Bitter Sweets: a love story

Front matter

VOL. I A LOVE STORY. BY JOSEPH RATION. The web of our lise is a mingled yarn, good and ill together : our virtues would be proud if our faults whipped them not ; and our crimes would despair, if they were not cherished by our virtues.— Shakespeake. There is a comfort in the strength of love ; 'Twill make a thing endurable, which else Would overset the brain, or break the heart. WORDSWOkTH. IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. I. LONDON: TINSLEY BROTHERS, 18, CATHERINE ST., STRAND. 1865. [The right of translation is reserved.] JOHN CHILDS AND SON, PRINTERS.

Preface

. You remember the first grand party to which you were in**ited. You were to meet eminent men and women, who were amazingly clever. They would talk to you, and ask you strange questions. You had previously met several of them, in a quiet way, it is true ; and once, when the Avine had been freely circulated, you had ventured to tell a little story which had been tolerably well received. But this was very dif ferent to dining with my Lord Goldman, where you would be received beneath a great portico, and ushered into the hall by powdered and padded flunkeys; where you would have your name announced in a big voice, which would most probably pronounce it incorrectly, and make you hot and uncomfortable. You cannot forget how you bowed, a little confusedly, under the flunkey infliction; how you took your seat nervously, between, perhaps, a bishop and a poet, or an artist and a mil lionnaire, or a fashionable authoress and a states- VI PEEFACE. man's wife ; how eventually you discovered that the great people were only men and women after all; and how you found that they did not give themselves half the airs of the Smiths, Browns, and Robinsons, who had made their money as " butchers, and bakers, and candle stick makers," as the nursery books have it.

You remember how you gradually felt so much at your ease that you actually dared to detain your plate, and finish that tender pheasant's wing, after the six feet of plush and impertinence had seized upon it. These miscellaneous feelings of fear and doubt, and lack of self-confidence which you felt when you put your hand through your hair and followed Jeames to the reception room, afflict us now. We have been invited to a great party, a distinguished party, a critical party; we have dressed, made ready our "im promptu" jokes, and thought over our little story; our name has been announced. And now we make our bow timidly, and we hope modestly, as becomes us. We do not expect that the host will come forward and take us by the hand and introduce us as his intimate and worthy friend. We do not expect that eminent ladies and gentlemen, who are favourites in my Lord John Bull's great house, will rise to greet us. On the contrary, we shall be prepared to

PREFACE.

. VII hear whispers about our presumption in ventur ing to take a seat amongst such goodly company. It is upon this point that we are particularly nervous, because we feel our own unworthiness. But we have been invited to be present, and are here accordingly. We have, therefore, no apology to offer; we shall try to make ourselves agreeable; we have made our little jokes, and told our stories at parties of lesser magnitude; and we hope to discover, like the reader whom we have apostrophized, that our first grand party is not such a formidable affair as we had anti cipated. If we do not behave ourselves pro perly we shall be snubbed, no doubt; if our jokes and our speeches, and the story that we have prepared, to come on with the port and the filberts, are not up to the ordinary standard we shall be pooh-poohed, and laughed at.

With all modest deference, we make our bow, and submit to the critical ordeal, asking for no more consideration than others receive, and claiming no leniency on account of a first appearance. To drop metaphor, let us say that we feel a proper diffidence in entering a field of liter ature so well occupied; but we have been en couraged to do so by the flattering reception which sundry unambitious stories and sketches have met with, at the hands of the critic and the public. If the story we have now to tell be

PREFACE.

. deemed worthy of the favourable recognition of the former, and helps the latter to a few hours of interesting reading, our purpose will be accomplished, and our ambition satisfied. Of the tale itself we desire to say that bigamy is not its leading feature; that murder is not the pastime of the hero or heroine; that we have not written it Avith a A*iew to its taking rank with any particular class of novels. Our purpose has been to produce a tale of sweets and bitters, healthy in tone and matter, and our highest aim to make the story interesting and in keeping with its title. We hope there is a moral in it ; we hope it may do good, whilst it amuses and entertains; but we leave our readers to find out its lessons, and take to heart whatever they may consider the great moral to be. Apologizing for this personal intrusion upon the reader's time and patience, we beg to say, in conclusion, that our work has been wrouo-ht out in the scant leisure hours of an active life of journalism ; if it be successful, novel readers may hear of us again ; if not, we shall endeavour to bear our disappointment with becoming resig nation.

The Author. CONTENTS OF THE FIRST VOLUME. CHAP. PAGE I. MR MOUNTFORD AND HIS PRETTY WARD 1 II. IN THE SERVANTS' HALL . . . . 12 III. THE CAVERNS . . . . 23 IV. HARRY THORNHILL'S WOOING . . 38 V. A MEMORABLE SUNDAY . . . . 52 VI. HOW THE STAR WENT OUT . . . . 73 VII. THE SURVIVORS . . . . 83 VIII. THE RUNAWAY ... . . . . 96 IX. LOVE'S METAMORPHOSES . . . . 1 14 X. WINFORD BARNS RAISES A DEMON . . 132 XI. HAERY THORNHILL'S LAST DAY AT DENBY ' RISE . . . . . . . . 148 XII. MORE SHADOWS . . . . . . VI CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGE XIII. THE GREYS . . . . . . 190 XIV. KEEM'S HARMONIC BOWERS . . . . 203 XV. "WAITING UP" .. .. .. 219 XVI. THE COUNTING-HOUSE AND THE HOSPITAL 241 XVII. THE MAY QUEEN . . . . . . 262 XVIII. RICHARD GREY ASTONISHES MAT DUNKUM BITTEE SWEETS: A LOVE STORY.

Chapter I. Mr Mountford And His Pretty Ward

Denby Rise looked out upon the sea, down a well-wooded glen. It was a cosy, pleasant, lonely house, of an imposing ap pearance. Its style of architecture ap proached nearer the Gothic than any other order. There were many gables about the house, and numerous windows in out-of the-way places, with ivy creeping up to the sills from dark corners below. At the highest window you might see the white horses of the Atlantic, chasing each VOL. I. BITTER SAVEETS. other over ocean fields of green ; from the lowest you could watch a little mountain stream trickle away by roots of trees, over pebbles, and round great boulders, into the bay, where it was frequently met by big waves that chased it back far up the glen. The coast for several miles, on both sides of this valley, was rocky, picturesque, and dangerous.

When the tide was at its height it made a long white wreath of foam at the base of the rocks ; Avhen it flowed back again it left all manner of weed rimmed pools, full of curious things that darted from side to side, as if playing at hide and seek amongst the seaweed which sheltered them. Half a mile from the val ley, when the tide was out, it left a firm sandy beach, upon which the visitors at Helswick, a fashionable little watering place, promenaded in gorgeous attire. Denby Rise was the residence of Mark Mountford, Esq., who, starting life with excellent prospects, had retired early upon a handsome fortune. At the commence ment of our story he may be said to ha\*e entered the autumnal period of life, and we find him enjoying it to the full ; at least as completely as any bachelor could be expected to enjoy it.

A ripe scholar, a warm-hearted, intelligent man, he surrounded himself with things that were beautiful in Nature and Art ; not with the pride of a mere collector, but with the delight and satisfaction of a man of educated taste, refined feelings, and un derstanding. He had a pretty ward, this happy Mark Mountford, who was the sunshine of that gabled house in the valley : a ward with wavy hair and merry eyes, and a joyous laugh ; a ward who had been bequeathed to him, some years prior to this our intro duction, by her father (Mr Mountford's half-brother), who had died in India. What a happy fellow, having such a pleasant house rendered complete by a pretty niece whom he could watch over and care for! And what a providential thing for Anna Lee to have such a guardian ! None of your growling, money-grub bing, jealous uncles, was Mr Mountford.

He would listen to Anna for hours, whilst she conjured melodies, merry and sad, from piano or harp ; he would ride with her over the heath above the rocks ; he would throw pebbles, with her, into the sea ; help her to collect ferns ; botanize with her ; concho logize with her; read with her; and, in fact, they were quite companions. Wis dom joined hands with Youth and Beauty, and they walked together in pure friend ship ; Mark's love for Anna having ripened into a deep paternal affection. '-But I am serious, Anna dear," said Mr Mountford one evening, after a pleasant ramble for ferns, and evidently in continu ation of a conversation which Anna was inclined to treat lightly. *- Nonsense, uncle ; why one would think you were what people call a matchmaking mamma, to talk in such a fashion," said Anna laughing, in spite of Mr Mount ford's seriousness.

" There ! Now I must turn the tables upon you in earnest: it is your want of motherly advice and guidance, Anna, that I begin to regret deeply ; not that you will perhaps feel that want, never having ex perienced the blessings of maternal care since you were old enough to know what a mother's love is." Anna turned an inquiring face towards her uncle, who patted her head lovingly, and continued : " The time may come, Anna — who knows how soon ! — when your uncle will have followed to the grave that mother who died before you could lisp her name." •' Dear uncle ! " exclaimed Anna, press ing the arm upon which she was leaning. "We must not be afraid to think of these things, Anna. I love you too much to live on entirely in the present, as if our rambles were to last for ever. The time will come, my darling, when you will need another guardian; and it is the hope of my declining years, Anna, that your next guardian shall be a husband worthy of your love."

As if he expected some reply, Mr Mount ford paused here ; but Anna held down her head, and the two walked on, in silence, until they entered the A*alley, and com menced the ascent to Denby Rise. -* HaA*e you nothing to say, Anna ? " at length Mr Mountford inquired, taking her hand. " Don't let me hurt your feelings, dear uncle," said Anna smiling, " but I cannot really be serious about the matter. A husband, indeed ! What should I do with a husband, uncle ? and where is he to come from ? You know what the miller of the Dee used to sing. Now*, uncle, dear uncle, don't be so gloomy. Como in, and let us classify our ferns, and leave husbands to those who want them." Seeing the shadoAv disappear from Mr Mountford's countenance, Anna followed up her little victory with a little laugh, and shaking her ferns at her uncle, she said archly : -- Why, uncle, you never married, and how can you have the conscience to want to marry me to somebody, when you have lived such a happy single life ?

" " Ah, that's a very different matter, my fairy; but we will talk of this when you are inclined to be more thoughtful." "Well, uncle, I will promise you, that when the good prince comes on his white palfrey, after the manner of poetry and romance, I will consider the state. of my feelings." Mr Mountford knew whom he would like that good prince to be, but he said no more; and if he had mentioned Harry Thornhill's name, Anna would only have laughed, in downright earnest. Perhaps you may think Anna treated too lightly the serious subject broached by her uncle ; but how could a young lady be expected to talk seriously about a husband, when she loved her uncle better than any body on earth? Had Mr Mountford in troduced the subject of a future in which he Avould be no more, without coupling with it Anna married and settled, she might have continued in that serious mood which, for a moment, had mastered her buoyant spirits.

Coming from a stupid boarding school to Denby Rise, a few years previously, she had felt the change a delightful relief from Mrs Stiffintheback's establishment, and the bare contemplation of leaving it would have been as painful to her as the idea of a husband seemed absurd. With Mr Mountford, however, Anna's future had for some time been a subject of serious consideration. Working hard at college when a young man, and afterwards in a professional career, he had contracted an affection of the heart, which he ima gined might some day carry him off, with little or no warning. Not that this fancy of his troubled him on his own account; for he never felt any ill effects from what he called his weak part, and if he could have been a chooser in the matter he would have preferred sudden death to any other; but the childless bachelor loved Anna with a fatherly ten derness, and her future cost him many an anxious thought.

The tendrils of his kind good nature had wound themselves about the orphan girl, and it was the chiefest happiness of his declining years to protect and shelter her. It had been the wonder of Helswick and the neighbourhood, for many a long year, that such a pleasant, genial gentle man as Mr Mountford had not married : but somehow or other he had never met a lady who had inspired him with the tender passion. There were sprightly spinsters in Helswick who still did not despair of making a conquest of the gallant grey headed horseman who occasionally visited that gay locality. One gentle dame, who had dined with him at the Rector's, and afterwards leaned on his arm to her own residence, had purchased a complete set of teeth, and ordered a new false front from London, on the strength of his polite request that she would not pass Denby Rise without calling.

But the white teeth and the glossy curls of the animated Helswick spinster were quite lost upon Bachelor Mountford, who never had the slightest suspicion of the expense into which his courtesy had forced her ; yet Mr Mount ford considered himself wonderfully Clevel and far-seeim*- with regard to a match Avhich he thought he was making between Harry Thornhill and his pretty ward. And that night after the brief convers ation we have recorded, he built up his hopes, and looked at them through the rippling, soothing melodies which seemed to flow from Anna's nimble fingers. Every musical phrase, every cadence, every change of key and touching modulation, had its impression on the pictures of the future which Mark Mountford made whilst BITTER SWEETS. he sat listening to the charming pianist. He saw a fair bride hand in hand with Harry Thornhill ; he heard the bells ring out the joyous message over the sea ; he saw Anna a happy wife and mother.

A dead leaf floated through the open window, and that yellow waif of the dying year seemed to preach speed in the realization of these treasured hopes, ere the passing bell (which Mark Mountford also heard in imagination) should toll forth, in all its sad and mournful reality.

Chapter II. In The Servants' Hall

Joe Wittle was Squire Mountford's groom," and by virtue of his having been taken, as a boy, into his master's service about the time that Mr Mountford left the bar and came to Denby Rise, he was allowed to be an authority on all matters pertaining to the house of Mountford : and by virtue of his glib tongue and his merry ways, he was permitted to say many things which Avould never have been tolerated from any other quarter — even in the servants' hall. He was not a young man, though he was short in stature and juvenile in his movements. He had a seat somewhat taller than the others at the hall table, and from this throne it was his wont, at meal times, to be oracular. "Tell yer wot it is, Mrs Grey, tell yer wot it is, that ere gent, young Thorn hill, has no notion how to put the halter on the young missis."

"Indeed!" said Mrs Grey, the house keeper, a woman whose slightly silvered curls only seemed to make her round matronly face look still more handsome, — "Indeed!" " It's no good a making y erself cheap wotever yer station in life; it's my ex perience as you'll get set down at perty near yer own walue in this ere world : not as I means that my missis ain't worth her weight in gold, and a ton of dimings to boot; but that ere young chap puts hisself down at too low a figure — I'm a telling yer ! " This latter remark was addressed to a somewhat oblivious "upper," who, whilst he admired Joe's " imperence," as he called it, looked incredulous concerning his philosophy. When Joe wished it to be understood that he was serious and did not mean to brook contradiction, he said "I'm telling yer," which was con sidered a complete settler of all doubts upon all subjects.

"I'm a telling] yer; I've not studied human natur and horseflesh all my life for nothink; it's the same with a high spirited lady as it is with a hoss, you must be kind with her, but spirited like herself, gentle, but not gentle. If I Avere to sit that 'ere brown cob of master's same as I do Harkaway as won the Ledger, with the bit atween her teeth, I should drive the poor cretur mad ; and wicey wersa. I'm a telling yer ; " and Joe shook his head knowingly at a shoulder of mutton, and said: Yes, he'd jest take a slice out of the boss side. Mrs Grey smiled, and despatched the slice to Joe, who saying that meat was meat only according as you cut it, pro ceeded with his dinner, nobody seeming inclined to enter further upon a subject which none but Joe dared to have intro duced. For Mrs Grey, it was known, had her own serious reasons for avoiding dis cussions on subjects relating to affairs of the heart, seeing that her own sad ex perience in that respect was a topic she had always shunned.

George Grey, her hus band, had deserted her, in a strange fashion, about three years after their mar riage, leaving her with two children, both boys. Years had passed away without any tidings reaching her of his whereabouts, and she had only a faint suspicion as to the cause of his desertion. Prior to her marriage, she had lived for a short time in the service of Mr Mountford, and when her husband had been away for more than a year she accepted the situation as housekeeper at Denby Rise. Her eldest son, Francis Grey, at the time of our story, was just entering upon his seventeenth year, and had obtained a situation, as junior clerk, *%i in a mercantile house at Maryport, whither Richard, his brother, was also to be sent in due time: so that Mrs Grey may be said to have got through her troubles pretty well, so far as mere worldly affairs were concerned; but she had loved, ay and still loved, her husband with a deep affection ; and she still cherished the hope of seeing him again and ending her days with him.

Her dark hair, it is true, had been touched with the white tinge of time and trouble, since she saw him last. The warmth and fire of youth had gone ; but the woman's heart clung to its old affection, and Mrs Grey was ready, not only to forgive her husband for his desertion, but, if necessary, to fiiid excuses for it. When dinner was over, at which the preceding brief conversation took place, and when the whole of the servants had dis persed, Joe Wittle, sticking his right thumb into the right arm-hole of his long waistcoat, slid doAvn from his high seat, and looked seriously and significantly at Mrs Grey. "Well! what is it, Joe?" asked Mrs Grey, in her kind mild fashion. "You knows that ere Mat Dunkum?" he said, staring at her with his small piercing eyes. " Yes, of course I do," said Mrs Grey, dropping her eyes, in some confusion, before Joe's rigid scrutiny.

"Of course you does! Well, marm, when I knows I've got a mangy screw or a wicious brute in one stable, I removes good horseflesh into the next, instanter; that's wot I does." "I do not understand you," said Mrs Grey, looking puzzled and uncomfortable. "And I takes espeecial care that on no accounts does a young hoss come a near that ere blighted un, as ain't even fit company for them as 'as cut all their teeth ; that's yer style." Joe took his right thumb out of his waistcoat, put both hands into the big VOL. I. BITTER SAVEETS. pockets of that said capacious garment, and looked still more fixedly at Mrs Grey. "For goodness' sake, Joe, don't go on in that manner; tell me what you mean, and at once." " Evil communications corrupt good manners — Mat Dunkum ain't a fit com panion for Richard Grey.

That's wot I means, marm." "Nor are they companions that I am aware of," said Mrs Grey, her flushed cheeks showing a sense of fear in her answer. "I'm a telling yer, Mrs Grey: every night I sees 'em about the bay, round the corner where the caverns is. 1 know'd you couldn't be aware of it, Mrs Grey," continued the fellow in a kindlier tone, "so made bold to tell yer straight!" with which information Joe put on his little plush cap, which looked like a small limp helmet, and left Mrs Grey to her contemplations. "Will that man never cease to persecute me," exclaimed Mrs Grey, sinking into a chair, the kind expression of her open countenance changing to one of fierce sadness. " Great Heaven ! why is my punish ment so terrible ? In what have I of fended more than others that I should have this misery ! 0 save my boy !

Save him from the contamination of that wicked man ! " These and similar ejaculations the poor Avoman uttered, in a passion of grief — ■ deep but whispered protests against the calamity which she feared in the associa tion of her boy with Mat Dunkum. Nevertheless, that evening, when Mat's well-known boat put into Denby cove, at sundown, Richard Grey was sitting in the bows, listening to Mat's specious yarns of adventure, and greedily drinking in the poison of his dark stories. They were a remarkable contrast, this old sea shark, Mat Dunkum, and the young hopeful, blue-eyed lad, his companion. Square-browed, with deep-set yet full black eyes, and a hard firm mouth, Mat's was by no means a prepossessing appear ance. He was a well-built, well-knit fel low, tanned by the sun, and hardened by wind and weather.

His dress was half pilot, half landsman's attire : he wore a rough fur cap, thick canvas trowsers, and a sort of cloth blouse, the collar of which was turned stiffly up. A knife, such as sailors wear, hung from a leather belt, which also supported a spirit flask. He was neither a young nor an old man, and looking at him intently you would rather be inclined to say that the disagreeable and dangerous expression of his face was the result of a hard and perilous life, rather than the sign of innate wickedness. And when you heard him relate some of his adventures, he had such a rough catching sort of eloquence that you would give him the benefit of the doubt, and vote him not so bad as he looked. Richard Grey was a lad of fourteen with an open candid face, sanguine blue eyes, short curly hair, and the limbs of a young Hercules.

He wore a light smock, fastened by a belt, in which was stuck, for the nonce, an old flint pistol which Mat had given him as a plaything, telling him how, years ago, it had shot a custom house officer, who had made himself ob noxious to a smuggler chief under whom Mat had served his apprenticeship. "Now, Dick, look out ahead," said Mat, putting the boat before the wind, and running her straight for a few yards of shingly beach lying at the mouth of a cavern. The waters tapped and gurgled mu sically about the prow; whilst the boat, like a living thing, leaped forward on her way, and just as Mat lowered the great square sail, bounded on to the beach. It was only the work of a few minutes to haul her up, high and dry, and then man and boy disappeared within the cavern, Richard Grey bearing in a telescope, BITTER SAA*EETS. which he carried proudly under his arm, whilst Mat eyed him with a look of evident satisfaction.

A ruddy gleam from the setting sun came across the sea, touched the boat as she lay on her side, reddened the over hanging rocks, glimmered on a few shells and pebbles, put golden feathers into a sea-bird's wing, and followed Mat and the boy, like an inquiring glance from heaA*en. CHAPTER in. THE CAVERNS. This cavern, in Denby cove, was one of a series of caverns which perforated the rocks at the extremity of a series of little bays of the most romantic character. Shut out from the great world by land and sea, with the voice of the ocean ever present there, and the big waters joining the sky in the hazy distance, bays and caves would have formed a fitting resort for those bright fair creatures who, according to ancient mythology, left their submarine halls to repose on the shore at certain periods of the day.

Here one might picture the Sicilian shepherd meeting Galatea ; and when the sun disappeared, the great black rocks BITTER SAVEETS. Avhich rose up to the clouds, tall and jagged, would have done for Cyclopean enemies. But whether the Naiades floated in there, or came on their dolphin-horses to dance on the golden beach, or not, we will A*enture to assert that Mat Dunkum never troubled his head about them. His thoughts were chiefly concerning spirits, it is true, but spirits of a very different character. They had the power, how ever, to conjure up strange ghosts and memories in Mat's brain. On one oc casion he nearly frightened little Dick Grey out of his Avits, by swearing that he had seen a dead custom-house officer turn a corner of one of the water-logged caverns which, unapproachable by land, was ever in the possession of the sea.

The water rolled into it, with a roar of thunder, and came out again with a, sigh of disappointment, as if it had sought for vengeance on some intruder and found nothing upon which to wreak its power. But on the evening when we follow Dick Grey and his friend into the Denby cavern Mat had no spirits aboard, in any sense of the term ; for some two years, in fact, he had been unable to land any on the Helswick coast, which at one time was a favourite resort for smugglers. Mat had, therefore, turned his attention to illicit manufacture, and had found in that a substitute for the more profitable trade of introducing brandy, duty free, into her Majesty's dominions. How he lived few knew, and few cared to inquire ; indeed, there were not many inhabitants about that part of the coast, which he fre quented, to take any interest in his pro ceedings.

He had a little cottage in an unfrequented nook not far from the caverns ; but he was seldom to be found at home. He lived mostly in the cave, which was much more snug than anybody was aware of, and which needed no locks and bars, because it was unapproachable except by boat — unless you knew where to find a certain secret stair only accessible when the tide was out. Sometimes inquisitive visitors from HelsAvick, seeking zoophytes or marine algæ, or hunting for the eggs of the birds which congregated on the shelvings of the rocks, ventured into the little bay and sought out Mat, who was very glad to show them the place and tell them stories of the marvellous depths of the caverns, and of the ships which had been wrecked there. But Mat never took them into the inner recesses of what he called his Marine Palace.