Children of Chance

Prologue

. CHAPTER HAGE I. — "A Summer Day's Fancy" i II. — Love's Golden Dream 8 III. — Three Pictures ... 13 IV. — Through the Clouds 24

Book I

I. — At Middlestown ... ... 31 II. — A Charity Performance .... 36 III. — The End of a Chapter 42 IV. — "The Iron Entereth into the Soul 47

Book II

I. — A Glimpse of Sunshine 52 II. — A Successful Man 60 III. — At the Olympic Theatre 66 IV. — Tom Coltman at Home ... 74 V. — Madge 80 VI.— At the Cottage 86 VII. — Lady Faversham at Home 96 VIII.— As the Days Go By 108 IX. — Changes and Chances 120 X. — "When Autumn Leaves are Falling" 125 XI. — Riversdale .. 136 XII. — Theatre Royal, Maxborough VI CONTENTS.

Book III. Chapter Page

I. — At Middlestown Once More 160 II. — The Dawn of Hope 180 III.— Dead Sea Fruit 193 IV. — The First Thread of the Story ... ... ... 206 V. — Through the Darkness ok the Night 220 VI. — From Father to Son ... 236 VII. — The Beginning of the End 256 VIII. — The Truth Laid Bare 270 IX. — "Where the Stream runs Bright in the glad Sunlight" 284 X. — "The Wages of Sin " ... ... 293 XI. — " is Death" ... ... ... 307 XII. — The Last Gleam ok the Setting Sun p r o I o q u c.

Chapter I

" A summer's day fancy." " A very Paradise The summer sun shines down in its fierce August power o'er the hills and dales of as fair a country as any in our English woodland counties ; far over on the right it re flects its warmth in shades of gold and purple on the surface of the rushing river, that runs with its swift eddies and sudden shoals, until, gathering power from the distance it traverses, it rushes over the rocks in a thousand miniature waterfalls, and is finally lost in the distance, shut out by the trees and foliage of the woods ; higher up, it falls with all its wealth of golden light upon the rocky heath and purple heather, softening the hard granite with its brightening beams, until the rock glistens with flashes of diamond like brightness and soft colourings that resemble in their rich glows the jewels of Arabian fables, turning the purple heather yet a brighter and richer shade, making the green fernery still more emerald and refreshing, colouring the coarse grasses with its wonderful power, and everywhere improving and making more wonderful the works of bounteous nature.

"A very Paradise !" l: Aster toiling up the steep high-road, the scene that greets the sight of this tired, dust-covered traveller is worthy of the exclamation that bursts involuntarily from his lips. Standing on the roadway, and gazing down upon the country that lies stretching in all its wonderful richness as far as the eye can reach, Cecil Granton worships with all the appreciation of a poetic temperament the beauty and richness of this moorland scene ; then, taking the path that runs over the rough moorland towards where, nestling in a belt of woodland trees on the banks of the river, almost hidden from sight by the thick foliage that surrounds it, lies the little village of Rickley, he walks briskly onwards. Tall, well-made, though slight, with curly chestnut hair that falls carelessly over his smooth white forehead, light blue eyes that gaze dreamily and indolently about him, heavy drooping moustache that almost hides the only blemish in the face of a man who might justly be described as a modern Adonis, this young tourist makes the very picture of a handsome refined Englishman.

His dark grey tourist suit, showing off to advantage the lithesome athletic figure, also tends to aid the fascination of his presence, and although helping to exhibit the strength that his form evidently possesses, yet adds in some degree to the effeminacy the beauty of his face throws over him. Striding swiftly over the purple heather, which in some places becomes almost knee-deep, here and there springing over miniature rivulets that are swiftly rushing their way downwards to swell the river below, he soon reaches a lower road that brings him into the little hamlet, and he walks leisurely through the scattered houses that make up what the Rickleyites dignify with the title of the main street. Tourists are evidentlynot frequent visitors to Rickley, for the country folk stare at him in open-mouthed wonder ment as he goes past, and finally seeing one young giant staring at him until his eyes appear to be at an imminent "a summer's day fancy." 3 risk of bursting from their sockets, Granton crosses over and enquires in a rich musical'voice for the Rectory.

The man immediately forces the spade, with which he has been working, into the ground, and leaning over it replies with a grin that " He deant noo wheere Recktry be, unless maybe the gent weanted Parson's hoose." "Yes, my man, the Parson's house is where I want to be. Does it lie further on ? " " Why, noa, sir, fur by rights you should 'a turned up lane yoner 'gainst white hoose. It's a bit down lane." " Oh, thanks. The lane on the left there ? " "Yes, sir, that's it. But here's Mees Fairfax hersen, sir, she'll show you," and then, without waiting to see if this informal introduction to the Rector's daughter is quite to the taste of his enquirer, he bawls out, " Mees Fairfax, 'ere's a gent as wants the Parson," on which Cecil Granton turns hastily round to find himself face to face with a girl so beautiful that for a moment his words of introduction die away on his lips.

May Fairfax is just turned nineteen, and is wondrously fair. Tall and slender, with a soft delicate beauty that looks almost too fragile to be real, at first sight she appears to Cecil Granton almost like a vision. Golden masses of hair coiled round the shapely head in abundant profusion, here and there a soft clinging curl falling wilfully over the white forehead, a sweet, tender, womanly mouth, with lips rosy and pouting, all make up charms of such rarity that Granton feels almost dazzled. But the beauty of her face lies in her eyes ; deep, glowing, violet-hued eyes that change with every passing emotion, that express poetry, passion, fidelity, hope, and trust ; eyes that speak when the tongue is dumb, that say more with one brief glance than all the tongues of eloquence united ; eyes that will tell their owner's history, passion, love, and life ; but eyes that now look up into Cecil Granton's face with the tender trustful look of poetic girlhood, not yet roused to speak of more than woman's trust.

" You wish to see papa ? " she asks, observing that the gentleman in front of her seems rather at a loss to speak. "If you will come this way, I will take you to him. He is always in his study at this hour," and she turns in the direction the countryman has pointed out, whilst Granton walks dreamily by her side. He rouses himself with a start, and in his soft musical voice turns to his companion, and says, "As our country friend has thus brought us together, Miss Fairfax, I must do myself the honour of introducing myself to you. My name is Cecil Granton," and the young man raises his hat, and bows with a grace that adds to his many attractions. " Mr. Granton," says May Fairfax. " I have heard papa speak of you. I suppose you will by this have learned who I am. My name is May Fairfax." " The only daughter of my father's old friend, Allan Fairfax?

You see I know somewhat about you, Miss Fairfax." " Yes ; papa and I are the only two. I am all that he has, Mr. Granton. But I have not yet bidden you welcome to Rickley. Papa will be delighted to see you, he has mentioned your name so often ; and I, too, am very glad," extending her slim white hand to the young man in a gracious winsome manner. " You are very good, Miss Fairfax. I was almost afraid to come here to disturb you, knowing how much you were to each other, and how greatly you enjoyed each other's society, I was doubtful whether I, as a stranger, would not intrude upon your domestic peace." "Not at all, Mr. Granton," the girl says in her trustful fearless way. " I am sure you could not do that. And although papa and I are very happy in each other's society, we shall be glad of y-our company.

It will be a very pleasant change." a summer's day fancy." 5 "Do you not, then, find it at all dull here, Miss Fairfax ? " " Oh no. Papa has his duties, and after them his study and books. Whilst I, I assure you, Mr. Granton, that poor little I, am quite an important person in Rickley. I look after the old folks and the sick, and superintend the schools and the children. Whilst for pleasure I have my garden, and music, and books, too." "And the latter is the chief? The last shall be first, Miss Fairfax, is that true ? " "Yes, I suppose so," answers the girl with a laugh, "if you mean that I like my books best of all." " I, also, am fond of books, Miss Fairfax. I think that our tastes agree." "Yes! I hope so," and then the girl blushes hotly at her words, and hides her confusion by pointing out to her companion several of her favourite plants and shrubs, for they have now entered the Rectory gates, and are walking through the garden paths to the house.

Ascending a few stone steps, they reach the terrace, and enter the house by an open French window that leads into the study, a large pleasant room, filled with book shelves and writing-tables ; and as Cecil enters, a clergy man, with a clear intellectual countenance, and kind benevolent aspect, rises to greet him. " Papa, I met Mr. Granton in the village, and took compassion on him, as the villagers evidently could not make him understand where Parson's house was situated." " I am very glad you happened to meet with him, my dear. My dear boy ! if you will allow me to call you so, for though I have never seen you before, you seem like a child of my own ; your father and I were great friends ; I am very pleased to see you," and the Rector grasps the hand extended to him, and draws its owner closer to him.

"You are like your father my boy, very much like him. she same handsome face," and the Rector wanders off into a train of past recollections, from which he is aroused by Cecil Granton telling him that he had half feared to disturb the harmony of his domestic peace. " Not at all, my boy. Stay here as long as you like. You are very welcome. Bye-the-bye, I do not know whether you are entirely a free agent, Mr. Granton, for I know nothing of your ties and duties." A flush passes swiftly over the young man's face, as he answers, " Oh ! as for staying here, Mr. Fairfax, I am entirely my own master ; for, although I work for my living, it is such labour that a life like this would materially help me to perform," and the young man glances swiftly towards May Fairfax, and then out of the window at the beautiful scenery before him.

"Your work lies then in a literary way?" asks the Rector. " Yes, sir. I have scribbled a little, with some success." "Oh, Mr. Granton, do you mean that you write novels and poetry?" exclaims May. "I should so much like to read some of your works." " That, Miss Fairfax, I am afraid is a task that has already been completed, if I may judge from that book on the table. You have read it ? " "'Coralie?' Oh yes. And you wrote that; you are then the Cecil who has written my favourite book. Mr. Cecil, we are like old friends." The Rector then is called away, leaving the young people to cement their friendship, which they do very firmly ; and May Fairfax dreams that night of a pair of poetic dreamy eyes that have looked into her own, and of a voice that has whispered in a language, unknown as yet to her, all those soft speeches that make such devastation in the female heart and mind.

Cecil Granton does not dream, but the last words upon his lips before he lays his head upon the pillow, are, " May Fairfax— the sweetest, most beautiful creature Heaven created and man worshipped." "A SUMMER'S DAY FANCY." 7 But it is the Rector who lies awake the longest. He has seen the impression that May, his darling, has created upon Cecil Granton, and he ponders long upon what it may lead to, and murmurs. "Is it come at last? Shall I yet live to see her happy in a husband's love before I fade away to where my love, strong as it is, is powerless to aid and watch over her? Has my one dear wish at last come to pass, or is it but 'a summer's day fancy' that the young man feels towards her? It is in God's hand."

Chapter II. Love's Golden Dream

Cecil Granton still stays at the Rectory, and as the days go by May Fairfax lives in a dream — a dream of such beauty and richness, that it leaves its tale only too plainly told in the everchanging, passionate eyes, and the beautiful blushing face, that crimsons and brightens with the happiness of love. Day by day, the old Rector watches the girl as she goes singing blithely about her daily tasks, and as he reads her story, utters a fervent prayer for her happiness. Cecil Granton is the son of one who was his dearest friend, surely all is well. In the meantime May is happy. Passionate and poetical as she is, all her life has been passed in a dreamy quietness, and now thrown into the society of a man like Cecil Granton, her whole nature ripens and blossoms into fulness. Swiftly, indeed, pass the happy summer days of this bright golden dream.

In the mornings, May is busy with her household duties, and Cecil occupies himself with his work in his own room ; but in the afternoons they are always together. They wander about in the rich moorland country and are happy. Cecil will bring with him some work of poetry, and, lying on the grass at her feet, reads to her in his rich, musical tones, whilst she listens to him, and learns to worship him. She is perfectly happy ; there is not one small cloud upon the bright blue sky of her joy, not one doubt to cast its shadow over her dream. Cecil Granton is also happy in his own way. Selfish and indolent, these long summer days are to him a very pleasant holiday, free from all care and love's golden dream. 9 trouble, whilst his companion is such a delicious study of girlhood that he honestly thinks himself madly in love, and allows himself to drift along without a thought of the future.

One day they are seated as usual in a favourite nook near the bubbling river, with its countless eddies and miniature water-falls, and Cecil is gazing up into the fair beautiful face by his side. He has been reading to her, and she has fallen into reverie, and for some moments has been silent. "A penny for your thoughts, mademoiselle," he says gaily, and the girl, with a sudden start, looks down at him with a smile. " Oh, I am afraid they're not worth it," she responds, " I was thinking of the summer, and how I had enjoyed it." "All on account of the fine weather? The clerk of the weather office is to be credited with your happiness, eh ? " No answer from May, who turns away her head, and begins plucking out by the roots, some bracken ferns grow ing near her. " Is it the weather, that has made you so happy, May?

" continues Cecil, his voice growing tender, as he draws closer to her side. " Is it that or have I anything to do with your happiness? Should you have been quite so happy without me, tell me, little one ? " A burning flush rises over the fair face, turned so steadily away from him, but the girl makes no answer. " You won't tell me, May : then I must see if I can read my answer in your eyes," resolutely turning her face towards him. The shy, sweet, blushing face touches a tender chord in Cecil's heart, and with a loving, passionate movement, he clasps the slender form in his arms, and rains kisses upon her lips and cheeks. " May, my darling, I love you," he murmurs brokenly. " Look up, my sweet, let me see if I can read my fate." Shyly the blue eyes look up into his own, and there he reads her confession.

Surely eyes never told such a sweet passionate tale. " My own sweet May ! Tell me you love me ? " " I love you, Cecil ! Sweetly her voice sounds to his ear, softly is the tender confession made. So pure and beautiful does she look, that Cecil Granton, with an involuntary gesture, draws her yet nearer to him, and whispers, "God bless you, darling." Silently they rest upon the river bank again, his arm clasping her waist, and her head resting caressingly upon his shoulder. Something in the girl's pure loving eyes has awed this selfish, indolent dreamer, and has made him wish, with an uncomfortable sense of his own deficiencies and short comings, that he were better worth the loving tender devotion offered to him. Cecil Granton is a compound of good and evil. With a dreamy poetic nature, he has also inherited a selfish, indolent spirit, that threatens to be his ruin.

Petted and spoilt by a too indulgent mother when a child, favoured by a luxuriant education, and independence during his father's life-time ; secured from want by a small but comfortable competence left to him at his father's death ; he has never known what it is to do an unselfish action, or to have an unselfish wish. Poetical he most certainly is, rich in fancy of voluptuous day dream, and to a certain extent clever, his writings, so far, have partly been a success, although more than one reviewer has hinted at their want of deep feeling. But in the fashionable world he has for a time created quite a sensation with his new novel "Coralie." Flushed with his success, ten months after he produced his second novel, which has been an unmitigated failure. Mortified by the criticisms passed upon him, his vanity wounded and hurt, at variance with his patron and uncle, Lord Faversham, he had set out upon a walking tour, and had found himself at Rickley, where he had called to see his father's old friend. love's golden dream. 11 He had stayed on at the Rectory.

Day by day, he had allowed himself to drift on in perfect happiness, too much absorbed in the delightful companion ship of the fair young girl by his side, to think of the future and its consequences. In May he had found a kindred nature, but a nature far above his in purity and spirit ; and it has attracted him and raised him above his ordinary level. And now when he has told of his love, and learned his answer, the deep, passionate poetry of his nature rises within him, whilst his selfish, indolent spirit is somewhat daunted and sobered by the pure girl-love so freely given him. For some moments he remains absorbed in thought. When he left the Rectory this afternoon, nothing was further from his thoughts than a declaration of a love, of which he was scarcely conscious, and now, he feels delirious with excitement, and reckless of the future.

May also sits silent ; dreaming her beautiful dream of golden girlhood's fancy. Every lover to the girl of his choice is a hero. In him, she can always see some beauty, some poetry, some manliness : but this handsome young dreamer by her side is to May Fairfax the ideal lover of all her girlish fancies. She is happy. Suddenly Cecil draws her face down on to his breast, and there reads for himself all the tale of her love. " My darling," he says, with a happy laugh, " My queen, my love, my wife, always mine now, May. Can you trust me, dear ? I can scarcely believe it or realise it. Can you look into all our future days, May, and see yourself always by my side, tending and soothing me with your love, watching by me when I am ill, cheering me on at my work, helping me to higher things, leading me to better thoughts ?

Can you look forward to all this, darling, can you see yourself always with me ? — loving me — my wife ! " Could she see it? Ah ! May, is not your whole soul full of worship and love for this splendid handsome poet by your side, is not your whole mind teeming with thoughts for him and for his love, would you not give your very life for him ? — for he is yours and you are his. So there they sit ; the setting sun beaming radiantly over the beautiful moorland country ; the rushing rivulet at their feet, music echoing from every bird, and bush, and flower ; everywhere bountiful and beauteous nature ; a gorgeous scene of evening calm ; there they sit, hand in hand, heart to heart, painting in beautiful colours the picture of their future happiness, brightly looking forward to their lifelong love, and never heeding or dreaming of grief, trouble, or pain, and the natural obstacles to be conquered in this life.

Chapter III. Three Pictures

At Rickley Church. — The First Picture. The old grey stone church at Rickley, its walls half covered with ivy and creepers, makes a very pretty picture as the morning sun shines brightly upon it. Standing, impatiently waiting, formed into lines that the school teachers are vainly endeavouring to keep straight and steady, are the girls of the village schools, each bearing in her hand a basket of flowers ; whilst the boys, upon whose shoulders no such responsibility rests, fidget more decidedly, and loudly whisper amongst themselves, impatient for the wedding ceremony to be completed, so that they may be free to enjoy their holiday after their own fashion. Much as they love Miss May, not one of them would have stood lingering here in the porch under the stern eye of the village preceptor, if their holiday this afternoon had not been dependent on their behaviour this morning, whilst on the other hand, with the natural taste of their sex, not one of the girls would have missed it.

Behind the lines of children, standing in neighbourly groups, are their parents and friends. Village countrymen and women, all arrayed in their village best, assembled to do honour to the dearly-loved daughter of their kind old Rector. For it is May Fairfax's wedding-day. The time appointed for the wedding fast approaches ; the sexton fussily hurries in and out of the church porch ; the children fidget yet more impatiently : the teachers grow more and more worried as they think of the hur :edly learned hymns to be sung during the service; the village folk gossip in their broad country tongue, and the scene presents an ideal picture of a country wedding. A man comes slowly along the road to the church. In an instant every eye is turned towards him. A disappointment. He is a stranger. Curiosity again directs their attention to him, and they find he is not much better than an ordinary tramp.

Covered with dust and travel stains, dressed in shabby black clothes that hang loosely on his figure, and an old silk hat, cocked slightly over one eye, on his head, he is evidently in pecuniary difficulties. He comes slowly down the road, with a comical attempt to introduce a dashing appearance into his walk, which is evidently enfeebled by illness and want. His face is pinched by hunger, but his eyes gaze at the scene before him with a humorous expression that is a decided contrast to his general appearance. He reaches the churchyard, seats himself comfortably on the wall, takes a general survey of the people, and prepares to watch the ceremony. He is a younger man than one would suppose from a casual glance. Suddenly everyone brightens up ; the wedding party are approaching. Cecil Granton walks quickly down the road, and enters the church by himself.

He is faultlessly dressed in correct morning costume, and looks " every inch an aristocrat," as the gentleman on the wall observes loudly, with a flourish of a red silk handkerchief, presumably a relic of former better days. An old-fashioned fly, from the nearest station, now lumbers towards the porch, and draws up against the line of children. Before any one of the villagers can get near, before the sexton has grasped the fact of its arrival, the queer figure in black has leaped over the wall, and opening the door, stands bowing, with the old hat in one hand and the red handkerchief in the other. Slowly the greyhaired Rector steps out of the fly, turns round to assist the bride, and then leads her through the line of children into the church. Two by two follow the children, and then in little groups the villagers cluster into the porch.

All is beautifully still. Through the open windows can be heard the sharp yet musical tones of the minister Mr. Granton has brought down to perform the ceremony. May Fairfax has preferred her father giving her away to his reading the service. The gentleman in difficulties seats himself once more upon the wall. Clearly and solemnly the service goes on ; he hears the voice of Cecil Granton pronounce the solemn, "I will;'' he hears May's beautiful voice falter the same solemn words ; he hears the minister read the concluding portion of the service ; one moment all is still in solemn prayer, the next the voices of the children are raised in the wedding hymn. Beautiful it sounds to this tired wayfarer in the calm morning air. The small church organ peals out the wedding march ; the girls form line once more, with their baskets of flowers ; the villagers prepare to receive with cheers the newly-made husband and wife, and leaning on Cecil Granton's arm May comes once more into the open air.

She looks radiantly happy, and simply beautiful, in her grey travelling dress, as she shyly responds to the greetings of the villagers ; the flowers are strewn on the pathway before her, the cheers resound loudly in the clear morning air, they seat them selves in the fly, and drive away. May has entered upon a new career as Cecil Granton's wife. Ln London Town. — The Second Picture. A luxuriantly-furnished room, whose general appearance at once tells its tale, — bachelor chambers. Two large windows looking out on the front, a street running off Piccadilly, make the room look light and cheerful. In the centre, drawn towards the fire-place, is a large writing-table, with reading lamp. Books, papers, and manuscripts are laid about in careless confusion. A cheerful fire burns in the grate, whilst the mantel is decorated with pipes and other smoking requisites, together with a few photos of leading actresses and celebrities.

A small table, drawn up against an easy chair in front of the fire, is covered with books and recent novels. The walls are decorated with one or two good paintings. The name painted on the door in white letters reads Mr. Cecil Granton. A tall, aristocratic man, with an upright military bearing, paces impatiently up and down the room. He is dressed in a heavy fur-lined coat, now thrown open, and showing his black coat underneath, and with his white hair and heavy moustache, he looks exactly what he is, — a retired officer. It is Lord Faversham, k.cb., who is so impatientlywaiting for his nephew to arrive at his chambers. He walks towards the table, and turns the papers carelessly over. " Three years since that impetuous young fool and I parted, and during that time he has neither written nor published a line.

He cannot be living upon his paltry jQ$oo a year, surely. He has greatly changed if he is." As he speaks, the door is thrown open, and Cecil Granton hurries in. " A thousand pardons, uncle, for keeping you waiting," he exclaims earnestly. " My train was late." "You have been out of town, Cecil?" "Yes, sir!" The answer is brief, for Cecil has evidently no intention of gratifying his uncle's apparent curiosity as to where he has been. Lord Faversham looks earnestly at him for a moment, and then says : — " Now look here, Cecil, this will not do. I am not goin<* to be kept in ignorance of your doings, and where you so readily run away to. I am here, as you know, to make you a generous offer, and I expect to be treated frankly in return. My dear boy, pray understand that I do not wish to pry into any secrets you may have, but before I go any further in this matter, I must have some knowledge of what you have been doing for the last three years."