Nature's Nursling: a romance from real life

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NATURE'S NURSLING i. a NATUEE'S NUBSLING t A ROMANCE FROM REAL LIFE BY LADY GERTEUDE STOCK AUTH0K OF "LINKED LIVES" IN THBEE VOLUMES VOL. I. LONDON KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH & CO., 1, PATERNOSTER SQUARE " O happy living things! no tongue Their beauty might doclare, A spring of Love gushed in my heart. And I blessed them unaware." Coleridge. " O somewhere, somewhere, God unknown Exist and be 1 I am dying ; I am all alone, I must have Thee." Myers. ( 77*-! rights of translation and of reproduction are reserved.) THIS STOEY IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED TO MY SISTER FLORENCE, IN MEMOBY OF- THE PAST. CONTENTS OF VOL. I. CHAPTER PAGE I. Given to Nature... ... ... 1 II. A Breton Village ... ... 31 III. Mrs. Leslie ... ... ... 52 IV. La Garenne ... ... ... 84 V. Sown on Good Ground ... ... 112 VI. Kilmorcie Braes ... ... 139 VII.

Hard Lines ... ... ... 165 VIII. Love without Wings ... ... 186 IX. "Adieu, mes beaux Jours" ... 216 X. Last Counsels ... ... 241 XI. "Loyal je serai, pendant ma Vie"... 262 XII. To Gravesend ... ...

Chapter I. Given To Nature

" Three years she grew in sun and shower, Then Nature said, ' A lovelier flower On earth was never sown; This child I to myself will take ; She shall be mine, and I will make A lady of my own. " ' Myself will to my darling he Both law and impulse ; and with me The girl, in rock and plain, In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, Shall feel an overseeing power To kindle or restrain.' " Wordsworth. " Drive me to Fiesole," said an English gentleman to the Italian driver of an open conveyance, which he had hailed on the Piazza Santa Maria Novella, in Florence, vol. i. B one bright spring afternoon about twenty one years ago. " Si, si, signore," replied the man, with alacrity, as he jumped down from his high seat to open the door of his fly for the Signore Inglese ; " and," he added in Italian — for in that language had the stranger addressed him — " to what part, then, of Fiesole does the signore desire that I shall conduct him ?

" " I cannot tell you," answered the gentle man, to whom the sweet Tuscan dialect seemed familiar. " I suppose it is not a big place ? Stay ! here is the address, I think ; " and he drew from his pocket a letter, to which he referred. " ' Villa Savonarola ; ' that's it. A countryman of mine lives there. Never mind his name ; you drive me to the villa, and it will be all right." The little town of Fiesole is about three miles from Florence. At all seasons of the year the drive is extremely beautiful, but more especially so in the spring-time. It ascends most of the way from Florence, and affords exquisite coups d'ceil not only of the fair city itself, but of the surrounding mountains, the fertile valleys of the Arno, and the wooded hill-sides gaily dotted with numerous villas and their gardens.

The road is bordered with straggling hedges full of white and pink roses, with which, in pretty contrast of colouring, mingle the purple iris and the blue clematis. The gentleman paid, during the early portion of the drive, small heed to the beauties by which he was surrounded. He had evidently brought with him his morning's correspondence, which he attentively perused, raising his head occasion ally, indeed, to glance hurriedly at any special point of interest to which the driver drew his attention ; but otherwise he read, and read continuously, several closely written letters, and seemed, moreover, to be wholly engrossed with their contents. He was a man of about twenty-seven years of age, tall, strong, and broad shouldered, with a good-tempered, pleasant face, frank, honest blue eyes, and thick yellow curls, which clustered in profusion over his well-shaped head and intellectual brow.

He was dressed with some negligence, and was evidently a man habitually careless of his personal appearance ; and yet there was something beyond even mere attractiveness in the charm of his manner and the singular sweetness of his smile. During the latter portion of the drive he appeared at length to have exhausted his correspondence, and began to look a little more about him. The carriage had nearly reached the immediate approach to Fiesole, when sud denly, from one of the villa gardens, separated from the road by a low stone parapet overhung with trailing flowers, there emerged through a light gate of trelliswork a little maiden, who seemed to be about seven years of age. She was carefully and beautifully dressed from head to foot, entirely in white. A cambric kerchief edged with lace, folded over her breast, was tied behind her, the ends reaching to the bottom of her short frook, which fell just below her knees, and which, as well as the dainty drawers just appearing beneath, was trimmed like the kerchief, with rich, soft lace.

The well shaped legs were encased in long silk stockings, and on her feet she wore white kid shoes with pearl buckles. A broad brimmed straw hat, lined with silk and trimmed with a simple wreath of snow drops, completed the bewitching but somewhat fanciful costume of the lovely child, who came dancing with peals of merry laughter into the road, a white kitten in her arms, and three noisy dogs barking behind her. " That belongs to Cyril," said the young man to himself, as he summoned his driver to stop ; then, springing to the ground, he addressed himself to the child, who, catching sight of him, ceased laughing, and stood staring at him with starry grey eyes that seemed to him familiar. " I am sure you can speak English," he began ; to which the little maiden answered — " Of course I can, because I am Eng lish ; that is to say, I am half Scotch, half Irish."

" Well, then, perhaps you will help me to find Villa Savonarola, where Lord Cyril Camion lives ? " " This is Villa Savonarola, and my father is Lord Cyril Camion," answered the child, gravely. " I thought I was not mistaken ; I knew you were Cyril's child. Let me see ; your name is Muriel, is it not ? " " Muriel Margaret Mary," replied the little girl, with emphasis. " What's ?**> " They call me Brown Jones Robinson in this part of the country," he said, gravely ; but the child, whose eyes were upon him, detected a mischievous twinkle in his. " That's not your name," she said, with decision. " Tell me your real name." Instead of answering her, tlie young man turned to dismiss the flyman, who, as he handed down the gentleman's small bag — the only luggage with which he appeared to be provided — inquired if the signore had further need of his services.

" Not at present, my friend," replied the young man, with grave humour. " I think this young lady here is going to invite me to remain for a few days." " No, I shan't ! I don't know you," said the child, promptly. " Oh ! but I feel sure we shall like one another. Couldn't you give me a trial ? " "I don't know," she answered, eyeing him very suspiciously ; " besides, the house isn't mine. It's father's, and he is out ; and you haven't told me your name." " Do you object to Brown Jones Robin son ? They are good old English names." " But they sound so funny ; they're like the picture-book. I say, are you really coming to stay here ? Do you know my father ? " said the child, approaching a few steps nearer. " Just take me to your father, and you will see if Brown Jones Robinson is a stranger to him."

" Well, you see, he is out." " Where is he ? " " In Firenze. He is always there ; he is very busy," said the child, with an air of importance. " Then I shall wait till he comes home. You see, Muriel," said Mr. Brown Jones Robinson, with imperturbable coolness, as he pushed open the gate and prepared to enter the grounds, " I have come some hundred miles to see him, so I shall stay with you till he comes." " I'm going out," replied Muriel, shortly ; and then, with some reluctance, she added, " Janet is in the house. You can stay wdth her, if you like." " Pray don't leave me just yet. Who's Janet ? Introduce me, at least." " Janet is my Scotch nurse." " Well, come with me, then, and make me known to the fair Janet." " How do you know she is fair ? " said Muriel, in a surprised tone. " What a funny man you are !

" Then she added, " I can't stay now. The dogs want their walk ; so does Lillie — that's my puss. I promised to take them." " Can't puss and the dogs wait ? I'm so hungry. I want something to eat, and it will be so dull to be all alone." Muriel hesitated, and again sharply scrutinized the persistent stranger. " I'll come, then," she assented ; " but you must not keep me long." "Not longer than I can help; but I have so many things to talk to you about, you really must not hurry me." " To talk to me about ? " said Muriel, much surprised. " Yes, you. How old are you, Muriel ? " " I am seven now ; in November I shall be eight." " Oh ! Do you go to school ? " " No. Father hates schools." " Have you got a governess ? " " No. Father says they are bores' " Who teaches you, then ? " " Father teaches me all I know.

I don't know very much yet." " Can you read and write ? " " Of course I can," said Muriel, loftily. " I am not a dunce, Mr. Brown Jones Robinson." " I beg your pardon, Miss Muriel Margaret Mary. So your father has taught you to read and write. H'm ! What else ? " " I learn some geography and history, and sometimes sums." " Does he teach you every day ? " " Oh no, not every day ; sometimes he is too busy." " Too busy ? What does he do ? " " I don't know. He has got some business in Florence which often makes him very anxious. Poor father ! " " Too busy, and very anxious ! I wonder what that business is ? " " You are very curious," remarked Muriel, severely. " Here's the house. Come in here, while I call Janet." The child conducted her visitor into what she called the " loggia," which en circled the basement of the villa.

The villa itself was a perfect specimen of Italian architecture, standing out in bold relief, with its white frescoed walls, amidst the deep green of pine and ilexes by which it was surrounded. The roof was surmounted by a balcony, upon which marble statues rose against the blue sky. On the terrace below, fountains shot up from marble basins, and a green lawn and Eng lish flower-garden completed the picture. The place, however, in spite of its elegance and beauty, was melancholy, pro bably because too much enclosed by the dark pine trees, which concealed the ex quisite views of the luxuriant plains of Lombardy, which might otherwise have been seen beyond. " Father eats here when it is fine," said Muriel, pointing to the table ready laid for dinner, with bright silver, sparkling glass, and pretty flowers.

" What will you have ? " " Anything I can get. If you ask me what I should prefer — a little wine, and some bread and fruit." The child vanished, but soon reappeared, followed by Janet, an unmistakable Scotch servant of the old school, who brought in a tray full of refreshments, and cautiously examined the stranger as she did so. " Ye'll no ken me, Janet ? " said the would-be Mr. Brown Jones Robinson, immediately recognizing in her an old acquaintance. " Preserve's a' ! will ye be frae Kil morcie ? " exclaimed Janet, almost dropping the tray in her surprise. " No sae far but that ye s'uld have kenned me, Janet. D'iv ye no mind Oreythwaite ? " " Ay, ay ! Eh, Guid save us ! ye'll surely be Maister Alan Grey o' Greythwaite, that used to play whiles wi' their lordships at Kilmorcie ? Miss Muriel," she added, turning suddenly on Muriel, " wha did ye call yon bonnie gentleman ?

" "The name he gave himself," said Muriel, with a displeased frown. " I knew it was not his right name. What is his name, Janet ? " " Eh, Miss Muriel ? and wha else s'uld it be but yer pawpaw's best freend, as played wi' his lordship when he was a wee laddie no sae tall as yersel' ? Eh, dear, dear ! " " You tell stories," remarked Muriel, with withering emphasis, when Janet, after some further conversation, at length withdrew. "It's wrong to tell stories." " Is it ? " he replied innocently, as he looked with grave admiration into the beautiful, fearless eyes raised to his, and at the flushed face, with its background of magnificent amber-gold hair, which fell in rippling waves over her shoulders. " Are you sure it is wrong ? How do you know ? " " I feel it," she replied ; " my conscience tells me."

" Doesn't your father teach you what is right and wrong ? " " Not often. He says I am Nature's child, and that she will teach me everything." " And what does she teach you, Muriel ? " '' Oh, lots of things. To be kind to everything ; to be honest ; not to tell stories ; to love animals and people — and a great many other things ; and to do always, when father is away, what I know he would like." " So you are Nature's nursling, are you, Muriel ? Well, that's not a bad thing to be. But tell me now, dear child," and as he spoke the young man grew suddenly serious, " does your father teach you nothing about religion ? — about God ? " " No," answered Muriel, promptly. " He says he knows nothing about God, so he can't tell me." " And have you never been taught any thing about God ? " " Janet talks about him sometimes ; but father says she has got a wrong idea about him, and that I must not talk to her, because she will tell me all sorts of cruel things of him which are not true."

" So you never go to any church ? " " No ; not on Sundays. Sometimes I go to the cathedral to hear the organ play. Father says, if my dear mother was alive she would take me there ; but I don't understand what they say, and he can't tell me." " I wonder what your poor mother would have said, to think of you growing up without any religion ? " said Alan Grey, sadly. " Poor mother ! she's dead," said Muriel, reverently. " If she were here, father says, I would be a Roman Catholic ; but as she is gone, I am nothing, because he can't teach me." " And why not ? " " Oh, he doesn't know. It often makes him very unhappy ; but he says when I am older I shall be able to judge for myself. That's why he wants me to be Nature's child " " Hark ! " interrupted Mr. Grey, suddenly ; " isn't that your father's voice ?

" " Yes, yes ; it is he ! " said the child, as she sprang across the green lawn to waids the gate, through which there entered, as she reached it, a young, handsome man, with beautiful, sad blue eyes and wavy hair and beard of amber-gold, who, as he sauntered leisurely to meet her, sang in a clear, sweet tenor voice, an air from a then favourite opera. " Father," exclaimed the child, " such a funny man is waiting to see you ! He calls himself Mr. Brown Jones Robinson ; but that's not his real name. Janet says he is your greatest friend. Are you glad, father ? " " My greatest friend ? Well, Muriel, that's rather a remarkable luxury for your father nowadays. Does he want a large bill paid ? because if so, he has come at a lucky time. My business is flourishing just at present." " Is it, father ?

I am so glad ; but I don't think he wants a bill paid. He comes from Scotland, and Janet knows him. They were shaking hands like old friends." " Surely, it is not Willie ! " exclaimed Lord Cyril, doubtfully ; and then, as he caught sight of the figure in the loggia — " Ah, by Jove ! Alan Grey ! My dear old fellow, by what infernal good luck are you here ? " " I have come on purpose to see you, Cyril." " I thought you were at the other side of the globe. How did you find me ? Where did you get my address ? " " From Lady Jane, Cyril, when I went to pay my respects to her and your father, about ten days ago. I only went home the end of last month. I have been travelling for the last three years." " And you are sick of Scotland already, are you ? Don't wonder ! Never could endure that confounded country myself.

Ugh ! it gives me the shivers to think of it. Rain for three hundred days out of the three hundred and sixty-five ; and the demon howling of that infernal wind, it's enough to drive a fellow stark, staring mad ! " " Nevertheless, it was neither the wind nor the rain that started me off again on my travels." " No ? What then ? " " Just the wish to see you, old fellow." " Well, I'm awfully glad to see you — 'pon my honour, I am, Alan," said Lord Cyril, as he warmly shook his friend's hand for the third time, and led the way back into the loggia. Then, flinging himself into one of the luxurious lounging chairs with which it was furnished, he passed his fingers lightly through his hair, and added, " Tell us how you left them all. How's her ladyship, eh ? " " Lady Jane is wonderfully brisk and active, and " " About as pleasant as usual, I suppose."

" I was going to say, if you had given me time to speak, Cyril, that she seems as fond of you as ever." Lord Cyril laughed, and shrugged his shoulders incredulously. " We will talk about them all presently," further remarked Alan Grey, casting a significant look at the child, who, clinging to her father's arm, listened attentively to everything that was being said. " In the meanwhile, tell me about this business I hear you have undertaken in Florence. Have you taken a sudden fancy to the fine arts ? You always were something of a painter, I know." " The finest of all arts, no doubt," responded Lord Cyril, sarcastically ; but at vol. i. c NATURE'S NURSLING. the time he vouchsafed no further explana tion. In the evening, however, when, after dinner, the two men sat with their cigars in the loggia, and Muriel in the distance romped safely out of hearing with her dumb friends, he reverted of his own accord to the subject.

" You inquired after my business," he said gravely, as he withdrew his cigar from his lips and slowly puffed forth rings of blue smoke into the transparent air. " Yes," said Alan, gazing steadily before him, and avoiding Cyril's eye ; " tell me about it." " I dare say you'll blame me ; but what's a fellow to do ? My infernal luck has left me no other chance. Business, you call it, do you ? " and he laughed. " That is how Muriel spoke of it." " Poor child ! Well, of course, I tell her that. I don't just care to let her know that her chance of food depends on her father's success at the gambling-tables." " Gambling ? " echoed Alan, scornfully. " Have you come to that, Cyril ? " " And what if I have ? " said the other, defiantly. " It's all very well for you, my good fellow, with a fine property and thirty thousand a year at your back; but pray remember I'm an exile and a beggar !

" " And whose fault is it that you are that, Cyril ? " " Come now, Alan, you are the last person I expected to be hard on me. What's a fellow to do in my position ? " " God forbid I should be hard on you, Cyril ! " exclaimed Alan, as he rose, with some excitement, and cast away his cigar in order to be able to converse more freely. " To tell you the truth, this is what brought me from Scotland. Your difficulties have reached Lord Kilmorcie's ears. He is much distressed about you ; and I am the bearer of a letter to that effect." " Where is the letter ? " asked Lord Cyril, gloomily. " Here it is. See for yourself," returned Alan, as he drew a letter from his port folio and handed it to his friend ; then sat anxiously watching him while he read it. That the contents did not please Cyril was evident, for he frowned heavily ; but NATURE'S NURSLING. the conclusion especially seemed to irritate him exceedingly.

" Bosh ! humbug ! cant ! " he exclaimed wrathfully ; and then he crushed the letter in his hands and cast it indignantly from him. "What is the matter?" asked Alan, quietly, as he stooped to pick up the offending missive, and smoothed out its crumpled pages. " You know its contents, and you ask me such a question ? " said Lord Cyril, with a searching glance. " Confound you all ! do you think I have no heart ? " " I must confess I thought that Lord Kilmorcie's proposal was a sensible one," said Alan, quietly. " Sensible ? Oh yes, very sensible ! Very Christian too, no doubt, and merci ful ! But no, thank you, Alan ; you can go back and tell my father, and his sister, that my child is all that is left to me on earth. Why, d — n me ! is not my miser able fate hard enough to endure but they must seek to rob me of the only creature who sometimes makes me believe in a good God ?

Take her from me, and there is left to me neither hope nor the rags of faith their cold, cruel creeds have left me." Lord Cyril had worked himself up into a state of violent indignation. Alan waited until he had somewhat calmed ; then said energetically — " You are unjust to your relations, Cyril. After all, what is your position here ? Have you not just acknowledged that you depend on chance for subsistence ? Can you blame your father, if he considers that, under the circumstances, Muriel would be safer under his care and that of Lady Jane, while you, as he very reasonably proposes, endeavour in a new world, among fresh scenes, to retrieve your lost for tunes ? " '* And do you suppose," retorted Lord Cyril, indignantly, " that as long as I have a penny in the world I will condemn my darling child to the wretched home that was mine ?

Do you think I will break my solemn promise to her most unhappy mother, and suffer her young mind to be poisoned by the narrow bigotry of aunt Jane's creed? Not I! They mistake me altogether. I may be a reprobate, a brand ripe for the burning, but I am a man of honour ! " "Then why in Heaven's name, Cyril, do you not send the child to a convent school to be educated ? Do you suppose it would satisfy her mother to see her grow up like a neglected heathen ? " asked Alan, with some impatience. " Who says she's neglected ? " said her father, fiercely. " I do. I asked her some questions to day before you came in, and I undertake to say that the state of ignorance in which you are bringing her up would much distress her mother." " I never undertook to instruct her. Religion is a mystery to me, and I will not dabble in what I do not understand."

" Then you should allow those who do understand to teach her." " When I find the lucky dogs, so I will. 'Pon my honour, I don't know where they exist at present." " Cyril, you are an odd fellow ! " said his friend, sadly. " Poor girl ! " he added, " what a terrible misfortune the loss of her mother has been to her ! " "Her religion did not help her much," remarked Lord Cyril, bitterly. " She was educated in a convent. Did it make her a good wife or mother, I should like to know ? " " Do you know where she is ? " asked Alan, looking away as he spoke. " The child, I see, believes her dead." " But she is not dead ; she lives some where in France. My poor Margot ! We might have been so happy. It is I who miss her more than my little girl. Yes, her loss has been my ruin." " Cyril," said Alan, after a few moments' silence, " why don't you marry again ?

I can't say I admire the divorce laws — I think they are unchristian ; but you are bound by no such scruples. Why don't you marry again, and give that poor child a mother ? " " I shall never marry while Margot lives," returned Lord Cyril, decidedly. " I got a divorce because they plagued me into it, and I was half mad at the time. I have always regretted it ; but I have had quite enough of marriage. I thought she loved me ; I might be again deceived." " Perhaps she did love you, poor woman ! " said Alan, with gentle com passion. " I am glad you speak kindly of her," answered Lord Cyril, a wonderful softness coming into his blue eyes. " She has broken my heart and ruined my life, but I can never forget how I loved her, and I am loyal to her, faithless dog though they believe me to be. Yes ; I see you are looking at the child, Alan.

Well, I do my best for her, and, as far as I am able, have kept my promise to her mother." " I can follow your meaning, Cyril ; but you have a broad conscience in these matters." " My conscience tells me," responded Lord Cyril, quickly, " that Margot only had the right to teach the child religion, or to say how she should be brought up. I surrendered my right before she was born. When Margot left me, what could I do ? I was helpless, broken down, and utterly wretched. Do you wonder that I clung to my child, and that I shrunk from sending her among strangers to be educated? I have done what I could for her out here. I have surrounded her by all that is beautiful in nature ; I have given her for friends the dumb creatures, that are truer, safer friends than men ; I have given her Nature for her mother ; and I have begged Nature to adopt my motherless child.

Look at her ! Don't you think she does her great mother credit ? " He pointed to where, wearied out with romping, little Muriel lay at a distance on the moss-covered bank, singing to her self, as she played with the soft ears of her fox terriers, the kitten asleep on her breast, and a large Newfoundland keeping pensive watch beside her. " A lovely picture now," assented Alan, gravely ; " but how in the future, Cyril ? " " Nature must provide for her own," answered Lord Cyril, hopefully. " If I teach her nothing about a God, about whom I am ignorant, at least I leave her mind free from prejudice. Some day, perhaps, her mother may awake to the recollection of her once boasted maternal duties. When she does, she will find, at least, that I have been faithful to my part of the compact. I have respected her superstitions, inasmuch that I have never taught my child to despise them ; and I'll take very good care no one else shall do so.

"Then I suppose you quite reject Lord Kilmorcie's offer ? " " Most emphatically I do," returned Lord Cyril. " I am not yet a candidate for the workhouse, and as long as I have a shilling I will not part with Muriel." He lit a second cigar as he spoke, and puffed away in dignified silence, which for some considerable time his companion did not care to interrupt. He too smoked quietly, with his eyes fixed on the little girl, who, all unconscious of the bitter strife provoked on her account, lay peace fully happy among the flowers, singing to herself as she watched the stars that had begun to glisten like jewels in the deep blue Italian sky. Lord Cyril Camion was the second son of the Marquis of Kilmorcie, a Scotch nobleman of ancient descent and rigid Presbyterian principles, who had brought up his family, deprived in early infancy of a mother's care, with the severity of a Spartan and the misguided zeal of an ancient Covenanter.