Second edition. The Diamond on the Hearth; or, the story of Sister Anne, etc

Front matter

THE DIAMOND ON THE HEARTH. Frontispiece. SOOTHED BY THE SEA. P. 277 '•'This is well,' Miss Blackburn said at length: 'I was in need of such a morning as this— bright, breezy, and hopeful/" ■ THE DIAMOND ON THE HEARTH OR, THE STORY OP SISTER ANNE. By MARIAN JAMES, AUTHOR OF **' ETHEL," " NOT AN ANGEL," " KATHERINE EVERING," ETC ,§tconb tf-bttion. WITH EIGHT ILLUSTRATIONS BY D.4LZIEL BROTHERS. LONDON: JAMES HOGG AND SON, YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN. MDCCCLXVIII. LONDON : LEVEY AND CO., PKINTERS, GREAT NEW STREET, FETTER LANE, E.C. THE DIAMOND ON THE HEARTH. A household gem, serene and pure ; A jewel, fair in all men's sight, Which life's hard buffets can endure, And, girt by darkness, grows more bright. When by the hearth the earth-fires pale, And dead, cold ashes pile tbe stone, Yet will its inward light prevail With a soul-radiance all its own.

More deeply loom the shadows round, More deep its varied beauty grows; And, heaping treasures without bound, Takes hues from every flower that blows. Full-handed then, it streams with light, TTphoarding nothing, yielding back, Like suns that make a noon of night, The wealth new-found in duty's track. So, asking little, giving all, It smiles amid a world of tears, And, gladdening every moment's fall, Projects a glory through the years. E. L. H CONTENTS.

Chapter I. An Author's Family

The family of the Dynevors was assembled round the breakfast-table, in the back-parlour of their small suburban house. A family breakfast-table ! The words have a comfortable sound, and convey com fortable ideas of sociality and cosiness. Yet, some how, at this breakfast, there was not much of either. The room looked untidy, with its litter of books and papers strewed about the chairs and tables. The window had not been cleaned recently, and only a dim view was obtainable of the small and desolate back-court outside, par courtoisie called " garden ;" and the muslin curtains which embellished the said window on the inside had long ceased to be white, and looked very cold and comfortless besides, in the chill March morning. On one side of the blazing fire Mr. Dynevor B lounged in his easy-chair, completely lost, for the time being, to all external impressions in the en grossing columns of the newspaper.

Occasionally he removed his eyes and his mind for a brief space from the leading article to his cup of tea and his toast ; and occasionally, too, he gave utterance to some observation, usually of a complaining nature. " My dear ! this tea is weaker than ever ; did tbe water boil ?" " Yes, indeed it did, Edmund ; but I think Thomson serves us worse and worse with our tea, — though, indeed, we must expect it." A heavy sigh closed this speech, and the still handsome face of Mrs. Dynevor relapsed into its habitual expression of careworn helplessness. " The toast is quite cold, too," resumed her husband ; " that, surely, is not Thomson's fault. Helen, you should see to these things." Helen, a blooming young girl of eighteen, looked up from her employment of cutting thick bread-and butter for her younger brother and sister.

" Dear papa, I'm very sorry ; but I have so much to do, now Anne is away." " To be sure she has !" said her mother warmly. " Poor Helen ! she has been a perfect slave this last fortnight." " Thank Heaven, Anne will be home this evening," said Mr. Dynevor, as he turned again to his newspaper. " Nothing goes well when she is away." " Helen does every thing, I am sure," murmured the mother ; " no one can do more than she does. My darling, you should wear gloves these cold morn ings; your poor hands are quite red." Helen looked ruefully at her well-shaped hands, which were, indeed, somewhat too rosy. " And Mrs. Lumley's party is to-morrow night," she said, in great distress. " Oh, dear ! how glad I am that Anne is coming home !" " She mustn't go away for so long again," pro nounced Mrs. Dynevor ; "I knew how inconvenient it would be.

The Grants ought not to ask her to go to them, knowing how necessary she is at home. Grace's lessons suffer too — (Grace, my dear, sit up right in your chair). Had she her music-lesson yesterday ?" '•' No, mamma ; I was making the pudding." " And we couldn't eat it, it was so badly made," cried Albert, with malicious eagerness; "all pasty, and horrid. You don't know how to make a pudding ; Anne does, though. I'm glad Anne's coming home, I know, if only for that." " Hold your tongue, sir, and don't cut holes in the tablecloth," said his mother sharply ; " and, oh, Grace, don't spill your tea — and where is your pinafore? Helen, Grace has no pinafore on." " Go and fetch your pinafore, Grace, directly." " It's all torn ; it must be mended before I can put it on," pleaded the bright-haired little girl; " you know, sister Helen, I told you of it last night, and you promised to mend it."

" Take a clean one from the drawer, then," per sisted Helen. " There isn't a clean one. You know you said yesterday — " " For mercy's sake, be quiet!" cried Mr. Dyne vor from behind his paper. " Get the cloth removed, and then go away, all of you. I've an article to finish by two o'clock, and it's now past ten. Make haste." This was an adjuration too important to be dis regarded. Future breakfasts depended on the finish ing of Mr. Dynevor's article ; and, with more celerity than might have been expected, his desires were complied with, and he was left alone with his desk and his inkstand. For Mr. Dynevor was an author : a writer of light literature for monthly periodicals ; a producer of elegant trifles for magazines and annuals, which people read, and smiled over, and were charmed with ; and, if they chanced to think of the author at all, fancied to be the emanation of the agreeable leisure of some man, the gayest-hearted, as well as the most sparkling-minded, fellow in the world.

He did not look so now, as he cast aside his beloved newspaper with a sigh, and began his work by correcting the pages he had previously written. His broad brow wore an expression of ineffable anxiety and disquietude, as he bent over his manu scripts, muttered them over, and occasionally dashed his pen through one line, or scrawled another. Tlie sound of the children playing in the garden under the window disturbed him, and he rose and spoke to them in a hasty tone, bidding them seek another playground. Then he returned to his papers, and, his revising finished, proceeded to write. The mere effort of collecting his ideas seemed very painful. Indeed, he had been up late the previous night at a gay party ; his head ached this morning, and his thoughts were all in confusion. He had onlv added a page or two to the little pile of half-sheets on the table, when a sharp ring at the door-bell was followed by Mrs. Dynevor's entrance into the room.

" The printer's boy, my dear. Are you ready?" "No. He must wait.' " 0 Edmund ! what is to be done ? You know he was here half of yesterday ; and he says the printers are waiting, and it will be too late for this month, and then — " " Mrs. Dynevor, you must allow me to be quiet, or I cannot write another line. Go ; tell him to wait an hour — send him to get some beer." " Beer ! where is he to get beer ? You never think — you never consider." " For Heaven's sake, don't distract me, Mary ! Leave me to my task — postpone your complaints — " Mrs. Dynevor withdrew, sobbing ; and her husband, with a knitted brow, turned to his work. Hard work it was. His brain throbbed and his face was pallid long before he had finished. The sudden gloom of that time which, out of London, is called twilight had already come on, when, with the sheets trembling in his hand, he went out with them to the boy, who was sleeping heavily in the passage.

He closed the door upon him, and turned back into the sitting-room, with a face still pale, but from which the anxious look had fled magically. The trouble of the time over, he was at ease. His was not one of those natures which distress themselves either with forebodings or with regrets. His mind took vivid impressions of the present only, and a moment sufficed to cloud it, or gild it again into sunshine. He called the children to him; and, to make amends for his harshness a while before, he disported with them — lent himself to all their humours, and was the blithest of the three. In the midst of a game at " buff," Mrs. Dynevor entered. " Is he gone ? — is it finished ? — is it all right ?" cried she. " Quite right, Mary. You needn't worry your self any more," returned her husband, affectionately smiling at her careworn face.

"When are we to have dinner? Now, Grace — " " Buff neither smiles nor laughs " " Oh, but he does, though. You are laughing, papa ; smiling, at least. A forfeit — a forfeit !" " The children dined at two o'clock," broke in Mrs. Dynevor; "and I thought you would have a chop with your tea, perhaps. It is past seven o'clock, and—" " That will do admirably. I'm as hungry as — There, Albert, there's a penny for a forfeit. Now, again ! Who goes there?" " Shall I send to Stewart's for your chop ?" again interrupted his wife ; " or shall Albert run to High Street, and pay for it ? It is much cheaper there, but then — " " Oh, poor Albert would like to finish his game. Send Rebecca over to Stewart's. And, by the by, let her tell Mrs. Stewart that she shall have orders for the Theatre, in a day or two, for her children to see the pantomime.

That will put them in good humour." Mrs. Dynevor left the room, and they resumed their game. The firelight played upon their laughing faces ; the father's as merry as his youngest child's. In the midst of their glee, a double knock at the street-door was unheeded ; and it was not till a pause occurred in their jocularity that they were conscious of a slight stir, and voices in the passage. When they did hear it, however, they were quick to inter pret its meaning. " It's Anne !" cried Albert and little Grace, rushing simultaneously to the door. And Mr. Dynevor, following them, was just in time to receive his eldest daughter in his arms, as she stepped into the room. " My dear father !" said a low but clear voice. " Ah, Anne, darling ! how glad we are to have you back again !" said Mr. Dynevor.

" We all miss you so much ; the place never seems the same when you are away." " And Helen is quite fagged to death," added her mother, as she embraced her. " Poor child ! she looks quite pale and worn." " Where is she ?" asked Anne. " Dear Helen ! she shall have rest now. " " She has this minute gone round to Bingley's, to get some little things she wants for to-morrow night. Mrs. Lumley's party, you know ; and her dress — " " Never mind Helen's dress just now," interfered Mr. Dynevor. " Remember, Anne has had a journey, and I dare say she is tired." Grace was ready to take her sister's bonnet and cloak, and Anne sat down beside her father, confessino to some degree of fatigue. " Bring a candle, that we may see how she looks," cried Mr. Dynevor; "for, child, you have been away a whole fortnight."

" All but two days," corrected Albert. " You see we keep accurate computation of the time of your absence," said the father ; while Anne bent down and kissed her little brother. " Why, Anne, your cheek is quite wet," exclaimed the heedless boy. " I do believe you are crying." " Hush, Albert," whispered Anne. Mr. Dynevor was silent, but stirred the fire into a blaze, by the light of which he looked at his daughter. There were traces of tears on her face, and her brown eyes were glistening even yet ; but she turned to her father with a smile which reassured him. Anne Dynevor's smile was a very pleasant one ; it gave quite a new expression to her face, which habitually was more calm and thoughtful than are the faces of most girls of scarce one-and-twenty years of age. " Have you spent a pleasant time at the Grants ?" asked Mr. Dynevor; " and how are they all?"

" They are very well ; and I have been very happy," answered Anne cheerfully. " We had pleasant weather; and took long walks — country walks ! 0 father ! it was such a happiness to see the fields again — to breathe the fresh air, and to look out upon the wide, open landscape !" She stopped a moment; then added, " And yet, how glad I am to be at home again !" " Are you quite sure, Anne ?" She only looked up at him, for answer, with a serene, steadfast look often seen on her face. He was satisfied. "Was Edward Grant at home?" inquired Albert, with the roguish look and tone that young brothers are so apt at assuming on such occasions ; " and did he walk out with you much ?" There was a faint flush on the sister's cheek, though her voice was steady enough, as she replied briefly to his questions.

Mr. Dynevor imperatively bade him hold his tongue, and Albert withdrew into himself, feeling all the indignity of the mandate, yet, nevertheless, inly glorying in his own sagacity. There was something going on about Edward Grant, he was sure, or why did Anne colour so ? The evening meal was much more cheerful and sociable than the breakfast had been. The little room was improved in its aspect, now that the blinds were drawn, and candles lighted, the tea-equipage on the table, and the kettle singing on the hob. Anne sat beside her father ; and Helen, next to her, performed the duties of the tea-table, with smiling and deliberate grace. Mrs. Dynevor occupied her own easy-chair on the other side ofthe fireplace, and the two children completed the circle. A general atmosphere of rest and contentment appeared to surround them all.

Albert was in high spirits again. Even Mrs. Dynevor smoothed her features into complacency, and drank her tea and ate her toast with an air of cheerfulness which, poor anxious wife and mother, she seldom assumed. Helen and Anne occasionally abstracted themselves from the general conversation, and talked together in a low tone, of which a few words were occasionally audible, such as, from Helen : " evening party — partners — pink trimmings ;" or, from Anne : "long ramble — violet bank — primroses — sunset," &c. The which Albert observing, he loudly insisted on the impropriety of such proceedings. " Albert is right," said Mr. Dynevor; "reserve all your confidential chatter till you are by yourselves. And, Anne, my dear, turn your face this way, and let us see if you have brought home a colour.

Not much, I perceive. But you were never very ruddy. For all your country air, Helen is still the rosiest." Anne smiled tenderly and proudly on her beautiful sister, who, tall, brilliant, and blooming, formed a striking contrast to her pale and quiet-looking self. It was a pleasant thing to note the affection which subsisted between them ; an affection, however, which was usually far most demonstrative on the part of the younger. But the two natures were so different. " Still, though not much rosier, you are looking better, I think," resumed Mr. Dynevor, after a searching gaze ; " for the which, thank Heaven !" and there was real gratitude expressed both in look and tone. " You were not well, Anne, when you left home, though you persisted in saying that you were." There was a silence. Mrs. Dynevor looked up somewhat compunctiously at her eldest daughter.

She had a vague consciousness that she did not habitually think so much or so anxiously of her health as of the others ; but then, it was almost impossible to SISTER ANNE. know when any thing was wrong with Anne — she was always so calm, so silent about herself. The mother was glad, now, to see that she really looked well ; her complexion clear, though pale; her eyes, ever more soft than bright, beaming healthfully. " I'm sure we are very much obliged to the Grants," said Mrs. Dynevor, " for taking such care of you, my dear. But they were always very fond of you. How is Selina looking now ? I declare, I have been expecting to hear she was married, or at least going to be. Not that she is more than the merest girl — two or three months older than Helen, isn't she? — but then, you see, they go a good deal into society — they have opportunities."

She sighed, and paused. " Did they have much company while you were there, Anne ?" " Not much. I met all my old H acquaintances, I suppose for the last time. Now that the Grants are leaving, it is not very likely that I shall meet any of them again." " Fortunately for your peace of mind," laughed Helen, " none of them are so charming as to occasion you regret Oh, me ! what I used to suffer with Caroline Denbigh and her endless historiettes about herself. She used to begin with — < When I was in love,' just as old Major Parkinson does with — ' When I was in India' !" " Well, but every body who goes to the Grants isn't like that," said Albert. " Kate Western and all the Westerns were famous people, and besides — Why, we first met Mr. Avarne there !" " But Mr. Avarne doesn't live at H ," cried Grace ; " and he will come and see us, even when Mrs. Grant has gone to live in Sussex.

Won't he, Helen ? won't he, Anne ?" " I hope so," replied Anne. Helen was silent. " Mr. Avarne called here the evening after you left home, Anne," said Mr. Dynevor. " And he was so funny !" cried Albert ; " he made me and Grace laugh so, you can't think. And he began to draw a portrait of Helen ; but he tore it up, because, he said, it wasn't a bit like her. And then he drew two scenes for my theatre. Beautiful scenes ! One is a forest with a waterfall, and a little cottage at the side ; and the other is a landscape, with a practicable bridge and wings." " And he told me a story about a fairy," inter rupted eager little Grace ; " and he drew a whole sheetful of pictures. I will show them to you, Anne — they are so funny!" And both the children subsided into the cry: " Oh, I wish Mr. Avarne would come again, soon !"

" Mr. Avarne appears to be popular," remarked Mr. Dynevor. " Nevertheless, he has not been here since that evening — nearly a fortnight ago. Did you see any thing of him at H , Anne ?" " He came once or twice," she answered. " He is so very intimate with the Grants, you SISTER ANNE. know" — Mrs. Dynevor seemed to think it necessary to explain; — " he has always been in the habit of often running down by the railway — it is such an easy distance by rail." But here broke in Albert with his scenes, and Grace with her sheet of sketches, all of which Sister Anne must look at and duly admire. They quite besieged her with their talk, and their recapitulations of Mr. Avarne's stories. Mr. Dynevor closed his eyes, leaned back in his chair, and resigned himself to listen to the confused babbling of the childish voices, in the midst of which the low tones of his eldest daughter were sometimes audible ; just, he thought, as on a summer's noon you may hear, in the midst of the hot sounding humming of insects, the south wind murmuring among the trees.

And thinking thus, he fell asleep. Anne first discovered it, and charged Albert and Grace not to disturb him. So, presently, the children went quietly up to bed, under the guidance of Helen, without bidding their father good night. And when the door closed on them, Anne drew her chair near to where her mother was sitting, engaged in what appeared to be an interminable labour of mendino stockings from a huge basketful which stood at her feet. Very soon the daughter was busily working away too, while they both talked in subdued tones. "How soundly your father sleeps!" said Mrs. Dynevor, with a heavy sigh. " He was out at Mr. Burton's last night, and, as usual, not home till two in the morning. And then, to-day, he had to finish his article for the Magazine." "To-day!" repeated Anne. "Surely that was very late ?"

" Very late. But it always is so — always ! No thing in the world will induce him to begin and finish things in good time. And if this had been too late, I can't tell what would have become of us. But he doesn't mind. He pores over that horrid newspaper all the morning, and puts off his writing till the very last minute. And then, these dreadful late parties, which he will persist in going to ! No wonder that his head troubles him ; — such a whirl of — " " His head ! 0 mother, has he been suffering with that since I was away ?" " Wiry, he said I was not to tell you ; but the truth is, he was very ill last week. He didn't write a single line for five days. Heaven knows how it will all end !" Mrs. Dynevor let fall her work despondently. Anne took her hand, and uttered a few soothing words, though her eyes, as they fixed themselves on the sleeping countenance of her father, were full of trouble, deep, although tearless.

The mother pre sently resumed, in a broken voice : " Thomson sent in his bill three times last week. If we don't pay him a part, at least, in a day or two, I feel sure he will go to some sharp lawyer, and put us to frightful expense, as that terrible Gillespan did last year. And then, the baker and the milkman — I declare, I am ashamed to see their bills come in, they have been running for so long. Then, the week after next, comes quarter day — three quarters' rent and taxes. Even the ser vant's wages — " Mrs. Dynevor again stopped, over come by this recapitulation of her troubles. Anne was accustomed to her mother's gloomy views of their circumstances; and though she knew the reality to be dreary enough, she was still hopeful and brave. Her father's health was to her a source of far deeper anxiety even than the unpaid rent and tradesmen's bills.

She fancied that he was thinner ; and that, even in the quietude of sleep, his face wore that unhealthful flush which she had learned so greatly to dread as the harbinger of the fearful illness which occasionally attacked him. " Did you call in Dr. Rogerson to my father, last week?" she asked of her tearful mother. " No ; he wouldn't hear of it. He grew better the second day, or I should have sent. But for five days he was fit for nothing, even when the violent symptoms abated. Five days ! It is that which has thrown us back so much. His book is in the same state as when you left home : not a line added, that I know of. He says it will take six weeks' hard work to finish it; and, with the interruptions of his magazine and news paper articles, you know it will be three or four months at least."

" Well, dear mother," said Anne, with an effort at cheerfulness, " it will settle all our difficulties when it is finished. Two hundred and fifty pounds will more than pay all these miserable debts, and so smooth away all your annoyances. Let us look forward to it." " It is all very well for you," murmured Mrs. Dynevor fretfully, " who haven't the wretchedness of these things to put up with. You may not mind, perhaps : I do. I am sick and tired of ' looking forward,' as you call it." Notliing chafed Mrs. Dynevor more, when she was on the subject of her troubles, than for any one to turn their bright side outermost, and try to give her comfort by proving that things were not so bad as she assumed them to be. She was one of those women who like to be condoled with better than to be consoled ; and Anne, with all her womanly tact, often offended, because she did not quite understand this convolution in her mother's character.

" Poor Helen, too," resumed the complaining voice, — " she has scarcely a gown fit to appear in. So beautiful as she is, it breaks my heart to see her in that shabby brown merino day after day. To-morrow night she is going to Mrs. Lumley's, and she has no better dress than that old white one, which every body must know, and be quite sick of by this time." " White muslin always looks much the same," said Anne, " and Helen looks lovelier in white than in any thing. And I shall take pains to iron her dress c to-morrow morning. You will see how fresh and snowy it will look." Mrs. Dynevor submitted to be solaced by this con sideration, more especially as Helen herself entered the room at this moment, — and the mother's lamentations were always reserved for Anne alone ; both parents seeming instinctively to avoid clouding the younger girl's bright temperament with the cares and anxieties which pressed on themselves.

Helen seated herself beside Anne, and passed her arm round her. " At work already ? Dear Anne, how incorrigibly industrious you are ! You make me feel quite ashamed of myself." " There is no need for that feeling to continue," said Anne, smilingly proffering her an unmended stocking and a darning-needle. Helen took them with a good grace enough, and began to work with a very determined air, although it was easy to see how totally unaccustomed were her fingers to such homely labours. When Mr. Dynevor awoke, he declared himself quite abashed by his companions' industry. He wondered the very atmosphere had not awakened him from his lazy slumber, he said. He was in high spirits, and presently began to talk in his own peculiarly happy style. At his own fireside though he was, in the shabby parlour, and with his wife and daughters for sole audience, Mr. Dynevor was as brilliant, as witty, and as polished as if he had been the centre of an eager and admiring circle at House, or the Club.

It is a rare thing for a man who is noted for " success" in society — his aptness at repartee, and his graceful flow of conversation — to bring the same good gifts to his own domestic hearth. And it must be confessed that Mr. Dynevor did not often prove an exception to the general rule. But his heart was unusually light this evening. Despite Anne's appre hensions, he felt himself singularly well, and it made him happy to have his eldest girl at home with him again. Besides, he had finished his article, which had lain heavy on his mind for the last fortnight. He was willing to look at every thing en couleur de rose, and not even his wife's anxious face, and the long drawn sighs with which she interspersed his playful talk, succeeded in clouding his gaiety. Anne was deeply grateful to mark this.

Never theless, she longed to be alone with her father, if only for a few minutes — she had so much to ask him. But no opportunity occurred ; only, as she bade him good night, while he clasped her in his arms, after the fashion which had never changed since she was a tiny child, she whispered her earnest question : " Was he quite well — really quite well ?" " Anne, darling, I feel young again !" was his energetic reply ; " all my pains and aches, both of mind and body, seem to have departed. Peace and content have returned, hand in hand with Sister Anne."

Chapter II

A MORNING AT HOME. Anne was usually the earliest riser in the house. The morning after her return, she was awakened by the vehement ringing of the bell which, hanging at Mrs. Dynevor's bedside, communicated with tho sleeping-room of the servant, and which that lady made a practice of ringing at frequent intervals, every morning, for an hour or more aster six o'clock. Rebecca had become inured to the alarum, and slept peacefully through it all till it suited her pleasure to rise ; but Anne was more easily aroused. She dressed, and leaving Helen still sleeping, stole softly down the stairs, succeeded in effectually disturbing the slumberous Rebecca, and then entered the parlour. The empty grate, the dusty tables, and the general litter lost notliing of their discomfort, viewed in the dusky twilight of the early morning.