Both Sides of the River: a tale

Front matter

As Rica caught sight of the stranger's face she gave a start and uttered a quick expression of surprise.'— P. 38. Both Sides of the River A TALE BY Cecilia Selby Lowndes, AUTHOR OF ETHEL FORTESCUE, ERLESMERE, NEW HONOURS etc., etc. " It is not in the realms of fancy, Nor in the flowers that deck our way ; But in the plain, strait path of duty, Our truest peace is found alway." LONDON SEELEY & CO., 46, 47, & 48, ESSEX STREET, STRAND (Late of 14, FLEET STREET) I8S7 All Rights reserved CONTENTS. CBAP. PAGE I. SISTER ANNE'S STORY, .... 1 II. THE FAMILY AT HONESWORTH, . . .17 III. " THAT IS MY OPINION, UNCLE JAMES," . . 35 IV. THE WAY TO RICA'S HEART, . . . .52 V. FATHER AND SON, . . . . .66 VI. THE STRANGER ON THE RIVER, . . .82 VII. MADGE TAKES GIBBS' ADVICE, . . .97 VIII. PERSUADED TO WAIT, .... 113 ix. rica's uncle, . . . . .132 X. AUNT AGNES IS AFRAID, .... 147 XI.

VICTOR AND REUBEN BOTH RETIRE, . . 163 XII. THE FACE IN THE CROWD, .... 180 XIII. "THE FAMILY ARE OUT, SIR," . . . 190 XIV. MISUNDERSTOOD, ..... CONTENTS. CHAP. PAOS XV. DRIFTING AWAY, ..... 220 XVI. " I HAVE NOT FORGOTTEN," . . . 234 XVII. " THE LIFE '. WHOSE PORTAL WE CALL DEATH," . 245 XVIII. GOOD-BYE, ..... 258 XIX. COMING DARKNESS, .... 274 XX. A BIT LIKE OLD TIMES, .... 288 XXI. THE TRUTH AT LAST, .... 302 XXII. PARTING, . . .... 316 xxni. Reuben's legacy, .... 326 xxiv. conclusion, .....

Chapter I. Sister Ann E's Story

THE broad gravel walk at the end of the old fashioned garden of Maiden Rectory was bathed in the bright spring sunshine, as Anne Dickson and her sister Madge paced slowly up and down, in earnest conversation. A high red brick wall sheltered them from the cold east wind, that frequent visitor to our shores in the merry month of May. The elder and shorter of the sisters was dressed in the orthodox fashion for a walk, but the younger had merely thrown a large white shawl over her head and shoulders, and a very becoming head gear it was, to the bright, winsome young face. Not that Madge could be strictly termed beautiful, A but her face was very pleasant to look upon ; and so thought her elder sister, as she lovingly glanced at her companion. " Then you have really quite decided to accept this offer ?

" she asked earnestly. " Quite," was the decided answer ; then in a different tone she added, — " Anne, I don't quite under stand you about this matter. At first you seemed pleased, and now you don't appear to wish me to go." " I don't think I quite understand myself," she answered, almost sadly. " It would be so good for poor little Rica to have you, but I dread your going to Honesworth. You will be in a dependent position." " Indeed I won't," protested Madge. " I shall give him full value for his salary, by my services to his grandchild. It is a pure matter of business, and I shall make him understand that at once." And she drew herself up proudly as she spoke. " You are so young to go from home, and Uncle James' temper — " " Is, to say the least, objectionable, from all one hears," laughed Madge ; " I expect poor Aunt Agnes has a life of it."

" She is very gentle and yielding." " The very worst thing she can be, with a man of that sort," she retorted, with all the confidence of youth in its own judgment. " There are allowances to be made for him ; he has had a great deal of trouble, and that makes him more irritable." "You mean about his son's foolish marriage. Do tell me all about it, Anne. She wasn't a lady, was she ? " " No ; she was an actress, and not a first-rate one either. If she had borne a better character, I think Uncle James would have relented. She was very beautiful, I believe." " They were not happy ? " " I fear not ; but really no one knows much about their married life. They are both gone now, as you know. She died abroad some years ago." " Why did he not return to Honesworth, then ? " " Uncle James never forgave the marriage.

He swore that if his son married her, he should never enter his door again — and he never did," she added sadly. " Well, I can't pity Fred as much as I ought, perhaps. How could he marry such a woman after caring for you, Anne ? " " Don't blame him, dear. It was not his fault. Oh, Madge, I then tried to do my duty, and by my own act I drove the man I loved to a life of misery." Never before had Madge heard or seen her quiet, self-contained sister speak in such moved tones. " Anne, dear, I didn't know you had cared for him so much. I knew, child as I was, that he loved you, but not that you—" " Yes, I loved him very dearly. And that last summer at Honesworth was very happy to me. I often wonder how he ever loved me, a plain, insignificant little creature." " Anne, how dare you say such things of your self?"

" True words, Madge ; but still Fred loved me very dearly. The very day he spoke to his father, I was, sent for, and hastened home to find our mother stricken down with paralysis. The letter I had written to her telling of my happiness, and asking hers and my father's consent, I found lying on her table, so she never knew. She lingered on month after month, as you know, a helpless invalid. I could not leave her, and told Fred that he was free. My duty lay so plainly before me, and then the doctor told us that she would never be well again — and — and — he was quick and passionate, like his father, and thought I didn't care for him ; and he left me in anger. And then, I suppose, it was, he met the woman that became his wife, and he married her after a very short acquaintance. That's the whole story, Madge, dear, and a very old one now."

" And you gave up your life to us, Anne," and the girl's eyes were full of tears as she spoke, " and bore your own sorrow so bravely ! Oh, Anne, how can we ever repay what you have done for us ? " " Don't think of me as a martyr, Madge, dear ; I have been very happy." " But when mother died, couldn't you ? " " No, Madge, I couldn't. She left me the care of my father and her little ones. And I have never regretted it. I am perfectly happy." " And you would like to be good to Fred's child, Anne ? " Madge asked softly. " Yes, dear," she answered simply. " Then," Madge said, stopping short in her walk, and looking down at her sister, with grave, earnest eyes, " I will try and be good and kind to her, and strive my very hardest to make her as true and noble a woman as Anne Dickson, her father's first and best love."

" Hush, hush, dear ; you mustn't spoil your old sister Anne by your loving flattery. I know you will do your duty wherever you are ; and, oh, Madge, I do hope and pray that Rica may grow up a blessing to them, in the place of the son they have lost." There was a great difference in the ages of the two sisters, Anne being thirty years old, while Madge was but nineteen. Several brothers came between them, and after Madge came another * o brother then two twin sisters, who were now in their sixteenth year. The sisters were very dissimilar in appearance. Anne was small and slight, with pale, insignificant features, and light brown hair, which she wore smoothly drawn back behind her ears. Her man ner was quiet and grave, and there was a certain air of staidness and precision about her that made her look even older than her years.

Strangers were apt to designate Anne Dickson as " a plain little body of any age," that most elastic of terms ; but notwithstanding this quiet, unassum ing manner, she had the power of winning and holding, not only the affection but the unswerving trust and obedience of her many brothers and sisters. There was not one of them that would think of running counter to her wishes or commands. The thought of the little sister at home had often kept the brothers who were fighting life's battle for themselves in distant lands, in the straight path of duty. Twelve years before we make her acquaintance, when she was but a girl of eighteen, Mrs Dickson had been stricken down with paralysis, and Anne, the eldest of eight children, had laid down the prospect of wedded happiness that had just opened before her happy eyes, and taken up, bravely and silently, the burden that was placed upon her young shoulders, and from that day had been the main stay of the house — father, brothers, sisters, all turned to her for advice, help, and sympathy, and none of them ever applied to Anne in vain.

The two sisters walked up and down in silence, Anne's hand resting on Madge's arm. After a few turns, she looked up at the girl's grave face, and said, — " I am glad you know all about the fact, Madge, for Uncle James may refer to it ; and now, dear, we will bury it away in our own hearts. Your future is what is filling my mind now." " I suppose I had better write to Aunt Agnes, and say I will come at the time she wants me." " I don't like parting with you, Madge." " And I don't want to leave you. The wrench will be hard ; but I do want to do something to be of some use in the world. God has given me health and strength, and I think I can say without conceit, brains and hands to work with as well." " And it is only an experiment. If you are not happy, you can come back to us at once. Aunt Agnes said, 'You were to look upon it as a visit, until you saw whether you would like it for a home."

" I mean to like it, and I mean to try and make them like me." " I don't think you need fear that," was the thought that came into Anne's mind and spoke through her eyes in the look she gave. Her sister Madge was tall and well set up ; her figure, though slight, was well rounded, and her movements natural and full of the unstudied grace that is only to be acquired by those who live a healthy country life, with much of their time passed in the open air. Dark brown hair, that lay in soft sunshiny ripples on her low broad forehead, and a pair of grey eyes, shaded with long curling dark lashes. Eyes frank and fearless as a child's, and that darkened or brightened with every passing thought and feeling, was what Anne saw. But the chief attraction about Madge Dickson was her simple, natural manner, without a shade of coquetry or vanity; and, notwithstanding the idea that seems so prevalent with many girls, this is much more taking with the generality of people than all tlie airs and graces some girls seem to consider add to their attractions.

Madge's heart and imagination was touched, and the romance that lies in every young girl's heart, ay, and in the heart of most women also, was aroused by the story she had heard from Anne of her engagement and its brief ending. She would have dearly liked to revert to those bygone days, and heard every detail in full, but Anne was evi dently determined to let the story return to the silence of the past. And she talked quietly and unconcernedly about the arrangements that had to be made for Madge's departure, until she went back to the house to write the letters that were to go by the afternoon post. Madge still lingered in the garden ; she had so much to think about, both of the past and the future. And, although she had talked brightly and hopefully of her plans to Anne, yet in her heart she did not feel quite so brave as she wanted her sister to think.

They were a very happy united family, and the prospect of leaving home, not on a mere visit, but for an indefinite time, was trying to one who loved her family and her surroundings as dearly as Madge Dickson loved hers. Mrs Fleming was the sister of Mrs Dickson, and when she had heard that her niece wanted " some thing to do," — for that was the term Anne had used in writing to her aunt, — Mrs Fleming had written and asked her niece if she would come to them, and take charge of their orphan grandchild Rica. " She shall be treated as our own daughter, and if she finds our shadowed home too dull and lonely, we will not strive to detain her." Madge had not seen either her aunt or uncle for many years. After their son's marriage they had let their house and gone to the south of France, nominally for Mrs Fleming's health, but in reality Mrs Fleming dreaded remaining among the neighbours and friends who knew of the trouble that had fallen on their lives, in the quarrel with their only child, or, as the old man bitterly expressed it, " The disgrace that has fallen on our name."

Year after year the old couple wandered about the Con tinent, the mother's heart aching to once more see her son, whom she had forgiven long ago for the one act of disobedience for which he was now so dearly paying. The father nursed his wrath, in his secret heart, and tried to crush the love and the sorrow, that would make itself felt, with the strong hand of pride. Then came a day when news reached them that the son he had forbidden his presence was dying, and they hastened back to England, all the wrath and bitterness blotted out by the thought, that perhaps forgiveness might now be too late. When they reached the small house in the London suburb where Frederick Fleming had hidden his sorrow and his shame, it was to find that the time for forgiveness was no longer theirs,— that the voice they had so dearly loved was stilled for ever in this world.

Frederick Fleming was past all earthly pity and blame. He had died a few hours before his parents' arrival, leaving to their love and care, his little orphaned daughter Frederica. His hasty, ill-assorted marriage had proved a miserable failure. How could it be otherwise, when in a moment of passionate anger with his cousin, he had married a woman of whom he knew no thing, but that she was beautiful. Ere many months had passed away, she grew weary of a life of dull poverty, and longed once more for the excitement and glamour of her old profession. Instead of her husband being the rich man she had been led to expect, as the only son and heir of Mr Fleming, she found herself with small means, a gloomy and disappointed man as her husband, and a life of poverty stretching out before her. What need to add to the pitiful story.

Fred Fleming had chosen his own lot, and in the anger and bitter ness of his pride, avoided all intercourse with any who could tell his father that his words had come true, and that he regretted from his very soul his own mad folly and passion. Not until he lay dying, did he ask for his father's forgiveness for himself, and his love and care for the little daughter, whose presence had been the one bright spot in his life. Madge pondered over these things as she paced slowly up and down. Her heart very full of pity for the child, whose training she was so soon to undertake. " How could Anne have loved him ? " she thought. " She is so sensible and loyal herself. How could she have trusted one who was such a weak, pas sionate creature as cousin Fred ? He was not worthy of her. If anyone ever loves me, and would give up honour or duty even for my sake, I think I should scorn him.

Who was it wrote, ' I could not love thee dear so much, loved I not honour more,' That must be the way the man I love loves me." At this point in her meditations Madge laughed. " What a romantic goose I am ; I ought to be thinking of copy books and grammar, instead of love and lovers. How strange it is to think of quiet, sedate little Anne having such a romantic story ; and oh, how good and self-denying she has been ! How completely she has filled the place of our mother to us all. Yes, not only because it is my duty, I will devote myself to Rica's welfare, but for Anne's sake. I understand now why she always speaks so kindly of her — it is because she is Fred's child. The more I think of it, the more angry I feel with that man for having thrown away his own and Anne's happiness. No, not hers, thank God, I think she is happy ; she must be, living such a good life as she does.

Well, I will try and bear any disagreeables there may be — and I expect there will be a good many — bravely and cheerfully, for the sake of sister Anne." " Madge, Madge, Anne says if you are going to write to Aunt Agnes to-day, you must hurry," shouted a girlish voice in the distance. " All right, Georgie. I'll come at once." As she turned to go in, she met her sister Georgie, who greeted her with — " What have you been about all this time ? Anne thought you were in your own room writing." " Dreaming in the rose walk." " Dreaming, Madge. You ? Why I thought you had decided to become a prim old school ma'am." Madge laughed merrily as she ran into the house, and called back, " I have not become one yet." Hastening to her own room, she wrote off her letter to her aunt, accepting the offer she had made her, without giving herself time for doubt or hesitation.

When it was finished, and the envelope addressed, she gave a little sigh, half of relief, half regret. " Well, that is settled. Once in the post, the Rubicon is passed ; there will be no drawing back then : I shall have to go." Slowly and almost reluctantly she went down the stairs. As she did so, the hall door opened, and her father came in and seated himself on the near est chair, with a gesture of weariness. He did not see Madge, for the stairs were in shadow, and he looked up with a faint smile as she called out, — " Are you very tired, father ? " then, without wait ing for a reply, she hurried off to the back to find Hester, and give her the important letter. " I am sorry to have kept you, Hester," she said. " I hope you will still be in time." " I will hurry, miss," was the ready answer.

All the servants were fond of Madge, and ready to do anything to oblige her. She had a bright, pleasant manner towards all about her, and it is wonderful how much a pleasant manner does for its owner. " Thanks, Hester ; " and then she hastened back to the hall, where she found her father still sitting where she had last seen him. " Wxhere have you been, dear," she asked, " to tire yourself out like this ? " "To see old Blake. We are both growing old together, Madge. I never found the walk so try ing before." " It's the spring weather ; it is very trying ; and this horrid wind." " Yes, yes, that's what it is," he answered cheerfully. " Now you shall help me off with my coat. I am glad Anne persuaded me to wear it, for it was cold out of the sun." " Anne sticks to the old Scotch saying, ' Till May is out, cast not a clout,'" laughed Madge, as she helped her father; adding, "now you must come and have some tea, and a good rest." * o " I suppose I am too late for the post 1 " Yes ; Hester has taken the letters.

Father, I have answered Aunt Agnes." Mr Dickson stopped, and looked earnestly into the bright young face lifted so lovingly to his. He was a tall, white-haired old man, with a gentle. benevolent face, and kindly yet shrewd blue eyes, His great height was scarcely reduced from the habit he had fallen into lately of stooping. It was this weary stoop and slow pace that had struck Madge with such painful force when she saw him come in. The girls had noticed among themselves that " father " was not able to do so much as he used to do ; that the long walks he had to take to see his parishioners, tired him as once they had not done. They had said to one another that it must be the effect of the rheumatism that had plagued him so horribly this last winter, that had taught him to stoop ; when the warm bright summer came it would be different.

So hard is it for any of us to admit that those we love are altered or are ageing and getting past the work they once found so easy. But to-day Madge had to acknowledge what she had known for some time, that her father was growing old, and wanted assistance both in his clerical and parish work. " Yes. And you have decided ? " he asked. " To go, father. Have I done right ? " A pained, sad look came into the kindly old face. All his children were very dear to him, but I think his merry, bright Madge had an especially warm corner in his heart. She was so often his companion in his walks, and then she had the same eyes, and the same sunny ways his wife had had. And Madge was called by the same name as her mother. Was it any wonder that he grudged parting with this dearly-loved child ? " God bless you, Margaret, now and always," he said, as he placed his hand on the girl's head as if in benediction.

It was so seldom he called her by that name — only in moments of strong feeling such as these — that Madge felt awed, and she bent her head reverently at his words. She knew then she had done right ; all her doubts and fears were stilled, for the path she had elected to walk was now sanctified to her by her father's blessing. At the drawing-room door he said, — " I trust you will be happy, my child ; but if not, you will come back to the old nest." " I mean to be very happy, father ; and we must only think of my going as if it was a visit to Aunt and Uncle James." The next fortnight went by swiftly, there was so much for Madge to do, both indoors and out. So many old friends to see and say farewell to ; for Madge Dickson's whole life had been passed at Maiden. Her eyes first opened within the walls of the old Rectory, and there was no one in the parish but had a kind and friendly feeling for the Rector's young daughter.

Quiet Anne was very wise in her guidance of her younger sisters and brothers. She made no show of authority over them, but held the reins so gently that they never galled the sensitive young wills. Madge's going away was not to be looked upon as a trial or misfortune by her younger sisters. Anne dreaded in her own mind, for perhaps — at no distant date — the others also might have to try their wings beyond the nest, and if this first parting was made sorrowful, it would make the next one still harder, so, as is generally the case in this world, pleasure and sorrow were mingled together during those last days of Madge's stay in the old home. Anne let her sister go forth, with a sad heart. She would miss the girl's bright sympathy and help. The twins were too young to enter into the anxieties and difficulties of their eldest sister.

The two were all in all to one another, and con sidered Anne as " quite old," almost as one of an other generation to themselves ; but with Madge it was different ; she was so ready to enter into all her difficulties, to help her in all ways she could, that Anne felt she was giving up part, and the best part, of the brightness of life, when she consented to let Madge go to help the grandparents train Fred's child to be what she and they desired to see her. With a sigh she acknowledged also that it was best for Madge to go : the girl wanted an outlet for all her super abundant energy. In the little household there was not much for her to do ; Anne was a very capable manager, and things went on in the same groove year after year. Madge was not one of those people who find occupation enough in fancy work, or even in playing lawn-tennis, though to the latter she was much addicted.

For the former she had a positive dislike. " I don't mind plain work," she would say, " or anything useful, but to work impossible flowers for the backs of chairs. Bah ! I'd rather darn stockings for the rest of my days."

Chapter II. The Family At Honesworth

When the train entered Gainsford station, the one nearest to Honesworth, Madge leant eagerly out of the window, and tried to distinguish Mr Fleming's figure among the many groups that were waiting on the platform for the arrival of the " up train." Mrs Fleming had written to say that her husband would be at the station to meet his niece, as she was travelling alone. Madge was in a second-class compartment, which she shared with an elderly woman, who had entered the carriage some stations before. " Not a lady, though very respectable, probably a housekeeper," thought Madge, as the woman took the seat opposite her, and very soon she found her conjecture was correct. The woman placed a bandbox on the seat beside her, on which was a label addressed in large letters " Gainsford." Madge immediately entered into conversation with her, and asked if she knew Gainsford well.

" Yes, indeed, miss. I have lived there for more than ten years. It will be eleven come this autumn." " It is very pretty, is it not ? " " Yes, very, especially by the river — our river, I might call it. My master lives close beside it." " The Hone, do you mean ? " " Yes, miss ; that's the only river to speak of in the neighbourhood." " That will be my river, too, I suppose," she said, with a laugh, " for I am going to Honesworth." " Indeed, miss, to Mr Fleming's ? He's a great friend of my master, Mr Hammond : I am his house keeper." " And I am Mr Fleming's niece," explained Madge. After this the woman gave her a long account of the beauties of the Hone and its neighbourhood, which interested her listener. As they neared Gains ford, Madge relapsed into silence, and she looked eagerly out of the window to see if she could recog nise any of the landmarks Anne had described to her, until they entered the station.

Her eager eyes scanned each group of people as the train came to a standstill. She had but a faint remembrance of her uncle, not having seen him for so many years. At that moment a voice said near her, " How do, Maurice ? I have come to meet my niece," and a gentleman passed the carriage, with the evident intention of going to look in the first class carriages for the niece he spoke of. Madge looked after the upright figure, who gazed into each carriage through his gold eyeglasses. " That is Mr Fleming, miss." " Oh, thank you. I will just get out my bag and rug and run after him." " Why, Robbins, you here ! I thought you were not coming home until to-night ! " " Yes, it's me, Mr Maurice. I came back earlier, as I had a bit of shopping to do in the town." " Ah, Robbins, you women are all alike in your love for a bit of shopping."