Another such Victory!

Front matter

MOTHEE SUCH VICTOEY! ANOTHER SUCH VICTORY! BY ANNETTE LYSTEE AUTHOR OF ( A LEAL LIGHT HEART,' 'TWO OLD MAID3,' ' I'R l'ESTRANOF,' 'noeth wikd and suksbise," etc., etc. IN THREE VOLUMES VOL. III. WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS EDINBURGH AND LONDON MDCCCLXXXIX All nights rtttmd CONTENTS OF THE THIRD VOLUME. CHAP. PAGE i. vavasor's answer, ..... 1 II. FLOSSIE, ....... 19 III. " SWEET BELLS JANGLED," .... 38 IV. THE BELLS OF ST EDMUND 's, .... 69 V. SIR MURRAY SPEAKS HIS MIND, ... 85 VI. SEARCHING, . . . . . . .111 VII. AN OLD SKETCH-BOOK, ..... 130 VIII. " IT IS OVER," ...... 151 IX. " THE GRIEF THAT WILL NOT SPEAK," . . 171 X. EDMUND COURTENAy's VISITOR, . . . 201 XI. THE " DARK LADY " AGAIN, .... 220 XII. WINDS UP ALL, ...... ANOTHEE SUCH VICTOEY!

Chapter I

vavasor's answer. " Flossie, I am going to my room to put up my things, for Joe never does it right, — will you come and help me ? " said Edmund, when lun cheon was over at the rectory, and Florence was standing listlessly in the window, gazing idly at the soft fine rain which had taken the place of the dampness of the morning. " Me, Edward 1 " she said, colouring and hesitating. " Oh yes, if I can be of any use to you. " My goodness, Florence ! " cried Maria, " you used to be for ever running about VOL. III. a ! 2 after Edmund, when, I am sure, you were a great bother. I suppose you've grown too fine a lady for that now; but it would be only civil to seem willing to go when he asks you. "I am quite willing," Florence said ; but somehow she did not look it, and Edmund saw that she did not.

He began to hope that Flor ence was aware of Angel's annoyance, and knew how to account for it ; and as he was very anx ious to have it explained before he saw Sir Murray Glenvill, he could not afford to leave Florence unquestioned. He led the way to his own room, stirred up the fire to a bright blaze, and then claimed her help in filling his port manteau. She worked at first with nervous haste, but when some time had passed without anything particular being said to her, she became more at her ease. "Now, that is ready," said Edmund, "and I will put it outside the door, — the carriage will not be round for some time yet. Sit down before the fire, Flossie, and we will have a quiet chat. Were you out to-day ? " " Yes ; in the garden for a while, but it was very damp." " You did not think of going up to the Priory to see Angel, did you ?

" he asked. Florence started, and glanced up at him, then kept her eyes upon the fire and was silent for some time. At last she said — " Did Angel ask to see me ? " " No. Indeed, my dear, I must tell you what I fear will pain you — I asked her if I should send you to see her — I could easily arrange it with Sir Murray; but Angel said no — that she would not see you at all. And I am very anxious to account for this. Did you part good friends, you and Angel ? " " Oh yes," Florence answered tremulously ; " I was her bridesmaid, you know." " Is it possible she dreads seeing you for that reason ? Did she write to you after her marriage, Flossie 1 " " Oh yes ; from Inveraray, and from Edin burgh." " Affectionately ? " " Oh yes, very." " Poor Angel 1 I am sorry you cannot think of any reason for her anger.

It frightens me for her." " Edmund, is she very ill ? " " She has been very ill — so ill, that it is a wonder how she lived through it. She is better now, and gaining strength — though very slowly." " Poor Angel ! " " It is such a terrible change, Flossie." " Ned, I know that something dreadful happened, but I never heard what it was." " When I come back, I hope to have leave to tell you — at present I cannot. I hope to come back and to devote myself to caring for Angel for a time. Do not speak of this, Florence, but I think I may tell you this much. And to care for you, too, my poor little pale girl, — you seem to me to need care very much, Flossie." " Why — why should I need care ? " she said, breathlessly. " Because you are unhappy, Flo." Florence slipped down from her chair, and knelt beside his, hiding her face on his shoulder.

" How did you know — how did you guess % I thought you had. 0 Ned ! 0 Ned ! " Such a pitiful cry ! such a torrent of tears as followed it ! " May I — tell you all, Ned ? or do you know everything ? Ah no ! for if you did, you would not put your arm round me so kindly — you would leave off loving me, as Angel has." " It is not likely," he said, kissing her. " Tell me all, dear ; you know that I would give much to comfort you. I know partly what grieves you, — it is dear Charlie's death, is it not ? " Florence hid her face again, and sobbed. She seemed unable to speak, and even when words were possible, it was with difficulty that he made out their meaning. " 0 Ned — my heart ... is broken ! Oh, he loved me so — he loved me so ! " "And you loved him? Poor little Flossie! poor child ! " "I did— but And then, with pale face and broken voice, the whole story was told.

It was a full confes sion. Her vanity, her flirting, her love of mak- ! ing Charlie miserable — Angel's warning — her own terror the day he left her, — all were told. It took Edmund all the evening to calm and soothe her, and his journey was delayed until the next day. But the worst of Flossie's misery was over from that day. She lost the feeling that every one would hate her if the truth were known ; she grew quiet and patient, gentle and humble, — and if her youth and her delicate girlish prettiness were lost, a very loving and helpful womanhood was hers. Edmund reached London in due time, and having added a few lines to his letter to Vavasor, and posted it, he went to Sir Murray Glenvill's. He saw the doctor for a few moments only, as he was very busy; but they arranged that he was to call for the answer to his letter as soon as it could reasonably be expected, and Sir Murray promised to give him any hints that were likely to be useful to him before he returned to St Edmund's. It seemed a long time before Vavasor's answer came, though he lost not a day in writing.

But Edmund knew hardly any one in London, and was in no mood for solitary amusements, so that he certainly did not enjoy his stay in town. At last, however, Sir Murray's servant said, when he opened the door — " Sir Murray has a letter for you, Mr Courte nay. He is in the study, sir, will you walk in ? " "Ah, Mr Courtenay, here you are, and here is your letter. In the few lines he wrote to me, he refers me to you for his decision ; so read it and tell me what he says." The letter was as follows : — " My dear Courtenay. — Many, many thanks for your kind, long letter, though I am glad you could not be present when I received it. Your mind is so cool and well balanced, that I do not suppose you could understand the tem pest of conflicting feelings it aroused in me. Will you despise me when I confess that I almost took up the pen to write ' No,' — that I felt as if I could not bear that any one but my self should so minister to my darling \ And this not from any distrust of you.

I do indeed trust you, but it is bitter as death to give into other I 8 hands the task which should be mine, and which would make me so happy. But I would not write : and during a long, sleepless night of watching by poor Beauchamp, I have fought with the dog-in-the-manger devil and conquered. I hope I have not many such battles to fight. " I give you my full and free permission to see Angel, and to be to her as a brother. I know that you will do her good, and that her health, mental and bodily, will improve under your care. She sorely needs a judicious friend. " There is yet another matter in your letter upon which I must touch. I know, believe me, the kindness which dictated the words ; but how can I bear to authorise any one to plead my cause with my wife ? Mrs Glenvill has a letter for Angel, — if you can get her to read that, I still believe that all will be well.

I am sure that if she knew the exact truth, she would for give me ; but I would accept nothing less. I must have her love again or I will have nothino-. " Yet, for her sake, I cannot wholly forbid you to speak to her of me, if you find that you can do so safely. It had been well for Angel if she had never met me, or at least never learned to love me. But as things are now, it is plainly for her happiness that we should be reconciled. So once again I say, I trust you entirely. I prove it, not so much by trusting my wife to your care — for my faith in her is such that I could never fear for her — but by trusting you with myself — with my dignity, my self-respect, or whatever it is, that forbids me to plead ab jectly with Angel, or to say that I have offended beyond what it is her duty to forgive.

I fear you will not understand me, but I cannot make it any plainer. " Keep your promise about writing. Ee member every word she says, and tell me all. " I think Beauchamp a little better, but he is very ill and very weak. I w*ish I could get him away from this sun-dried rock, this heat-trap — but it is out of the question. It is well for me that I have the engrossing employment of nursing him. A few more weeks in London, and Glenvill would have transferred his troublesome guest either to Kensal Green or a lunatic asylum. " Farewell — don't miss a post ; my patient is ! 10 awake and calling me, so I finish in haste. — Yours most sincerely, " Henry Vavasor. " P.S. — I had nearly forgotten to answer your postscript. You may tell the true state of the case to your mother and sister ; as you say, it is better not to make a mystery.

I hope your sister is better. H. V." "Well, Mr Courtenay, what says Harry?" Edmund started, for he had entirely forgotten Sir Murray. " Read it," he said ; " there is nothing that I cannot show you." And while Sir Murray read, Edmund lay back in his chair and thought. Without being ex actly selfish, he had always been a very self centred individual ; and this letter, in which Vavasor had so frankly shown his inmost feelings — his struggles and his victories — had set him thinking, and trying, for perhaps the first time since he was a boy, to put himself in another's place. He was recalled to the present by Sir Murray saying, as he laid down the letter — " That's so like Harry, I could fancy I heard his voice. My poor Harry ! It pleases his wife to treat him as a murderer, and so unselfish and generous a heart never beat, I think.

Mr Courtenay, it is a great trust." " I feel it so, believe me " Does Harry know ? " " He knows everything. Indeed, Sir Murray, you may forget that. Since I have seen my poor cousin again, I have forgotten it ; nothing but pity and brotherly affection is left. Remem ber, we grew up together." " If Harry knows all I am content, — more than content, for really Mrs Vavasor requires care of a kind that Mrs Glenvill cannot give her." " Tell me anything that may be useful — I will do my best." " Get her into the air, — coax her back to some of her old occupations and tastes, and keep her quiet. Unless some great improvement takes place, all exciting topics had better ! be avoided until by-and-by. I saw her yester day, and she has not gained ground since you were there. Poor child ! it is sad to see so young a creature so shipwrecked.

She seems to have no wish to do anything but ' wait,' as she says herself." " Yes ; she said that to me, — what does she mean ? " Oh, she expects to die, you know. But I don't expect it. I am much more afraid for her mind than for her life. This constant brooding over her own feelings is the worst possible thing for her, and if you can even lessen it, you will be doing great good." " I will do my best. I shall go down at once, so good-bye, Sir Murray. I daresay we shall meet at the Priory." " I shall be there next week — good-bye for the present." Being well aware that if he attempted to tell his mother the story of poor Angel's misfortunes, she would probably assure him that it was no business of hers, and that she would rather know nothing about it, Edmund very wisely left it to Dr Brand, giving him Vavasor's letter.

He was a good deal surprised when, coming into the study soon after breakfast, she sat down beside him, and said — " Edmund, I don't often make speeches, so when I do I ought to be attended to. Bernard has told me the whole stor}* of this wretched affair, and read me part of Mr Vavasor's letter, poor man. I can't help being sorry for him, though he was a fool to marry a girl who might be his daughter. But he is no affair of mine ; what I want to say is this. I objected, very naturally, to your sacrificing your time and — and everything to Angel, but I object no longer. Ned, I am sorry for you. I don't wonder you feel that you must be doing something for that poor girl, — nice mess she has made of her life ! I never heard of anything so unlucky as that your letter should reach her at all, when it didn't reach her in time ; it was just like Caroline Glenvill !

Now mind, I don't promise to approve of everything you do, or to pretend that I approve, but I withdraw my objections. My son 1 my poor Ned ! " and with ! most unusual tenderness she put her arms round his neck and kissed him. "Mother, I can't thank you, but you don't know how this pleases me. Ah, mother, you are nothing better than a dreadful old humbug ! I believe you scold us because you know you would spoil us all if you let yourself appear as you really are." Mrs Brand laughed, and went off on her household affairs; and Edmund, after a short time spent in thinking matters over quietly, went up to the Priory. He found Angel looking very ill, and by no means willing to leave her warm corner by the fire. However, he persuaded her to take a drive ; and when he was leaving the house, Mrs Glen vill asked him to come again the next day, and Angel did not say she would not go out if he came.

After a day or so he would find her dressed and waiting for him — and, in fact, he had no more trouble about this matter. The only drawback was that poor Angel had become the veriest coward ; she, to whom fear had been but a name, now trembled and turned pale if the once despised ponies did but prick up their ears ; and the utmost effort of her self-control was to abstain from snatching at the reins. But her improvement in health and composure was soon beyond a doubt. She began to enjoy being out, and proposed to take a few turns up and down the sunny terraces after her customary drive. Soon she was very little in the house. The weather was dry though cold, and Angel wandered about the gardens and terraces with a listless step indeed, and sadly unlike herself, but still with some small degree of cheerfulness and interest.

She was always calm and collected now, and would join her aunt and cousin in con versation ; but she was far more silent than of old, and often fell into a long, dreamy, absent fit, which ended in quiet tears. But on the whole there was a great improvement ; and Sir Murray Glenvill declared that Mr Courtenay had proved a better doctor than he was in this case. Edmund had hitherto carefully avoided any subject likely to pain or excite Angel, and as he told Sir Murray on one of his weekly visits, he ! 16 was not even sure that she distinctly remem bered the circumstances which had led to her husband's banishment. But the very next day something occurred which proved that she had not forgotten. It was a fine day, and when they came back from their drive, Angel said — " It's quite early — I will walk about a little, Ned."

" Yes ; come to the west terrace, it is shel tered there. Look how the roses are budding : that's a pity, for we shall have frost yet. Let us walk down to the Temple, Angel, — you can rest there." " No — not there," she answered abruptly, and turned at once towards the house. He followed her without speaking, and when they reached the hall she turned to him with her eyes full of tears — " Don't be angry, Edmund, — you are so kind that I cannot bear to vex you. But — I read your letter there," pointing to the white pillars in the distance. "I have never been there since." " Angel, may I speak to you of that letter ? " he said gently. " No, oh no ; there is nothing to be said. Good-bye, Ned ; I have a headache, I think, and I shall go up to Martha." She went up-stairs, and did not reappear that day.

But Edmund was relieved to know that she had certainly not forgotten what had happened, though she was so silent about it. Thinking over what had occurred, as he walked home in the chilly March twilight, he made up his mind to venture upon the subject of Florence, of whom he had never spoken to Angel since his return from London. He had never felt sure that she remembered the past clearly enough for argument to be of any use ; but it was now plain that she did remember, and he thought that poor Florence, who had been very patient, had a right to be considered. That his task would be difficult, he felt sure ; and as he knew that he had rather a knack of irritating Angel when he spoke seriously, he really dreaded it so much that he was absent and silent all the evening, VOL. III. B ! and lay awake nearly all night — not a particularly good preparation. However, he " screwed his courage to the sticking-place " next morning, and betook himself to the Priory rather earlier than usual.

Chapter II. Flossie

He found Angel walking up and down the west terrace, followed shyly by her old favourites, the pea-fowl, and attended by Marengo, who, however, withdrew to the porch when he saw Edmund — evidently thinking that his mistress did not want them both at once. Edmund walked along in silence until she spoke. " You look very grave to-day, Edmund ; have you one of your bad headaches ? " " No, I am quite well ; but I have something to say to you which I greatly fear will vex you." " Then don't say it — don't, Edmund. I have vexation enough." "But I must. I promised to do so, and have delayed so long." I " Then what is it ? for I know of old that your promises must be kept to the letter." ■* Angel " One word, Edmund. I think there are some things you have no right to speak of." Perceiving that she thought he was about to speak of Vavasor, he plunged at once into his subject.

" Angel, poor little Florence is always asking me to speak to you about her. She feels your refusal to see her very much." " I cannot alter it." " But will you not at least tell me why you refuse ? It is not like you, Angel, to be unkind." " It is not unkindness. I cannot tell you, Edmund, so say no more about it." " Then you have no particular reason : is that what you mean ? " " No. I have a reason, but I will not tell it to you. Why should I make mischief ? " " But if I know it, will you then hear what I have to say ? " Angel stopped to look at him, then said, as she walked on again — FLOSSIE. 21 " I am very sure you don't know it." " But I think I do. It is because Florence behaved unkindly to — to one whom you loved very dearly." She silenced him with a passionate gesture. "Behaved unkindly!" she said.

"You use mild words, truly ! She made him love her — ay, from the time she was a mere child, she did everything to gain his love, and to make him believe that she loved him. Then, when she was sure of him, she flirted with every man who came within her influence, except one ; and when he was going away — going into danger, and she knew she might never see him again — she laughed at his love, and called him a silly boy. Heartless, unfeeling, un womanly ! Edmund, speak of her no more. She was the one sorrow of Charlie's short life, and I, who hope soon to see him again, do not wish even to hear her name. I can never for give myself — for it was my doing that she went with us to London ; and if she had not been with us, he need never have known that he had wasted his love on such as she is." ! 22 "Those are bitter words, Angel, and you ought to be very sure that they are deserved before you harden your heart against the com panion and friend of your whole life.

I appeal to your sense of justice,— you were always just. Let me tell you her story, and hear me patiently." "Does she deny all this1? Edmund, don't let us talk of it. She is your sister, and I know that what I saw with my own eyes happened, and that what Charlie told me is true." " Perfectly true ; nay, I will go further. I am very sure that in telling you the story, he made her part in it seem far less black than she does. She denies nothing. She accuses herself even more bitterly than you do, and she says you warned her more than once. But as to her last interview with dear Charlie, she did not — could not — know that it would be the last. It was on your wedding-day ; and you know she had every reason to believe that she would meet him here in a few days, and but for my illness she would have met him, and ' set it all right,' FLOSSIE. 23 as she says herself.

You would only have to see her to know how she loved him ; her sorrow has altered her sadly, and I think would almost have killed her, but that after some time she took courage to tell me all, and to let me comfort her." Angel looked only half convinced. " She loved him, and yet spent her time in flirting — in making him miserable ! " " I don't defend her ; she does not defend herself." " It's a queer kind of love. Why, she laughed at him and refused him." " For all that, her sorrow for him proves that she loved him, and if you saw her you would doubt no more." Angel was silent for a long time. At last she said — " You never deceive me, Edmund : is this really true ? " "It is true. She loved him very truly, and mourns for him as sincerely as even you do, Angel." There was another silence. Then she said softly — !

" Poor Florence ! poor little Flossie ! she always did like to tease. It must be very hard to bear. And he was so fond of her. I must see her ; I will go at once. Come with me, Edmund." With something of her old impetuosity, she walked towards the Church path, and he followed her, saying — ■ " Are you able to walk so far ? " " I need not go the whole way ; and indeed I don't want to see any one but Flossie, so I shall stop at the gate of the churchyard, and you will bring her to me." "Poor little Flo! She will be so happy," said Edmund. "I hope she will be at home. Angel, you are not able for it. I ought not to have let you try." They had come suddenly round a corner of the deep bank, to the spot where she had met her brother on that memorable morning in August. She had stopped, and was leaning against a tree, gazing round with such sad, hopeless eyes.

" I was foolish to come here," she whispered, FLOSSIE. " but I forgot for the moment. Oh, to forget it for ever ! It was here I met Charlie that day. I came down the green valley and across the field with the old thorn. I sprang down here, just where you stand, and Charlie was close to me. He had been to the rectory. Oh, how it all comes back ! " Edmund was considerably alarmed, for she looked as if she were going to faint, and it was such a lonely place. But after a moment she turned back towards home, saying — " I will not go on. Flossie must come to me." " Of course she will. Angel, you are not as strong as I had hoped." " I am strong enough. Half my misery would have killed a weak woman," she said, hurriedly. He longed to say, " Will you let me try if 1 can explain away some of that misery, too ?

" but his courage failed him, and presently they reached the Priory. " I will drive in the evening," Angel said, " or perhaps not to-day at all. Auntie Glen is in the breakfast-room." ! 26 " If you won't come out I shall go home. I am longing to tell Florence the good news. It will be such a joy to her." "Will it? If she can come will you bring her up to see me ? Now that I know she really loved him I long to see her." "I will tell her so," said Edmund, turning away to go home. As he passed the spot where Angel had stopped, he paused again, looking at the bank over which she had come that fatal day in August. " Poor Angel ! " he muttered, " I can fancy I see her flying over the field. I wonder would she have listened to me if I had spoken of her husband ? She so seldom gives me any opening.

But I was afraid — she was so over come. Yet it must be done some time." At the door of the rectory he met Anna and Stephen Dangerfield, setting out together for a walk. " Going out, Anna ? Dangerfield, how do you do? I did not see you at first. How fond you two have become of walking lately I " " Stormy indoors," remarked Mr Dangerfield, FLOSSIE. with a short laugh. " I don't know how Anna bears it. She looks quite worried." " Dear Steenie ! it does not worry me unless you are by, and then only because I know it worries you. We are used to poor Maria. Edmund, if you want Flossie, you'll find her in the flower-garden sowing sweet-pea. And that shows that spring is coming." " April is coming," said Stephen, smiling ; " that's enough for me." " Is it settled, then ? " said Edmund. " Well, Dangerfield, I have half a mind to hate you.