Rough Hewn

Front matter

To le had at all the Libraries, in 3 vols. FROM BIETH TO BRIDAL BY MRS. DAY. " A charming tale, told in a natural, unaffected style. It is a book that can be thoroughly recommended, not only a3 a very interesting and delightful story, but for the high tone maintained throughout. All that is attempted is thoroughly well done. The story is that of a clever, high-spirited, yet sensitive girl, placed, by the early death of her mother, in peculiar circumstances, and passing through several trials of her principles and constancy to a happy bridaL The development of the heroine's character is traced out with the greatest delicacy and truth, and the incidents, though strictly those of ordinary English home life, are so ingen iously arranged as to keep the interest alive to the very last page." — The Guardian.

"This is a wholesome and pleasant noveL The heroine is an original character, but quite natural, and very charming. The calm, unaffected style of the story is singularly attractive; not an incident is forced, not a character is overdrawn, the author evincing sound judgment, and no little self-control. The story, very simple in the commencement, gradually grows into a complication involving a difficult situation— a father and son being respectively in love with the same person. This position is so skilfully treated, with such nice delicacy and simple grace, that while all that is pathetic in the story is put forward with power and effect, no unpleasant impression is produced." — Spectator. " Mrs. Day is a writer of no small power, and there is not a word in her book with which we do not sympathise.

Vera Harrison and her father are charming characters, while the organist and Mrs. Adams are lifelike and loveable. The centre of the interest is, however, in the marvellous family history connected with Avoncourt and its master, who is irresistiby attracted by the piquante heroine. The plot is admirably developed, and the chief incidents of the story follow each other naturally and easily. The chief charm of Mrs. Day's style is her attention to details, and her thorough knowledge of the workings of the human heart TVe recommend the book with the most perfect confidence as alike amusing, clever, and high-principled." — John Bull. " A really good novel — one which deserves very high praise. Indeed, ' From Birth to Bridal ' is, for a first novel, the most equally sustained in literary quali ties, and the most intellectually harmonious wo have ever read." — Examiner.

Chapter I. There

is Ned at last," said Mrs. Barton, laying down her sewing at the sound of coming steps. Her words fell into the silence of the little parlour, like a stone gently dropped into water, and, like it, they seemed to make soft but still certain and increasing circles about them. The fire seemed to shoot up a brighter flame, and the setter on the hearthrug stretched his legs, looked at his mistress with loving brown eyes, sleepily wagged his tail, and disposed himself once more to rest. Mr. Barton, half lying, half sitting in an arm chair, with a newspaper across his knee, drew B himself together at his wife's words, sat upr slowly took the pipe from his mouth, blew a long cloud from his lips and nostrils, and said,. with a little laugh, " My dear, mothers have proverbial care for their children's goings and comings, and you are a model mother, but neither I nor Victor hear anything.

It's not the boy." But Mrs. Barton was right. The firm, ring ing footsteps came nearer and nearer. Victor sat up, spreading his paws, and cocking his silky brown ears. " It is Ned," Mrs. Barton said, and looked at the wooden clock on the mantel-piece. " Half past eleven ! How late it is, Mark ! I suppose he has been in the town. What takes him there ?" A look of uneasiness crossed the face, still handsome, in spite of care and sorrow. Once more Mr. Barton puffed out a cloud of smoke, and as the garden gate clicked into its place he shragged his shoulders. "What am I to say to him. Marks' Mrs. Barton asked, softly, but anxiously. In another moment the door was opened, and Ned Barton walked into the room. He seemed to bring the brightness aud sweetness of the October night in with him. A smile was on his mouth, his cheek was ruddy, and his eyes bright.

The anxious look passed away from his mother's face. "Sitting up for me, mother?" he said, cheer fully, and leaning over her chair. " Why will you? You could leave me some bread and cheese. You ought to go to bed — you are so early in the morning." Then he stooped and caressed the dog that fawned about him. •' You are late," said his father. " It is not fair to keep your mother up." " Yes. I am very sorry — but I will turn in now, so good night, father and mother." He bent his head to kiss her, but she said, gravely, " Wait — I have something to say to you." " I shall go to bed, then," said Mr. Barton, " and leave you and your mother to have your talk out. I must be early, whatever anyone else is." Mrs. Barton set bread and cheese and beer before her son, silently folded up her work, and set the room to rights, in readiness for the morning.

When he had finished his meal, and turned his chair to the fire, she sat down beside him. " What has made you so late ?" she began. " Where have you been, Ned '? In Riverford, I suppose ? With whom ?" "Yes. Time goes so fast, I had no idea it was so late. I am sorry to have kept you up." "It is not that. But what have you been doing?" " Playing billiards. I hate the Brewery and my work. One must have some amusement. Goodness knows there is little enough in this deadly-lively place !" " You have as much amusement as " — " we have" she was going to say, but she looked at her son in the pride of health and strength, and, like many another woman, thought perhaps he required more amusement than such as she did, so she added — " as you can get, considering our position. But playing billiards means losing, does it not ?"

" Oh ! not much. Besides, I don't always lose, and I am improving greatly." " And I suppose you drink something, for the good of the house?" " Oh ! one need not drink if one does not like." " And where does the money come from when you lose ?" The young man coloured and moved uneasily in his chair, but he answered nothing. " Where does it come from ? You have none to lose, and you must repay the people you play with. Is it true that Gilbert Drake has lent you money ?" He coloured more deeply than before, struck his hand upon his knee, and turning, faced his mother. "Yes, it is true; but how did you know? — has he told it of me ? I have paid him nearly all. What a blackguard to tell ! He knows very well I shall pay him." " When ? When you win ? Ah ! but Drake did not tell, your uncle was told that you were constantly at the ' Lion,' and that it was supposed that Drake paid, as you could not possibly meet your losses.

Your uncle came to speak to us, he says you are not going on steadily, and that, if you do not mend, he cannot keep you in the business." " I am sure I don't want him to do so. I hate it !" "Why? It would be very serious to have you at home, thrown upon our hands, and idle." "It is so slow ; just one grind and drive all day. Plodding along to make a few shillings, and sticking over a desk aud a ledger through fine days and wet ones. I had rather be my father, out over the land ; there is some fun and stir in that." "It is idle talking, you know you cannot get such a place as your father's, and that you ought to support yourself; besides, you might think of your sisters, and try to add some help for them." " By Jove ! but I do think of them, and sorry enough I am for them, and you ; but the more I think, the more worried I get, and my sisters seem like a weight hung round my neck."

" Then you go to the 'Lion,' to get rid of the thoughts ?" "Just so. I tell you what it is, mother, everything is wrong together, and I don't see what is to right it all. It makes me mad to think of you, a lady, slaving here, with only a charwoman now and then to help you ; up early and late, washing, and baking, and mend ing, and more often than not in a ragged gown." " And my boy's earnings go in billiards at the 'Lion.'" " But I might win something worth having — something that might help you," said Ned ruefully. " You play with cleverer men than yourself. Winnings are not for you. Stick to your work — that at least is a certainty, if you only take pains." " Just as likely as you think my winning at billiards. I don't like office work, and don't think I am fit for it." " What are you fit for ?

Can you suggest any reasonable occupation for yourself?" " What am I fit for, indeed !" echoed Ned. " I have had little enough schooling. I can shoot, and I can fish. I can drive a horse, and break a dog." He stretched his long powerful arms across the table, and studied them attentively, opening and shutting his well-shaped but large muscular hands. " I might be a blacksmith, perhaps," he said at last; " I have as much book-learning as would serve me for that ; certainly not as much as the charity boys in Riverford School. I suppose I may thank my father for that ; he has been good natured and lazy all his life, and his children suffer. What on earth did you marry him for,. mother?" " Hush ! I will not hear a word against your father. You bring your complaint, after all, home to me ; you would fain lay the blame of all your difficulties and disagreeables on any shoulders but your own ; and you go and drown troublesome thoughts in questionable company.

The brave man conquers his trouble, and sets a stern face against all temptations. Nothing is impossible to overcome." Ned Barton looked at his mother, at her worn face and early changing hair, and thought of the patient heroism with which she endured the difficulties and disagreeables of her life. But he did not call it heroism. Ned was not a specially thoughtful youth ; had he been called upon to reflect about his mother, he would probably have arrived at the ill-expressed and lame conclusion that she was by nature patient and uncomplaining, that he had never seen her otherwise, and that he supposed women could do without amusements and com forts better than men could — at any rate, that, as far as his experience went, they certainly did so. He sat now vaguely turning this proposi tion over in his mind, hardly conscious that he was engaged upon it, and at the same time contemplating his hands and arms.

Presently Ned spoke, for the silence chilled him, even more than the want of fire. Mrs. Barton had raked together the bright fire lighted for her husband, but it had died out. "Nothing is left but cinders," he said. " Shall I make up a fresh fire for you, mother ? — if not, we had better go to bed. You have no more to say to me ? It comes to this, that I must try and make the best of circumstances, as you do, and stick to my ledgers, worse luck. I will try and please you, mother," he said, more affectionately than he had yet spoken, for he dearly loved her, " but I am not the least like my uncle Charles — he can plod along, and has done well, and is kind enough to me, for that matter; but he forgets that I am young, and he is getting old " "Uncle Charles was no extraordinary man — not cleverer than you," she interrupted ; " but a chance offered itself in his life — he took it, and made it serve him ; and you know very well his intentions towards you.

It would be a comfort to us to know you are provided for; and you would like to be partner ultimately in so good a business, Meantime " " It would be nice enough were I a partner now ; but, oh ! the weary way there !" and he stretched his arms over his head. " Well, I suppose one must have a try for it." " Don't go yet," she said, " 1 have something more to say. Your uncle fears you are not steady ; he does not like the Drakes, and thinks them too fast and flashy — too flush of money for a young man like you, who must work ; he says they lead you into bad company, and bade me warn you." 5? " I am sure he is very civil to them himself." "Very likely — they are well-to-do fellowtownsmen, and he runs no risk from them ; they do not take him to billiard-tables, and dancinsr and singing parties.

Ned," she said at last, stopping short, " your uncle told me that Gil bert Drake has a pretty young servant up from Hertfordshire, and that you have been seen talking to her, and she has walked out with you. This is very unwise, both for you and for her ; be advised in time — these things end ill. Give me your word you will not go to Drake's — keep out of the girl's way — it is the only safety. She is not of your class ; you might have other friends." " Wbat is my class ?" asked the young man, moodily. " She is very pretty and very gentle. I cannot see why I may not say a civil word to her, without setting everyone talking." "Don't be angry. I spoke to warn you. You cannot afford to commit follies, and your bread depends upon your good conduct. About your class, do not forget that your mother is a lady, that her family and friends are respectable, and there is nothing to prevent your being a gentleman, in an honourable position.

Besides, there are people here quite ready to befriend and receive you, who have never looked coldly upon us because we have not been very fortu nate or successful in life." " People who patronise you, and give you cast-off clothes, and books they don't want, and when they have no one better at hand, take you and the girls out to drive. You all look like ladies, I admit, and don't shame them ; but I — I don't like being patronised, and I am not sure that I look like a gentleman." Once more he studied his hands and arms, and his gaze wandered to his long legs, but he gave no heed to the blush and sigh of his mother at his words. " No, I don't think I do look like a gentleman ; I am not sure that I feel like one. I have some times thought I would enlist, and have done with my self-govei-nment.

I hate books and figures, and hanging on to the skirts of gen tility, under a false pretence." Mrs. Barton laid her hand upon his shoulder. " Promise me you will not enlist, I can trust your word. The life of a common soldier is more terrible than books and figures. And promise me you will not go to Gilbert Drake's, unless your father sends you." He smiled at her anxiety, but he gave the promise she asked, unhesitatingly. "Work becomes less distasteful with use," she said. " Keep a brave heart, my boy — things will go better for you. You are better than you say. Besides, there is always the word must before you. 1 see no other or better arrange ment. Think of what 1 have said, and remem ber that difficulties are best surmounted in silence. God bless you !" She kissed him, and let her cheek remain a moment against his, and he felt it wet with tears.

He knew that, notwithstanding her few and quietly-spoken words, she cared for and felt for him. He knew she could not alter matters, but was right. The word must was before him. When she left him he knew that she would kneel and pray, as he had seen her many a time, and that her prayers would be for him. He leaned against the mantel-piece, and looked round upon the poorly-furnished room. Its aspect had never so struck him before, and his pleasure-loving nature rose in rebellion against his fate. His mind wandered from the every-day household annoyances that fretted him, to his mother's self-denying habits. His eyes saw the little jug of beer drawn for him ; he knew his mother never drank any. Her homely work-basket stood on a table in the corner, full of his own and his father's socks, her scissors and thimble lay on the top ; he had seen dainty gold thimbles, and silver-sheathed scissors in Riverford, made for other women's use.

Then he shivered; this October night, there was a bright, healthy frost outside, but it was chilly in the ill-built cottage, and he remembered that when she kissed him her cheek and hands were cold ; when his father went to bed she would not have the fire made up for her. Poor mother ! he pitied her, but he pitied him self much more, in an inconclusive way, for he scarcely reached thought about the matter. By-and-by he shook himself, and walked up to bed, his mind recurring to his promise to his mother, and he repeated her words with a sense that they were true, even prophetic — " These things end ill." He protested to himself that his uncle was hard upon him, that he was no worse than other young men, but still he meant to keep his promise, with a mental reservation, if it were possible. Few people are aware of the frequency of this mental reservation, only self-conscious, conscientious, or introspective people detect it lurking in its corner.

Ned Barton was not one of this class ; he took no account of his ways or thoughts ; just now he was cold and sleepy, life did not wear a smiling aspect, but was severe and stern. He would go to sleep, and forget that there were things that ended ill. C VOL. I.

Chapter II

" TT7HAT did you marry my father for?" i * Edmund Barton had asked, in his hasty but impotent discontent with his state of life. Maria Fielding had married Mark Barton be cause she loved him. The answer was an easy one, but it would hardly have satisfied the young man at that moment, when the close fitting collar of existence was galling him. Captain Fielding, the father of Mrs. Barton, had served with some distinction in the last war with France. A bullet had passed through his cheek, which, together with sundry sabre wounds, disabled him from further service, and entitled him to a pension, and a quiet life, for the rest of his days. He returned home bronzed, and somewhat injured in powers of articulation, soldierly and erect in his bearing, cheerful and easy-going in disposition. During her husband's campaigning Mrs. Fielding had lived with her father on his small property at Altcaster, which she, his only child, inherited on his death, and which, assisted by an old farm-bailiff, she managed so well that Captain Fielding, on his return, left her abso lute mistress, smiled at her imperious ways, and never interfered with her arrangements.

Pro bably he knew he could not have performed all the small and wearisome duties belonging to farm and homestead half as well as she did ; at any rate, he never tried; he often said that some women had a talent for government. Butter and milk were better in quality, and more unfailing in supply; eggs and poultry, wanting elsewhere, were always to be found at Mrs. Fielding's. No garden or orchard yielded such crops ; there were no such moss and cabbage roses, nor carnations, in the county as hers ; nowhere so dainty and bountiful a tea-table, with cream in which the spoon would stand up right, light hot cakes, preserves, and quaintlyc2 plaited rolls, for her daughter's young friends, or such a well-fed goose and capital game-pie, with strong ale, and currant or elder wine, for an old comrade of her husband's. She was up early and late, and the clap-clap of her small high-heeled shoe in fine weather, and of her pat tens in wet, was heard all day in yard, and gar den, and dairy.

She was an educated woman, too. The books she read were few, but good, and she read them well; and in her father's declining years she had read to him the journals that teemed with foreign news and home politics ; she had mastered some Latin, to please his scholarly tastes, and some French, which she could not speak, to understand the daily history of the great nation that then occupied so much of the world's attention. Of poetry she knew but little, protesting it was sad stuff, and wasted one's time ; yet on her shelves was a copy of Walter Scott, considerably thumbed, and under the cover of her work-basket lay a little volume of Byron. Her accomplishments were few. She could not draw a line, but she was a born dancer ; not a note could she play on the harpsichord or piano, but she could sing many a sweet old ballad: and Edmund Fielding, stationed with his regiment at Altcaster, thought he had never heard a clearer voice than hers in the old church, or seen a brighter face, and a daintier pahof ankles, as she passed him after service in the churchyard.

He made the best of his oppor tunities, and finally married the young lady; and, when he went to the Continent, left her under her father's roof, with a son and daughter. Captain Fielding came home, to be caressed and half worshipped in his own household, and cordially welcomed by all former friends and acquaintances. He had a pleasant time of it, reading the journals and gazettes, a never failing source of interest ; sitting in the deep arm-chair by the fire, or in the arbour under the clematis and jessamine, with the thrushes singing about him ; walking on the Summer evenings and Sunday afternoons with his wife ; shooting or fishing with his son during his holidays; gardening now and then, and strolling or riding with his daughter. To ride with his daughter was the great pleasure of his life.

In his own way, deep in his heart, he sang his nunc dimittis on such occasions. Maria was very beautiful, and she was very good. She had been carefully reared by her mother, who was a God-fearing woman, though she made no loud professions of faith. She was useful and housewifely, could sew, and mend, and bake, and at a good school she had acquired a few accomplishments. In many ways she resembled her mother ; she had inherited, too, her deep blue eyes and dark brown hair, with the regu larity of her features ; but in disposition she was like her father — easily pleased, sweet-tem pered and kindly, and she had his tall figure and erect carriage. Captain Fielding's especial delight was to ride with Maria slowly through the High Street of Altcaster ; and to watch the looks of admiration, of envy, and of affection directed to her was better than a mayor's feast to him.

In her dark green riding-habit, with a white felt hat, something of the " brigand shape," as it is called, her graceful figure bending to the motion of her horse, her brown curls fluttering in the wind, she was a very lovely creature. Some people said she was cold, apathetic, some even that she was proud. She certainly was neither passionate nor demonstrative, and she had been trained in that old school of man ners which taught that a woman should be re tiring, gentle, and patient of rebuke. Well for Maria in after-years that it had been so. But she had spirit too, and was not easily tired nor frightened, and when she knew her company well, could answer with repartee, and hold her opinions with some wit. Not a heroine of modern fashion ; but may it not have been that, in those days when the men were rougher, coarser, more adventurous, and lived more stirring lives, risking more dangers, the women, to have any influence with them, were perforce of a milder, gentler strain?

In these days, when men — God help them ! — love their ease and seek their comfort as the first good, things are altered, and it is left for women to prove the mettle of their pasture, to be self-denying to asceticism, or bold and daring to fastness and slang. Perhaps the happiest night of Captain Field ing's life was when Maria first appeared at the county ball at Riverford. She made what would now be called a sensation ; she was the most desirable partner of the evening, and she was the toast after supper. After that event she went to stay in Dublin and in London, with old family friends. Several eligible, highly respectable, moneyed, cultivated men distinguished her by their admiration and attentions, but she returned from her visits disengaged to Altcaster. One morning the town was thunderstruck at hearing that this lovely and distinguished girl had plighted her faith to Mark Barton.

Mark Barton was, so to speak, nobody. Mrs. Field ing was surprised, displeased, and thrown off her balance at first ; but she found Maria was in earnest, and, as her dignity and self-respect ill brooked any comments of her neighbours, she set herself to make the best of the matter with all possible decorum, and treated her future son-in-law with the greatest consideration. DuiTant Fielding fumed and fretted, vowed he had better projects for his sister, wrote her a peppery letter or two ; went down from Lou don, where his regiment was quartered, to Altcaster, in order to upbraid her, came into per sonal communication with young Barton, and liked him. But Captain Fielding took it to heart and was bitterly disappointed ; his darling, his beauty, might have married Lord Riverford himself, and not been the party honoured by the connection.

He said very little about the mat ter; he would not have crossed or grieved his daughter for the world, but the joy and glory were gone out of his life. About that time he met with a serious accident, while out shooting, which disabled him for some weeks ; but still it was said Maria's modest choice of a husband had shortened her father's days. He died soon after Maria's marriage, and she never in the least suspected that he had suffered through her actions. Mrs. Fielding knew how sore had been the disappointment, and used her influence with himself, and her unapproachable pride with others, to help him to bear it, but with poor success. She felt her husband's death acutely. People said she was too proud and cold to feel anything ; yet she never laid aside her mourn ing, and she never named him without rever ently bending her head.

Mark Barton, for whom Maria Fielding had thus ruthlessly cast aside family pride and personal advancement, was the elder son of a well-to-do yeoman of East Anglia. Both his parents died at middle age, and he found him self at twenty-three owner of an excellent farm, corn-land and pasture, and some pretty scrubby woods, carpeted in Summer by primroses, bine bells, and lilies of the valley, and tenanted by rabbits, against which he and his brother waged perpetual Avar. There was some money, too, from both father and mother, lying at the bank in Altcaster; and Charles Barton, the younger, made the most of his capital, and became a partner in the Brewery of Simmonds and Com pany, in Riverford. Mark kept the farm, and worked it. He and his brother had received a fair education, and were thought well of.

Mark was really handsome, with blue eyes and curly brown hair, regular features, and an open, kindly expression. His figure was well knit and active, his voice and smile were charm ing, and his manners had that indefinable tone of good breeding that bespoke him one of Nature's gentlemen, though by courtesy only he wrote Esquire after his name. Courtesy begets courtesy ; he was himself kind and courteous, and he met with the like treatment from others. He made acquaint ances, and began to be received in houses where his parents had not been guests ; he rode a good horse ; he was an excellent shot ; he crossed no one's preserves, and interfered with no one's prejudices ; his fences were in good order, his farming was neat, he improved his farm buildings and cottages ; he stood very well in the good graces of the county gentle men, and was decidedly a favourite with the ladies.