His Life's Magnet

Front matter

■ ■ ■ ■ ■ ■ I m ■ BY THEODORA ELMSLIE AUTHOR OF "THE LITTLS LADY OF LAVENDER," (lA QUEEN OF ROSES," ETC. "Love is strong as death. Jealousy is cruel as the grave; the coals thereof are coals of fire which hath a most vehement flame. " Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it." LONDON FREDERICK WARNE AND CO. AND NEW YORK CONTENTS. PRELUDE. CHAP. TAOE THE HOME-COMING OF THE LORD OF THE MANOR I I. A PORTRAIT IX OILS — BY SIR PETER LELY . . 25 II. PATRICIA 35 in. "rex" 54 IV. " SUNSHINE OF PRIMROSEVALE ''.... 66 V. "HOW CAN I THANK YOU?" 8l VI. THE P.EV. GEORGE HAMLYN IS EFFUSIVE . . 92 VII. MOTHER AND SON 105 VIII. AT TRIMROSEVALE RECTORY 126 IX. ON CHARITABLE DEEDS INTENT . . . . I40 X. THERE'S NO PLACE LIKE THE COUNTRY! . . I$7 XI. LADY GRISELDA MAKES HER SON'S PLANS . . 165 XII.

SIR REGINALD ENTERTAINS HIS GUARDIAN . . 170 XIII. HENRY CONQUEST MAKES A FALSE MOVE . . 1 83 XIV. SIR REGINALD HEARS THE STORY OF THE CURSE 198 XV. ONLY THE OLD, OLD STORY 206 XVI. THE REV. GEORGE HAMLYN IS APPOINTED TO THE LIVING OF BROADLANDS CONTENTS. VI CHAr. P4GE XVII. BE TRUE TO ME! 221 XVIII. THOSE SWEET JUNE DAYS 234 XIX. BAL MASQUE AT FOURWINDSMEET . 24O XX. REX RECEIVES HIS CONGE 264 XXI. MY FATHER ! 273 XXII. COME BACK TO ME ! 2S7 XXIII. POUR PASSER LE TEMPS 293 XXIV. JEALOUSY CRUEL AS THE GRAVE . . . . 301 XXV. LOVE STRONG AS DEATH . . . . . 318

Epilogue

. AUTUMN PRELUDE. THE HOME-COMING OF THE LORD OF THE MANOR. " The hearth in hall was black and dead ; No board was dight in bower within, Nor merry bowl nor welcome bed. ' Here's sorry cheer,' quoth the Heir of Linne." — Old Ballad. " In the very May-morn of his youth ; Ripe for exploits and mighty enterprises." — Henry V., i. 2. In the county of Sussex there nestles, beneath the shadow of that irregular undulating line of hills popularly known as " the South Downs," a tiny out-of-the-world village ; one of many like hamlets, which, on account of the profusion of fragrant yellow primroses that blossomed in its vicinity during the months of early spring, had acquired, in days gone by, the appropriate name of Primrosevale. The sweet simple flowers bloom there still, and the place is called by its original appellation, albeit of the origin of that appella tion few care to consider.

This village is in itself remarkable for nothing, excepting, perchance, a certain quaint, rustic picturesqueness, which an artistic eye may note in its ancient, whitewashed, straw thatched cottages, that, for the most part, hide their ruinous and dilapidated state by trailing plants of jasmine, roses, and clematis, that, flourishing in sweet wild tangle, climb in at the open lattice-windows or cluster about the porch. It is simply an English village, old-fashioned, out of repair, neglected — grossly neglected — yet pretty and healthy withal. The home of rosy-cheeked, stout-limbed children, who form a striking contrast to the pallid little inhabitants of the model artisans' dwellings of towns ; of strong sturdy lads and lasses ; of careless stupidity and happy ignorance — just an ordinary specimen of a type that has been well known since the days when " Sweet Auburn " first appeared in print.

Yet the neighbourhood of Primrosevale is in no wise commonplace. It is indeed quite unusually beautiful. Vast copses of pine and of larch ; wide commons of golden gorse and purple heather ; low-lying verdant meadows, inter sected by clear broad streams, that appear as ribbons of silver set on cloth of emerald ; little, craggy, shrub-covered knolls and hills, stretch to right and left for many miles. The wooded, grassy downs, upon which the sun, playing hide-and-seek with the tiny cloudlets that float over the azure sky on a summer's day, throws ever-shifting, con stantly varying lights and shadows — in themselves things of beauty— afford, indeed, a never-tiring study to one possessed of artistic perception ; for day by day, nay, even hour by hour, upon their undulating slopes can be traced changes of tone and colour, regulated by the effects of the sun's light or by the season of the year.

The population of Primrosevale was, two years ago, by no means large, and it consisted almost entirely of poor field-labourers and woodcutters with their families. One or two small farmers worked, more or less unsuccessfully, farms that their ancestors had held before them with greater profit, and an enterprising tradesman grew fat and wealthy on the proceeds of the one village-shop and the old inn. At the Rectory resided the Eev. George Hamlyn, in cumbent of Primrosevale, with his family; some private pupils (young men destined for the Universities or the army), and a couple of tutors. Away some two miles westward lay the broadacres and fine park of Fourwindsmeet, the ancestral home of the Guest family. The Guests had been lords of the manor from time immemorial, and were of ancient birth and great wealth.

They were a proud, passionate race, and had succeeded in gaining the fear, but never either the love or the respect of their tenants. The house that stood on the estate two years ago was of Elizabethan date, very picturesque, exceedingly inconvenient, and, according to village superstition, the favourite haunt of ghostly visitants, the tale of whose supposed wild midnight revels struck terror to the boldest rustic heart that beat, and gathered new horrors with each succeeding generation. That " the great house" was haunted was, in the hamlet of Primrosevale, an old-established fact, and the community accepted it as a thing of course — a necessary evil. For quite fifteen years the Guest family had entirely relinquished their old home to the ancestral spectres who were supposed to covet it, and for that period no one had disputed the sway of these ghostly visitants.

Not that the Guests were superstitious or nervous — far from it; but the late Baronet had died when his wife was yet young and his only child and heir a mere infant, and on his death, the lady of the manor — who had no love for the countiy, and a positive distaste for "that musty old place," as she called her beautiful Elizabethan home — had shut up the manor-house for an indefinite time, and taken up her residence at the family mansion in town, which she found more to her taste. Since then but little had been heard in the neighbourhood of Primrosevale of the young Baronet and his mother, nor had they revisited, even for a few days, their fine territory, which, left to the management of servants, did not increase in value as the years went by. It was, therefore, a surprise to both the Rev. George Hamlyn aud his parishioners when, one February day two years ago, the news was bruited about the village that " the family " was shortly expected at Fourwindsmeet Manor, and that all was in preparation for this event.

Not a single person showed any pleasure or satisfaction upon receiving this piece of information. The Guests were not beloved. They had, indeed, from time immemorial been an unpopular race. One, Job Hedger, a stone-breaker, only echoed the un spoken opinion of the village commune when, with surly candour, he remarked — ■ " These Guest folk come on a bad breed. They never brought no good luck yet, nor they never will ; and this 'ere place be better without un." One night, about a week after the rumour of the impending return of the Guests to Fourwindsmeet Manor had first reached the out-of-the-world village, a heavy gale blowing over the South Downs from the not far distant sea brought a driving mist of rain and wind to the neighbourhood of Primrosevale. It was indeed a terrific storm, bearing on its wings desolation and destruction.

Huge trees, that had withstood the wars of the elements through years and ages, were felled to the ground as though they had been but brittle saplings. They crashed to the earth like the lofty masts of some distressed ship that is downridden by the surging breakers of a tumultuous sea, and the woods re echoed with the thunder of their fall. Then the wild, strong wind, with demoniacal shrieks and howls of triumph, tore over their prostrate, broken trunks, and rushed on across the hill to work more mischief ; }'oung larches, quiveringly bending their silvery boles to the mighty blast, snapped asunder like the slender stems of some delicate flower. Clouds of inky blackness chased each other in rapid succession across the sky of night. No ray of moonlight, no single star penetrated the dense gloom that prevailed.

All around was as dark as pitch, while the wind, shrieking and soughing through the bare branches of the trees, and the occasional crashing noise of falling timber, were strange and eerie sounds, and added an effect almost amounting to horror to the scene. And all the time the rain beat down upon the hillside, steady, unintermittent, violent ; and a humid steam or mist arose from the soaking earth like a fog at sea, and stole in spectral forms over the crest of the wind-swept downs. Suddenly a clear vibrating bell rang out strong and loud above the noise of the surging wind and the falling timber. It was the bell of the church-clock at Primrosevale pro claiming the hour of eleven. " Hist ! Betty woman ! Is't the gate-bell ? " "The bell! What bell? " " The gate-bell, woman, the gate-bell, to be shure ; what else 1 Why, you're a-sleepin' still."

" That I ain't. Sleepin' 1 I never did more nor close my tired eyes, what's half blinded by work, for just a few moments o' quiet thought. A woman may do that widout leave, I suppose. Now you, man, 'a bin sleepin' fast this half-hour. Dont'ee deny it, for I heard thee snoor ! " " Which if ever there was one given to imaginations ! Why, I never slept; no, not one single wink. Hark'ee tho' ! the bell agin. Sure it's the bell, and noo mistake." The old lodge-keeper rose from his arm-chair by the fire, and, shuffling to the cupboard hard by, took down from a shelf in it a lantern, which he proceeded to light with slow and fumbling fingers. At this juncture the bell again pealed through the house. " Darn 'em for their want o' patience ! " muttered the old man, starting nervously at the sound. " Such late visitors don't come after no good, that's my notion," remarked his wife sagely.

" Let 'em be, Martin, my man ; let 'em be. They may think us sleepin' or dead, for all I cares." " You're forgettin', Betty, as a lodge-keeper has his dooties," replied Martin Dyke solemnly, as he adjusted the wick of the lantern with clumsy fingers. " A plague on dooties ! " ejaculated the old woman, with out moving from her chair. " Well, you can go to the door alone sin' you will go ; but don't ye draw the bolts till ye know who's t'other side th' oak." " Oh, I b'aint afeared, if ye be, woman ! " " A' right, then ; don't call out to me if ye see summut ye don't like." "What d'ye mean, eh?" The lodge-keeper halted, lantern in hand, and regarded his ancient helpmeet with a somewhat perturbed expression of countenance. " I mean as there's naught canny abroad i' these parts arter ten o' the clock," she replied ; " but go on — ye b'aiot afeard, you know," added the old woman with a gibing laugh.

She had scarcely spoken when a violent and prolonged pealing of the bell re-echoed through the cottage and caused the venerable couple to start nervously, while the glass of the lantern in Martin Dyke's hand rattled loudly. " Yer hand shakes ; ah ! yer afraid, my man ! " exclaimed the old woman, recovering herself. " On my sowl, I do believe as 'tis the owld un hissel' ! " exclaimed Martin with chattering teeth. " Idiot ! Why, he'd nivver trouble to ring th' bell ; he ain't so punctilious," responded the goodwife sagely. " Go on, Martin ; open th' door, if ye're goin' to. The bell will break soon if it continues like this." " Coom wid me, then, woman — coom wid me. Not as I'm affrighted — oh, in course not ! but 'tis fit a wife should be her man's helpmeet. So coom, Betty, coom." He took her by the gown, and, laying aside the coarse knitting upon which she had been employed, the old woman reluctant!}* arose.

The couple proceeded into the narrow entrance passage with no great alacrity, Betty keeping well in the rear of her good man. As they crossed the threshold of the kitchen, the person outside, whoever he might be (and with regard to his identity Martin and his wife entertained grave and apprehensive doubts), commenced to belabour the old oak door of the lodge, which was outside the park gates, with a stout stick in a violent and exasperated fashion. " Are you all dead ? " cried an indignant voice ; " or what the deuce is wrong with you? Open this door instantly, you confounded idiots, or, by Jove, you'll repent it ! " " There's imperence ! ' muttered old Dyke, but he looked decidedly frightened. "Ask who's there," whispered his wife, nudging him with a bony elbow. " Who's there, and what be yer business, a troublin' honest folk at this time o' night ?

" shouted the old man, gathering courage from sheer desperation. " Ay, who are ye ? " echoed Betty shrilly. " Reginald Guest," was the unexpected reply. " Now, perhaps you'll condescend to open this confounded door. By George, if you don't, I'll kick it to smithereens ! This is a nice night on which to keep a man standing at his own lodge-gates imploring admittance like the veriest beggar ! Open the door, I say, or I'll smash it in in your stupid faces." The voice of the unseen was young, imperious, and angry. " 'Taint no ghost ! " said Martin Dyke. "No; 'tis young master, shure enough," returned his wife. " We'll catch it for keepin' on him out ; tho' how should we know who 'twas — darn 'im ! " " I beg your pardon most 'unable, Sir Reginald," cried old Dyke, as, handing the lantern to his wife, he withdrew, with still shaking hands, the heavy bolts that secured the oak door ; " but we wasn't a expectin' of your honour — we had no bit o' notion.

I hope you'll excuse us, sir, this onct, as we was quite ignorant of who was there," continued the lodge-keeper as he turned the key in the lock. The door flew open instantly, and, with an exclamation of impatience, a young man stepped into the narrow passage of the lodge. The heavy fur-lined coat he wore sparkled with raindrops. He pulled off his tweed travelling-cap and shook the rain from it. Betty, with a curious look, raised her lantern so that its pale yellow light fell full upon him. Sir Reginald Guest was tall, with a slight yet athletic figure, broad shoulders, and a well set, shapely head. The lantern's dim light showed a handsome young face — ■ even a fine young face. The features, straight and of Grecian type, were faultless ; the dark eyes were brilliant and expressive — bold, daring eyes, that had never drooped before the gaze of man.

The countenance, tanned from exposure to sun and rain, was as hairless as a girl's, and no moustache hid the well-formed if somewhat full-lipped mouth. This gave him a young look, and the Baronet at first sight might have passed for eighteen or nineteen, albeit he was two-and-twenty. For the rest, he possessed a very pleasing smile, that seemed to transform the entire expression of his somewhat proud — I had almost said supercilious — face. His hair — brown with a touch of auburn — would break into curl despite close cropping. His voice was frank and pleasant, if a trifle imperious. He was, as Betty Dyke saw, a true son of the old race. He laughed pleasantly, and old Dyke regarded him with an expression of relief. " I hope your honour will pardon my seemin' negligence," he said, more assuredly.

" Oh, you're a fine lodge-keeper ! " cried the young man, laughing still ; " a splendid lodge-keeper ! Fancy refusing admittance to your own master ! 'Pon my soul, there's something remarkably funny in the bare idea of being bolted and barred out of one's ancestral home ! ha-ha ! So you were not expecting me, eh 1 " " Not till next week, if ye please, your honour. Were we, now, Betty ? " " Surely not. Her ladyship wrote to the housekeeper as how all was to be in readiness next Monday." " Well, open that gate, my good people, and waste no time over it," said the young Baronet. " It's blowing great guns outside, and I've yet a mile to walk up to the house. If you'd not put such spikes on to that gate, I'd have been over it ages ago, but those spikes would have defied even Dick Turpin, confound them !

" Old Dyke grinned. "They're put there on account o' those darned poachers, your honour, which, from the long absence of the fam'ly, has become that imperent the keepers don't know what to do wi' 'em. I'll unlock th' gate at onct, sir." The old fellow took down from a peg in the passage a big rusty key, pertaining to the great five-barred lodge gate, and shuffled out into the darkness of the night. — ' . r, Bettvfollowed him with the lantern well elevated. "Lor, what a night!" exclaimed the old woman, as a violent gust of wind nearly tore the cap from her head and threatened to demolish the light she carried. " What a night, to be shure ! You ain't got fair weather for yer home-comin', master ! " "I haven't, indeed," Sir Reginald Guest responded, with a somewhat rueful laugh. " Nor have I received a warm welcome, thanks to you, my friends.

Good night, Mrs. Betty. I have some recollection of you, but when we last met I must have been a very small chap, and I daresay you don't remember me." " Eh, but I do, tho' 'tis more'n a dozen years sin' I last set eyes on ye, master," she replied. "You got the same face still, the mortal image o' yer grandfather, as you might be the walkin' ghost of Sir Hubert. A}-, well I remember ye ! A sma' boy in a holland frock, a lying on the turf theer by th' lodge-gate, a hollerin' and a screamin' like to blazes, all 'cause yer nurse wouldn't let ye make mud-pies ! A fine temper ye had, to be shure — the family temper, if I may say so, sir." " Ah ! I've no doubt I was a spoiled little rascal. Well, good-night again, Betty. Hullo, Martin ! got that gate open? " "Well, noa, sir," came a shaking voice from the dense darkness outside.

" Caan't say as I have. The darned thing's that stuck I can't move it. It ain't bin opened for nigh on a dozen years, ye see, yer honour. But wait only a moment and I'll manage it — heigh, then ! " and there followed the sounds of a vigorous but evidently ineffectual struggle, then a breathless explanation, — " It'll give soon, Sir Reginald — it must, if ye'll just bide a bit, sir. Take a seat, sir, please. Betty, give — give," — still more breathlessly, — " give th' master a chair." But the master strode forward. "Here, get out of the way, Martin, and let me settle accounts with the bit of timber ! " He put his strong right shoulder to the gate, and im mediately it flew open and swung back, creaking upon its rusty hinges. " That's the way to do it ! " "Lor, sir, but you'remain powerful," cried old Dyke, admiringly.

The young man laughed. " I'm main hungry, at all events, my good friend, and don't desire to waste any more time in reaching my destination. Good-night, and again thanks for your warm welcome ! " "No offence, yer honour, I hope?" " No offence, and take this as a proof. You and Betty can drink my health." He tossed a sovereign to old Dyke, who caught at it greedily, and murmured some confused thanks. "Bless ye, sir!" cried Betty from the porch. "It's bin a hard winter for us pore folks, and that is koindly wel come. Bless ye, Sir Reginald ! " " Amen ! " said Sir Reginald. " Good-night, missus," and with a nod of careless good-nature to the old crone, whose shrill voice pronouncing blessings sounded strangely eerie above the howling of the storm, the young man stepped briskly forward. Suddenly he halted and looked back over his shoulder.

" Hi, Martin ! my man will be by soon. Don't go to sleep till you have let him through the gate. D'you hear 1 " " What do un say 1 " asked deaf old Dyke, turning to his wife. She did not reply, but putting her hand against her mouth called out, "A' right, master, a' right — we'll look out." Sir Reginald Guest nodded, and, striding forward into the dense darkness, was quickly lost to sight. " What did un say 1 what did un say, woman ? " inquired Martin Dyke somewhat captiously. "That his serving-man be coming by in a while, and we's to stop up and let un thro'. Well, I hope they'll like their welcome up at the great house ! " the old woman laughed maliciously. "What d'ye mean, Betty, eh?" "There's not a soul theer." "Eh?" " All the servants, every man jack, be gone a holiday makin'. They thought as how the family wouldn't be down till next week.

The house be locked, bolted, barred. Young master may ring bells and beat at doors, but he'll not get in to-night, ha-ha ! " "Why on airth didn't ye mention this here before, woman ? I'll run arter him now as fast as my old legs will carry me. He can bide here to-night ; 'twill be better nor no shelter from this storm." Betty took a step forward and clasped Dyke's wrists fast with her long bony fingers. "You'll do no sich thing, Martin, my man, for if ye did, 'twould seem like as tho' we'd reported on the servants, and in consekence we'd never git one bit more o' kitchen stoof. D'ye understand me, man 1 " " It do seem a shame," he muttered, " to leave the master out sich a night as this. Why, hark to the storm ! " " Ye likes the kitchen bits well enough, tho'," said Betty, and dragging him into the house, closed the door behind them with a sounding bang.

"'Tis an ill home-comin' for th' lord o' the manor," the old woman remarked, as she bent over the kitchen-fire and poked it into a cheery blaze. "Both hour and weather be agin' the lad. D'ye remember the ould saw about them Guests, Martin, eh 1 " "Noa — leastways not clear-like." " 'Tis said as th' eldest son nivver comes o' age, all along o' a ouldstandin' curse as rests upon the race — and there's a tale attached." "The tale?" " It runs as how in the days long sin' gorn by, somewhere in the sixteenth century I fancy, there was a mysterious death at the great house of Fourwindsmeet. 'Twas a young lady as died, one Mademersel Le Marchant, I think she were called ; a furiner she were, and had been left by her father in Sir Raymond Guest's care (him as was then the Baronet) to bring up wi' his own children.

Well, quite sudden-like this young lady died, and 'twere towld to all as might inquire as to what had ailed her as she were struck down all sudden-like wi' the fever. So it rested, and no one thought much about th' matter till one day, when the deceased's brother, young Le Marchant, coorn suddenly to Fourwindsmeet. It seems — 'tis a queer story, but this is how it runs — as before this young fellow got the news of his sister's death, he had a dreadful dream, in which the girl stood before him, her white gown stained wi' blood, her eyes set in death, and said in a holler voice, ' I have been foully murdered ; do you avenge my death ! ' Well, on the followin' mornin' young Le Marchant got news o' her death, and he was pretty nigh demented, for he believed as there had been foul play. He could not get away then, for he had to stay in them furin parts a-fightin', bein' a military officer, but as soon as the war wur over, he coom to England and to the manor o' Four windsmeet, determined to sift the matter to the bottom.

When he spoke out to Sir Raymond Guest, the Baronet pretended to be sore hurt in his feelin's, but did his best to soothe the angry young fellow and to put him off the scent. 'Twere all o' no use. Young Le Marchant went away swearin' as he'd never rest till the crime, as he felt sure had been committed, were exposed and its perpetrators 1; punished. By his orders the coffin of Mam'selle Le Mar chant was dug up, and — it was found to contain nothin' but stones ! Le Marchant's fears were thus confirmed. He sought high an' low for witnesses o' the crime, for some evidence as might discover them as was guilty of it. But the young man's tryin' was all in vain. Things was diffe rently managed in those old days, and the law weren't what 'tis now. " It were two year arter this, that one day young Le Marchant and the Baronet o' Fourwindsmeet met in the Manor Park along by the old chapel where had been interred the coffin of stones.

What they said to one another none ever knew, but their words must a' grown hot and strong, for all on a suddent Le Marchant drew his sword and made a lunge at the Baronet. Sir Raymond Guest sprang aside and avoided the blow, then whipping out the short jewel-handled dagger from his belt, he drove it straight through the lad's heart. "As young Le Marchant fell dying on the turf, one or two servant-men, affrighted by the noise, ran up, thinkin' as how theer master wur in trouble wi' some bold high waymen. 'Twas these fellers as heard the young furiner's dying curse, and from them it have been handed doon through many generations." Here Betty Dyke stopped breathless. " But the curse — what was it ? " asked old Martin curiously. " Twere as how for all generations yet unborn, and for all time so long as the Guest family were left on the face o' the earth, in the manor o' Fourwindsmeet or out o' it, th' eldest son should never live to coom o' age.

That curse has bin fulfilled ; no eldest son has ever yet coom o' age. They 'a all died as children or in early boyhood thro' one thing or another. Ye know that, Martin man ? Why, just look at the eldest son o' the last generation — Sir Hubert's eldest. He were a sine healthy lad, as strong and bright a feller as ever drew breath ; and then, quite suddent like, he was took wi' the consumption, and pined away and died afore he were sixteen. You ca' him to mind, man!" " I do. But see here, wife ! This new chap, Sir Reginald, he be o' age." " You forgit. The Guest family don't coom legally o' age till they be three-and-twenty. That's always bin so." " Lor, now, that's so ! But hush thee wid thy evil tales, woman. They make my blood run chill." " This lad, Sir Reginald, moost be past twenty-two.

If he coom to his majority, he'll be the first eldest son of the Guest family as has done so sin' young Le Marchant sobbed out that dying curse wi' Sir Raymond Guest's dagger in his heart," said Betty Dyke, wagging her head like some bird of ill omen. " But did not the law punish Sir Raymond for killin' that lad 1 " asked old Dyke. " Noa ; 'twas hushed up, and he went scot-free. Those days was different to these." " Yes, thank goodness. I'm main glad as I were born in the nineteenth century and not i' the sixteenth. But let us talk no more o' these things. They gives me the creeps, woman." " You're but a faint, chicken-hearted moke arter all, Martin," said his wife contemptuously. "Ah! often and often I wonders why I married ye ! " " I can give ye the answer to that riddle." " Well V " 'Cause ye couldn't get no better man, he-he !