What Happened at Morwyn

Chapter I

"Far from the madding crowd." Gray. A land of deep valleys and high bare hills, of mighty cliffs and rugged coast, of lonely villages whose grey old churches are ribbed and clasped with granite : a land of a great silence, save for the per petual thunder of the waves : a land of wrecks, where every cottage and solitary farm shew relics of some gallant ship, whose stout timbers have been crushed between the green sliding wall of wave, and the black and jagged rocks. A land moreover to hide in, far from the hard and restless world, where the sorrowful heart may gain peace and the weary brain rest, and the cruel wounds of anguish and shame, may be softly, gradually, almost unconsciously healed in silence and solitude. Not the solitude of some flat and inland country where the soul grows dull as the clods that surround it, for here Nature has turned Poet, and her whispers thrill the dwellers among her hills.

And of all the lonely spots in this far-off land, perhaps the village of Alorwyn is the most remote, the most cut off from communication with the outer and busier world. Alany miles of lonely upland road lie between it, and the nearest town, and in itself, really, it is scarcely to be called a village. Coming to it from that outer world, you see a cluster of five or six tumble down cottages by the side of a triangular bit of dusty open green, one of which is dignified by the title of Inn, and these with outlying solitary farms make up Alorwyn. Passing these, at the turn of the road, the grey pinnacled tower of the church rises up solemnly, against sea and sky, for the valley is only a little scoop out of the highest hills, and at its mouth the little stream that has worn itself so deep a bed, drops over the face of the cliff to the spiny ridges of rock far below, where the ever restless waves churn themselves into frothing foam.

On the finest summer day there is something weird and awful in the solemn loneliness of that scene — think what must it be in the wild storms of winter ! Again it is above all a silent place ; so still, that sitting on the sloping grass above the churchyard, in the summer noon , one feels that the very hills are fallen asleep, yet it is an enchanted sleep, quick with mystic dreams. Perhaps it is only when some sound breaks the silence, the cry of the skimming swallows, the whistle of the ploughman in some distant field, that one realises how profound is the quiet. How far the sound travels, how distinct it is, how it seems to rend the stillness with a startling sharpness, and as it ceases the silence falls like some soft numbin« mantle and broods over and enfolds the lonely valley. Nothing much happens at Alorwyn !

Nothing, that is, but the old, old mystery of life and death, of love and joy and sorrow, which is so old and so commonplace that we have all forgotten to wonder at it. The ploughman "tills the field and lies beneath," the shepherd watches his fleecy charge upon the furze-grown slopes ; Sunday by Sunday the weird sad bells chime out from the grey tower, and summon that other little flock to worship in their ancient church. But by contrast, if anything does happen here it causes a proportionate stir. The calmer the pool the more apparent the circles made by the disturbing stone ; the fewer events, the greater interest displayed. And one day about two years before this story begins, something did occur even in Morwyn. A lady arrived in the village. Where she came from was not exactly known. Rumour "had too many tongues for any one to be "certain sure" but the tidings that she, after a talk with farmer Pentrick and the vicar, had taken shepherd Purley's cottage and was coming to live there herself, flew like wildfire round the village green.

Unlike rumours generally this proved to be exactly true. The cottage was half-way between church and village, and had a piece of garden ground attached. A few alterations were made, a cartful of very simple furniture arrived, and in a week or two the lady took possession. Now even dwellers in towns, that is country towns, and also in suburban streets feel some interest in the arrival of new comers. There is the question as to who they are, and where they come from ; whether they go to church or chapel, if they will take an interest in Sunday School and Band of Hope, if they have any presentable young men among them? How much more then must such interest be aroused in such a village as Alorwyn, where, speaking gene rally, no one ever comes. For one thing it supplied the villagers with a much needed fresh topic of conversation, for usual subjects were growing threadbare through much use.

Then it stimulated habits of observation and developed the powers of conjecture, which were growing sadly ne glected for want of new objects of study. They found out that the lady's name was Aliss Alary Smith, so she was not married which opened large possibilities to the romantic imagination; their eyes told them that she was very pleasant to look at, and sturdy questioning elicited the fact that she was not a friend of or related to the vicar, who knew no more about her than his flock, and if the truth be told, was almost as curious as they were. That one who was neither peasant nor parson, should come voluntarily to live in so remote a place was very wonderful. The extraordinary and unknown is generally the alarming and the good folks were at first suspicious and watchful of the ways of the new comer.

They found out that she passed her time mostly in drawing and writing, in taking long walks hunting for "weeds," in gardening and in playing on the violin. She lived quite solitary for the first month or two, but as winter approached, she induced an old couple to come and live with her, where for lodging and food, and such small pay as she could give, Alarjory did the house work and Lawrence attended to the garden. And as time passed on the villagers forgot their suspicions and finding in Miss Smith a gentle helpful friend who would nurse them in sickness, and soothe them in sorrow, and share her small means with them in want, they came to love her instead of doubting, and appropriated her to themselves under the title of "our Lady." It was July again, two years since her first arri val, and Alary Smith was enjoying her usual evening treat of watching the sunset from her favourite nook on the cliff.

There was no pageantry of purple and gold to-night, but as the sun sank amid the many folded clouds, his rays revealed belt after belt of soft vapourous haze, and the eye wandered across wide silvery spaces and adown long vistas that led far away into that undiscovered country of cloudland. She had her violin with her — the only musical instrument she had been able to convey to Alor wyn, and played softly to herself , pausing every now and then as if listening for and then repeating some melody she heard. "Is that a requiem for the sun?" said a voice sud denly, behind her. She started slightly and then looked up with a smile. It was the vicar. "I do not know," she said, half laughing. "I have often told you that your hills are haunted and I believe I was trying to catch the elvish music. But what brings you up the Head at this time?"

"I am going to see poor Trethinnick who is very ill— and I have brought you a letter." "A letter! How good of you to take the trouble!" "It came in the bag just now. I passed by your cot tage and Alarjory told me you were up here, so I brought it with me. It is late enough as it is. See the postmark is a fortnight back." "A fortnight back. What a shame." "Yes, that old Alalory is too bad. I know he won't bring the letters till there are enough to make what he thinks worth the trouble. But this must have been neglected elsewhere for none of mine are more than than two or three days late, But goodnight, I must go on now. "Goodnight and thank you very much," she ans wered and waited a minute or two watching his tall figure crossing the down ere she opened her letter. It was addressed in a firm precise hand to "Aliss Alary Smith, Alorwyn, Cornwall "It is from dear old Air.

Burley," she said to her self as she slowly unfastened the envelope. "To say he has the drawings, I expect, and yet I scarcely thought he could have received them so soon." But it was not so. Inside was another letter, forwarded under cover and this was not addressed to Alary Smith. As she took it out and gazed at the feeble uncertain handwriting, a swift expression of pain passed across her face. In a moment the broad sea and the sinking sun were blotted out from her sight, and the dead past rose with a ghastly look — thronging faces, angry, sad, reproachful, hurried by; passionate w-ords fell on her ear ; but the faces were pale and shadowy as the faces of ghosts, and the voices soundless murmurs silling the eyes with tears and the heart with pain indeed, yet all dim and muffled, faint reflexes of what had been.

She opened the second letter. It contained but few words written very feebly. "Come to me," it said, "I am a widow and dying, friendless and alone, leaving my little child in a strange world. We loved each other in the happy past, come to me in the awful present, as I would to you, were you in such sore need." Then followed the old familiar signature: "Emily Stewart" and below in still feebler writing : "ask for Airs Alenteith." For a minute Alary remained motionless, heartstruck with grief and surprise. Her friend, her old girlish friend Emily dying ! Then with a cry she sprang to her feet and picking up her violin, which she had laid by her side, she ran swiftly down the hill, careless of its steepness, past the church, across the valley to her little cottage. In the garden an old man was weeding and as she ran up almost breathless she cried out : "Lawrence!

Lawrence! I must go to London. How can I get to Bideford to-night?" "Bideford to-night, Aliss!" he exclaimed, looking up astonished, "get there to, night ! Why you can't, Aliss — it's more nor twenty mile and not a glimpse o' the mune. "But I must, Lawrence. The vicar's pony is ill or he would lend it me, but has nobody a cart or a horse ? If not, I must walk ; but surely farmer Pentrick has something." "There now!" ejaculated Lawrence. "How the Lord do provide ! I do remember as how the farmer be goin' the morn with Colley's calf. 'Tis Bideford market, Aliss, and I daresay he'll take you too if that will do." "It must, I suppose, if only he gets there in time for the London train. Run up to the farmer and ask him while I go to the vicarage and see if they have a Bradshaw." Four o'clock on a sine July morning is not a bad time for driving as Alary found when at last they were fairly started, she seated between farmer Pentrick and his stout wife in their cart.

Behind them a calf and a couple of little pigs were grunting and squeaking , and baskets of butter and pots of cream were packed all round. Alary was wrapped in an old shawl of Airs Pentrick's to keep her from the dust, and supplied with a goodly bag of provisions, the joint work of the goodnatured farmer's wife and of old Alarjory, the latter of whom was overcome to the point of tears at this journey. "Now, Aliss, do-ee coom back," sobbed she, for she had some times dimly felt that her fair and gentle Alistress might well be a princess in disguise , such as she had heard "tell on" when she was a child, and who would some day vanish out of their quiet valley as suddenly and strangely as she had come. "Do-ee coom back and take heed to thyself in that London. Folks do say it be a terr'ble place."

"Never fear, dear Alarjory," said Alary, kissing the old woman's handsome wrinkled face. "I will come back, please God, and London will not hurt me for I know it well." Then the farmer called to his horse and off they started. The sun had not long risen and was sending his long level beams from out a cluster of little fleecy clouds which veiled the east, and the mist still lay in the vaileys , and the dew sparkled on every side, and there was a sweet freshness of life and peace everywhere. On they jogged, creeping up the long hills, and trotting over the short level spaces. For some time they had the road to themselves, but presently one cart appeared, then another, then a farmer on his horse, or a man driving a cow and calf, there were greetings to be exchanged and ques tions to be asked and answered as neighbours over took and passed each other, and at length they rattled into the little town in quite a cavalcade.

There Alary said good-bye to her kind friends and crossing the many-arched bridge to the station she found herself in plenty of time to catch the fast train to London. The long railway journey gave her time to think over the letter of her old friend, which, besides grieving her by its tidings of serious illness, had puzzled her a good deal. The writer had signed it "Emily Stewart," but that was her maiden name. It was true that she had never heard the name of Emily's husband, and it was probably to prevent any mistake that she had so signed her letter, putting her married title afterwards, and yet in an undefined way this troubled Alary as she thought it all over. They had been friends from almost childhood, as schoolfellows. At school Alary had been the defender and helper of the other, partly from greater force of character, partly that her position as a rich man's daughter, enabled her to protect the poor governess pupil.

Then when the one had quitted school to take her place at the head of her father's establishment (her mother had long been dead) and the other to go as governess to a family living in the country, the friendship had been continued. Emily came to stay in the holidays and a correspondence sprang up, carried on with great regularity when she returned to her situation for a time. Then it became more irre gular, and contained a series of partial confidences. Emily had met a gentleman who paid her great atten tions, then love was spoken of and marriage, but all was to be secret for fear of offending a rich relation, not even to her dearest Alary must she reveal her lover's name. Just before the crash came that ruined Alary's fortunes she heard her friend was married privately but still the secrecy as to who her husband was, was maintained.

After this, save for one short letter of sympathy for her terrible misfortunes, Alary had heard no more till the missive came which she held in her hand. It had been sent to the lawyer who had been employed at the trial and forwarded through the publishing firm for whom Alary worked. For more than six long years there had been utter silence and now it was only broken to tell of death. So in the rattling hurrying train sitting alone in the third class carriage did poor Alary go over the past. With what sick pain and anguish, with what bitter emotion did she in memory recall that former life. How happy had she been in the prosperous graceful life, how her father the stately dignified gentleman, had loved her and indulged her every wish ; then love had come, the crown of every true woman's life.

A very Eden of happiness and joy. She could remember too the first break in that happiness— a casual remark of some acquaintance as to her father's health — the touch that startled her into anxiety as she began to notice the unusual silence that had fallen upon him — the vacant look which would come lor a moment and then depart again. That warning had been as a tiny cloud and like that seen on Carmel of old, it had swelled so rapidly that in looking back, it seemed as if there had scarce been an interval between the unclouded sunshine and the time when the heavens were black with clouds and rain. Thicker and thicker the trouble grew. The great Joint Stock Bank which people had regarded as being safe as that of England and of which her father was the head, stopped payment. That was bad enough, but nothing as compared to the worse agony when the word "fraud" began to be whispered, whispers that grew and swelled till the whole world seemed ringing with the angry frantic shouts of "swindler, rogue and thief" — and all levelled at her father — her father whom she had looked upon almost as a God.

Then the long, long inquiry with its condemnatory revela tions, the desertion of the one who should have clung most closely to her and been her stay and support in the trial. She remembered as though it were yesterday how she sat alone, trembling in the gathering twilight, and some one came through the drenching rain and told her of the sentence — two year's imprisonment — her father, a prisoner, a criminal ! How had she lived through those two years ? She had worked hard to support herself and perhaps it was that which had saved her ; that and the feeling she must live for her father, who failed from week to week, till he came out of prison but to die. Then when all was over, aided by one friend, who alone proved faithful out of those who had thronged their house in prosperity she had fled to solitude in this far Cornish village, leaving behind her even the very name which only brought shame and obloquy upon her, and had found rest and peace at last.

It was afternoon ere she was roused out of her sad retrospection, and warned of her near approach to London, by the more rapid succession of stations, by the closely dotted villas and at last by the fringes of the great town itself, stretching out its unfinished labyrinths and raw ends of building, into the disappearing fields. The evening was closing in dull and drizzling by the time they reached Waterloo, and dreary and dismal the London streets looked, as Alary jolted through them in a cab. It was a long drive to Dalston, and the cabman was slow in finding the right place in that dingy neighbourhood. At last he was successful and they stopped at No. 6 Laburnum Place. It was one of a row of small houses in a narrow street. There was a card with : "Apartments to let" in the window. Alary's ring was answered by a stout middle-aged woman with a kindly yet anxious and careworn face.

"Does Airs Alenteith live here?" enquired Alary. The woman stared at her for a minute in a sort of dismay, and then throwing up her hands exclaimed : "There now, to think of it ! You be the lady she was expecting, poor dear ! Oh ! Ala'am, why didn't you come sooner ?" "I could not" answered Alary, a great fear seizing her "the letter was delayed, and I only received it last night. What — what is the matter?" "The matter," repeated the woman, "the matter — but come in, Ala'am, come in. The matter is," she went on, leading Alary into the little sitting room "that the poor lady has been dead and buried this week past." "Dead and buried. Too late — too late!" "Now, Aliss, don't take on so," said the woman, though the tears were running down her own face too. "For though you are too late to see her, poor dear, it's glad I am to have some one come for that poor child's sake."

As she spoke she pointed to the other side of the room where Alary saw crouched into a corner of the sofa a little girl, some six or seven years old. A tiny creature with a sad pale face which looked all the whiter for her black frock. "Katie dear," said the landlady "here is the lady come as your dear Alamma told you of." Mary went across the room to the child who had not spoken or moved. "Katie," she said very gently "I loved your dear mother very much; will you let me love you ?" The child gazed at her with questioning eyes, something then seemed to satisfy her. "Are you Alary ?" she said at last. Alother has gone to Heaven to be an angel, she couldn't take me with her she said, though I wanted to go so much, but she told me you would take care of me and teach me, and help me to go there bye and bye.

She said she knew you would. Will you?" And the little thing put up her arms. "Yes, indeed I will" said Alary as she drew the little creature to her, and with a kind of sigh of relief and content the child laid her head on her new friend's breast. "Can I stay here to-night?" asked Alary after a few minutes. "I have had a long journey and have nowhere to go." "Dear heart, Aliss, of course you can. There now, come upstairs and take your bonnet off and then you must have a cup of tea. That poor little mite," went on the woman "she has hardly eaten or spoken since her mother's death and I am alad you are come, for I am but a poor widow myself with four children and its hard enough to get food and shelter for them and clothes and shoe leather, and though I wouldn't like to turn an orphan child from my door, I might be druv' to it in hard times."

"But was Airs. Alenteith quite alone?" cried Alary aghast. "Had she no friends ? Has no one been to look after the child?" "Nobody, Aliss, but a gentleman she calls uncle. He used to come and see the poor lady now and then, and mostly left her worse nor he found her. I think he brought her money grudging like and it hurt her bitter to have to take it. He seed to the funeral and afterwards he paid the bills and took away the poor dear's desk, and gave me a couple of sovereigns to get the child some black, and take care of it till he could find a home for it. But he never gived me no address — said as how he was stopping at an hotel just now. But somehow I mis trust him. He never looked a body straight in the face, and yet when you wasn't thinking he was looking at you, you would see him a squinting sideways like as if he hadn't no hinge to his neck and couldn't turn his head fair and honest, and that sort I have noticed is mostly deceitful, and I don't believe he '11 ever come back."

"And did no one else come ? Did not Mrs Menteith herself tell you what to do about the child?" "No one came except our clergyman, as I told about the sick lady, but he knew no more about her than I. And she didn't know she was so near her end, till just the day she wrote to you it seemed to come over her like, that she was dying. And she told me not to tell Mr. Menteith, the uncle you know Ala am, till we heard from you, but she died the next day quite sudden like when he was here, and I forgot everything in the bustle. Since though, I did wonder if you would come, and how it would be ? Ala'am, she continued hesitating a little, will you tell me if — if — it were all right?" "What was all right ?" asked Alary astonished "what do you mean ?" "She were— dear heart— it seems wicked to say it —but she were— married— Ala'am , were she?"

"Oh yes," cried Alary horrified, "Oh yes, I am sure she was. It was a private marriage, I know, for fear of some relations." "There, Ala'am, don't say any more. I beg your pardon for asking but— there— 'tis a wicked world and I thought she might have been deceived. But here I am talking and talking and you looking sit to drop. Come down and I'll get you a cup of tea. You will like that best, I know, by the looks on you. Alary heard further details in the course of the evening. Airs. Alenteith had taken Airs. Carter's apartments about six months before her death. She said she was a widow, her husband had been killed in a railway accident a short time before ; she was then evidently very delicate, and taking a severe cold in the early spring, a rapid form of consumption set in, which ended more suddenly than those around her anticipated.

She seemed to have no friends but this one gentleman, her brother-in-law, who, the landlady thought, brought her money from time to time, but not much, for she was very straitened in her means, often having to deny herself many things which were almost necessaries in her state of health. This was all Alary could discover. She knew that poor Emily had no relations of her own, for she had been left an orphan very young, some distant cousin, now dead, had provided her with an education and then left her to sight her own way in the world. Alary had no clue to her husband's family, so if this uncle did not return, no application could be made in that direction. There seemed but one thing to be done ; the petitions of the dead are the most sacred of commands, and Alary decided to take charge of the child herself till she should be claimed, or if no more should be heard of this man, as Airs.

Carter persisted would be the case, she would adopt her as her own. As long as she had food and shelter, the forlorn little orphan should share them and not be left so early to the bufferings of the world. Alary waited in London a fortnight hoping this Air. Alenteith would appear, but he never came. Then anxious to get home, she left full instructions with Airs. Carter as to where Katie could be found, if enquiries were made for her. She took a kindly leave of the good woman who wept plentifully at parting, and with her little charge journeyed back to the sweet, fresh West Country.

Chapter II

Love I recant And pardon crave That lately I offended But 't was Alas To make a brave But no disdain intended No more I'll vaunt For now I see Thou only hast the power To find And bind A heart that's free And slave it in an hour. — Herrick. The 7.30 train was due at Fernley Station. A porter was lazily lounging along the platform, and one or two expectant people who had come to meet friends or to travel onward, were casting upward glances at the signal-arm, which still maintained its horizontal position, although the clock-hands pointed to twenty minutes to eight. Among those waiting were two gentlemen, who walked up and down as they talked. "I always said, Harcourt," remarked one; "that there is something essentially feminine in your character. Curiosity as you know is a failing entirely belonging to the weaker sex, and yet that and that alone has brought you here and kept you waiting for one train after another."

"Come, come, don't exaggerate" said the other, "else I shall be able to retort that if I have one feminine weakness, you have another. Besides I have only waited for one train, the one before this, and slie is sure to come by this." "She, this mysterious she, why do you feel curious about her?" "I am sure I can't tell you, but I do." "How did you come to know anything about her ?" "Oh! all in the way of business. I was in at Burley and AlcGalpin's arranging about my last book on English plants. There was a question as to who should do the illustrations, and old Burley brought out some drawings of rare Cornish plants. They were exquisite, my dear fellow, botanically cor rect yet most artistic." "There," he said, "will that hand suit you ? Of course it did and all the illustrations were done by this lady, and I believe they chiefly made the thing a success.

But what aroused my curiosity, was that when I made some casual enquiry about the artist, no one would tell me anything about her. Burley even evaded telling me where she lived nor could I extract anything out of AIcGalpin, who is generally ready enough for a gossip. All 1 could learn was that her name was Smith, Miss Alary Smith — not a very distinctive title. In fact they were so mysterious about her that I could not help being curious." "And now you have broken through the reserve and ferreted her out." "I believe rather, that I have bribed her. I told Burley I wished that Aliss Smith would kindly do the drawings for my projected book on orchids. He shook his head, and said he did not see it ; she was not in the neighbourhood of places where she could procure specimens. I believe by the way that she lives somewhere in the wilds of Devon or Cornwall.