What's in a Name? etc

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WHAT'S IN A NAME? BY THE SAME AUTHOR. I. NELLY CHANNELL. With Four Illustrations. Crown 8vo, elegantly bound, price 3$. 6d. II. NOTHING BUT LEAVES. Cheap Edition, Crown 8vo, cloth, price 3_r. 6d. *' A pretty and well-written story."— Athenœwn. " Miss Doudney is known as a writer of graceful poems as well as a story-writer, and the delicacy which characterises her verses is reflected in her prose style. It is a tale of a pleasing kind, quite free from the unhealthy excitement which is sometimes not absent even in books of fiction written for the young." — Daily News. London : Hodder and Stoughton, 27, Paternoster Row. " He spoke feebly, and evidently suffered severe pain." P<*g€ 155. WHAT'S IN A NAME? BY SARAH DOUDNEY, AUTHOR OF "NOTHING BUT leaves/' "nelly CHANNELL," etc mify gigfct lllnstiatiens. bonbon: HODDER AND STOUGHTON, 27, PATERNOSTER ROW. MDCCCLXXXIII. Butler &* Tanner, The Selwood Printing Works, Frame, and London. CONTENTS.

Chapter I. It Was The Time Of Roses

It was the time of roses ; old Farlow's cottage walls were hidden under a mass of blossoms ; deep-red, pale pink, and creamy-white, they were piled up on the top of the crazy porch, and a few clusters even rested on the thatched roof. All day long the bees made a sleepy murmur about the little house and garden, revelling in the lavish sweets of the place ; and the birds cheeped, and trilled, and practised all their old summer tunes on the mossy boughs of the fruit trees. Year after year came and went without bringing any changes to this spot ; the small decayed dwelling, standing quite alone, and set deep in bloom and leafage, was as picturesque a retreat as ever haunted the dreams of a tired worldling. And the face looking out of a tiny casement, em bedded in roses, was one that could well bear ? 4 the closest comparison with the fairest of June flowers.

It was a delicate little face, framed in that rich auburn hair which is so rarely seen — the hair of Guido's " Beatrice Cenci." The cheeks were, perhaps, a thought too thin ; the beautiful features a trifle too sharply chiselled ; the com plexion almost too purely pale. The eyes, of deepest blue, looked out beyond the roses with a gaze that seemed to go forth in search of the invisible and unattainable. There is, nearly always, something of heaven in blue eyes ; and Rosa Farlow had the glance of one whose spirit communes often with an unseen world. Yet, at that moment, her thoughts had not arisen a step above the things that belong to earth and its interests ; and the saintly eyes were merely watching very eagerly for the lover who was just then turning the corner of the quiet lane. I have called him her lover, and the people of Deanwood were beginning to speak of him by that name.

But, in truth, it was an unacknow ledged bridegroom who was coming to visit an unclaimed bride. A boy of twenty-one and a girl of seventeen had dared to get married secretly in an out-of-the-way country church ; and the boy was Henry Jervaux, and the girl Rosa Farlow. He was the second son of General Jervaux, of the Bushes, Downshire ; and she was the only child of old James Farlow, the carpenter of Deanwood. It was about as mad a match as two young simpletons had ever been known to make ; for Henry was entirely dependent on his father, and old James, with his rheumatic limbs and failing strength, was beginning to find his daily toil too hard. His pretty Rosa, who had learnt dressmaking, might have to support her father by-and-by, and keep the battered cottage over his head until he had no more need of a home.

As yet the secret union was entirely un suspected, and the rapture of the foolish young couple was unalloyed. The few inhabitants ol Deanwood were scattered about in small farms and dwellings that were seldom to be found in clusters ; and no near neighbours made their comments on the comings and goings of Henry Jervaux. Only one or two persons had spoken ? jestingly about Rosa's gentleman-lover ; but there was no flavour of bitterness in the jest. Rosa was a favourite, as her mother had been before her ; and although the girl had formed no inti mate friendships, she had made no enemies. As to old James Farlow, he saw nothing re markable in the young man's frequent visits. Rosa, like her mother, was a worshipper oi books ; and Mr. Jervaux took a pleasure in reading with her, and helping her in those studies which had always occupied her leisure hours.

Ever since her mother's death, three years ago, Rosa had been quietly growing into her dreamy womanhood ; silent, self-contained, and living in her own world. Not a single home-duty was left undone ; her hands ministered gladly to all her father's daily needs, and yet old James was con scious that he knew nothing at all of his daugh ter's interior life. She was a mystery to him, just as his wife had been ; and everybody had won dered how that wife had ever consented to marry James Farlow. Years ago the old hall of Deanwood, after long remaining closed, was let to an elderly lady who was an utter stranger to the place. The new tenant came from London, bringing her own staff of servants, and soon establishing herself con tentedly in the old mansion, although the village folk wondered at her liking for the dismal house.

But Mrs. Chatterton loved quietness and seclusion, and seemed to desire no companion but the young woman who was always with her day and night. Rosa Rose invariably spoke of the old lady as her mistress. She gave herself no airs on the strength of her favouritism, nor did she ever exact any show of deference from the other servants ; yet it was clear that they never regarded her as being exactly on a level with themselves. Their respect and liking for her were sincere ; but they never treated her familiarly, nor called her by her Christian name. She was Miss Rose, a woman no better born, perhaps, than themselves, but gifted with a refinement and intelligence which naturally lifted her above their station. When Mrs. Chatterton died suddenly, and with out a will, the carpenter ventured to propose to the friendless Rose.

She was then no longer in ? 8 her early youth ; the sudden death of her mistress had left her unprovided for. Mrs. Chatterton's intentions respecting her favourite had been spoken of often enough, but they had never been carried out, and Rosa Rose, at five-and-thirty, would have to face life and the world alone. She was a delicate woman, accustomed to a secluded life and quiet ways ; and there was, moreover, a certain languor about her which made her shrink from seeking new associations. To the surprise of every one, including James himself, she quietly accepted his offer, and took up her abode, without a murmur, in the old thatched cottage among the bees and roses. There Rosa was born, and for fourteen happy years had all the advantages of her mother's training. From that mother she had inherited a love of study, and a quiet persistency in acquiring knowledge ; but there were deeper shades and stronger lights in her nature than the first Rosa had ever known ; and she was far more beautiful than Miss Rose, even in her early days, had ever been.

At the sight of that well-known figure in the lane, the girl's face was tinged with the faintest pink ; her deep-blue eyes dilated, and she drew a long breath of delight. In the next instant she was down-stairs, and out of doors in the old garden, among the flowers and leaves. The soft wind scarcely lifted a golden hair of that bright young head ; and the sun, breaking through a network of boughs, flung touches of glory on the folds of her brown-holland gown. It was a very plain gown, quite devoid of all those little trim mings and flounces in which village maidens usually indulge. Not a single bit of cheap finery marred the simplicity of Rosa's dress ; a cluster of rose-buds, fastened just below the white frill at the throat, were the only ornaments that she wore. But it was with a slower step than usual that Henry Jervaux approached the garden-gate.

There is no sight so keen as love's, and Rosa's first glance at his face drove the faint blush out of her cheeks. Something had happened ; it was the first hint of a shadow on their bliss. Hitherto they had been as happy as if they had had the whole world JT hat's in a Name ? 10 to themselves ; all-sufficient for each other ; hardly caring to look beyond the infinite satisfaction of every day. And to-day, of all days, when their Paradise was in the very perfection of its bloom, there was the warning of a coming change that would take the sweetness out of all. "Aren't you well, Henry ? " the girl asked. She put the question with her arms round his neck, and her blue eyes looking intently into his. " Yes, I am well, darling," he answered. No mistrustful thoughts marred the perfect se curity of Rosa's love ; and in another moment she had halfforgotten the shadow on his face.

His lips were pressed to hers ; his arms had folded her close to his breast ; and while they were silent the little world around was in its summer ecstasy of delight. Flower leaned to flower ; clusters of scented blossoms clung together on one stem ; the bee dived deep into the heart of the rose. Over head, bird called to bird ; from the copse the wood-dove was crooning out its sleepy love-note ; and flower-scents and bird-voices were as adjuncts of human bliss. " Let us go to our old seat," said Henry, scarcely loosening his clasp, and drawing his wife with him through the soft grass. The garden straggled off into a small orchard, and just between garden and orchard James Farlow had constructed a little rustic bower. He had made it for his Rose in the early days of their married life, when she had loved better to sit and sew out of doors than to keep within the dimly lighted cottage.

A scat just wide enough for two persons was sheltered by a twig trellis-work, now covered with a wealth of ivy and climbing roses ; and this spot was the favourite resort of the young pair, who wanted nothing but each other on earth. " Is not this happiness ? " said Rosa, as they sat together in their bower. And she rested her head on his shoulder, as she looked dreamily through vistas of chequered shade. They had sat thus when the fruit-blossoms were making a rosy flutter on the orchard-boughs ; and she had watched the fall of tinted petals on the sod. The apple-blooms were over now, but there was the abundant leafage, so thick that the sun beams could only slide through it here and there. Large moon-daisies were growing under the trees, looking like stars entangled in the long grass, and butterflies flitted betwixt sunshine and shadow Life was almost too languidly sweet to be broken by speech, and Rosa spoke in a soft tone, with her lips close to her husband's cheek.

" It is perfect happiness, little one," he mur mured. " I wish it could last for ever." " It will last as long as we live," said Rosa simply. " Of course I believe that we must take our share of trouble, as everybody does. But while we have each other, we cannot possibly know what unhappiness is." In the hush that followed her words a blackbird took up an unfinished song ; and the coo of the dove came floating softly from the woods. It seemed at that moment as if Rosa's little Eden was overflowing with the calm joys of utter con tent. "No power on earth can ever part us now," said Henry Jervaux ; and he shivered slightly as he spoke. She lifted her head from his breast. " Why do you even think of parting, Henry ? " she asked. " Is there anything that you are hid ing from me ? I thought you looked sad a few minutes ago ; — if any sorrow is coming on us, dear, you must tell me at once, so that I may prepare to meet it."

Girl as she was, there was a quiet fortitude in her manner that surprised him. " I have had bad news from home this morning, Rosa," he replied. " My father is ill ; and I must go to him." "Yes, you must go to him, Henry, and leave me. But only for a little while. Is the illness serious ?" " Lucian writes, and he docs not say it is serious. However, it is always hard to get at the real meaning of Lucian's letters. He has such a confoundedly long-winded style." "You are not in charity with Lucian," said the young wife, as her head sank back into its old resting-place. " I wonder whether he is really such a disagreeable fellow as you describe ? " " I have never said plainly that he is disagree able. But, Rosa, I believe that he is the only enemy I have in the world." He spoke in a tone of settled conviction, and the words were followed by a sigh.

Once more Rosa listed her head that she might look long and searchingly into his face. It was an oval face, almost too delicate, per haps, for a man, but wonderfully attractive in its half-boyish beauty. Full of melancholy tenderness were the large brown eyes ; the lips, sweet and sensitive as a woman's, were as yet only shaded by a silky fringe ; the skin, pale and clear, was tinged faintly with olive; and from some Italian ancestress Henry Jervaux had in herited the graceful languor of the south. He met his wife's anxious look with a smile ; but the smile was infinitely sad, and the girl's heart sank within her. " But, Henry, what have you done ? " she said wonderingly. " Why is Lucian your enemy ? " "I have done nothing, dear. Only my dead mother, poor soul, used to be absurdly fond of me, and I paid the penalty for being a pet.

Lucian fancied himself neglected on my account." " And your father ; — were you a favourite with him?" " Yes ; while my own mother lived. He saw everybody with his wife's eyes, and worshipped all that she worshipped. She died, as you know, and he married again ; — a very different woman." "You have said very little about your home life, Henry," said Rosa, nestling closer to him. " But I always guessed that the lack of love sent you to find love in a humble little thing like me. Poor boy, if your mother had lived, your whole life would have been changed ! " " I cannot imagine life without you," he answered ; and then came one of those pauses which love fills up in its own fashion. For a little while the pair were mute with contentment, enjoying the rapture of the hour, and forgetting the parting that was nigh at hand.

The shadows crept farther and farther across the orchard grass ; there was a deepening of the golden lights ; the apple-trees caught gleams of glory on their mossy trunks. The wings of dragon-fly and butterfly took new splendour from the amber glow that was bathing their little world ; the yellow hearts of the daisies were gilded afresh as the sunshine came down to their lowliness. " It is too sweet here," sighed Rosa, as a breath of soft air swept over them, bringing the scent of new-mown hay from the fields. "We shall be spell-bound if we stay longer ; and you must remember to-morrow, Henry." " Yes, I must remember to-morrow. Darling, I have been trying to make up my mind to confess the truth to my father." " It is what I have wished," Rosa said earnestly. " This concealment is the one cloud in our sky.

And now that he is lying ill " "Yes, he ought to be told. After all, it is cowardly to shrink from confession ; and yet, Rosa, how happy we have been ! " " We shall be still happier when you have told the truth," she said, in simple confidence. " Then, you know, we shall have nothing to dread ; even if they are very angry we shall know the worst." "They «'."// be very angry." Henry could not be cruel enough to hint at the extent of that anger. And yet he knew that he must prepare her mind for the storm which must shortly break on his head. As much as possible, he was de termined to bear the violence of that storm alone ; but it must touch her also. " General Jervaux is a kind man ; you have always told me so," said poor Rosa, hopefully. " He will remember his own youth and his own first love."

" Those are precisely the things that fathers never do seem to remember," responded Henry in a rueful tone. " There are very few old people who keep any sympathy for youth. It is always wicked to be young and enjoy one's life; always utterly absurd to make the most of one's brief spring-time. I wish my father could be young again, Rosa ; it might be easier to forgive me then." Rosa was silent. Her life had been too narrow and secluded for her to realize the mortification which Henry's marriage would inflict upon his family. She knew that he had been rash and foolish ; she knew that her husband's relations had just cause for deep resentment ; but she could not bring herself to believe that they would altogether refuse to pardon him. " Come indoors," she said, rising at last, and keeping back a sigh.

" You must eat something, Henry, before you walk back to Rushmoor." Reluctantly they left their enchanted bower, c ? 18 and went back along the flowery garden paths to the cottage. The light was dim in the little sitting-room, with its latticed casements over grown with roses ; and yet that small parlour was as neat and dainty as the cell of a bee. Old James would not return home till evening ; and Henry sat down in the chair to be waited on and served by Rosa's loving hands. She moved quietly to and fro, a tall, slender shape in a close-fitting gown, her bright hair catching every stray gleam of sun, her deep-blue eyes seeking her husband's face with the look of one who is never satisfied with seeing. Henry, in the calm of his intense content, began to feel that life with her in this old cottage would be infinitely sweet ; that it did not matter much about the outer world with its harsh judgments and chill disregard of feeling.

He had never been one of those lads who are possessed with the idea of rising. A very com monplace career was all that he had ever ex pected or desired. His father had destined him for holy orders, and was somewhat annoyed to find that, although Henry made no opposition to // zuas the Time of Roses. 19 his wish, yet he took no pains to fit himself for his intended calling. By nature Henry Jervaux was a dreamer, a poet without the power of expressing himself in verse, a philosopher who lacked the force that casts thought into definite form. He would never be anything, said the General discontent edly ; and then he sent the young man into the country to read with William Powell, the curate at Rushmoor. Now Rushmoor was three miles from Dean wood, and was incorporated with the Deanwood vicarage.

The church of St. Philip, Rushmoor, was a forlorn little edifice with a cracked bell that tinkled like a sheep-bell. It was very old, and rugged, and grey ; its walls had been mended with all kinds of odd materials, and its roof had been patched roughly to keep out the wind and rain. Better days were in store for poor ne glected St. Philip's, but they had not come yet ; and the vicar, being feeble and old, did not con cern himself much about those " few sheep in the wilderness " who worshipped there. As to William Powell, the curate, he had been. ? 20 usher in a school where Henry Jervaux was a pupil. And when Henry had said that he was used to old Powell's ways, and would rather read with him than with any one else, the General had readily agreed to send him to Rushmoor — all the more readily because the curate's terms were moderate, and Rushmoor was about the dullest place on the face of the earth.

" Old Powell " was a meek and quiet young man, who had sandy hair and wore spectacles. He loved study and retirement, and was quite contented with his lot and his curacy. If he had any kind of ambition in his nature, it was successfully concealed under the most placid ex terior ever worn by a parson. Nothing was ever known to put the curate out of temper. Even Mrs. Jake, who acted as his housekeeper, and was the crossest woman in the parish, could never wring from him one angry word. Well would it have been for Henry Jervaux if he had been placed with a man less tender-hearted and less compliant. "Old Powell" had always loved the lad with a foolish, unreasoning kind of love, and could It was the Time of Roses. 21 never find it in his soft heart to refuse anything to Henry. And so it had come to pass that William Powell had been so atrociously weak as to marry the young couple in St. Philip's church.

He had mumbled over the publishing of the banns, so that not a soul in his scanty congre gation could catch the sound of the names. There were never more than twenty worshippers at the best, and it was seldom that they num bered more than sixteen or seventeen. Of these, several were deaf and old, grey-haired grand sires and grandames who tottered into church and out again with only a dim conception of what went on there. Mrs. Jake and her husband had witnessed the marriage ; but unamiable as she was, Eliza Jake had the rare qualities of discretion and trust worthiness, and no disclosure was ever to be feared from her lips. As to Martin, her husband, who was sexton, he was not only hard of hearing, but such an inveterate stammerer that it would have taken him half a day to relate a piece of news. ? 22 The day had scarcely begun to fade when Henry rose to leave the cottage.

The pair lingered long over their good-bye, clinging to each other as if this were an eternal parting, and yet unspeak ably blest in the knowledge that they were soon to meet again. Their adieu was a kind of toying with sorrow ; a few days, at the most, would bring them once more together ; but they flung all the passion of an endless separation into their brief farewell. The familiar lanes and fields were steeped in the divine calm of a summer evening. And as Henry left Deanwood behind, and entered upon the lonely wastes of Rushmoor, the glory of the sunset was spreading far and wide. Here there were fewer trees to hide the sky from sight ; long, wavy lines of gold were stretch ing across the western horizon ; and the summit of every little hillock was touched with amber mist. The cool air was sweet with the scent of gorse and heath-born flowers ; not a single way farer was to be seen ; but the rabbits frisked out of their holes, rejoicing in the stillness and liberty.

Rushmoor pond lay upon the outskirts of the It 7uas the Time of Roses. 23 moor, and close to the pond was the lonely grey cottage in which the curate had taken up his abode. A little farther on stood the church, en closed by the dreary little graveyard, which was not often used now-a-days ; and unsheltered by elm or yew. Not even the rose and gold of the sunset could impart warmth or beauty to the dull walls of cottage or church ; yet Henry looked at them through eyes that invested the whole scene with the charm of dear association. He was making straight for the house, when he observed two figures standing close to the margin of the pond. The taller and broader of the two could be recognised at the first glance ; there was no mistaking the cut of the shabby clerical coat and the shape of the ancient felt hat.

It was clear that " old Powell " had come out to enjoy the evening air ; but who was his companion ? The stranger wore a fashionable suit of summer tweed ; and something in the turn of the head, and the general pose of the person, struck Henry with a sense of familiarity. "It can't be Lucian; and yet it's like him," he said to himself. ? 24 Just then the two men turned towards him ; and Henry was in doubt no longer. It was verily Lucian Jervaux who stood there confronting him with a hard stony look — as bitter a look, thought Henry, as had ever darkened a human face. " Have you brought ill news ? " the younger brother asked in an unsteady voice. " My father is he worse ? " " He is not much worse, dear boy," broke in the curate, rubbing his hands together in an un easy fashion, and looking as red as if his whole countenance had caught the glow of the west.

" There is no immediate danger, Mr. Jervaux says. But the fact is, Henry, that I've just been telling your brother about a certain matter that has been for some time on my conscience. It was a good opportunity, you see, for bringing it out ; and I hope I've smoothed your way for you, old fellow." " You mean that you have told Lucian of my marriage," said Henry, in a very quiet tone. " Yes, dear boy. And indeed it was best and wisest to speak out. I have saved you the awkwardness of the confession ; and I'm sure It was the Time of Roses. 25 you may rely on Mr. Jervaux's brotherly kind ness. He will make the best of the business to your father, of course. What is done can't be undone." All this was said with many nervous jerks and gestures, and deprecatory glances at the immovable Lucian. " Well," said Henry, unconsciously straight ening his slim figure, and still speaking quietly, " I meant to tell my father to-morrow, and ask for his forgiveness.

You have anticipated me, Powell, that is all." " Yes, yes, I've anticipated you," cried the curate, executing a kind of war-dance, and giving another appealing look at the hard face beside him. " 'Twas all for the best, dear fellow ; all for the best ! " " I hope it may be all for the best," his pupil remarked doubtfully. As yet no greeting had been exchanged by the two brothers. They had stood looking at each other, while William Powell danced and gesticu lated between them. " Have you brought me a message from home ? " ? 26 Henry asked at last. " I was surprised to see you, Lucian." He held out his hand as he spoke ; and Lucian, after a very slight hesitation, accepted it. " I came here to speak about my father's health," he replied stiffly. "The doctor does not think favourably of his case, although there is no fear of any sudden change for the worse."

" And he wishes to see me ? " said Henry eagerly. "I intended to start off to-morrow. I will go to-night ! " "Pardon me, Henry," observed Lucian in a freezing tone, " but after hearing Mr. Powell's confession I must ask you to reconsider your plans. This news must not be told hastily to my father." " I know he will be astonished and angry," said Henry, flushing. " Of course I feel how rash and wrong I have been, but if you had seen and known her •" " Spare me any raptures ! " Lucian held up his hand entreatingly ; and the flush deepened on his brother's cheek. " I am a gentleman, Henry ; and, really, the idea of accepting a // was the Time of Roses. 27 carpenter's daughter as my sister-in-law is quite too much for me. Perhaps I shall get used to it by-and-by, but at present " " She is simply perfect," said Henry, now very pale with suppressed feeling.

" But I don't want to talk of her. It was wrong, I admit, to have married without my father's consent, but if I live a hundred years I shall never wish the deed undone." A scarcely perceptible shrug of the shoulders was the only reply that Lucian deigned to make. And here the curate, well-meaning marplot, in terposed again. " Now, Henry, dear boy, be reasonable, and take an old friend's advice. Just leave your case in Mr. Jervaux's hands. He will go back to your father and break the news to him as gently as possible. You would only blurt it out, lad, and spoil everything if you took the matter upon yourself." " But I prefer taking the matter upon myself," said Henry earnestly. " Do as you like," remarked Lucian, with another slight shrug; "but permit me to say IT hat's in a Name ? 28 that you hardly realize how your communication will be received.