Between the Heather and the Northern Sea

Front matter

BETWEEN THE HEATHER AND THE NORTHERN SEA. " Birds ! we but repeat on you What amongst ourselves we do. Somewhat more or somewhat less, 'Tis the same unskilfulness. What you feel escapes our ken — Know we more our fellow-men ? Human suffering at our side, Ah, like yours is undescried ! Human longings, human fears, Miss our eyes and miss our ears ; Little helping, wounding much, Dull of heart and hard of touch, Brother man's despairing sign, Who may trust us to divine ? " Matthew Arnold. BETWEEN THE HEATHER AND THE NORTHERN SEA. EV MAEY LINSKILL, ("STEPHEN YOKKE") AUTHOR OF "TALES OF THE NORTH RIDING," "CLEVEDEN," ETC. IN THBEE VOLUMES. VOL. III. LONDON: RICHAED BENTLEY AND SON, Publisfjrrs in ©rtrinarg to pjer fHajtstg tfjj ©turn. 1884. {All rights reserved.]) FRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES.

CONTENTS OF VOL. III. CHAPTER FAGS I, " Turn thy Wild Wheel thro' Sunshine, Storm, and Cloud" 1 II, " Victorious in a Strife where once he failed" 24 III. Words which lift up One Corner of the Veil 37 IV, " Let Joy break with the Storm " "Thus I entered, and thus I go" ... " And to make Idols, and to find them 52 V. 70 VI. Clay " 93 VII. VIII. A Fireside Scene 110 " Is all our Fire of Shipwreck Wood? " " I have more Care to stay than Will 127 IX. to go" 137 X. " I know the Traces of the Ancient Flame " 160 XI. XII. XIII. XIV. " Late, Late, so Late ! " 169 " What I did not Well, I meant Well " A Vesper Bell 184 206 Sapphires and Agates CONTENTS. VI PAGE CHAPTER " I have dared and done. So now I WILL TRY TO SLEEP " XV, 245 XVI. " Full in the Smile of the Blue Firmament " 263 XVII. " Thither our Path lies : wind we up the Heights" ... 279 XVIII.

" Expecting still his Advent Home " 286 XIX. It might have been 293 XX. " Lady, you utter Madness and not Sorrow" XXI. XXII. " The Day so Placid in its Going" 332 The Drifting Snow upon Langbarugh Moor ... 348 XXIII. " Fresh as the Wilding Hedge-rose Cup" 364 Epilogue .. BETWEEN THE HEATHER AND THE NORTHERN SEA.

Chapter I

" TURN THY WILD WHEEL THRO* SUNSHINE. STORM, AND CLOUD." " Round me too the night In ever-nearing circle weaves her shade. I see her veil draw soft across the day, I feel her slowly chilling breath invade The cheeks grown thin, the brown hair sprent with grey; I feel her finger light Laid pausefully upon life's headlong train ; — The foot less prompt to meet the morning dew, The heart less bounding at emotion new, And hope, once crush'd, less quick to spring again." Matthew Arnold. When Genevieve came down from her little room under the thatch on the morning of the concert-day her eyes were alight with a new VOL. III. anticipation. It was not the evening's success for which she was so eager, but the morning's pleasure. There was a hoar frost upon the land. A cup of tea, some dry toast was waiting.

" They've only looked at the tray," Keturah said to herself a few minutes later, when she saw her master and mistress going out arm in-arm, stepping from a cottage door into a wide, still realm of perfect and unearthly seeming beauty. The trees stood as if moved to a conscious calm by their own exceeding loveliness ; every bough, every twig, made you feel as if you had never in your lifetime noticed the perfectness of form and curve displayed by a branching tree. The rime was everywhere, on the tiniest point of the tiniest briar-leaf; and the undertones of colour struck through the thin diamond encrustation with an altogether new and delicate tenderness of tint and tone. They went down to the studio by the grassy orchard ways, brushing sparkling crystals from the undergrowth at every step.

Grenevieve's white pigeons were wheeling up against the blue-grey mono- " TURN THT WILD WHEEL." 3 tone of the sky. All else was motionless. The studio was full of a steady and admirable light for painting. It had to be concentrated •a little on the spot where the easel stood with the " Sir Galahad " upon it. It was many weeks since Bartholomew had touched the fine spiritual-looking head before him. He was a little surprised by it ; more than a little glad. Yet it seemed like another man's work — something with which he had no right to trifle. Genevieve watched his face as he stood looking into the soft, blue, upturned eyes on the canvas. Her hand was still within her father's arm ; when she saw that he was glad she let her cheek rest affectionately upon his shoulder. " The morning rime is good," she said with an apparent irrelevance.

" All beauty is good," replied the artist. " I wonder when man will surprise the last secret of beauty. We are far from it yet — the best of us." " But it is something to be seeking." " Yes ; it is something. It is much to the man who has found the right clue. Till now I have been wandering on without a clue. Yret even in wandering I trust I did what it was given to me to do." Genevieve stood silent a moment; her heart was beating a little, as if she herself was on the verge of discovery of some larger law. . . . Then there came a sound into the silence. " There— run, dear— that is the postman's horn," said Bartholomew, with a sudden greyness passing across his face. Genevieve came back in a minute or two smiling, almost breathless, holding a letter aloft. " Here is the Richmond crest ! " she said.

" A cross patonce, azure, between four etoiles ; and the Richmond motto — ' Fides prœstantior auro.' Let me be mercenary, and hope that the Richmond cheque is equally imposing ! " Bartholomew's hand trembled in a very evident manner as he took the note. There was no responsive smile on his grey face ; no sign of relief. It was characteristic of him that he looked about for a paper-knife, and cut the envelope with an unusual deliberate ness. He read the note silently. Then he sat '• TURN THY WILD WHEEL." 5 down, not lifting his eyes to his daughter's face. " Don't say that the cheque is not there, father ! " Genevieve said, coming round to where he sat, and stroking his thin grey hair in a tender, loving way. " Read the note, little one," the father said, handing it to her. It was a very brief note.

If it were cruel, it was not elaborate cruelty. If it were hard and unseeing, the hardness was not prolonged. If it struck like a blow, the blow was quickly dealt. " / have received your letter," Mr. Richmond wrote. " The pictures are very good, but the />iice is more than f expected. Will you take them back ? I think you icould be able to dis pose of them." Genevieve put her arm round her father's neck, and drew his face to hers and kissed him. The worst of the sickening shock was over when they began to speak of it. " You will have noticed that Mr. Richmond has not mentioned his sister's name," Bar tholomew said. "Yes," replied Genevieve; "and I also remember that Miss Richmond did not allude to the pictures that day when she met Mr. Kirkoswald here. I do not think that she has alluded to them at all."

" What inference do you draw ? " "That there is not perfect confidence in this matter between the brother and sister." " So I think ; and so I fear." " You fear ? " " Yes. Miss Richmond's pride alone would have saved us such a stroke as this." In writing to Cecil Richmond Bartholomew had, of course, mentioned the price of the pictures. The view of Yarrell Croft was to be fifty guineas, the garden-scene seventy. " But it is so little ! " Genevieve had said. " You would have put double that price upon them if you had sent them to London." This was true ; and the knowledge that it was true did much to relieve the keenness of the overwhelming blow that had fallen ; and it did something toward raising a suspicion of complications underneath the affair that neither Noel Bartholomew nor his daughter might do more than suspect.

Y^et, as was " TURN THY WILD WHEEL." 7 natural, the man wearied himself with trying to arrive at some solution of this strange turn of events. He was altogether weary and heart-sick. " I am quite incapable of discerning what it will be wisest to do now," he said. " I have never before had to contend with cir cumstances like this, with a nature like this. I am baffled utterly." In the end he wrote again to Mr. Rich mond, simply explaining that he could not expect to find a purchaser for pictures that were so entirely of the nature of portraiture. Few men would care to buy a matter-of-fact representation of another man's house, another man's grounds. He was sorry to seem dis obliging, but he could not do this thing that was asked of him. Then, with a painful effort, he added, " My present circumstances do not permit of it.

And as to reducing the price of the pictures, that would be virtually to admit that I had valued them too highly at first. Y'ou are probably aware how far this is from being the fact." That was all. The letter was sent to the post, and then again Bartholomew and his daughter set themselves to wait with patience. A new quietness, a new yieldingness seemed to have come down upon the poor fate-torn artist. When the evening came he consented, without hesitation, to go down with his daughter to the music-room. •o " I would go if it were only as a matter of gratitude, dear," he said, speaking as lightly and g-ailv as he might do. " Think of it— if I had been alone through all this ! What should I have clone ? " " I don't know what you would have done," replied Genevieve, stroking the thin nervous hand she held, and speaking with a respon sive gaiety ; " I don't know what you would have done, since you are a man.

A woman would have opened her piano, and would have sung ' Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.' " " And all the while her heart would have been breaking." " Sir Walter Scott says that ' a woman's heart takes a Ions: time o' breakine;.' ' " So he does ; but he is careful to make the addition, ' That's according to the stuff they're made o', sir.' " " TURN THY AVILD WHEEL." 9 " Then since mine is made of very strong stuff, I will go and dress. ... I shall be ready in ten minutes, my father." **;*■ The wreaths were all in their places — ivy for friendship, laurel for ambition, with here and there a glowing red chrysanthemum, blushing because it must always say, " I love." There was some dark yew there also, and a spray or two of cypress. The soft lamplight had been streaming down some time when Noel Bartholomew and his daughter went into the music-room.

Mrs. Caton was ar ranging the girls on the platform. She had taken the children under her especial pro tection, and had provided each little girl with a warm dark-red frock for the winter concert evenings ; whereupon Mrs. Darner had said that Mrs. Caton was growing quite sensible ; and Miss Standen had added that she hoped .sensibleness was like charity, and began at home. These small amenities of speech in nowise interfered with the amenity of the general effect of things. Two or three more young ladies had been invited, who could sing pretty songs and wear pretty dresses. One of them looked like a tall straight daffodil, with its petals arranged as multitudinous frills. A little stout lady beside her had the appearance of a toilet pincushion, with her deep white flounce and underskirt of pale pink.

Mrs. Caton had besought everybody to look up their old evening dresses, and to put them on when they came to sing. She was quite sure the fisher-folk of Soulsgrif Bight would take it as a compliment. A belief in pleasing and effective colour was one of the chief articles of her social creed. It was an insult to your neighbourhood to wear a gown that the eye could not rest upon with pleasure, or sooth ing, or satisfaction. Aud Mrs. Caton was a consistent woman. Genevieve went smiling up to the platform in her white serge dress. She had a double band of plain black velvet round her head, confining her yellow rippling hair after the manner seen on Greek coins. Mr. Severne had offered her his arm, and he went with her across the back of the platform to where George Kirkoswald stood talking to Wilfrid Stuart about some violin-music.

George did "TURN THY WILD WHEEL." 11 not know that Genevieve had come. He was intending to walk a little way up the Bank when this last arrangement was made ; and now here was a clear penetrating voice close beside him, saying, with a little quiver in it, " How do you do, Mr. Kirkoswald ? " He started visibly as he turned. " I have only been home two hours," he said, taking Genevieve's hand in his for a moment. He said the words as if he meant them for an apology ; but none was needed now that he was there, looking into her eyes alone, trying to read at a glance the history of the days. There was nothing that was difficult of inter pretation. Love can always be read, and faith, and joy — these being simple things and good. It is sorrow that is complex, and mean motive, and evil will. The concert began with a trio, Mrs. Caton and Miss Damer at the piano, while Wilfrid Stuart played the violin.

It was some music of Donizetti's — the overture to Lucia di Lam mermoor — and it was being played very effectively, so the people thought who were listening, and who were capable of judging. They were not all listening. Genevieve was sitting on a chair, half hidden by the piano, thinking what a curious meeting it had been, meeting hands and meeting glances on a raised platform, with pink lights shining down, and green wreaths whispering fidelity. Agatha Darner was sitting on the other side of her, in a dress of willow-green embroidered with white silk daisies. George Kirkoswald stood behind, between the two chairs, carried away on the quivering notes of the violin, lifted into realms of resolute hoping, deter mined defying. Quite unknown to himself his hand had grasped the back of Genevieve's chair — he was grasping it as if he had caught and conquered his life's greatest enemy, over come his last and most invincible difficulty.

The moment of imagined victory is often the moment of real defeat. George was still in the height of his rapt mood when the door of the music-room turned on its hinge. It was Miss Richmond who entered, moving gracefully forward to the concluding strains of the overture. There was no vacant seat in front, but Noel Bartholomew rose from his instantly. Felicie, who accompanied her mis tress, retired to the farther end of the room. " TURN THY WILD WHEEL." 13 There was no one there but was wondering what strange vagary had possessed Miss Richmond to come down from Yarrell Croft on a midwinter evening in order to be present at an entertainment which hardly pretended to be above the " penny-reading " class. She was dressed from head to foot in rich, costly furs, but the room being warm she threw her mantle aside, displaying a handsome violet tinted dress adorned with lace and ribbons.

Yet it Avas not her dress, but herself, that made a presence in the room- — an oppressiA-e presence for some, though she sat so quietly, and listened so attentiA^ely, resting her chin on her white hand, as she did everyAvhere, and leaning forward, Avith an apparent un consciousness of herself, of her beauty, of her dress, that made her seem to be the most absolutely picturesque Avoman that eA'er breathed. Even Noel Bartholomew, standing there at a little distance, said to himself, " If I could paint Miss Richmond as she sits at the present moment, I should win the ap plause of the world for the production of a new type of feminine beauty and character." Doubtless such a picture would have been in a measure new. It is seldom that a woman is at once so beautiful, so strong, so varied, so capable of evil, so desirous of good, as Diana Richmond appeared to be as she sat there, listening to Mr. Severne as he sang The Lost Chord ; to Agatha Damer Avhen she sang Forgive and Forget ; to Genevieve, \rho sang Schubert's Adieu.

Wilfrid Stuart came in between with his violin ; and Mrs. Caton swept the keys of the pianoforte Avith quite neAv force of execution since Miss Richmond Avas there to listen. It was well known in the neighbourhood that Miss Richmond was no musician ; and say that hoAV you will, you speak of the absence of a power not ahvays fully understood. That the music in you is quite mute is much as if you said, " I have not learnt to speak the thing I should like to utter." All the evening George KirkosAvald remained on the platform ; he would not again desert his post, be the post ever so trifling. He stood with folded arms betAveen the piano and the screen of red-berried holly, tall, erect, seeming as if he frowned more in thoughtful ness than in sadness or perplexity. More " TURN THY AVILD WHEEL." 15 than once he looked toward where Miss Richmond sat with her beautiful upturned face, and her white eyelids dropping over dark, inscrutable eyes.

He felt that he had more strength within himself than he had had when he met those eyes before. The concert came to an end at last, though the programme had not been a brief one. Noel Bartholomew came forward and shook hands with Miss Richmond, Avho thanked him with a quiet and intent graciousness for giving up his seat. That was the mood she was in— a quiet, graceful, courteous mood, Avhich seemed all the quieter because no one could help dhuning the strong meanings and yearnings that were deliberately subdued and hidden underneath. They Avere only half hidden. Every glance and gesture betrayed them. If she turned her head it was as if she cried out for sympathy. The people were going out. Genevieve went with Mrs. Caton into the inner room to put on her hat and cloak. When George Kirkoswald came up to where Bartholomew stood listening to Miss Richmond, she was saying, " I am waiting for your daughter.

She Avill accept a seat in the carriage this evening, it is so cold." Then she turned to George, holding out her pretty hand, " Y'ou will persuade Miss Bartholomew, will you not ? Though it is so moonlight and so lovely, the air is very chill." Genevieve did not need much persuasion. There was a little of the old authoritativeness in George's glance. " You will accept Miss Richmond's kindness," he said with quiet emphasis. He went Avith them to the carriage. Fe'licie was there with rugs and shawls. The moon was shining down with its fullest, frostiest shining. Genevieve had taken her seat ; Miss Richmond stood hesitating, Avith one foot on the step. She was looking upward ; the soft light was on her face and in her wistful eyes. "I had something to say," she began, speaking gently and slowly.

" What was it ? Why should people always haA^e to put things into words? I Avish one might be under stood without words ! " "I wonder if I do understand?" Kirk oswald said. He could not speak plainly. " TURN THY AVILD WHEEL." 17 and Miss Richmond knoAv that he could not. Yet he felt her mood through his oavii. She was changing, relenting. She wished him to be happy ; she wished to try to offer him recompense for the long, dull, aching misery that she had caused him. All this passed through his mind in a single flash of thought, but he could not utter it. Miss Richmond was getting into the carriage without making any sign that he could interpret. " I shall come over to Yarrell," he said. " I shall come purposely to see if you have remembered what it was that you wanted to say to me to-night."

The carriage Avent slowly up the cliff-side. BartholomeAV and KirkosAvald folloAved, talking, as men will talk, of anythingand everything so that it be not the thing nearest to them at the moment. Bartholomew could not help feeling both perplexed and disap pointed. He had been so certain that the coining of Miss Richmond to Soulsgrif Bight had in some way been connected with the circumstances that were pressing so heavily upon himself. She had come to disclaim any influence over her brother — to decline to be vol. in. BETAVEEN HEATHER AND SEA. responsible for him or for his actions : there ■were many side-motives that she might have had. It Avas not uncharacteristic of her to choose a place and time so singular for any communication that she might have to make. But Avhen opportunity came she had taken no advantage of it.

And BartholomeAV knew that it was not for him to do so. Diana Richmond had had nothing to do with the transactions between her brother and him self. And Miss Richmond made no mention of the matter during the drive home. Gene vieve Avaited expectantly ; she spoke of her father, of his Avork, but she did not succeed in eliciting any response that Avould have made it easy for her to go at once to the heart of this strange involution of things that was testing her father's strength so far. But before the carriage stopped at Netherbank, Genevieve Avas certain that Diana Rich mond's impassiveness in the matter Avas a conscious and deliberate impassiveness. " Miss Richmond knows it all," she said to her father next morning, as he sat there with the clear light shining down upon him, and " TURN THY AVILD AVHEEL." 19 upon the work that he could not touch.

" There is something behind that we cannot see. But Ave shall see if we wait." " Do you knoAv what waiting means, child?" " Yes ; at least I think I do. And by way of preparing for the worst I have given Keturah a week's holiday." There Avas no exclamation, no expostula tory remark. BartholomeAv had arrived at the point Avhen a man becomes aware that expostulation is idle, and exclamation frivo lous. He accepted, with a keen pang, the idea that his daughter must light his kitchen fire, prepare his dinner, and sweep his room. The only thing that made the idea support able was the thought of compensation. He had a theory that a time of sadness and trial is usually folloAved by a time of peace and satisfaction. " I have only to think of George Herbert Avhen I am trying to handle Keturah's broom in the morning," Genevieve said.

They were sitting in the firelight. The day had gone, and after much persuasion Keturah had gone too, but not Avithout tears and protestations. BETWEEN HEATHER AND SEA. " You are thinking of Herbert's poem ? " Bartholomew asked. " Yes :— ' Who sweeps a room as for Thy law, Makes that and the action fine.' So I shall sweep conscientiously ; and if I am aAvkward I shall think of Natalie Narishkin.'" " And it will not be for long, dear." " But you are not thinking that I am speaking of it because I mind it, father ? In deed, you should know me better than that. No one enjoys new experiences and experi ments more than I do ; I enjoy them for their own sake. . . . And there is more behind this," Genevieve added, Avith a change of tone. " Yes, there is more behind," Bartholomew replied. " Through all this trial I have felt that it was a permission to taste a little of the cup of pain as it is mixed for others.

Think of the people who all their life long live as Ave are living now — in fear, in uncer tainty, and on the very verge of Avant. One finds the secret of such sorrow. It is not hunger, nor the dread of death by hunger. It is the continued mental anxiety, never "TURN THY AVILD AVHEEL." 21 lifted, never relaxed. . . . May God help but one such sufferer for my suffering and my prayer to-night," he added reATerently, as a fresh gust of Avind dashed a shoAver of sleety hail upon the windoAv-pane. •s- It Avas not the delicate, rarely-seen rime that whitened and brightened the Avorld next morning-, but the effect of the light showers of snow that had fallen during the frosty night Avas almost equally beautiful. If it were less mystic, more pronounced, it Avas also less evanescent. Genevieve dressed herself in the chill twi light with a decided feeling of novelty and amusement.

She Avould have no part to act for her father's cheering and sympathy. An old tennis-apron was carefully pinned on. " I think I shall carry a duster in the pocket permanently," she said to herself, with a smile. Then, in a graver mood, she sat down to glance for a few moments over the pages of a book that Avas lying on the table : — " 0 righteous Father, and ever to be praised, the hour is come that Thy servant is to be proved. " 0 beloved Father, meet and right it is that in this hour Thy servant should suffer something for Thy sake. " 0 Father, evermore to be honoured, the hour is come which from all eternity Thou didst foreknow should come ; that for a short time Thy servant should outwardly be oppressed, but inwardly should ever live with Thee." Hoav small everything seemed when it Avas* set in such a light as that !

How trhaal these crosses and labours were ! She could only go downstairs yearning to put her best strength into each moment as it came ; to do whatever her hand found to clo with all the might that was in her. These were the words that went on echoing, " Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do." They seemed to be in the frosty air that was coming in at the open door. It was the orchard-door. Her father had gone down to the studio, then ! She would follow him at once. Doubt less he was attempting some deed that she must disalloAv — lighting the studio fire, per haps, or cleaning the grate. All the Avay down under the rugged snoAv laden apple-trees GenevieA*-e went, smiling and prematurely scolding. A young spruce fir threAV its strong, snowy arms across the doorway, yet GenevieA-e could see that the door was open.

There was a little porch of " TURN THY AVILD WHEEL." 23 trellis-work, with some dark, bright ivy clus tering about, it ; and underneath . . . what Avas the meaning of the thing that she saw underneath ? What might it mean to see standing there, leaning back against the little porch, two large pictures in handsome brightly-gilded frames ? One on either side they stood, only half under cover. At the first glance GenevieA'e saw that they were the Yarrell Croft pictures. At the second glance she saAV the hand that had painted them lying outstretched across the floor, the grey head that had con ceived them lying upon the fallen arm. The face was downward . . . the dark, prostrate figure stirless. . . . But one cry — but one great, piercing cry Avent up through the silence — "My father ! my father! my father I Would God I had died for thee ! "

Chapter II

"VICTORIOUS IN A STRIFE WHERE ONCE HE FAILED. " Formerly He turned his face upon me quick enough If I said ' father.' Now, I might cry loud." E. B. Browning. Do people, when they lose their presence of mind, always do the thing that they ought not to have done ? May not a serviceable instinct take the place of the lost mind ? Surely the impulses that come of a lifelong habit of right feeling, sensible thinking, can not always be Avrong when called in at a crisis. It seems probable that many a one who gets credit for presence of mind in an emergency might be Avilling to confess that mind had nothing to do with the matter at all. A shock, a stun, scattered senses, a passionate " AVHERE ONCE HE FAILED." 25 desire to be doing something — that is all that can be remembered, though the people praise you ever so loudly.