At All Cost; or, a Wilful Woman [A tale.] ... Illustrated, etc

Front matter

Heid it down with the poher.See p. 125. AT ALL COST OR A WILFUL WOMAN BV C. HOLROYD Illustrated by ANNIE S. FENN LONDON GRIFFITH FARRAN OKEDEN & WELSH NEWBERY HOUSE, CHARING CROSS ROAD AND SYDNEY [The Rights of Traiulatim and Reproduction are Reierred,\ LIST OF FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS. PAGE HELD IT DOWN WITH THE poker, .... Frontispiece JAMES WAS WATCHING THEM 93 NELLY DID NOT SEE HOW TO INQUIRE ANY FURTHER, . 1 79 'MISS MARGARET TELLS ME IT LETS IN THE WET,' . .

Chapter I

As it was indeed, I felt a mother-want about the world, . Fathers love as well, Mine did, I know, — but still with heavier brain And wills more consciously responsible ; And not as wisely, since less foolishly. Aurora Leii'h. '''t?jllP%> I fERE is a peculiar character in a good M^JB=^ many of the places lying within a certain \w£»_l.*J distance °f London. They arc neither |!f^2^u town nor country, yet almost too far jl|g) from the city to be called suburbs. The 0^ original village remains pretty nearly in its primitive state: there is a little old-fashioned inn, and small shops ; it is not worth while to have large displays of goods, since people go to London for most of their purchases. Also, there is open common near, and fields and wood*, and in some ; 8 savoured spots you might fancy yourself a hundred miles from the metropolis, if it were not for the haze of the atmosphere.

Many of the houses have good gardens ; there are soft lawns, multitudes of fruit trees, and endless birds, who, indeed, specially fre quent this sort of region. Obviously, it is not town. Yet it cannot be called country ; for, besides the larger houses, old or new, there are acres of semi detached villas, with a little scrap of town-like garden in front. The population is numbered by thousands, and it is possible to live there twenty years without knowing your next-door neighbour. In spite of new ugly houses, and the destruction of old parks and commons, there is a great deal of beauty still left in these neighbourhoods. Both for scenery and pleasant society, Hambleton has always proudly considered that it held a high position. It is, of course, year by year more covered with building, and those who have long known it mourn over lovely spots destroyed and old residents departed, and proclaim that the place is spoilt.

They have thus been lamenting over gradual but incessant changes during the last fifty years. But even now there is plenty of beauty and interest remaining, and this was still more the case a few years ago. Nowhere is there a greater abundance of old houses with historical memories ; travellers from any part of the world might admire the stately trees, picturesque water, and soft knolls of that portion of the park still free from bricks and mortar ; the common is still ablaze in autumn with the gorgeous colours of the I Toman. 9 gorse and heath, and still will yield many a charming sketch for the wandering artist. Among the houses boasting extensive grounds, there was not a prettier domain than Hambleton Court. It must not be confounded with Hambleton House, or Hambleton Park House, the former an old and beautiful estate, the latter the large mansion belonging to the park, which is now being cut up for building.

Hambleton Court lay not far from either of them, shut in by a wall surrounding the whole thirty acres. It was a large white house, of the date of Queen Anne, with a fine approach bordered by great chestnut trees. The gardens and lawn were at the back, and then, half field, half park, the ground sloped away to a little ornamental piece of water, with swans and a tiny boat. The Court had been in the Tremaneer family for three generations, having come to Lucas Tremaneer, a gentleman of very small fortune, through his marriage with the heiress Barbara Swithin, daughter of Richard Swithin, a rich and well-known merchant. The present owner, Mr. John Tremaneer, was a barrister of high repute and large practice. To the grief of the neighbourhood, he was little addicted to society, and as he was a widower, with one only daughter, still a child, Hambleton Court, which, as Mrs. Lee of Woodlands said, ' ought to have been a centre of society,' was practically no use to amusement-loving neighbours.

Of course Margaret Tremaneer was not in want of young companions, and the little Lees, and Colonel Hammond's boy and girl, and the Wainwrights, and ; 10 others, often came in turn to tea with her. But, whether from inherited tendency, or because, being an only child, she was necessarily often thrown on her own resources, Margaret was not gregarious. She had one great friend, Nelly Austin, a girl some four years older than herself, the daughter of a clergyman, who had been obliged to give up his work from ill-health. With this exception, Margaret made no intimacies. Grace and Annette Lee, Bob and Lily Hammond, and the numerous little Wain wrights, chattered and played, and had small secrets and cabals, and quarrels and reconciliations, and entered with the deepest zest into all the details of one another's affairs ; such as the unkindness of the Lees' French governess, and Agnes Wainwright's squabbles with her brothers, and Bob Hammond's desire for the navy.

They thought Margaret odd and stupid, because she preferred dreaming over her books, and inventing imaginary stories, to discussing their various small daily concerns, and because she never took them into confidence as to anything connected with her own life. Children of this type, reserved and thoughtful, and unable to enter readily into the heedless, impetuous, changeful life of their companions, are apt to become very isolated, and to live alone in the midst of their playmates. Even to Nelly, Margaret seldom spoke of her deepest feel ings. Her most real confidant was her cousin, James Tremaneer, a young fellow nearly five years older than herself. He was an orphan, dependent on his uncle, and spent his holidays at Hambleton Court. He was very kind to his little cousin, and fond of her, and there was between them that intimate friendship which often springs up between a girl and a boy some years older than herself.

He protects, pets, and lords it over her, and she looks up to him as a hero. Thus it was that James knew all Margaret's little troubles. She confided to him her adoration of her father, and her shyness of him, her impatience because, though Pelly (her pet name for Mrs. Pellew, her governess) was very kind, yet she could not understand, what indeed the girl hardly understood herself, her inability to mix freely with others, and yet her sense of loneliness, or her fits of intense distress over some trifle. Then it was that she would be seized with a great yearning for the clasp of her dead mother's arms, and for the sympathy of some one who, being of the same family, would know what she meant by instinct. Her power of feeling exceeded her power of expression. She could not tell any one what was the matter with her, and there fore had to bear her troubles unlightened by aid from without. 'I don't know how I shall live, Jim, when you go away again,' she said one day.

It was a bright morning in early autumn, when Margaret was thirteen years old. Several visitors had arrived at the Court the day before, a somewhat unusual occurrence, and Margaret, as she did not often see strangers in the house, was shy of them, and felt uncomfortable and awkward. In conse- ; 12 quence, various small misfortunes had befallen her. She had had to play in the evening, and, though she possessed a talent for music, and was really a remark ably good performer for her age, she had broken down out of nervousness, and her father had been vexed with her. That morning, Mr. Moorfield, one of the visitors, had teased her till she had completely lost her temper, and Mr. Tremaneer, coming into the room at that inopportune moment, had sent her away with a few severe words, grievously ashamed of herself, and yet with a quite unappeased sense of injury.

As soon as she could leave the house, she had run away to one of her favourite haunts in the garden to cry in quiet. There James had found her, down near the water, lying on the grass and sobbing. When he had soothed and comforted her, he said, — 'Aunt Milly could help you. She is so bright and cheery and sensible.' They called Mrs. Austin ' Aunt Milly,' though she was not really a relation. They had been a great deal with her as children, and she, being a kindly woman, interested in the motherless girl and boy, had encouraged them to drop the title of Mrs. Austin as being too stiff. ' She is very sensible, with her fair face, and her look of thinking the world all right,' Margaret said, without much enthusiasm. ' Mamma was dark and soft and soothing.' ' You must not expect people to be all alike,' he answered, with a touch of impatience. ' She would be quite ready to help you most kindly.' ' I know she would.

But I can't talk to her, Jim.' Then, after a pause, with another burst of grief, ' I wish — I wish I was like mamma ! then papa would care for me.' ' Of course he cares for you, goose,' the boy returned. ' Do you think he would take the trouble to pitch into you for doing things badly, if he did not care ? ' ' He looks at me, and then he looks away, as if he was disappointed.' ' Besides, you arc like Aunt Margaret, — at least, like her picture — when you have not been crying,' he went on, taking hold of her chin, and examining her tear stained face critically. ' You are much smaller, but you have the same oval face and round chin, and the same straight nose, and the same odd-coloured eyes, between dark grey and brown, only hers look con tented, and you look as if you were always watching for something.

If you will only keep your dress straight, and not wrinkle your forehead, I think you are going to be pretty.' ' I hope with all my heart I am ! ' she answered, with great simplicity and enthusiasm. Therewith she sprang up from the grass to greet a new-comer, a long-limbed, fair, serene-looking girl, who had come up unobserved through the field. ' Nelly, Nelly, papa has brought such horrid people with him this time ! ' ' Poor thing,' said Nelly. ' What have they been doing to you ? ' ' There is Mrs. Moorfield,' proceeded Margaret, ; 14 plunging instantly into the recital of that portion of her woes which she was inclined to confide to Nelly. ' She is the prettiest woman I ever saw, and oh, she is horrid ! She has no business to look only thirty, when she has a son of twenty, and she is a widow besides.' ' And is that why she is horrid ? ' inquired Nelly. ' Of course not !

I am sure she knew she was making me nervous last night. Pelly told me to play that piece of Schumann's which I have been learning, and Mrs. Moorfield said, " Do, dear; I know it well ; " and then, of course, I knew she played it herself, or had heard it played splendidly. She looked at me all the time I was at the piano, and when it was done she said, " Thank you ; very nice," in a quite civil tone, that meant, " How you have murdered it ! " so I just said, " I played it abominably ! I couldn't have played it worse ; " and she smiled gently, and lifted her eyebrows ever so little. Papa looked horribly angry. He said, "Mrs. Moorfield was kind enough not to expect much, Margaret." I know Pelly could have cried ; and afterwards, when Pelly was playing really beauti fully, Mrs. Moorfield put up her glass and looked at her as if she was some odd animal.

I heard her say to papa, " She plays well, and no doubt teaches most conscientiously." ' ' But that was praise,' said Nelly. ' But so rude ! not to mind a bit whether Pelly heard or not. And I am sure she meant, " She ought to teach that child better, and give her manners." And I heard her tell papa about such a first rate school in Paris, where they have perfect masters, and learn evervthing.' ' Mr. Moorfield is rather a good fellow,' said James, with a grown-up air. ' He is worse,' returned Margaret decidedly. ' But I was glad this morning. I was hunting for some thing in Blackstone when they came in — Mr. Moorfield and Mrs. Moorfield ; she looked at my book, and said something about being learned indeed. I said I was only just looking to see what the constitution really was, because I thought my tiresome little history, which is all Radical, could not have stated things fairly.

They both laughed ; and he asked in that horrid, teasing way, if I was "preparing to enter Parliament." I don't think they had heard papa come in ; and he laughed too when he saw what I was about, but quite nicely, as if he was pleased, and said to her, " You must make allowances for hereditary tendencies ; " and then he told me he used to read that book, and he showed me the marks he had made at the principal points.' ' Well, goosey, that ought to have made up for last night,' said James. ' But then papa took Mrs. Moorfield to look at the new creeper in the verandah. Mr. Moorfield went on teasing me, and calling me Miss Barrister, and a young Portia — he and that tiresome Mr. Levitt ; but Mr. Moorfield was the worst. And at last I got so angry, I said, " It must be nice to be in the army, Mr. Moor field.

You are not obliged to know anything there, are you ? " ' (Competitive examinations were un known in those days.) ; 16 'Mr. Levitt,' Margaret continued, 'burst into a great laugh, and he said, " One for you, Moorfield." And Mr. Moorfield pulled that silly little apology for a fair moustache, and said, " I am extinguished ! " and I looked round, and there was papa ! He only said, " Go and ask Mrs. Pellew to give you your lessons ; " but he made me feel limp all over.' ' Well, Peggy,' said the boy consolingly, ' Moorfield goes to-morrow. And Uncle John never jaws after wards, though he does come down on one for the moment. He is no end jolly in that way. Come along through the wood.' So the three went away through the little copse to the lane just outside the grounds, and there they fell to blackberry-picking.

It is a quiet lane, the relic of past days, with the wall of Hambleton Court on one side and a blackberry hedge on the other. The young people ran down it, laughing merrily, and challenging one another as to which could get the richest store of blackberries, pausing sometimes to talk over James's future life, and what he should do now he had left Winchester and was going to Oxford. ' It will be jolly fun at Oxford,' he said ; 'though I didn't care much to leave the old place,' he added, using the curious schoolboy phrase to express that he minded the leaving a good deal. ' The domum ball must be delicious,' said Margaret. I wish I was out.' ' I don't care for the ball myself. I don't go in for dancing. Stockton and I and some of the others in our house went to dinner with our don. Wylford was there, by the way.

He is a real good fellow.' 'Is he not Mrs. Moorfield's brother?' asked Nelly. 'Is he like her? You are quicker-eyed than most boys ; you can always tell one what people are like.' ' He couldn't be nice if he was like Mrs. Moorfield,' Margaret said vindictively. ' Well, he is like, and he isn't,' the boy said. ' There is a look of her in the features, but he is a great big broad man. She holds her hands sometimes just in the same way, with a sort of tight grip of whatever she has got, as if she wouldn't let go.' ' Horrid thing,' said Margaret. 'Don't be silly, Peggy. He is A I. You should see him bowl, and he does no end of good. He has got a stupid little curacy down in the pokiest part of the town. He will go in for poor people, when he might be anything. He is a first-rate classic' ' I wish you could have been here when the news came that you had got the medal for Latin prose,' Nelly said. ' I never saw Mr. Tremaneer look so happy before.' 'We drank your health,' Margaret chimed in. ' I am glad I was not here, then,' quoth James. ' How truly dreadful ! ' 'We came up, papa and mamma and I,' Nelly went on, quite unmoved by James's remark. ' I think papa was nearly as delighted as Mr. Tremaneer ; and Mr. Tremaneer told us about his own school-days, and how proud he was when he got his medals.' B ; ' Latin prose and English prose both.

I can't match that.' ' I am sure you might,' said Margaret. ' Then they began, papa and Mr. Austin, to talk about the advan tages of writing in Latin. What was it, Nelly? The best training for accuracy and clearness of thought. And I don't know what you are not to do when you are a barrister.' There came a slight shade on the boy's face. ' I am bound to do what my uncle likes,' he said. ' But I wish he was not so set on my going to the Bar.' 'Why? It is a grand thing to be a great lawyer,' Margaret declared. ' I think it would be splendid to be a judge, and just hold the balance between both sides even. Why don't they make papa one quick ? ' ' I expect he will be soon. (The best blackberries are up here, Nelly.) But you see it takes a long time to get on even for him. I don't know that I should dislike the work, though it is not what I should choose.

But I would sooner be in something where I could make my way quicker and be independent, instead of being supported by my uncle.' ' I understand that,' Nelly said, looking at him. ' But it is just because Mr. Tremaneer has done so much for you that you give up your own tastes for his pleasure, so you give him a return for his help.' ' What do you mean ? ' Margaret cried. ' It is just the same as if you were papa's son. He has none of his own. He has got enough for you and me.' ' No, Peg, it is not the same as if I were his son. I am very glad my uncle lets me make my own way in the world, but I only wish I might do it a little more completely.' ' Papa thinks everybody ought to have a profession. I heard him say there was nothing so bad for a man as idling about waiting for a possible succession.

And because you are like his son, he wants you to go into the profession he loves.' ' There is no reason why my uncle should not marry again any day, and ' — ■ 'James, how dare you!' Margaret was nearly crying, and all her blackberries fell at her feet, as she turned round from the hedge where she was gathering them. ' Don't, James,' said Nelly reproachfully, looking down on him from the bank on which she had climbed. ' I didn't say he would,' James said, retreating in a cowardly way before this outburst of indignation. ' Anyhow, I would rather make my own way in the world. You will be wife of that ambassador you are going to marry, Nelly ; and Peggy will be squiress (isn't that it, Peg?) somewhere in Devonshire, long before I can stand alone. Hullo, who's this ? ' he added, as they heard carriage wheels approaching.

It was too late to scramble down and put them selves in order before the Tremaneer carriage came round the corner of the lane. It contained Mrs. Moorfield and her son, Mr. Tremaneer and young Levitt. It was a pretty enough picture which met their view. Eleanor Austin, always a pretty girl, was exactly in the position which best showed her beauty. ; 20 Free from self-consciousness, and gifted with a certain simple, childlike dignity, she could never be called awkward ; but the misfit of her print dress, and the length of her legs and arms at this time of her life, while she was still not fully developed, would in a drawing room have taken off from the effect of her face and figure. She had sprung upon the side of the bank by which they stood, to gather the blackberries with which the top was covered.

She had faced round to speak to James, holding with one hand high above her head to the sturdy branch of an overhanging thorn bush. Her loose brown frock left all her limbs free, and her attitude, balanced against the bank, with one foot resting on a tree stump, showed off all the vigorous life and grace of her young form. The sunlight enhanced the effect of her brilliantly fair complexion, and fell on the coils of her golden hair, twisted up at the back of her head beneath her broad straw hat. Opposite to her stood James, one foot on the ground, the other against the bank, brown-haired, brown eyed, active and strong. Between them was Margaret, her dress caught in the brambles, her hat off, and all her soft short chestnut curls tossed about her face. A carnation flush had risen through her clear brown skin, for she was afraid that her father would object to her untidy appearance.

As for Nelly, she was perfectly serene on her unsteady perch. Mr. Austin did not object to her climbing in a quiet part like this ; therefore, it was the right thing to do ; there fore, she could have greeted the whole royal family from such a position with calmness. Mrs. Moorfield looked at them, as the carriage went by, with a curious expression on her face. Could it be envy of the young life? Yet she was a very beautiful woman. ' By Jove, a pretty girl ! ' said young Moorfield. ' And to which of them is the boy devoted ? ' asked Mrs. Moorfield, smiling. ' That fair girl is good-looking, though not to be compared to your Margaret.' ' Margaret is a mere child,' said Mr. Tremaneer hastily. ' But an attraction towards either would be most undesirable.' ' You can hardly expect him to be such a stone,' she returned.

Mr. Tremaneer looked back and watched for a moment or two. Nelly had descended from the bank, and was walking on in front, carrying her own basket of blackberries. James was apparently taking Margaret to task for her untidy dress. ' There is no danger at present,' quoth John Tremaneer, as he turned away reassured.

Chapter II

Oh, foolish youth, untimely wise ! Andrew Lang De ce qui est au pouvoir de Fortune Nul ne se doit vauter n'y tenir fort : Car ung jour sert de plaisir et consort Et l'autre apres, de courroux et rancune. titAlJE^AlRECTLY after this bright summer day, a ■ ylO 1 II) change and a general break-up of existing QÆMUjL arrangements came upon the young party. Margaret was sent to a French convent school. She always attributed her father's decision to this effect to Mrs. Moorfield's account of the school in Paris ; an idea which strengthened her dislike to that lady. She had, how ever, no proof to support her belief. She was not even certain that the establishment to which she was sent was the one to which Mrs. Moorfield had alluded. It proved very good of its kind, and, though at first the girl was very miserable, after a time she adapted herself to her new life, and did not dislike it.

She got on well with her lessons, and was not unpopular among the girls. School life compelled her to throw herself more than she had done at home into the interests of her companions ; and as she was good natured and good-humoured, as well as clever, they found her a useful member of the small community in work or play. She, for her part, discovered that she could lead, and her vanity was gratified. The dreams and fancies of her girlhood were generally crushed down and hidden. They found, however, an outlet in the music of the convent chapel ; and the nuns founded hopes of her conversion to the Roman Church on her attention to and delight in the services. Sister Claire, indeed, with whom Margaret had once or twice started arguments on the subject of religion, shook her head at the suggestion.

In accordance with the rule of the school that these matters were not discussed with the English pupils, she had silenced Margaret ; but she had clearly perceived by the tone of her remarks that the girl had deeply-rooted opinions, utterly incompatible with Romanism. None the less did she like to indulge in a sort of vague ecstatic dream as she listened to the sweet voices of the nuns at Benediction. She did not think distinctly of the meaning of the service ; she did not trouble herself as to whether or not she was joining in an act of worship. She indulged in some floating ideas as to the beauty of music as an aid in devotion, and in some vague aspirations after great virtue ; and in her foolish, childish head she thought herself rather a superior person to have such lovely visions of good ness, whilst she was above, as she supposed, all the ; 24 idle superstitions of her teachers.

It is a bad training for a girl to hold different opinions from those who are put in authority over her, since it makes her confident in her superior wisdom while as yet she has neither intellect nor experience to appreciate the real grounds of those beliefs which she has imbibed unconsciously as a child. These drawbacks, however, to a healthy develop ment of her disposition were not apparent, and two years passed quietly away. She did not go home for the winter holidays. The first summer her father took her during the vacation for a delightful trip in Switzerland. The second winter, just before Christmas, she received the news that Sir John, as he had now become, was very ill from over-work. Margaret was both very anxious, and bitterly unhappy at not being allowed to return and nurse him during the Christmas vacation.

She was ready to accuse her aunt, Miss Tremaneer, of the grossest cruelty. Miss Tremaneer, however, who had gone to Hambleton Court at once, acted from the kindest motives. Since the doctors decreed that Sir John must see no fresh person, not even his daughter, she thought that it would be less trying for the girl to be away than on the spot. By the time Sir John would have been well enough to receive her, her holidays were over. She was still rejoicing over his recovery when she received a shock which was almost as great to her as the news of his illness had been. Sir John wrote that he was engaged to be married, and to Mrs. Moorfield. His illness cut him off from absorption in his work and the gratifications of ambition. Mrs. Moorfield was at the house at which he went to stay on his recovery.

Her beauty and the repose and charm of her manners gained upon him from contrast with Miss Tremaneer's kindly-meant fussiness. He thought that he was doing a happy thing both for himself and his daughter when he persuaded this fascinating woman to become his wife. Margaret did not go to Hambleton for the wedding. Years after, she suspected that he had been a good deal hurt at the easy way in which she had acquiesced in the Mother Superior's objections to her going away in the term. At the time she thought that he did not want her. She had received a very kind and amiably written letter from Mrs. Moorfield, expressing a strong desire for her presence. ' Let me write, dear Sir John,' that lady had said. ' I hope to be great friends with Margaret. Let me begin by telling her how much / wish for her at our wedding.

Of your wishes she will be quite certain.' Sir John, much pleased, had said, ' Certainly, Ara bella. Tell her there need be no difficulty with those good nuns. I will insist upon her leave of absence.' Unfortunately Mrs. Moorfield's letter produced the very opposite effect to that which, according to the writer's declaration, it was intended to have. 'Your father has promised me,' wrote the lady, 'that he will himself ask for leave from the convent for your return, for I told him that I could not bear to be without you on the wedding-day. And indeed I am ; 26 sure that he would himself find that he missed you greatly ; though you know, dear, men do not think of these things as we women do. But, however anxious he is as to your progress in your studies, he will be most delighted to see you.