A Young Man's Fancy, with other tales

Front matter

A YOUNG MAN'S FANCY WITH OTHER TALES. VOL. A YOUNG MAN'S FANCY WITH OTHER TALES. BY MRS. FORRESTER AUTHOR OF •' VIVA," " MTGNON," " DIANA CAREW," &c, &c. "A young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.'' IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. H. LONDON: HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 1879. All rights reserved LONDON : PRINTED BY DUNCAN MACDONALD, BLENHEIM HOUSE, BLENHEIM STREET, OXFORD STREET. VOL. II, B t T is four p.m. on a dull November day -*- — all but dark. A private omnibus, drawn by two handsome, powerful bays, pulls up in front of an imposing stone portico. The groom gives a ringing peal at the bell, the doors fly open in response, and a grave, decorous personage, attended by satellites, comes to help the occupants of the omnibus to alight. Mistress and maid, evidently.

The lady is so bef urred and veiled, you can pronounce no opinion upon her at present, except that, from the lightness with which she descends, and enters the house, you may be sure she is both young and slight. But in a moment she has thrown off her travelling mantle, b2 and unpinned her veil, and you may safely assert that she is a very elegant woman, and, if not exactly pretty, eminently dis tinguee. She follows the butler up the grand staircase, between statues and flowers blooming as in the plenitude of June, through the vestibule, along a corridor, and into a charming boudoir. A wood fire burns brightly in the quaint old chimney ; one lamp, softly shaded, throws a delicious light over the thousand and one gems of art that are scattered about — a silver tete-a-tete tea-service, stands tempting ly near the fire, and a pleasant voice, in accents of warm welcome, completes the agreeable impression.

" So here you are, my dear ! I am de lighted to see you. So sorry Mr. Gore Barton could not get here in time for to day's sport ; however, he will come in for the two best days, to-morrow and Thurs day. Where is he ? Haven't you brought him with you ?" Thus Lady Kyndhart volubly — then Mrs. Gore Barton in reply — " He won't be here until the last train, unfortunately. Lord Henry had his big day to-day, and it was an old promise that George should make one of the party. He told me to tell you and Sir John that he had never in his life wanted so much to be in two places at once." " Very kind of him to say so. And now about yourself. Do you think you are really stronger ?" " Oh ! indeed I am. Not like the same person since I went to live in London. That is my ' happy hunting ground,' you know, and it is George's turn to grumble.

Part I

I. A WIDE green lawn shaded by rich -*-■*- branching cedars, by dark clumps of beeches, and splendid, broad-leaved chest nuts — a terrace with parterres of gorgeous hued flowers where, on the broadbalustrade, a magnificent peacock spreads his Argus eyes in the glowing sunlight — a handsome stone mansion with a square tower. And yonder sits the fair chatelaine. Half reclined in a luxurious chair, the trail ing silk and lace of her dress sweeping the turf, she casts her magnificent eyes sometimes over her fair possessions, sometimes down on her white jewelled fingers, and more seldom still on the open book lying in her lap. A servant comes presently across the grass. "I beg your pardon, my lady, but the young person is here." " Very well. I will come," his beautiful mistress makes answer; and in the tone of those few words one reads at once perfect refinement — perfect repose.

She waits a few moments as though to finish some train of thought a vulgar com munication from the outer world had broken in upon. Then she rises, full of languid grace, and moves with lingering steps across the lawn — 'A daughter of the gods, divinely tall, And most divinely fair.: In face, in form, in gait, there is stamped such pride, such a grand scorn, a conscious majesty, as great Here herself had scarce surpassed. She pauses a moment before the window; then, with one JDNO AND PHILLIS. glance of superb disdain, she enters and confronts her rival. Her rival ? Yes, this slender girl with the soft white skin, the blue eyes and simply twisted knot of goldeu hair, this girl attired in a humble cotton gown, is the rival of an imperial beauty robed in the purple, and wearing the majesty of rank and breeding on her splendid brows.

Juno and Phillis have met at last. Passing strange, that between such a pair there should be rivalry ! Would you not say that the man who could fall adoring before the shrine of this queenly pride and beauty would reck little of an innocent simple child, with wistful eyes, and only her stedfast faith and purity for dower. The one must be to a man some thing to protect, to fondle, to cherish ; for the other he must count the world well lost. II. Lady Helen Dundas was the daughter of VOL. II. h an impoverished Irish earl, who in his young clays had squandered with splendid selfishness his patrimony, flashing with meteoric rapidity through the great world of fashion. With ruined health and for tunes, an ailing, discontented wife, and one child — a daughter — he betook himself to continental life, and visited alternately those cities of refuge where the impecuni ous may flee when their own country be comes too hot to hold them.

Lady Helen grew up amongst scenes strangeby bitter to her imperious pride. She craved to take her own place in that El Doradian world which her injudicious mother was never weary of lamenting in her ears, and chafed like a chained eagle at this disreputable Bohemian life. But her father, being wrapped in a garment of utter selfishness, was profoundly indifferent to the comfort or welfare of any but the one adored self. He had become used to continental living ; the brightness, the languid far niente, the cheap luxuries, suit ed him infinitely better than a struggling, shameful poverty in England, an agonized attempt to keep his head above water amongst a proud set who had long ago forgotten what he had been, and would only regard him now with supercilious indifference. And had he not known that life ? plumb ed it with the plumb-line of youth, strength, and credit — sounded its depths and shoals, been stranded on the reefs of luxurious folly and extravagance, and en gulfed at last in the quicksands of satiety and ruin ?

It was unfortunate for Helen, certainly, "but we all have our cross to bear," murmured the Earl, with well-bred resignation, as he sipped his coffee and chasse, and listened to the brilliant strains of the band that played in the pretty gardens of the Kursaal. Lady Helen, dreaming of diamonds, of position and power, clenched her taper h2 fingers, and let the great tears roll down upon her poor faded silk, feeling fiercely resentful at being ogled by admiring petit mailres, or, worse still, by British snobs. Longing for London or Paris, she loathed all the petty cities where her young life was spent. She would tread with impati ent steps the white glaring Geneva pave ment, and stand angrily on the wooden bridges, looking down at the rushing blue waters of the Rhone, or the calm sapphire Leman.

The sweet country drives, the visits to spots hallowed by the memories of great men, the sight of Mont Blanc, rosy tinted in the sunset, gave her no pleasure, filled her with no admiration. She detested the French watering places, with their expanse of shining sand, their cloud less blue skies and picturesque fisher men and women. She abhorred still more the homely German towns, full of ugly Fraus with plaited hair ; but most of all she detested the false glitter, the trumpery shams of the gambling places. At last they went to Rome, and here she grew a shade more contented. There was a little society, actually people with whom they could mix ; and at Rome she met Mr. Dundas, a man of sixty, well-bred, of good family, and rich. Rich ? yes, rich ! And, oh ! the music of that word in Lady Helen's ears !

He proposed for the hand of this splendid young Juno, with the magnificent eyes and shabby dress, and was accepted at once with effusion. Did she care for him ? was she won by the first tender of love that had fallen to her dull lot ? By no means. Mr. Dundas was not fascinating, did not look a day younger than his twelve lustres ; was, in fact, five years older than his fiancee's father, and had a bad constitution. Ah ! but he had ten thousand a year, all of which he could leave to his bride if he were minded so to do ; an entree into the best society, and was not that sufficient to buy five feet six inches of beautiful womanhood, a pair of lustrous eyes, a mouth carved like Cupid's bow, and an imperial tour nure. Lady Helen, at all events, was perfectly satisfied with the bargain, and fulfilled her share of it by entertaining her husband's friends, attiring herself in the most magnificent and costly apparel, and creating a perfect furore in London.

That was precisely what Mr. Dundas desired, but he paid the price of his life in a year, for two seasons of triumph and unceasing gaiety. Well, dying was the most com plaisant action the good old gentleman ever performed, and I am sure his lovely widow appreciated it thoroughly. At two and twenty she flashed again upon the world, like some bright star, received homage and adulation enough to have con tented an empress, and enjoyed it to the full. When my story opens, she was re cruiting, at her country seat, from the fatigues and pleasures of the London season. III. Lady Helen had promised to herself a month of rest and quiet before commencing her round of country-house visiting ; she had looked forward to this time of leisure with fancied enjoyment; had bethought herself of green lanes, of shaded gardens, of wild canters across the common, and drives through the sheltered beechen and nut avenues.

But three days — three summer days — passed only, when the imperial beauty's heart chafed for " some men to govern in this wood," and she felt a strange craving after that homage which had wearied her just a little when it was so freely — so incessantly bestowed. And there was a new want in her life, — a want that grew and increased daily, spreading itself into every fibre, every vein, until it engrossed her waking and sleeping thoughts — the desire to love. Was it not passing strange that this strong nature — passionate, proud, wilful, exacting — should never yet have felt any power superior to her own — never have known how it was possible for a woman to soften and trem ble, to fear, to doubt herself even, in that divine happiness which, even at its great est height, can never lose Psyche's poison ed drop of doubt ?

Lady Helen had never loved, never felt aught but a passing fancy : the more men loved her, so much the more capricious, exacting, and supercilious she became. It pleased her well that she could torture them with vain lonp-ing\ that her smiles could raise them into happiness, her frowns make them unutterably miser able — that they would have given up everything in the world for her sake ; but that did not touch her heart ; it only fanned the flame of her intense pride. The fourth day after her arrival in the country, there came a visitor to Annesly Court — came riding up the long avenue, a handsome stranger, golden-haired, blue eyed, stalwart. Lady Helen was sitting beneath the shadow of the great chestnuts, and thither, across the soft green sward, he came to her. She rose slowly as he approached, with her own languid grace, seeming to his eyes a queen by right divine.

" I must introduce myself, Lady Helen," he said, " since, although I am your near est neighbour, I have never been so fortunate as to meet you before. My name is Lambart — Fulke Lambart." " Sir Fulke Lambart ? How glad I am to see you at last." Lady Helen's voice had an habitually caressing tone when she spoke to men, that flattered them subtly, imperceptibly ; that gained her more slaves even than her beauty. " I only heard yesterday that you were at Annesly Court." " I came four days since, congratulating myself upon shaking off the trammels of society, and full of ardent aspirations after pastoral enjoyments ; and already my short experience has wearied me, and I hail the advent of some one from the outer world with delight." " How glad I am to have chosen such an opportune moment for my first visit.

We hear so much of first impressions, and perhaps, since circumstances have so far favoured me, you may be tempted to let me use the privilege of such near neigh bourship, and come often to see you." " I accept the challenge at once," laughed Lady Helen in her silver tones. "I shall always be glad to see you. Now tell me why you were not in town this season." " To tell the truth, Lady Helen, I do not care very much for London seasons, and a better reason still was that a hundred and one affairs connected with the property kept me at Ashleigh. You know, when poor Sir Giles died, I was with my regi ment in India, and could not sell out for some little time. On my return, six months ago, I found things had been badly managed and a great deal neglected, and, of course, when such is the case, there is nothing like personal supervision."

"But how have you amused yourself? Every one has been away until this month. Perhaps, though, you don't feel women's society necessary to your existence ?" remarked Lady Helen, lifting her dark eyes slowly to Sir Fulke's handsome face : a slight flush there, a certain expression of embarrassment puzzled her, and she thought petulantly : " I trust he is not go ing to be married ; that would be too provoking, now I have only him to count on for amusement during the next three weeks." " A long dearth makes one all the more appreciative," he answered softly, looking at his beautiful neighbour with a glance of undisguised admiration. "After my long isolation I fancy myself suddenly transported to Olympus. The illusion is complete," he added smiling, as the peacock, his magnificent tail outspread, came strutting across the lawn. sa " I see you have not forgotten the ways of the civilised world in your persistent retirement," laughed Lady Helen.

" Your pretty compliment does honour to both head and heart." " Then let my heart have all the credit," was the gallant reply. Somehow men could never resist making love to the proud beauty as long as they were with her. The afternoon wore away so swiftly and pleasantly that neither noted how it passed until the shadows had left the grass, and the red reflected light shone upon the lower branches of the great chestnuts, and on the faces of Sir Fulke and Lady Helen. It might have been a scene enacted long ago in Arcadia in the golden age — this picture, where, on the green sward, amongst the crimson flush of roses, the sunlight falling on their handsome faces, and the broad luxuriance of ancient trees forming a grand background, stood those two, on whom the great godmother Nature had lavished her best gifts.

Lady Helen's hand was in Sir Fulke's. He held it a moment longer than courtesy demanded ; regret was in his eyes, a subtle languor in hers. " I may come again soon?" he asked in a low voice. "Do come," she answered softly. "I shall always be glad to see you." He turned and left her, crossing the grass to the house ; then he mounted his horse and rode slowly down the broad avenue. But the spell was broken now that the eyes of the enchantress no longer lingered on him ; the smile left Sir Fulke's handsome mouth, a frown deepened on his brows, and, putting spurs to his horse, he rode home fast in the twilight. IV. Nearly six months before, Sir Fulke, com ing fresh from active service, having seen nothing for a long time of womankind, had fallen in love with pretty Dorothy Wilde. In the years that were past, he had tasted the sweets of all the gay world calls pleas ure to the core ; now he hardly cared to go back to it, but when his uncle died, and he inherited the fine property, rather pictured to himself the delights of pastoral life, and the comfort and dignity of seigneurship over the broad acres of Ashleigh.

But he soon found that there was a great deal of real work to be done before he could enter upon this otium camdignitate ; affairs had been mismanaged, his rents were by no means satisfactory, and he had very strong suspicions of knavery on the part of the head steward and bailiff. So he began to look into things himself, and gave notice that he would attend to all business matters, and receive applications personally. One morning as he sat in the oak wainscoted library, a petitioner was brought to him in the shape of a slim graceful girl, with golden hair and very wistful, frightened blue eyes. " I beg your pardon, my lord," she began, trembling so that she could scarcely stand. Sir Fulke rose with quick courtesy, and placed a chair for his unwilling visitor. " Tell me what I can do for you," he said kindly ; " don't be afraid to ask any thing."

It is odd how easily men's hearts are melted, and how considerate they become to a lovely woman in distress. But this great and unexpected condescension on the part of the grand seigneur, whose majesty had seemed so awful in the eyes of pretty Dorothy, disconcerted her more than ever, and she felt a foolish inclination to cry. " I hope, my lord," she began with an exceeding tremulousness of voice — " I hope you will not think I want to impose upon your kindness. I will work day and night to pay it — I will, indeed." " I am sure you shall do no such thing if I can help it," exclaimed Sir Fulke with a keen glance of admiration at the pretty, troubled face. " But come, tell me all about it, or shall I guess? You are a little behindhand with the rent." " Indeed, my lord, it never happened before ; but my mother has been danger ously ill, and the doctor ordered nourish ing things, and work has been scarce.

All the ladies are gone away to London, and I do not earn so much from the farmers' wives. " You shall pay me when you like and when you can," interrupted Sir Fulke kindly. " I know my poor uncle was not a very harsh landlord, and I may venture to say you shall not be worse off for the change. Where do you live ?" " Rose Cottage, if you please, my lord." " And where is that ?" "The last house in the village, sir; at least the first from here." Sir Fulke would have been well content to prolong the interview with his lovely tenant, but she hastened to quit the presence that was still awful to her, and retired, possessed by a gratitude that seemed quite disproportionate to the young man. That morning he made many inquiries of his housekeeper relative to Dorothy Wilde, and had no difficulty in eliciting her history from the good-natured, garru lous old woman.

She was the daughter of the organist, who had died three years previously. Her mother, a most respect able person, had been bedridden almost VOL. II. I ever since, and Dorothy worked at dress making for the ladies and farmers' wives about. She was most superior, Mrs. Hawes said, and such a good daughter. It was her (Mrs. Hawes') belief that the poor girl lived on a dry crust sometimes to get wine and things for her sick mother. Sir Fulke was horror-stricken. " Send them off some wine at once, Hawes," he exclaimed, "and some — I don't know what things sick people fancy, you know — and hem — couldn't you — I should think you might find some work for the girl to do here. It doesn't matter about it wanting to be done, only just to let the poor thing earn a little money ; and, look here, mind you pay her well."

" Should I give her one and ninepence a day, sir ?" interrogated Hawes. "Good heavens !" cried the young man aghast. " One and ninepence a day?" " She mostly gets one and sixpence a day and her beer." Sir Fulke stood petrified at the idea of this lovely creature working her fingers to the bone for one and sixpence a day and her beer. He was about to burst out with, u Give her five shillings, ten, a sovereign a day if you like," but as it suddenly occurred to him that such conduct might arouse the suspicions of honest Hawes, he forbore to make the remark, and merely said, " Give her what you like ; only be as liberal as you can without seeming to do her a favour." Somehow, after this, the young Squire happened to meet Dorothy very often, sometimes in the lanes, sometimes coming through the park, or near the village.

Dorothy began to lose that excess of awe which had overcome her at their first meeting, and to leave off calling him my lord. She wondered now how she could ever have felt so terrified at those kind handsome eyes. She did not know any thing about heathen mythology, so she i could not compare him to Adonis or Apollo, or any of the Olympian gods ; could not think of his curling yellow hair as Hyperion locks, or his brow as Jove-like ; and, not being au fait with the light literature of the present day, could not be reminded by him of heroes, deep-chested and thin flanked with columnar throats. Ah, but if she had known it all, he could not have been more splendid, more of a hero in her eyes than he was now. That foolish little heart was growing to have but one thought, one great longing ; the thought was of the last time she saw that glorious face, the longing was for the next time she would hear the deep voice, and see the glad tender smile again.

And Strephon thought he would never tire of watching this pretty Phillis amongst the sylvan glades, though he was not quite sure that he would like things to continue exactly as they were now. He could not reconcile himself to the Lord of Burleigh's idea, but she was such a dear, innocent little darling that — but why have any thoughts about the future when the present was so charm ing ? But ever since Eve ate the apple, or Pandora looked into the box, things can't go on pleasantly just in the same way for any length of time together, and, not having the benefit of our experience, Sir Fulke and Dorothy had to find this out for themselves. On one of the bright June evenings, so long and full of sunshine that it deceived the birds into staying up until unheard-of hours, Phillis came lingeringly along the green path which led through the Ashleigh woods.

There was scarce a cloud in the sky, scarce a breath of air to ripple the leaves ; the slanting yellow sunlight came pouring through every opening in the spread ing branches, shining across the grass, upon the wild strawberries nestling in the bank, the blue Veronica, the golden Celan dine, and the bold foxglove ; shining, too, on Dorothy's bright hair as she pulled off the broad-brimmed hat and let it dangle by one string from her fingers. About this time — by accident — Sir Fulke comes wandering along from the opposite direc tion, and presently the lord of the manor and his fair tenant meet at the stile. " How do you do, Miss Dorothy ?" says Sir Fulke extending his hand, and Phillis puts her small fingers shyly into it — shyly, but not at all as though overpowered by the condescension. " I have not seen you for three whole days," says Mars looking at the village maiden with some complaining in his eyes, " and I have been here every evening."

"I was working for the housekeeper at Annesly Court. She is getting the house in order for Lady Helen." " What a shame such pretty little fingers should ever have to do any work !" says Sir Fulke looking down at the hand he still detains with gentle force in his strong grasp. " Oh ! I shouldn't be happy at all with out," responds Dorothy simply; "you can't think how dreadful it is to have nothing to do all day, sir." " Can't I, Miss Dorothy ?" says the young man with an amused smile in his eyes. " I'm afraid I ought to have a profound conviction of the dreads ulness of being idle, if personal experience counts for anything. I suppose you believe in Watts, when he says — ' For Satan finds some mischief still For idle hands to do ' ?" "Yes, sir, I'm sure it's true for poor people, but then, of course, it's different for gentlefolks."

" Is Watts your favourite poet ?" asks Sir Fulke still smiling. Dorothy responds by an arch glance. "I'm afraid I'm not so fond of him as I ought to be, sir." " Oh, Dorothy !" breaks in the young man suddenly, " don't keep calling me sir. And I wish you'd let me call you Dolly — it's such an awfully pretty name, and you are just one of those dear little helpless creatures it suits." The vivid scarlet comes flushing over poor Dorothy's cheek and brow, and she says with some confusion : " Please, Sir — Sir Fulke, I think, if you won't be offended, I'd rather you didn't." "Of course I won't be offended," he says coming a little nearer, and looking down into the shy, blue eyes, " but won't you really let me, Dorothy ? Am I too bold ?" There is as much pleading in his tone as if he were asking some great favour of a queen, Dorothy thinks, and she becomes more shy and confused than ever, divided between the fear of refusing and her sense of the proprieties.

Sho looks so bewitching in her shamed perplexity that Sir Fulke, utterly forget ting everything but her pretty innocent face for a moment, stoops suddenly, puts his arm round her, and kisses the sweet rosebud mouth. She springs from him with hot, flushing cheeks, the great angry tears welling into her eyes, and stands panting, but wordless, in her indig nation. "Oh, Dorothy!" exclaims Sir Fulke penitently, "I am so sorry. I couldn't help it." " What have I done to make you think so of me ?" bursts out poor Dorothy with sudden passion. " I thought you were a gentleman." And she turns to go, with streaming eyes. "1 beg your pardon, Miss Dorothy," cries the young man, quite dismayed at the consequence of his imprudence. il I swear I never had a thought of insulting you. " I ought to have known a poor seam stress was no company for a fine gentleman," says Dorothy with bitterness.

" Nay, Miss Dorothy, if you say such things, it is you who are unkind," Sir Fulke answers, and with many words and protes tations he at last pacifies her, and she goes away home. But she is still bitter at heart, and comes no more for rambles in the Ashleigh woods, nor takes the road through the lanes to the village ; and Sir Fulke, awaiting her im patiently evening after evening, seeing she comes not, chafes at her absence, and is furious. At last he begins to see that he loves her — cannot live without her ; he discovers that she is capable of being made a perfect lady, is a woman any man might be proud to call wife, and, presently, comes to the conclusion that the Lord of Burleigh wasn't such a fool after all. He says to himself that these innocent simple maidens are the truest type of womanhood — that in country life, such as he means to lead to the end of his days, a man does not want an accomplished fine-lady wife ; in short, this young man makes reason utterly subservient to desire, and behaves pretty much as men in love have always done since the first great decadence of the race.

So it came to pass that, finding no occupation for his idle hands, he took the idea of making a lady of pretty Dorothy, and proceeded to carry it into execution by proposing marriage to the little village maiden. Ah ! what a glimpse of Paradise those heaven-blue eyes caught when the grand seigneur, who had seemed so immeasurably far above her, came and asked her, quite simply, to be his wife ! But she besought him that it should not be known just yet, that for a little while things might con tinue as they were ; she should go on tend ing her sick mother and working for the people about. Dorothy was very shy ; she could not bear to be lifted up as a mark for all the eyes and tongues of the village just at once. Sir Fulke consented, at last, to the soft pleading — consented a little ungraciously, and with manifest impatience.