Katharine Beresford: or the Shade and Sunshine of Woman's Life

Front matter

• No./ PRICE ONLY ONE PENNY NEW AND ORIGINAL ROMANCE BY THE AUTHORESS OF " THE GIPSEY GIRL." KATHARINE BERESFORD; OR THE SHADE AND SUNSHINE OF WOMAN'S LIFE. A ROMANTIC STORY. BY Mrs. H. M. LOWNDES, (Late HANNAH MARIA JONES.) AUTHORESS OF * EMILY MORELAND,' ' SCOTTISH CHIEFTAINS,' ' GIPSEY GIRL," ' GIPSEY MOTHER,' ' CHILD OF MYSTERY,' &C Lost was that sweet simplicity, Her eye's bright lustre fled ; And o'er her cheeks, whereroses bloomed, A sickly paleness spread. So fades the flower before its time, Where cankerworms assail ; So droops the bud upon its stem Beneath the sickly gale. John Clare. The flowers the sultry summer kills Spring's milder suns restore ; But innocence, that fickle charm, Blooms once, and blooms no more. The swains who loved no more admire. Their hearts no beauty warms, And maidens triumph in her fall, That envied once her charms.

Oh '. hast thou marked the summer's budded rose, When 'mid the veiling moss its crimson glows I So bloomed the beauty of that fancy form, So her dark locks, with golden tinges warm, Played round the turned curve of that white neck. And sweetly shaded half her blushing cheek. \ Oh ! hast thou seen the star of ere on high, Through the soft dusk of summer's balmy sky Shed its green light ! and in the glassy stream, Eye the mild reflex of its trembling beam ? So looked on us with tender, bashful gaze, The destined charmer of our youthful days j Whose soul its native elevation joined To the gay wildness of the infant mind. Anna Sbwakd. LONDON : PRINTED FOR THE PROPRIETORS. AND SOLD BY G. PAVEY, 47, HOLYWELL STREET, STRAND. KATHARINE BERESFORD; OR, THE SHADE AND SUNSHINE OF WOMAN'S LIFE.

Chapter I

Alas ! the love of Woman ! it is known To be a lovely and a fearful thing ; For all of theirs upon that die is thrown, And if 'tis lost, life has no more to bring To them, but mockeries of the past alone. Anon. " A Mother ! — Have you ever known the feelings of a mother, and can you persist in spurning from your door — in consigning to irretrievable, hopeless infamy and ruin, your erring but repentant child? Look at her: Does she appear hardened in vice? Is that a face or form to be driven forth to buffet with the world — to become the companion, the victim of — " " She has chosen it for herself. It was not I who made her what she is — a disgrace to me and my name ; a polluted wretch, whose very sight is hateful to me. Would that she were lying a corpse at my feet — that I had never borne her!

Take her away, I say — I have still a child ; a good, dutiful child. She shall not have her mind tainted, her character blasted, by association with that infamous, that degraded wretch— JTake her away, I B.-< say! You have no right to intrude here, to dictate to me. I bade her never dare enter my doors. My curse is upon her ! the curse of — " " Oh, mother ! Recall, only recall those horrible words," exclaimed the wretched girl, sinking on her knees at the feet of her unnatural parent. "Night and day, those dreadful words are sounding in my ears. I cannot live ; I dare not die. Oh, have pity upon me ! I will be your servant — your slave. I will not ask — even hope — for a return of your affection. I will never even speak to my sister, if you wish it. I will give up every hope, every claim, if you will not drive me from you; if you will only let me stay under your roof.

Oh, if you could only know what I have suffered, the miseries — the horrors that I have endured ! " " You have brought them all upon yourself. As you have sowed so must you expect to reap. I should be wanting in my duty to myself, and to my daughter " "I am your daughter, too. Oh, mother, do not drive me from you ! " " You are not," she exclaimed with vehemence. " I disclaim you. You have forfeited all right to the title And now what brings you here ? Not penitence ; not bitter repentance of your crime. No ; but because you are suffering from the effects of it : because the villain for whom you quitted your home, for whom you re nounced your mother, your bright prospects, your cha racter — for whom you became a thing I cannot disgrace myself by naming— because he has deserted you, has left you to well-merited poverty and shame.

If he had still continued to support you in splendid infamy, to make you the degraded companion of his vicious pleasures, I should never have seen you ; you would never have returned to me." " I should not have dared," replied the unfortunate girl, for the first time raising her streaming eyes to the countenance of her stern unrelenting parent. " It is only that I hoped my sufferings — my penitence — might be accepted as some expiation of my fault, that they would plead for your forgiveness — " Her voice faltered. There was a slight relaxation in the countenance of the heretofore unbending mother ; and Vivian St. Orme, the young man who had attempted in vain to awaken her maternal feelings, and who was in tently watching every movement of her strongly-marked (yet still handsome) features, felt his heart throb with hopeful anticipation of the moment when she should yield to that tenderness which he could not believe was quite extinguished in her bosom towards her erring child : but, alas ! a simple incident blasted in a moment those hopes.

" Mamma, may I come in ? " exclaimed a youthful voice ; and before an answer could be returned, the par lour door opened, and a young girl, who, though of a totally different style of beauty to the weeping penitent (who still remained on her knees) was too like to allow of a doubt that they were sisters, bounded into the room. For a second she stood speechless, and like a statue, gazing at her unfortunate sister, and deaf to her mother's imperative command to leave the room. " Katharine ! " she at last shrieked. But Katharine could neither speak nor move ; she stretched out her arms to her sister, and fell senseless on the floor. No one was with her when she recovered but two female servants, whom Katharine had never seen before, and who seemed to regard her with a mixture of pity and contempt.

" My mistress desired me to tell you, that the gentlo man is waiting in the coach for you, at the door, Miss," observed the elder of the two ; " and sho ordered me to give you this, and to say, that she desires it may be the last time that — " " That is enough," faintly articulated Katharine, at tempting to rise, and looking round her with an expression of anguish. " You had better put up the note safely," observed the other female, seeing that Katharine held it loosely in her hand, as if unconscious of, or disregarding, its value. " The note ! What note ? Has she written ? Where is it ? But no, it will only be a repetition of those cruel words, and — " " It is a bank-note for ten pounds, Miss," observed the elder female, in a rather pert tone ; " such things are not to be picked up every day, and so, as Jane says, you had better take care of it."

Katharine looked at it abstractedly for a ffew moments, then folded it neatly in four, and again looked at it. " Sure she a'n't going to be such a fool as to refuse it," whispered Jane to her fellow-servant. But when the poor girl, as if struck with some sudden recollection, again crumpled it up in her hand, and tottered towards the door, a satirical smile wrinkled both their features, and the one whispered to the other — " Ay, ay, I thought she knew better. She knows what a ten pun' note's worth as well as we do." The hackney-coach was at the door, and Vivian St. Orme sprang out to assist her the moment he beheld the poor girl, with uncertain steps, and looking as if she was bewildered, crossing the hall. The two prim mnids followed her, but looked as if it would have been compromising their characters to offer her any assistance, and were only desirous to fulfil their mistress's orders, in seeing the discarded one safe out of the house.

Vivian lifted her into the coach with as much care and respect as if she had been his sister, and they drove off. What had passed during her insensibility she knew not — did not inquire ; but his countenance told her that it had dissipated all hope. If she had known that, with hands and eyes uplifted, her mother had prayed that her wretched child might never again unclose her eyes to the light ; had forced her sister from the room, as though Katharine's very presence brought with it contamination; and, to St. Orme's remonstrances, had rephed by the most cruel, the most unfeminine insults : had she known all this, it could scarcely have added to the anguish that ren dered her speechless, though it might have strengthened her conviction, that she had, indeed, no longer a parent. The coach stopped, and the driver looked in through the front glass for further direction.

St. Orme was at a loss what to say. " I know so little of London," he observed, half speak ing to himself, " that — if you can name any place where I can leave you in safety until — until — " a deep scarlet suffused his cheek, as he added — " I can make some fur ther arrangement." Katharine pressed her hand to her forehead, as if to collect her scattered thoughts, and, in so doing, the bank note fell at St. Orme's feet. It certainly was not the love of money that caused his eyes to sparkle, and his whole countenance to assume a different expression to that which it had worn for the last few minutes. No ; but he felt that the possession of that note smoothed his way through all difficulties : for the fact was, that St. Orme, with the spirit and generosity which should be the attributes of wealth and rank, was at that moment so poor in pocket, that he bad begun to have serious apprehensions, that his whole stock of money might be insufficient to satisfy the demand of the hackneycoachman.

Now, however — '* Where are we, coachman ? What is the name of this street?" " Oxford-street, yer honour." " Oxford-street. Ah ! that is right," rephed St. Orme. " I remember, now — Wardour-street, Oxford-street. Drive to Wardour-street." " What a green !" muttered the coachman ; " we 've passed Wardour-street ever sich a much ; " and he turned his horses and rattled back again to Wardour-street. Katharine had just began, in faltering accents, to ex press her gratitude to her companion for his kindness, and to observe, that she could not think of longer intrud ing on his time, &c, when the coach again drew up. "Which side of the way — what number, yer honour?" Vivian St. Orme looked anxiously out of the window of the hack, up and down the street, without, as it appeared, being able to make up his mind how to answer.

" I cannot recollect the number," he replied, " and I have never been here myself; but it is a laundress I want; a woman who washes for — Perhaps, if you ask in that shop — " " It 's like hunting for a needle in a load of hay," grumbled the man, who had certain reasons of his own for wishing to be discharged, or, as he would have termed it, to get rid of his fare. " What name must I ask for ? yer honour," he added, turning round with the handle of the shop-door, which was closed, in his hand. " Her name," repeated St. Orme ; but in vain he taxed his memory to recall the name of the tidy, bustling little woman, who, it had struck him, might be useful in his present dilemma. It became almost doubtful to him whether he had ever heard her name. He had recollected Wardour-street as her place of residence, from the circumstance of her having, while he was recently discharging her bill, and listening to sundry inquiries she had thought proper to make as to the quantity of starch she was to put in the collars of his new shirts, and whether he liked small plaits or box plaits best, she had suddenly diverged to the horrible fright she had suffered during the previous night from a dreadful fire, which had burnt two houses down, and was only twenty houses off where she lived in Wardour-street, and was the third fire that had happened in that street since she had resided there.

He had asked where the street was that had been so particularly unfortunate, and had received not only a very precise account of its situation in the great map of Lon don, which hung on the wall of his chamber, but a very graphic description of the various conflagrations which made her so " timorous," living as she did in the attic of a very high house, that she sometimes could not close her eyes for nights together, for fear she should at last be burnt in her bed. All this Vivian St. Orme could now very distinctly recall to his mind, but her name — that was a different thing ; he had not the most distant idea of having heard it, and he was obliged to acknowledge that he was, as a sportsman would say, " at fault." The surly coachman opened the carriage door, and let down the steps with a bang.

" My 'osses is knocked up," he sulkily observed. " They 've been out ten 'ours, and havn 't got a lug to stand upon ; so you '11 please to pay me my fare, as I can 't be driving about no longer on a wild-goose chase." Novice as St. Orme was in the ways of the Great Metropolis, he had had sufficient experience in hackney coach ways to know that the fellow had no right thus abruptly to terminate his services. Katharine was still looking deadly pale ; and she was, besides, if able to walk, dressed in a style that rendered it very undesirable that she should do so. It was this consideration indeed, that had induced St. Orme in the first instance to incur the expense of a hack from the place where she had passed the preceding night and breakfasted that morning, to her mother's residence in Euston Square, New Road.

"What is your demand?" he now coolly replied, though by no means feeling cool on the subject. " Seven shillings, " was the reply, " accordin' to time, it was ten o'clock when you took me off the stand in — ." " A quarter to eleven," replied St. Orme ; " I will not pay you one farthing over your legal demand, for your incivility;" and he referred to the miniature 'Guide' which he took from his waistcoat pocket, for directions as to the amount of fare. " You are entitled to five shillings only, and I shall give you no more." The coachman muttered a succession of oaths between his teeth, ending in a rather more audible tone with the assertion — " That he knew his fare was no gentleman ; nothin' but — " "But a what?" demanded St. Orme, jumping out of the coach in an instant. " Pay me my fare, fust, afore yon axes questions," returned the fellow.

St. Orme drew forth all the silver he had. It was sixpence short of the amount. " You must wait until I get change for this," he observed, exhibiting the note. He had previously whispered to Katharine, though not without great reluctance, and visible shame, his fear that he should be compelled to draw upon her little stock to answer the demand for coach-hire ; and received in reply from her, the as surance that it was all at his disposal. Was she not indebted to him for more than money could ever repay ? " Wait a moment, I will get change," he repeated to the coachman, as he entered the shop opposite to the door of which the coach had drawn up. "Oh, no ! a ten-pound note— he couldn't do such a thing for a customer, much more a stranger ; " was the reply from the precise straight-haired gentleman behind the counter, who had been watching through the window the progress of the dispute between the coachman and his fare.

Two other shops — one on the right, the other on the left — were entered with as little success; the proprietors appeared astonished that a stranger could expect such a favour. The coachman had followed on each occasion close at St. Orme's heels, and planted himself at the shop doors with an insolent look, which was intended to say — " I will take care you do not give me the slip." It is strange what a savage delight is sometimes evinced by the low and uneducated, in witnessing the mortification of those superior in appearance and man ners to themselves. More than twenty persons had stopped to witness tho termination of the dispute between "thejarvey," as they called him, and his fare; and c numerous whispers, grins, and coarse jokes, were bandied about at the expense of the latter and his com panion — " the lady," as they significantly termed Katha rine ; who, shrinking from their curious and impertinent looks, was leaning back in a corner of the coach, concealing her face as much as possible with her pocket handkerchief, and scarcely conscious of the cause of the detention of herself and St. Orme, though she felt how painful it was to her.

Katharine's appearance, in her present dress was, it must be confessed, far from being prepossessing as to her respectability, even in the eyes of the most unprejudiced and kindly judging. The book-muslin frock, which, on the over night, when clean and stiff, had appeared new and becoming, was now dirty and tumbled. The French white satin bonnet, trimmed with blonde, and a profusion of gay artificial flowers, had looked tolerably well by candle-light, but in the strong light of day was miserably shabby, dirty, and out of shape ; and the pale pink crape handkerchief, which was an apology for a shawl, scarcely afforded a decent covering for her fair neck and shoulders. Her luxuriant hair had fallen from its con finement, during her hysterical struggles at her mother's residence, and was now hanging disregarded far below her waist.

It must indeed be confessed, that poor Katharine's appearance but too well warranted the observations made upon it, especially by three or four females who stood regarding her with malignant curiosity, and then expressed their surprise, that anybody calling himself a gentleman, should " take up with such a creature." "A gentleman !" repeated one of the bystanders. "I dare say he's about as good a gentleman as she's a lady. I shouldn't wonder, if the note he's flashing is one of your Bank of Elegance ones." St. Orme had, in the meantime, tried every shop near without being able to effect his object, and the coach man's surliness increased. "What is the matter here?" demanded a policeman, who had been drawn to the spot by the crowd, for the idle and curious lookers-on had now increased to a crowd.

St. Orme briefly explained the difficulty. " You will get change over the way, sir, I dare say," observed the man civilly. It was a pawnbroker's to which he pointed, and St. Orme immediately darted across, still followed by the coachman, who growled — loud enough to be heard by the bystanders, though not by the former — " He ar'nt agoing to bilk me, I'll take care." St. Orme entered the shop, and Katharine, for the first time seeming to take any interest in what was passing, lowered the glass on the side next the street to gaze after him. She had, in fact, been so completely abstracted by the anguish she was suffering, that she had not at tended to what was passing ; she knew not, therefore, what was the cause of the delay, or for what purpose her companion had left her. She was still gazing after him, and conjecturing what he had gone into that shop for, when she saw a man come to the door, and speak with extreme earnestness to the coachman, who was standing outside the shop, looking in at the window.

The next moment a cry of police was raised by both of them, and the policeman, who had remained by the coach-door, dashed across, followed by all the people who had collected, and leaving Katharine sitting alone and apparently forgotten. What could be the matter. She tried to collect her thoughts and to form some conjecture, for she could not doubt that it was something connected with her friend. But she was not long left in suspense. In a few moments the coachman returned, and though she could not com prehend much of the language in which he addressed her, she found that some charge had been brought against her companion in which she was involved, as he laid hold of the horses' heads, and, having first closed the coach-door, led them across the way to the shop, which she had seen St. Orme enter.

" Come, madam, turn out if you please," he observed in a brutal tone. " You're wanted here." Katharine's trembling limbs could scarcely support her, and he roughly seized her arm to drag her out of the coach. " God keep harm from every one's child !" exclaimed an old Irishwoman who was close to her; " and she so young to be in such bitter trouble. Dale gently wid her, can't ye. Don't ye see she's so wake she can't stand. Lean upon me. jewel; I'm a mother myself, and it's in my heart I am sorry for ye." Katharine gladly accepted the offered support. It was the only word of kindness that reached her ears. Amon" all those who pressed around to stare and offer their comments, there was not one who pitied, or who saw anything in her deadly paleness, the indefinable sensation of terror which rendered her utterly powerless and speechless, but the symptoms of guilt.

The note which St. Orme had offered was a forgery When she entered tho shop he was in the custody of the policeman, and she had been brought thither to be charged as an accomplice, or detained as a witness against him. In the first moment of surprise, and in the conscious ness of innocence, St. Orme had exclaimed, on being told that the note was a forged one, tbat it was impos sible. It must bo a mistake. He had received the note from a lady of the highest respectability. This, as has been already related, was not exactly the case. He had not received it direct from Mrs. Beresford, the mother of Katharine. In point of fact, he had not even seen it given to the latter ; morally he was convinced it had been given by Mrs. Beresford ; but moral conviction is not legal fact. A few, a very few questions fiom those who were accustomed to that sort of examination, elicited the truth, and a sneering smile accompanied the observation from the master of the shop, " that he (St. Orme) did not seem very clear as to how he had become possessed of the note; he must give an account to a magistrate."

St. Orme was at first indignant. He then became alarmed — not at his own situation, though that was unpleasant enough, but he was grieved for Katharine, who he foresaw would be dragged forward some way or other. He was right, she was brought into the shop; her incoherent replies strengthened the impression against her and her com panion. In a few moments they were both prisoners on their way to the police office, Bow-street.

Chapter II

And if a mother's eye did bless Thine own, and fondly on thee smiled, A mother's bosom once did press Thine own — though only when a child : Or, if a sister fair and mild, Hath laid her soft cheek thine upon, Then fathom thou the anguish wild Bom of the thought that both are gone. Anon. "Pshaw! Honour, integrity — fine high-sounding words — they never made a man's fortune yet, nor ever will. Society is all humbug, from beginning to end — from the prime minister to the chimney sweep. I tell you, self is at the bottom of all. The only difference lies in the varnish. — Disinterestedness ! I put as much faith in the disinterestedness of my fellow-men, as I do in the purity and innocence of the other sex. They — " "I will not listen to you on that subject, Marlow!" interrupted with warmth the person to whom the preceding observations were addressed.

"I know — I feel — from the bottom of my soul I am convinced, that your opinions respecting women are false, scandalous, libellous. Ay, and of men too. My own heart contradicts you. I am not — I do not pretend to be — superior to my fellow mortals ; but I do feel that I am capable of acting disinterestedly, and that I have never yet been guilty of a dishonest, no, nor a dishonourable action — -" "How old are you, Vivian?" interrupted his com panion with seeming earnestness. " Nineteen," was the reply. "And you have been three months in London ?" said Marlow. " Thereabouts," replied Vivian. " Well, then, remain in London till you are twenty one, and we will settle this matter of debate. If you then persist in your faith in women, and can with truth declare that your opinion of men is unaltered — from your own feelings, mind — " " That is to say," observed Vivian, smiling, " if I can then declare that I have not become dishonest or dis honourable, the words have the same meaning, but I know you men of the world attach different ones.

Well, and then — ?" " Why then, I will become your pupil," returned Marlow. " Now you know you are mine. But a truce to this prosing. Let us go and see the new pantomime." This conversation passed between the young men on their way from a coffee-house in the Strand, where they had been dining. Marlow had drank freely, though his companion had been very abstemious, having pleaded a violent head-ache as an excuse for passing the bottle. They turned up Catherine-street. The pantomime of that season was very successful, and it was now the middle of Christmas week, consequently numbers were wending their way to the great point of attraction — the theatre. Carriages were dashing about in all directions, while at the pit and gallery doors dense crowds were collected, impatiently waiting for their opening, and be guiling the time by numerous jokes, some not of the pleasantest nature to those who were the objects of them.

" What a happy set of beings !" observed Vivian, who, in spite of his friend's caution that he would stand a chance of getting his pockets picked, stood still to observe them. " Happy !" repeated Marlow. " Tush ! say thoughtless rather. How many aching hearts are veiled under that appearance of mirth ? How many plans of villainy under that affectation of indifference ? I have known an instance where a murderer was taken at a theatre. He had paid for admission with the money taken from his victim. Even among those, perhaps — -" Vivian shuddered, but his attention was suddenly drawn from what his companion was saying. There was a commotion in the crowd that surrounded the pit door, and the next moment a stout determined looking man appeared, dragging from the midst of them a slender youth, whose face and lips vied in whiteness with the linen which was ostentatiously displayed in all the glory of small plaiting and embroidery within his primrose coloured waistcoat.

"Ay, ay, I knew we should ketch him here !" ex claimed a tradesman-looking man in a leather apron, who was bustling by the side of the officer ; he it seemed was the captor. " Yes, this is what comes of yer play goin'. I told you, many a time, it would bring you to the gallows. Look, I'm blowed if the rascal hasn't got his missus's — my wife's — brooch stuck in the front of his dickey. Oh, you precious villain ! if Sally was here, and see that, she'd tear the eyes out of yer head, she would." " Come, come, mister, stow this if you please," observed the officer with an important air ; " the chap's in the hands of jestis now, and you've nothing' to do with him." "Nothing to do! when he's broken open my box, and — " " Silence, I say, Sir !" vociferated the officer. " Tell yer tale to the magistrate, that's all you've got to do, Come, young feller, use yer feet, can't yer, and don't give me more trouble than's necessary."