Ruth Everingham. A novel

Front matter

& Nobel. BV JESSIE SALE LLOYD, AUTHOR OF THE " HAZELHUEST MYSTERY." IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. III. LONDON : TINSLEY BROTHERS, 8, CATHERINE ST., STRAND. 1879. [All Rights Reserved.'] PRINTED BY TAYLOR AND CO., 10, LITTLE QUEEN STREET, LINCOLN'S INN FIELDS. There's nought of Neighbours in the name Ancl, often-times, those riving near Have not the shadow of a claim To be so titled ; — be aware, You may be friend and neighbour too. In many a kindly act and deed ; Not all that foes can say or do Will turn away a " friend in need." To be a neighbour, you must be In ev'ry sense sincere and kind ; From envy, hatred, malice, free ; Good-will, love, charity combined. No time, or distance, e'er shall part An honest friend, and neighbour true ; But mind to mind, and heart to heart, They'll neighbours be, though such are few.

J. S. Lloyd. CONTENTS. -♦■ — CHAP. PAGE I. A Friend in Need 1 II. Friends Indeed 15 III. A Dark and a Fair Man .... 29 IV. A Strange Likeness 41 V. The Reverend Cecil Carey . . 55 VI. An Angel of Mercy 72 VII. Life or Death 91 VIII. Christmas Joy 119 EX. " He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her " . . . 132 X. Chiefly Retrospective 158 XI. Never Again 173 XII. A Telegraphic Message .... 189 XIII. Not to be 200 XI V. Ruth's Reply CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGE XV. Paradise 228 XVI. Good Samaritans 235 XVII. Reconciled 245 XVIII. In Port 25fi XIX. Winding up the Threads ....

Chapter I

A FRIEND IN NEED. Ruth Everingham returned home sore at heart. She knew that the people around her were making her most private affairs and feelings public property, and the knowledge of this was pain and grief to her. To remain there passive, under the in quisitive looks of the Marburyites, she felt would be impossible to her, and yet to whom could she apply ? She had plenty of friends, but not to one of them could she turn for 1 VOL. companionship at such a time. She knew that she had acted rightly and justly in breaking off her engagement with Sir Valen tine Carey, but not for the world would she mention the true state of the case. She pre ferred to wrap herself in her pride, and to deny anyone's right to question her motives. If she wrote to ask any of her old friends to share her isolation, she must explain to them her own conduct and her lover's treachery.

This she would not do. Could she go away alone ? The idea was repulsive to her, she was self-reliant, independent, and capable of taking every care of herself alone, and she knew it ; but she was also aware that it would be offending against the prejudices of society. In reality, she cared but little for the approbation of the world, or its dis approbation. Still, in this instance,she felt that perhaps the world was right, and that it was barely seemly for an unmarried girl, in her position in life, to go away alone among strangers. Yet what was she to do ? The answer to her question came in the opening of the door and the entrance of Mrs. de Courcy Smith. The sweet little woman, with her bright silvery hah*, was always an acceptable visitor to Ruth Everingham. Ruth averred that she was a perfect lady, free from all pretension, with plenty of proper pride, aud no affectation in her dis position and character.

Thoroughly kind, with a true woman's instinct as to where and when her kindness would be appreciated. She was inclined to speak her mind freely, but never with the intention to wound. It was a part of her nature to express her opinions, and she did so in a quaint, fresh manner that made unpleasant truths more palatable, and less likely to give offence. There was a merry sparkle in her brown 1—2 eyes which visibly denoted this vein in her disposition. Mrs. de Courcy Smith had been a great beauty in her youth, and in the vale of life she was still handsome, being content with herself as God had made her, without seek ing to revivify her charms by art ; and Mrs. de Courcy Smith was right, every age has a beauty of its own. It is when people try to combine them that they become incon gruous and unsightly.

The charm of old age, when it is clean, contented, and good tempered ; old age, with its silver hair and sweet calm tranquillity, when life's battle has been fought and heaven is near, is of all beauty the most touching. Mrs. de Courcy Smith greeted Ruth with unusual gentleness. " Miss Everingham, I have just been hearing of you from that dear good old woman, Mrs. Mott ; she tells me you seem to be longing to get away from here, yet that she couldn't persuade you to accompany her and Mr. Mott to Margate. Now, how was that ? '' with a mischievous smile. "It is quite true," said Ruth, *'I do want a change, but you know I really couldn't," and here she hesitated, not liking to say anything which might seem unkind. " Of course you couldn't" said Mrs. Smith decidedly, '* it would be impossible !

Kinder, better people than the Motts you could nowhere find, and I, for one, have no objection to honest vulgarity, but you couldn't go to Margate with Mr. Mott ! She would have not mattered, but he is alto gether a different thing.'' " Indeed he is," answered Ruth, greatly relieved at finding her feelings thus under stood, " and I have not even known him long you know." " Nor have you the Colonel, my dear girl ; but he and I have come to ask you a favour." "The Colonel is not Mr. Mott," answered Ruth, laughing at the comparison of the " old English gentleman " with Mr. Mott's John Bullish appearance and manners. " I should hope not, as far as looks go," said Mrs. Smith. " And what is the favour ? " asked Ruth, "and what have you done with the Colonel ? " " One question at a time, Miss Evering ham ! ' The last shall be first,' we are told, so the Colonel is in the ' trap ' outside ; and the first last, is that we are going down to Shanklin next week, and want you to accompany us.

Will you do so ? " You do not know much of either of us, but I fancy we have ' taken to each other,' as people say. I assure you you have a great admirer in the Colonel, and you will find him kindness itself. It will give us very great pleasure if you will come." " I should like it so much," she answered, her eyes kindlkig. " You have, of course, heard that my marriage with Sir Valentine Carey is not to take place ? " "Yes, my dear, yes!" said Mrs. Smith kindly, passing her hand with a caressing movement across Ruth's • the touch would scarcely have disturbed a fly, but Ruth felt and accepted the silent sympathy as she would not have done the most eloquent words. " And you will understand that here, wherever I look, I see not only the ques tioning glances of my neighbours, but which ever way I turn I am bound also to look upon the preparations for the day which was to have made me his wife, — the day which can now never come."

Ruth's lips trembled, and her eyes became fixed with a far-off look, as though she were gazing at a vision of that day which was to have been. " Poor dear girl ! " said Mrs. Smith gently, " you have a brave spirit, and you will out live it. At present you must suffer, and nothing anyone could say would help you at all." " You are right," said Ruth, " and as I am going away with you I must tell you that though the breaking off of the engagement was my own act, it was from no fault of mine. I cannot tell you more, but can you trust me upon that much ? " and Ruth looked in her friend's face fully, with her earnest true grey eyes. "I am sure it was no fault of yours. I trust you altogether, and the truth is, the Colonel knew a little about Sir Valentine, and we are not sorry that you are free."

"What did he know of him?" (with interest.) "Not much personally, but a great deal through a friend of ours, who had been acquainted with him for years. He and the Colonel used to correspond, and in his last letter he mentioned that Sir Valentine was dying. His must have been a marvellous recovery. It is a long time ago, and Maurice Williams has not written since. It requires the friction of an occasional meeting, to keep friendship always bright, how ever true it is ; but some of these days Captain Williams will come home, and then we shall have him down here as quick as the train can carry him. He will not be long in England without looking up his old friends." Ruth sat pondering upon her words, thinking too deeply for rejoinder. A thought that brought the blood to her cheeks flooded her mind, but she would not give it shape ; a look of horror came into her eyes, but with an effort she strove to rouse herself and shut it out.

And Mrs. Smith, seeing that something was wrong, at once turned the subject and rose to go. "My poor old man will be tired of waiting." " He has had the patience of Job already," said Ruth, " why didn't he come in ? " " Because I wouldn't let him," laughed Mrs. Smith. " He is a very mild lion, I assure you. Your man wanted to hold the horse, and the Colonel looked as if he would have liked it, but I thought I had better come in alone." "It was very thoughtful of you,'' said Ruth ; " but since the mountain can't come to Mahomet, Mahomet must go to the moun tain. I will go down with you and see the Colonel, and, dear Mrs. Smith, do let me thank you for your kindness. I was wondering what to do, and had almost made up my mind to fly in the face of conven tionality and start off alone. I shall look upon you as a friend in need."

" And 1 trust you will find me 'a friend indeed," answered Mrs. Smith cheerily, and then they clasped hands, and after a moment's hesitation on either side, they kissed, their kisses being a bond of good-fellowship. They were neither of them kissing women, whose warmest embraces mean nothing, and are sometimes even a mask for enmity and treachery ; but this first kiss between Mrs de Courcy Smith and Ruth Everingham meant unity, sincerity, and friendship. The two women went through the hall together, out into the waning sunshine of the August afternoon. Colonel de Courcy Smith, upon seeing Ruth, descended from his " Stanhope " with his reins in his hands, not forgetful of his duty as coachman in his courtesy. As he stood with uncovered head bowing, while she descended the steps, — and just then a bright beam from the setting sun shone upon his pure white hair, — Ruth, looking upon him, felt her heart go out to him in sincere affection.

" How kind of you to wait, Colonel," said she, offering her hand, " but I wish you had come in." "I am under orders, Miss Evering ham," he answered, bowing over her hand. " I always obey my wife ; and she said you would not want a great he fellow like me," said he, smiling at his wife. " Did you say that ? " cried Ruth. " Oh ! Mrs. Smith, I am shocked at you." "You will find her a very funny little fellow, Miss Everingham ; but no one knows how good a wife she has been to me. She has carried her knapsack well, I can assure you." " He has kissed the blarney stone," whispered the little woman to Ruth, " you needn't pay any attention to his compli ments ; " and then, turning to her husband, she continued, " Colonel, I have prevailed on Miss Everingham to accompany us to Shanklin." " It is very kind of you both to ask me," said Ruth, "and I am so glad to go."

" The kindness is yours," said Colonel Smith. " It is very good of you to come and cheer up two old fogies like Mrs. Smith and myself." " I see that we shall be good friends and comrades," answered Ruth, smiling up in his handsome face, and noting the blueness of his eyes. " Come, come, my dear," and Mrs. Smith tugged at his sleeve, " you must not keep Miss Everingham standing out here all night ? '' and then, turning to Ruth, " he is such a flirt, my dear ; I never can get him away when he is talking to young ladies ! " And the little woman hustled him off, and Ruth watched them drive away. "What dear old people!" she said, as they vanished from her sight. " I shall feel at home with them in no time."

Chapter II. Friends Indeed

Ruth Everingham did go to Shanklin with Colonel and Mrs. de Courcy Smith, and found them all and more than they had promised to be to her. They remained at Shanklin until October became damp and chilly, by which time they had both grown to love Ruth almost as if she had belonged to them. Once in the far-off years, they too had had a daughter, and in Ruth they found a fancied resemblance to their dearly loved dead. And she, with her gentle ways, filled up the void in their hearts, which even then ached still for their lost child. They saw with pain that Ruth was paler and thinner, and heard her hollow cough ; they exchanged grave looks. " My dear Colonel," said the little woman, when next they were alone, " if Ruth winters in England she will go into a con sumption. What are we to do with her ?

" " My love, we must take her to the South of France ; Mentone is a charming place, and we can make out five or six months there, very well.'' "But will she go?" said Mrs. Smith. "It may require diplomatic treatment, but it can certainly be done. Women can al ways be managed, if you bring the proper influence to bear on them." "Have you always found it so?" said Mrs. Smith with a grin, remembering many cases of wilfulness of her own. " Always, my dear, you have been a good wife to me, and now you will be a good friend to Ruth. " Do you think you or I would make the best invalid ? " One of us must need milder air, and I am sure Ruth would not desert us if we were unwell." So Mrs. Smith was invalided, and Ruth, who would have taken no interest in the care of her own ailments, was anxious enough about her friend.

Mrs. Smith had once had bronchitis, and was quite nervous lest she should have a second attack. The Colonel expressed himself very desirous to get her away before the November fogs set in; and ere the first week was ended, Ruth and her kind friends were en route for Mentone. There they spent a peaceful, happy, vol. in. winter, sitting by the open window, and walking and driving daily in the soft, sweet air. Mrs. Smith had no sign of bronchitis, and Ruth's cough grew decidedly better. The buoyancy of her youth seemed to have left her, but her pleasure in the beauties of nature was as keen as ever, although some times touched with a feeling of sadness, from the fact that she herself was changed. She still believed that her heart was dead, buried in the grave with her lover's falseness. She declared to herself that her love had been killed, and could never live again for him nor for another.

Her feelings with regard to Sir Valentine were strange. She had been angry with him, but the anger had passed. She had suffered agony, but that too had almost passed away. It would return at times, with a sharp and sudden pain, but the general feeling of her mind was the numbness and weariness that comes after great suffering, whether of mind or body. She told herself again and again that Sir Valentine should be hateful to her, and yet she could not hate him, but rather felt pity for him, and a longing to do him good. In some women such a state of mind might have meant a veering round of affection towards him, and a wish for the renewal of old ties, but not so with Ruth. Her eyes were thoroughly opened to the character of the man to whom she had given her heart ; the charm was broken. The chain that bound them had snapped, and could never be repaired.

She knew that the person she had loved had been an ideal man, not Sir Valentine at all. She grieved for her own disappointment and for his sin but the stream of her pure love returned unsullied to the fountain. There was no less 2—2 of love and goodness in the heart which had given it so freely, and though she knew it not, the power of loving had not been lessened by it in her. She had never heard of Sir Valentine once since the day she had left him at Heather field. Upon that occasion he had wandered about the lanes objectless in his misery. It was torture to him to look back on the possibilities which had been his. He felt like the rich man in hell, when he lifted up his eyes and saw the happiness he had for feited for ever ; and like him, felt the tor ments of conscience. Ruth's influence was still upon him, and he swore to himself that he would, even at this eleventh hour and a half, keep the vows that, he had made to her.

He would not take the twenty thousand pounds, and he would give up Mabel Grey. As for himself he cared little what became of him ; he wotUd return to Italy, there he had friends. His footsteps led him, without intent, back to the house, and he recognised, with a start, that he was there. He walked heavily in to the sitting room, where he found Mabel Grey, very angry. She had been crying, and tears had not added to her beauty. Her golden hair was tumbled and disordered ; her large dark eyes had an ugly gleam in them. He looked at her in wonder. And this was the woman for whom he had risked all, and lost it ! Even in her wrath Ruth had looked beautiful ; even when she had struck him, there had been a grandeur in the action. But in Mabel Grey he now saw nothing but a little fury. "So you have come back?" she cried.

" Have you seen her again ? " "Yes! I have seen her," he replied, sullenly. " What did she say to you ? " (inso lently.) *' That is my business, Mabel ; I shall not tell you." " I will know," screamed the girl, coming close to him, and almost scorching him with the fierceness of her gaze. * ' I have a right to know, and I will ; I am more to you than she is." * - You are both the same to me, both nothing ! " The anger died suddenly from the girl's face, and a pallor fell upon it. " I do not understand you, Val," she answered in hard unnatural tones, yet the shadow of the parting had fallen upon her at his words. " Nothing ? I nothing to you, Val ? " " Nothing," he answered, " I have sworn to give you up ! " "And you will do it?" she asked, the whiteness spreading to her lips. " I will do it," said he, after a pause.

" And she ? " said Mabel. " She ! she hates me ! " said he, bitterly. ' I touched her, and my touch was such pollution that she chastised me upon the spot, see ! here is the mark of her whip ! " " And for her wish you will desert me ! Do you love her so much ? Oh ! Val, dear Val ! you shall not send me from you ; let me stay. I love you with all my heart and soul. I would never treat you as she has done. You did love me when we were at the ' Angler's Home ' together. What have I done that you should care for me less now ? Valentine, I love you more, more, — every day. I shall die if you leave me." She had elapsed her arms about his neck and now she clung to him, as she made her appeal. He did not repulse her, but he did not return her caresses. " We have both done wrong," he answered coldly, " but as far as you are concerned I hope it is not irreparable.

I am sure Miss Everingham will never men tion what she saw here. I shall give you two thousand pounds. Take care of it, and have it invested properly, and it will bring you in a hundred a year for life. You can go back to your father ; tell him anything you like about your absence, he will believe you." " I will never return to my father," she answered, and then there was a silence. The tears were now welling from Mabel's already red eyes. She knelt down at Sir Valentine's feet, and clung to his legs. " Only let me stop," she cried, " only let me stop with you ! " But for this once Sir Valentine was firm, although he was for the moment touched by her distress. "My poor girl," and he stroked the golden head, "it must not be; tell me where I shall take you, or will you remain here ? I shall leave England in a few days."

" I will go to London," said Mabel. *' I have never been there, and I can live on a hundred a year." , " London," said Sir Valentine uneasily, " my dear child, London would be no place for a pretty girl like you to live alone." " Nevertheless, if you send me from you I will go there. I should die with nothing but my own thoughts to amuse me. In London I shall have noise, and something to do whenever I want it." " Mabel," said he gravely, " you do not know what temptations you would find in London." "Stop!" she cried, "you shall not insult me. Because I have sinned through my passionate love for you, it is no reason that sin is a pleasure to me. For you I would do the same, again, ay, and worse ; but it is because I love you, not because I'm bad. Valentine, you may trust me ; I'm not a good woman, but I will ever be true to you," and she laised her tear stained face to his.

" Poor child ! I hope some good fellow will yet take a fancy to your pretty face, and be a kind husband to you." " No ! " she answered, hastily. " I have looked upon you as that. I shall never marry — unless — " " Unless what, Mabel ? " "Unless I marry you. Oh, Valentine! would anything make you do that ? Suppose Miss Everingham were to ask you — would you then ? " But the mention of Ruth's name froze the kindly influence the girl's love was working upon him. " Miss Everingham's name should not be mentioned by you, Mabel. If you wish to go to London you can do so, and mind you take care of yourself when there. I will make the best arrangements I can for your comfort, and now I must bid you good-bye." Sir Valentine kissed her, and she clung to him, but he put her aside and went his way, walking to the station himself, and sending his luggage by a donkey-cart be longing to one of the farming cottagers at hand.

And Mabel was left behind, to indulge in her passion of grief. Still it would have been worse had she realised that she would not see Sir Valentine again. She expected that he would come down for her ; and she was not without hope that he would relent and take her abroad with him, until she was thrown into a turmoil of feelings by the receipt of the following letter : — " Dear Mabel, — I have taken two Uttle rooms for you in Bedford Street, Covent Garden. The landlady seems a quiet old woman. I have given her your address, and she will write and let you know when you can come in. Don't think me unkind for not seeing you again. Don't fret, there's a good girl. Some day, perhaps, I shall return to England and we may meet again. "Yours ever, " Val. Carey." "London, August, 186—." And this was the end of it ! He was gone, and Mabel Grey found herself left alone in the world !

Chapter III

A DARK AND A FAIR MAN. In the course of a few days, Mabel received the promised letter from her landlady in prospective, telling her that her rooms were ready ; and she packed up her things with a sad heart. She had also received a notice that two thousand pounds had been placed in India bonds in her name, and that she would be paid the interest of that sum half-yearly. She had money in hand enough to last her tUl the first payment became due, so that she could not want ; but she was desolate and forlorn. There was no means of conveyance to the station but the donkey-cart which had taken Sir Valentine's luggage there, and this had now to carry Mabel and her boxes into the bargain. She started quite early in the morning so as to have the day before her. She took a first-class ticket and travelled alone the greater part of the journey ; but as she neared London there was more bustle at the stations, and men — who all seemed more or less in a hurry — were rushing about on the platforms greeting one another with friendly nods, but they crowded together into the smoking carriages, and Mabel sat, and watched them from her window.

There were stout men with full carpet bags, looking well-to-do. There were lean men with half-empty ones. There were City men, with their inevitable little black hand-bags, and their jaunty manners, their hats all alike and worn slightly on one side, and their button-holes decked with flowers. There were others, without any bags at all ; men bound for the Stock Exchange ; men bound for every branch of trade and commerce. The West End men would not he seen for the next two hours upon the line. All those Mabel saw were for the City, and she was almost the only woman in the train. This scene of bustle was a novelty to her, and she looked from the window in astonish ment. A dark man presently passed and caught her eye. She was a handsome girl, and he evidently noted the fact. After a moment's hesitation he turned back and entered the carriage.

Almost before he was seated, a fair man stopped short before the door and looked in at Mabel. The guard was already calUng to the passengers to take their places, and the fair man jumped into the carriage. Mabel had been accustomed to men all her life, but she found she had yet a new class to become acquainted with, and then, as she more closely observed these, she found she must sub-divide that class into two. They were both gentlemen, she supposed, but they were gentlemen of a totally different stamp. It was impossible for her not to see that they both admired her, and wished her to know it ; but they took an entirely different way of showing their feelings. The dark man raised his eyes honestly, with an open unmistakable admiration, whereas the fair man gazed at her unceasingly, under the cover of his newspaper, which he spread so as to intercept the view of his own face from the dark one ; but the dark one saw the move, and was not to be outdone.

Neither of them spoke to her, but their silence was undeniably attributable to the presence of the objectionable third ele ment. In turning from one pair of admiring eyes she was bound to meet the other. She felt somewhat uncomfortable, but not as much so as many girls would have done, and these men made her think of what Sir Valentine had said to her of London. This battery of glances was kept up all the way, till at length they stopped to " take the tickets." The dark man consulted a Bradshaw. He was not going to the City. The fair man's season-ticket showed that he was, but he evidently did not intend to continue his journey there by that train, when he saw that Mabel was about to get out. The dark man put away his Bradshaw, and plainly showed that he meant to alight too. Mabel leant back in the carriage, in the VOL. III. hope that they would both get out and make themselves scarce ; but they had clearly no such intention.