The Heir of Fairmount Grange

Front matter

A Digby's Popular Novel Series Crown 8vo, handsome cloth, price 2s 6d each. THE MYSTERY OF CLEMENT Dunraven. By Jean Middlemass. Author of 'A Girl in a Thousand,' etc. (Second Edition) A HIDDEN CHAIN. By Dora Russell. Author of 'The Other Bond,' 'Footprints in the Snow,' etc. (Second Edition) DR JANET OF HARLEY STREET. By Dr Arabella Kenealy. Author of ' Molly and her Man-o'-War,' etc. (Sixth Edition with Portrait.) THE JOLLY ROGER. By Hume Nisbet. Author of ' Her Loving Slave,' ' Bail Up,' etc. With Illustrations by the Author. (Fifth Edition) t*% Other Works in same Series in due course. DIGBY, LONG & CO., Lon BY AGNES MAULE MACHAR u K, Author of 'Roland Green, Knight,' 'Marjories Canadian Winter, 'Down the River to the Sea,' etc., etc. LONDON DIGBY, LONG & CO., PUBLISHERS 18 BOUVERIE STREET, FLEET STREET, E.C. TORONTO The COPP, CLARK Co., Limited

Part I Chapter

I ' Poor child ! poor child ! ' said Mrs Jocelyn, mus ingly, as she poured into her cup a liberal portion of the rich country cream which, as a Londoner, she so much appreciated, ' It is certainly very sad for her ! I wish I could see what she had better do- I think I shall write by the next mail to Caroline Aylmer, to ask her if she can think of anything suitable for her, out in Canada. Mr Aylmer has done very well there, and as Caroline is so prosperous herself, she might very well do something for poor Ethel ! I should be only too glad to have the dear child myself, but really our accommodation is so limited, and then Clara and I have so many engagements for this summer — Clara is in such request, you see — and a stranger in deep mourning does interfere so much with all one's arrangements, for of course you can't take her on visits to your friends, and she would be dreadfully dull if you left her at home, alone ! ' ' Quite so, Mrs Jocelyn,' replied an elderly gentle man beside her, to whom her remarks had been addressed, and who might have sat for a type of the old fashioned family lawyer ; ' the circum stances are indeed most deplorable.

My good friend Mr Howard seemed good for many years. Doubt less he thought so himself, and postponed making any special provision for his niece. And of course the present denoument was so unexpected, for, by all the laws of probability, this scapegrace of a nephew should have worn himself out long ago!' ' Yes,' remarked an elderly lady, whose lank grey curls shaded a mildly benevolent face of somewhat sentimental expression ; ' It does seem sad that good and ill should not be better apportioned in this world. To think of that poor prodigal Jack Howard, living on through all his follies, and turning up, now, when no one thought of him, to rob poor Ethel of her natural rights ! Pity now that cousin Henry hadn't taken my advice, and brought her more out into society. Then her future might have been satisfactorily provided for, for she really is unusually attractive.

But what about that young Fane who used to be down here so much ? Cousin Henry seemed to think there was — or would be — something between him and Ethel. I saw them together once, and he seemed quite devoted to the dear girl.' ' Oh, very likely, my dear,' rejoined Mrs Ponsonby satirically, ' no doubt he was quite devoted to the heiress of Fairmount Grange ! It is a very different thing now. Of course, dear Ethel is very sweet and graceful, and cultivated and all that ; but there are very few young men now-a-days who don't look out for something more. And for a young man who has to make his living by his pen, to under take a wife, brought up as Ethel has been, would be simply heroic ; and heroes are not as thick as blackberries ! Besides, this young Fane seems to be getting into society, thanks mainly to the intro ductions he got from Henry.

I believe he's quite popular already, so I'm afraid there isn't much prospect in that direction.' 'Ah!' exclaimed Miss Ponsonby, 'it is too bad that there is so little chivalry and romance in this matter-of-fact age. I can't bear to think of Ethel being thrown on the mercies of a cold world, after all the tender care and petting she has had so long ! ' 'Well,' said Mrs Jocelyn, 'no one can say it's my fault. I told Henry long ago that he should have brought her up to do something for herself. He might have had her musical talent more developed at any rate. Nothing like making a girl indepen dent, especially when she's an orphan /' ' Come now, iny dear,' said her husband, who had been seemingly absorbed in his breakfast, ' clon't grudge the poor child the pleasant youth she has had. She will be better for that all her life.

And no doubt things will turn out better than we can see at present. You know " God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb " ! ' With which consoling reflection, which, he imagined, was taken from Scripture, Mr Jocelyn applied himself with much satisfaction to the completion of the business in hand ; and the breakfast talk went on in that sub dued, decorous tone which people instinctively use in a house where there has been a recent death. The early May sun was shining pleasantly in at the oriel window on the silver and glass of a well appointed breakfast table, fragrant with hyacinths and Parma violets. The party that surrounded it was evidently composed of members of various households, collected together for some special occasion, and that a mournful one, to judge by their sombre attire, and the seriousness in manner and appearance, which all endeavoured to maintain.

There was, as might have easily been seen by a close observer, no host or hostess present. The only person who could have occupied that position, the ' poor child ' of Mrs Jocelyn's commis eration, was at that moment lying on a couch in her pretty dressing-room, looking nearly as white as her wrapper, with hands passively folded, and eyes dreamily fixed on a photograph that stood on a little easel, on a table by her side. It was the portrait of a young man, with a bright and handsome face, expressive in every line of a nervous, sensitive, and somewhat sensuous tempera ment. To Ethel Howard, just then, it seemed the sole point of rest and solace in these sad days, when all her old, familiar, tranquil life seemed suddenly overwhelmed with disaster, and the pleasant little world in which she had lived from infancy was turned upside down.

She had much to think of, ' poor child,' and that compassionate expression seemed appropriate enough to anyone who marked the delicate, childlike contour of the youthful face ; the soft violet eyes, misty with recent tears, the curved, sensitive lips, compressed with a resolute quietness. It was the face of one who would feel far more than she would be likely to express, and so would suffer all the more intensely, in silence. Many perplexing thoughts thronged into her mind as she lay there ; fond memories of the past, mingled with a shrinking dread of the future, the former so sweet and bright with protecting love and tenderness, the latter so blank and desolate, save for the one ray of sunshine of which the bright face in the photograph was the outward expression. It was not wonderful that she should cling to the associations it represented, and to the solitude of her own room ; shrinking, naturally enough, from the well-intended but rather trying sympathy of the relatives who had collected at Fairmount Grange for the funeral of her uncle and adopted father, the only one she had ever known.

Only a few days before, the Grange, over whose quiet rural beauty so dark a cloud seemed now to rest, had been as happy a home as could easily have been found. Mr Howard, a quiet and studious recluse, had been one of the most loveable of men ; and, having taken his orphan niece into his heart as well as his home, he had left nothing undone that indulgent affection could do for her happiness and welfare. Some people said, indeed, that her mother, whom she strikingly resembled, had been the object of his own early love, and that her marriage to his brother had made him a bachelor for life. Certainly no father could have been more affectionate and thoughtful; and, as his adopted daughter, and the future mistress of Fairmount Grange, Ethel had had as happy a life, with as hopeful a future, as could fall to the lot of any girl.

At least she had thought so until she had met Edgar Fane, and discovered that the only lack in her little paradise was now supplied in his evident devotion and unconcealed pleasure in her society. He had first found his way to Fairmount Grange as the young tutor of a reading party, one of whom was a near connection of Mr Howard, and a frequent visitor at the Grange. Mr Howard had been much taken with the young man's pleasant manner, bright talk, and good scholarship, and had done what he could to promote the literary career in which young Fane was just beginning to achieve some success. People prophesied a brilliant future for him, and Mr Howard, who cared far more for intellect and literary tastes, than for more material possessions, used to watch the growing attraction between young Fane and Ethel with kindly interest, and would smile quietly to himself as he watched them linger ing in the pleasant walks about the Grange, and thought how well they suited each other, and how he could bear to think of leaving his dear Ethel with one like Edgar Fane to take care of her — and Fairmount Grange.

There had been no positive engagement, nor even any definite love-making — that would have been premature on the young man's part — but Mr Howard saw that things were drifting in that direction, and was not sorry to see it. As for Ethel, she would scarcely have owned to her self, much less to any one else, that Edgar Fane and she were anything more than friends. But when the sudden death of her uncle had left her home desolate, her heart involuntarily took refuge in the thought of the one friend to whom she in stinctively turned for comfort in the sudden catastrophe which had swallowed up all the bright ness of her life, and changed the whole colouring of her future. For Fairmount Grange had been an entailed property, a thing which had seemed of small impor tance, so long as the 'scrapegrace nephew,' Jack Howard, had been supposed dead — the natural con sequence of the dissipated habits which had wrecked his career and made him an aimless wanderer.

He had not been heard from for more than ten years, and Mr Howard had so fully per suaded himself that he must have died abroad, that he had scarcely felt a misgiving as to his adopted daughter finding any obstacle to her undisputed succession. The property was not large, but neither the owner nor the heir presumptive possessed any extravagant tastes, and Ethel had reigned as a small princess in her little domain, assuming more and more the reigns of government, as her indulgent uncle grew more and more passive, more absorbed in his favourite books and studies. But, very shortly before his unexpected death, the prodigal had reappeared at Fairmount Grange, to his uncle's great dismay. Mr Howard had speedily persuaded him to take his departure to a safe distance from the Grange and from Ethel, whom he did not wish even to see this unpresentable cousin.

She, although she knew of his arrival, did not in the least appreciate the gravity of the situation, having been so accustomed to regard her present life as a matter of course, that the idea of any change never occurred to her for a moment. It was, then, with a strange bewilderment — scarcely amounting to realisation, that she heard the truth, which the old family lawyer broke to her as gently as possible — that she had now no claim to the home which had been hers so long, and that Fairmount Grange was the property of a man with whom she could not wish to have any intimacy. The discovery seemed rather to add poignancy to her grief for the loss of her uncle, than to trouble her for herself. The thought of his beloved home passing into the hands of so unworthy a successor was inexpressibly bitter — indeed intolerable to her ; and for a time the double shock had so prostrated the poor girl, that she seemed to lie passive under its weight.

Mrs Jocelyn had applied all the con solation that occurred to her, interspersed with hints which her practical mind could not quite suppress — that Ethel must brace herself to meet the altered situation, and think what it would be best for her to do. At first this scarcely conveyed any meaning to her mind ; but gradually it dawned on her, that the calamity which had befallen her, meant that she could no longer live the happy careless life she had hitherto done — that she must expect to earn her own living, like other poor girls she had known — Marion Evans, for instance, the late Rector's daughter, who had been obliged to take a situation as a governess. Unless — ! But she shrank sensitively from her aunt's broad hint about the attentions of Edgar Fane. She had never allowed herself to put the idea of marriage definitely to her own mind — even as the heiress of Fairmount Grange, and now that things were so changed, it was horrible to have it suggested as a possible alternative from a life of poverty and struggle.

Edgar Fane, she knew, was still striving to make good his foothold on the lowest rounds of the ladder that leads to prosperity, if not to fame. How could she, for the present, think of adding to his cares, even if he should ask her to do so ? It was, therefore, with strangely mingled feelings that she gazed sadly at the photograph, and re-read once more, the little note expressing sympathy, and promising an early visit, which she had received shortly after the news of Mr Howard's death had reached the writer.

Chapter II

Miss Howard forced herself to come down to dinner that evening, to take her place once more at the head of her uncle's table. It would not be long that she would be called to play the part of hostess, and she felt that she must do her duty to her guests while she could. The man of law had taken his departure. Mr and Mrs Jocelyn and Miss Ponsonby were still there, and the latter frequently imperiled Ethel's hardly maintained composure, by expressions of sympathy which she could well have spared. ' Ah ! a sad change for you, my love, are you sure you feel equal to being down stairs ? Poor Henry ! how I miss him at every turn.' So persistently sympathetic was the good lady indeed, that the practical Mrs Jocelyn at last interposed somewhat sharply, begging her ' for goodness sake to try to think of something else for a little while, and let poor Ethel have some peace.' Mr Jocelyn indulged in a few mild platitudes, THE HEIR OF FAIRMOUNT GRANGE keeping up at least a show of conversation, for which Ethel was duly grateful.

Above all things she dreaded any allusion to Edgar Fane, from whom, during the day, she had had a few lines announcing a visit the next morning ; and her heart beat painfully at the thought of the interview she longed for and yet half dreaded. She had never seen Edgar under the least shadow of sadness, and she wondered how he, who loved sunshine and happiness, would bear himself under circumstances so sorrowful. She bravely maintained her com posure, however, even offering Mr Jocelyn the game of backgammon in which she knew he delighted, but which he declined, with a com passionate glance at the pale, resolutely calm face, with the dark shadows under the eyes speaking of sorrow and sleepless nights, which it seemed so strange to see on Ethel Howard's fair young face. ' As we can't very well expect to enjoy your music yet, my dear, I won't trouble you to entertain me in any other way.

I think you had much better retire early, and get some sleep if you can.' It seemed very strange to Ethel to go up stairs without the affectionate kiss and blessing that had been wont to dismiss her nightly to rest. The soft May moonlight found its way into her room through a half open shutter, and she sat for a long time looking out at the broad lawn, silvered by the moonlight, and flecked by the deep shadows of the cedars, and the lighter tracery of the blossoming shrubs, It was all so sweet, so peaceful — she felt it hard to believe that he who had seemed the centre and life of it all had left it for ever. Where was he now ? And she soon lost herself in those wistful but vain attempts to guess at the conditions of the unseen life, that haunt every mourner, till she almost lost the thought of Edgar, and weariness at last brought on the first refreshing sleep she had known since her great bereavement. 'I wonder whether he will think all this black very unbecoming and dreadful,' Ethel could not resist asking herself, as she stood before her mirror next morning and criticised the effect of her sombre mourning draperies, which, under Mrs Jocelyn's supervision, had been so heavily loaded with crape.

Ethel had often heard Edgar talk impatiently of the conventional paraphernalia of mourning, and say how he disliked it. Would it repel him now ? she wondered. But he would be blind indeed if he could not see how strongly the black surroundings heightened the exquisite delicacy of her complexion, ' not pale, but fair,' the finely moulded features and the shining coils of soft chestnut hair that seemed the natural complement of the dark violet eyes. The sorrowful expression, so unwonted on the fair young face, had given to the wistful curves of her mouth a new expression of softness and pathos. To any careful observer, Ethel Howard seemed, in B her deep mourning, sweeter and nobler than per haps she had ever looked before. She was far too restless and nervous to wait in the house the expected arrival ; and she was anxious to get away from the curious and observant eyes of which she was painfully conscious.

She felt, too, as if she could not bear to see Edgar enter the familiar rooms where he had always before en countered Mr Howard's unaffected welcome. She occupied herself, therefore, in strolling about the grounds, watching the Scotch gardener, Brown, at work among the flower-beds, replying to his in quiries as to what she thought of his summer arrangements, forgetting, for the time being, that she was no longer in a position to give him orders, and mournfully surveying the rich beauty of the hyacinths that had been her uncle's especial pride and delight. ' What would you think about the calceolarias, Miss Ethel,' asked Brown, ' would you think they or the verbenas would look best yonder ? They're just about ready to set out.' 'Mr Howard always liked the calceolarias best over there, Brown.

He liked to see the gold relieved against the dark green of the ceder boughs. But do as you think best, yourself,' she said, a strange pang striking her as she thought that neither her uncle or she would enjoy them there that summer. She turned away with a sigh ; and Brown, recollecting himself, sighed too, and said to himself, as he brushed away the moisture from his eyes with his coat sleeve, ' Poor lassie ! poor lassie ! it's a sad change for her, as well as for the rest of us.' ' If Mr Fane comes, Thompson,' Ethel had said to the faithful old servant who discharged the various duties of butler and footman, ' you can tell him he will find me up at the beech-tree seat.' 'Very well, Miss Howard,' he had replied, glad to hear that his young mistress was going to have the consolation of a visit from her handsome young lover, in which character the household at Fair mount Grange had by common consent recognised him.

It was a fair English scene that lay before Ethel, as she sat under the copper beech, just budding into leaf. Fairmount Grange took its name from the hill that rose behind it, commanding a charming view over undulating pastoral country, with a typical village and church in the foreground, glimpses of a winding river, and a range of misty blue hills beyond. Ethel had often sat there with her uncle or Edgar Fane, enjoying the changeful beauty of the scene, in the early morning or evening hours. Now, the same familiar landscape was before her, but she scarcely noticed its beauty. A choking feeling of suspense, which she scarcely understood, absorbed every other impression ; little as it was visible in the calm, somewhat set face, paler than usual, and still paler from the contrast with the dead black of her draperies.

It seemed to her that she had sat there a long time, absently noticing the changes of light and shade on the distant woods, clothed in the first tender green of spring, as the light clouds flitted over the soft May sky, when, at last, a well known footstep, quick and elastic, approached on the winding ascent. Ethel sat very still, watching for the first glimpse of the approaching figure — a young man fashionably and faultlessly attired, whose usually bright face was strangly pale and agitated. Ethel was indeed visibly the calmer of the two as he pressed her hand silently, with evi dent emotion, which seemed at first to prevent further expression. Ethel was the first to speak. ' It was so kind of you to come,' she said ; then it seemed as if she too could get no further. ' I should have come before, if I could,' he said ; hurriedly, 'it was awfully hard to stay in town, trying to work, while my thoughts were with you down here ; but I had a pile of work that must be finished before I could leave.

How hard it must all have been for you, the suddenness of the shock, the sad duties, and then all these painful and unexpected consequences ! ' ' You have heard, then,' she said, glad to escape a more direct allusion to her bereavement, of which it seemed impossible for her to speak. Edgar took up her query with the same sense of relief. What consolation for a mourner had he, indeed, to offer, to whom the 'resurrection and the life' were but an ' illusion of the mind ! ' 'Yes,' he exclaimed, 'I have heard what an injustice you have to suffer, through this precious thing they call ' law ' ! I've always maintained that that blessed law of entail is a survival from a primitive barbarism. To think that a scamp like your cousin ( I beg your pardon for calling him so, but I can't think of it with patience), should come in to rob you of what is yours by every moral right and consideration !

If ever I have a chance, I shall, at least, have a try at helping to upset such a wretched system ! ' ' It seemed very strange at first,' said Ethel quietly ; ' but I think I am growing reconciled to the idea. I had no idea that Fairmount Grange could ever seem so urihomelike a place as it does, now that he is gone who made it home ! ' Her lips and eyelids quivered slightly, but she controlled herself with an effort. 'It is intolerable to think of your having to leave your home,' he said with real emotion. ' Dear Miss Howard, dear Ethel, I can hardly realise it, you can't think how trying it has been to me ! ' His voice had sunk so low that it was barely audible. Ethel sat very still and pale, with an ex pression of forced composure. Yet the words dear Ethel ' seemed to be what her heart had been hungering for during all these dreary days. 'And now,' he continued, 'what would I not give to be in a position to offer you — not my heart, for that I am sure you know is yours already — but a home worthy of you.

It would be the sweetest thing life could bring me. And here I am tied absolutely by the hard facts of existence ! Before your uncle's death, I was withheld from asking for your love, by the fear that my devotion might be misunderstood. Now the obstacle is, utter inability at present to offer you anything but a share in a struggle for existence, which is hard enough for myself alone ! ' He stopped as if for a reply. But what was there to say ? A chill seemed creeping over Ethel's heart. She had thought of all this herself, over and over again. She had been wont to dream as maidens will, of a warm impassioned love that will not look at obstacles, and holds nothing impossible, so that it may win the prize of all prizes, and she had unconsciously allowed herself to associate these dreams with the thought of Edgar Fane.

She had been prepared for an offered sacrifice, for an appeal to wait for a home to be won by steadily patient toil and struggle ; and she had been prepared to refuse to accept the sacrifice — to refuse to let a generous heart pledge itself to what it might yet regret. But she was not prepared to be a passive listener to the statement of the impossibility of it all, and her heart sank with a sense of loss and humiliation that sent the blood to her heart and left her paleness paler. ' It's awfully hard,' he continued presently, ' when one thinks of the difference a very little more money might make to one, and see other fellows positively rolling in it, and fooling it away ! This cousin of yours — what good will it be to him to take what should have been yours ? And literature is such a precarious thing !

Even when one makes a hit, one may not repeat it till the Greek Kalends — and meantime one must wait — and starve ! ' He spoke so bitterly that Ethel, for the moment, ceased to feel her own pain, in sympathy with struggling, genius. She did not think of noticing DO OO O the perfection of his costume in every detail, or of calculating its probable cost. She had been too much accustomed to such perfection in those about her, not to take such things as a matter of course. To be sure the young curate, who was saving his little income in order to marry Marian Evans, wore very threadbare coats, but she bad never connected these two circumstances. Her sympathy overcame the involuntary sense of disappointment, and she spoke at last. ' I am so sorry, Mr Fane,' she said gently, ' that you have such a hard struggle.

I wish I could help it. I know my uncle would have tried to make it easier for you, if— but please don't say anything more about me. I am not worrying about that at all. A woman can get on with very little, and I have so many friends — and my music ! ' * But I want you to understand how I love you — how inexpressibly painful it is to me, to resign the sweetest hope of my life. Perhaps a brighter day may come, when I shall be able to throw myself and my success at your feet, and ask you to accept both ! ' He spoke now with force and fervour, as he flattered himself ; and, indeed, in look and tone he seemed, for the moment, the impassioned lover of Ethel's day-dream. But her maidenly pride had been deeply hurt, and she would not even meet his eye. She summoned all her self-control, and said, with quiet dignity, ' We need not discuss such remote possi bilities now, Mr Fane.

I quite understand your position, and I am sorry you should think it necessary to explain it. Suppose we walk down to the house. What a lovely morning it is ! I think the spring tints never looked so exquisitely tender!' Edgar Fane would have liked to prolong the interview, but her manner was so decided, that he had no choice but to follow her lead, and they walked slowly on, keeping up with some success, an indifferent conversation. They had walked on for some distance, when, to Ethel's relief, they encountered Mr Jocelyn leisurely taking his morning stroll. He invited them to accompany him to look at a young plantation, but Ethel excused herself by saying that she wished to return to the house at once, suggesting very decidedly that Mr Fane should accompany her uncle. She turned down a walk that led towards the house; but suddenly a thought seemed to strike her, and, taking a little private path by which they were wont to go to church, she soon found herself at a little wicket gate leading into the churchyard.