The Secret of Wardale Court and other stories

Preface

TV If OST of these stories have already appeared ■*■ v A in Murray's Magazine, Temple Bar, and The English Illustrated, and I greatly feel the kind ness that permits me now to have them published in this new form — in some respects corrected, and I trust improved. ANDREE HOPE. November 1894. CONTENTS PAGE I. THE SECRET OF WARDALE COURT— I. BLIND ....... 9 II. AN ENGLISH HOME ..... 30 III. ANXIETIES ...... 59 IV. A PROPOSAL ...... 88 V. THE SECRET REVEALED . . . . II3 VI. DILECTÆ DILECTISSIMA .... I4O II. PRINCESS ARIANE— I.

Prologue

...... I49 II. TRANSPLANTED . . . . 163 III. KORIS ....... 185 IV. THE CONVENT ...... 206 V. VENGEANCE ...... 2l8 III. BENEATH THE DARK SHADOW— I. THE INN . . . . . . 233 II. FRUSTRATED ...... 263 IV. LADY LORAINE; or, SOME PASSAGES IN A WOMAN'S LIFE

Chapter I Blind

I AWOKE much earlier than usual one cold morning in early spring. I might sleep yet another hour if I could or would, but sleep had suddenly departed. I was wide awake, and who does not know the painful consciousness that some thing is going to happen ever attendant on such awakenings ? In these moments of vague light, of vague thought, the emptiness of life — life past, present, and future — is sure to come before the but partially aroused mind. And such thoughts come with pain, for most blest and happy must have been that past if its retrospect does not bring both sorrow and regret. Surely they but confirm the words of the Great Preacher, " All is vanity and vexation of spirit." It is in these dim hours that the spectres of dead hopes pass and repass before the saddened mind. It is then that the shadows of the departed linger around us in all their veiled and pallid mystery.

Then in vain do we seek to soothe the sorrow of eternal earthly separation by dwelling upon the bright hopes of a heavenly future. At such moments the pain of our earthly natures demands earthly succour. The soul is rent by sharp pining for happiness in the world we would fain find so beautiful. Grief long repressed must then have its way. To-day was my birthday, a day so joyous for the happy, but of added pain to the weary and sad of heart. In early youth it is so hard to believe that the hopes in which we fondly indulge, the success we so eagerly seek, will never, never come. It seems then impossible such hopes, such eager struggles must, like other mortal things, inevitably die; but die they will, one after another, slowly and mournfully, with unvarying pain and sickening disappointment.

Rarely did I dare look back. Looking back was to remember the dear father, lying undistinguished amidst the dead, who fell on the bloody field of Gravelotte, to remember the tender mother, whose slender thread of life had snapped in the desolation of such a bereavement. Years had passed since that fatal time, yet now my grief returned keen and sharp as ever, for ere many days should elapse I must leave those dear ones still left to me, to seek my fortune amongst strangers in a foreign land. Well might I feel the future was as gloomy and misty as the pale dawn that was slowly creeping into the room through the uncurtained window. I drew the coverings above my head, to hide from my eyes the dreary light, to chase from my BLIND 11 heart such dreary, evil thoughts, when a sound broke the stillness of early morning.

The quick pattering of little naked feet was heard coming across the boarded floor. A small figure in white climbed breathlessly on to the bed. Two tiny arms were clasped tightly around my neck. Loving kisses were showered upon my face, head, and hands, and a childish voice cried joyously — " Darling Daisy, how long I have been waiting for you to awake ! I want to tell you how I love you on your birthday. Kiss me quick, and get up. How happy we will be to-day ! " As she spoke, a brilliant ray of sunshine burst from amidst the murky clouds. It glittered over the icy landscape. It covered with flashing diamonds the branches of the snowladen trees. It passed over the golden head of the little speaker, and, piercing the cold hardness of my heart, it touched the fount of tears. Tears, repentant tears, rained from my eyes as I clasped the little one to my heart, in an agony of contrition and of compassionate love.

Ah me ! How dared / murmur against the dark ness of the past, or presume to dread aught of darkness for the future, when I looked upon the bright, patient face of my little blind sister Oda. Our mother was taken from us ere this little sister was many days old, and our poverty was then so great that, but for the kindness of our neighbours, and the sale of the few articles of furniture we still possessed, we must have starved. I believe we were entitled to a small pension, as my father, an army surgeon, had been killed on the field of battle in the execution of his duty ; but this was a time of furious excitement. Cannon were roaring, bells were ringing, enthusiastic crowds were hurrying through the streets, shouting and yelling with joy for the great victory the army of the Fatherland had gained.

Who thought of the tears that were being shed, of the desolate women and children mourning the countless slain left upon the bloody field? We were but insignificant units in that mighty crowd of sufferers, too humble, too valueless for our voices to be heard. Only to our help came dear kind Aunt Miiller, my father's half-sister. Poor as she was, she never dreamt that we were not to share her little home, her little means. She hastened to us from her distant village in Westphalia as soon as she heard the terrible news ; and, shielded by her goodness, for some years we lived happy and contented. By degrees I was able to resume my studies as a musician, and at length obtained pupils in the neighbouring towns. Aunt Miiller had a small farm, and so between us we earned enough for our humble requirements ; but, alas ! bad times came, long winters and wet springs destroyed the crops and killed our few cows ; worse than all, Aunt Midler fell ill with rheumatic fever, brought on by constant exposure in such cold and damp seasons.

There was no help for it, the farm must be given up, Aunt Miiller and Oda must go to Frankfort to a cousin there, and I must find a situation in some family. BLIND 13 I should not have disliked this arrangement but for the necessity of leaving the dear aunt and my darling. Little Oda was our joy and our delight. Never was there a brighter or happier creature than the tiny blind child. Her little feet might be heard all day pattering about the house in her efforts to be useful ; and her merry voice, so sweet in laughter, so sweet in childish joy, filled both house and garden with its melody. All loved her, every villager, every animal, was her friend, for her truthful as well as affectionate nature attracted animals as easily as people. Even the savage watch-dog, who growled at all the world, would lick with cautious tenderness the tiny hand stretched out so fearlessly to stroke his great rough head.

The ill-mannered old donkey, who by cunning kicks always succeeded in upsetting everyone who attempted to bestride him, would allow little Oda to mount and ride, and with her on his back would pace along as discreetly as if he were the most highly educated and best-hearted animal of his race, instead of being, as he really was, the veriest curmudgeon in the village. To me she was life and happiness. However tired and worn-out I might feel, when returning from a hard day's teaching in Dusseldorf, the sound of the flying footsteps, that always seemed to know the moment of my arrival, the pressure of those loving arms, never failed to restore my strength and refresh my wearied mind. But now these home joys must be given up. We must part — and part soon. The cousin at Frankfort ■4 was a man of foreign experiences, of foreign connec tions.

He suggested I should seek a place in England, that El Dorado of German teachers. This sounded very grand, but rather alarming also, and on this morning of my birthday fear had destroyed all ambition. I felt assured I could not go; I had not courage to support such a parting. Little did I think how near that parting was. Aunt Miiller entered suddenly, an open letter in her hand ; she smiled, almost laughed ; but there were tears in her kind eyes, and some even on the wrinkled cheeks, as she told me the good news. " Ach, Himmel, child, here is good fortune for you ! A great English lord asks for a young lady who is a good musician, to play to his poor wife, who is always ill, and teach music and German to his daughter. The English will give the German girl four hundred florins a year. What a fortune !

What an immense fortune ! But you must go at once. Cousin Franz has recommended you to Herr Green, and Herr Green will put you on board the boat for England that leaves Hamburg to-morrow night. Here is the paper with the name and direction ; but I cannot read them — these English names break the teeth." Go — go to-morrow ? No ; I could not, I would not ; but though I said this, I knew I should go — Aunt M tiller's energy would overcome every obstacle. She even undertook to prepare the blind child for the separation. What she said I knew not, but the little one soon came with smiles to talk about England, and the pretty things I would bring her. She was accustomed to my journeys for the day, and England BLIND ■5 probably was not farther away than Munster or Dusseldorf. I dared not undeceive her; but her innocent talk, her happy smiles, took from me my little remaining courage.

Probably my trembling voice told her of the sorrow in my heart. " Don't be unhappy, Daisy," she said, with childish but grave earnestness. " God takes care of us. I should like to go to God. May I ask Him to take me?" " No, no, my darling ! " I cried vehemently, stricken with sudden fear as I looked at the fragile form. " No, no ; you must not ask that. Stay with your Daisy ; she could not live without her little treasure." The child laughed, kissed me, and contentedly returned to her playthings. I must now mention that I had an admirer. It is mortifying to have to admit at my age I had only one, and still more mortifying that this solitary suitor was woefully commonplace. He was good and excellent in every way, but oh, so plain, so short, and, worse than all, so fat ! In vain I attempted to look upon him with favour, and to do so endeavoured to invest him with even one romantic quality.

But how can any man be romantic who is short and fat ? Like most other girls, I had sometimes given an occasional thought to love and marriage. Not very often, however, as I had so much to do ; and it is astonishing how greatly bodily fatigue aids in dispel ling all such illusions ; but I was a German, I was a musician, so I could not quite banish every romantic fancy from my brain. Ernst Lauter was the son of a neighbouring pastor. Soon he would be a pastor himself, and this fact to my mind was not in his favour. I did not like the idea of being the wife of a country clergyman. My eager nature revolted at the thoughts of a life of such dull monotony. I rashly assured myself that I would rather suffer much than never have occasion to feel. Nevertheless, I did try to like Ernst, for I knew my doing so would much please my aunt ; but oh, how he bored me ! and his tender speeches and beseeching glances either irritated me inexpressibly or provoked me into irrepressible laughter.

One consoling point in the dreaded parting was, that I should get away from poor Ernst. But early that afternoon he came. He had heard the news. He was pale even to the lips. They trembled as he spoke the first words of greeting. Then he sat down without saying more. I was arranging my few books. Aunt Miiller presently left the room, then Ernst came quickly to me, and seizing my hand, pressed it eagerly. " Daisy," he said in a low voice, " is it true you are going to leave us ? Have you the heart to go ? " There was true sympathy in his voice. True love shone from his eyes. I was touched to the quick. The feelings long overstrained, so repressed for the last few hours, now shook me to the soul. I could not speak, I could not answer him. I could only turn away to hide the tears that would come.

" Daisy," he continued, " if you could but under stand the love I have given you for years ! Many BLIND 17 may be more worthy, but no one could love you more than I do. Daisy, Daisy," he cried excitedly, and his honest, kind voice shook with emotion, " it is not love, it is worship I offer you, the worship of a whole life; for God's sake do not reject it!" Though I knew I did not love him, the sorrow that was in my heart seemed to respond to the passion that was in his. Involuntarily I turned and held out my hand. "Dear, kind Ernst," I murmured, " how can you care for one so valueless as I am?" " My treasure ! " he cried, with a joy that made me start back in terror, " my pearl beyond price ! God bless you for those dear words. Never, never, while I live, shall you again know anxiety or pain.

You will not leave us now," he continued, happiness beaming in his eyes ; " soon you will be my wife. You will not now go to this hateful England ? " " Not go to England ? " cried Aunt Miiller, as she entered the room ; " what are you two foolish children saying ? " " No, no ! " cried Ernst, eagerly advancing towards her and taking her hand ; " Daisy cannot go now ; she has promised to be my wife. The betrothal can at once take place." " Not at all, by no means," said Aunt Miiller decidedly ; " nothing of the kind. You know, Ernst, I have long wished my dear child to be your wife, and I still wish it, but she must not go portionless to any husband. A year or two in England will be enough. When she returns the betrothal can take place. There, there, be reasonable, say no more. The matter is quite settled; we will not discuss it any more."

The misery of having to go was so near and so great that I was really glad to be engaged to Ernst, though I certainly did not wish to marry, or even to be betrothed. Rather too eagerly, therefore, I fear, did I acquiesce in Aunt Midler's decision that this latter ceremony should be deferred. Poor Ernst's countenance fell, his joy departed. " You are cruel, dear aunt," he said in a broken voice, " when you must know that Daisy will never return to us. So beautiful, so charming as she is, she will marry some cold-hearted Englishman, and never, never shall we see her again." Aunt Miiller was proof, however, even against this argument. She only laughed and said I was all very well, but no such great beauty in her opinion. I grieve to say I was forced to agree with her. Little sleep came to me that night, but, sad as had been those restless hours, the parting in the morning was even worse than I had anticipated.

It was not until my box was packed and brought to the door that the blind child seemed to understand I was leaving her for some time. She then broke down in a perfect passion of grief; with convulsive sobs she clung to me, refusing to let me go. In vain I tried to calm, to soothe her. Suddenly the good Ernst, who had come early to be of use, quietly but resolutely took her from my arms. " My little one," he said in his tender and manly tones, "do you not know how much your sorrow BLIND 19 pains our Daisy? Show what a good little sister you can be by smiling upon her, and making her happy before she goes. Soon she will come back, and then how great will be our joy ! " His strong embrace, his kind commanding voice, did what I had failed to do. The sobs of the poor child ceased, she raised her pale, tear-stained face from his friendly shoulder and tried to smile upon me.

One hurried kiss, one fond embrace, and the parting was over. I was alone with my grief. The sea was smooth, so the passage from Hamburg to Hull was pleasant, though at first rather alarming for one who had never been before on board a steam boat ; but there was a long railway journey before me from Hull, only slow trains stopping at Tretton, the station nearest to Wardale, my destination. The country around Hull, to my wearied eyes and saddened mind, appeared inexpressibly dreary. The hedges were dripping with raindrops, the roads were wet and muddy. Great volumes of black smoke poured from innumerable chimneys and hung heavily over the flat and swampy fields. The wind moaned in mournful cadence with the creaking branches of the still leafless trees. The sky was grey and lowering. Not an opening amongst the low-hanging, leaden-coloured clouds to admit a gleam of sunshine or even a point of cheerful blue.

I had often heard how wretched was the climate in England, and how rarely was the sun seen in a country where rain and fog alternated during the greatest part of the year. All this I had heard and believed, but the dismal reality now before me exceeded my worst anticipations, and, as I looked upon the gloomy expanse of sky and land, already did the trying " Heimweh " come in longings for the sunshine and bright skies of my dear Westphalia. By degrees, however, as the coast was left, and we penetrated farther into the interior, the landscape improved. The country was fiat, but swampy fields were no longer seen, and I looked with delighted admiration on the long stretches of wild ground, covered in most places with richly -tinted heather, but interspersed here and there with patches of fern and gorse, and groups of slender birch trees.

All this was so like home that my heart was cheered, and I could laugh with pleasure as I gazed on the changing scenes. Near the pretty town of Bawtry long lines of grand old woods bordered the horizon, and the penetrating odour of the many fir and birch trees gave me infinite delight, for again I was reminded of my dear native land. It was late in the day, or rather night was fast approaching, w-hen we arrived at Tretton, a small roadside station, seemingly far from any village. I was the only passenger who alighted, and scarcely had I and my modest box been deposited on the platform, than the train with a sudden roar and rush disappeared in a tunnel whose black mouth could be seen close by. With the sun departed all glory and all beauty. Hardly had he disappeared than the chilly sprin°- BLIND 21 evening became bitterly cold.

As I shiveringly drew my cloak around me, I thought I had never seen so desolate a place. On the summit of the rising ground nearest the station was a dismal ruin. A great blackened chimney, some rotting timbers stood erect amidst a few wretched cottages, whose leaning walls and shattered windows showed they had been destroyed by some sudden catastrophe. These unsightly objects were partly hidden, but made still more mournful, even hideous to the sight, by the masses of grey cinders and dusty refuse under which they were partially buried. I had ample time to note all these ungainly objects as I walked up and down the platform to warm my numbed feet, for the railway-carriage had been very cold and ill -protected from the wind. The civil stationmaster begged me to come to his fire, the station being little more than a covered shed ; but I was too anxious and nervous to remain quiet.

The reaction, consequent on continued fatigue and excite ment, had now come on, and with difficulty I restrained a miserable desire to cry. It was so forlorn, so desolate, to be here alone in this strange, ugly country, no voice to say a kind word, only the chilly night wind whistling around. If I spoke, my own voice fell with an unaccustomed ring upon my ear, and I scarce understood the broad Yorkshire dialect of the stationmaster and his porter. When I found no one was waiting for me, I had proposed to walk to Wardale, but I was told it was fully six miles away, and that the road was bad and lonely. Besides, I was assured that if expected at the Court, a carriage would certainly be sent for me. "They always send for everybody, as there ain't no flys here," said the porter, "though sure it ain't many as goes there nowadays."

A brisk walk up and down the platform and a strong resolve subdued the rising tears. It would never do to appear in my new place with red eyes, and possibly with a red nose. First impressions are of such importance. It was better to think of the money I should by and by be able to send to my aunt and little Oda. Even, this, however, was a dangerous thought. It caused the choking sob to rise again in my throat as I remembered the clinging arms, the last cry of my poor darling. No, I must walk and not think at all. Another few minutes, and then the rumbling of wheels was heard, with the clatter of horses' hoofs, and the stationmaster informed me the carriage had arrived from Wardale. A brougham, that seemed to my inexperienced eyes very superb, was at the door, and, frightened as I had been for many hours about the dreaded moment of arrival, I was so worn-out, so thoroughly tired, and also hungry, that I was now quite thankful the long journey was so nearly accomplished.

So comfortable, so luxurious was the carriage that I could have slept ; but, as fatigue became relieved, terror again oppressed my mind. Every mile in creased my fears, and I had plenty of time to indulge in them, for our pace was so slow the horse was rarely out of a walk. The road, with but few intervals, BLIND 23 appeared to be ever ascending, and as well as I could see, for night had now fallen, it wound about the bleak hills of a country as barren and desolate as that near the station. The sweep of the blast over the wide open moors was not pleasant to hear, for the wind whistled sharply across the dreary expanse — sometimes on the crests of the hills, coming in sudden gusts with such violence that I thought the little carriage must be blown into the hollows that bordered the road. Whenever the wind lulled, squalls of rain dashed against the windows, and occasionally the rattle of hail denoted how in tensely cold the night had become.

But both coach man and horse seemed accustomed to the climate. They gave little heed to either wind, rain, or hail, and plodded on up many hills, down a few, until we came to a sudden stop. A woman appeared with a lantern, and opened some large gates. We entered a dark wood, and rolled rapidly down a smooth road. Amidst the howling of the wind I fancied I heard from time to time the sound of falling water, but, though I strained my eyes, nothing could be seen but the close black lines of dripping trees. At length we emerged from the darkness. The trees, standing farther apart, now formed a sort of avenue. Then appeared the gleam of many lights, shining here and there from a mass of tall, dark buildings. We passed beside a terrace. A deep toned bell rang, as, turning into a large courtyard, the carriage drew up at the back-door of a great house.

It was most alarming, my heart well-nigh stood still from terror. I had had no idea I was coming to a great castle, a fortress, a palace, and yet — how easily depressed, how foolish are women in the little affairs of everyday life. Terrified as I had been for hours at the prospect of this arrival, prepared as I thought I was for any possible contingency, yet the mere fact of being brought to the back instead of to the front door gave me for an instant a pang of keen humiliation — a humiliation, however, of which in another instant I was heartily ashamed. Why should I, a dependant, whose services were hired for money, resent being treated as a dependant ? Nevertheless, notwithstanding this sage reflection, it was with a throb of pleasure that I heard a voice say — " Why did you come the back way, James ?

Why did you not go to the front door ? " " Old Bob was so unked and worrying to-night, Mrs. Jones, I dursn't leave my box, or he'd ha' bolted in no time ; and Sam's gone over to Thirston with a note." I did not hear any reply, but a pleasant-looking woman came forward to meet me, and, taking my little travelling-bag from my hand, invited me to follow her. " My lady is not very well to-night, miss, and hopes you will excuse her, and Sir Alured and Miss Cholmley have not yet returned home," said Mrs. Jones, who I found was the housekeeper; "so I thought you would like some supper at once, instead of waiting for their arrival." BLIND 25 I was only too thankful to have a respite from an alarming interview, and gratefully followed Mrs. Jones into a pretty little room, where a blazing fire in a shining grate was a wonderful sight to me, only accustomed to our closed German stoves.

Then on a little table was a quite magnificent supper. During the drive I had gradually lost all appetite. I was too frightened to eat, but now the sight of so many good things aroused all my youthful hunger. At length I ceased in very shame, and felt how the colour was mounting in my face as I apologised to Mrs. Jones, who I perceived now was watching me narrowly, with kind but penetrating eyes. " Most people get hungry here, miss ; the air is so very fresh and bracing. Do you know this part of the country ? " she continued. " No," I answered ; " I have never been in England before." " I hope you will like it, miss ; but I daresay you will if you do not object to a very quiet place. Once upon a time it was gay enough, but very few people come here now. Some folks think the country round about pretty, and painters come sometimes to make pictures.

For my part I hold to the south. I was born and bred down by Lymington, and I miss the pleasant forest walks and the mild climate. It's so bleak and bare here in the north, and the winters are so long. The snow often lies on the ground for weeks, and the wind cuts you in two. However, I hear you play beautiful, miss, so perhaps you won't mind being shut up at home." I replied modestly that I was very fond of music. " That will be a great pleasure to Lady Cholmley, miss. Her ladyship, poor thing, is a sad invalid." By this time I had finished supper, and Mrs. Jones then took me upstairs to a comfortable little bed room, where I found my box had already been deposited. My conductress having given a last pull to the curtains to close them thoroughly, and having stirred the fire into a cheerful blaze, wished me good-night, recommending me to go quickly to bed, and assuring me I should see the family to-morrow.

Sir Alured and his daughter were to have returned early this afternoon, but would now probably not arrive until late. Mrs. Jones had closed the door, but a sudden thought seemed to strike her. She opened it again, and, putting in her head, said — " As you are not accustomed to English ways, my dear, I advise you to lock your door. I always think a bedroom door is best locked in a strange house. Besides," — and here she paused a moment, — " there are some large dogs here who are sometimes allowed to wander about the passages, especially when Sir Alured is not at home." I thanked her for the kind advice, and, when she had gone, turned the key in the lock. Then, drawing a chair near the pleasant fire, I sat down to think over the unexpected change in my life that so short a period had effected.