One Virtue. A fiction

Front matter

H Jfiction BY CHARLES T. C. JAMES ' Link'd with one virtue and a thousand crimes' — Byron LONDON ADAM AND CHARLES BLACK CONTENTS. PART THE FIRST. SOMETHING WANTED, FOUND, AND LOST. CHAr. PAGE I. AN EARTHQUAKE IN REQUISITION, . . 9 II. IN ITS LIEU, ..... 29 III. THAT 'SOMETHING1 NEARLY NAMED, . . 49 IV. NAMED — AND UNNAMED, . . .68 PART THE SECOND. THREE YEARS LATER. I. PAUL RAVENDER, ..... 91 II. GOLCONDAS RISING, . . . -119 III. BREAKING THE ICE, . . . .130 IV. CONVIVIAL, . . . . -153 V. A HAWK AMONG PIGEONS, . . -175 VI. THE TWO MEN, . . ... .198 VII. 'FLO,' . . . . ■ .219 VIII. ALL ARRANGED, . . . . .241 IX. HOPELESS,. . . . . .257 X. MARRIED, ...... CONTENTS. PART THE THIRD. EX PI A TION. CHAP. PAGE I. AFTER THREE YEARS, .... 289 II. VULNERABLE, ..... 3IO III. UNOPENABLE FROM WITHIN, . . . 33I IV.

DIVING, . . . . . • 346 V. SOMETHING LIES BEHIND, . . . 368 VI. THOSE TWO, . . . • 389 VII. A RAVEN IN THE DESERT, . . . 399 VIII. TO SLEEP, ...... 419 IX. DAWN, ...... 441 X. MAKING SURE, . . . . . 46 1 XI. STRONG OF PURPOSE, .... PART THE FIRST SOMETHING WANTED, FOUND, AND LOST

Chapter I. An Earthquake In Requisition

' Oh, Carl ! it's a terrible thing to be the only child of a man who married late in life as a kind of afterthought — like the bow window there, that they've added as an afterthought to the drawing-room ! ' The girl speaking the words sat, lazily enough, in a little summer-house thrown to gether in the corner of a heterogeneous old garden ; a heterogeneous old garden where nature seemed bent on having a ' happy united family ' of vegetables and flowers ; for both were combined under a few assorted and hurricane-bent trees, in the most astonishing disorder. Lily Auburn looked at him to whom she made this remark, turning the sweetest little golden-haired head towards him too, in the prettiest way. There was a wealth of in terest and a wealth of love in that face ; but the love was lying dormant yet.

Lily Auburn had not reached eighteen ; might be said to be merely peeping over the mystic fence parting the days of innocence from the days of knowledge ; the days of sunshine from the days of shadows. If Carl had been a man, he would have made some consolatory reply, no doubt ; but being only a dog, he merely wagged his tail for answer, and affectionately nestled his nose against Lily's gown. A little white hand patted the retriever's curly coat, and a pretty little voice began to speak again — ' If you were a parrot, Carl, instead of being a dog, you'd have learned a whole story from me before this, by hearing me repeat the same thing to you so often. But you don't mind repetition, do you ? And I must speak out what I'm everlastingly seeling; and I'd much rather speak it out to you than to myself ; there's something so silly in talking to one's self.' The dog nestled to her again, and repeated the wagging of his tail. ' I knew you didn't mind ! ' the girl said, laughing. ' I'm going to say it all over again, Carl ; I feel it so very strongly to-day.

I'm certain you'll get it off by heart and astonish somebody by repeating it some day ; but I can't help it. I do feel it hard that father should have married late in life, as an after thought ; and that my mother should have died before I could know her ; and that father should accept this living out in these dreary marshes, where there's positively no body but myself under five-and-twenty, and only a population of some five or six hundred all told. I do call it hard that I should always be wandering about feeling a lack of some thing, or a want of something — I don't quite know which and I don't quite know what — I suppose it must be girl friends. And I do call it hard that the railway people think Rushleigh-in-the-Marshes only worthy of four stopping trains a day ; and that all the others whirl by at ever so many miles an hour, without even a whistle.' As though protesting against the accusation of never whistling, a flying monster, all roar and dust, with a whirlwind of stray paper and stray leaves behind it, flashed through the little station in the marshes, whistling demon iacally, and continued to whistle as it dashed across the Vicarage meadow (which it divided), lying only just outside the low wall of the garden wherein Lily sat. ' I never knew one whistle like that before,' Lily said, getting up and looking after the dusky serpent roaring out of sight towards London. ' I wish I were in it, and groinoto town !

Going anywhere out of this dreary little village ! Perhaps anywhere else I shouldn't be always feeling that lack of some thing, or want of something ; or perhaps, if I felt either, I might know at least what it was ! ' Then Miss Auburn, sinking down again, actually leaned back in her seat and yawned — stretching herself, too, at the same time, and thrusting out, oh ! such a pair of dainty little feet from the skirts of her plain blue serge gown in the doing of it ! ' Father's very nice, I daresay, and very scholarly, and all that, and he's worked really hard for him, I'm sure, in giving me what little education I've got ; but he's a bit dreary. That's the word — dreary. I have rather too much of father : father to breakfast with, father to read French with, father to lunch with, father to make tea for, father to dine with at seven o'clock ; father, and nobody else, seems to me almost too much for one girl.

It seems as though I'd got all the father to myself that ought to have been divided amongst six or seven of us. Oh, why did father have a matrimonial afterthought ? I'm sure he'd have been happier here, reading his dear old books quite alone, and musing on the Great Fact (always talked of with capital letters) that he's a lineal descendant of the Stillingfleets of Stillingfleet — a thousand times happier — a million times happier ! ' Lily glanced towards a certain little study window as she spoke, whereat was visible the indistinct profile of a white head and an aquiline nose, contrasting with the dark background of a leather - covered arm chair. It was sunset, and the long beams of ruddy light, striking into the little library, glittered on a pair of glasses clipping the Reverend Stillingfleet Auburn's nose. ' If he's reading now, he reads in his sleep,' his daughter told Carl, patting the black curly coat again.

But the Reverend Stillingfleet was not then asleep ; the garden was not a very long one, and he heard Lily's voice. Shading his eyes with his hand, he turned and looked towards her, showing plainly in her arbour with a sunset background ; for the house, standing on the road in front, looked the sunrise straight in the face every morning, and the heterogeneous garden was at the back. ' Lily ! ' the Vicar called out in a thin, aristocratic voice, — ' Lily ! aren't you coming in to tea ? ' Lily got up, pulled her frock down (who ever saw a girl under five-and-twenty get up without pulling her frock down), and called back again — 'Yes, I'm coming. I suppose it's ready?' Carl got up too, and followed his mistress's example in the matter of yawning : looking on with a calmly superior eye at the frock-pulling ; there he was greatly superhuman.

The girl stood for a moment with her hands behind her golden head and clasped together, looking beyond the low walls of the garden, over the dead level of the marshes, where the fresh September air came drifting gustily, bending the tall grass and reeds in its passage. She saw the little white station buildings, all of wood, with a siding guarded by a suspended arc of iron looking like some patent gibbet of modern construction ; she saw, to the left, the few scattered cottages forming the village; she saw the three trees that formed the whole forestry of the neighbourhood (with the ex ception of some dozen poplars, all melancholy bachelors, scattered about the marshes, their leaves fluttering in the wind, and making them appear ragged and sadly in need of the domestic needle) ; she saw the little white church, with its spire made of wood, tarred, standing, not on the church itself, but on the ground near it ; a sort of specimen spire, to save the honour of the village by showing they could make such a thing if they wanted it, — wearily Lily Auburn saw all these things in her comprehensive survey, and, seeing them, she sighed. ' It may be my fancy,' she told Carl, walking beside him to the house, — ' It may be my fancy, but it seems to me that everything in the neighbourhood has a look of lackino something, or wanting something, just as badly as I do.

I suppose it's in the air. Oh, why can't anything happen to give us all either or both these mysterious things ? Oh ! why can't Rushleigh Marshes go in for an earthquake ? Even a little one — say to night ? ' ' Are you coming, Lily ? I have some most important business letters to write before post time,' the Vicar called a moment later. 'Yes, I'm coming, father,' the girl replied once more. Yet she lingered in the sunshine, preferring it to the more sombre library ; lingered, with the sunshine on her, perhaps unknowingly loth, as youth ever is, and ever should be, to quit the sunshine for the shadow. Sad destiny compelling such exchange at last, however, as it always does, Lily went into the little room. ' Now for the wonderful schemes of ever so much per cent.,' she thought sadly, on the threshold, remembering the Vicar's mention of business letters.

The Reverend Stillingfleet, in his easy chair, seemed all broadcloth, white hair, white tie, and spectacles. In reality, there wasn't much more of him. His mental apparatus was a kind of see-saw, at one end ofthe plank being the Stillingfleets of Stilling fleet, and at the other one the phantom Speculation. To this see - saw the chance of the moment played 'pudding.' If the Reverend Stillingfleet didn't discuss one of these subjects, he was sure to discuss the other. This was the inner man ; the inner man which was the side of his character perpetually presented, with unvarying regu larity, to his daughter. Outwardly he was a very harmless old gentleman, and the rural inhabitants of that rural village in the marshes liked him. As to his daughter, he took her as he took his daily bread, believing she was always the same in her component parts, passions, and instincts, as the cottage loaf was every day the same in its component parts of flour and yeast, crust and crumb.

She had been his little daughter, she was his little daughter, she was goinoto be his little daughter, that day, henceforward, and for ever, and never by any chance grow up. Tea was on the table in the little study, and the Vicar pointed to it, as the girl, who seemed to bring the breezy freshness of the level country with her, came into the room. ' It will be cold,' he said. ' I hope not, father ; ' and with a woman's skill — which comes to nearly all that sex after seven years old (if not before) — Lily began to clatter softly amongst the cups and saucers. ' Look at this terrible old teapot, father ! ' she exclaimed, as, having handed him his cup, she held the tarnished Britannia-metal aloft for his inspection. ' Isn't it simply disgraceful ? Look at it ! We want a new one — we really dot' ' Lily, my child, there are many things I propose indulging myself with when Golcondas go better.

I shall then relax the rigid economy I am now obliged to maintain. We shall be wealthy then, little girl.' ' And when do you think the Golcondas will "go better"?' Lily asked, rather de spondingly. All the Vicar's speculations seemed to share the natural frailty of poor humanity, and perpetually 'go worse.' 'How can I tell you to a day, my dear? Impossible ! I am expecting a little dividend about Christmas time. Not a large one, according to the hopes held out by the original prospectus, perhaps — say a little forty five per cent. — or something of that sort. But it will be worth having, Lily. Forty-five per cent, on four or five hundred pounds is not to be disdained.' ' It will perhaps be sufficient to get us the teapot,' Lily said. ' Don't be absurd, Lily. It can't be less than forty-five per cent, I tell you.

Most fortunate I was able to get those shares at all. Ever since I was entrusted with a capital of some seven hundred pounds by the death of my poor brother William, I have been fortunate ; but this stroke is beyond them all, Lily.' ' How long have you had that seven hundred, father ? ' (with a tea-cup, personally conducted by the fairest little hand imaginable, on a circular tour towards, oh ! such a ruby and pearl store ! ). ' Let me see, my dear. Nearly four years, I think; and all that time I've developed a capability for business quite surprising in one descended from such an eminently private family as the House of Stillingfleet. The House of Still — ' ' But I thought uncle left more than seven hundred ? ' Lily broke in, knowing well the dangers of allowing her father's conversational barque to sail in company with the Stilling fleet. ' I thought Uncle William left more than seven hundred, father ? ' ' Well — ah — well, my dear — in point of fact he did.

But — ah — you see — through the shameful trick played upon me by that com pany ostensibly for the manufacture of timber from sawdust (a most likely and taking idea) four hundred were — sunk. Let us say sunk. Not wasted ! Oh no ! I have done some thing for the cause of science. I have sunk four hundred pounds in demonstrating that timber cannot be made from sawdust in such a way as to be a commercial success. I have achieved something, my dear ! ' ' Then Uncle William left eleven hundred as a matter of fact ? ' the girl persisted. The Vicar fidgeted, and then coughed, as though some of the unlucky sawdust that wouldn't succeed in commerce were trying to seek a new sphere of action in the Vicar's throat. ' As a matter of fact, my dear, — as a matter of fact, — your Uncle William left more than eleven hundred.

Yes. He did. But you see there was that unlucky attempt on my part to aid those promising adventurers starting a project for obtaining a purer Eau de Cologne — or rather Eau de Londres — from the Thames at Limehouse. As a matter of fact, my dear, — and in point of fact, — your Uncle William left eighteen hundred pounds.' 'Then a good deal of it is lost,' the girl sighed, with the Vicar's teacup personally conducted by the fair little guide towards the tea-tray for replenishment. ' I put aside the losses, my dear ; I don't reckon them. Each has advanced science. That has to be considered. Then there is the fact that, from some cause, — probably because I belong; to the House of Stillingfleet, — all men starting companies requiring courage in the floating of them appear to single me out for solicitation — seem to look to me, my dear.

The House of Stillingfleet has produced many leaders, Lily. The House of Stillingfleet, from the olden days, has been accustomed to be looked to, Lily.' The teacup again restored to the Vicar, and Lily, with her eyes upon the sunlit garden, as though her affinity were there, rather than in the darkened room, lying back in her chair and saying — ' Ah ! of course, father ; yes — I remember your telling me so before. What do you think I've been wishing for this whole after noon ? — guess now ! ' ' That we could get that namesake of yours, the lily, to flourish in our sea-impregnated air, my dear. I'm sure you'd be happier if it would — like likes like, eh ? ' with a feeble attempt at pleasantry. ' Not a bit of it ! Don't be shocked, father — only prepare to be — I've been longing for an earthquake ! ' ' Really, my dear ! an earthquake !

I don't know what harm it might do you ; it couldn't be good for the Golconda.' ' Bother the mine, father ! I do so want something, or lack something, and I can't name it, so I thought it must be something very uncommon, and longed for the most uncommon thing I could think of. Can't you help me to it, father ? ' ' I — I'm afraid I don't see my way to that, my dear! No! But Mr. Wopple is coming to dinner to-night, Lily.' ' Oh, father ! I ask for an earthquake and you give me Mr. Wopple ! Oh, father ! how can you ? ' She sprang up, laughing as she spoke, and stood framed by the open French window, with the sunset for background. 'Why, Mr. Wopple is sixty, father!' ' Yes, my dear, I daresay he is ; but he's one of the nicest old men in the village (dis tantly connected with an excellent family too), and his housekeeper is a most estimable Avoman, with the best recipe for cherry brandy that I know — you ought to like Mr. Wopple, my dear.' ' Because of his housekeeper's recipe for cherry - brandy, father ? ' Lily asked, still laughing. ' Because of his good heart and his in genuity, Lily.

He's a great mechanical g-enius. There's no doubt about that.' ' A great mechanical genius with the rooted idea that "all true heroism is dead." He's always insisting upon that, father.' ' I believe Mr. Wopple has had a large experience of the world, my dear. He has seen through people, as he puts it. A very shreAvd man is Mr. Wopple, Lily.' 'Ye — s,' doubtfully; and then, brightening, ' But he's a poor substitute for an earthquake ! Oh, how I wish I knew what I wanted, father! I'm off to the garden with Carl once more ; but it will be unsatisfactory ; everything does seem unsatisfactory and incomplete, somehow.' ' Yes, walk about, my dear. I have to send this cheque for the Golcondas,' the Vicar said, rising, very black and white (like a magpie), and moving to his writing-table. Lily went out — a golden, laughing vision of beauty. 'Ten to one it's your namesake,' her father called after her, laughing too.

Perhaps it was. But I don't think so. Laughing still, the fair young girl wandered in the old garden till the sun went down. But she didn't find that unnameable 'some thing ; ' searching diligently, with all sorts of fresh evening perfumes in the air, she didn't find it. ' I don't know what it may be,' she told Carl at last ; ' but I'm certain and positive it's not a flower at all.' Yet it is a flower — of a sort — too ; a chameleon among blooms, — the brightest, the darkest, the flower of life, the flower of death, the scented rose, the deadly night shade, a perennial growth in the vast forest of Time. And its name is — Love.

Chapter II. In Its Lieu

That magic flower wasn't in the old garden that night. Hopeless search those wander ings of Lily's mind, blindly groping in the darkness of innocence ! ' It's no use, Carl ! ' she exclaimed at last. ' What can be the use of looking, or think ing, when one doesn't know the name of what one's sighing for ? We'll go and look at the river instead.' Passing out of a little gate in the wall, Lily went wandering away over the level meadows in the twilight, and presently stood beside a dark, reedy river that flowed, deep and oily, across the marshes. There was something so fascinating in the contemplation of the silent swiftness, that the gfirl sat down on the stump of a fallen willow tree, and looked into the water, closely attentive ; while Carl, with attention divided between the fair young face and the stream, stood with a question in eye and attitude, plainly asking, ' Isn't it too cold and too late to send me in ? ' The girl answered the expectant attitude and expression. 'Yes, old fellow, it won't do to-night.

What a relief it is to see movement, even of the water! It's the only thing that ever does move in Rushleigh. But there's a blackness in it, too — Urrr! it makes me shudder. Suppose I saw poor William's ghost rise up out of the twilight. You'd be afraid of a ghost, Carl, old boy, in spite of your bravery ! And oh ! those look like eyes glistening under the water! — and I'm going home.' She took her glance off the reflected stars which, gleaming in the stream, had suggested eyes, and began to move away towards the Vicarag;e. ' I don't know why I should be afraid of William's ghost,' she told herself on the way. ' He was harmless enough, going to his day's labour with his smockfrock on. And there's something positively romantic in taking a false step coming home in the dark across these marshes when one has been visiting one's sweetheart on a Sunday even ing.

If there were any one young enough in Rushleigh, I'd try having a sweetheart on my own account. Wouldn't I, Carl ? Yes, I would : only- — there's nobody near young enough ; and there never will be unless we have that earthquake. Oh, why doesn't it happen to-night, and throw an eligible youth — good-looking withal — out of some un fathomable depths to serve the purpose ? I'm sure nothing short of an earthquake will do that ! ' She was in the old garden again, with more stars out and twinkling at her, and quite a full moon — in the shape of a lamp in the Vicar's study — throwing bars of light across the rising darkness. ' Lily ! ' the Vicar called to her, as he heard her step upon the gravel, — ' Lily, my child ! kindly look over the dinner-table, and see that everything is in order. I have a little surprise for Mr. Wopple.

I have put out the silver salt-cellars to-night. I suppose Mary has brightened them up properly ? When the Golcondas go better, we will have a dinner-table worthy of us — worthy of the family traditions of the house with which we are connected.' The girl sighed a little hopelessly as she assured him his wishes should be attended to, 'Yes, father, the salt-cellars shall shine to their uttermost ; but — oh for the earth quake ! ' She went in through the open French window, closing it after her, and stopping for an instant to kiss the white head of the Vicar, as he sat at his desk, surrounded by whole sheaves of intricate calculations re Golcondas, and then passed away through the door to prepare for the only guest of the neighbourhood. ' Ah, Vicar ! ah, Miss Auburn ! what a cosy little study this is ! ' Mr. Wopple exclaimed, a little later on, shaking hands heartily with both persons addressed. ' A very old - fashioned lock, that on your door !

Now, do you find it getting stiff sometimes ? Because, if so, I'll tell you what to do : get a feather — ' 'No, it's always satisfactory, thanks,' the Vicar said hurriedly, to nip the mechanical recipe in the bud. ' It works most satis factorily.' Lily, facing the old mirror, that had the suspicion of a wrinkle in it, over the fire place, and making, even in that perverted reproduction, a marvellously pretty picture, found herself telling it, she thought little Mr. Wopple the cleanest, fattest, most uninterest ing man she had ever seen. Which, by the way, wasn't saying much ; her experience of men being strictly confined to Rushleigh, where the ' noblest study of mankind ' was limited, by reason of the scarcity of the article necessary for that interesting pursuit. ' Why does he always wear a grey check suit and a red necktie ?

And why does his head shine so where the hair's missing ? ' she asked herself, laughing a little ; mentally adding, ' I suppose he's so extremely close shaved through his scientific treatment of his razors ! ' And then they all went into the old fashioned dining-room, where the silver salt cellars glittered conspicuously, making all the other silver upon the board look worthless in comparison. But this brilliance delighted the Vicar's innocent heart, sor those salt-cellars bore conspicuously the Stillingfleet crest. It was a pleasant little dinner enough. Mary, combining every kind of domestic in her own proper person, cooked the dinner, and served it, and waited whilst it was eaten : performing the most amazing conjur ing feats the while, in the way of being in two places at once, and almost in two costumes at once.

It seemed no time at all from her bending, aproned and warm, over the kitchen fire, peering into a saucepan, to the period of demure coolness when she was handing the dishes in the dining-room, or pouring out the mild family ale, with a hoary head to it. ' Do you ever find it dull in Rushleigh, Mr. Wopple ? ' Lily asked during the meal. ' Never,' replied the mechanical genius decisively, — 'never! Always busy; always trying to discover something that shall be a benefit to mankind ; always just on the hem of its garment, but always stopping just short of it. There is no excitement in the whole world like that daily enjoyed by one engaged in mechanical pursuits.' ' Except, perhaps, by a man engaged in great speculations,' the Vicar opined mildly. T'm sorry to say I can't make the excep tion.

We've had this over before, Vicar, and I can't make the exception. No ! When did a speculator do anything but lose his money, eh ? I never knew a speculator do a good thing — did you ? ' ' Because when a speculator does a good thing it's always called by another name — or he is called by another name. He becomes a "clever man of enterprise," or some such flattering title is applied to him. That's why, Mr. Wopple.' ' I daresay, I daresay. I'll believe any thing; against the world, Vicar ! Fifteen years ago I quarrelled with the world, and I've not since made it up. I don't intend to make it up. Hang it all ! Nothing shall induce me to make it up. There's no proper feeling in the world. The noble old trait of self-sacrifice is dead — dead and buried. I'm sick of the world. I've come to Rushleigh because I'm sick of the world ; and I get less of the world here in Rushleigh than in any other place I'm acquainted with.' ' It's very good of you to be always trying to invent something to benefit mankind, as you told us just now, if you've quarrelled with mankind,' Lily said, in a momentary pause.

Mr. Wopple made a little gesture, and got over the difficulty that way. It is an ex cellent way of getting over a difficulty, and practised by really very good people. ' I wish there were more of the world in Rushleigh,' Lily went on. ' It's dolefully dull here, I think. Why, Mr. Wopple, I keep a diary — yes — a habit father taught me when he taught me to write. (It would keep me in practice, you said, didn't you, father ?) And if I showed you that diary, you'd be amused, Mr. Wopple. There's nothing in it but a chronicle of the weather. For instance : " Monday. — Showery. Walked through the village, home by the river. Tuesday. — Showery. Occupation as yester day. Wednesday. — Very showery. The river flooded the marshes for miles, and the roadway, so that I couldn't walk through the village in the morning."

And so on, and so on — all my life I expect it will be so on, Mr. Wopple. Why, to-day I actually longed for an earthquake ! Think of that ! There seems that gulf we heard about last Sunday, between Rushleigh and the world, so that we cannot go to it, nor anything from the outer world come to us. No, I can't help having a longing that something should overleap that gulf.' It may be overleaped sooner than Lily Auburn fancies ! Suppose, Lily, just for one instant, that Fate means it shall be over leaped this very night. Suppose your destiny is travelling towards you at this moment, sixty miles an hour, to gather sufficient impetus to bridge that gulf separating you from the wicked world to-night. Suppose the magic flower is bursting into bloom. Are you brave enough to pluck and lay it, with the joy and the woe of it, in your bosom ?