A Faithful Lover ... A new edition, revised

Front matter

a NEW NOVELS. By Mrs. Macqtjoid. MAISIE DERRICK. 2 vole. £1 Is. Od. By Roma White. PUNCHINELLO'S ROMANCE. 1 vol. 68. By Esmb Stuart. VIRGINIE'S HUSBAND. 1 vol. 6s. By Anthony Hope. MR. WITT'S WIDOW: A Frivolous Tale 1 vol. 6s. A New Volume of the TIP OAT SERIES. By Charlotte M. Yonge. COUNTESS KATE; AND THE STOKESLEY SECRET. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. London : A. D. INNES & CO., (late Walteb Smith & Innes), 31 & 32, Bedford Street, Strand, W.C. A FAITHFUL LOYEE NOVELS BY KATHARINE S. MACQUOID. New and cheaper issue. Each volume 5s. Uniform with this Volume. the series commences with BESIDE THE RIVER. TOO SOON. LoNiipN, : J;!.tj. INNES & CO., (late Waltbb 'Smith & Innes), 31 & 32, BEDFOHir Stkeet, Strand, W.C. A FAITHFUL LOVER. BY KATHARINE S. MACQUOID, AUTHOR OF "AT THE BED GLOVE,'* "BESIDE THE RIVER," ETC.

A NEW EDITION, REVISED. it o ni) o n : A. D. INNES & CO., (late Walter Smith & Innes), 31 & 32, BEDFORD STREET, STRAND, W.C. 1892. LONDON : PRINTED BT WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, STAMPOED STREET AND CHARING CROSS. CONTENTS.

Prologue

. CHAPTER PAGE I. A Young Englishman . . . . . . . . 1 II. On the Terrace . . . . . . . . 7 III. A Lesson in English . . . . . . . . 14 IV. A Disappointment . . . . . . . . 20 V. Madame de Foignies . . . . . . 24 VI. Again on the Terrace . . . . . . 30 VII. The Beginning op the End . . . . 36 VIII. A Kiss . . . . . . . . . . 43 IX. Another Kiss . . . . . . . . 48 BOOK THE FIRST. I. Hollow Mill . . . . . . . . 54 II. The Past . . . . . . . . 60 III. Little Clemency . . . . . . . . 63 IV. Miss Phcebe . . . . . . . . 76 V. A Scare . . . . . . . . . . 83 VI. A Truant . . . . . . . . 91 BOOK THE SECOND. I. Clemency's Return to Hollow Mill . . 99 II. Mr. Ralph . . . . . . . . . . 107 III. The Squire or Baxdale .. .. .. 112 IV. Daniel Lister . . . . . . . . . . 120 V. Esau Runswick and his Niece . . . . 123 VI.

Curiosity . . . . . . . . . . 129 VII. The Vicar op Baxdale . . . . . . 133 VIII. At the Window . . . . . . . . 138 IX. Mr. Run8wiok puts a Question to his Niece.. 142 X. Mr. Runswick grants a Request . . . . CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGR XI. At Tom Sleights' Cottage . . . . • • 152 XII. A Basket op Eggs .. .. .. .. 158 XIII. Ralph meets the Hermit . . . . . . 163 XIV. At Baxdale Church . . . . . . 168 XV. The Sketch at Hollow Mill . . . . . . 176 XVI. An Invitation . . . . . . . . 179 XVII. An Old Wound . . . . . . . . 188 XVIII. On the Moor . . . . . . . . 199 XIX. Mrs. Pickering is emphatic . . . . . . 206 XX. Doubt .. .. .. .. .. 215 XXI. Certainty . . . . . . . . . . 218 XXII. A Climax . . . . . . . . . . 226 BOOK THE THIRD. I. Julie de Kerjean . . . . . . . . 232 II. Monsieur le Vicomte . . . . . . . . 244 III.

Esau Runswick pays a Visit . . . . 248 IV. A Proposal . . . . . . . . . . 255 V. A Disagreement . . . . ... . . 260 VI. Ralph and his Mother . . . . . . . . 265 VII. Unexpected . . . . . . . . 273 VIII. A Meeting on the Moor . . . . . . 278 IX. Mr. Glaisdale at the Mill . . . . 291 X. Alone at Night . . . . . . . . 301 XI. Mrs. Pickering and the Vicar . . . . 304 XII. Sorrow . . . . . . . . . . 310 XIII. Mrs. Pickering's Luncheon . . . . . . 316 XIV. Beside the Ravine . . . . . . . . 323 BOOK THE FOURTH. I. A Struggle . . . . . . . . 329 II. At Odds . . . . . . . . . . 333 III. Miss Phœbe's Counsel . . . . . . 338 IV. At Chateau de Foignies . . . . . . 345 V. Darkness . . . . . . . . . . 353 VI. In a Week . . . . . . . . . . 360 VII. Suspense . . . . . . . . . . 368 VIII. Old Lovers . . . . . . . . . . 372 IX. Rest .. .. .. .. .. 331 X. The Last . . . . . . . , _ _

PROLOGUE.

.

Chapter I

A YOUNG ENGLISHMAN. A man is walking up the main street of a dull French town ; he is tall, young, and dark-complexioned, his name is Esau Runswick ; he would be probably recognised as an Englishman, though some of the recognis able points of his nationality are difficult to specify ; others, such as a frame that looks well practised in athletic sports, careless and yet well chosen clothing, to say nothing of a general air of depression and dulness that denotes he is bored, are manifest. Except for this bored expression his face might pass for that of a Frenchman — his dark eyes are long and narrow, and there is a keen as well as a pathetic look in them — his forehead is somewhat narrow too, and high, although the clustering curls of his dark hair hide part of it, and he has the long, high-bridged nose and thin lips of a Frenchman.

But it is a striking and attractive face, and the rich brown complexion glows with health, in keeping with the promise of strength in the young fellow's tall, well-proportioned figure. Esau has been at Caux a month, and he is heartily tired of it. He is only twenty -four ; but though he has not hitherto found life amusing, he is as easily B bored as if he had in succession tried each one of earth's delights and tired of them all. He has always been shy and reserved even to his mother — who mourned her child's silent brooding ways. She died many years ago, and by her wish he was sent to'school. But school did not suit Esau : he hated the re straint of fixed hours ; his only pleasure had been in long and solitary rambles, or in wild, daring exploits ; he could not bear to be made, he said, to follow suit with other boys from whom he shrank as utterly un congenial ; and he had been so long accustomed to have his own way with his father's servants and the inhabitants of the village, near which the Manor House, his home, stood, that his self-will made him extremely unpopular with his schoolfellows.

Very soon his father received a hint to take his son away from school, coupled with advice to put him under a strict tutor at home. But the father was eccentric also, and he disliked the idea of a resident tutor ; this perplexity ended in sending Esau every day to study with the parish clergyman, who unfortunately for the lad had no other pupils. He had a young sister, who adored the handsome, clever boy, but she was too shy to break the ice of his reserve and to make herself his com panion ; she contented herself with silent worship. Esau was gifted, and had an original turn of mind ; he grew up studious and cultivated, though he still loved the out-door occupations that he had early shown a vocation for. But his reserve increased, and he refused to go up to the University, chiefly because he felt his want of social qualities.

At twenty-three his silent fits had become so oppressive that his father resolved to send him abroad, in the hope that a foreign tour might draw him out of what he called " his snail's shell." Esau objected on the ground that he could not make himself understood in a foreign country. But his father had a remedy prepared for this : Esau must improve his French. A YOUNG ENGLISHMAN. There was a French banker, a Monsieur Nogent, who lived at Caux. He had a very comfortable house, and was a pleasant, intelligent man, a cor respondent of the London house, in which the Runs wicks had banked for generations. Mr. Runswick had made acquaintance with the banker and his wife when he had gone on a visit to an old friend, Monsieur le Comte de Foignies, who lived in a chateau near Caux, and to whom Esau should carry a letter of introduction : between the two — correct, prosy, slow speaking Monsieur Nogent and the lively, attractive Count — Esau, his father thought, must certainly learn to speak French fluently.

There was the banker's wife too, who could not utter a word of English. Like most people who live in a small world entirely of their own choosing, Esau's father believed that all he wished for must happen. It had cost him an effort of mind, a withdrawal from studies of prehistoric times, subjects in fact of far greater importance to him than his only son's outset in life, to plan this journey for Esau : having planned it, its success in some way had already identified itself with its cost to himself, and when he said Good-bye to his son one fine spring morning, he believed the result more than half achieved. At first his keen taste for antiquities had made the old town, its churches and ancient houses, full of interest to the young Englishman. But now he had come to the end of these. He tried riding, but he found it dull, the surrounding country was flat meadow land relieved by straight rows of poplar trees.

There was no shooting to be had at this time of year, and a steamer which plied daily in the river had destroyed the fish. His town life was dull enough to satisfy a hermit. Monsieur Nogent's only interest lay in the improvement and enrichment of the good town of Caux. He could talk money and municipal atf'airs, but Esau did not care to listen, and the good banker usually read his newspaper except at dinner-time, and this meal was far too serious an employment to be disturbed by conversation. Madame Nogent was very plain and very dowdy ; she was devout and an excel lent housekeeper, but Esau found her utterly un interesting. He thought, too, that so well-to-do a woman should not be seen in the morning in a cap tied under her chin — and a cotton gown, so that she might inspect the cleaning of the rooms without detriment to her toilet.

He was very fastidious in his ideas about women, and although Madame Nogent appeared at the mid-day breakfast fresh from the hands of the hairdresser and in a well-fitting, suitable dress, he had always a feeling that this appearance was temporary, and that in an instant the Cinderella aspect of his hostess might return. The house too was dull ; the carpets, though scrupulously clean, were faded — there were but few of them in fact, the floors being of oak parqueterie ; the furniture was dull and plain, not even quaint with age ; and there was an absence of books and pictures. Thrift had been a household word with the banker and his wife ; their house contained that which was useful and necessary, that was all. The curtains were dazzling in their dead whiteness, but they were muslin and lace of the simplest kind; the stoves were white earthenware ; there was absolutely no thing in the way of decoration, except some monstro sities in the shape of gilt mirror frames, and these were so obnoxious to Esau, accustomed from infancy to the quaintness of old English furniture in his country home, that he avoided the salon as much as he could.

But to-day — perhaps from the brightness of the sunshine which seemed to be deriding the slate coloured monotony in which he was contented to live — for although Caux as a town has a singular reputa tion for cleanness and virtue, yet doubtless a young man of means may get into mischief there if he be viciously inclined — Esau felt rebellious, he could bear it no longer, and while he cast about for some way A YOUNG ENGLISHMAN. of relief, he remembered his father's letter of intro duction to the Count de Foignies. Soon after his arrival, Madame Nogent had begged him to send it or to deliver it at the chateau, but he had shrunk from the idea when he heard that the Count did not speak English. He hated himself while he listened to his own blundering attempts to talk French, and his pride revolted against the idea of appearing ridiculous.

The old professor who came to him every day had however done his duty, Esau no longer blundered, and it seemed to him that now it might be worth while at least to ride up to the Chateau de Foignies and deliver his letter. At the thought he went with a quicker pace along the old street, and ran upstairs with so light a step that dull Madame Nogent, who managed however to have eyes for all that went on in her own house and those of her neighbours, wondered what could have happened to her inmate. He had ordered his horse before he went upstairs, it was quite a new sensation to feel impatient till the animal came round to the door. The long white, treeless road was so hot that he did not go along it very quickly, and when he reached the tall iron gates that enclosed the outer court of the chateau, he could neither find a bell nor a means of entrance.

While he stood debating whether he should ride back to Caux and trust his letter to the post-office, there came a clatter of horses' feet and a cloud of dust behind him, and there rode up to the gates a pleasant-faced gentleman and a lady ; a groom came behind them at some distance. The gentleman looked afc Esau and smiled, but Esau felt shy and uncomfortable. " You are going in, Monsieur ? " " I came to deliver a letter to Monsieur de Foignies." " It is for me, Monsieur," the Count bowed, and held out his hand. All this happened so quickly that Esau had not even looked at the lady. Now, as the Count took the letter and opened it, Esau looked at her and saw lovely deep blue eyes, suddenly withdrawn from his face, and veiled by heavy white eyelids, fringed by golden lashes. He could not catalogue the rest of the face but it was so exquisite in its young freshness that his eyes rested on it spelled by its" charm ; he started at the laughing, genial voice of the Count.

" Aha, Monsieur Roonswick," he said, " we have been expecting you this month and more, have we not, Julie ? " The girl looked up and bowed with a sweet smile of welcome. " Your father is my dear friend," he went on, keeping pace with his visitor, for an old man-servant had come forward, and thrown open both the first and the second gates, and they were riding up through two neglected looking courtyards to the entrance-door of the chateau. " I owe you a grudge, Monsieur, for keeping me so long from making his son's acquaintance." There was something so cordial and courteous in the Count's pleasant voice, and in his refined, smiling face, that Esau felt almost contrite at his delay, he wondered why he had kept himself so long away from this kindly companionship, for he saw there would be no trouble in Monsieur de Foignies' acquaintance.

The Count indeed knew his father and all about him, and was willing to accept him as a visitor, without any effort on Esau's part to make himself agreeable. When he returned home that evening he felt trans formed. The Count is the pleasantest companion he has ever had, they have been together all day, and yet they parted after dinner with extreme regret. Monsieur de Foignies had apologised for not asking his young friend to take up his quarters at the chateau on the ground of the ill-health of his wife. " But you must come every day, or whenever you please, my dear fellow," he said, as Esau got on his horse, " and you shall have as much fishing as you can wish for." Esau did not ask himself how much Mademoiselle Julie's lovely face had to do with the extraordinary happiness and sense of enjoyment that possess him.

She quitted them at the entrance, and though he afterwards caught a glimpse of her walking with a lady in the gardens, he could not speak to her, the Count was taking him in another direction. Esau knew nothing about French young ladies. His own sister, Clemency, rambled about as she pleased, and though she is only sixteen, always appeared at the dinner-table. This sweet Julie looked a little older. He felt sure that he must see her on his next visit. Esau fell asleep and dreamt that he was a boy again ; and then he dreamt of Julie de Foignies.

Chapter II. On The Terrace

The old French professor at Caux is in low spirits ; his pupil is always putting off his lessons, and his excuse is always the same : Mr. Runswick says he is going to spend the day at Chateau Foignies, as the people down in Caux call the quaint, red-brick, high-roofed building with its sculptured stone oriels and graceful tourelles. Esau could not have believed that such a charming oasis could have been found in that monotonous plain. The Chateau stands on a white chalky hill, its front is level with the high road, but behind it the hill descends steeply to the river, and is thickly wooded except where a succession of grassed terraces ends the gardens and commands a charming view. Esau has paid several visits to the chateau, but Julie never appears at dinner, and he finds to his sorrow that she is always with her governess.

They have met twice in the grounds and have exchanged a few words, but of late the Count and his young friend have been riding round the estate, discussing the land, the shooting and fishing, and other matters — for Esau has been brought up with the knowledge considered necessary to an English country gentle man — and the Count learns much from the answers he gets from him. One day when Esau arrives, he finds that gout has taken a firm grasp of his kindly host, and he has to roam about the grounds alone. Esau has not been to the terraces since his first visit to the chateau, he goes there to-day. There are three terraces one above another, and at the left hand end of the lower one is a stone bench ; moss and green weather-stains have filled up and obscured much of the sculpture on the back and arms of this bench ; but a wild rose has spread a sort of canopy over one side of it; Esau seats himself and finds that he is completely screened from the upper terraces by the charming rose bower.

Some day he thinks he will perhaps sit there with Julie beside him. He rises and goes up the raised steps leading to the second terrace. Coming down the next flight of steps is Julie herself. There is no governess with her, and Esau's heart beats fast as he goes up and says " Good-day " to this fair young creature. Julie begins a curtsey ; but as he holds out his hand she puts her slender fingers into it for an instant, blushes, and says, " I go to get groundsel for my bird, Monsieur, it grows by the old seat," and she is gone. Esau stands stupefied; she comes back before he has recovered himself, passes him with a bright little nod, and runs away. The governess of Mademoiselle Julie is old and rather infirm ; but she takes walks with her pupil ; sometimes Julie leaves her when they reach the house to get a flower or a leaf or groundsel for her bird ; and it does not occur to gentle Mademoiselle Lagrange that her pupil runs the risk of meeting the young Englishman on these occasions.

But indeed Mademoiselle Lagrange knows nothing of the Count's friend or of his visits to the chateau ; she lives far away from the family rooms ; the large quaint tourelle with its pointed black cap at the angle of the high roofed many-towered house is given up to her and her pupil ; their meals have been served to them in their little dining-room ever since the Countess's paralysed state has made her a close prisoner. Twice every day Julie pays her mother a formal visit. She is often with her father, and to-day when she goes down to him he sends her with a message to Monsieur Runswick. "He is sure to be fishing, my angel," the father says ; and Julie kisses his forehead with a grace that charms him and makes him sigh with content when she goes out, kissing the pink tips of her fingers as she passes through the doorway.

Her sunny smile has a spice of mischief in it as she trips along the slate-strewn garden paths : she knows that the young Englishman is not fishing, and in her heart she knows too that Mademoiselle would not approve of this message to " Monsieur Esau " as she calls him. Julie is quite a child, unconscious of love, though she likes to feel that the young Englishman admires her : she is sure he does, because just now he looked at her as no one has ever looked at her before. More than once since she went in she has been on the point of saying this to Mademoiselle Lagrange, then a shy prudence came in the way ; Mademoiselle always says that a young girl should never think about gentlemen, and Julie feels that to speak of one would be an absolute crime. But for all that she does think a good deal about her father's friend this morning : she means to tell Mademoiselle some day that she met him, for she knows that she ought not to do anything unknown to her kind governess.

Her smile grows sunnier as she nears the upper terrace, but Monsieur Esau is not there. She is too shy to call to him, perhaps after all he has gone down to the river to fish — it is more than an hour since she left him on the terrace. Julie waits, and then she goes down the flight of grassed steps which leads to the second terrace. It is deserted. Far below the river shows through a slender screen of birch trees, and on the left, a mile or more away, is the haze of the busy town, the vanes of church towers and spires glittering as the sunlight falls on them. A low but musical whistling comes suddenly from below as Julie goes down the next flight of steps, and, as she steps on to the terrace, Mr. Runswick rises from the rose-bowered old stone seat at its farthest end and makes her a low bow : he does not advance towards her, and Julie stands still.

"Monsieur," she raises her sweet voice, "papa sends you a message." " I ask a thousand pardons," Esau says gaily, " but I have run a thorn into my ankle, and if Mademoiselle will take a seat here while she gives her message it will save me from the impoliteness of sitting while she stands." " Ah, mon Dieu, is Monsieur hurt ? I will send Antoine, and he will soon take out the thorn." Julie turns to go away, but Esau says — " Pray do not trouble, it is nothing, though I thank you much for your kindness. But please to sit down, Mademoiselle; I am impatient to hear your father's message." Julie looks at him. He is very polite, but the girl thinks this ceremonious tone is quite unnecessary, and when she sees his lips curve into a smile she breaks into an uneasy laugh. He gaily joins in the laugh, and they sit laughing heartily for some minutes before either can speak.

When Julie recovers her voice her shyness has fled, and she looks archly in Monsieur Runswick's face. " Now I must give papa's message," she says, and Esau Runswick feels that he could sit there, laughing with her and looking at her, for ever. How bright the day is, how high the sky seems above them, no lowering cloud near to threaten their perfect serenity of peace and joy ! " Papa says, Monsieur, that Monsieur le Marquis de Kerjean is coming to us for a few days, on Wednesday in next week, and that he will be greatly obliged if you will see that Antoine puts all the fishing tackle in order, for Monsieur le Marquis is a great fisherman. Papa fears that Antoine is careless in these matters : papa says he is sure you will pardon him for making this request." "I am delighted — I mean I am sorry about the gout ; " then Esau goes on quickly before she can get up to go away — " But tell me, is this gentleman old or young, Mademoiselle ?

" " I do not know." Julie pulls a little blue case from her pocket. " This is his portrait. Papa gave it to me just now; perhaps you can guess, Monsieur, how old he is." She presses the spring of the little morocco case and the lid flies open, showing on one side a blue velvet lining, on the other the portrait of a gentle man as dark-eyed and handsome as Esau himself, but more determined-looking, and about twenty years older. Esau looks intently at the portrait, which is surrounded with a row of small emeralds : he grows a little pale as he looks, and a frown gathers over his eyes. Julie rises to go away : she holds out her hand shyly for the portrait. Esau looks up at her — not with his usual admiring eyes ; there is an angry sternness in them that brings colour to the girl's face. " Why do you carry this portrait about with you, Mademoiselle ?

" he says. Julie still holds out her hand for the case. " It is not mine, Monsieur," she says, in a frightened voice; "it belongs to papa, and he gave it to me because he wishes me to like his friend very much ; I think he looks amiable ; do not you, Monsieur ? " "I?" Esau jumps up; he forgets all about the thorn in his ankle, those sweet, speed-well-blue eyes are bent on him, glowing with colour and with feeling too. Julie has always been petted and spoken gently to all her life ; no one has ever looked at her with frowning angry eyes ; she is frightened, and she longs to ask what she has done to offend Monsieur Runs wick, but she is too shy. Still he understands that in some way he has grieved this lovely, dainty maiden who looks in the shadow of her sunburnt straw bonnet and her fresh white cambric gown like one of the Dresden-china figures in the salon of the chateau.

" No, Mademoiselle, I do not think he looks amiable ; he looks hard and disagreeable. You do not like him ; you cannot," he says, fixing his eyes on hers, and troubling still more the gentle unconscious creature. "I do not know him, I have not seen him, Monsieur," she says, simply. " I shall try to like him, because papa says I must do so. Good day, Monsieur," she curtsies; "shall I not send Antoine to take out your thorn ? " To her great surprise Esau takes her hand just as she is turning to go away. "Mademoiselle," — he longs to call her Julie, but fears to alarm the sweet, guileless creature — "I am your father's friend, and yours too if you will allow me so to call myself, and" — he hurries on because his good taste and his conscience protest against the words on his lips — " and I tell you you can never like that man.