Mrs. Romaine's Household

Front matter

MRS. ROMAINE'S HOUSEHOLD ' MRS. ROMAINE CAME IN AND STOOD OVER THE LITTLE CROUP. '—P{I0C 118. MES. BOMAINE'S HOUSEHOLD BY EVELYN EVERETT-GREEN AUTHOR OF 'DOROTHY'S VOCATION,' ' TUE STRONCER WILL, F.TC WITH FRONTISPIECE BY SIDNEY PAGET EDINBURGH & LONDON OLIPHANT ANDERSON & FERRIER BOOKS ET EVELYN EVERETT-GREEN. Dorothy's Vocation. Crown 8vo. Illustrated. 2s. Oliver Langton's Ward. Crown Svo. Illustrated. 2s. The Stronger Will. Crown 8vo. Illustrated. 2s. 6d. Syd's New Pony. Ex. Fcap. 8vo. Cloth. 6d. The Witch of the Quarry Hut. Ex. Fcap. Svo. Cloth. 6d. Daring Dot. Fcap. 8vo. Cloth. 4d. Clive's Conquest. Fcap. 8vo. Cloth. 4d. Mrs. Romaine's Household. Ex. Crown 8vo. With FrontiS' piece by Sidney Paget. 3r. 6d. EDINBURGH & LONDON OLIPHANT ANDERSON & FERRIEH. MORRISON AND GIBB, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH, CONTENTS.

CHAP. PAGE I. CLARE CHESTERTON, ..... 7 II. MRS. romaine's school-room, . . . .15 III. INTRODUCTIONS, ...... 27 IV. SISTERS, ....... 38 V. SUNDAY, ....... 49 VI. THE M0NKT0NS, ...... 63 VII. CONFIDENCES, ...... 73 VIII. WARNINGS, ...... 86 IX. THE DREADED VISITOR, ..... 99 X. A STRANGE CHRISTMAS, . . . . .110 XI. CALM AND STORM, ..... 120 XII. WITH CHRIEMHILD, . . . . .130 XIII. AT THE MANOR HOUSE, . . . . .147 XIV. CHRIEMHILD'S NEW FRIEND, .... 158 XV. A TERRIBLE SECRET, . . . . .169 XVI. THE STRANGER'S VISIT, ..... 183 XVII. A COMPACT, . . . . . .196 XVIII. ENID, . . ..... CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGE xix. kenelm's visit, ...... 215 xx. after three months, ..... 222 xxi. forebodings, ...... 233 xxii. enid's return, ...... 242 xxiii. the reduced household, .... 252 xxiv. siegmund, ....... 261 xxv. a battle, ....... 270 xxvi. flight, ....... 280 xxvit. the alarm, ...... 290 xxviii. the sister, ...... 297 xxix. the mother, ...... 307 xxx. conclusion, ...... 31g — ♦ —

Chapter I. Clare Chesterton

' More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of.' —Tennyson. j|jii|LARE CHESTERTON sat in deep thought, m\lw§}s ner neac^ resting upon her hand, and an open S^NS^S letter on the table before her. She was dressed in deep mourning, the freshness of which seemed to speak of some recent loss ; and upon a face that by nature seemed framed for smiles and hopeful brightness, sorrow and watching had left traces that would not at once be effaced. There was good reason for the girl to look sad and worn, for she had just nursed her mother through a long and lingering illness, and had laid her at last to rest in the grave, with the feeling that her whole life lay buried there too. She was very much alone in the world, this young girl ; and although poverty was not added to her other trials, she was without home, without friends, and almost without relatives.

Mrs. Chesterton's precarious health had obliged her to travel from one warm place to another in search of the strength she never found, so that both she and her daughter had lost sight of the few family connec tions they possessed,, and had made no new ties amongst the people they had met during their wandering life. Clare was now in a furnished house in Torquay, which would be her home for only a fortnight longer, unless she took it on for another six months, which she felt little disposed to do. She felt lost and bewildered at having no one but herself to think for. Her fragile, delicate mother had been for so many years the aim and object of her life, that it was impossible for her to realize that her loving care would no longer be needed. Clare had not until now felt able to think connectedly.

But the letter she held in her hand had aroused in her the wish to settle something definite as to the future, and she perused it very carefully, weighing every word, and trying hard to gather from its tone what kind of a character was possessed by the writer. The handwriting was bold and clear and firm, and it seemed to Clare as if it had been framed by some one of decided views. The terse sentences pleased her. They gave her the impression both of kindliness and of strength of will, a combination she liked. The letter was dated from ' Felsted Park,' and ran as follows : — ' My dear Miss Chesterton, — I do not know your Christian name, or I should assume the privilege of CLARE CHESTERTON. 9 relationship and address you by it. Probably you may be quite at a loss to know by what right I communicate with you at all, for my husband tells me that he only saw your mother — his cousin — once in his life, and I never even knew of the relationship until he saw Mrs. Chesterton's death in the papers a few days ago. ' I am Mr. Romaine's second wife.

He has become of late years something of an invalid, which must be his excuse for having seen so very little of his relatives. For my part, I think that family ties should be kept up, and I am very sorry we did not earlier make the acquaintance of Mrs. Chesterton and yourself. 'My husband tells me that he believes you are an only child, and quite alone in the world. If this is the case, and you have no other stronger ties, I wonder whether you would care to make your home with us, or at least pay us a long visit, and see how you get on. I should be very sorry to think that any relative of my husband's was in any way at a loss for headquarters so long as we had them to offer ; and a young girl does not generally care about living quite alone. ' Will you pardon my frankness if I add that I do not at all know how you are circumstanced pecuniarily ; but we trust you will apply to us without reserve if you are in any temporary need of funds.

After a death there is often some passing difficulty, even when there is property behind ; and my husband will be only too happy to become your banker if any such need should arise. ' As we are upon this subject, I will just say this, that if you should be so circumstanced in the future as to desire to " do something for yourself," I trust you will do that something in our house and not amongst strangers. MRS. R0.U.4INES HOUSEHOLD. 10 I have three little children of my own, who have to bo taught ; and one of my husband's peculiarities in con nection with his ill-health is his determination to allow no governess in the house. He thinks that I aud my two step-daughters ought to be able to teach them ; but the consequence of this is that their education is carried on in a very desultory fashion, aud that a little more regular help would be a great boon to me.

I hope you will not mind my frankness. We do not ask you to come as a governess, though my last remarks seem almost to point to such a conclusion. We ask you, if no better home offers, to come to us, to be as a daughter of the house ; but lest I seem to be more unselfish than I am, I add these particulars to show that, if you desire it. you can be of great value to us. In any case, we shall be delighted to welcome you on any day you may fix, whether for a visit, long or short, or as a permanent member of our household. — Yours very sincerely, ' Hester Komainf..' Clare smiled as she finished this second perusal — smiled in a fashion that showed she was both pleased and amused. ' They think I am poor,' she said half aloud, ' as I should have been at mother's death but for the money that came to us so unexpectedly from old Uncle Chester ton in Australia, Of course they would not know that ; I have hardly even heard of the Eomaines, and they would know nothing about us.

They think I am poor, and they try and make my way plain to make a home with them without being painfully dependent. I like Mrs. Bomaiue's letter ; it is kind and straightforward, CLARE CHESTERTON. 11 and carefully worded. I think I will go to them. I think I will not tell them exactly how I am situated ; but will accept the offer of a home, and teach the little children. I always thought I should like teaching, and I cannot bear being idle. If they are nice children I shall be fond of them, and much happier with some regular occupation than without it. If I do not like it, I need not stay ; but I do want a settled home for a little while, and I feel quite inclined to go to Felsted Park, at any rate for a time.' And before the post went out that day Clare had written the following letter: — ' My dear Mrs. Romaine, — I am both touched and pleased by your kind letter just received, and the offer contained in it ; and I am going to accept it in the spirit in which it was made ; for since my mother's death I feel very sadly alone in the world with no home of my own.

I hope you will let me teach your little children, as I am sure it will be much better for me to have some regular occupation. I shall not be obliged to earn my own living, but I have always been very fond of learning, and have thought I should like to teach, if ever it came in my way. You do not tell me their ages ; but I daresay I shall be able to instruct them for a time at any rate. I should like to come about the middle of September, if that will suit you, which will be a fortnight from now. ' With very many thanks for your kindness in think ing of me in my loneliness, believe me, yours very truly, ' Clare Chesterton.' This letter written and despatched, Clare wandered out towards the sea, with a brighter look upon her face. Already it seemed to her as if her extreme loneliness had passed.

She had risen that morning feeling strangely desolate, seeing no future before her, and able to form no plans for herself ; and now, before the day had passed, a home had been offered to her, towards which she felt instinctively drawn. Her way had opened out in a manner in which the girl traced clearly enough a Father's guiding hand. She thought it all over as she walked beside the sea that night in the after-glow of a September sunset. There had been certain words haunting the girl's mind ever since she had laid her mother to rest in the quiet earth, and had felt herself alone in the world — words that she and her mother had both loved, and which had been amongst the last utterances that had fallen from Mrs. Chesterton's lips. ' More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of.' Clare had been brought up to believe in prayer.

She had been brought up by a devout and God-fearing woman ; and beneath the outward sparkle of her nature she hid away a reserve of earnest purpose and conviction that had taken too deep root in her heart to be easily disturbed. She did not speak readily of her religious thoughts and feelings. Even to her mother she had not found it easy to put them into words, but there they were, lying hidden from sight — a mainspring of action that directed the whole course of her life. And she had been praying very earnestly for light upon her daily path, for guidance at this crisis of her life. CLARE CHESTERTON. 13 She had not felt able to plan or to think ; but she had been able to pray, and had done this with the calm con fidence of conviction, feeling certain that in some way or another her way would be made plain before her. 'More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of.' And it seemed to Clare, when Mrs. Romaine's letter was put into her hands, as if it had come as an answer to prayer.

Some instinct within herself bid her go to that house. She thought of all this as she walked by the sea that night ; and a sense of calm and consolation settled down upon her. She felt that she had done right in accepting the offer made to her, and in this conviction she rested content, not speculating too anxiously upon what it might lead to. ' One step at a time,' her mother had often said to her ; and in the spirit of that saying, Clare lived during the next few days. Mrs. Romaine's next letter was brief ; but kind, and to the point — ' My dear Clare, — I am exceedingly pleased to think that we shall so soon be able to welcome you to Felsted. I hope yrou will be very happy with us, and that the children will repay you for your great kindness in wishing to teach them. The little girls are twelve and five ; the boy is nine.

Their father will not hear of school for them, though the boy must go there eventually. I cannot say how relieved and grateful I feel to you for the readi ness you have shown in this matter. ' We will try and make you happy amongst us ; but I will make no more protestations. Actions speak louder than words.' That was the substance of the letter, and a substance that pleased Clare. One chapter of her life had closed. The next was to open at Felsted Fark.

Chapter II. Mrs

ROMAINE'S SCHOOL-ROOM. 0 attend to your lesson, you naughty child ! ' Chriemhild tossed her handsome little head, and looked disdainfully at the book before her. 1 What's the good of learning out of a thing like thai ? I believe I know more than the man who wrote it.' ' You, indeed ! ' exclaimed the elder sister, with a scorn and temper which spoke ill for her power as a teacher. ' Yes, I indeed ! ' retorted Chriemhild, with unabashed confidence- ' I hate a history that is all silly little facts and ridiculous make-believe conversations, which the man must have made up himself. I like to know about causes, and the balance of power, and constitutional his tory ; and I know you can't teacli me that, because you don't know anything about it yourself.' And Chriemhild flung back her mane of beautiful golden hair, and closed the abused primer with a bang.

Enid rose in great irritation. 'You are, without exception, the worst behaved and the most ungrateful child I ever came across. I shall tell your mother that I will have nothing more to do with your education. She may teach you herself for the future, and find out for herself how you idle and trifle.' Chriemhild broke out into a laugh of defiance. ' Hurrah ! No more make-believe lessons from Enid ! What an escape ! Your teaching is like the blind leading the blind. It's no good asking you anything, because you never know, and pretend the question is frivolous, just to avoid exposing your ignorance. Oh yes, you do, and it's no good getting into such a passion. It only makes you look ridiculous. I hope if Cousin Clare teaches me some times, as mamma says she will, that she will be different from you ! ' ' I pity Clare if she is to have anything to do with your lessons ! ' cried Enid, with flushed cheeks and angry eyes. ' The only reward she will get will be the^ insol ence of the most insolent child in the world.

Siegmund is bad enough — but you ' — Enid left her sentence significantly unfinished, and banged the school-room door behind her as she made her exit. She was not fond of these encounters with Chriem hild. She had an uneasy feeling that her precocious little half-sister was too strong for her, and that she got the worst of the wordy warfare. It is not pleasant to be worsted by a child of barely twelve, nine years one's junior ; and the elder sister was seldom able to keep her temper under the provocation of taunts and ridicule. Chriemhild executed a triumphant dance, indicative of joy, as soon as she found herself alone, flung the despised and battered volume into an open cupboard, caught up a little Yorkshire terrier, who had been sleeping in the sunshine, and covered his damp nose with kisses.

Dino, my darling, she's gone at last, and you and I can have a game together. She's a nasty, cross thing, that Enid. We don't like her a bit, do we, my sweet ? Will you mind very much if I comb your hair for you, Dino ? I can't bear to hurt your feelings, but you know you do get not fit to be seen when you are left to your own devices for a day or two. I let you off yesterday because you were wet, and the day before because you looked so very beseeching ; but I really must comb you to-day.' Dino was gently placed upon the table, and knowing what was to follow, he put on an air of abject depression that made his mistress sayr firmly, — ' No, Dino, you will not get round me that way always. It is no use always putting off the evil day. It shows a weakness of mind over which you ought to rise superior.

Now, now, what is the use of doing that ? You know it will not save you.' For Dino had rolled over upon his back and tucked all four legs into as small a compass as possible, as if by this process he could contrive to render himself invisible. But Chriemhild was very firm, and Dino gained nothing by his abject behaviour. His silky coat, which resembled white floss silk, with a substratum of delicate grey wool, was duly combed and brushed, even to the tufts upon his ears and the fringe over his beseeching brown eyes ; and resigning himself to the inevitable with the stoicism of a fatalist, the little terrier behaved with a docility that won his mistress's warmest praises. ' Dino,' she said, releasing him at length, ' you are a B MRS. ROMALNE'S HOUSEHOLD. darlino- — the best dosr in the whole world.

I am con vinced that you are wiser and better than half the people we meet.' Dino appeared quite of the same opinion himself, and wagged his tail complacently. He loved above all things to be praised, and was perfectly well aware of his little mistress's sentiments towards him. Chriemhild looked at the clock, and observed that it was five o'clock. ' I want my tea,' she said ; ' so do you, Dino, don't you ? Well, I think I hear it coming. I wonder where Sieg mund is ? He must have come in from his walk by this time, I should think. Ah ! ' Both doors of the school-room opened simultaneously. A maid appeared bearing a tea-tray, and from an inner room burst a bright-faced lad of nine years old, leading by the hand a little blue-eyed fairy of five. Chriemhild caught up her little sister and kissed her effusively.

Certainly Mrs. Romaine had good cause to be proud of her three children, for they were strikingly handsome in appearance, and were endowed with a precocity of intellect that won immediate attention wherever they appeared. There was nothing doll-like in any one of the three faces. Chriemhild, with her heavy golden hair, dark flashing eyes, and haughty high-bred face, might have been daughter to one of the northern Vikings, whose adventures she loved to read. Siegmund's face had perhaps less pride and power to boast of, but he was a peculiarly handsome boy, full of laughter and frolic, yet withal of an indomitable spirit that made his nurse's life by no means an easy one ; whilst, as for the blue eyed Angela, she was something of a contrast to the others, being, so far, a gentle, docile little thing, and quite the darling of the establishment. ' If nobody's coming to-day,' observed Chriemhild, ' I shall make tea.' It was Mrs. Romaine's rule that one of her two step daughters should be present at the five o'clock school-room tea ; but the rule was certainly proved by a multitude of exceptions. ' I like being alone,' cried Siegmund, making a dash at the strawberry jam. ' Freda isn't bad ; but I can't bear Enid.

She does so lay down the law, and she's got so awfully conceited lately.' Chriemhild laughed a little and looked mysterious, as if she would like to say something, but hardly knew how to put it into words. ' Siegmund,' she said presently, ' do you ever hear what nurse and Jane say when they get talking together ? ' ' I never listen,' answered the boy carelessly. ' It isn't interesting.' ' It is sometimes,' answered Chriemhild significantly. ' I can't help hearing things.' ' What sort of things ? ' asked Siegmund, rousing up to greater interest. ' I don't exactly know. I can't always understand. But it's something to do with the Monktons. You know Lady Mary comes oftener than she did, and Mr. Monkton has come to live at home now.' ' Lady Mary is like a mummy — all dried up and wrinkled. I don't think I like her.

Coachman says Mr. Monkton is jolly, and has some hunters. His name is Algy, isn't it ? I'm sure I heard Freda call him Algy.' 'His name really is Algernon. Enid and Freda used to know him pretty well a long time ago, before we can remember things. He has been away ever since, almost. I heard somebody say he had been travelling, and spending a lot of money ; but he means to settle down now and look after the estate, and be a model landlord.' 'But what's it all got to do with Enid?' asked Sieg mund, after a pause. ' Why should she be conceited because Mr. Monkton has come back ? ' Chriemhild looked cautiously round as if to make sure there were no eavesdroppers, and then she said quite softly, — ' I don't quite know ; but I think either Mr. Monkton wants to marry Enid, or else Enid wants to marry Mr. Monkton.' Siegmund stared, not entirely comprehending the drift of the remark. ' Oh,' he said ; and, after a pause, he asked, ' If she married him, would she go away and live somewhere else?' ' Why, yes.

I suppose so.' ' Then I wish she would ! ' Chriemhild laughed and shrugged her shoulders, — ' So do I.' ' I wish they'd both get married, if it comes to that. Then we should have no lessons, and the house all to ourselves.' But Chriemhild shook her head. ' No, we shouldn't ; besides, I don't think it would be nice to have no lessons. I like learning. I want to learn everything. Don't you know Cousin Clare is coming soon to teach us ? ' ' Will she be cross, like Enid, and scold ? ' ' I don't know ; I suppose all grown-up people scold sometimes. I daresay she won't be worse than most.' ' What a bore lessons are ! I can't think what's the good of them, unless a fellow goes to school.' * Don't ask to go to school, Sieg. It would be so dull without you here.' ' Mamma says I shall go some day, but not yet.

I don't mean to bother over lessons till I do go. As if girls could teach Latin ! Why, Enid doesn't know anything except what it says in the book. She couldn't get through the first declension alone.' Chriemhild tossed her head in disdainful assent. ' Enid is horrid ; for she pretends to know everything, and she doesn't know anything. Freda is disgracefully ignorant, but she doesn't profess to be learned. I don't mind that so much, but I do hate a sham.' ' So do I.' ' And it's worse in Enid, for she pretends to be so much better than the rest. She goes to church twice as much as anybody else, and says long prayers, and reads good books, and sets up for being a saint, and she's really twice as bad as anybody.' Siegmund yawned. He was not so easily excited as his sister. Chriemhild continued, after a pause, — ' One thing I know.

I do hope Cousin Clare won't pretend to be religious.' ' Why not ? ' ' Because, judging from the specimen we have, people who make a fuss about being religious are the worst sort of all.' Siegmund did not seem to have an answer ready, nor would he have had the chance to deliver it in any case, for the door opened at that moment and admitted a tall fair girl, in a closely-fitting brown riding-habit. ' Ah ! give me some tea ; there's a good child ! ' exclaimed the new-comer, sitting down in an easy-chair by the window, and removing her hat and veil. ' I am dying of thirst, but I could not face the drawing-room party after seeing the Monkton carriage at the door. That carriage always looks like a funeral hearse to me.' Chriemhild poured out a fragrant cup of tea, and added a liberal share of cream, and then brought the beverage over to the thirsty guest at the window. ' Are the Monktons here, Freda ? ' ' Yes ; at least Lady Mary is in the drawing-room.

I can't stand these visitations. It kills me to hear Enid putting on learned airs for the benefit of the old lady. So I just — sloped ; ' and Freda drank off her tea at one draught, and held out her cup for more. ' When Algy comes I don't mind it so much.' Chriemhild and Siegmund exchanged glances. This was the sister from whom information was most easily obtained — that fascinating information about the sayings and doings of their elders that is so attractive to children upstairs, especially when they arrive at Chriemhild's age. Siegmund was looking hard at Freda. ' Do you call him " Algy " when you speak to him ? ' Freda laughed. ' No, my dear child, not yet. I am very polite and polished, and address him as " Mr. Monkton," with unimpeachable propriety ; ' and then, nodding her head, with a mysterious smile, she added slyly, 'Mais nous aurons changer tout cela ! ' Chriemhild laughed, whilst Siegmund stared, and Freda, thinking herself on somewhat dangerous ground, added, — ' But we are not supposed to know anything — we little ones.

Hilda, don't you be too knowing. It's a great mistake for little pitchers to have long ears.' Chriemhild laughed again, and caught up Dino to give him his evening refection of cream and cake. Freda watched her with a certain interest, and said to herself by and by, — ' We must bestir ourselves, unless we wish to be totally eclipsed in years to come. If we are good-looking, as is commonly supposed, what will Chriemhild be ? Neither of us can hold a candle to her. Well for us that she has five or six years of the school-room still before her. Not that I have ever depended on my good looks for my start in life.' Mr. Romaine's two daughters by his first marriage were sufficiently of an age to make a certain amount of rivalry inevitable ; but by a fortunate variety of tempera ment, this rivalry had never seriously disturbed the peace of the family.

Enid, the elder, was the less generally popular, but she had the reputation of being clever, and of having ' a great deal in her.' To be strictly just, it must be confessed that this reputation was regarded as something of a joke by her own family. Chriemhild, with the precocious intolerance of a clever child, held Enid's not very remarkable attain ments in great contempt ; and certainly, to the home circle the girl did not show herself in any very favour able light. She was very much in earnest over any idea that she took up, and these ' hobbies ' had varied greatly with changing years. Of late she had taken to ' good worke ' as her ' vocation,' and visited the cottages in her district with a zeal that was reported to outweigh her discretion. She was equally zealous in her attendance at church, and spent much time in the perusal of theological and doctrinal works.

It cannot fairly be said that her ' religious mania ' had endeared her to her family. Indeed, it seemed rather to have alienated her than otherwise, although it might not be very easy to say why. Enid had been from her childhood condemned as difficile. The term had been applied to her by her French bonne years ago, and had always clung to her since. She was not so good-looking nor so good-tempered as Freda, yet she always seemed to put herself upon a pedestal, and to look down upon her sister and upon others with a sort of pitying superiority that was some what exasperating. Her pretended religion had not taught her humility, neither had it added to her popu larity at home. Of late a new impulse had been given to her love of district-work by the return of Algernon Monkton, the great landowner of the place, to whom nearly all Felsted and its outlying district belonged.