Atherstone Priory

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_/5y </_« same Author, in 1 »o/. priee \).i. Od. ELLICE : A TALE. ' The tone of Ellice Is all that can be desired ; the style ia elegant, the nar rative natural, and the Bcenes are de picted with an unvarying truthful ness that wins its way decisively and successfully.' Bell's Weekly Messenger. ' Aw unpretending tale of the domestic and religious type, possessing very considerable merits. Its characters and incidents, whilst Btrictly revolv ing round the home circle, are drawn with skill and felicity ; i t has through out a moral interest of a high order ; it has a warmth and tenderness of feeling which awaken the sympathies of the reader ; its teachings are effec tively yet unobtrusively suggested. We cordially recommend it for family reading.* Guardian". ATHERSTONE PRIORY. BY L. N. COMYN A (THOU OF 'ELL ICE, A TALE.

IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. I. Lovest thou God as thou oughtest, then lovest thou likewise thy brethren. Bears not each human figure the godlike stump on his forehead? lieadest thou not in his face thine origin P Is he not Bailing Lost like thyself on an ocean unknown, and is he not guided By the same stare that guide thee ?***»** Think of thy brother no ill, but throw a veil over his failings : This is the fruit of love, and it is by its fruits that we know it. LONDON: LONGMAN, GREEN, LONGMAN, ROBERTS, & GREEN. 1864. LONDON PRINTED BY SPOTTISWOODE AND CO. NEW-STREET SQUARE CONTENTS OF THE FIRST VOLUME. CHAP. PAGE I. LISA ....... 1 II. THE LIKENESS IN MARY'S ROOM . . . .25 III. LE BALAFRE . . . . . .41 IV. WHAT LISA THINKS OF HER COUSIN . . .58 V. MISUNDERSTANDINGS . . . . .73 VI. A WILFUL SPRITE . . . . .99 VII.

ON THE SOFA . . . . . .117 VIII. INDIAN TALES ... . . 130 IX. IS HE SO VERY PLAIN ? . ... 150 X. 'STANDING — WHERE THE BROOK AND RIVER MEET' . 165 xi. Isabel's return ..... 179 XII. PENITENCE . . . . . .195 Xm. A TALK, AND WHAT CAME OF IT 210 XIV. THE HAZELDEAN WOODS ..... 227 XV. 'SHE WAS A WOMAN NOW ' .... 251 XVI. SHALL HE GUESS IT ? . . . . . 269 XVH. AN UNEXPECTED CATASTROPHE .... 284 XVIH. ' SOME DAYS MUST BE DARK AND DREARY ' . 303 XIX. BAFFLED ....... 325 XX. MORE MISTAKES ...... vi CONTENTS OF THE FIRST VOLUME. CHAP. PAGE XXI. UNDER THE LIME-TREES ... . 349 XXII. MRS. TENNENT SPEAKS HER MIND . . . 367 XXIII. HAPPY DAYS ...... 384 XXIV. THE FIRST LINK IN A LONG CHAIN . . . 401 XXV. A GLIMPSE OF THE PAST . . ■ .417 XXVI. AUTUMN LEAVES ...... 438 XXVII. THE LAST EVENING IN THE OLD HOUSE . . . 452 XXVin. WEDDING BELLS ...... 470 XXIX. 'THIS SWEET WEE WIFE o' MINE ' . . . 479 XXX. THE COTTAGE BY THE SEA ....

Chapter I. Lisa

' TT7HAT time did Mary say they would be here, ' " Helen?' asked Dr. Tennent, walking, one cold afternoon in February, into the drawing-room at Ather stone Priory, and standing there while he buttoned up bis great-coat in preparation for meeting the keen biting north wind which was whistling drearily without the house. ' What time did she say they would get here ? Seven o'clock, was it ? ' ' No, six, I believe — unless indeed they have changed their minds again since she last wrote, which is not at all improbable. I do wish,' continued Mrs. Tennent, laying down her work for a moment to stir the fire, 'I do wish, when people fix days and hours for coming to a place, they would keep to them. There is nothing I dislike more than such perpetual changes, and Mary VOL. I. B knows it. I think she might have shown a little more thought.' ' My dear, I don't see how she could help it,' returned the doctor, apologetically; ' I don't think it was her fault.

And really, I can't tell exactly what difference it makes whether they come to-day or to-morrow. It is not as if Percy were a stranger, and obliged to stand upon cere mony with us. The great thing is to get him here as quickly as possible ; and if he is able to travel sooner than we expected, so much the better. London lodgings are wretched places at such times, and there's no doubt he will be glad enough to find himself at home again.' There was no answer to this. Percy was not Mrs. Tennent's son, and therefore it was not to be expected that she could enter so entirely into his father's feelings of satisfaction at his return after a long absence, as to exclude all other considerations. She had fixed and decided opinions also upon certain subjects ; and these opinions were not to be trifled with at any time, as everybody knew, or ought to have known.

She went on with her work now in a grave determined waj7, which said, as plainly as anything could say, that she was not pleased, and Dr. Tennent fidgeted about the room for a few minutes, as if he would have liked to say something else, but was not quite sure how it would be taken. ' Are you going out again ? ' his wife asked at last, looking up. 'Yes, but not far; only to Mrs. Gunning's. I promised to meet Symonds there at five o'clock. It LISA, must be nearly that now.' But although he made this announcement, the doctor seemed in no hurry to take his departure. 'I heard from John to-day,' he said abruptly, after another long silence. 'Did you? I am surprised at that. It is so long since he wrote, that I thought he had dropped the acquaint ance. But I suppose he is on his road home again, and thinks it time to find out old friends.' ' I don't know ; he says nothing about coming back.

He is at Wiesbaden now.' 'At Wiesbaden! And what is he doing there, I wonder? He had much better return to England. I can't see the use of people wandering about all over the world, when they have duties at home to attend to. He ought to be looking after his affairs here, instead of running after pleasure abroad.' ' Perhaps so,' was the answer, in rather an absent tone. ' I don't know, though, Helen ' — after a pause, and with something of an effort — ' I don't know that his roving disposition has not been of some use this time. Cer tainty of any kind is better than suspense; and our doubts about Emily Kennedy are set at rest now for ever. Mrs. Tennent started. 'Emily Kennedy! What do you mean ? He has not heard of her ? ' 'Yes, he has — yes, he has.' And the doctor folded his arms and gazed abstractedly into the fire ; ' and B ATHERSTONE PRIORT. perhaps it was the best thing that could have been heard of her,' he went on at length. 'She is dead, Helen ; she died six months ago at Wiesbaden.

There can be no doubt of it, for although she went under another name, the chaplain's account of her, and the things they found, prove it most certainly. There is John's letter. You will see how he first got the clue, and I am glad he followed it up. It is a relief to know that it is all over.' ' Yes, indeed it is,' was Mrs. Tennent's answer, in a low and bitter tone, as she glanced over the contents of the note her husband handed to her. 'And the sooner she is forgotten now, the better. Better still it would be if we could forget she had ever lived ; but that is im possible.' 'Poor Emily!' sighed the doctor; 'poor Emily! Who would have thought it? So gay and happy as she used to be ! So merry and light-hearted ! She was the beauty of the place then — the prettiest girl in all the country round, far and near.

Lisa takes after her in that — she has all her mother's good looks; but we must hope she will have a happier life of it, poor child.' And once more he fell into deep thought. A laugh outside the window roused him— a clear, ringing, joyous laugh it was : but it seemed to strike him painfully just then. He looked up quickly. 'What do you intend to do about her?' he asked, his eye following the figure of a young girl who was running LISA, across the lawn. ' About Lisa, I mean. Will you tell her?' 'Tell her! What are you thinking of, Dr. Tennent? Of course I shall not tell her. What would be the use of it ? She never asks after her. I have never even heard her mention her name. Most probably she supposes her to have been dead for years ; and what good would it do to enlighten her now ? She can't profess to care much for a person whom she can hardly remember ; and we should never dream of putting her into mourning or ourselves either, so that she had much better know nothing about it.

Most certainly I shall not tell her.' ' Very well,' said the doctor, who generally deferred to his wife's opinion ; ' very well, do as you like about it ; it is sure to be right, whatever you settle ; and of course it can make no difference to her. She has a home here, and a great blessing for her that she has, poor child. And we are not sorry to have her — eh, Helen ? She is a good little girl, is Lisa, and very affectionate. We shall hardly like to part with her, I think, when the time comes for her to go.' Mrs. Tennent coughed. ' Lisa may be what you say ; I don't know. But it seems to me that if she were as fond of us as you fancy, she would show it more in her actions. I don't care for words only ; and as far as I am concerned, I must say that she gives me a great deal more trouble than all my own children put together.

She is careless and forgetful, and very wilful ; and she takes no pains to improve in any way. I thought I could have depended on her, while Mary was away, to go on working at her own studies regularly, and to keep Susan and Constance to theirs ; but she has done nothing of the kind ; and whether she has ever even opened a book this last month, I don't know. There has been no order, no method of any sort, in the school -room ; and consider ing that she is nearly sixteen now, it really is too bad to think that I cannot trust her. I mean to speak to her this evening, and tell her how displeased I am. She is too old to go on in the childish, thoughtless way that she has been doing, caring for nothing but play and amusement. It is my firm belief that, if she could race up and down the garden all day with the dog, or shoot sparrows with Arthur, and play at cricket and foot-ball, or some other equally lady-like game with him and the boys, she would be quite content, and never ask for anything better.

And she is incorrigible, she pays no attention to what I say to her ; if I were to scold for ever it would make no difference. It is thoroughly disheartening to have anything to do with her.' ' She does well enough when Mary is here,' said Dr. Tennent, in a tone of excuse. ' You can't find fault with her then, my dear. She goes on very well when Mary is at home.' ' I beg your pardon, I don't think so. But even if she did, I don't see what good that would do. She can't have Mary to look after her all her life, and what LISA. 7 is to become of her in two or three years' time, when she has to go out as a governess ? Who will trust her with their children, I should like to know, when she can't even be trusted to look after herself? It is ridiculous to talk as you do, Dr. Tennent. But I shall speak to her this evening ; and very seriously too.

I shall tell her exactly what I have thought of her be haviour these last few weeks.' 1 Well, well, do as you think best ; only don't be too hard upon her, Helen,' said the doctor, beginning to fidset ag-ain. He never liked to hear that his little niece was to be found fault with, although it must be confessed that this fault-finding process was one of such frequent occurrence that he ought to have been well accustomed to it by this time. ' She is only a child, after all ; and we must remember that she has no father — and no mother now,' he added, with some emphasis. 'We must not let her think us unkind.' 'No one wishes to be unkind,' said Mrs. Tennent, drily. ' But it strikes me that you would be if you had your own way. It would be very great unkindness to let her go on as she is doing now; though I quite believe you would if you could do as you like ; and all because you are afraid of being thought unkind.' Dr. Tennent smiled a little. ' Perhaps I should ; but I have not the chance, you see.

However, I daresay, you will not have so much cause for complaint now. Arthur goes to-morrow, you know, and they will none of them be so wild when he is away. By-the-bye, I think we shall soon have to give up asking him to spend so much of his vacations here. The girls are growing up now, are they not ? Why, Elinor must be more than eighteen by this time, and she has looked a woman for the last three years ; and Lisa is nearly sixteen, you say. We must mind what we are about, Helen, or we shall have him falling in love with one of them before he knows what he is doing. I think in the summer we had better let him pay Ealph a visit at Gainsford, instead of coming here. I don't believe he has been there half-a-dozen times since his father died, and he ought to see more of his brother. What do you think ?

It would be a good plan, wouldn't it ? ' ' Perhaps so.' Mrs. Tennent liked plans in general to originate with herself. ' But it will be time enough to talk of that when the summer comes. It would not be a bad thing, certainly, for him to see more of his brother ; but Ralph and Janet are most likely coming to us then, so that he will meet them here. And, as far as anything else is concerned, I see no reason to put an end to his visits. I have no fear of any love-making between him and the girls. When young people grow up together, they very seldom dream of such a thing ; they know each other too well for that ; and he has been here so much, that they look upon him as a brother. I haven't the least fear of any nonsense of that kind.' LISA, She spoke decidedly, and as if the question were settled ; but the doctor, contrary to his usual custom, did not appear to be quite convinced. ' I don't know ; one does hear of such things some times, and it would be rather awkward if it should happen.

It seems a pity, indeed, to throw them in the way of temptation; for as he has very little but his profession to look to, it would be years before they could marry, even if ' ' Even if they should ever want to do so, which they never will. For supposing that Arthur were to take a liking to one of them, it would never go very far. He knows well enough what his prospects are, and that he could not keep a wife at present. He will have some thing to do to keep himself first — curates without private means can't afford to marry — and by the time he gets a living, Elinor, I hope, will be well settled, and Lisa will be out of his way, and he will have seen some one he likes better than either of them — some one with whom he has not lived half his life, and does not know a quarter so well, but whom he mil love, or fancy he loves, ten times more on that very account.

I know what young people are, Dr. Tennent, and how very little danger there is of any such thing happening as you suppose. Of course, however, if I saw it beginning, I should put a stop to it at once.' ' Very well,' said the doctor submissively. ' I only hope you will find it out in good time, if it ever does happen. I should not like any of them to be made unhappy for want of a little common caution on our part ; but you will look after them, I have no doubt— they could not be in better hands, indeed. And now I'm off. Past five o'clock, I declare, and I ought to be in Hammond Place.' And catching up his hat he disap peared, upsetting a chair in his hurry, and nearly running over his daughter Elinor, who was just coming into the room as he ran out of it. Dr. Tennent was one of the leading medical men in the large and populous manufacturing town of Ather stone, and had an extensive and rapidly increasing practice, not only in the town itself and its immediate neighbourhood, but for many miles round, among the county families.

His father and grandfather had both occupied the same position before him, and bad been universally liked and respected by all who knew them ; and he himself seemed to have inherited no small share of their popularity. He was a leading man in the place also in other ways, besides those connected with his profession, for his coadjutorship was sought for and given on all sorts of occasions, and there were few schemes of usefulness or benevolence carried out in the town, of which he was not either the originator, or a promoter and active supporter. How he found time for all he did, and how he accomplished so much without wearing himself out, was a perpetual wonder to everyone who knew him. But he had a never-failing amount of LISA, 11 energy and spirit, and was one of those hardy, wiry men who appear capable of getting through any given quantity of business without danger of breaking down ; and nobody had ever yet heard him complain of being overworked.

He was up early and late, in and out at all hours, and hardly knew what it was to have a few quiet minutes at home, so incessant were the demands made upon him both by rich and poor ; and of these two classes, the latter had by no means the fewest of his thoughts. The rich could always find a doctor, he said, but those who were not so well off, were not so sure of having sufficient attention paid to them ; and the poor, having once found that they had a friend in him, were not slow in taking advantage of the discovery; nor was it often that he was too busy to attend to even the most inconvenient and ill-timed of their demands. It was well for him that he had a wife who was both able and willing to take the management of his family off his hands, and who never troubled him with domestic arrangements or domestic disagreeables, but left him at liberty to pursue his avocations undisturbed, and went her own way to work without asking either for advice or approbation.

And as long as he saw his children well and happy, he was quite content that it should be so, and never cared to enquire particularly as to what went on during his absence. Mrs. Tennent, indeed, was not a person to brook interference, even from her husband, and was fully competent to undertake the charge of any sized household without assistance. A far larger one than that she had to manage would have been no burden to her, although her present establishment was by no means small. She had seven children of her own, and the doctor, who had been twice married, had also a son and daughter by his first wife. It was true that the son, who was in the army, and had been absent from England a great deal, could hardly be said to make one of the family ; but his place was pretty well filled by a nephew of Mrs. Tennent's, who, first as a schoolboy, and now as a young man at college, had long been in the habit of making her house his home whenever he wanted one.

An orphan niece of the doctor's also lived with them, and completed the number of the regular and recognised members of the household, but not at all that of the stray friends and relations, who, with or without invi tation, found their way there at all times, and stayed as long as they liked. People from the country coming into Atherstone for business or pleasure, thought the Priory a very convenient place for luncheon, dinner, or a bed, and generally availed themselves of it; while anybody from any part of the world, who could lay claim to the remotest degree of relationship with the doctor, was always sure of a hearty welcome at his house ; for he Avas very hospitable, and liked nothing better than to see plenty of faces and hear cheerful voices about him. His house was a large one, and, like his practice, had been handed down to him from his grandfather ; LISA, 13 but what had, in the first Dr. Tennent's time, been a pleasant suburban — almost indeed country — residence, with green meadows, sunny banks, and wooded land lying round it, was now situated in the centre of a crowded and not very aristocratic district, and all that remained of its once rural aspect was a large, well planted garden at the back — the especial delight of the younger members of the family, and not less so, though in a different way, of their elders.

The house itself, called the Priory, from the fact of its standing upon the site of what had formerly been a monastic building, was a rambling and rather old-fashioned place, full of small, low-pitched rooms upstairs, and large, but equally low and inconvenient rooms, below. Mrs. Tennent declared that many of them were not habitable, and that do what she would in the way of furnishing and ornamenting, nothing ever made them even decently comfortable. But nobody else seemed to think so ; on the contrary, they were always well filled, and everyone in general contrived to make themselves very happy there. If laughter and merriment, indeed, are to be taken as signs of happiness, there was always plenty of it to be found at the Priory ; nor was that cold February day any exception to the general rule, as was testified by the ringing voices and gay shouts of a party on the lawn, who all that afternoon had been eager with the excitement of a game at snow-balling, and who even now, when the evening was fast closing in, seemed in no hurry to forgo their apparently delightful amuse ment.

The outward aspect of things was certainly not enlivening ; but fortunately for them, their spirits were not easily affected by trifles ; and although the neigh bouring red-brick houses, with their roofs covered with blackened snow, looked drearily desolate, and the old tower of the Priory church close by rose dark against the leaden sky ; and though the leafless boughs of the lime-trees in the garden were frosted with ice, and the air was gloomy with another coming storm, they seemed to find no drawback to their enjoyment in these circumstances, and only played on all the faster and more merrily, as the gathering shades of twilight warned them that they would soon have to give up their game. They had raised a parapet of snow be tween some trees and the garden wall, and behind this Arthur Darrell (who in spite of his having attained the age of manhood, and being at college, was by no means above finding amusement with boys and girls) had entrenched himself with his two little cousins, Susan and Constance.

They were all three engaged in a vigorous defence of their fortress against a no less vigorous attempt to dislodge them from it which was being made by Fred and Charley — boys of fourteen and twelve — aided by Lisa Kennedy, the latter by no means the least excited and energetic of the party. With her dress tucked up, her hat falling off, and LISA her hair in wild disorder, she danced about, the gayest of them all, little dreaming of the news that had come that day, or of the sad fate of the mother of whom she often thought, but whose life had so long been shrouded in mystery. There was no shadow on her face ; no trace of sadness in the clear tones of her voice, and her laugh was merriment itself; careless un thinking merriment, as if no such things as doubt or sorrow had ever crossed her path.

With all the childish earnestness that always characterised her pursuit of any pleasure, she was absorbed now in her game, and had not a thought for anything beyond the amusement of the moment. Darting backwards and forwards, gathering up the snow in handfuls, and aiming it with un erring precision at the besieged party, she proved herself quite as formidable an antagonist, and entered fully as much into the spirit of the thing as either of her boy-cousins, being as reckless as they were of the balls which Arthur ruthlessly and most ungallantly flung back at her with no sparing hand, greeting each suc cessive one with fresh peals of mirth, and only pausing from time to time to brush the snow from her dress, or collect new suppbes for another attack. Taking ad vantage at last of a diversion on the part of her fellow assailants, which took off Arthur's attention, she made a rush on the unprotected side of the parapet, and seizing the flag that w7as fixed there (a stick with a red handkerchief tied to it), she waved it above her head for a moment with a gay shout of triumph, and jumped down into the enclosure.

The other besiegers were not slow in following her example, and a loud hurrah from everybody proclaimed that the fortress was taken. That ' hurrah ' brought their amusement to an end, for it roused Mrs. Tennent in the drawing-room from the reverie in which — a most unusual thing for her — she had been indulging over the fire after her husband left her. ' Call them in, Elinor ! ' she said, looking up ; ' I had no idea they were out of doors still. Tell them to come in directly.' Elinor, a pale, delicate, but rather pretty girl, with blue eyes, and a profusion of dark hair, who was sitting at the window with her head resting on her hand, rose from her seat with evident reluctance, and casting a shivering glance across the lawn, walked slowly from the room. She shivered again as she went into the hall, and taking up a shawl, threw it round her before she gathered courage to face the cold sufficiently to open the garden door and summon the party into the house ; although, when she had done so, she did not retreat again at once, but stood there, waiting, it seemed, for them to make their appearance.

Some little delay took place before the mandate was obeyed ; but at length they came trooping in, all in various stages of indigna tion at being interrupted in the midst Of their delightful occupation. Fred and Charley even went so far as to LISA, 17 vote that their sister ought to be rolled in a snow drift for being the bearer of such unwelcome tidings, while Arthur came behind, dragging on the unwilling Susan and Constance, who were hanging to his coat tails, and uttering lamentable remonstrances. Lisa was the only one who was silent ; but that most probably was because she was endeavouring to unfasten a very intricate-looking knot in the strings of her hat, which only seemed to grow tighter from all her attempts to loosen it. ' Well ! ' she remarked at last, in a tone of despair, ' I suppose I shall have to wear this thing for the rest of my life, for I can't untie it, and I mayn't cut the strings.