Gold and Silver. A tale

Front matter

Select Novels by Popular Authors. Crown Bvo. cloth, 35. 6d. each. BY FLORENCE MARRYAT. MY SISTER THE ACTRESS. A BROKEN BLOSSOM. PHYLLIDA. THE ROOT OF ALL EVIL. FACING THE FOOTLIGHTS. HOW THEY LOVED HIM. BY ANNIE THOMAS. ALLERTON TOWERS. FRIENDS AND LOVERS. BY MRS. EILOART. THE DEAN'S WIFE. SOME OF OUR GIRLS. BY LADY CONSTANCE HOWARD. SWEETHEART AND WIFE. MOLtJTE. DARLING. BY THE fcWHflfiOf " RECOMMENDED TO MERCY.' BARBARA'S WARNING. BY MRS. ALEXANDER FRASER. A PROFESSIONAL BEAUTY. BY HARRIETT JAY. TWO MEN AND A MAID. a araie. BY JESSIE SALE LLOYD, /c AUTHOR OF " THE SILENT SHADOW," " RUTH EVERINGHAM," " RAGAMUFFINS,' " SHADOWS OF THE PAST," " WE COSTELIONS," " HONESTY SEEDS," &C. &C, &C. IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. I. LONDON : h\ V. WHITE & CO., 31, SOUTHAMPTON ST., STRAND. 1884. PRINTED BY KKLLY ANT> CO..

GATE* STREET, LINCOLN'S INN FIELDS; ANT) KINGSTON -ON-TH AH ES. CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGE I.— "A Weary Woman" . . . . 1 II.—" Gentle Death " .... 15 III.— "A Child-Angel" .... 23 IV. — " Rest and Shelter "... 31 V. — " The Dreamer Sat Watching His Embers Gleam "... . .44 VI. — " The Mourner was Nursing His Own Pale Grief " . . . . 61 VII. -"Listen!" 69 VIII. — " Weary Feet " .... 77 IX. — " Xo Stars were Bright " . . .90 X. — Gold and Silver . . . . 101 XL— " Trailing Pinions " . ._ . . 106 XII. — " Rays op Light " . . . . 122 XIII. — " Pale, Worn, and Thin " . . . 137 XIV.— "Took Her in Gently" ... 146 XV.— "The Moon was Hidden" . . .163 XVI.—" She Beat Her Wings " . . . 174 XVII.—" At Each Window Pane " . . .195 XVIII.— "The Worker Toiled on" . . 228 XIX.— "Into His Dream" . . . .243 OUD roared the tempest L Fast fell the sleet ; A little Child-angel Passed down the street, With trailing pinions And weary feet.

The moon was hidden ; No stars were bright ; So she could not shelter In Heaven that night, For the Angels' ladders Are rays of light. She beat her wings At each window pane, And pleaded for shelter, But all in vain : " Listen," they said, " To the pelting rain ! She sobbed, as the laughter And mirth grew higher, " Give me rest and shelter Beside your fire, And I will give you Your heart's desire !" The dreamer sat watching His embers gleam, While his heart was floating Down hope's bright stream ; So he wove her wailing Into his dream. TO HER DEAR FATHER, MAJOR-GENERAL W. F. HOPKINS, C.B., THESE PAGES are ftoDutglB JBefticaiEB BY THE AUTHOR.

Chapter I

A WEARY WOMAN. TT was on a night in December ; a night when the wind howled among the few trees in the London squares, and rushed with cruel force down the streets, baffling those who perforce were abroad, at the corners, before they could take a fresh tack ; and uttering its mournful moan down the chimneys of the wealthiest ; making a pause and sadness in the cheeriest home circles. " How the wind blows, Henry ; it always VOL. I. makes me feel so melancholy," said Lady Baxindale, with a slight shiver, drawing around her an ermine cloak, whicli had fallen from her shoulders into the comfort able easy chair in which she was seated. She was a handsome woman of about middle age, but her beauty was marred by a dissatisfied, weary expression. You could not look at Lady Baxindale without the knowledge that she, like every one else, had her troubles ; and that', in her opinion, hers were worse than those of others.

She had not learnt the lesson taught in that beautiful little tale in verse, " The Changed Cross ; " and very often she com plained, that no one had such sorrows as her own. " Yes, it is a wild night," answered Sir Henry, gravely. " Let us be thankful we have a good roof over our heads, while so many poor creatures are homeless." " Don't speak of it," cried the wife ; " I cannot bear to think of anything horrible, and perhaps, after all, they are happier than we are — we have our troubles God knows." Tears rose in Lady Baxindale's dark eyes, but they were not tears which relieve the over-wrought mind and over-burthened heart, but like the drops that fall before a thunder shower, large and few ; while the sky remains heavy and lurid. Sir Henry drew his chair closer to that of his wife, and took her hand in his.

" No one is exempt, Laura, I fear, and we must all bear the sorrows which are sent to us, as best we can ; try and remember how many blessings we have, my dear wife, and weigh them against the trials." 1* Lady Baxindale drew her hand away impatiently and burst into a flood of tears. " Oh ! my little Effie, my darling child ! what trouble could be as great as mine ? " and then, turning her flashing eyes towards her husband, she said angrily : " It is use less to talk to you, Henry, you have no feelings — you have your horses, and your dogs, and your sport, and you think but little of your child." "What makes you suppose that, Laura?" he asked, with a sad smile. " Is it because I do not rail against Providence, that you imagine I do not care ? Believe me, the heart knoweth its own bitterness !

" and his eyes rested with a far-off look upon the fire, yet did not see it. " For goodness' sake don't preach ! How am I to believe you are unhappy, if you never tell me so ; I cannot understand jTou, Henry ; I am sure I fret day after day about Effie, and you sit there looking so grave, and never a word do you say ; yet you tell me you feel : when / feel I complain and you never com plain. I have not been able to make you out during all the years we have been married." " My darling, do you try ? " he asked earnestly. " You so often accuse me of loving other things more than you and Effie ; is it possible you can believe it ? " and his true grey eyes rested on her gravely, but not unkindly. To do her justice LadjT Baxindale never for a moment doubted her husband's affection, but from being a spoiled child, she had become an exigeante, dissatisfied woman ; and the sorrows that come into every-day life, which are meant to purify the spirit and make it fitter for a better world, had but deepened and intensified the resentment which had always been in her heart against doing, or having to bear, what did not please her ; still, good may be found in every nature, and a flush of shame dj-ed her cheek, when her husband thus looked at her.

" Do you believe I love you ? " he re peated. " How can 1 tell ? " she answered impatiently. " You say very little about it, at anj7- rate." " It is not the deepest water that makes most noise, Laura ; a river will run silently to the sea, while a brook will dash over the stones with far more sound and com motion ; think of me as of the river, wife ; and believe if my love is silent it is very deep. I would give ten years of van life to see Effie better ; the whole, to see her well and you happy." " That I shall never be ; any more than Effie can be well ; as to your giving your life, you know you cannot. Three im possibilities. Do, my dear Henry, talk sense, or don't talk at all." Sir Henry sighed. " I cannot, my dear, do right it seems, even by accident ; either I don't say enough, or I make myself ridiculous by saying too much ; but believe me, it grieves me to the heart to see you so discontented and unhappy."

" I only want Effie to get well," she con tinued fretfully, " and here we are in this horrible London, instead of being sur rounded with our friends for Christmas as we ought to be ; it really is hard." " You cannot dislike town more than I do, Laura, but Effie must have the best advice, and that cannot be obtained in the country." " But, my dear Henry, what good do the doctors do her ? She will never be anything but a cripple ; it is of no use to blind ourselves to the fact." And Lady Baxindale rose, and began pacing the room ; her husband watched her silently for a few moments, while an ominous dimness came over his eyes ; then rising suddenly he clasped her in his arms, and she laid her head upon his shoulder, and wept there. "Oh! Henry," she cried, "it is hard, it is hard ! " " Dear wife," he said earnestly, " your trouble is my trouble ; do not allow it to sever us ; let us bear it together."

" It has all been such a disappointment," she murmured. " We were so long without children, and we did so wish for an heir ; and then came little. Effie, and we were so disappointed that she wasn't a boy ; but how we grew to love her ; and now " " How we love her still," interrupted Sir Henry. " It might have been worse, Laura ; we might have lost her altogether. Let us bow to the will of God, dear wife, lest a greater trial come upon us." " I don't see how it could be worse," she answered, sullenly, disengaging herself from her husband's embrace ; " it is like you, Henry, to make light of things which to me are a matter of life and death." She turned away to the fire-place, and resting her elbow on the mantel-piece, tapped restlessly upon the fender with her foot, while she survejred her still handsome face in the lookins-sdass.

" What would you have me do ? " asked Sir Henry, with a shade of impatience in his voice ; " God knows I would do any thing to please you, but whatever I do, seems to be wrong." " You can at least be quiet," answered her ladyship crossly. " That is true," he said, and taking a book from the table, he sat down by the fire to read, and silence reigned in the room, broken only by the soughing of the wind outside. . It was a Sunday night and the church and chapel goers had long since returned home. The snow, whicli had fallen the dajr before, had become an ancle-deep slush, to which the driving sleet and fresh snow-flakes were contributing ; only the trees in the squares were the whiter for it. It must have been half-past nine o'clock, when a woman passed through the darkness wearily, with a child in her arms ; she walked with faltering feet slowly along the square, till she stopped at the door of Sir Henry Baxindale's house ; and there she sank down, resting her head on the step.

It had once been her home ! An hour passed, but she never stirred. A lull had fallen upon the windy night, wdiich sometimes foretells a more tempestuous outburst ; and the stillness was broken by the uncertain footsteps of an old man, who advanced feebly with his eyes fixed upon the lighted windows of the house where the woman lay so silently, with her head resting on the stones. A sob rose to his throat. " My child, my little Maggie ! " he moaned, " would to God I could sind you ! Gazing upwards at the windows of the rooms where the happiest days of his life had been spent, he had passed unnoticed the prostrate figure on the ground, till he was startled by the smothered cry of the child, and in a moment the old man was on his knees, beside them. He raised the wan, white face of the woman, and the flickering street-lamp showed him the ghastly truth — she was dead !

Sir Henry Baxindale found that he could not keep his attention fixed upon his book, and after awhile, went to the window, and drawing back the curtains, peered out into the troubled night. It was a cheerless scene, and he was about to return to the warmth and light of the room again, when he heard the cry of a child outside, and paused to listen. The child's cries were mingled with the broken sobs of a man. He opened the window, and stepping out on to the balcony, he looked below. On the steps sat a man with a bundle in his arms, and beside him a woman was lying upon the dank, wet ground. " Heniy, for goodness' sake shut the window, you will give me my death ! " cried Lady Baxindale, drawing her furs around her. He did as she desired immediately, and went quickly out of the room, down the softly-carpeted stairs, along the well-lighted hall to the door.

Lady Baxindale was of an inquisitive turn of mind, and was very much puzzled at the sudden movement of her husband. She came out too, and following him to the head of the stairs, was there just in time to see him open the hall door. The light fell upon a sad, sad scene ; upon an old man, pale and wan, sitting upon the doorstep ; his hat had fallen off, and he was gazing down upon a dead face, which rested against his knee, while he held in his arms a little child, who tightly clasped him round the neck, and cried in a subdued and suffering manner, very pitiful to hear ; mingling her curly golden locks with his of silver. But the old man did not seem to notice that the door had been opened, or to know that he was beincf watched. He was entirely absorbed in his grief. CHAPTEE II. " GENTLE DEATH."

OIK HENRY BAXINDALE took the old man by the shoulder, and shook him with a gentle hand, respecting his grief, though only guessing at its nature. "Let me help you," he said kindly, "you are in trouble." " Help ! " echoed he wildly, staring in a dazed unseeing way into the baronet's face ; " Help ! it is too late for help ! Ah ! why did no one help her in time ? My child, my little Maggie ! She is dead ! " " Let us bring her in," said Sir Henry softly, laying his hand upon the ragged coat sleeve in sympathy. "In! — in here! It is the mockery of fate ; you have come home, my Maggie; but you are dead ! " Then the baronet fetched his butler, and they lifted her gently and carried her in ; the old man following like one walking in sleep. Lady Baxindale stood watching them from the head of the stairs with a face of horror.

" Henry," she cried, " you cannot bring her in here ; it is impossible." The grey head was for a moment held erect, as though listening for the voice, but the past with its keen pain had numbed his senses, and he could not collect his faculties so as to understand. One thing only his mind grasped, as was evident from his broken phrases. " She has come home, and she is dead." GENTLE DEATH. 17 They might have been uttered in ar swer to Lady Baxindale's words ; but it is more than probable that he never heard them, and that the monotony of repetition was aimless and involuntary. Sir Henry raised his eyes to his wife " Go back into the drawing-room, Laura," he said firmly ; " you will take cold out here." " I wish to speak to you," answered her ladyship hurriedly. " I will come up to see you when I can," replied the baronet, pausing, with a flush of annoyance on his handsome face.

Then he moved on with his burthen, and carried her into his own study ; he knew it was the only place where he could secure her a haven of rest. His wife never eut.rel that rocm ; never gave him the silent compan: ns'fp wh'ch vol. i. is so soothing to those who have much mental labour. They laid her upon the morocco-covered soft-springed sofa ; but had it been as hard as a flint it could not have affected her now. The light of the gasalier fell upon the dead face ; how pale and still it was ! It was lined and marked with care and sorrow, and perhaps with sin ; but it was a beautiful face even in death, and there was a look upon it as though she had been very weary, and had welcomed her rest now that it had come to her ; her clothes were threadbare, but they had once been good and costly ; they had indeed covered her but could not warm ; and the cold had encircled her, and the winds had encom passed her, and the life-blood in her, young though it was, had been chilled into stag nation.

GENTLE DEATH. 19 Every means to restore animation were resorted to, but with no good result ; the doctor, for whom Sir Henry had sent, shook his head, and the old man clasping the moaning child to his breast, repeated, " she is come home, but she is dead." Then the baronet took him by the hand, and essayed to lead him away, but mono tonously he returned to his old legend. " She has come home," he said, " I cannot leave her." " Yes," replied Sir Henry, humouring him as though he were a child. " Yes, she has come home, but you can do her no good my friend ; have you not told me she is dead? The dead need only rest. Come away. Erom the lips of another, the words seemed strange to the old man ; he gazed at the baronet as though the sad news were 2* but freshly told, and tears rained down his wrinkled cheeks, while choking sobs wrung his breast ; the words of another seemed to have aroused him.

" Is there no hope ? " he questioned despairingly. " No one can do any good ; come into the servants' hall and partake of food." " Food ; with her lying here ! Food ! in the servants' hall ! " A low, unpleasant laugh escaped him. " Oh, the mockery of fate ! " he murmured again and a^ain, and went and knelt beside his child and laid his hands upon her fondly, and rested his head on her breast, while the living bundle in his arms slid, forgotten, to the ground ; and the child groped around her helplessly, striving after something upon whicli her GENTLE DEATH. 21 feeble fingers could fasten, not crying, but uttering a low moan. " Poor little innocent," said Sir Henry, gentl}7- raising her in his arms and clasping her to him. The piteous low wail was lulled, and the small creature nestled to him, creeping close for warmth and shelter, and his heart went out to her in great pity and com passion, and standing there looking down upon the sweet baby face, he inwardly promised her the protection she so sorely needed.

Once again he stretched out his hand to the ragged sieeVe. DO " Will you come with me ? " he asked gently. But the old man gave him no reply ; he was stupified by his grief, and the words had not reached him. Then the doctor signed to Sir Henry to let him be, and they turned to the door and left him with his dead ; and the face of the woman seemed to smile, for gentle death had released her from suffering and from sorrow. -^-HH-^

Chapter III

" A CHILD-ANGEL." SIR HENRY BAXINDALE walked upstairs with his living burthen, and leaving it wrapped in a warm, soft fur rug in the passage, he entered the drawing-room. His wife was reclining in the depths of a luxurious easy-chair, but the moment she was aware of his entrance, she sprang to her feet. " Henry," she cried excitedly, " what can you mean by this conduct ? " " To what conduct do you refer, Laura ?" he replied gently. " What conduct ? Ask yourself, not me. Have you not brought some of the lowest scum of the earth into the house ? " " I have given a refuge to a poor stricken old man, and a resting place to a dead woman, truly. Is there offence to you in that, Laura ? " " Dead ! " she exclaimed aghast, " dead ! Then I will not remain in the house a single night. What ! Stay here, with a dead creature in the next room, per haps ?

" " No, my dear, she will remain in my study. If I can get a lodging to -which to convey her to-morrow, I will ; if not, since you were leaving town the day after you shall start to-morrow instead, if that will be more pleasant to you." " What ! You would turn out your wife to make room for a stranger, and that A CIIILD-ANGEL 25 stranger a beggar ! That is like j-ou, Henry." " Laura," he asked gravely, " what would you have me do ? The old man is heart-b roken ; the woman is dead ; the little one is helpless." " What little one ? " said Lady Baxin dale, looking at him fully for the first time, with flashing eyes. " Come and see," he answered simply, taking his wife by the hand and leading her into the passage. There lay the sleeping babe of two years old, her golden curls mixing with the long black hair of the rug, nestling close for warmth, with her tiny hands clutching the soft fleecy wool, for it had never fallen to the small creature's lot to find such comfortable quarters before.

But that was not all the picture. A little fairy-like girl of four or five years old, with a pale, suffering expression of face, wan and thin, was kneeling beside the goldendiaired child, touching her lightly with her slender fingers, with a look of wonder in her eyes. When she saw her parents, she went to her father's side ; she did not run, like other children, but went wearily, even painfully. " Papa," she whispered, " I have found a child-angel — may I have it for my very own ? " But before Sir Henry could answer, Lady Baxindale had clasped Effie in her arms, and was bearing her away. " Child-angel, indeed ! Some unknown beggar brat, and who can tell what con tagion she may not have given you already ? Small pox, perhaps ! Oh ! my poor, poor A CHILD- A.\ GEL. 27 Effie, and your father has brought it on you !

" The child turned uneasily, and gave a low plaintive wail. The baronet followed his wife back into the drawing-room. " Laura," he said, "you will let one of the nurses care for that poor little orphan, I suppose ? " " Then you suppose wrong," she cried indignantly. " It is bad enough to have our home turned into a dead-house, but to have you suggest Effie's nurses taking care of a nameless beggar-child is beyond bearing. I can only wonder at you, Henry." " I have ceased to wonder at anything, my dear," he answered sadly, turning on his heel. " Oh, papa, let me have the angel ! " cried Effie earnestly. " She is so lovely ! " And the baronet went back and kissed her fondly, then picked up the rejected infant, and carried her downstairs into the servants' hall. They had finished their supper, but were still sitting round the table.

They arose in surprise ; he had never been known to come amongst them unan nounced before, but there he stood with the child in his arms, looking round at the faces of all, as though he were reading them. At last he fixed his eyes upon a rough, ros}', kindly-looking girl of sixteen. She wras only a scullery-maid, but he singled her out from the rest. " Do you like babies ? " he asked her " I doat on 'em, sir," she replied, shewing a set of strong white teeth in an honest smile. A CHILD- ANGEL. 29 " That is well, for I have a little one here, sadly needing care and love — will you take charge of her for me ? " " Ay, that I will, sir," answered the girl, coming forward. " What a cherub ! " " Would you not please to entrust the child to some of the upper servants, sir ? " enquired the cook suavely ; " there's not one of us as would not be 'appy to oblige you, Sir 'Enry.

Esther is a good girl enough, but she's young and inexperienced, and " "Esther will do very wrell, thank you, Mrs. Lamb, and if you require help in the kitchen in her place you must get it," and he handed the child into her strong young arms with a smile. " Give her something wrarm, and get her to bed," he said, and went his way. With his own hands he carried refreshments to the stud}7-, and placed them near the old man. He was wdiere they had left him, by the dead woman's side, with bowed head ; and did not move when he entered the room, but Sir Henry went and aroused him, and showed him the tray which stood upon the table, and a smile crossed the old man's lips. " Yes, that's better than the servants' hall," he answered ; and eagerly drank the wine which the baronet poured out for him, but he would take no food, nor could he be persuaded to quit his daughter's side, so Sir Henry left him there alone.

Chapter IV

" REST AND SHELTER." AT breakfast next morning Lady Baxindale had changed her mind ; she declined leaving town, and upbraided her husband with want of care for their child. He rose from the table, with an im patient sigh, and left the room. On the stairs he met Esther. " Well ! and how is the little one ? " he enquired kindly. " She is sleeping as quiet as a lamb, sir," answered the girl, with a bright look. " That is good news," said the baronet, " as I want you to take breakfast in to that poor old man." " That I will, sir." " That's right ; see to it at once, if you please," and Sir Henry stretched out his hand and took his hat from one of the pegs in the hall and went out. A quarter of an hour's walk took him to a different class of neighbourhood. Before one of a row of respectable houses he stopped, and knocked at the door, which was opened by a woman with a bright, kind face, on whicli time had left few care-marks, although the summers and winters of half a century had come and gone for her.

" Oh ! Master Henry, who'd a' thought of seeing vou this time of morning ? " " Who indeed ! " he replied kindly, " but I have come begging. I want you to do me a favour, Nurse." " There's not a many things as I could REST AND SHELTER. 33 refuse you, Master Henry," she replied, her face beaming like a full moon. " And there ! only to tliink of me keeping you out here talking in the cold, when you ought to be sitting by my nice fire ! Come in sir, do." " Yes ! I'll come in. Is Simpson at home ? " "No sir, he aint. You see, sir, we've no lodgers at present, so he goes out and airs hisself as you might say, and I lets him go. I don't see the good of keepin' a man tied to your apron strings ; and I says, ' Simpson,' says I, ' you might as well smoke your pipe outside, as in.' ' So I might,' he says, and he goes out, and I haven't no trouble with him till he comes in at his meals.

" He don't wear his watch as you gave him sir, 'cos London's full of thieves and that sort of gentry ; but Simpson's stomach is VOL. i. as good as the best chronometer as was ever made, he comes in as the hour strikes, he do indeed ; and there, to be sure, I'm always a talkin' when I oughtn't ; and I won't say another word till you are safely at anchor, as one might say. There, sir, take that easy chair ; and now, Master Henry, what can I do for you ? " " Well, Mrs. Simpson, I want to take your lodgings." " You, sir ? Well, to be sure, how odd ! But lor ! that ain't no favour, surety, unless it's to me." " You won't say so, when you have heard me out, Susan." " Oh dear, how natural it sounds to hear you call me Susan ; I'm Mrs. Simpsoned until I almost forgets I ever was Susan. Even my man does it ; he 's that stiff he can't forget his manners as butler, no more REST AND SHEL1ER. 35 nor I can mine as nurse ; and I go a chirp ing to all the babies I sees, bless their little 'earts."