A Romance of Lincoln's Inn

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A Romance OF Lincoln's Inn Mayne's fingers closed firmly on the little hand he heta" A Romance OF Lincoln's Inn BY lZ SARAH DOUDNEY Author of" Through Pain to Peace" " Louie's Married Lije,1' " Godiva Durleigh," etc.t etc. "And this is an old fairy tale of the heart, It is told in all lands, in a different tongue : Told with tears by the old, heard with smiles by the young. And the tale in each heart unto which it is known Has a different sense. It has puzzled my own." "Lucile," by Owen Meredith. "'Nay,' said Sir Dinadan, 'for the joy of love is too short, and the sorrow thereof, and what cometh thereof, dureth over-long.'" — Morte D'Arthur. LONDON S. W. PARTRIDGE & CO. 8 & 9 PATERNOSTER ROW CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGE I. THE FIRST MEETING I II. MR. COTTRELL'S SECRETARY .... II III. THE SECOND MEETING 23 IV.

LOVERS 31 V. INVITED TO HARTSIDE 40 VI. INTRODUCED TO THE FAMILY . . . -49 VII. TALKING IT OVER 59 VIII. A LOVE GIFT 65 IX. THE GREEN-EYED MONSTER • ■ • • 73 X. A TIFF 84 XI. DEADLY PERIL ....... 93 XII. ROSEDOWN ..... . . 103 XIII. CHATTERING 110 XIV. WITH THE CAMDENS AGAIN . . . .118 XV. "THE DARK LADYE" I27 XVI. IN PARK LANE ....... 137 XVII. SHADOWS 145 XVIII. THE CRYSTAL 152 XIX. FAINT SHADOWS l6l XX. THE SHADOW DARKENS 1 68 XXI. AN OLD STORY 178 I VI CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGE XXII. UNCERTAINTY . . . . . . . 1 88 XXIII. HARD PRESSED 1 94 XXIV. THE WAY SHE TOOK 206 XXV. THE END OF THE DREAM 2l6 XXVI. THE SICK-ROOM 224 XXVII. PARTED WAYS ... ... 233 XXVIII. FETTERED 243 XXIX. COMING BACK 252 XXX. NELLY'S MISGIVINGS 261 XXXI. THORNS UNDER ROSES 272 XXXII. MAYNE'S ROMANCE 280 XXXIII. THE LAST STRUGGLE 288 XXXIV. IN DEADLY PERIL . 296 XXXV. THE END OF THE STORY

Chapter I. The First Meeting

" Behold her there, As I beheld her ere she knew my heart, My first last love; the idol of my youth." Tennyson. It was half past ten o'clock on a Sunday morning in July — a smiling, old-fashioned July, bringing the rustle of the good green-wood to the feverish heart of London. There was such a whispering of leaves, and quivering of shadows, in the quiet precincts of Lincoln's Inn that Mayne Comberford, stepping out of a house in New Square, could hardly believe that his country home was many a mile away. "Here she comes," he said to himself. The square was as still as if an eternal Sabbath had reigned there for ages. Only three persons were to be seen, a young lady and two children, who had just entered the enclosure from Lincoln's Inn Fields. They were walking slowly; the girl, with a child on her right and left, carried her sunshade with rather a languid air, and glanced about her with the manner of one who took but a faint interest in her sur roundings.

The children, a boy and girl, seemed to have been laid under a spell of quietness. But there was, apparently, something in the aspect of this indifferent young woman which made Mayne Comberford quicken his steps. As he drew nearer to her the little boy's tongue was suddenly unloosed ; he opened a pair of blue eyes very widely, and began to speak with a queer contortion of his rosy face. " Loo — loo — loo — look " he stuttered, and was immediately silenced by the girl's sweet voice. "Be quiet, Robby. You must not speak at all unless you speak slowly. Never be in a hurry. " "B— b— b— but " Naughty boy, " came from the smart little miss on the other side of the governess. " Hush, Louie, I won't allow you to scold him," said that dignified young person with great decision. "Ah, — Mr. Comberford?"

He had lifted his hat, and was standing before her with a deferential look. How wonderfully pretty she was! Angela's description had not prepared him for anything as lovely as this; but then Angela, poor girl, had never possessed the power of describing beauty. And, indeed, how could mere words do justice to this soft, brown-tinted face, or give the faintest idea of the deep brown eyes, richly fringed with black lashes? At nineteen Nelly Stanley looked the girl that she was; her lithe figure showed to perfection in a plain suit of pale grey; her dark hair curled rebelliously under a tiny bonnet adorned with one scarlet flower ; she had never been dressed more simply even in her school-days. " It is a great pleasure to meet you at last, Miss Stanley," said the young man, with a certain old-world courtesy which sat very well upon him.

She looked up into the honest blue eyes which met hers frankly, yet gravely. "Angela used to speak of you very often," she said softly, her bright-red lips trembling a little. "Yes," he answered, "she gave me more love than I deserved. And I miss her more than words can tell." "I shall never cease to miss her," Nelly remarked, in a low voice. " People laugh at the friendships of school-girls, but they don't realize that such friendships may influence one's life-time. Angela was so good — so unselfish." "Too unselfish," he replied. "She was afraid of giving pain to those around her, and would not let us know how ill she was." " It was just like her always : she never com plained. I want to hear all about those last days, Mr. Comberford," said Nelly, in a soft, pleading tone. " We will go into the gardens, and sit down for a little while under the trees."

The children, who had been listening to the conversation with all their might, now ran on ahead, and turned in at the gate which opened on the broad gravelled walk. Long afterwards, amid other scenes and under other skies, Mayne Comberford recalled the aspect of these gardens on this quiet Sunday morning. The stillness was intense; stately walls and towers were wrapped in a sunshiny calm ; a flock of pigeons, alighting on the gravel as softly as a fall of snow flakes, scattered themselves over the granite steps leading up to the Hall; spaces of green sward were chequered delicately with shadow pat terns of the boughs overhead. It was a sweet silent place, almost as peaceful now as in the days when Ben Jonson sang its praises, and Isaac Bickerstaff paced its walks in tranquil meditation. They sat down on a bench under the shade of the trees.

The delicious murmur of the summer foliage was over their heads, and the quietness of the spot enfolded them in its cloister like seclusion. Robby and his sister were watching the pigeons a little way off; and these two, who had met to-day for the first time, were left alone. There was a moment of silence in which Mayne Comberford looked earnestly at the face by his side. He noted the " down falling eyelids, full of dreams and slumber," and the brown glow shining under "the shade perpetual" of the jet-black lashes. Everything about this girl was dainty and refined; every feature was delicately moulded; the bloom on the smooth cheek was as rich and soft as the colouring of a chestnut-blossom. What sweet possibilities, half hidden, half revealed, one could find in this rare face! In that brief, silent moment Mayne felt the first heart-throb of the great feeling which was to shape and dominate his future life.

" I had a note from Angela, about a fortnight before she died," said Nelly, in her sad, sweet voice. "The handwriting was faint, and she wrote in pencil. She was a little weak, — a little tired, — she said; but her strength would come back with the summer. I did not even dream that the end was near ! " "If I had known," Mayne spoke under his breath, " I should never have left her for an hour ! But I went out one morning, and came back at night to find her dying." "And she told you to write to me?" Nelly half-whispered. "Yes." He looked away across the sunlit sward. "It was just at the very last. I saw her lips moving, and bent over her to catch the words, — 'write to Nelly, — my love.' I promised, and then she smiled, and was still." There was another pause. Mayne did not glance at his companion, but he heard her quick breathing.

Just then Robby, bursting with a grievance, came running up to the silent couple on the bench. " Lou — Lou — Lou — " he began, and then stopped short with staring blue eyes, and rosy mouth open. " Wh — wh — what have you m — m — made her cry for?" he demanded of Mayne in a stuttering passion, shaking a stout little fist in the young fellow's face. " She — she — she cried of her own accord," said Mayne, with great earnestness. "It'sn — n — no fault of mine." " Why — you — stutter — as — bad — as — me ! " remarked Robby, bringing out his words with unusual deliberation. " You should never speak in a hurry, you know." "I don't often," answered Mayne gravely. " But I can't help it when I'm agitated. You see, you upset me dreadfully." Robby had gone close to Nelly, and was resting one hand on her shoulder.

There was something protecting in the attitude of this sturdy little man in knickerbockers, something chivalrous and true in the blue eyes, that went to Mayne's heart. The girl looked up at her small champion with a smile, although the tears were trembling on her long lashes. "I'm all right, Robby," she said. "Don't be concerned; Mr. Comberford has been telling me about a dear friend of mine who is dead." "About Miss Angela Comberford?" asked Louie, with an inquisitive look. She had joined the group under the trees. "Yes; this is Mr. Comberford, her brother. Louie, it must be nearly eleven o'clock; don't %et hot and flushed before you go into chapel. " "My cheeks feel quite cool," returned the little girl, patting them with a self-satisfied air. " Robby, the big pigeon's come back again ; I got quite close to it a minute ago."

Having assured himself that no harm was likely to befall his governess, Robby started off to inspect the big pigeon; and Mayne and Nelly were alone once more. "Angela told me that you were happy with the Camdens," he said. "And it is clear that you have won the children's hearts; — well, that bonny little fellow is worth winning." "The world would feel very cold and empty without Robby," admitted Nelly, with a sigh. "A girl in my position cannot expect to make many friends. I have not a single relation ; I do not even know if my name is my own. Did Angela tell you my story?" " She said that you were an adopted child, " Mayne replied. "But she did not enter into details. Your history mattered very little to her; she loved you, simply and entirely, for your own sake." " And I loved her ; I can never, never say how well I loved her !

" Her beautiful face, uplifted to his, was glorious with the light of an intense feeling. For a second she was transfigured ; the girl had suddenly become a noble woman, with truth and devotion shining in her brown eyes. His heart began to throb fast again ; he was not yet in love, perhaps, but very near it, for he was actually saying to himself that he had found his Ideal. The chapel bell sounded at that moment, breaking upon the sweet calm of the morning, and coming with a brazen clash on the brain. Nelly rose at once ; the half-hour under the trees was at an end. "What a brute of a bell!" said Mayne, in a tone of savage disgust. " It was taken by the Earl of Essex at Cadiz, and I wish, with all my heart, that he had left it there!" cried Nelly fervently. "Is there anything more that you want to know about Lincoln's Inn?

I am as good as a guide-book. All the Camdens are of the law, legal ; and I have to instruct Louie and Robby in the history of the place." " My head won't stand any more at present, thank you," confessed Mayne, as they passed out of the gardens. "We part here; but you will tell me when I may call on you?" he added, in a voice of entreaty. "Yes, I will write," she said, giving him her hand. He stood and watched her slender grey figure until she had vanished into the chapel with her two charges. Then he followed, and a dignified verger was gracious enough to put him into one of the carved oaken pews, not far from Nelly. Perhaps he was in an impressionable mood that morning ; certain it is that he found himself quieted and subdued by the spell that was cast over him here. The colours of the rich stained windows ("those haim.ess, goodly windows" for which Archbishop Laud had trembled in his day,) rested the eye, and filled the place with a softened glow.

And then came mellow organ-notes and sweet choral voices which seemed to answer Milton's prayer, and "keep in tune with heaven." Mayne could see Nelly, standing up in one of the chancel pews set apart for the barristers, with Robby's fair curly head at her elbow. He was in a dream, and the light that surrounded her face was like dream-light, soft and dim. The voice of the preacher, reading the first lesson for the day, arrested his wandering thoughts, compelling him to listen; and that clear tone drew his attention to the words that were destined to echo in his heart through years to come. " I am distressed for thee, my brother Jona than ; very pleasant hast thou been unto me ; thy love to me was wonderful, passing the love of women. " What should David, the passionate Eastern king, know of the love of women?

Through Mayne's fancy there trooped a shadowy proces sion ; Michal, Ahinoam, Abigail, and that Bath sheba who was won by a grievous sin, — these and others, a band of phantoms, toys of the warrior monarch of Israel. And then he looked again at the sweet face which he had seen to-day for the first time. Could anything pass the love of such a woman as he believed her to be? He recalled her voice and eyes when she had expressed such pure devotion to the dead Angela, her school-friend. If she had loved his sister so well, how deep and strong would be another kind of love when once awakened in her heart. And if he were fated to win so rich a boon how safely he might trust in her, knowing no fear of change or falseness or decay ! When the service was over he went out of the dim chapel into the blazing sunshine, returning to his silent room.

From the window he looked down upon the empty square, the sunlit buildings with their varying lights and shades, the pigeons with their soft grey plumage. Surely there was romance in the very atmosphere of this quaint old place, and he was thrilled with a sense of coming delight. Yet it was strange how those words haunted him ; they rang in his ears with a mournful cadence, borrowed from the preacher's tuneful voice: — "passing the love of women."

Chapter II. Mr

COTTRELL'S SECRETARY. With thy hands go and do thy duty, And thy work will clear thine eyes. George Macdonald. Seabert Laurice was a barrister who occupied rooms in a corner house in New Square, — the corner that is near the chapel. It was a house that was sure to attract the notice of the few sight-seers who ever strayed into these deep solitudes. Scarlet geraniums brightened1 the little bit of ground in front ; and the branches of a fig-tree clung to the old wall, and framed the windows with broad green leaves. Laurice had gone away on Saturday, and was expected to return on Monday. Mayne Com berford was the barrister's guest; and as he sat at breakfast in the empty room on Monday morning, he missed his friend. Mayne was still a very young fellow, and youth longs to pour out its experiences to friendly ears.

There were a hundred things that he wanted to talk about. It was pleasant to think that Laurice would come home in the evening, and then all his affairs could be discussed over a quiet pipe. First of all he desired to make it plain that old Cottrell was a trump, — a little mad, possibly, but a trump for all that. Old Cottrell was Mayne's godfather, and nothing generous had ever been expected of him since Mayne's infancy. On the christening day he had presented his godson with a highly deceptive morocco case, which caused the heart of the proud mother to beat with hope. When the case was opened, its contents were surveyed at first with eyes well-pleased; but on a closer inspection the fork and spoon, embedded so regally in purple velvet, were found to be plated. Years passed away ; tlie baby, who had been so blissfully unconscious of that early insult, grew up to be a fine boy, and was even heard to say that old Cottrell was not half a bad fellow.

But Mrs. Comberford could not forgive the base deception which had been practised upon her. Women never forget these things; — especially good women of the motherly sort ; — and Mayne's mother preserved the morocco case in a drawer, opening it three or four times a year to keep her resentment warm. Other years came and went, and sorrow entered the pleasant old home among the Sussex downs. Mayne, the only son, and heir of the Comberford estate, had been brought up with the notion that he was to be a country squire, and live as his father and grandfather had lived before him. But the merry days of Sir Roger de Coverley will never return to the sadder and wiser children of this generation ; and Mayne's hopes and dreams were shut up between the brown covers of the old Spectator. Nowadays, when he opens those musty volumes, he recalls a vision of the enthusiastic boy who believed himself destined to be a reviver of the past.

" ' T were long to tell, and vain to hear " how Mr. Comberford's money had taken wings and flown away. He had never been a rich man, to begin with. Smarting under sundry agricultural disappointments, he had begun to dabble in stocks and shares; and then, just after Angela's death, there came the inevitable result of rash investments. The eldest daughter was gone; but there were four little girls to be educated and provided for; and the dear old house must be kept over their heads. It was not a mansion, but simply a country home, hallowed by sacred associations, and built in the substantial fashion of bygone days. If the Comberfords had left it, and gone elsewhere, they could hardly have found a cheaper dwelling-place ; it was best to stay on in the old spot, among the people who knew and loved them, and the friends who would not sneer at their economy.

They had the courage to say — "we are poorer than we were once;" — and this is the kind of courage that seldom fails to win respect, even in a cynical world. At two-and-twenty Mayne suddenly woke up to the consciousness that he must earn some money. But how? Wild thoughts of turning into a sort of Buffalo Bill floated through his brain ; he rode quite well enough to be a cow boy, he said to himself. But this idea did not find favour with his father and mother; and it was a relief to every one in the house when old Cottrell wrote to say that he was coming. Old Cottrell was acquainted with the family misfortunes, and they all felt sure that he had a plan for his godson. They were right. Mr. Cottrell had a plan. He was an extraordinary old man ; but he really had a liking for Mayne. The guest-chamber in the old house was prepared for his use, and even Mrs. Comberford was ready with a warm welcome.

He explained the purpose of his visit on the very first evening after his arrival, and strengthened the family conviction that he was mad, — quite mad. But, as his hostess remarked confidentially to her husband, it was a providential madness so far as Mayne was concerned. Mr. Cottrell was a barrister ; but he had never held a brief, and had devoted himself, all his life, to literary pursuits,- — fruitless labours, as his friends were accustomed to say. And now that he was well stricken in years his health was as sound as ever, but his sight was beginning to fail. He wanted an intelligent secretary to prepare his manuscripts for the press ; write and answer letters, and bear him company in his lonely hours. He was engaged in writing an exhaustive work on the occult sciences. "I have given up my house in Kensing ton," he said.

"Now that my daughter has married and gone to India, I have no need of a house. So I shall go back to my old chambers in Lincoln's Inn Fields which chance to be vacant. You shall have two hundred a year, Mayne, if you will come to live with me. " The offer was readily accepted. As Mayne said to his parents, it might prove to be a stepping-stone to something better. Mr. Cottrell had arranged to spend August at the seaside ; but he requested his godson to go up to town in July, to inspect the chambers in Lincoln's Inn Fields, and see that all his instructions to the workmen were duly carried out. The rooms were out of repair; Mr. Cottrell was a fidgety man, determined that his wishes should be scrupulously regarded ; — and there was a good deal to be done. Mayne at once decided to go to Seabert Lau rice for a day or two.

He was not too much occupied with his own affairs to remember the last injunctions of his sister Angela concerning her school-friend. It was in the early summer that Angela had passed away, and every word of hers was still fresh in the hearts of those who had loved her. "You know, mother, one doesn't expect to meet any one but a very ordinary school-girl," he had said to Mrs. Comberford. " Our Angela, in her goodness of heart, always turned her geese into swans. But this poor little thing is alone in the world, and I shouldn't feel comfort able if I didn't see her, and give her the books and things that Angela wanted her to have." "See her by all means," Mrs. Comberford replied. " My dear girl was devoted to her. The romantic attachment used to amuse me sometimes," added the poor mother with tears in her eyes.

" But it seems sacred now. " So Mayne wrote from Lincoln's Inn on Friday, asking when he might have the pleasure of calling on Miss Stanley ? And Miss Stanley informed him, by return of post, that she was coming to the chapel with her pupils on Sunday morning. She came, she was seen, and she conquered. It had struck those friends, who knew him best, as strange that Mayne's highly-imaginative spirit had not hurried him into many love affairs. But he had evolved for himself an ideal ; none of the pretty girls of his acquaint ance had ever lured him away from his shadow worship ; and he had scarcely even felt such touches as " are but embassies of love. " And now, as he told himself a thousand times, she had come : the goddess, long dreamed of, and waited for ; the world was a new place, and life had only just begun.

Is it always thus that the belle passion begins ? Not always ; but Mayne's heart was an empty shrine ; and Nelly was as much like a divinity as it is possible for a mortal to be. She came surrounded by a halo of romance and tenderness ; and she was, moreover, a most glorious surprise. Poor Angela, in her enthusiastic affection, had made Nelly almost ridiculous in the eyes of the Comberfords ; and had quite failed in convincing them that the wonderful Miss Stanley was at all a remarkable being. They had listened, with quiet smiles of incredulity, to rapturous and vague descriptions of this paragon, and had glanced with good-natured contempt at a very bad photograph of her much praised face. The remembrance of that dreadful portrait had been in Mayne's mind when he had written his first note to his sister's friend.

But could any portrait, of any beauty of the past or present, be more hideously unlike the original ? As Mayne sat at his solitary breakfast he suddenly bethought him of the "carte" which he had carelessly slipped into his pocket book. He took it out, gazed at it with mutterings of irrepressible disgust, and then fell to wondering if there lived an artist capable of doing justice to Nelly's loveliness? Angela had been right after all. The poor dead girl, whose opinions had always been lovingly slighted in her family circle, was not the affectionate noodle that her friends believed her to be. With keen self-reproach, Mayne recalled the good-natured sarcasms which he had levelled at his gentle, impressionable sister in days gone by. He wished that she could come back, if only for an hour, to hear his praises of her idol.

No listener could be half as patient and sympathetic as Angela; how strangely he had undervalued her good qualities when they had been always together! Well, Seabert would be at home to-night; and he could talk to Seabert, who was really the best fellow he had ever known. Meantime there was a good deal to be done; and if he was to do his godfather's bidding he must not sit dawdling over cold coffee and bacon. Two hundred a year ! It would be far too small an income for a man to marry upon ; although that idiotic little curate, in the Sussex village, had married on a hundred and fifty. The foolishness of curates was inconceivable; but at this moment Mayne was distinctly conscious that he viewed their reckless folly in a new and kindly light. Out of doors there was the broad sunshine of July, tempered by the softest of summer breezes.

The quiet square began to show faint signs of life. Mayne went out through the stately gate way into Lincoln's Inn Fields, and heard the music of many leaves as the light wind stirred the old trees. Workmen were busy about the large house which was to be old Cottrell's home ; a ladder was planted against the wall ; paint pots stood upon the doorsteps. Mayne entered at the open door, and ran lightly up a flight of stone stairs to inspect the chambers. Mr. Cottrell had taken four rooms on the first floor. The dining-room, spacious and lofty, had a bay window overlooking Lincoln's Inn Fields; the walls were covered with a sunny paper. A door opened into the study, which was nearly as large, but far less cheerful. Yet it was in this sombre room that Mr. Cottrell meant to spend the greater part of his time; here he would sit with his books and manuscripts ; and here Mayne was to work quietly with the old man, hour after hour, while the great world went its noisy way out of doors, and people laughed and wept, quarrelled and loved.

At that moment the young fellow's heart suddenly sank within him ; and he was more than half inclined to call himself a fool. Had he not taken up work for which he was not fit? He began to fear that the hours spent in this dim room would be almost intolerable. It seemed to him that he could not grow accustomed to his drudgery; he could work conscientiously, but never put his heart into it. He had been born and bred in the country; like old Douglas he " loved better to hear the lark sing, than the mouse squeak " ; and yet he had voluntarily accepted such a life as this. But then came second thoughts. He recalled his feeling of despair when the knowledge of his altered fortunes had come to him first. How grateful he had felt to old Cottrell for opening a door into the realm of toil and independence !

It was better to fag away at an uncongenial task than to stay at home, eating the bread of idleness, and using up the small portion set aside for his mother and the girls. They would never have told him to go, — those good people at the old house; — they would never, by look or by word have reproached him for staying. But his own manly spirit had told him the right thing to do; and he would do it at any cost. Sometimes when people go forth into the wilderness to seek their bread, they find honey to make it sweet. Sometimes when the path of duty leads across a waste, the strange land blooms with unexpected flowers. Coming up to town to do old Cottrell's bidding, Mayne had found one blossom rich enough to brighten a desert. Nelly was in London ; the very thought of her was as a glimpse of paradise.