The Capel Girls. A novel. By E. G

Front matter

THE CAPEL GIKLS. THE CAPEL GIRLS a itoi>«i. BY EDWARD GAEEETT, AUTHOB 0_ "by siill waters;" "occupations of a retired life;" "the CRUST AND THE CAKE;" "CROOKED PLACES," ETC. IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. I. LONDON : TINSLEY BROTHERS, 8, CATHERINE ST., STRAND. 1876. [AU Rights Reserved.] PBINTBD BT TATLOB AND CO., LITTLE QUEEN STEEET, LINCOLN'S INN FIELDS. CONTENTS. CHAT. TAGE I. A FAMILY CIRCLE IN BLOOMSBURY . 1 II. OUT OF TUNE 19 III. THE SALT OF THE EARTH ... .48 IV. A PORTRAIT AND A PUZZLE ... .74 V. " FAIR AND HONOURABLE " y0 VI. POOR DORA ....••• 10 VII. SWEET SIBYL 120 VIII. THE NAIL ON THE FLOOR 127 IX. WHAT NEXT? ... ... 152 X. A GENTLEMAN AT LARGE .... • 107 XI. THREE LOVE STORIES 103 XII. DOWN STAIRS • • 218 XIII. MR. CAPEL'S WALK THE CAPEL GIRLS.

Chapter I

A FAMILY CIRCLE IN BLOOMSBURY. It was four o'clock on an autumn afternoon at the Great Northern Terminus. A train had just come in from the Midlands, and crowds of bewildered people were exchanging hurried kisses and greetings, and then suspending civilities to hover excitedly over confused heaps of luggage. But in the crowd there was one for whom nobody was waiting. There was nobody to dis tract his attention, as he disentangled a trunk and portmanteau from the mass, and secured a cab for their removal. He had never been in London before, and he looked curiously to the vol. I. B ■1 right and to the left, as he drove from the station. His first glimpse was of a very drag gled skirt of the mighty Queen city. Streams of meagre people poured down interminable shabby streets that opened into still shabbier alleys, and about all hung a dreadful sense of struggle — of life forced to live on, after all beauty and hope were beaten out of it.

How can anybody who does not believe in a just and merciful God bear to live in London ! Yet in the engine-shriek through those sordid sub urbs, our young traveller could hear a modern version of the old promise which " Bow Bells " sang to Dick "Whittington in the twilight on the pleasant old Highgate coach-road. There is still vitality in the ancient legend. Dick is immortal. He comes up from the country in every train ! Our traveller, Philip Lewis, was no mere boy. He was more than four and twenty — a well-doing, energetic young man, who had his own way to make, and was not afraid of the task. He was " the only son of his mother, and she was a widow," with an income so narrow that she had nothing to spare for orna ment, even in her boy's education. Philip had not learned Latin or German till he paid the fees of an evening class from his first earnings in an architect's office.

And now he had come to try his fortune in London, a well-educated and well-appointed young man, owing little to any one but himself, and with a bright belief that few enjoyed better chances or greater blessings than he — a pleasant faith whence he derived that air of prosperous activity which promises so much, though it has its own bitter lessons to learn, and its own peculiar trials to undergo. The cab suddenly stopped between a row of high gloomy houses, and a dead wall overhung by skeleton trees. One hall door stood open, and a glow of cheerful light came over the greasy pavement. There was a girl on the steps, with her left hand raised to secure a b A Fatnily Circle in Bloomsbury. 4 jaunty cap that was very much inclined to fly away in the east wind. "Is it here you're wanting ? " she asked, rather vaguely, as the cab drew up.

" Yes, Mr. Capel's," said Philip, already tugging at his boxes. The girl was by his side in a moment, offering her assistance. " There's been cabs for next door a-drivin' up every half hour this evening, sir," she said, in apparent apology for her question. " I've been in and out ten times if I've been once. 'Cause strangers as don't know the window-curtains, is often ever so long in finding out the numbers hereabouts. Don't you carry in nothin' your self, sir. Me and the cabby will do it all, sir." It was a well-lit hall which Philip entered, — handsome too, though the oil-cloth had nearly lost its pattern, and the slab and chairs were very old-fashioned. A lady stepped forward to welcome him. " My father has been unexpectedly called from home this evening," she said, " but the maid will take your trunks to your room, and we have tea quite ready.

You must be tired after your journey." The lady was at least thirty years of age ; but her voice was so timidly sweet and her blue eyes so softly kind that Philip was quite nonplused. He was not used to women, ex cept his own mother, who stood five feet nine inches and spoke bass. So he muttered assent ing thanks and was led to his chamber, whence he presently returned to the parlour. It was a plain, square apartment, lit by one small lamp, with a green shade, which gave out a mysterious twilight, so that, at first, Philip could scarcely discern how many people were in the room. One stood manifold, in the flush of the glorious fire. This was a girl of about twenty-two, with a broad forehead and an apple-blossom complexion, cheerily con trasting with her dark blue dress. She was measuring tea out of the caddy, but she looked up with a ready smile, and was introduced by Miss Capel as " my youngest sister, Hester."

In the shadows over the sofa, Philip made out another figure. It only half rose to greet him, while the face shone out of the gloom with almost spectral whiteness. It was a face with great blue eyes, set deep beneath delicately-marked brows, and was all too weird and grave for the almost childish form ; so that it made a discord with the sunny tone in which the hostess named "Our cousin, Dora Cunningham." " And you have never been in London before, Mr. Lewis," observed Miss Capel, kindly anxious to make conversation for the stranger. " Never," answered Philip. "What shall you go to see, first?" asked Hester. " The new Houses of Parliament," Philip answered promptly, for he had his mind quite made up on that point, and added, " as the old Abbey is down that way, I shall be able to take it in at the same time."

" The Abbey is worth a visit to itself," said Dora, with an emphasis which Hester Capel seemed to understand, for she looked up, and smiled, half slily. " I suppose so," Philip assented, innocently. " But still abbeys are abbeys, and when you've seen one, you've seen nearly all. I've seen York Minster, and Beverley Min ster, and I went over St. Mungo's, Glasgow, when I was there about the Water Company's new offices." " But Westminster Abbey has such associ ations — for anybody who cares for such things," said Dora. "I suppose so," Philip responded; "but, really, not being a native, I scarcely know who is buried there — except all the old royal ties." " Nearly all the kings and queens — but not Oliver Cromwell," said Hetty, drily. " Some very genteel poets, — but not Shakespeare nor Milton."

" Fine monuments ? " asked Philip, who could scarcely be expected to recognize satire, never having met it before. " Yery," returned Hester, demurely ; " ela borate sepulchres in every shade of white ness." " The Abbey itself is a monument of Britain's glory and greatness," said Dora, im patiently. "You would like to be buried there your self, wouldn't you, Dora ? " asked Hester, laughing. " You have no veneration in you, cousin," said the girl, with an irritable movement. " Not for Congreve, nor yet for Cowley," she retorted, " nor very much for any honours which they share. I'd count it a better thing to be buried near Bunyan in Bunhill Fields." " You see, I am interested in the new houses of Parliament in a professional Hght — as an architect," observed Philip. " Of course you are," responded Hester.

"Yet I should think that in yours, as in every profession, the present is so barren, that it is scarcely a profitable study," said Dora. " Mr. Lewis has a bit of the present for himself to make fruitful," hinted Hetty. " Modern buildings are not like the grand old classic models," Philip admitted; "but then those are not all that are wanted now. They don't fulfil every modern requirement." " Only it is a pity we don't have something as good in its way, which does," sighed Hetty, in an undertone. " Taste is dead in England at the present date," said Dora dogmatically, being chiefly patriotic towards ruins and dead dust. " I don't know that," Philip answered, quite briskly. ' ' I wouldn't say so. It has been said too often already, till it has bullied our peo ple out of their common sense, which is the best part of taste after all.

It bullies them into all sorts of copies, unsuited to English habits or atmosphere. For my own part, I'm a great believer in the Elizabethan style. That was an era when most things were done well." " I suppose commonplace must be commonplace," said Dora, who had been follow ing her own thoughts rather than Philip's. " One can't give a new villa the interest and romance that hang around an old feu dal castle. But the utilitarian spirit seems determined to tread out even the old traces. If people would only pause somewhere in their changes ! " and she broke off with a sigh. " Set the example yourself," said Hetty, mischievously, " Have your next dress made after the cut of the old one. I'm sure the last fashion was the prettiest." Dora's face flushed a little, but otherwise she ignored the utterance of such frivolity.

"Modern life is petty," she said. "All bricks and mortar, and engines and money. No space or time for tragedy or romance." " Do you think so ?" Hetty asked, quietly. " I think that wherever a human being can live at all, there is room for both, if we only have eyes to see, and hearts to understand ! " " Shall I bring in the supper, ma'am ? " asked a subdued voice from outside. "If you please, Mrs. Edwardes," said Miss Capel, folding away her work. " Popps will be late at chapel to-night, because there is a special prayer-meeting after the service." Philip turned to look at the new arrival on the domestic scene. Only a charwoman, he rightly concluded. A tall thin woman, who somehow looked as if she ought to have been stout and comely. Very shabby, with a downcast broken-hearted face, and eyes that kept to the table-cloth as she set the plates and dishes.

Then a loud double knock called her away to open the hall door. There was no sound of voices in the passage — the new comer swept straight on to the parlour, and as the door opened, Miss Capel said, " This is my sister Sibyl." Not a bit like the others, thought Philip. In quite a different style. The manner of her dress might have something to do with the difference, though it was simple enough. Just a black silk robe, sweeping long on the floor, a soft white burnous folded round the slender arrow-like figure, and a spray of scarlet geranium set against the heavy coils of black hair which crowned the small high head. Not a broad, wise-like head, like Hetty's. But what young man criticizes a head which has a face like Sibyl Capel's ? " She's a downright beauty," said Philip to himself. And so she was, as far as perfect Greek features can make one.

You could not see the soul that looked through those quick dark eyes. The lashes might be longer than Hetty's, and the brow more clearly arched, but the eyes were like those windows were those within can watch unseen. She crossed the room to the fireplace, and stood on the rug, drawing off dainty lilac gloves. She had very white hands, and wore two or three rings, adornments which neither of her sisters boasted. Then she let the burnous gradually fall about her, and out peeped a pair of snowy shoulders, set off by a pelerine, which, had Philip been a judge, he would have known to be both old and costly. " Where's papa? " asked the eldest sister. " Just as our cab stopped, Mr. Drew and Mr. Drake came up, and they were off to supper at some hotel, and he joined them. So I should say, you need not expect him just yet."

She said these last words with a meaning, and laughed shortly and lightly. Neither of her sisters responded. It seemed almost as if they caught in their breath, perhaps lest it should be a sigh. "So ho ! " thought Philip, " I begin to understand how it is, that I have my present appointment and my prospective partnership on such favourable terms. It is no steady pro fessional fogy who leaves his daughter on the door-step, and goes off unexpectedly to an impromptu conviviality at a pubhc house ! " And now Sibyl was by the sofa, bending over her cousin, stroking her soft brown hair and cooing, ' ' Darling, have they utterly neglected and ill-used you ? Have you had any tea ? Have you had any supper ? Dear me, has my place been so well supplied that you have never missed me ? Well, at least I know they have not played to you.

That's one office they can't take away from poor Sibyl. Come into the drawing-room, my darling, and I'll play you such a beautiful bit out of our concert to night." And the wayward invalid girl (she had only recently recovered from a severe illness) dropped her precocious gravity and smiled up in the beauty's face like a spoiled child. " It's too cold in the drawing-room," warned Miss Capel; "there has been no fire there to-day, and it is a damp miserable night, and Dora has been sitting in the glow of this hearth all the evening." " Oh, come away, my treasure!" said Sibyl, drawing the thin little hand through her arm, and accommodating her stately pace to the slow movement of Dora's weakness. " It won't hurt her, Elizabeth. The music is ring ing in my head, and will be all gone to morrow if I don't get it out of my fingers to night."

And she led Dora away — a very willing captive. Philip presently made his excuses and re tired to his own room. He met the downcast charwoman in the passage, ready dressed for her homeward walk ; and, as he climbed the stairs, he heard sweet sounds issuing from the front room on the first floor. The Capels evidently possessed a good piano, and Sibyl a voice something more than to match. He paused to listen for a moment, and then went on, thinking to himself that he would have a rare treat some evening. Tired as he was, Philip Lewis kneeled down and prayed God to bless and keep his mother and all friends at home, and to watch over and prosper him in London, so that he might re joice his parent's heart in her old age, and do credit to all the sacrifices she had made for him in his youth. He was asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow.

What did it matter to him that Elizabeth and Hester Capel looked into the drawing-room on their way to their own chamber, and that Sibyl whirled round on her music stool, and said, " Isn't he a country bumpkin ! " "I think there is something in him that has never come out yet," said the little sentimental Dora, "perhaps he has had no chance." { ' I believe he thinks he can roll the world before him ! " laughed Hester, " and forgets that somebody else may be rolling it the other way." " How all you children talk ! " said Eliza beth. " I'm sure he seems a very pleasant young gentleman." And they each went their ways. In a little closet Dora read the Litany to herself with many an intonation. And Sibyl went to her room — she had one to herself — and when she had locked the door she drew from her pocket a note not sealed, but intricately folded ; a note penciled on a page torn from a gilt-leaved diary.

And she read it, and laughed triumph antly in the face of the glorious reflection that smiled back from her mirror — and then read it again — and then went to bed, and never noticed that she absolutely forgot even to kneel for a form of prayer. And Elizabeth vol. I. c A Family Circle in Bloomsbury. and Hester went to their room and read a chapter, verse about, and kneeled down, one at each side of the little white bed, where, half an hour after, they were asleep in each other's arms. CHAPTEE II. OUT OF TUNE. Philip Lewis woke early the next morning, and feared to compose himself to sleep again, lest he should sleep too long, being one of those really estimable people who think it a brand of shame to saunter down late upon a breakfast party. He heard one or two steps upon the stairs — one particularly energetic, which he instantly connected with tawny locked, chapel-going Popps ; but beyond these, the house continued so quiet, that Philip thought there must be some mistake, and ven tured down unsummoned.

A smell of toast and tea met him from the dining-room, and entering that apartment he found Miss Capel c seated behind the urn, and Hester arranging breakfast paraphernalia on two small trays. " We were going to send up your breakfast. We thought you might not care to rise early this morning," explained the hostess. "You are very kind, ma'am," Philip an swered, primly. " I was only fearful lest I was late. It is nearly nine o'clock." " Good morning, sir," said Popps, bouncing into the room. " Is this the master's tray ?" and she seized one bearing a huge cup of black coffee, flanked by a tiny fragment of delicate brown toast, unbuffered. And Popps disap peared. To Philip it seemed an oddly free and easy household. Fancy his mother's decorous serv ing-damsel saluting a guest in the middle of a meal !

It rather perplexed him. He had always moved by rule, and he felt like a child with its leadingstring suddenly taken away. And where was Sibyl ? And Dora ? And did " the master" always breakfast in bed ? " What is your servant's name ? " he asked ; " you call her something which sounds very droll." " Popps," answered Hester, laughing. " It is her surname." "I suppose the other is Julia Maria, or Evelina, or some other incongruous mouthful, " said Philip. " No, indeed ! " replied Miss Capel. " It is just my own simple name — Elizabeth." " The best name in all the world ! " said Hetty ; " but we keep to Popps to save any confusion." " You might call her Bessie or Betty ; it makes quite a different name," remarked Philip. " But then my sister is Elizabeth to most people, Lizzie to us, and Bessie to her father," returned Hester.

" Dear me, Lizzie, wouldn't it be funny if you were only Elizabeth to everybody. I never call you Elizabeth, except when we are quarrelling, do I, Lizzie ? And Oict of Tune. 22 then you call me Hester, and that is the extent of our hostilities. When you call me Hester, I begin to take notice what I am about, and grow particularly civil. I wonder what you'd do next, if I didn't, Lizzie ? I've half a mind I'll try next time." Then in came Sibyl, arrayed in a bright hued loose breakfast-gown, with enticing little ruffs at the throat and wrists. She gave quite an air of distinction to the whole table, and made her sisters look positively shabby in theh carefully-preserved brown alpacas. There was considerable graciousness in her " Good morning " to Philip, for there was no unread note in her pocket now, and there could be no excitement of any sort for hours, unless she extracted some from "the country bump kin."

Dora appeared just as everybody else had finished their meal, and as soon as she had poured out her tea, Miss Capel left the table and Hester presently followed her. The other three lingered long, having found a mutually agreeable topic in music. Philip had attended a singing-class, and had heard a great deal of fine melody murdered at provincial concerts, but also he had never lost an opportunity to improve his taste during his brief professional visits to great towns. Towards music he had a yearning that could not be content only to admire. He possessed a flute and a concertina, which no mortal eyes but their makers' and his own ever beheld, since he had never "tried" them anywhere but in his empty office, before and after business hours. He was but a plain-minded practical young man, who never felt any particular inclination to open a novel or read a poem, but this only made it the more touching to think how long ingly and blindly and fruitlessly he strove to utter the song that lay muffled in him : how he would linger to listen to a barrel-organ in the village, and how he strove to pick up hints from the one or two piano-playing families with whom his own exchanged visits.

It was his one glimpse of the ideal ; the only spot in his soul unguarded by armour of matter-of-fact. There, he felt a pleasant pain that never trou bled the rest of his unintrospective nature. He himself half shamefacedly called it his " weak point," but it is through such weak points that the arrows enter, which prick our souls away from their fetters of the earth, earthy. Sibyl was acknowledged to be " musical." She had made her first teacher's life burden some by crying and storming, till books were put away and the piano opened. She had en joyed the best instruction and every opportunity and advantage for the cultivation of her decided talent. Her whole education, such as it was, had started from that point. Then she had heard almost every musical celebrity in almost every musical masterpiece, and Philip listened with respectful awe to the glib criti cisms which came second-hand from her pretty mouth, as smartly as if they were original.

And an hour's conversation between the three (during which Popps peeped in several times to remove the tray, but found Miss Sibyl still toying with a half-empty cup), ended in their adjournment to the drawing-room to hear a ' Eeverie,' which the young lady announced to be " nearly perfection." She was in the midst of her performance, Philip standing in dumb admiration, losing the place in her rapid manipulation, and so not daring to turn the page, and Dora, lying back in the great easy chair, with her earnest blue eyes gazing as if she saw the very soul of the sweet, sad melody, when Mr. Capel himself entered. He was beginning to speak crossly till he saw Philip, whose keen sense of the proprieties made him feel terribly awkward at such an introduction. But this new superior of his was the last person to notice such a thing.

He was a tall, large man, with that coarse sensual physiognomy which ignorant people think "jolly " or " goodnatured ; " one of those men who, though clever after a certain fashion, spend life in skulking or scamping their work, in the firm belief that all human nature does the same at its sincerest bottom, and that any sign of energy or industry is but pretension. Mr. Capel took up his place in front of the grate, as if he did not notice that it held no fire, and Sibyl's music did not cease for her father's attempt at conversation with Philip. "Let me see, to-day is Wednesday; no use your coming to the office till next week. Begin well on Monday morning. Grand thing to begin well, eh ! whatever happens after ! And by the time you are as old as I, the mere beginnings will amount to a good item in the general account.

Did you see the letter your old governor wrote to me about you ? Said I should find you quite an acquisi tion — only wished that he himself could have given you a sphere worthy of your talents. But I don't suppose there was anything more amusing than work going on down yonder, was there ? Like music ? So do I. But now, Sibyl, stop that ' linked sweetness long drawn out,' and give us a good rattling song." " Father, how can you ask me to degrade my powers to play those common things ; " and on went the ' Eeverie.' " Oh, yes, it is all very fine," said Mr. Capel ; " but how can I know what it is all about, unless I am told? 'Eeverie,' indeed. But what about ? His lady-love that wouldn't take him, or his butcher's bill that he can't pay ? " " Why, the music ought to tell you what it means," said Dora.

"Does it not show you pictures ; I saw one then — a lake among the hills and two people walking in the twilight — and there was a third one somewhere out of sight." "Whatever the music brings into your mind is what the music means for you. Eh, Miss Dora ! Thank you, it's not often you condescend to give me a lesson in art ; I hope you don't expect a fee ? What is it ? ' What ever the music brings into your mind is what the music means for you,' that's it. Well, since I've been here it has come into my mind that I have not finished the plan for old Squire Bogers' new stable at Bickley, and that I'd better go and do so. So I suppose that is the message the ' Eeverie ' has for me." "Dora despises such bathos, as well she may," said Sibyl. " Yet it would not be at all despicable if every one heard a meaning that put him in mind of his duty," observed Hetty, coming in, duster in hand, and speaking in tones just a little severe.

" There are two gentlemen asking for you down stairs, father. The office-bell rang twice, but I knew you could not hear it in this noise." " I'm off, Hetty," said the architect. " I'm a lucky man, Mr. Lewis. Each of my daughters is a personification of something fine. Bessie is Goodness — Sibyl is High Art, and Hetty is Common Sense. Bessie is a saint. Hetty is a strong-minded woman. Sib is—" " Your favourite, isn't she, now, daddy ? " and the beauty sprang up from the music stool and caught her father by both his arms. " You have no right to stop my mouth, Miss. You only do so because you think I'm going to speak some unwelcome truth. I was about to say, ' Sib is a woman.' You're just that and nothing more, Sibyl." " And that is the highest compliment," said Dora ; " that includes everything."

"Ha! ha!" laughed Mr. Capel, turning back into the room which he had half quitted. " That includes everything, and a precious deal more than you know anything about yet, Dora." " And so you call music, noise, Hetty ? " said Sibyl, putting aside the half-finished, sorrowful ' Eeverie,' and dashing straight into a lively ' Caprice.' " Noise means sound out of season," answered Hetty ; quietly beginning to dust and re-arrange the ornaments on a little what not. " 0 Hetty, Hetty ! " laughed Sibyl ; " then if The man that hath no music in himself, And is not moved by concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils, The motions of his spirit are dull as night, And his affections dark as Erebus. Let no such man be trusted,' what must such a woman be ? Eemember this is the judgment of your idol, Shakespeare."

" Eemember he puts that judgment into the mouth of a man who gratifies his own will by marrying a Jeivess, though he thinks a Jew is something less than human, and that this man speaks it in compliment to the delicate æsthetics of a girl who deceived and robbed her father," returned Hester. "Dear me, Hester!" said Sibyl; "you have evidently thought the matter sufficiently near home to be worth a good deal of thought." " I have heard it so often from you," Hester answered. " And so you have made your own natural deficiency the means of discovering a new dramatic beauty in Shakespeare," pursued Sibyl. " That seems better than to use one's natural gifts to prey upon others' deficiencies," Hetty retorted, the colour in her cheeks mounting a little higher. " Now don't get excited, dear sister mine !