Audrey: a novel

Front matter

AUDREY VOL. I AUDREY % label BY MARGERY HOLLIS AUTHOR OF "ANTHONY FAIRFAX" IN THREE VOLUMES VOL. I. LONDON RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON Jjublisjnrs in ©rbinrtrn to |)rr Stnjtstn % Qnun 1890 [All rights reserved] Richard Clay <b Sons, Limited, London &, Bungay. CONTENTS OF VOLUME I. CHAP. PAGE 1. "a truant disposition" ... ... ... 1 ii. Audrey's home ... ... ... ... 25 m. mr. bevan's cross ... ... ... ... 42 IV. MR. LAWRENCE ... ... ... ... 78 V. AN APPEAL ... ... ... ... ... Ill VI. DR. EYRE'S SISTER ... ... ... ... 141 VII. A WALK IN THE MOONLIGHT ... ... 165 VIII. MISS HARRINGTON ... ... ... ... 188 IX. A NEW FACE ... ... ... ... ... 207 X. FRATERNAL ADVICE ... ... ... ... 233 XI. ASSAULT AND BATTERY ... ... ... AUDREY.

Chapter I

"A TRUANT DISPOSITION." " In respect it is private, it is a very vile life." As You Like It. " A UDREY ! " At the sound of her name the girl raised her head with a quick, impatient gesture from the book she was reading, but she made no movement to obey the call, nor did she give an)' answer. She only drew back a little further behind the tall hollies, which sheltered that corner of the garden from passers-by. " Audrey, Audrey ! " came the summons vol. I. I A UDREY. again in a man's voice, which had a very distinct note of peevishness in it. Silence still on the part of Audrey, while a wilful smile curved her lips. Steps approached and paused at a little distance. " Where can she be ? It is very strange ! I certainly thought I saw her go into the garden. Dear, dear, how very trying ! " went on the voice, in accents of profound and querulous discouragement.

" What a trouble some child she is ! I must — I really must — " What must be done in the present emergency did not appear. Probably Mr. Bevan could think of no satisfactory way of dealing with the troublesome child who was disrespectfully laughing to herself within five yards of him, and might have said with Lear : " I will do such things, — What they are, yet I know not." ■1 At any rate his sentence broke off lamely in a " tut, tut," and he turned and retreated. Audrey laughed a little above her breath when he was safely out of hearing. " What must you do, I wonder ? " she muttered. " I should like to see what it will be." Her brows drew together in a cloudy frown, and her lips set in a straight, obstinate line. It was a very unamiable expression, but it had a decided attraction ; it put such vivid life and spirit into her face.

She was beautiful always, but her beauty was height ened infinitely when anger lit up her great eyes with that stormy brightness, and gave her head that defiant pose. Her features were fine in outline, and deli cately cut. Her eyes were gray — true dark gray, with no shade of blue or violet or green in their clear depths. Her dark eye brows were firmly marked and very slightly AUDREY. arched ; her eyelashes were long and curly. She had bright brown hair, which ran into crisp little waves and curls where it was turned back from her forehead. Presently another call was heard, coming from some distance. " Miss Audrey ! Miss Audrey ! " The voice this time was that of a woman, and it sounded as if its owner was in a very bad temper. Audrey started. " Oh, he's set Harriet to find me, and she'll hunt all through the o-rounds.

But I won't be found." She looked round quickly for a way of escape. The bench she sat on stood against the garden-wall. She mounted it, and climbed to the top of the wall by the help of the ivy that grew over it. The jump was rather a high one for a young lady of nineteen, but she only paused for a moment to poise her figure, then she sprang lightly down into the paddock which lay beyond the garden. She went along the wall at a run, crossed a field or two that bounded the grounds of Fellside, Mr. Bevan's house, at the back, and struck into a cart-track that turned off at right angles, and presently emerged on the high-road. She soon left this for a narrow stony lane, which • mounted the hills on the western side of the valley in which Fellside stood. She walked up the steep way with the light, rapid step of one accustomed to such ascents.

In Cardale a climb is a necessary part of almost every walk. Only by following the road which runs midway up the valley can one keep on fairly level ground. Audrey went on steadily, scarcely casting a glance at the country round her. Yet it was beautiful enough that September afternoon to draw most people's attention. In the clear A UDREY. air and bright sunshine the hills stood out sharply and distinctly. All their loveliness was revealed and enhanced by the Hood of light — the noble curves of their swelling masses, the varied outline they cut against the deep blue sky, the richness and diversity of their colouring. On the east, a long fell rose abruptly, covered in parts with masses of gray stone, which had a cold, austere look usually, but came out with a peculiarly brilliant effect in the sunlit atmosphere ; on the north and west, some of the hills were dark with the deep tints of the woods that clothed their sides ; some were green with grass and bracken ; others, farther off, ' had a soft lilac bloom that deepened into purple.

In some of the fields in the valley the corn was cut, and the standing sheaves brightened the landscape with their warm yellow. The whole scene was full of glad peace, but its soothing influences were powerless over Audrey. She was too absorbed in her own ruffled mood to be conscious of them. She had not gone far when she was over taken by a fellow-pedestrian. This was a young man whom, at first sight, most people would have described as being not at all note worthy in appearance. There was nothing striking in his looks. He was not tall, and not short ; he was neither dark nor fair ; his features were irregular. It was only after a second or third glance that one perceived that his face had an expression of keenness which removed it from the category of ordinary faces in which one had put it.

His eyes were bright, with a quick glance ; his mouth was decided, and so was his chin. He took off his hat as he came up with Audrey. " How do you do, Miss Moore ? " She turned with a start, changing colour, " Oh, Dr. Eyre," with an expression of A UDREY. relief, " how do you do ? I did not hear you behind me." " Were you in a very deep study ? You looked quite frightened when I spoke." " So I was frightened," she rejoined, with a laugh. " I was afraid that somebody had pursued me, and I was caught." She walked on as she spoke, and Dr. Eyre walked beside her. " Pursued you % " he said, in a mystified tone. She nodded " Precisely. I have run away for a walk by myself." " But you don't mean," exclaimed Dr. Eyre, " that you can't go for a walk alone when you please ? 'Of course I know that Mr. Bevan is particular, and I can understand that he would not like you to go out alone in London, but does he think it necessary for you to be attended here ?

" " He thinks everything necessary that is tiresome and disagreeable and odious," said Audrey, frowning. " He is particular by fits and starts. Sometimes he says nothing for weeks together about my going out alone, and I do it in peace ; and then he begins to fidget, and says it isn't proper, and he can't allow it. Such nonsense ! He has a tiresome fit cominos on now." " I am sorry to hear it." " Oh, you should be glad, for it will cul minate in his thinking himself ill, and then he will send for you. I shouldn't be surprised if he summoned you to-morrow, for he is sure to have a bad night after this afternoon — it has been so very agitating for him." "Ah, indeed!" It was not exactly a question. Dr. Eyre had a discreet doubt as to whether he ought to draw Miss Moore on in her confidences about her guardian.

But he would listen A UDREY. very willingly to what she might choose to tell him. He was curious about her circumstances — he was not an inquisitive person in a general way as to other people's affairs, but everything connected with this beautiful girl had an intense interest for him. Questions were not required to encourage the flow of her confidences. She was in a state of excitement which made it a relief to pour out her irritation in words, and she went on : " He has been very much upset. I had a great row with Harriet, and she rushed to him with a whole book of complaints about me. " She is the housekeeper, isn't she ? " Audrey nodded. "Housekeeper and cook. She has been at Fellside for years and years — twenty-five, I think — she looks after everything, and my uncle believes the sun wouldn't rise on the house if she wasn't there to see it.

She can't bear me — " Dr. Eyre expressed incredulity as to this last statement. " Oh, but it is so ! " said Audrey, decidedly, putting aside his compliment as an irrelevant triviality. " She hates having me in the house — she is very lazy, really, though she has the character of being extremely indus trious ; and of course it makes more work to have me at Fellside. If I were away she would put my poor uncle on a diet of mutton chops and milk puddings, make him believe that late dinner is bad for him, and have no cooking in the evenings. That would make her life much easier. But she can't very well condemn me to be treated like an invalid. Then she wants everything her own way, and 1 won't give in to that." " Odious old woman ! " " She is always interfering with me," went A UDREY. on Audrey.

" She can't or won't realize that I am grown up, and not to be treated like a child. Her last piece of impertinence is to object to my having a cat." Dr. Eyre was inclined to laugh — the young lady's grievance was so very small. But the wrath in her beautiful face was so real, and her voice was so earnest in its passionate accents, that he restrained himself, and looked grave and sympathetic. " I have a black cat, a beauty, and I am very fond of him. But Harriet is always making a fuss about my poor Bartholomew, and saying she won't have him in the house. He has stolen food enough since I got him, by her account, to keep a family of a dozen for six months ; he has broken no end of crockery, and he has scratched every article of furniture in the house all over. She is? always finding fault with him and defaming him.

To-day she came to complain of some new crime he had committed, and said I must send him away or let him be killed." "What did you say?" " Oh, I flatly refused to do either, and then she said she would speak to my uncle, to make him insist on my getting rid of pussy. So I ran away to escape the fuss as long as I could." There was a pause. Dr. Eyre had a little difficulty in hitting upon a judicious reply. Nothing but thorough-going sympathy in her indignation would satisfy his companion, and it would not be expedient to encourage her in her very unamiable feelings. It was not long since Dr. Eyre had come to that neighbourhood to practise, and he was naturally desirous to make as many friends as possible. It would not recommend him to Mr. Bevan, if that gentleman should ever learn that he had taken part with his niece, and sup ported her in her discontent and waywardness.

A UDREY'. " But, surely," he remarked at last, " Mr. Bevan will not be persuaded by a servant to do anything you would dislike. You must have much more influence over him than the housekeeper." Audrey laughed — a clear, musical laugh. " I ? I have no influence over him at all. He will listen to Harriet, and not to me. He doesn't like me — in his heart he doesn't like me any better than Harriet does." ' ' My dear Miss Moore," exclaimed Eyre, " you should not fancy such things. Why, hasn't Mr. Bevan been more your father than your uncle ? I thought he had brought you Up i "Oh yes," she rejoined, indifferently, "I have lived with him since I was quite a little thing." " He must look on you as his daughter," said Eyre, warmly. " And I am a very ungrateful, hard-hearted monster, because I am not properly grateful for his kindness, and not devoted to him," said Audrey, with a touch of mockery in her tone.

" Oh, I know that is what I ought to be ; but unfortunately I can't. Though he takes care of me, he doesn't like doing it ; it is a trouble to him, and he feels it more and more. I am not related to him." " Why, I thought— " I have always called him uncle, but I am really only a very distant connection of his — too distant to count — so he can't have any family regard for me. I think it was his wife's doing that I came to his house : she was always good to me," said the girl in a gentle tone, with a soft look in her eyes. " But she died when I was quite a child, and after that I was only a trouble and plague to him. It is rather hard on him, if you think of it, to have such an unpleasant duty to perform as looking after a girl who is nothing to him." A UDREY. " But you must be a great comfort to him in his loneliness," suggested Dr. Eyre.

She laughed again. " Poor dear uncle ! That is the last thing he would think of. I did fancy once — some years ago — that that ought to be my mission, and I tried to cheer him. But — " " Well ? " " It didn't answer," she said, dryly. " My consolations were not appreciated, so I gave up my attempt at being a ministering angel." They had climbed a good way by this time. The lane had become very narrow, and then had given up all pretensions to that name, and had turned into a path running across the moorland that lay above the fields. The ground was rough and broken here ; the gorse and bracken and the gray rocks left but little space for the thick, short grass on which a few sheep browsed. A tiny brook danced along by the side of the path, splashing against the ' A TRUANT DISPOSITION' stones in its bed, and keeping up a continual glad murmur.

When they reached the highest point of the ascent, they paused and looked round. The valley lay at their feet, rich in wood, well watered by its two streams. They could see the ranges of hills beyond — height following height in lovely vistas, and great mountains towering gray and grim in the distance. To the south, there was a good view of the sea. It ran up the land in a wide arm of the great bay that washes that coast — a great stretch of shining water which flashed like brightest silver in the sunshine. On the east of it rose low purple hills ; beyond these another glimpse of water was visible, the delicate pale blue of which shaded into gray. " I like to come up here," said Audrey, drawing a long breath. " This is one of my favourite walks." " It is a lovely view," the young man rejoined. vol. I. 17 A UDREY.

" I like it because one can see beyond the valley. I do get so tired sometimes of being shut in and not seeing any further than the hills and fells. It is quite refreshing to gaze on something beyond them." ' You don't like this place ? " " I hate it ! " she said, with a decision and vehemence that Eyre found startling. " So would you if you had lived at Fellside as long as you could remember." " I can imagine that one might get tired of it. You haven't much society here." " Not at Fellside, certainly, for we have none at all. We never go out, and nobody comes to see us." " I suppose in Mr. Bevan's state of health he doesn't feel equal to society 1 " She nodded. " Exactly. And his state of health makes me also unequal to going out." " It must be very dull for you." " Dull ! It is horrible !

" cried the girl with intense feeling. " It is dreadful ! You can have no idea how desperately dull I get. I feel sometimes as though I should do some thing wild. I should be glad of any change — any" she repeated emphatically. " But do you never go to see people ? " " Never ! I never go into a house in the place." It is a great pity," said Eyre, thoughtfully. He looked at her with a quick glance, noting the slim figure, straight as a young sapling ; her light, free step ; her graceful, well carried head ; her proud, untamed, wilful air ; and as he admired her. he wondered. It was an odd caprice of Fortune that such a fair creature should be shut up so closely from the world. He saw too the points in her appearance which might have been expected to weaken the impression of her beauty : he observed that she was wearing a faded cotton AUDREY. frock, which was limp and crumpled with wear; her hat was old and shabby ; her gloves were far from fresh ; and he admired her the more.

Her good looks were of such a quality that they defied her shabbiness to dim them ; she was triumphantly beautiful in her careless attire. A certain complacency crept into his heart as he reflected that she was cut off from the approach of admirers ; he alone was privileged to have access to her. " One might as well be a nun ; indeed, I have thought sometimes it would be better to be a nun," went on Audrey. " I should have more people to speak to then." " Don't you ever make visits to any relations 1 " asked Eyre, unable to accept literally her account of her dullness. " Oh dear, no ! I have no relations.' " No relations ! " " None that I ever heard of. My father was an only child, and so was my mother ; so you see I have been very unlucky in the way of aunts and uncles. I wish I had re lations that I could go to stay with — I should make them very long visits.

I have only one hope of getting any change." ' May I ask what it is ? " " If my uncle would take it into his head to send me to school, then I should get away for a time." Eyre suppressed an exclamation of incredulity and astonishment at this speech. She was evidently quite in earnest in her wish, extraordinary as such a wish seemed to him. " I am afraid you would find school very dull," he remarked. " It would not be a pleasant change. Besides, you would be out of place there — you have finished your education." " Oh yes," she said, coldly, her manner suddenly stiffening; "of course I have had AUDREY. governesses. But still I should like to go to school for a little society, and to have ad vanced lessons in some subjects. If only my uncle would send me ! You might help me, Dr. Eyre," glancing up with a smile.

" If, the next time he sends for you, you would assure him that it would benefit his health very much if I were out of the house, I should be so grateful to you." Dr. Eyre would gladly win her gratitude ; but he did not quite see his way to making a suggestion which would imply a very im pertinent criticism on Miss Moore. " I have been rather hopeful about it once or twice lately," remarked Audrey. " My uncle has seemed to find me more of a burden than usual, and has gone so far as to say he really will have to get Mr. Lawrence to come down. Mr. Lawrence is my guardian too — he takes care of my money, and sends the allowance for my expenses. He lives in London, and he is a lawyer. Perhaps if he came, I might be sent away." "You think you could persuade him more easily than Mr. Bevan ? " " Oh, no, that isn't my hope.

I don't know him at all, and I shouldn't think a lawyer would be influenced by persuasion. My uncle always speaks of him as if it would be a dreadful punishment for me to have to deal with Mr. Lawrence. That is why I look to him. If he is a cross-grained personage he will want as little trouble with me as may be, and he may think it a good thing to banish me to school, don't you see. He wouldn't be summoned there to bring me to reason." " Your plan is ingenious ; but I really think you would find persuasion more effectual," remarked Eyre. " I doubt it," said Audrey. " You have to call here, haven't you ? " A UDREY. The path ran through a farm-yard, and Eyre was holding open the gate for her. He acknowledged that the voice of duty did call him to the house. " I thought you must be coming here," said the young lady.

" I heard the other day that the farmer was ill. Good-bye." She shook hands and walked on. Eyre stood for a minute watching her as she made her way past the line of low, shabby farm buildings which made such a finely incon gruous background for her graceful figure ; then he went into the house, regretting that he dared not accompany her further.

Chapter II

Audrey's home. TTELLSIDE stood at the foot of the long fell which sheltered the valley from the east winds. It was a house of moderate pretensions, built of gray stone in the most severe style of the Georgian period. There was not an attempt at ornament in the structure. It had none of the picturesque ness that comes of irregularity ; none of the grace that grows with age. No ivy clad its walls and wreathed its chimneys ; no creepers threw a veil of blossom over it in summer. It was simple in design. There was the A UDREY. main building, which was flanked by two small wings, and at right angles to these wings were the offices and stables, which covered a good deal of ground, and, with the main body of the house, enclosed three sides of a court. Audrey prolonged her walk after she parted from Eyre, and the sun had set when she walked up the drive.

It had gone down in clouds which had blotted out the brightness of the afternoon. All the colour had faded from the landscape ; a white mist was stealing up the valley from the sea. The gray house with the gray fell rising behind it appeared very gloomy to her eyes. It had none of the attractions of home for her, and she went back to it slowly and lingeringly. She must pay now for her audacity in breaking bounds this afternoon. She was not in the least afraid of her guardian's dis pleasure ; he was not the sort of man to inspire awe or fear in a high-spirited girl, who had a keen sense of the ridiculous and a sharp eye for weaknesses. As a general thing, she took with the calm of disdainful indifference his querulous fault-finding and helpless declarations that he did not know what to do with her.

But this evening she felt a strong distaste as she looked forward to a lecture. It was so dreary, so ignoble, this life of constant jars ! She was heartily sick of the disapproval and censure that surrounded her, even sick of her own steadfast antagonism to the authorities and struggle to get her own way. That after noon she had escaped from the perturbed atmosphere of her home to more genial influ ences ; Dr. Eyre's hinted flattery and admir ing glances had given her a new sensation of complacency. It was not the ordinary feminine pleasure in a man's admiration ; Audrey was too childish, in spite of her A UDREY. nineteen years, to perceive that she had made a conquest. What she knew about love she had learnt from books — chiefly from the poets, for Mr. Bevan did not subscribe to a library, so she read no modern novels — and she regarded the passion with innocent distant awe as something that had nothing to do with her.

Love concerned Juliet ami Ophelia, Miranda and Rosalind ; that it might be felt for her was no more present to her mind as a pos sibility than that she might ever meet a nineteenth century Brutus, or a modern Prospero. All she felt was gratification in being liked and admired, a pleasure in easy talk and ready response. Dr. Eyre was very kind — how nice it would be if she received such kindness at home ! She lagged more and more as she approached her home. The drive turned sharply to the left and passed through a little grove of elms, horse-chestnuts, and limes, which grew at the side of the house, and sheltered it from the sharp winds that blew from the sea. Audrey sighed as she went through the deep shadow of the trees, and heard the murmur of the freshening breeze among their branches ; it was depressing.

She ascended the steps to the front-door, rang the bell, and was admitted. The hall was long and wide, paved with black and white stone, and open at the back to the top of the house. Audrey was going towards the stairs, when from a side-door Harriet appeared. She was a short, rather stout woman, with small grayish-blue eyes and an ill-tempered mouth. " Miss Audrey," she said in a measured tone which was intended to express displeasure too deep for words, " the master's gone to bed. His head was very bad indeed." " Very well," replied Audrey briefly, under standing quite well that she was expected to A UDREY. be crushed with remorse at this announce ment. It was her enormities that had pros trated her luckless guardian, and laid him on a couch of suffering. But Audrey felt no inclination to assume sackcloth and ashes ; not the faintest compunction stirred in her breast as she heard of the evil she had wrought.

Mr. Bevan had so often been laid low after a difficulty with her that she re garded the performance with the contempt of familiarity. " He said I was to tell you that he'd speak to you to-morrow," continued Harriet, impressively. " Very well," repeated Audrey. "As he's in bed and can't eat anything," — in a tone of pointed reproach — " I didn't think it worth while to go to the trouble of cookino dinner. You may as well have a meat-tea this evening." Audrey deigned no reply, and marched up-stairs in stately fashion, her head held a little higher than usual. Under her silence her blood was boiling within her at the way in which Harriet had chosen to punish her contumacy that afternoon. The assertion of power to treat her as a child, power which Audrey could not lessen, roused all the wrath which had been forgotten in the latter part of her walk.

Her anger blazed up for more material and practical reasons when, after changing her dress, she went down to the dining-room and saw the provision that was made for her. Harriet had been in a frugal — not to say stingy — humour that evening. The table was set out with a loaf and butter, three strips of toast, and some potted shrimps. Now Audrey disliked shrimps — of which fact Harriet was perfectly well aware — and she was very hungry after her long ramble. The parlour-maid brought in the tea-pot AUDREY. as Audrey still stood eyeing the table with disgust. O " It's too bad, Miss Audrey, isn't it ? " she said, in accents of warm indignation. " A more spiteful trick I never did see ; Mrs. Kirkman ought to be ashamed of herself, treating a young ladv so. But she has the worst temper in the world, and she was in an awful fury because you wouldn't do as she said about your cat.