Ethel's Romance. A novel

Chapter I

" But Heaven hath a hand in these events, To whose high will we bowed our calm contents." Richard II. AMONGthe barren, bloomless rocks of existence, upon a crag that overhung a dark precipice, a soul had built for itself a nest of hope — a soft warm nest, lined with tender fancies and fond anticipations. It was a perilous spot for affection to rest upon ; the storm would often shake the crag, and the nest seem in danger of being hurled into the gulfs below. At such times the occupant was fain to leave it, but would not go far, lingering with fond, though diminishing, confidence over that home wherein the heart had trusted so long. ■ VOL. II. S The reader knows it was Harriett Mayne who had trusted to a hope so insecure ; who had clung to it, despite its weak foun dations, despite the consciousness she had that any day might hurl it into unseen depths of darkness.

Harriett trusted to this rash hope because she was young, and therefore, naturally trustful — because her experience of life had been small — her ex= perience of man's character still less. Even her natural insight was blinded by her strong affections. Harriett had been happy these last few days, comforted by the possession of this diamond ring, bestowed in such a meaning way by Lord Talbot ; it was true, she had not seen him since the night of the dinner at his house, nothing had happened to con firm the bold assurance that she was loved. She kept the ring, although not daring to wear it, until some opportunity of private talk with the giver should enable her to return it, or question why it had been bestowed, to demand some explanation, to hear — she scarce knew what she hoped to hear, but just now nothing seemed too rash, nothing impossible.

Harriett did not seek to penetrate too far the possible future, she was content to be ignorant, to be blindly, happily ignorant, waiting for whatever the morrow might produce. To speculate too much about the results of her present course turned her giddy, and she felt it was easier to let things go, to be passive, to trust to the future^to trust to Talbot. He never guessed how much she trusted him, or he might have been surprised. How much this trust was merited, we shall see later. In the meantime, as we have said, Har riett was happy; so happy that neither Mrs. Mayne's querulousness nor the chil dren's boisterous merriment could give her a moment's annoyance ; so happy that she went about the house with a constant smile, and carried with her in her daily rounds among the poor and sick of the neighbourhood a cheerful sympathy which no ingra titude nor hard-heartedness on the part of those with whom she had to do could dispel.

But this cheerfulness, this hope, was not permitted to remain unbroken. The first doubt that shook the peace of Harriett Mayne's heart had its cause in a casual meeting with St. Clare. He was returning from a sketching expedition with Ethel and her mother, Harriett met them where the path leading to Talbot Hall branched off to the main road. St. Clare had just accepted Mrs. Gresham's offer to dine with them. After Harriett had shaken hands with them, she heard him remark that he should be very happy to accom pany them home, as he was quite alone at the hall. Talbot had been away these last two days, staying at the Leslies' ; "he was very busy with Sevelli," he added, " build ing a new Catholic Chapel on Mr. Leslie's property." This was not pleasant news for Harriett. These carelessly spoken words robbed her lips suddenly of the smile they had worn for days previously.

The society of her friends seemed just now not to her taste ; they were so painfully gay, almost frivo lous, she thought ; so she was glad to con tinue her own way home alone ; she no longer kissed the ring with the murmured assurance, "He loves me." No; she hid it away from her sight, half ashamed at her former presumption. Imagination, more over, depicted with cruel vividness Mrs. Romilly's attractions — her fair face, her elegant figure, her easy manners. Memory recalled all her words and looks on that evening ; Talbot's expression of fear at his cousin's fascination and will. Did she in tend to marry him, then ? It might be so ; she looked an ambitious woman, and cer tainly a woman who, having once made up her mind to a certain course, would in all probability have her way. Harriett thought, with a shudder, what opportunities she would have now for the promotion of her plans ; the constant intercourse be tween them, which their relationship would make so easy and permissible ; the long drives and rides, the similarity of tastes and position.

Perhaps Mrs. Romilly had a knowledge of architecture, and was no very bigoted Protestant. This news of Henry, Lord Talbot's present interest was not pleasant news for Robert Mayne. He scarcely hoped to re convert the vacillating peer ; still in his sanguine mind a probability sometimes arose of reasserting his ancient influence, and bringing back his old friend and pa tron at least to the family-pew in Maxwell Church ; to an appearance, even if there could not be a reality, of the staunch faith of his fathers. Robert Mayne measured his chance of success against that of the all-accomplished, sophistical priest ; the man who had charm ed him, despite his prejudices; the man whom Robert Mayne was forced to own his superior in education and refinement, in everything save an earnestness of purpose.

He felt he depended only on the strength of truth, the superior simplicity and purity of his own doctrines ; yet his perception of Talbot's character showed him that these more serious motives would have but little weight with him. Besides these, Mr. Mayne felt he retained a slight hold on Talbot's affections ; still this was but small material to influence the volatile nobleman on whom church music and appropriate genuflexions had more effect than any true preaching and practice. Poor Harriett had been scarcely roused from her dreary self-absorption even by the account of the fire which her brother came home and related with energy ; all the interest it had for her was the mention of Talbot's name. She blamed herself for her selfishness. Perhaps, had she been less engrossed by her own thoughts, she might have seen more of poor Mary Burrows, and stayed this ruin ; she would shake off this wretched apathy, and try to exert herself to find out and help the poor woman.

With this determination, she got up early in the morning, and made her brother's breakfast, and saw him off ; then she went busily about the town to make all possible inquiries ; she visited the ruined cottage, and asked every one about her. She came home late to dinner, with that dull pain about her heart, despite her efforts, had to bear with Mrs. Mayne's fret ful anxiety about her husband, and her blame for what she chose to designate Harriett's interference in this " scandalous business," which was not proper even to reach the ears of a young girl — teazing stuff, which caused Harriett to put up many a little petition for patience. The afternoon lagged wearily away, and Robert came not home, and Mrs. Mayne worked herself into a bad head-ache, while Harriett steadfastly darned the little socks that always seemed in holes and in need of mending.

Then, after tea-time, when Har riett, even, was becoming anxious, Mrs. Mayne indulged in hysterics at her sister's unfeeling nature, and after being attended to bed by that same sister, went peaceably to sleep ; Avhile Harriett, not able to bear sitting at home any longer, hurried out to see if she could ascertain anything of the whereabouts of her brother and the fugi tives. She took her way along the Lyton road, straining her eyes forward to see if they were coming. She was walking past the Greshams', when, unexpectedly, the clouds gathered, and a summer storm of rain and thunder burst over her head. She had no umbrella, and but a thin shawl, which she had caught up in her hurry ; so she turned towards the doctor's friendly abode, where, through the splash of the rain and roll of the thunder, she heard a horse's feet coming quickly after her.

She looked round, the rain pelting in her face ; it was not Robert, but, though she could scarcely recognize him, a conviction, unaccountable but certain, flashed through her mind that it was Talbot. She paused, and standing at the edge of the road, waited for the approaching rider. Now she could reclaim her ring — perhaps, he knew something of Robert or the Bur rows. She would ask him. Yes, it was he, riding fast and furiously, his coat but toned up to his throat, his hat over his eyes. Harriett waited. He came nearer, she opened her lips to call him, but a se cond thought checked her ; she wanted to see how he would call her, by what name he would address her. He was close be side her now, she trembled, and involun tarily she turned one step aside. Talbot did not check his horse, did not look up : before Harriett could move or speak, he had passed into the misty rain and gathering darkness ; only the sound of his horse's hoofs struck on her ear.

Her heart, that late beat so high, fell lower and lower — it seemed to fall with the receding tramp. He, the man she had so loved, on meeting whom she had built so many fancies, had passed her that minute, had not seen her even! She was alone again in the drench ing rain, more alone than ever, for hope was fast quitting its abode in her heart. She stood still for a moment, so thorough was her astonishment, so sudden the shock ; then she hurried on faster than ever, with an angry thought in her mind — he must have seen her, recognized her, and have passed her intentionally ; he had changed to her, or rather this cruelty was his natural character; his tenderness had been but a caprice. Harriett passed the Greshams' house — she felt she could not go in ; their kind ness and attention would annoy her just now; she could not chatter with Ethel on indifferent subjects, or wholly mask, to one so intimate, the bitterness in her heart.

She went on quickly to her home, with firm step and erect carriage, with a hot burning in cheeks. She had no fortitude to bear with Mrs. Mayne to-night, so she went straight to her own room, locked the door, and sat down. Then her energy gave way, and she wept — wept and sobbed in passionate grief. The sudden reaction from the happiness of the past few days had swept away all her self-control, and she cried and rocked herself to and fro like a wayward child. After a time this outburst of sorrow sub sided, she went to the window, leant her her face against it, and watched the rain, with dreary, monotonous patience. But inaction was very foreign to Harriett's nature, she could not remain long in this state of passive melancholy ; she looked about her to see what she could best occupy herself with, during these anxious mo ments, until Robert returned, and to drive away her unpleasant thoughts.

She remembered that she had never answered Justin's letter, so she set about doing it. The unsettled and agitated state of her mind caused her to be more diffuse and unre served about herself than was usual with her. She longed for sympathy, and al though she could not define her trouble, still she alluded to it as a trouble, craving for the comfort even a friend could give. Was he sorrowful, as he said ? could she not feel for him, give him the truest of all sympathy — that of fellow-sufferer ? Did he feel the world was desolate, that few were the loving hearts in it, and those divided from him by accident or purpose ? She felt so ; she assured him that even here, in this quiet Maxwell, shut away from the busy world, there were trials and miseries. When would he come home ? she greatly desired to see him ; she had so much to tell him, so much to hear ; those secrets he had hinted at in his last letter must be explained.

Harriett urged his coming home, urged it with a fervour which was distinct to Justin when he read the letter. It was a long epistle, passionate and strange, and much came of it. A shower of rain ! What a trifle it seems ! It just lays the dust ; it waters the flowers in our garden, or, may be, spoils the new feather in our hat. A shower of rain ! What a solemn thing it may be in the hands of an inscrutable Pro vidence ! It may be an instrument to make or mar our fortunes ; our hopes may rise or fall with the drops of a summer shower ; a sudden storm may turn our course, and we may never return on our way with the same heart again. The clouds that gathered that afternoon were charged with important crises in the lives of many in this history ; most of all, it aided Robert Mayne and St. Clare in their search for the Burrows.

We must now return to them. When they arrived at Lyton, they inquired of the gate-keeper at the Leslies', if Mr. Sevelli were within. No, he had gone out that morning — where, she did not know. St. Clare and Mr. Mayne were puzzled, they did not know what to do. St. Clare would have gone to the house and made inquiries of Mrs. Leslie, but it would seem odd and inquisitive at this untimely hour, besides, Mrs. Leslie might be just as ignorant of Sevelli's intentions as the gate-keeper. As they were in this perplexity, Miss Leslie came down from the house for a ramble before breakfast. St. Clare jumped from his horse and hailed her approach with joy ; he was a great favourite with the buxom young lady, whose rosy face looked rosier as she spoke to him. After a few expressions of surprise at seeing him so early, she said, artlessly : "I am not usually up so early, but I got up this morning to pour out Father Petre's tea.

He has gone off to Ramford." " You don't happen to know what for ?" asked St. Clare, eagerly. " No ; that I don't ! He was as mysteri ous as ever about his proceedings. I should not have known it was Ramford, but I over heard him ask John the way there. But you will come in to breakfast ? Mamma will be so glad to see you." Already St. Clare was on his horse, mur muring hasty apologies and adieus, which caused a slight shade over Miss Leslie's smooth brow ; she was too placid a disposition to have much curiosity, but she certainly thought Mr. St. Clare odd that morning. They rode quickly to Ramford, some seven miles off, and there they met the Leslies' coachman, who had driven Sevelli, and heard that he had gone on to Halford. It was a very round-about way, the coach man said ; but Mr. Sevelli seemed to change his mind, ordered a horse at the inn, and told him to go home.

It was veiy strange ! Evidently Sevelli did not want his whereabouts to be known. He might not really be going to Halford now ; but what were they to do '? They had lost all clue to Mary Burrows, and it seemed apparent to both of them that Sevelli was somehow mixed up in the affair. Could it be only a coincidence, that he had risen so early and gone out that same morning ? They went to the inn from which Sevelli had ordered the horse, and learnt that it was to be fetched from the railway inn at Halford. This seemed positive ; they had lost some time, and the day was advancing. So, after some consultation, it was deemed advisable to ride on to Halford, the next railway station, some twelve miles distant. Before they arrived there, the rain fell in torrents, and drove them to seek shelter in a little way-side inn.

Weary and hungry, they dismounted, and ordered the best en- G voi,, h. tertainment the house could afford. There was no private room to be had, so they con tented themselves with the common, sanded apartment, ornamented with pipes and spit toons. Two rough men rose to leave at their entrance, but Mr. Mayne begged they would not move, so they resumed their seats in sheepish silence. While dinner was preparing, St. Clare made inquiries of the landlord and the household as to whether they had seen or heard anything of a woman answering to the description of Mary Burrows ? It seemed to him a last vain inquiry, as he began to fear they had come upon a useless quest. The landlord asked the landlady, and the landlady asked the ostler, who had, for lack of anything better to do, been sitting on the horse-trough all the morning, biting straws, and must have seen every one who passed.

No one had seen such a person. St. Clare went back to his companion and detailed his ill-success, when, as he mentioned the baby and bundle, one of the men in smock-frocks started forward, ex claiming : " I've seed her !" St. Clare and Mr. Mayne turned breath lessly on him. " Where ?" "I've seed her!" he repeated, empha tically, striking the table with a thump. " I could have sworn she was a runaway, 'cos of her sneaky look." " But where, my good man ?" demanded the vicar. "Why, over at Henley; she slept there, at the 'Running Hound,' last night. I comes into the bar, and, says I, ' Who have you here?' and Mrs. Goodman, as keeps the 'ouse, says she " " Where can she have gone since then ?" cried St. Clare, appealingly, to his com panion. " Did you hear — do you know ?" he asked the man, who, somewhat annoyed at being interrupted in his recital, muttered a " Can't say, I'm sure," and relapsed into sulky silence.

How far was it to Henley, became the next question, and could the horses go much farther ? Having ascertained that it was a matter of five or six miles, after inviting the man's confidence by the offer to stand hot brandy - and-water, and after his swearing to the ac curacy of his statement, it appeared im perative that some one must go at once to Henley. Mr. Mayne looked very rueful at the notion ; he had not ridden for years, and was very stiff. " Let me have a few mouthfuls of some thing to eat," cried St. Clare, " and I will go. I don't mind the rain, and that little pony is good for some twenty miles more. She must come this way to Halford, and in that case I should meet her. When you are rested, go to Halford, and wait there at the railway station — where you can stop either of them, if they go up by train — until I come.

Also, I would send one of these men, with a description of Burrows, to the police-station." " Not yet," objected Mr. Mayne. " You see," he whispered, "it would be disagree able for me if this affair got into the hands of the police. I have acted injudiciously, perhaps, in not apprehending him at once ; but I pitied the poor fellow in his mad jealousy." An hour after, St. Clare was taking his way through the rain to Henley, and Robert Mayne, stretching his weary limbs on three chairs, fell fast asleep. He had intended to watch very carefully, but his resolution was not so powerful as his fatigue. He awoke once, and was aware of some figure crouching in the corner of the room ; but he was very drowsy, and not at all nervous, so he shut his eyes, and the heavy splash of the rain, and the weary creaking of the sign outside, soon lulled him off to sleep again.

He awoke once more, and this time there were voices in the room, two voices in eager conversation; it was getting dusk outside, and he could see the figure, dimly, still crouching by the fireplace. He sat up and listened. " My daughter," said a solemn voice, "it is an insult to the Church and our most holy faith to give way to this vain weeping at parting with a heretic and un believer. You will be cared for." " But I can't help it," answered a voice that made Robert Mayne start. It was the fugitive, found at last ; and it was not O'Connell who had induced her to leave her home, but the priest, standing there, talking to her now ; he could see his tall form by the window. The clergyman had most unchristian fury running in his veins just then. One moment he felt in clined to rush forward and interfere, the next he checked himself, and sat quite still.

They could not see him ; evidently did not think there was any one in the room besides themselves. Was it part of the troubled dream that haunted him in his un easy sleep, the dream of seeking them, coming sometimes on their track, and again missing them ? Besides, what was that figure in the corner ? he could see it moved restlessly sometimes. Then he listened again. The priest was quoting an example of a blessed saint who left her husband and seven children to go into a convent. His narrative was interrupted and marred by rebel lious sobbing on the part of his listener, who evidently already regretted the step she had taken. The reverend father, therefore, went on to more practical directions. She was to take the train to London, and go to a sister hood ; they would direct her to the rest ; how she was to take ship for Ireland to a convent there.

"When she had been there a few months," he said, softly, " and found the duties and restrictions at all irk some, he could, if she would then yield, •sanction her union with a true believer." This true believer had promised to devote a large portion of his gold nuggets to Holy Church to gain such a consummation ; but poor Mary Burrows was quite unsuspicious of this double-dealing. " Oh ! but who would look after my dear husband ? I do love him still, and I shall never consent," sobbed she. And at this juncture Robert Mayne saw the figure in the corner rise up, and before he could interfere, rush on Sevelli, and hurl him to the ground.

Chapter II

" Beloved, my beloved, when I think That thou wast in the world a year ago What time I sate alone here in the snow, And saw no foot-print, heard no silence sink No moment at thy voice." — E. B. Browning. ROBERT MAYNE arrived at home at ten o'clock. He was wet and tired, and, for him, cross. Harriett received him hurriedly, provided him with a cup of tea and something to eat. Mrs. Mayne came down in her dressing-gown. They over whelmed him with eager questions, to Avhich he seemed loth to answer. He and St. Clare had, he said, come by train from Halford to Lyton, and from thence they had taken a post-chaise to Maxwell. They had left the horses at Halford — done up, and so was he ; and if they would let him eat his supper and go to bed in peace, he would tell them everything to-morrow. Harriett saw he had been annoyed, so she restrained her curiosity, and was silent ; but not so his wife : she burst into tears — all the tears she had left, after her violent crying during the afternoon — she was supplied with a pretty good stock, and they flowed freely even now.

"Oh!" she moaned, "after my waiting, and watching, and anxiety, after my illness all the afternoon — Harriett can tell you how ill I have been — to be so treated, so rebuffed !" "Really, my dear," began the goodman, slightly nettled, " I am sorry you have been ill, but I could not avoid being so late. I have been worried and worn beyond description. What is it you want to know ?" "Oh! nothing, if you wish to withhold your confidence from your own wife. Things have come to a pretty pass. I al ways hated that Mary Burrows, with her great goggle-eyes, and Irish sentimental nonsense. I could not see from the first why you should put yourself out of the way for her — she a Catholic, too ! It's mon strous, your riding and tearing over the country like a maniac. I am worn out, and getting ugly, I know ; but that bold faced thing they call pretty — you call her pretty — and men will do anything for a pretty face."

" Maria, your words are insulting," replied Robert Mayne, calmly, but his reddish brown eyes flashed dangerous fire, and his hands clasped together nervously. " You do not know what you are saying, so I will forgive you ; and as all this must be very painful for Harriett to witness, we will go to bed." But Mrs. Mayne's tongue was unchained, and it was not to be stayed so easily. Truly, a woman's scolding tongue, when let loose on her husband, does seem " set on fire of hell." "He had never loved her, and she realized it now ; she pleased his fancy for a time, and then she palled him. He and his sister were superior in intellect and goodness, she had no doubt of it (but her insulting tone insinuated the doubt). Why did he drag her down from her 'high sphere,' to be a drudge and nursemaid to his children ?"

This last thrust told on both Robert and Harriett. They were both proud and sen sitive ; Mrs. Mayne knew it, and stabbed them in the tenderest place. Harriett had half a mind to go and shake her sister well, but was restrained by a second thought. Robert rose, with flaming eyes, and lighted a bedroom candle, with a trembling hand ; then he left the room. The stem control ling of his wrath gave a majesty to his mien ; his figure was drawn to its full height, and his tawny locks tossed back from his pale brow. They heard him go into his library, and shut and lock the door after him. Then a stillness fell on the room, and in the still ness Mrs. Mayne hushed her sobs, and looked up with a scared face. She trembled before Harriett's accusing eyes ; she trembled when she thought of the passion in her husband's face ; she had never made him so angry before in all these years ; she did not think she could move him so, he who was always so loving and enduring.

It seemed in her agony as though she had suddenly built up a great wall between them. " What shall I do, Harriett ?" she asked, piteously, turning to and relying, as she always did in the time of perplexity or danger, on the stronger nature. Harriett saw her anguish and repentance, and forgave her her share of the wrong fully and freely at once. " Go to him," Harriett advised. So Mrs. Mayne drew her dressing-gown around her, and stepping across the hall, tapped timidly at the library door. Harriett stood on the threshold of the dining-room, pale, and lis tening. No answer came to the first knock. Mrs. Mayne knocked again louder. "Let me in, please, Robert." Then a stern voice, unlike Mr. Mayne's, answered : " I cannot now. Go to bed, Maria, and send Harriett to me." " Oh ! Maria, what have you done — what have you done ?" cried Harriett, her own tears falling ; and taking the weak, trembling creature by the arm, she led her up to bed.

Had Mrs. Mayne been a proud wife, she would have bitterly resented this dismissal of herself and call for Harriett ; but she was not proud ; she did not possess any characteristic half so ennobling ; she was simply weak and vain ; her puny rage was all crushed out of her by the overwhelming power of still passion. Harriett went down, and found the li brary door open. Her brother was sitting by the table, his face in his hands, and the slow tears were whelming through his fingers. She came and put her arm round his neck, and drew his head on to her bosom : through all the anguish, she felt a thrill of joy at the renewal of the privilege so long denied to her, to sympathize with and console him. Had he not wept so years ago, when he first confessed to her his love for that same Maria, and how hopeless it then seemed '?