceased to be curate of Monks' Warren, and when the little Alaric was five or six years old. But Michael knew of course all the circumstances of the latter's birth and parentage, and the boy had grown up in constant intercourse with him. He knew Martin Lambourne well, and had always met with the kindest courtesy from him; but though he was attached to Alaric, and greatly respected his guardian, he did not like the aspect of the present state of affairs.