Cleveden [A novel.] ... A new edition

Front matter

Ob, purblinl race of miserable men, How many among us, at this veiy hour, Do forge a life-long trouble for ourselves By taking true for false, or false for true !' Tennyson. CLEVEDEN BY MARY LINSKILL -v- -C A ['THOR OF ' BETWEEN THE HEATHER AND TBE NORTHERN SEA,' ' THE HAVEN UNDER THE HILL,' 'IN EXCHANGE FOR A SOUL,' ETC. A NEW EDITION LONDON RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON ihibltshcrs in (Drbirmrn to gjcr jtl.ij.stu llu fijiucn 1892 [All rights reserved] ikiwatei WITH MUCH AFFECTION TO MY VERY DEAR FRIENDS AT BINGHAM RECTORY. CONTENTS BOOK FIRST. MISTAKES. CHAPsER PACE I. THE OLD HALL - - - - - 3 II. A DAUGHTER OF VANITY - ... 7 III. AT ESK COTTAGE - - - - - 17 IV. DISAPPOINTMENT - - - - -43 V. A WORD THAT WAS REMEMBERED - - -54 BOOK SECOND. TEMPTATION. I. NEW KNOWLEDGE AND ITS CONSEQUENCES - - 71 II.

BY MOOR AND MOUNTAIN - - - - 90 BOOK THIRD. AU DESESPOIR. I. VIGNETTES ------ 107 II. MISS KABURY ..... 123 III. HARD TO UNDERSTAND .... 140 IV. NATHAN BOULBY'S ERRAND - 150 V. WHAT THE WHISPERING MEANT • - - CONTENTS BOOK FOURTH. THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH. CHAPTF.R PACE I. BY THE RIVER-SIDE ----- 185 II. WINTER-TIME ----- 202 III. ABREPTUS ...--- 223 BOOK FIFTH. AFTERMATH. I. IMPULSES ------ 247 II. AT NETHERTON-LE-MOORS - - - . 265 III. THE SOUNDS IN THE SHELL - - - 273 IV. MORNING SUNSHINE ----- 281 V. THE ENVIOUS LITTLE CLOUD - - - 295 VI. ' AS YOU ARE GREAT BE PITIFULLY GOOD ' - - 313 VII. A TARDY CONFESSION - - - . CLEVEDEN BOOK FIRST .- MISTAKES

Chapter I. The Old Hall

' In the sweet spring days, With whitening hedges and uncrumpling fern, And blue-bells trembling by the forest ways, And scent of hay new-mown.' Matthew Arnold. There is not in all North Yorkshire a prettier village than Cleveden. Standing this bright May morning at the turn of the road leading from Bracken Gill, the scene spread out before us is one of exceeding beauty. Far away in the distance, purple ridges of moor land rise against the sky ; here and there the purple changes to tender blue, and here and there soft gray shadows come between. Nearer hills, exquisitely varied in form and colour, crowned with trees, and clad with trees quite down to the margin of the river, rise out of the emerald valleys. There is the low of cattle in far-off fields — the water CLEVEDEN 4 rushing down by the mill seems to lind an echo in the hillside where we stand that is like the surging of a distant sea.

There is a linnet twittering cheer fully in the furze bushes behind us, a lark carol ling overhead, and all round that dreamy hum of insect life which is so indescribably pleasant on a lazy summer's clay. The west wind comes softly to us from the hills on the other side of the valley, and over the sunlit landscape now and then a tiny cloud-shadow passes slowly. At the foot of the opposite hills, just on the other side of the river Esk, which flows at our feet, lies the village of Cleveden — a perfect gem in colour and outline. The background — a long undulating upland, is mapped out into irregular and many-coloured fields ; one or two farmhouses rise like little red specks over the heights ; and exquisitely-grouped trees, tender yellow-green trees just bursting into summer leanness, add grace and beauty to the scene.

One of these groups, the largest and most varied, rises out of the swelling hillside just behind the new church and the Rectory — two buildings in vivid but not unpleasing contrast to the quaint and ancient-looking village. The cottages, small graystone or whitewashed tenements, with high-peaked, red-fluted roofs, form THE OLD HALL 5 a long, irregular line leading from below the church to where the old Hall stands in picturesque dilapi dation. The white orchard-trees lie between us and the village now ; and there is a wide sweep of rich pasture-land on the opposite bank of the river, and a green hedgerow with quivering aspen trees. Were we to follow the river downward for about a mile, we should come to. the town of Port St. Hilda. But it is with Cleveden we have to do at present, more especially with Cleveden Hall.

It stands quite at the upper end of the village, the front of it rising in grim, brown-red stateliness not a dozen yards back from the road. The windows strike you first — they are so numerous ; and the stone mouldings above — green and gray and weather-stained — are of such quaint and various device. These windows are stone-mullioned and diamond-paned — that is, where there are any panes at all, but panes are exceptional. Each window would bear separate description. One has its two lower divisions filled up with stone flags, and one flag is yellow, and the other is gray ; and of the upper divisions one is of wood, and the other of straw. In another window the leaden frame work still remains, but the tiny green panes are much broken, and behind is glaring new red brick CLEVEDEN and white mortar : and in and out through the broken glass swallows are passing swiftly.

In front of the old house is a high-walled garden — garden once, almost thicket now ! A variegated holly-tree bends over the wall, three lilac-trees bend in the same direction ; further down are the almost bare branches of an aged laburnum ; and underneath is a tangled mass of shrubs, plants, rank grass, and weeds. The paths are grown over, the gate is broken, the massive front door, unopened for years, is brown and cracked and seared-looking ; and there is a general ah of decay and desolation. At the back of the house things are better. If the grass in the wide paddock is rank and coarse, it is of a brilliant green, and there is a middle distance of white orchard, with glhupses of winding river. Beyond is a background of hills — first the verdant hills, and then the tender hills, the blue and gray and purple mysteries I told you of before.

Chapter II

A DAUGHTER OF VANITY. ' I would not have the angel Gabriel As hard as you in noting down my sins.' George Eliot : The Spanish Gipsy. The coming of Abel Kirke and his daughter to Cleveden Hall had created some excitement in the little townlet. But that was six months ago. The excitement had subsided long before the time of which I write. Curiosity had, with much painful diligence, satisfied itself to the utmost. Yet all that could be ascertained only amounted to this — that Abel Kirke had sold his farm over at Branthwaite ; that he had preferred taking the old Hall just as it was, paying merely a nominal rent, to having it put into repair and paying the rent that would then have been demanded ; that he was a Dissenter ; that it was supposed that he had chosen Cleveden as a place to retire to because of its nearness to Port St. Hilda, where a favourite ' minister ' was stationed ; and that though he was himself a local preacher, and held in high repute for what was counted sanctity, yet that he was a keen hand at a bargain, and at all times slow to CLEVEDEN 8 untwist the canvas purse that required so much effort — physical as well as mental — before it could be drawn from the pocket of his corduroy knee breeches.

A glance at the interior of the Hall would seem to verify the latter part of this information. Even this bright May morning it is chilly, and vacant, and dolesome. And how the smell of ancient dust still lingers ! And what strange hollow sounds answer to the softest footfall from the old walls and the ceiling ! It may be true that, ' All houses wherein men have lived and died Are haunted houses,' but very few were so palpably haunted as Cleveden Hall. The rooms are, for the most part, empty, the stairs are carpetless, the windows curtainless, and in some of the lower rooms there is a damp heavy mouldiness in the air that is oppressive. There is only one sitting-room furnished — Jenny has done her best to make it habitable, but it is a very large room, and the few shabby horse-hair chairs, and the one sofa, look as if they had been brought into it by mistake.

At the further end of the room there is a little old square piano with a limited number of keys, and of this number a large per centage has no connection with the interior of the instrument. And near the window is an old brown desk — it is open now, and Abel is sitting before it, cautiously locking and unlocking little drawers and boxes, opening little brown - paper parcels, counting little rouleaux of bright gold sovereigns, and putting them back again exactly as they were before. He is a notable-looking old man, tall and powerfully built ; his hair white and silvery, his features striking, and his gray eyes deep-set and keen. He is dressed in his usual fashion, a long dark coat, blue worsted stockings, and a pair of much-worn drab knee-breeches. In this costume you might see him hi the pulpit were you occasionally to attend Bethel Chapel, Port St. Hilda.

There is a singular look on his face just now — a look of anxiety, almost of pain ; and as Jenny's sweet bird-like voice comes echoing down the stairs more clearly, this expression deepens on the old man's countenance. Jenny is dusting the bed rooms, and singing snatches of merry old songs, and she goes on carolling one after another, till at last Abel groans aloud ; and when he can bear to listen no longer he ties up the last little parcel CLEVEDEN 10 hastily, not forgetting to lock the desk, though his fingers tremble till he can hardly hold the key. And then he goes out, and stands in the shadow that is on the courtyard, and with uncovered head and hands beseechingly clasped together, he prays for his daughter aloud. And his concluding petition, now and always, is that she may be snatched as a brand from the burning.

Doubtless, a good and wise prayer, did Abel offer it in the sense in which it is usually offered ; but his private interpretation of the graphic Bible words needs brief explanation. Strange to say, though Abel Kirke was a ' shining light ' amongst the worshippers at Bethel Chapel, his daughter clung tenaciously to creeds more orthodox — tenaciously, if not understandingly ; and these creeds, taught by the mother who was resting awhile over in Branthwaite churchyard, were, in Abel's opinion, without doubt, responsible for Jenny's shortcomings. Her love of pleasure, her fondness for dress, her unsedate ways, her irrepressible spirits — were not these, one and all, clearly traceable to the teaching of the Church Catholic '. Abel Kirke considered the question an idle one, so decided was he in his own mind.

And his prayer for Jenny was simply a prayer that she might be brought to sit contentedly at the feet of the ' Rev.' Luke Verdon, minister of Bethel Chapel, Abbey Street, Port St. Hilda. But Abel's hopes of this were growing fainter every day. Jenny had negatived peremptorily the advances of Mr. Verdon, and of various members of his flock, and had made to herself friends amongst the carnal-minded people who worshipped at St. Martin's, at the other end of the village. . . . It was a terrible grief to the old man, and one that oppressed him sorely at times ; but he had ceased to speak of it. This Jenny Kirke, whose story I am about to write, was an essentially feminine little creature, affectionate, inconsequent, impulsive, many-sided. Not a character to be traced in outline, there was too much light foliage about it, and under the foliage too many shadows.

She was not beautiful by any means, but nearer to beauty than to prettiness. She had large, wondering, honest brown eyes ; rich, soft brown hair ; beautiful white teeth, and a pretty, rosy, pouting mouth ; but her complexion was sallow unless she was a little excited ; and her nose was an indescribable nose indeed. Yet no one ever CLEVEDEN 12 thought of analyzing the features of the changeful little face. The mobility of expression, the strong individuality that she had, and the atmosphere of brightness and happiness that was always about her, were sufficiently fascinating. But, sad to say, Jenny knew that she was fascinating, though there were times when the consciousness lent her an added power ; and it disposed her to cultivate little refinements of dress, habit, and manner that were native to her.

On the afternoon of this bright spring day, Jenny is in her own room — a wide, gray, half furnished room, with windows looking out over the forlorn front garden and the village street. Her toilette appears to be a matter of some importance to-day. Two dresses — dark ones — have been laid aside already, and she is looking dubiously at a third, a white muslin with tiny rose - coloured leaves dotted all over it. Jenny decides at last in favour of the muslin, as anyone with the slightest knowledge of her could have foretold. But she decides with a sigh. ' I have worn it so often at Mrs. Rede's,' she says to herself. ' Anthony will think I have no other.' And over the muslin dress Jenny fastens a broad pink sash, giving a little dissatisfied glance at herself in the looking-glass, because her waist is not quite so slender as it might be.

And presently she puts on a tight-fitting black velvet jacket, and a perky little black velvet hat with a white feather ; and after some further inspection of the muslin flounces and the sash, she gives a final curve to the pretty soft brown plaits that droop on her shoulder, looking in the glass as she does so, and saying to herself, with a half-smile of satisfaction, ' I wish I'd never worn my hair any other way but this. It suits me best, after all. . . . Rachel might have told me that Anthony didn't like chignons. I wonder if he likes curls'? Fred does ; I heard him say so. . . . I'll put my hair in papers to-night if I'm not too sleepy !' And then Jenny goes tripping lightly down the broad oak staircase, trilling out half unconsciously, ' Oh, who will o'er the downs so free . ' and stopping to open the low wide window to get a piece of scarlet japonica to fasten in her jacket.

She hesitates a moment in the hall ; a look of thoughtfulness comes over the sunny face, and then she turns into the narrow passage leading to the kitchen. ' You'll remember to have my father's tea ready CLEVEDEN 14 exactly at four, Milly,' she says, with an amusing little mistress-of-the-house air. Milly, a quick-eyed little maiden of fourteen, taking in Jenny's toilette at a glance, grins pleasantly, and says, ' Yes'm.' Jenny lingers to give a few more instructions, some of which might have been deferred ; and at last, perhaps not without effort, she goes slowly back to the hall, and opens the door of the shabby gray sitting room. ' Is tha gyne oot agean ?' Abel Kirke asks, with surprised eyes, and in an accent as purely Bœotian as it could well be. ' Yes, father . . . you know I told you that Mrs. Rede had asked me to tea to-day,' Jenny replies, adding, ' We're going to practise in the evening.' There is considerable deference in the intonation of her voice, and in her manner and attitude something of deprecation.

Abel, sitting with his hands on his knees, moves his white head to and fro as if new pain had come upon him, and a half -groan escapes him, but he makes no reply. It is a hard moment for Jenny. The pink flush of pleasure dies out of her face, and the long eye lashes droop heavily over the bright eyes ; a little sigh has to be stifled, and a great effort has to be made ; and then, moving forward impulsively, she lays one hand upon her father's arm, saying almost tenderly : ' Would you rather I didn't go ? I'll stay at home if you like — only tell me.' ' Nay, nay ; thou'd better go, since thy vain pleasureseeking heart is there already,' Abel replies. There is a marked change in his voice and accent, and also in his manner — -a change that Jenny understands fully, and she prepares herself for the exercise of patience.

A strange listener might not have needed to exercise this virtue consciously ; he would probably have found Abel Kirke's eloquence sufficiently interesting. Strange eloquence it was ! The old man himself could hardly have decided how much of it was really his, and how much of it was derived from long years of daily intercourse with the ancient prophets. His utterance, so common place on all ordinary occasions, rose to this Scriptural elevation on the slightest occasion extraordinary, rose perhaps too often, perhaps too readily. At times it wearied his daughter, and at other times almost irritated her ; she could hardly CLEVEDEN remember the time when the impression caused by it had been one of value. Yet to-day, as on all other days, she listens and looks perplexed, whilst Abel, with solemn yet impassioned earnestness, points out her sin, or prophesies her doom. ' The spirit of deep sleep hath been poured out upon thee ; thou art cast into a net by thine own feet ; thou hast altogether forsaken the island of the innocent.

Light wonder shall it be if thou stumble, walking away from the ancient paths. ' What wilt thou do in the end thereof — in the day of grief, and of desperate sorrow — when the waters shall fail from the sea, when the strong city shall be as a forsaken bough, when the nations of the world shall be chased as the chaff of the mountains before the wind? ' A daughter of vanity art thou — one of the careless women ; but the day cometh wherein thou shalt learn wailing and lamentation because of thine iniquity.' There is light in the old man's eye — not a soft human light, not a loving divine light, but a gleam as from the soul of a second Elijah, counting himself very jealous. After he has concluded, Jenny stands watching him with half-sad yet loving eyes, and feeling much disquietude and misgiving.

But moments like these are not new to her, and the experience of the past is that of to-day. She turns away with something that looks like reluctance, and there are very subdued tones in her voice as she says ' good afternoon' ; but this uncharacteristic mood is of necessity transient. Jenny, walking down the village street, gives at least two defiant glances for every curious one bestowed upon her.

Chapter III At Esk Cottage

' Silence beautiful voice. ! Be still, for you only trouble the mind With a joy in which I cannot rejoice — A glory I shall not hud.' Tennyson. Down at the lower end of this brightest and leafiest of villages stands the mill, a wide, many-storied, red-brick building, with white windows open slant- CLEVEDEN wise, row above row on every side. There are quaintly gabled out -buildings near it ; the river Esk rushes through it and by it, and there are tall trees beyond it, drooping quite over the road. There are sounds and signs of life and labour every where. Heavily-laden waggons pass to and fro ; the measured strokes of the hammer come ringing from the blazing forge just opposite, and the men in front of the joiner's shop are merry, busy, and noisy over the making of a five-barred gate. There are children playing in the road too, groups of bright-faced, sturdy little creatures ; and there are cocks and hens strutting about.

Around and over all there is a most intoxicating glory of sunshine and green leaves. Beyond, on the little hillside terrace, stands the cottage where Mrs. Rede lives. A pretty place it is — long and low, and almost hidden by the white blossom of pear and cherry trees. There is a garden in front with a trim hedge all round it, and there are carefully-kept beds of bright flowers — Dutch tulips, hyacinths, lilies-of-the-valley ; near the house there are lilac and laburnum trees, and laurestinus in full bloom. Every little nook has something to show of gaiety or greenness. Mrs. Rede, a patient-looking, sweet-faced little widow, is the owner of Cleveden Mill, and also of a large farm over in the dales. Her son Anthony manages the mill, and acts as her steward gener ally. To-day he is at his usual post — the desk of the dingy little counting-house.

Jenny passing by with short quick steps, her head thrown back a little, the impertinent white feather fluttering over her hat, the pink-and-white flounces daintily gathered together, appears to have forgotten that the counting-house window looks out on to the road ; her attention is fixed upon the cottage gardens opposite. Anthony, standing back a little from the window, smiles and looks gratified. He quite understands, or thinks he does, which is equally comforting. ' Should he go out and speak to her — just a passing word, a greeting ?' He had asked himself this question even before she came in sight. Jenny's answering smile, the straightforward yet half-shy glance of her dark eyes, would be pleasant things to remember. Anthony had put away the desire for them resolutely. The Cleveden Mrs. Grundy had eyes wonderful for keenness, a tongue wonderful for readiness ; but if he could help it neither eyes nor tongue should every busy them selves about the woman he loved and reverenced.

CLEVEDEN 20 . . . Jenny passes on, feeling somewhat disappointed. Anthony walks up and down the counting house, indulging felicitous dreams. He had a dark handsome face, and a tall, straight figure, and there were indications of sturdiness of fibre, both mental and physical, in his appearance. No man of his standing was more respected in Cleveden or the neighbourhood, no one's opinion more frequently quoted. ' Anthony Rede said so,' was considered a satisfactory conclu sion to almost any argument. But in speakhig of his character or his manner, people rarely agreed, unless they agreed to acknowledge that he was hard to understand. Perhaps they were right. His was a strong nature ; and, like almost all such natures, twofold. The one Anthony Rede was calm, and self-possessed, and impassive ; the other, little known to any, was full of fire and vehemence and passion.

Something of this dual nature you saw in his physiognomy. His eye, dark and eager and penetrating, was not in keeping with the broad forehead ; and his finely-chiselled nostril, dilating with every passing emotion, was strangely at variance with the firm mouth and deeply-cleft chin. His was not a face nor a figure that you could pass with slight notice, not even in his working-dress— the light gray suit he is wearing to-day. Jenny, sitting near the open window of Mrs. Rede's cosy parlour, feels a thrill pass through her in spite of herself when the straight gray figure comes up the garden - path. The proud little mother, glancing out, drops some stitches of her knitting, and Jenny offers eagerly to take them up — glad to have something to do when those inscrutable eyes come into the room. Rachel Bede, Anthony's cousin, a tall, dark, quiet-looking girl, with a drooping figure, is the only one of the trio who makes no sign.

What mysterious change has come over Anthony ? In the counting-house, half an hour ago, he was in his softest, most impressible mood ; Rachel, glancing up now, wonders much to see that his mood is hard and frigid. Not that the look on his face is new to her, but it must be altogether new to Jenny Kirke. His very manners and movements are cold and careless ; and his voice, saying in an aimless way, ' How are you to-day, Miss Kirke '?' has a forced indifference in it patent even to Mrs. Rede. Rachel, watching him for a moment or two, a little anxiously, but unobtrusively, invents an CLEVEDEN 22 excuse for crossing the room, and coming back she glances towards him with a smile — a certain quiet soothing smile peculiarly her own ; and she puts the new Saturday Review on the table beside him. Anthony, turning the pages over greedily, forgets to look stoical, but becomes absorbed to an extent quite irritating.

Jenny is vexed and puzzled, and gives her whole attention to Mrs. Rede's knitting, not forgetting to keep up an accompaniment of laughing and chat tering. Her eyes grow brighter, her cheeks pinker, and her vexation grows deeper, finding that her smiles, her glances, and her little pleasantries are all thrown away. For a time she is silent ; and then glancing up once more with a troubled, beseeching, bewitching look, she finds to her surprise that Anthony is watching her intently. His eyes have in them love and admiration and pain. Presently sudden smiles light up the two clouded faces, and over one face a rich warm flush spreads rapidly. The review is laid aside, Anthony crosses over to the sofa where Jenny is sitting, and sits down close by her— so close that his arm, thrown over the top of his chair, touches the sleeve of her dress, and for the second time this afternoon a mysterious little wave of emotion thrills through her — not through her only. ' What makes you so industrious to-day ?' Anthony asks.

The tones of his voice are low and pleasant, and there is a soft intentness of meaning in his eyes powerful to irradiate most commonplace words. 'Am I more industrious than usual'?' Jenny says, smiling, and lifting the long brown lashes for a moment. ' Yes, I should say so ; I don't remember ever seeing those small fingers fly so fast before.' Then a new thought comes to him suddenly, lighting up all his face, and, taking the knitting from Jenny, he returns it to his mother — retaining one of Jenny's hands in his. ' I'm going to tell your fortune,' he says, opening the small brown palm and laying it in his own, somewhat tremulously. ' Have you any faith in my prophetic powers ?' ' None whatever — neither in yours nor in any body else's.' ' Sceptical little woman ! Then I shall not be able to tell you so much as I might have done : your want of faith will act as a negative influence.

But there is a good deal of fate here ; an event of CLEVEDEN 24 some magnitude is not far distant, and here is a surprise quite close at hand.' ' What kind of surprise — a pleasant one ? ' Yes ; I suppose so. ' You don't look as if the knowledge of it was particularly pleasant. Tell me something more about it.' Jenny, looking up for a moment with that soft power in her glance of which she is so conscious, meets Anthony's eyes again ; and. Anthony, smiling and bending down a little to catch her expression more fully, replies : ' I cannot to-day ; you are in such an incredulous mood. Try to appreciate my gifts better, and I shall be able to tell you anything.' He permits the little hand to be withdrawn, with some reluctance. The past few moments have been pleasant, and very good to nourish hope upon.

What a fool he had been to get into that dark, doubting mood, and all because of a dozen spiteful words said by a spiteful woman ! Surely he had no cause for doubt. Truth was the very essence of Jenny Kirke's nature, and her eyes and her smiles could hardly be less truthful than her words and her deeds. But he would secure to himself perfect rest in this matter soon — very soon. With this sweet, new assurance upon him, he might have spoken this evening, but for the surprise that was coming to Jenny. Presently tea is brought in. Rachel, busy with the teacups, is brighter and more conversational than is usual with her, and Anthony subsides into a silence that appears to be very pleasant to him self. Yet, hardly silence — perhaps a more danger ous kind of conversation, for the eye is less diplomatic than the tongue, and unreserved to a degree most inexpedient.

Jenny, understanding, smiles and chatters all manner of replies. It is so pleasant, she thinks, sitting at tea in that cosy room, with people talking to her and listening to her, and making much of her in every way. There are bright flowers in the windows and in the vases, and all round a homely litter of books and work, and magazines and newspapers. There is a fine toned piano open at the other end of the room, a canary in a cage, a lazy-looking tortoiseshell cat asleep on the rug ; and there are pictures on the walls, some pretty brackets of carved wood, and on a side table some beautiful old china. Nothing is lost upon Jenny, for her day-dreams for years past have been of a home made homelike by such things as these. The people round her, too, are unlike CLEVEDEN any other people she has known — strangely unlike.