The Kestyns of Cather Castle. A novel

Front matter

% Slffiul BY ROBEY F. ELDRIDGE Xonfcon DIGBY, LONG & CO., PUBLISHERS 1 8 Bouverie Street, Fleet Street, E.C (ALL RIGHTS RESERVED) CONTENTS CHAP. PAGE I. THE PORTENT .... I II. BY THE LAKE .... 9 III. ARTHUR KESTYN'S PRESENTIMENT . 1 9 IV. THE CURATE OF CATHERFORD . . 27 V. AN UNPLEASANT INCIDENT . . 38 VI A SINGULAR DISCOVERY . . .46 VII. THE OLD MANUSCRIPTS . . -53 VIII. QUESTIONINGS . . . 6 1 IX. ' AM I LIKE HER ? ' . . .69 X. MERCEDES . . . . .78 XI. THE CONTRACTOR . . . 85 XII. BROTHER AND SISTER . . .92 XIII. FATHER AND SON . . . . IOO XIV. A SUMMONS TO THE ARMOURY . . IO9 XV. A RUMOUR . . . .119 XVI. AT THE CONTRACTOR'S VILLA . . I29 XVII. AT THE RECTORY . . . 1 3,9 XVIII. TENNIS AT THE CASTLE 1 53 XIX. KATHIE . . . .165 XX. THE DREAM . . 174 XXI. MIDSUMMER DAY . . . . CONTENTS IV XXII.

THE EARLY LUNCHEON . ■ J94 XXIII. BERTIE AND HIS MOTHER . . 205 xxiv. nunsbridge en fete . ■ .214 XXV. ESME AND MERCEDES . ■ • 226 XXVI. SAFELY FOLDED . • • 237 XXVII. AN EXPLANATION .... 246 xxviii. ' I will meet you — there! . .254 XXIX. ESME'S DISCOVERY . . . 266 XXX. A RAILWAY JOURNEY . . .275 XXXI. IN THE ARMOURY . . . .284 XXXII. UNDER BROOM HILL SCAR . . 295 XXXIII. A REVULSION OF FEELING . . 303 XXXIV. A STORM . . . . . 3IO XXXV. CHANGES . . . . • 3J7 XXXVI. NEWS AT LAST . . . .326 XXXVII. ON THE WAY TO SETHORA . . 336 XXXVIII. SETHORA ..... 344 XXXIX. AN INTERVIEW WITH FATHER CHRISTOPHER 357 XL. A VISITOR AT CATHERFORD . . 370 XLI. CONVALESCENT .... 383 XLII. VANDALISM .... 396 XLIII. ESME AND RYDAL .... 407 XLIV. CONGRATULATIONS . . . 422 XLV. ' YOU SHALL NOT MARRY HIM ' . . 430 XLVI.

ON THE HEIGHTS .... 443 XLVII. THE CELL OF A MONK . . . 450 XLVIII. THE ADYTUM OF THE TEMPLE . . 460 XLIX. THE NIGHT VIGIL . . . . 471 L. BROTHER FRANCIS . . .479 LI. HOME .... LII. IN THREE CONTINENTS . . . r^02

Chapter I The Portent

A wild night. Pandemonium broken loose. A war of the elements. The flood-gates of heaven opened, and the deluge of waters, driven hither and thither by furious winds, beating down upon the storm-rent earth. Confusion and tumult without as the tempest dashed madly against the unyielding ramparts of the grand old castle, that from the vantage ground of a rising hill had for centuries frowned defiance on all assailants. How it mocked the violence of the rushing blasts ! Yet how little it availed to protect those within the shelter of its massive walls. For, as though borne to earth upon the wings of the storm, heralded by the lightning flash and the thunder roll, came the dread messenger of death. A mother, young and lovely, in the tender grace of her matronly beauty, was giving her life for that of her babes.

A lurid light had shone out from the western sky, and the rumblings of the coming storm were already in the air, when, as the sun was setting, they had raised the flag to proclaim, far and wide, the birth of a daughter of the House, that from the earliest feudal times had owned that ancient castle. A The wind blew a hurricane and the tempest was at its height, when, a little later, an old retainer, striving in vain to reach the flagstaff on that topmost tower, so that another flag might tell of the birth of a twin brother, was caught by the furious gale and driven with crushing force against the battlements, receiving injuries that left him a cripple for life. The night slowly wore itself on, and in the early morning, as the first streaks of dawn tinged the distant horizon with glowing colour, the mother passed away.

The tempest had spent its force, and a calm, deep and profound, had succeeded. And again the tower was ascended to lower the flag, so that flying at half-mast it might make known to all the tragic story of death. But the raging wind had shattered the strong staff, and the flag lay at its foot. And on the flag, staining it with blood, was lying a bird, with plumage black and glossy as a raven — a bird maimed and wounded, with broken beak and wing. Dashed, as it had evidently been by the frightful force of the raging wind, against the staff, it was, even as they found it, in the throes of death. Such was the story of Rupert Kestyn's birth. Brought, as it were, face to face with death on the threshold of their young existence, that was shadowed at its very commencement by a heartrending, and, to all human seeming, irreparable loss, and marked by what those who had studied the family history regarded as a dire portent of evil, he and his twin sister entered upon life predestined, some thought, to be curses, and not bless ings, to those around them.

For, though the Kestyn family was an old one, renowned in history, and looked upon by most as worthy of the motto ' Sans pair, et sans reproche' yet there were blots here and there on its otherwise fair escutcheon. There had been born into it, strange to say, as nearly as might be at intervals of a century, always, if the old records could be trusted, with portents of dire significance, sons, wild, headstrong and passionate, who had been a disgrace to the name they bore, whose daring THE PORTENT 3 deeds had made them outlaws, and even, in some cases, criminals. Once, once only, so the chronicles averred, the otherwise unvarying sequence of events had changed, and a girl, ill-starred from her birth, had grown to maturity, only to fulfil, with unerring exactitude, the predictions uttered by many in her infancy.

These were the tales of the gossips of the country-side, attested, so it was said, by the annals of the Kestyn family itself, yet treated with scorn and derision by the widely-respected but irascible baronet who was its head in this latter half of the nineteenth century. Sir Alfred Kestyn professed utter disbelief in the old wives' fables which told of ' the wicked Kestyns,' as they were colloquially called, and as for his younger children, the twins, he gave no heed to any portent as affecting these latest scions of his ancestral House. ' Look at them ! ' he would say, with a father's partiality and pride, as he watched their gambols on the wide lawns in front of the castle, ' Young imps of mischief, I grant you, but where's the harm in their frolicsome faces ? A spice of the Kestyn temper, no doubt, and all the better !

We Kestyns were always hot-headed, and if they're the same, what then ? I've fought my way through life with as hasty a temper as any man, and held my own with the pluckiest. Here, Rupert, my boy, double that little fist of yours and give your old father one straight from the shoulder. That's it ! There's a hard hitter for you ! ' And he would gaze admiringly on his small son, who stood with cheeks aflame and flashing eyes, the very image of a pugnacious young Briton. A characteristic picture truly, but one the effect of which was sometimes sadly spoilt by Rupert's twin-sister, Netta, coming up softly behind him, and, with a sly push, sending him sprawling to the ground, whilst she ran off screaming with laughter. If, however, the little lady's legs were not swift enough to carry her into a place of safety before her brother, rising and pursuing her with angry haste, came up, an exciting and un edifying scuffle would ensue, in which it is to be feared all notions of gallantry on the part of Rupert were lost in a blind fury, whilst Netta, thus brought to bay, fought with the ferocity of a young tigress.

On such occasions as these, the old servants at the Castle would shake their heads knowingly, and mutter darkly concerning the twins. ' 'Tis in them : they can't escape it — reprobates both ! ' some grey-headed servitor would declare ; whilst another would contend that the ban had fallen on one of the children exclusively. It was usually the old housekeeper who summed up the conversation with a sententious, ' Time '11 show ! but if you ask me, I tell you there's more in it all than some folks think, though they do say 'tis only the Kestyn temper. I know better. I haven't lived in the family since I was a mere slip of a girl for nothing. No flag ever flew at Master Rupert's birth; and as for Miss Netta, I saw hcr flag lying all rent and torn, with death upon it. What it means isn't for me to talk much about.

But this I'm sure of : it means no good — no good to them, and no good to Cather Castle ! ' If whispers of these direful prognostications ever reached Sir Alfred's ears, he would laugh angrily and derisively. He also, as has already been said, had, in full measure, that same family failing, the Kestyn temper, which had been a well-known factor in the character of almost every Kestyn from time immemorial. He was proud of it too — proud that with the baronetcy and estates there had descended to him this inalienable heir loom, which proved him, as he had been known to say, 1 no better than his fathers.' Sir Alfred was a fine specimen of the race to which he belonged — tall and spare, with an upright carriage, dark piercing eyes, and iron-grey hair. He called himself ' an old-fashioned Tory;' but took little part in politics, con tenting himself, as far as public life was concerned, with his magisterial duties, and devoting himself to the pur suits of an English country gentleman.

Choleric, hasty, and impetuous, yet chivalrous and generous to a fault, he was often ready, in cool blood, to own that he had been mistaken on some point upon which he had given ex pression to his views far more forcibly than discreetly in the heat of sudden passion. Tenacious of his own THE PORTENT 5 opinion, and generally clear-sighted, he was nevertheless ready, except when excited and irritated, to listen to argument on most subjects. But in reference to 'the wicked Kestyns,' no argument addressed to him ever got beyond its initial stage. As to them he always pro fessed himself, with much heat and gesticulation, 'an utter unbeliever.' Far otherwise was it with Sir Alfred's niece, Dacia Trollope, the only child of his sister, whose husband, an officer in the army, had died when Dacia was a few months old.

Since that event had occurred, Cather Castle had been the home of the widowed mother — who had become a confirmed invalid — and her daughter. Dacia Trollope's imaginative temperament revelled in her surroundings, and, to her, the anecdotal romances, the mysterious legends, and even the incredible ghost stories which, in the lapse of centuries, had woven them selves round the fabric of the grim old castle, possessed a reality that neither the incredulity nor the ridicule of others could destroy. And, of course, Sir Alfred's strongly expressed disbelief in the ' wicked Kestyns ' could not shake her certainty that the tales told of them were true. Not that she yielded for one moment to the idea that her little cousins could ever be like those bad men, the story of whose lives she had heard with awe and terror.

If there were, in the depths of her heart, a secret dread, inspired by the servants' tales, that a troublous, and perhaps even a graceless life lay before the twins, she fought against it with the desperate eagerness of one who finds herself opposing an impalpable, and therefore all the more subtle and invincible foe. The tendency to a belief in portents, omens, and the numberless tokens which, according to the folk-lore of a past century, that still finds a lodgment in obscure corners of the land, denote luck and ill-luck was the one weak point in Dacia Trollope's character. She was an attractive girl, handsome and accomplished, joining, as she had done, her cousins Arthur and Esme, Sir Alfred Kestyn's two elder children, in their studies. There had been other children, but these two alone survived.

Arthur, the eldest son, a little, yet not much older than Dacia, was in figure and feature a thorough Kestyn. He doubtless possessed some share of that tempestuous temper which some called ' the bane of the Kestyns,' but had it under control to an extent which made it almost impossible to detect. Indeed, in disposition and character he was lovable and attractive in an extraordinary degree. He was dreamy and intellectual, fond of speculating on abstruse and difficult questions, in a way that seemed un natural in one of his years. Ten years older than the twins, and five years older than Esme, as he was, Dacia had been his playmate and companion, and they had grown to confide in and influence each other, till, insen sibly their characters had formed themselves on the same model, and in thought and feeling they were in complete sympathy with each other.

Esme was her father's darling, a little sylph-like creature, with a glint of gold about her hair, and eyes that borrowed their colour from the soft, deep blue of the skies. Cather Castle, if the old portraits on the walls of its picture gallery were faithful likenesses of the wives and daughters of its past owners, had been the home of many fair women. But never, surely, had it given shelter, at one and the same time, to two girls more beautiful, yet more dissimilar in their styles of beauty, than Dacia Trollope and Esme Kestyn. It is a show place in one of the northern counties, this old English castle, standing, as it has stood for centuries, four-square, in massive grandeur, buffeted by all the winds of heaven. The slight eminence upon which it is built raises it above the level of the immediately surrounding country, that is, in some parts, wildly beautiful.

The date of its erection, and the names of its founders are lost in the obscurity which, in the lapse of ages, has slowly obliterated much of its history. Whoever they were whose brains devised and whose hands fashioned it, they built as if to defy Time's defacing and destroying touch. The solidity of its ancient walls has enabled them to outwear generation after generation ; and they bid fair to outlast generations yet to come. Unlike many a modern structure that usurps the name THE PORTENT 7 of castle, Cather Castle still retains, in most of its essen tials, the distinguishing characteristics of a building erected for defence in days when it was no child's play to live. Days those were of conflicts, apparently unending, which yet have closed into a peace and security the fighters of old never experienced, and might not have appreciated if they had.

Now their castles — grand relics of their might — look down from the past upon this our nineteenth century England, when men, if they have not as yet learned the doctrine of love in its fullest per fection, have still in some measure read aright the lessons of the ages that are gone. Not now do we settle our national controversies by internecine conflict, or the sharp arbitrament of the sword, but by wordy wrangle and legal enactment. That we have lost in dignity, and perhaps in chivalry, is probable ; but that, upon the whole, our ways are pleasanter, and our paths more peaceful, than if the England of the past, and not the England of the present, had been our home, is undeniable. On its three principal fronts the Castle is surrounded by the grassy slopes of the spacious and well-kept park.

On the fourth the ground is more broken. The carriage drive leading out of the extensive demesne in that direction winds, now upwards, now downwards, through plantations, and commands views of exceeding beauty. Here and there, through the branches of the lofty trees, may be caught glimpses of a lovely lake, in the centre of which is an island that looks a very paradise of verdure. It is a wild and picturesque country that lies on this side of the Castle. High hills and deep gorges ; a river, rolling between steep banks, crossed, now and then, by rustic bridges ; a waterfall, which men come miles to see — such are some of the characteristics of the scenery. Spanning a wide valley in the distance may be discerned a noble viaduct, above which, once and again, the steam from the engine of a passing train will appear, and hang like a white cloud long after the train has rushed forward on its journey.

A fine old gateway flanked by two enormous towers, gives entrance to the quadrangle in the centre of the castle. There are beautiful gardens close to the ancient pile, and near it is a large enclosure, used in long-past times as an archery-ground or bowling-green. High banks and walls surround the extensive lawn of closeshaven turf forming -the central portion of this enclosure. A deep fosse or moat, which was one of the defences of the Castle, has been filled up near the gateway and in some other parts. From time to time, the successive baronets have, as far as was possible without removing the salient features of the building, modernised the interior of that portion of the Castle which the family inhabit. This now forms a comfortable, indeed a luxurious residence. Other parts of the structure, whilst not suffered to become ruinous, have been left very much as they were centuries ago ; all necessary repairs being carried out as renovations, not alterations.

The exterior of the Castle has in no case been interfered with, but remains what it has always been. Cather Castle, therefore, has not lost its distinctive character in outward semblance. As a fortress the antiquarian and the sightseer may still regard it. The conflicts that once raged around it forbid that it should be called, like many an English home, ' a haunt of ancient peace.' Yet the spirit of restfulness and tranquillity has brooded over it so long, that it is now as much ' a quiet centre in a troubled world ' for those who have grown to love it as their home, as any less ancient or more prosaic dwelling, whose walls never echoed with the shouts of combatants, as its defenders withstood the assaults of determined and revengeful foes.

Chapter II By The Lake

To Arthur Kestyn — now in his twenty-fourth year, and returning on a lovely summer evening, after an absence of many months in foreign lands, to the home of his ancestors, Cather Castle, with the glories of the sunset, crimson, purple, and gold, over and about it, was a sight moving and impressive beyond expression. Never strong, a lengthened tour had been recommended to him, and had worked wonders, as it appeared, in reestablishing his health. His father's welcome was warm and outspoken. The relations subsisting between the baronet and his eldest son were of the most cordial and affectionate description. Yet the son's character and tastes were a complete enigma to the father. Sir Alfred was accustomed to say of himself that he took life as he found it, and made the best of it, and could not see why his eldest son should not do the like.

It passed his comprehension, he would add, why Arthur should worry himself about all sorts of outlandish quibbles and cranks that, as far as they had to do with temporal matters were best left to philosophers, and when they trenched on religious subjects, were for the clergy to explain if they could. Why should not Arthur enjoy a run with the hounds, instead of poring over musty books in the library, or entering on long discussions with his uncle, Canon Kestyn, the holder of the family living, the Rectory' of Catherford, a village CA THER CASTLE 10 which lay just outside the park on the road to Nuns bridge, an ancient borough about three miles off. Sir Alfred comforted himself sometimes with the reflection that Rupert was ' a chip of the old block' and would never be a bookworm like Arthur, but would develop into an English county gentleman of the ordinary and orthodox type.

And indeed book-learning was the last thing the boy of twelve had evinced any liking for. He was by no means backward in his studies. His twin sister, Netta, was regarded as a prodigy of learning for her age, and he was not very far behind her. But both of them were as much addicted to out door sports and pastimes as Arthur had always been the reverse. Their reception of their elder brother was hearty and uproarious in the extreme, though they spoilt it by a quarrel as to who should be foremost. To do Rupert justice, it must be recorded that after a moment or two of contention, he gave way, and allowed his sister precedence. Esme, with a sweet winning grace, all her own, met Arthur quietly, yet very affectionately, whilst his aunt querulously inquired, after the first greetings were over, why he had not returned long before.

He answered her gently enough, referring to the doctor's positive orders. And when she showed a disposition to harp upon the point, Dacia, whose welcome had been full of deep, though partly suppressed feeling, broke into the conversation to stifle her mother's insistence. To Arthur and Dacia this reunion was an event of no ordinary significance. Each of them had looked forward to it with longing and ardent expectation. Now it had come, the meeting stirred their hearts to the very depths. Words trembled on their lips which, though left unspoken, found expression in the eloquent eyes, that told more than the lips would have dared to utter. There had never been any formal engagement between these two, yet Dacia's heart had followed Arthur in all his wanderings, whilst Arthur's, turning ever, in fond recollection, homewards, had turned towards her, as to one dearer to him than life itself.

The home-coming, if a quiet, was yet a very happy one. When Arthur had left England, months before, he had looked exceedingly weak and ill. Now, Sir Alfred seemed almost justified in the strong assertion, made as he bade his eldest son good-night, that Arthur had come back as strong as a horse, ready to outlive the longest lived Kestyn of them all — ' and some of them were no chickens when they died,' he added dryly. Arthur made no reply to this; but his father took the smile with which he responded for assent. Dacia, watching him anxiously, understood it differently. There was, or so it seemed to her, much of sadness in his look as he turned away, as though he, at least, did not believe his father's prediction. She had heard him say, once, before he had left home, that long life was not for him, and there recurred to her mind the recollection of a day when he had read to her from some favourite author, with a self-appropriation that had been all too evident, words, touching and eloquent, yet inexpressibly sad, for they were ' the music of the iast farewell ' of one 'who died in early youth.' And the joy and happiness of Arthur's return was clouded by a feeling of melancholy foreboding, which she strove in vain to shake off.

On the afternoon of the next day, a small party were sauntering through the woods which lay between the Castle and the lake. Dacia was there, with Arthur and Esme. Three young men accompanied them, strangely dissimilar from each other in appearance and character. The elder of the three, a man of eight and twenty or so, was tall and commanding-looking, with strongly marked but plain features. Alan Rydal was a young barrister, whose friends predicted for him a distinguished career. It was too early yet to judge whether the prediction would be verified; but work flowed in upon him and left him but little leisure. He was not merely clever, but painstaking and conscientious. Those who knew him best credited him with the possession of no small amount of ' saving common-sense.' A fluent speaker, he had the rare gift when he chose to exert his powers, of holding audiences spell-bound as they listened to the telling words which fell from his lips.

His father —the senior member of a leading firm of London solicitors— was the family lawyer of the Kestyns, as his father had been before him. The son, Alan Rydal, was a welcome guest at Cather Castle. In social life he was sometimes accused of absence of mind. Esme Kestyn, who could be, as her father said, ' a terrible tease,' rallied him laughingly upon this on many an occasion. A close friendship subsisted between him and Arthur Kestyn ; and Sir Alfred had been heard to say that he would as soon have Alan's opinion as his father's, for that Alan had an old head on young shoulders if ever man had. The second of the three men had an unmistakable look of the Kestyns about him. He was small and slightly made, but lithe and active to a degree. Herbert — or, as he was almost universally called, Bertie — Kestyn was the only son, indeed the only child, of the Rector of Catherford.

Alas ! according to Canon Kestyn's ideas, Bertie was the very opposite of all that a clergyman's son ought to be. Gay and mercurial, with boisterous spirits, and a temperament to which mirth and drollerj' were habitual, he announced, on this particular afternoon, that it was his special mission to put life and soul into the party, which he proceeded to do by noisy jests and grotesque exhibitions of agility and fool hardiness. These proceedings of the rector's son, though they appeared to amuse his cousin Esme immensely, were evidently far from agreeable to the sixth member of the little party, a tall, spare young man, in strictly clerical garb, who regarded them with marked disap probation. Eustace Lyndham, the curate of Catherford, was a striking-looking figure. There was an appearance almost of asceticism about him.

His features were clearly cut, refined, and intellectual, but pale and worn. His eyes had a peculiar fascination about them, a kind of compelling, pleading look, especially when, roused to animation, he spoke strongly on some question which affected or interested him deeply. Then his whole soul would glow in them, as, warming with his subject, he became^ eager and excited in supporting the views he held. This was invariably the case when he argued in favour of the advanced opinions he entertained as to points of church government and ritual. That afternoon the young clergyman was evidently in a by no means equable frame of mind, and the cause of his discomposure was surely some deeper feeling than mere annoyance at Bertie Kestyn's words and actions. The fact that Lyndham was discomposed had the effect of raising Bertie's spirits to effervescing point, and mak ing him as exasperating and full of provocation as pos sible.

That the curate resented this behaviour on the part of his rector's son was evident, though for the most part he treated Bertie's sallies with silent contempt. At times, however, his face expressed plainly enough his disgust at the antics of this most frivolous person. Now and then one of the others would interject a remark, in the hope of checking the exuberance of Bertie's spirits, but to no purpose He was irrepressible, and absolutely impervious to any implied rebuke. Before long, the party, emerging from the plantations, came out upon a narrow strip of green-sward, that bordered the lake for a short distance. Here, flinging themselves on the sloping bank of close shaven turf, they gave themselves up, for a few moments, to enjoyment of the lovely scene before them. It was one of those perfect days when the earth, robed in all the freshness of her summer beauty, seems, to the entranced beholder, like a dream of heaven.

And truly, the outlook was Eden-like in its sweetness and placidity. The verdant loveliness of the surrounding woods was mirrored on the calm surface of the lake ; and as the central point of all stood the island, reflected also in the pellucid waters. Bertie Kestyn, even while he gazed on this prospect of surpassing beauty, hummed beneath his breath the air of a popular song. It was he who finally broke the silence. His words showed that, notwithstanding his levity and carelessness of demeanour, he was by no means insensible to the beauties of nature, or regardless of the problems that encompass life. They were flung down as a challenge to the young clergyman, and were uttered with an accent of scorn that contrasted strongly with the speaker s usually gay, light-hearted tone. 'And yet, Lyndham,' he said, ' you preach that all the glorious beauty of the earth, such as this around us, is but the prelude— the ante-chamber— to a yawning hell, a bottomless pit of fiery flame — of excruciating and ever lasting torment !