The Story of Heritage

Chapter I

It is a dear, old-fashioned name, quite quaint and odd-sounding, yet nevertheless to me it has a peculiar sweetness and special charm. Why I was called Heritage I do not know; I never remember being called anything else. Heritage was never abbreviated in any way, and no pet name ever took its place. Herit age I always was ; Heritage I shall always remain. I was the only child of Colonel Richard Dane, an officer of Her Majesty's army, who had seen some service, but had thrown up his commission when he inherited a large B fortune. This fortune he enjoyed for some years, till rash speculations and a fatal love for the gaming-table deprived him of nearly all he possessed, and reduced us to little better than poverty. I was only eighteen at the time, and had just come from school. I remember I thought the blow would kill him ; I never thought he would rally, but with care and patience he recovered, to be but a wreck of his old self.

I never went from him until I was fifteen. He always used to say he could not spare me, for I was the only tie he had in the world. But as such tender care as he be stowed upon me was likely to interfere with success in my studies, with a great self sacrifice he sent me away to school. For three years we were apart, save for the occa- THE STORV OV HERITAGE. 3 sional holidays I spent home. The separa tion was as bitter to me as to him ; he was all I had in the world — my father. He alone formed my world. I shall never forget the joy with which I came to the dear old home, never, I thought, to leave father any more ; and I pictured days of infinite delight, of pure, unalloyed happi ness; but the blow was waiting to descend, and ere many days, it fell with crushing force. The dear old home was sold— the dear old furniture parted with— but little was saved from the wreck.

Away from the old country side, which had been endeared to me from childhood, far away in a new home, many, many counties distant — where the name of Dane was un known, where no one who had known us in our prosperity could molest or trouble us in our adversity — we settled. Poor father at first felt his altered position much; but I tried hard to cheer him, and die gradually felt less the great changes in his fortune, so that when a year had passed by he had re gained much of his former vigour and spiri' s ; but still I could not fail to see the difference in the Richard Dane to-day and the Richard Dane of twelve months ago. The figure now was bent, the memory clouded, the vision dim, the step uncertain, the flow of spirits gone. He clung to me like a timid girl clings to a strong man ; he looked to me for everything.

I had sole charge of our little income, the remnant saved from the great wreck ; and it was with difficulty, oftentimes, I managed to keep things straight. He used to call me his little housekeeper, and praise me again and again for the aptitude I showed for the position. We saw no one ; we kept exclusively to our selves ; and as we were such quiet, unoffend ing people, no one attempted to trouble us. It was a pretty, picturesque village where Richard Dane and his child settled. Far removed from the great clamour of the world, near a babbling, quick-flowing river just escaped from the hills, and pouring in play ful torrents on its way to the sea. The cottage we chose for our home was deep buried in foliage, and a little lane, winding through mazes of woodbine, foxglove, and sweet-scented flowers, led you to the wicket gate of our little tenement.

It was em- THE STORY OV HERITAGE. bosomed in honeysuckle, monthly roses, and delicate westeria — no stonework of the house being visible. The garden revelled in rank luxuriance, and no hand ever tried to check the rapid growth or mould into form the wild, unruly size of the sweet, indigenous old plants. The white pink ancl sweet William struggled for mastery, whilst the ten-week stock and gorgeous sunflower reared themselves loftily above their shorter brethren with becoming dignity; and the homely London pride, in no way ashamed or abashed of its humbleness amongst grander and more aristocratic companions, intruded itself wherever it would. Great bushes of columbine appeared here and there, and sweet smelling southernwood, determining not to be excluded, put in an appearance at disferent points.

Then the stately snap-dragon kept guard over the little pink garden-daisy and tiny blue-bell, and the clinging sweet pea trailed and pushed its way over all the fences and laid hold with tenacity on what ever came in its way. There, also, grew the white and the purple lilac and graceful labur num — or, as I like to call it, golden chain — which in the fair season of spring, before the other flowers blossomed, made our little home so fresh and pretty looking. It seemed very strange at first to come so many miles distant from a home replete with every luxury and comfort that money could command, to this little cottage, where we found it difficult to make our little income eke out. But I soon grew to like the neighbourhood and love the little picturesque cottage home, and attach myself to tbe dear old garden.

From amongst the flowers and under the thick foliage that surrounded us on all sides, we could hear the flowing of the stream over the moss-grown stones and granite boulders it encountered in its course from the hills. This sound made pleasant music to me as I used to sit alone in this dear old garden. I have often leaned on the wicket-gate in the calm, undisturbed quiet of a moonlight night in summer, and the placid flow of the stream, so distinctly heard, has made me feel so happy, contented and peaceful, that I have gone back to my dear father with bright hopes and pleasant thoughts, to cheer and make him feel as thoroughly happy as I. The little winding lane led us directly into the main road to the village, which lay some small distance from our home. The river, which at this point was only a stream, ran under a little one-arch bridge, which formed the continuous road, and was overhung with large elms and graceful beeches, so that the light of day seemed almost shut out.

As you stood on the bridge, on one side you saw the water come roaring down over massive stones, green with moss and lichen, and on the other side flow away more placidly over boulders, amongst ferns, and through a perfect avenue of stately trees. It was the sound from this point that always reached my ears in the cottage garden at home.

Chapter II

I soon became acquainted with some of the poor, and what little assistance I could manage to give I was always willing to. Only to the poorer inhabitants of this little village, which I will call Bentley, were we known. The better class ignored us quite, and those of our equals never knew we existed. The former considered it infra dig. to be on visiting terms with people who resided iu a cottage; and the latter, if they had known us, would probably have found us too out of the way to call upon, and of no advantage knowing, being unable to join in the round of their society. This was just what poor father wanted — perfect quiet, where he need not be disturbed or called upon to mix with any friends at all. He felt so keenly the altera tion in his position, that recalling the past seemed almost a torment to him.

I never alluded to it; I always carefully avoided, but if by any chance I did happen to refer to it, I was ever quick to change the subject, and dwell on the beauties of our present sur roundings. So one year we passed like this, and I was almost accustomed — I may say quite — to the altered condition of our lives. I had long ago ceased to regret the old home — the large mansion standing in its noble acreage, the retinue of servants, the denial of nothing I wanted ; and I was quite happy in the little cottage with one poor village girl for a servant, and sometimes scarcely knowing how to manage for a new dress. And as I look back, these were some of the happiest and pleasantest days I ever spent. At first I used to think of my school days, and the brilliant prospects I thought before me, and which I often used to discuss with the other girls.

One alone, from the many, I chose as a friend, and with every promise to remain steadfast and true for ever, we parted to go our several ways. Only a few letters ever passed between us, for when misfortune came, my schoolmate's friendship died. She never wrote to me again. Thus young was I taught the insincerity, hollo wness and falseness of the world, ever ready to smile on you in prosperity, and equally ready to frown upon you in adversity. It is a pity to begin life having learned this true but bitter lesson ; it is apt to make one distrustful and doubtful of all things, and to the young this is particularly in jurious. But I had not much time, fortu nately, to think of this. I had only my father to care for, and his health ancl happiness was my only consideration. I can say positively that, as the summer came round and the flowers bloomed, and everything was bright and joyous, I was as happy as ever I was in my life.

The lord of the manor was a Mr. Esdale, who ever since we had settled in Bentley had been abroad with his mother. People said he had gone away to shake off the effects of a disappointment in love, but this was merely conjecture. From all we heard he was but a middle-aged man, and father and I concluded he was too young yet to settle quietly amongst his tenants. Besides, we gathered from little scraps of gossip that continually float about a village, that the Lady Mildred was a very proud and haughty mother, and, though not completely ruling her son, yet holding a powerful sway over him. More over, it was pretty generally known she loved and doted on him to such an extent, that it amounted to little less than idolisation. Some rumours were current that her health re quired complete change, and that the doctors had ordered her abroad.

The Orange, the ancestral home of the Esdales, for some two years had been shut up, save for the people in charge ; but now great preparations were being made to put the house in order, for Lady Mildred Esdale and her son were coming home. Our house was on the Esdale property, and we felt an interest, though of course only slight, in the return of the squire. The Grange was a massive, straggling old house of the Tudor period, with many addi tions of a later date. It was well backed with a forest of trees, and lay in splendid grounds, with well kept lawn and park. I one day had the curiosity to see the interior of the old place. Having made friends with the housekeeper, I had no difficulty in doing so. Worthy old soul ! It was with such pride she showed me the spacious rooms, and with such an air of importance ever and anon told me some story connected with one or other of them, that I was obliged to appear as though I had never seen or heard any thing of the kind before.

I felt a little sad after coming away ; all reminded me so much of the old days and the old home. I did not tell father I had been ; I don't think he would have liked me to go. He was so proud and sensitive that he could not bear anything but the strictest quiet. He rarely went beyond our garden, he seldom went into the village, ancl never ventured into the church. The rector — a kind, dear old man, of whom you maj hear more further on — tried hard to make a friend of him when we first came, but father was so reserved and retiring: that he at last gave it up, and finally ceased his visits entirely.

Chapter III

Sometimes, after service on Sundays, he would overtake me returning home, and walk with me as far as the bridge, but he never ventured up the little winding lane that seemed like a right of way to our house. He was very kind to me, and I think he was fond of me ; I am sure I was of him. He it was who told me that old Mr. Esdale had married the Lady Mildred Menton, eldest daughter of the Duke of Honroy, and that the present Mr. Esdale was their only child. He told me how fondly the mother loved him, and how ready he was to obey her in every little wish. The family of Esdale was rich, that of c Menton poor ; and the alliance was in every way satisfactory to the heads of the house of Menton. The position of the former was in disputable. Though holding no title, they had won the highest distinction and renown in battle and in senate, and could, through a direct line, trace their ancestry as far back as the Mentons themselves.

Though not for some years, this was not the first instance of an Esdale marrying the daughter of a noble. Their motto was " Alte volo," which, em blazoned on a scroll clutched by a huge stone eagle, surmounted either pillar that supported the large gates that formed the entrance to the splendid avenue of the Grange. The Esdales of Bentley, with their characteristic motto, were a family well known throughout the country. From this point, the story which I am going to tell you — the story of Heritage — begins. It was summer, as I have said, and we had been one year in the village. Glorious weather we had been having ; glorious weather we were having still. Lady Mildred Esdale and her son had returned, and the village and the neighbourhood generally seemed quite gay. People said time had not altered either ; the mother was, if anything, prouder and haughtier than ever, and the son as good-natured and as genial as before.

I thought it mattered little to us bow proud the Lady Mildred was, or how good-natured her son. I was out a great deal ; in the fields I strolled, and through the woods with Tartar. forgot to tell you of Tartar. He was my faithful old dog, a beautiful mastiff — a friend almost from childhood — a true friend ; ah ! never a truer. I could seldom tempt father out. Even the beautiful weather, the lovely fields, the pretty scenery, all in which I re velled, had no attractions for him. All day would he stay in our little sitting-room, the window thrown open wide to let the flowers that trailed round peep in, and to catch their sweet scents, deeply studying some book ; but oftentimes, I think, the book became neglected — aye, forgotten quite, and he would be lost in memories of the bitter, never to be recalled past.

He liked me to enjoy myself, and never wished me to stay to amuse him, if I would rather be away in the lanes and fields. used to feel now and then just a little bit lonely, but I never let father know. I often wished for a companion of my own age, one to whom I could tell all my hopes and aspirations, all my doubts and fears. Though father was ever ready to listen to me, of course I could not expect that sym pathy, that full appreciation of all my little whims and theories which I might have met with from one of my own age. So I used to think alone, and not give expression to my thoughts, save to Tartar, and he, poor fellow, could not understand me. I liked to get far away from the village, where no one would, in all probability, wander or stray ; and then in the verdant fields, under the giant trees, surrounded by the loveliest wild flowers, with my faithful old dog as a companion, sit and think, or sing some of my favourite old ballads.

I remember one day at this time taking a longer ramble than usual. I had left home earlier than was my wont, accompanied by Tartar, and, quite heedless where I went, had wandered to a village some miles distant from ours. I took a little basket of pro visions, intending to remain out the greater part of the day. I reached the village, strolled through it, and, having no business beyond, began to retrace my steps. After a while I left the high road, and once more crossed the meadows. At length I reached a stile, crossing which my way lay through a little wood. As I stood by it and looked beyond, it was one of the prettiest scenes imaginable I beheld. There were all kinds of trees growing, but the fir seemed to be the most abundant ; and between the um brageous foliage the clear blue sky could be seen.

Thick tanglewood was on every side, clinging across the narrow footpath and around the trunks of the trees. The grass grew tall, and thick, and coarse, and the bracken seemed to form a miniature forest of its own, so large, and strong, and dense it was. And through the midst of this Arcadian spot flowed a little meandering stream, running murmuringly over a pebbly bed, clear and bright; now running sweepingly on, bending the water plants by its force ; and then rippling laughingly and pleasantly over moss-grown stones, until well out of the wood, and then it rushed madly on, and by its windings was lost to view. And along its sides grew several varieties of ferns and beautiful wild flowers. I was so charmed with the scene that I stood for some moments contemplating it ; then I crossed the stile and commenced filling my basket, which was by this time emptied of its store, with ferns and flowers.

Tartar kept still, and quietly watched me enjoy this occupation, in which he could not join. I sat by the little brook when I was tired of gathering, and listened to its babble. I tried to sing in harmony with its flow, but found it impossible, so got up rather hur riedly, disappointed and vexed, and perched myself on the stile, looking right through the wood. TEE STORY OF HERITAGE. Now in this sequestered, sylvan nook I had perfect license of freedom, and so, fully availing myself of the privilege, I commenced singing snatches of all the old songs I loved best. The while I was so doing, I further amused myself by pelting poor old Tartar with the flowers I had taken so much trouble to collect, until my basket was quite empty again. I don't think I could have annoyed him very much, even if that had been my intention, and not simply an innocent pas time for myself, for of all the missiles directed at him, I doubt very much if one ever reached its mark.

But most of the distance between me and the large dog was covered with the freshly gathered flowers, of which I had made such wanton use. From one fragment of song I rushed to another, quite heedless of my selection. At last I found myself beginning " Robin Adair," and that being my favourite of all songs, I could not refrain from sins-nig it to the end. And through the wood, clear and distinct, and over the fields as well, the words went forth— What's this dull town to me, Robin's not near, What was't I wish'd to see ? What wish'd to hear ? Where's all the joy and mirth, Made this town a heaven on earth ? Oh, they're all fled with thee, Robin Adair. What made th' assembly shine ? Robin Adair. What made the ball so fine ? Robin Adair. What, when the play was o'er, Made my heart so sore ? Oh, it was parting with Robin Adair.

Bnt now thou'rt cold to me, Robin Adair, But now thou'rt cold to me, Robin Adair. Yet he I lov'd so well, Still in my heart shall dwell, Oh, I can ne'er forget Robin Adair. " Ah, Tartar, Tartar," I said, as I finished the song, and looked full at the faithful old dog, lying quietly by the side of the brook, " I wonder if I shall ever find a Robin Adair ? I wonder if anyone will ever make things seem to me more beautiful than they really are? No, no, old Tartar, he could not. In yon little sequestered village I shall pass my life away, with only father to care for; poor dear old father. And I am so happy with him — so happy. I don't want anyone else, Tartar, do I ? " I looked appealingly at the dog, as though expecting an answer ; but the poor creature was lying with his eyes closed, and had not, I think, heard a word of my address to him.

Chapter IV

As I was wondering what I could throw to rouse the lazy dog, a voice almost in my ear said — " I am very sorry to trouble you, but will you let me get over the stile ? " I could not have been more astonished if a bombshell had burst near me — it could not have more completely knocked me down, for I almost fell from my perch. The basket went flying from me, and I stood clutching the rail of the stile with tightening grasp. Tartar, being disturbed by the little scream I gave, came running up to the intruder, at first with a loud bark, not savouring of friendship ; but on near approach he lost all signs of hostilities, and sniffed around the stranger with tolerable complacency. In my hurried dismount I saw the in truder was a man, and that was all. I had not the courage to look at him. I felt my face turn a deep crimson ; the blood surged to my cheeks, so much so, that from the tears in my eyes everything for a moment or two looked blurred and dim.

I tried to speak, but could not utter a word, and I felt my embarrassed position made me look most awkward and silly. " I have frightened you ; I am so sorry. I ought to be ashamed of myself speaking so abruptly, without giving you warning," the man who had frightened me said. But the voice was so kind and gentle, so sweet and low, that it re-assured me, and I, though still timid, looked up and mur mured — " Oh, please don't mind me. I am very silly to be so frightened, only — only — " I broke off suddenly, for the appearance of the man quite surprised me, as I, now fully overcome from the momentary shock, glanced deliberately at him. In an instant I wondered if he had heard me singing, and if he had come up in time to overhear my few remarks to Tartar. As I thought of this, with lowered head and down cast eyes, I felt my face getting hot again ; but, trying to be brave, I looked up to see him staring steadily, and smiling — yes, actu ally smiling at my trepidation.

He was a man who had seen some five or six and thirty years; years that had not gone well with him, judging by the stern and set expression of his features. Yet a kindly light beamed from the soft blue eyes, and a pleasant smile could play about the corners of the mouth. His face was bronzed, evi dently from sojourn in some foreign land, and was entirely devoid of hair save for a long, flowing, fair moustache that almost hid his mouth ; and fair curly hair, a shade or two lighter, clustered over his forehead and peeped out from beneath his hat. He was tall and broad, and seemed to me a very Apollo in appearance and a Her cules in strength. A suit of tweed with hat to match, formed his dress, whilst over his shoulder being slung a basket, and carrying in his hand a fishing-rod, I had no difficulty in guessing what sport he had been after.

He did not attempt to cross the stile, now I had made way for him, but stood looking at me in a half-amused manner. He did not speak, and I, not knowing what to say, made a step forward to take up the basket, when he, laying one hand on the stile, vaulted it as easily as possible, and pounced on the basket, handing it to me, as he said — " I cannot forgive myself for the fright I have caused you. Can you ? " This relieved my embarrassment, and I felt 1 could speak without being shy or timid, as he looked at me so kindly and tenderly, with a sad, mournful gaze in his eyes. " Oh, yes," I said ; " it was very foolish of me to be so startled, but — but — " " It was all my fault," he said. " I ought to have made you aware of my approach." " Why did you not ? " asked I, for the first time thinking he ought to have done so.

" Because then I should have missed hear ing ' Robin Adair,' and I could not afford to do that." "Oh, you heard me sing, then; I am so sorry," I said, rather impetuously, colouring a deep ciimson. " That is unkind," he answered. " Why should you be sorry ? " "Because — because — " I began to stammer, but I could get no further. " Because you have pleased me ? " he asked, looking down at me from his great height. " How can I have pleased you ? " I ques- D tioned, forgetting that I was conversing with an entire stranger. " By singing my favourite song in a way in which I have never heard it sung before," he said, earnestly. " You say this to please me," I ventured to remark, looking furtively at him ; but I noticed he looked rather vexed, and he turned a little aside as he said — " I should not say it unless I meant it ; in all my experience I never heard a voice so sweet, and fresh, and pure.

May I ask where you have studied?" " I have really had no training ; I was only taught at school by the music master," I replied, feeling rather uncomfortable at being thus cross-questioned, and almost compelled to answer in spite of myself, for there was something in this handsome stranger's manner that so attracted and interested me. Tartar had quietly laid on the grass again, and kept rigid watch over me to protect me from harm at a moment's notice if necessary. " Did you hear the remarks I made to Tartar? " I asked, after a moment or two's awkward pause ; " they were intended for his ears only." " I did, then I thought it was time to make my presence known," he answered, though not smiling as I expected him to do, but wearing bis usual sad and wistful look. Then after a few minutes he added, " Have you forgiven me yet ?

You have not said so, remember." " Oh, yes, but you won't, please, ever allude to it, will you ? at least I mean the remarks I made to my dog," I said, feeling tbe colour come to my cheeks with a great rush. No sooner had I said the words than I dis covered the mistake I had made. Here was I talking to an utter stranger, not known to me even by name, in a country wood far away from a village, asking him not to allude to a subject again, as though this incident constituted a right of acquaintanceship and placed us on a friendly footing. I wished I could have vanished ; I wished I could have run away. I did make a step forward, which roused the dog, but then I was held back by an irresistible longing to speak just another word to this stranger. I expected to see him laugh, or look angry ; but when I glanced at him he was neither, but looking at me as tenderly as a mother looks at her child.

He eagerly took up my words and said — " I promise you ; will that satisfy you ? " " Thank you," I said, and could say no more, for I am ashamed to say I began to cry. Why, I could not tell. Why, I cannot tell to this day. But I did. Oh ! I would have given all I had not to have done so then. I fancied I looked very foohsh, and I dare say I did. I know it is distressing for a man to see a woman in tears, especially when he has a vague knowledge that he is the cause of them, yet cannot exactly fathom the reason.