Wandering Fires. A novel

Front matter

LONDON : PRINTED ET FBWARB J. FRANCIS, TOOE'S COURT, CHANCERY IANE, E.C. a »oi)ti. BY MRS. M. C. DESPARD, AUTHOR OF 'CHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW.' IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. I. This chance of noble deeds will come and go Unchallenged, while you follow Wandering Fikes Lost in the quagmire. Tennyson. HonBon : SAMUEL TINSLEY, 10, SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND. 1874. [All rights reserved.] CONTENTS OF VOL. I. Part I— SPRING. CHAP. PAGE I. Young Life 1 II. Me. Crampton at Dinner . . . .17 III. The Cramptons at Home . . . .31 IV. Beatrice di Cenci 47 V. Retrospective . . . . . .54 VI. An Arrival 69 VII. Glimpse of a Girl's Heart . . . .77 VIII. An Idyll on the Shore . . . .91 IX. Miss Brook's Advice 101 X. Coming of Age . . . . . .118 XL Dreamers . . . . . . .125 XII. Erick's Wonder 141 Part II.— DREAMS AND DANGERS.

I. Miss Gordon's Troubles . . . .163 II. Mr. Crampton's Discipline . . . .173 III. Miss Gordon's Prudence . . . .180 IV Flight 185 V. The Children's Plans . . . . • . 188 VI. Soul-Affinities VI CONTENTS. CHAP. VII. Ethel's Fear, the Stranger's Dream. . 201 VIII. Erick Bewildered . . . . .219 IX. Ethel's Penitence, the Stranger's Wrath . 224 X. A Two-sided Nature 230 XI. Mr. Crampton's Feelings receive a Shock 244 XII. My Half-formed Suspicions . . . 254 XIII. A Grateful Congregation and a Gratified Pastor 260 Part III.— WOMAN AGAINST WOMAN I. Two Years Later

Chapter I. Young Life

So, calling back onr years, We note, where youth's bright aspirations soar O er life's dim actions. In the freshness of a spring' morning, when the sky is pure from clouds, when the birds are singing, when the fragrance of growth, the warmth of buds unfolding to the sun, is in the air, it is difficult, indeed impossible, to say what the coming days may bring. Will the storm-cloud, steaming up from the west, blot out this radiant brightness ? Will bleak winds, from fields of ice and snow, sweep over the young, abounding life, till the lark's gay song is heard no more, and the tender VOL. I. B green buds hang pale and languid from the trees ? Or, is the bright beginning a promise destined to fructify into glorious ful filment ? Such are the questions that, almost insen sibly, fill the mind, as we look out on our world, in this glad time of her renewing.

We were made to look forward. Not in the present, but in the future, is the higher life of men and women. We live on promise. Were it not for promise, young lives could scarcely weather the storms which beset them in life's opening. For her promise we love the spring. She whispers to us of hope, speaks eloquently of life — life pushing forward into light. It cannot all come to maturity. In the con flict for existence that goes on continually, not only individuals, but species, are destined to destruction. It is, therefore, that we look out, in the spring-time, not only with pleasure, but sympathy. Even as we gaze, the strife goes on, and ever with a varying success. Among ourselves it is the same. Of the countless multitudes that see the light, only a proportion comes to maturity, only a still smaller proportion is destined ever to pass that first period of strife.

Some drop off early, like buds, too tender to face the bleak eastern winds, the nipping spring frosts ; others are trampled down by the rushing of the great multitude. Over their trembling bodies those destined to wealth and greatness pass on, unheeding their plaintive cries. Some lack strength of mind, others strength of body, to press on to the front, and, iu the great struggle of humanity, woe, woe to the hindermost ! For them there is no pity. They fall and lie, like scattered leaves untimely shed, withering, dying in the sunshine. If Nature's spring-time, the coming forth into life of her teeming multitudes, has a deep interest for the mind, much more must the spring-time of humanity possess, for then, life, not yet at its full, is bright with promise and hope. Ah ! who does not look back with some thing of regret to those beautiful, early days, when the long vistas of the future stretch, white and glistering, before the mind, all bright, all fair, only vague, mysterious, dim ?

For therein lies the charm. What of glory and of beauty may not that dim curtain con ceal ! To the child, whole worlds of delight lie behind it. Alas ! that the illusions should fade so soon ; that, even before the boy has put on his manhood, the bright vistas should, too often, show themselves dusty highways — long, grey, terrible. To those who are behind the scenes, — those who have ceased, for themselves, to expect much from the world, — it is pleasant sometimes to take the position of on-lookers, — to watch young lives, as, full of promise, they put forth their trembling aspirations into the sunlight of hope, — to listen, not with a cynic's smile, but with a tender sadness, to the eager pulsations of hearts that pant to engage the world, be lievingto subdue it were easv, — to trace their onward course, noting how illusions, tenaciously held, are one by one dropped in the young heart's conflict with a world that to them seems strangely harsh, and then — what then ? — Ah, me ! sometimes joy, too often bitterness ; some times, illusions replaced by glorious certainties, — a life, fair in its dawn, blushing out into radiant, unclouded noon, — spring's promise suc ceeded by summer's fruition; sometimes, but not often, for— the current is strong, and the young soul is weak.

All these thoughts came into my head one clay, many years ago, as, sitting by the sea shore, on a warm, bright spring day, I watched the proceedings of two young girls, and listened to their chatter, carried on in total uncon ciousness of any listener. I wonder if I could describe them as they were then ; for long years, and many changes, divide that clay from this, and the girls could at that time have only reached the respective ages of twelve and fourteen. But mine was not an ordinary or superficial observation. Even then I had earned a right to the position of on looker ; my life, or all that was very fair in it, had been lived out long before, and, in the enforced leisure of heart and brain, I interested myself in other lives — specially in those which were just beginning. Although Ethel and Blanche did not know me, I knew something of them, for their father, Mr. Crampton, who was vicar of one of our many churches, was a well-known man in the neighbourhood.

But of him more hereafter. His daughters were, to me, a far more interesting study than himself. On this particular morning, I was sitting on one of the benches that line the esplanade at intervals, to all appearance deeply engrossed in a yellow-backed book, but actually far more interested in the task of observation. The two young girls, disdaining anything in the shape of bench or chair, were seated on the gravel, their legs hanging over the low sea-wall that skirted the esplanade on the sea-side, their arms intertwined lovingly. I could see, for I sat in such a position as to enable me to catch a side-view of their faces, that the eyes of the elder were fixed on a long line of smoke that lay like a cloud on the horizon. Both young girls were silent for the moment and their faces in rest, so I took the opportunity of scanning them curiously.

They were sisters ; that I knew already ; but only the previous knowledge would have enabled me to discover the fact, for Ethel and Blanche were very unlike. When I knew them more intimately, I discovered a certain family resemblance be tween them ; at this time I could not trace even the ordinary sisterly likeness. The younger, who was so fragile as to look more of a child than she really was, was exceedingly fair. Her golden hair, which fell in natural curls round her neck, was soft and silky, and her large dark eyes, with their deep fringes, were set in a face that was perfectly lovely in its delicacy of colouring, its perfection of feature. Her figure corresponded with her face. It was that of a sylph, a fairy. To me, the child was, perhaps, almost too lovely to be very interesting. I prided myself upon being somewhat eccentric in my tastes.

Thousands, I knew, would interest themselves in Blanche Crampton, if her womanhood should fulfil the promise of her early youth. My special interest I kept for those who would not be likely to command so much admiration. And, from this point of view, Ethel was cer tainly much nearer to my ideal. Fourteen is an awkward age ; but even this could scarcely be considered altogether account able for Ethel's length and gaucherie, for her spasmodic movements, and want of every kind of girlish grace. Her face was thought plain by the various connoisseurs in female beauty who interested themselves in their pastor's daughters ; with this verdict I always dis agreed. Her features were not perfect. The nose belonged to no particular model of excellence ; the mouth looked large, but that might have been because her face was thin and long ; her eyes seemed absolutely to swallow up her face, they were so large and prominent.

Peculiar eyes they always were — neither blue nor brown, but an indefinable colour. . They were said to be grey. If so, it was a grey that took to itself every shade, that was never twice the same. Her hair was a tawny brown, the colour of rust on iron. It was as wiry as Blanche's was silken, and appeared, thrust away in two big bunches behind her ears, to owe exceedingly little to brush or comb, or attention of any kind. In fact, Ethel was one who would have been passed over by most admirers of children as a lanky, awkward, schoolgirl. Perhaps on this very account J noted her more carefully than I should otherwise have done, and, after a few different opportunities of scan ning her attentively, I came to like, even to admire the young girl's face. There was one point in which it specially pleased me.

It was honest, more, indeed, than honest, it was trans parent, revealing faithfully every emotion that crossed the girl's mind. I had not known Ethel long, before I could read her like a book. On the spring-morning, when I first com menced the task of observation, Ethel's face was very still. She had been talking and laughing, now she was dreaming. The quiet fit lasted so long that her sister became impa tient " Ethel," she cried, suddenly, drawing herself up to her feet, by holding on to a bunch of her sister's wiry hair, " what are you look ing at?" " That hurts, Blanche," replied Ethel, shaking off the child's hand. " Do you think because my hair's coarse it has no feeling in it — my head, I mean?" she corrected herself. Blanche laughed. " You always require so much awaking when you get into one of your dreams, Ethel.

Do look away from the sea, and tell me what you 're thinking about." " Come here, then, Blanche," replied her sister. "Close, so; now do you see that — a long, dark line ? There, child, you will always look the wrong way." "I think I see it, Ethel; but it's only a cloud." " It's not a cloud, Blanche, it's a line of smoke from a passing steamer. It must be a large steamer for us to see the smoke so plainly, and so far away ; perhaps there are more than a hundred people on board. I Avas thinking about the steamer and the people in it, — won dering who they are, and where they are going, and what they'll see over there." Blanche sat down again, and rested her dimpled chin on her hand. " Should you like to be in it, Ethel?" she said. " / should. Papa says he '11 take us some day." " But crossing the Channel isn't going over the sea," answered Ethel, contemptuously.

" I wouldn't give you a thank you for that. No. What I should like would be to go away, for days and days, until no land could be seen — only sea, sea, ever so far ; and then at last to land in some of those wonderful countries. Don't you remember, Blanche, Robert told us about them ? Where the plants grow as high as trees, and the trees are as high as mountains ; where they have tiny birds, with beautiful colours in their wings, and where the sea is blue — bluer even than the sky ? " " I should like it pretty well," said Blanche, doubtfully. " And, of course, if you Avent I would go with you, only I hope there Avould be no men to eat us up, like in ' Robinson Crusoe.' " "You little goose!" replied the elder sister, rather grandly; "people don't eat one another now ; besides, ' Robinson Crusoe ' isn't true."

" How do you know, Ethel?" " NeArer mind how I know; but anyway, Robinson Crusoe liAred a long time ago, and I want to talk about what you and I are to clo when Ave grow up." " We'll always live together," said Blanche, nestling up to her sister. " Of course, dear," replied Ethel, putting her arm round the little one. "You'll want me to take care of you." " Not when I 'm grown up, Ethel," pleaded the child. " Oh, yes, you will," said the other, decidedly. " You see, I am so much stronger than you are. I feel rather glad about it," continued the young girl, thoughtfully. " I should not like you to live away from me. I like to look at you, dear. I wonder is it because you 're my sister ? and yet Emily is my sister too, and a dear little thing ; but I don't care to look at her in the same Avay.

I Avant to have you always to look at, Blanche ; so you shall be my lady queen, and I shall Avork for you, and get you pretty things, and dress you up." " Work for me, Ethel ! What can you mean," " Why, don't you see, Blanche, to have money everybody must do something. I have been thinking about it lately. Papa gets money for preaching, Mr. Smith gets money for stay ing in the bank all day, Mr. Hart sits in his office and AATites letters : he must do it for money. Miss Brook AArrites books, and gets ever so much for them, papa says." ' ' Yes, but then, Ethel, what does mamma do, and Mrs. Hart, and Mrs. Smith?" "Oh!" said Ethel, who had reasoned out the whole matter in her own mind, "they are married ; that 's quite a different thing. Their husbands make the money, and they look after the house.

You '11 get married, Blanche, I dare say; I don't think /shall. Papa says my face will never make my fortune. I 'm sure I don't care. It would be rather tiresome, when one was grown up, to be ordered about like — " The girl broke off suddenly ; she was evidently annoyed Avith herself; but Blanche thought only of the former part of her sentence. " I shan't get married if you don't, Ethel," she said, gravely; "but then hoAv are Ave to have money ?" Ethel's great eyes lit up. " The ship made me think of it, Blanche. I mean to Avrite a book, a most beautiful book, that every one will read." " But what has that to do with the ship ?" asked Blanche. "Oh! don't you see?" replied her sister, knitting her brows. "It is so difficult to ex plain. I could tell about some of those people in the ship — fancy it, you know : what made them go away from home, and if they Avere glad or sorry, and how they lived on ship board, and then all about the beautiful new country."

Blanche clapped her hands ecstatically. "I 'm sure it Avill be nice," she cried ; " but, Ethel, I must do something too." "You might paint a picture, perhaps, like Mr. Burgess," said Ethel, doubtfully; she did not seem to have much faith in her young sister's powers. " We must have a pretty little house, Blanche," she continued, softly, " quite in the country, with roses and honeysuckle climbing over it, and outside, grass and trees. It should be near the sea, for I like to hear the waves. Then you shall have a room, where you can paint your picture ; I shall have a room where I can write 1113' book ; and when we are tired, we'll go out, and find the prettiest little children in the ATillage, and bring them in to have tea with us." "But who is to pay for the house ?" asked Blanche. I was surprised to find money running so much in the minds of these young girls.

Later I understood it. In their home money was the one consideration. Its importance Avas forced so constantly on the attention, that not one member of the family could, for a moment, forget the duty owing of right to the little yellow god. Blanche had started a difficulty. Ethel knew well the meaning of those obnoxious words, " rent and taxes." " I forgot I hadn't written the book," she said. "I tell you what it is, then, I must do it while we 're living with papa." " You might begin at once," suggested Blanche. Ethel sighed. " I 'm afraid I don't know enough. I heard Mr. Hart tell papa, the other day, that we were shamefully ignorant, and allowed to run wild. Papa said Ave should have a governess, and drawing and music lessons. Perhaps after that I should be able to write my book better.

I Avish I could see Miss Brook, and ask her about it." Miss Brook was the person whom, unconsciously to themselves, the children had been amusing by their simple conversation. She smiled to herself, and determined to know them better. But, at this time, she Avould say nothing, for fear of checking their simple chatter. Little more, howeArer, Avas said. The long talk had made Blanche restless : she jumped up, and, in spite of urgent entreaties from her elder sister, leapt lightly from the esplanade to the ridge of beach that lay beneath. Standing beloAv, she clapped her hands, and challenged her sister to folloAV her example. The defiance was irresistible. In her turn, Ethel jumped, but with little of Blanche's agility, and, in a few moments, they were running on the beach; the one tripping about, light as a fairy, the other ploughing along, like a young elephant at play.

I returned to tho pony-carriage, which was Avaiting for me at the end of the esplanade, and, as I drove to my pretty quiet home, made up my mind to a certain course of action. I was artfully laying my plans to draAV these tAvo young liA^es within the sphere of my influence. MR. CRAMPTON AT DINNER.

Chapter II. Mr

CRAMPTON AT DINNER. I knew thee to thy bottom ; from within Thy shallow centre to the utmost skin. My plan succeeded. The clever, magnificent Mr. Crampton was easy enough to manage when the finger had been laid upon his weak point ; and for me, once hearing Avas sufficient. I had been to his church, I had seen him in the pulpit, and I had read the man. When I sent my page, on the following day, with a note, artfully worded, professing admiration for his talents, and an earnest desire for personal acquaintance with one of whom I had heard so much, I knew what the result would be. I was not surprised, there fore, to hear, a few hours later, the rattle of wheels. Mr. Crampton had determined to take pity on my loneliness, and to honour my dinner table Avith his presence. Probably he knew VOL. i. c that his charity would meet with some reward.

He may jjossibly have learned that my table was generally well provided, andthat my wines were of the choicest. This weakness I had read in his face, and for this, too, I was ready. In my belief that the little note would meet with a favourable reception, I had been careful to hint to my cook, a person who understands me thoroughly, and is always ready to enter into my views, that a slight exertion of her culinary skill might possibly be necessary. I knew, there fore, that our dinner would in no way belie our reputation ; and the sound of wheels, AA'hich roused me from a series of rather • painful thoughts, caused none of those inner tremors that housekeepers often experience at the arrival of a self-invited guest. Mr. Crampton, in the mean time, was divesting himself of coat and hat, addressing my servants in the loud, important tone of one who knoAvs his footino in the house, and intends to act on that know ledge.

" Your mistress in ? Ah ! — yes; not her usual hour for receiving visitors ? Pray tell her Mr. Crampton." MR. CRAMPTON AT DINNER. And then, not Avaiting for announcement, — " This is the drawing-room, and," advancing as he caught sight of my dress; " here is Miss Brook herself. My dear madam," he continued, fluently, " I have not been formally introduced to you, but your note of this morning led me to feel that, possibly, a visit on my part would not be unwelcome. A lady in an unprotected position like yours — " I interrupted him. " Pray sit down, Mr. Crampton. This is exceedingly kind of you. Now you must allow me to keep you to dinner." " Dinner, Miss Brook ! you cannot surely be thinking of dinner yet ? " Putting up his eye glass, he inspected the clock. "Nearly five o'clock ? No, no, you must be wrong !

Why, I could have declared it was only four ; the way in Avhich we poor clergy are driven about is really fearful : meetings, pastoral visits, sick calls, — the clay seems over before it is well begun. For such pleasant duties as the present," and he bowed to me in a fascinating manner, " we have far too little time. I ought to be satisfied with having shaken hands Avith you, and run away at once." "But, Mr. Crampton," I answered, "I can allow you to do no such thing." I went to the window. "You came in a fly. With your permission, I shall send it back to Dover, and drive you home this eArening myself." Mr. Crampton protested still, but faintly. He had come to me evidently fully prepared to stay. In pursuance of my scheme, I went out and gave orders that the fly should be paid and dismissed.

When I returned to the draw ing-room, I knew, from the placid satisfaction AA'hich beamed from every line of Mr. Cramp ton's face, that he had seen the transaction from the drawing-room window, and that it afforded him boundless satisfaction. I was rising in his favour. In time, no doubt, I might be given a fairly high place in his estimation. The clergyman was a good talker. We chatted pleasantly until dinner was announced, and then, as dainty after dainty appeared before him, — for the cook had acted liberally on my hint, — a sudden silence fell on us. I was able, in consequence, to look at my guest more attentively, and discovered thus what neither in the church nor in the draAving-room had struck me. AIR. CRAMPTON AT DINNER. 21 Mr. Crampton had a handsome face. The nose Avas well formed, the forehead was fine, and round it the hair curled in soft, dark masses, tinged here and there with grey, but silky and abundant as that of his little daughter.

What was it that spoiled him ? I looked again. It Avas a happy moment. He was leaning back in his chair, to rest for awhile before attacking a dish which he declared to be one of his chief favourites. He looked thoroughly happy and comfortable. He was not speaking, simply enjoying. Evidently he did not think it necessary to disturb the placid repose of his enjoyment by any effort to make himself agreeable to his hostess. My method of receiving him had abundantly shown that with me, as with others of my sex, he had only to appear in order to subdue. And, Avhile he was congratulating himself on his Arictory, I was mentally draAving his portrait, and merci lessly noting his defects ; for, if the upper part of the face seemed handsome, even promising a certain intellectual jDOwer, the lower part was strangely contradictory.

The long upper lip, the small, crooked mouth, the heavy under jaw, and fat, ponderous chin, spoke, as I thought, of WANDERING FIRES. the animal side of a nature unhealthily de veloped — of a certain want of refinement and breeding. I looked aAvay from Mr. Crampton and sighed. This was the guardianship to which these young lives were committed. This was the father of the girl with the strange grey eyes — the girl who Avas already feeling her way into life's mysteries. Probably my sigh disturbed the pleasant, even tenor of Mr. Crampton's thought, or, perhaps, he felt it right and becoming to take an interest in my state of mind. " What ! sighing, my dear Miss Brook ? " he said, cheerfully. " Now, of all positions in life, I should have thought yours the most em-iable. A pretty comfortable house, first-rate seiwants, no anxiety for your own future, or for that of others ; nothing in the world to do but to enjoy yourself (for I suppose your labours at the pen are simply a pleasure to you).

If you kneAV AA'hat it Avas to have anxieties like mine you would sigh in real earnest." I had been anxious to draw him on to talk of his own affairs. I took up the subject with an appearance of interest. MR. CRAMPTON AT DINNER. " Are your anxieties so Arery great, Mr. Cranrpton ? I had hoped your position here Avas tolerably comfortable. Of course, your family is large ; but — " "Understand me," he interrupted, " I do not wish to complain. I suppose, as we poor clergy go, I ought to consider myself well off; but the Church is a poor profession, — -very poor." Then, recollecting suddenly that he knew very little about me or my ideas, he changed his key. " To be able to do good is an inestimable blessing, Miss Brook. I feel it every day of my life, and I cannot doubt that my ministra tions have been useful to some ; but a man must think occasionally of himself, and my family is a source of some uneasiness to me.

You see my first marriage Avas made very early in life. It seems absurd for a man of my appearance to own as daughter a tall, lanky girl like my eldest." " The present Mrs. Crampton then — " " Is my second wife. You see female com panionship was always a necessity to me. Ladies have spoiled me, Miss Brook." He smiled pleasantly across the table. In complimenting my sex, he meant indirectly to compliment me. I acknowledged his favour by a smile, for I was anxious to do nothing that might check the outflow of his confidence. And here was one mystery explained. I had seen Mrs. Crampton at church, in the vicar's pew. She Avas a little faded woman of a certain age, rather commonplace in appear ance. Her eyes were brown, her nose was sharp, her broAV was wrinkled. I had been puzzling myself in the endeavour to account for Blanche's beauty, and the peculiarity of Ethel's face.

It was explained. Them own mother must haA~e been something rather out of the common way. As is usual with me, I framed a little romance on the spot. I saw a tall, stately woman, not exactly beautiful, but bearing about her the indubitable signs of refine ment, high breeding, intellect of no common order. Early in life, I saAv her tied for ever to one of an uncongenial nature, and, even while Mr. Crampton Avas complimenting me, or my sex, so gracefully, I seemed, to myself, to be a witness of struggles that could only have one ending. The woman striving to see in her ideal all that she had hoped, and AIR. CRAMPTON AT DINNER. 25 believed to have found. Then, the slow, sad giving Avay to the inevitable, the abandon ment of a noble soul to its earthly fate, the taking up, by a weary heart, of a burden that must be borne even to the end; and, after this, another struggle — a struggle against contempt and hatred of him whom it was her bounden duty to love and honour.