Golden Memories. A novel

Front matter

SAMUEL TINSLEY'S LIST OF NEW NOVELS. NOTICE.— A DESPERATE CHARACTER : a Tale of the Gold Fever. By W. Thomson-Grbgg. 3 vols. 31s. 6d. The Daily News says: A Desperate Character' is a novel which cannot fail to interest. It describes the wild life of the Australian gold-fields with a pictures queness of style and quickness of observation which render the etory very attractive, while the new and unbroken gTOund traversed ia capable of yielding a rich harvest of fiction The author has a con siderable facility with his pen ; his places and people form themselves clearly before the reader, whom he transports as with the famous carpet of the Arabian story-teller to other shores in the twinkling of an eye." The Daily Telegraph says : "Tho tale of De Burgh's adventures, his court ship and conversion, and subsequent marriage to Clara, is told in a masterly manner Tho work is fall of pleasant incidents, and is singularly free from anything which can give offence to the most sensitive mind.

At the same time a rich vein of humour is apparent throughout, and the liveliness of the tale is never allowed to flag." The Morning Post says: "The artistic skill with which Mr. Thomson- Gregg has worked out all his characters, but especially these brothers, would make his book remarkable, independently of the additional interest it derives from its faithful, spirited pictures of life under the Southern Cross, and the terse condensed humour of the conversations. There is a jovial gaiety about the book from beginning to end that is essentially colonial, and it will be welcomed in the many homes whence some son or brother has gone to engage in the struggle for wealth in the busy Australian Colonies it so well describes, as well as by all who can appreciate the well-told tale of a hard-fought fight."

NOTICE.— SECOND EDITION OF "WILL SHE BEAR IT?" WILL SHE BEAR IT? a Tale ofthe Weald. Second Edition, 3 vols. 31s. 6d. "A pleasant, readable book, such as we can heartily recommend."— Spectator. " In every way we entertain a very high opinion of this book." — Graphic. " The interest is kept up with increasing power to the last."— Standard. RAVENSDALE. 3 vols. 31s. 6d. " This powerfully-written tale The interest is sustained to the end, and the fresh, healthy tone of the book, as well as the command of language possessed by its author in such a remarkable degree, will insure for it a wide popularity, as it contrasts strongly with the vapid and sentimental, as well as with the sensational, publications so rife at the present day." — Morning Pott. PERCY LOCKIIART. By F. W. Baxter. 2 vols. 21s. " A bright, fresh, healthy story Eminently readable." — Standard.

Chapter I

I MAKE ACQUAINTANCE WITH MR. GRESHAM And now, alas ! for thy sad loss I'll evermore weep and sigh ; For thee I only wish'd to live, For thee I wish to die. Oh, weep not, lady, weep not so, Some ghostly comfort seek ; Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart, Nor tears bedew thy cheek. A LONG break in the diary follows, indeed there is no further record till the following Christmas, and then only a few jottings. A few things stand out vividly before me to this day, but I have chiefly a remembrance of VOL. 11. B GOLDEiV MEM OR LES. 2 utter prostration and misery, succeeded by a struggling resignation, and, after some months, by a gradual regaining of health and spirits. For a short time my life went as com pletely out of me as it had done out of my dear mother. While she lived I had an object to care for and to chsrish, but when she, too, had left me, the long years to come looked so unspeakably dreary and empty that I longed to lie down and die.

My fate seemed the cruellest and hardest that had ever fallen upon mortal man. It was some days before I really realized all that I had lost, and then my grief was so wild, so turbulent and rebellious, that my aunt was beside herself with horror and con sternation. I remember asking myself again and again if it were possible that Aunt Philippa had ever known what it was to love. The twins grieved bitterly, but I think they were a little afraid of me in those days, and they kept their sorrow more to each other and themselves. They were more inseparable than ever : after all, they were not wholly desolate, for they had one another. Esther and Mark still stayed on : the latter had sent for his books that he might resume his studies. I am sure auntie must have pleaded hard not to be left alone with her nieces : cold and upright as she was, she had no sympathy with us.

But Esther wearied my life out. I was not ill enough to keep my room all day; I would not be treated like an invalid ; I only desired to be left alone. But this Aunt Philippa would not permit. "Do you want to get like your mother?" she would ask sharply, bringing me down from my solitude, and making me ashamed of apparently trying to be ill. But when I crept into the drawing-room Esther would always be at some ceaseless employment, energetically busy : it took away my breath to look at her. She might inter rupt the even progress of her work, but never leave it, to talk to me quickly and volubly about all things under the sun, leadis ing off from whatever might happen to be engaging her thoughts at the moment, some times an essay on an abstruse matter requir ing a dozen books of reference, sometimes a German work of an unusually hard descrip tion.

This she called amusing me, and she never would understand how much I preferred silence. In the midst of my weariness and vexation I could not help smiling occasionally when, at the end of one of these tiresome mornings, Esther would exclaim cheerfully, — " Oh, auntie, Effie and I have had such a pleasant time of it together ; we get on most delightfully, we agree upon so many subjects!" But Mark was a comfort, with his quiet sympathy and his gentle way of trying to amuse me. He tried to interest me in nature, and often drew me out of doors in spite of myself, under pretence of showing me some thing beautiful or curious. And this, not with an air of doing it for my good, but rather with the desire, apparently, of a com panion to share in his pursuits. He always seemed so grateful for sympathy it was impossible not to try to exert oneself to give it.

About this time I first really made acquaint ance with the clergyman in charge of the village in which we were living. I say first really made acquaintance with him because I had often seen him before, while my mother was alive, but I had done little beyond shaking hands with him, coldly enough, and eye ing him with shy dislike. I had heard that he lived with his mother, a very dear old lady: they were, in fact, Aunt Philippa' s nearest neighbours, and almost only friends, but I cared nothing about them. I think at that time it was enough for me to hear that Uncle Nicholas admired and respected the son, and that Aunt Philippa loved and honoured the mother, for me to take into my obstinate, rebellious heart an unreasoning prejudice to both. Apart from all this, I had learnt to believe all clergymen stiff, starch, and disagreeable, or, on the other hand, capable of nothing but missionary meetings and tea drinkings with GOLDEN MEMORLES the shopkeepers' wives.

Thus in my ignorance I classed the high and low churchmen, and it will readily be seen that I knew as little of their habits of life as I did of their doctrines. If it is true that " tout com prendre c'est tout pardonn&r" never is it more true than in our estimate of the merits of other people. Mark had made a great friend of Mr. Gresham, and both he and Esther let drop from time to time some loving word of praise about his mother. I supposed that they were used to "slow" people,, and were fond of patronizing the natives. Little I guessed of the dear old lady's true charm— the charm of a holy, peaceful, calm cheerfulness ; little 1 knew of the noble, self-denying life of her son. Bernard Gresham was about thirty years old, a tall, strong, broad-shouldered man. The first idea I had concerning him, when he presented himself to my mind as more than an abstract parson, was, that his mental force was equal to his physical power.

I never saw intellect, self-control, and firmness more visibly written on human face and form. He bore himself as a conqueror, and he was one. He invited the confidence of rich and poor alike, and he guarded it faithfully. He wore a look of love towards every fellow-creature, and I never heard him speak an evil word of the worst. His face was striking, but not exactly handsome ; it was square and grave almost to sternness, but the mouth was peculiarly sweet, and the deep-set grey eyes, with no jDretence to beauty, had nevertheless a winning, confiding gentleness about them. When I first knew him he had precise, old world ways and courtesies that I should certainly have ridiculed excessively in my gayer days, with a slow, meditating speech that would then have driven me wild with impatience or suppressed laughter.

But now I was in no mood for mirth, and his gentleness and kindness soothed and captivated me. This sedateness wore somewhat away in after years : I think it was entirely occa sioned by the studious, retired life he had ever lived. Bred up in a little country village with a widowed mother and two sisters, he had spent most of his life — when not at home — at school and college, till, three years before I knew him, he had been presented to the living of as rural a little village as his own birthplace. His sisters were then mar ried, and dear old Mrs. Gresham came to live with her son Bernard. His vast scholarship did not frighten me : indeed I have never felt afraid of any intel lectual man, for I have generally foixnd such to be the most humble and the most tolerant of ignorance in others.

But for a long time I did not care to talk much with Mr. Gresham ; I had no spirit or mind for it, but I liked to sit by and listen to his conversations with Mark and Uncle Nicholas, now and then to be addressed by a kindlyword from one of them, to show that I was not forgotten or ignored. Bernard was an immense favourite with Mark and Uncle Nicholas : one of them would con stantly bring him to the house, either for luncheon or dinner, or for an hour, as the case might be. On all these occasions he would treat me in a stately, kind, considerate way, peculiar to himself. In my extreme sensitiveness after my loss I could not help fancying that because he was a clergyman he had been drawn to the house to talk to me about resignation, and to rouse me to a sense of my duty once more ; but he soon set me at rest.

Beyond a peculiar softening of his voice when he ad dressed me, and a gentle observance of my slightest wish, he never alluded to my grief, nor seemed in any way particularly conscious of it. Neither did he offer me spiritual consolation, nor administer moral lectures like Aunt Philippa and Esther. Yet when I listened to his conversation with Mark I felt ennobled and happier, lifted up for a time out of myself. They would em brace all subjects, and once more I felt a glow at my heart, a sighing and desire for higher things, a longing to understand and reach forward to things beyond me. It was a purified and holier reflection of my girlish yearnings when listening to the half-under stood sentiments of wise and clever men. I only remember one occasion on which they actually spoke of religion itself in my presence, but then it was with such a reverent love for the Church, with such a sad avowal of her divisions, with such bright, confident hope in her future, that I felt carried along with them, new lights awakening in my mind.

They seemed to like to have me with them, which I thought so kind that I roused myself to show some gratitude, and to prove myself not insensible to their good-natured efforts to amuse me. We would often begin by strolling in the garden together, ending by walking away into the fields and lanes beyond, I forgetting all my nervous dread of meeting with people. The twins were now almost constantly together, engrossed with their drawing, and glad enough was I to turn my back on Aunt Philippa and Esther. To do them justice, although they must have preferred greatly to be left alone, they never showed any desire to get rid of me — that third un sympathizing party. Mark seldom invited Esther to accompany us. Sometimes he would say, " You and auntie will enjoy a tete-a-tete" and then take me away ; but after a time my walks with him seemed an established fact not needing any apology.

Often we were joined by Mr. Gresham, though not invariably, and then my treat began ; no more exertion was needed on my part, and I could listen or not, as I chose, to the pleasant conversation between the two friends. Nevertheless, I felt a little ashamed of Esther's exclusion, for I thought I knew the cause. One day, soon after my great loss, she had been wearying me to death, simply by a continued stream of talk with a rousing tendency, nothing more I think. Suddenly I broke from her, and rushed wildly out into the garden, down the meadows, and hastened on to the river. Here, in a secret nook, in which I was fond of hiding, I threw myself, and burst out into uncontrollable weeping : my excited run had kept the tears back until then. Mark and Mr. Gresham, walking slowly in the distance, had seen me flying along so wildly, and, not recognizing me, had hastened to the spot.

They would have withdrawn quietly on observing me, and satisfying themselves that instead of throwing myself desperately into the water, I was but crying my soul out on the banks ; but I saw them, and cried out passionately, — " So even you will not leave me alone. After Esther's plaguing and worrying, and provoking sermons, I think you might let me have some peace." Mr. Gresham walked quickly away, and Mark only stayed to say gently, — " I beg your pardon, Effie dear : we did not know it was you : we do not mean to disturb you;" and then he followed his friend and left me alone. The next day I begged pardon for my rudeness to Mark, and told him to apologize for me to Mr. Gresham. They were both of them kinder than ever to me from that day. William came twice to see us. He was dreadfully shocked at his mother's death, and feared that the excitement of his visit had hastened it.

"Dear Will," I said, to comfort him, and in so doing comforted myself, " her life was no pleasure to her : she did but wait to meet him again. She is happy now that she is with him once more." "Yes," he replied sadly; "when we lost one parent we lost the other too." He asked my uncle what he meant to do for the twins and myself, and told him that the railway company had paid a considerable sum of money in compensation for my father's death. This I did not know at the time, but was so horrified when I afterwards heard of it, at the idea of compensation for such a loss, that I vowed I would never touch a penny of it. William said quietly that it was necessary to take it for the girls' sake, and for little Felix, who would have to be kept at school and then given a start in life. AVilliam himself had literally nothing : he was, as it were, beginning life again, but my father's debts were entirely and honourably discharged by the end of the year.

For the present, Uncle Nicholas said we must all remain with him, though the twins cried bitterly at the decision, they longed so greatly to return to town with William. In the middle of November, a damp, dreary, depressing month at Eglantine, Mark and Esther left us : they could neither of them stay any longer. I felt very sad at the thought of their absence : I wondered how we could possibly get on alone with Uncle Nicholas and Aunt Philippa. To the very last Esther was talka tive and cheerful. I was lying on a sofa in the drawing-room, pretending to read to get out of the noise and bustle of the departure. She came to me with her active step, and face all bright and rosy and smiling, to bid me farewell. What a contrast to my pale, listless attitude! She bade me good-bye somewhat lengthily, with many hopes for my return to cheerfulness.

She wished she could give me some of her good spirits, and I nearly answered that it would be good for all, but checked myself and kissed her passively. " Esther, Esther ! " some one called, and with a decidedly rousing kiss, that must have left a scar on my cheek, she left me. Tears of weariness and weakness came into my eyes : I hoped Mark would not forget me. No. Just ten minutes before it was time to start he came and sat down beside me while every one else was standing chatting in the hall. How much we had to say, and yet how silent we were. It was not worth while to begin a sentence; when the wheels of that inevitable fly would stop it half way. Mark said gently that he was very sorry to say good-bye ; that he had been very happy with me. He said particularly "with you," and not " here," but he did not seem to observe the mistake.

He added, very simply and straightforwardly, — " I suppose Aunt Philippa would not let us write to one another, although we are cousins, but I shall hope to hear of you, and trust to meeting again some day." Then I roused myself, for I heard distinctly the approach of the fly in the distance. A GOLDEN MEMO R LES. flush came into my cheeks, and tears filled my eyes, as Mark slowly rose to depart. I rose too, and stood beside him. " Good-bye," I said, " and thank you, dear Mark, for all your kindness : don't think I have not noticed and been grateful to you for it. Of all the strangers here, you alone have known how to make real sorrow less bitter." Then I lifted my face to his, the old home habit returning, for we thought very little of the propriety of kissing any one we loved there. But Mark had been bred in a more rigid school of etiquette, and drew back a little, then, just glancing timidly round to see if we were alone, bent down and kissed my cheek, clasping my hands tightly, and blushing all over like a schoolboy.

Then he hurried away, not daring again to look round. I stood by the table in a kind of maze, where he had left me. The boxes were being piled up on the fly ; Uncle Nicholas was saying that the train waited for no one ; something was forgotten ; there was a rushing up-stairs. I fancied even that I heard Esther's farewell kisses. Then crunch, crunch, the GOLDEN MEM OR LES. 17 gravel was crushed by the wheels, the front door was shut ; I rushed to the window in time to see the driver's hat between the almost leafless branches of the trees. Aunt Philippa came gliding into the room, her face was drawn, but her eyes were quite dry. " Effie, why did you not come down to say good-bye to your cousins ? They have been so kind to you ! but you have no gratitude, no affection." 0 VOL.

Chapter II. The Twins Get Their Own Wat

Check not my stay; I must not delay : Away ! Away ! Baron Wilson. Oh, ye who never knew the joys Of friendship, satisfied with noise, Concert, and ball, and rout, Blush when I tell you how a bird, A prison, with a friend, preferr'd To liberty without ! COWPER. "HEAR old Mark, what sunshine left the house with his familiar, plain face ! The whole household seemed uncomfortable and unsettled after the departure of the guests. One day I was seized with an impulse to GOLDEN MEaUORIES. 19 pay grandmamma a visit : for weeks I had not passed the threshold of her room ; it would have been all the same to me if she had not existed. And now it was only the rest less feeling1 of nothing' to do that found me tapping at her door, and softly letting myself in. I found her alone. Had Aunt Philippa been there I should have flown away ; as it was, I went up to the bedside.

Grandmamma could not move either hand to take mine, but she welcomed me with her eyes, and said, softly and sympathizingly, — " You have come to see the old woman at last, Effie, my dear." " Oh, grandmamma, I didn't think you would care — " " Not care, my dear ! I he here all the day long, and though I sleep a great deal, and like to be quiet and alone sometimes, yet I care to see my Addie's children." My eyes filled with tears, my voice was too much choked for utterance. " There, there, dearie, you won't come to see grannie if she makes you cry." "Oh, I will, I will come again," and I c buried my face in the bedclothes, and burst into a passion of tears. Here was sympathy where I had least expected it, and least deserved it. And yet had not she lost a daughter when I had lost a mother ? Yes, but she was passing away from this world's joys and sorrows; no blow could fall very heavily on her now.

She soothed me with a few gentle words, and I went away vowing to myself to come and see grannie again very soon. The next morning I offered rather shyly to read to her, and was deeply ashamed of my former indifference, when I heard her answer, — " Do, dearie, I shall like it very much, a little at a time. I soon get tired." Then as I searched for a book, she directed me where to find one, saying, " Esther has left the mark in where she left off, dear child : how I do miss her !" "Did Esther read to you, grannie ?" " Yes, she was very good : she came to see me every day, aud read to me a little while in the morning, and again in the afternoon." GOLDEN MEMORIES. 21 I felt mortified and humbled as I began my new task, and only felt cheered and bright ened when grandmamma told me to stop, adding, — " You have a sweet, clear voice, Effie dear, it is like music to my old ears.

You will come again ? ' ' I kissed her warmly, and promised, feeling happier than I had done for weeks as I left the room. In the evening Bernard Gresham came : he offered to play chess with Uncle Nicholas. At the end of one game, however, the latter was called away, and Bernard turned to me and asked me to play. " I should like it, but I have never learnt the game," I replied. " Let me teach you;" and soon we were deep in the first principles of chess. Uncle Nicholas came in, and was delighted to find me learning his favourite game. " I didn't think you were so sensible, Effie, but it is a good game, and I shall enjoy playing with you through the winter, if you learn pretty quickly." Once he looked over my shoulder and said approvingly, — " She is an apt pupil, Gresham, but how you can have the patience to teach a game you play so well I cannot conceive."

" I like it very much," replied the other quietly. " Then you shall finish the instruction, and make her fit to cope with me." And my Uncle laughed a little at his own selfishness. I began from time to time to look forward to the chess hour as the one amusing hour of the twenty-four. Few evenings passed that Mr. Gresham did not drop in about eight o'clock to continue his instruction, and after a monotonous day of books and work, with a damp, depressing air dulling the windows of the drawing-room, no wonder if eight o'clock received a grateful welcome from me. Thus the winter passed away with little excitement or change. After a time I re commenced my studies, and began to practise again regularly, when I could be sure of having the piano to myself, with no fear of irritating Aunt Philippa over her accounts or GOLDEN ME MOR LES. 23 needlework.

When once I prevailed on myself to open my books they possessed for me the same absorbing interest they had before commanded. To my former studies I now added others, unconsciously suggested by Mark, Mr. Gresham, and even Esther. The poetry and subjects for meditation that I selected, all took their colour from their influence, and the new aspirations they had infused. I felt happier than I had done for months, because more at peace ; trouble had subdued and made me gentle, searching after truth was purifying, and showing me the way to rest. How long would this last ? Had circumstances such a power to change ? Would one month of my old life dispel these new feel ings, and send me reckless, wild, upon myself again ? Just now, though, the monotony of our lives was rather trying at times. I was in no mood for gaiety, and was willing to be content with an occasional evening spent at the Greshams', or with having the mother and son to spend an hour or two with us.

Not so the twins. Poor girls, they pined ceaselessly for London, their old life, and their friends. They were, as they said, vegetating in this country place. Aunt Philippa had no sympathy with -their art, and was always urg ing upon them more homely employments, to which they never acceded with a good grace. They were wasting their time ; in fact, in London they could be having continual instruction, and the help of seeing the works of great artists : here they were doing nothing. And piteous were the entreaties sent to William to help them to get back to town. He said if they were patient he would manage it, and in the January of the following year they had their wish gratified. William had looked about for a home for them, one both suitable and comfortable, and had found one in an artist's family near to his own quarters.

Of course the girls had wished to live with him, but he could not afford to give up bachelor ways and under take housekeeping responsibilities, so that was out of the question. They then sug gested many of their friends with whom they could be very happy; but William, with wise superiority, overruled their eager suggestions. He had selected a family where the mother, not herself highly gifted, ruled well and orderly in her httle household. She had young children, and was graver and sedater than our friends were wont to be. I felt that William had made a very wise choice in the home for Idalia and Alice. Aunt Philippa herself went up to town to see what home her nieces were to have. She was quite satisfied, and came back in a high state of approbation. " I shall be close by," William had told her, " and it will be good also for Felix to have a home.

After all, it is better for the girls to be here than in the country." " Perhaps so," said my aunt, " as they could neither be useful nor happy with us." She thought the twins ungrateful, but she could not in the least understand the pur gatory of their present life. There was no question of my going too. It seemed to be a settled thing that I should be left behind, GOLDEN MEMORIES. perhaps because of Aunt Philippa' s promise long ago to provide for me if I gave up my musical profession. I certainly shrank sensitively from the pain of going back to London : it would have been no pleasure to me to bring back the past without my dear ones to share it. Once Aunt Philippa made a slight allusion to my staying at Eglantine : she told the girls she was sorry they could not be reconciled, like Effie, to a quiet life.