Rhoda. A novel

Front matter

RHODA RHODA A NOVEL BY AGNES C. MAITLAND AUTHOR OF ' ELSIE : A LOWLAND SKETCH ' IN TWO VOLUMES At the Devil's mart all things are sold, Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold. For a cap and bells with our lives we pay ; Bubbles we earn with our whole soul's tasking, 'Tis Heaven alone that is given away — 'Tis only God can be had for the asking ! Low KM. V O L. I % a n b o n REMINGTON & CO., PUBLISHERS HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN, W.C. 1885 All Rights Reserved CONTENTS Prologue ....... 1

Prologue

THE STORY OF A FALL ' Thou knowest what a thing is poverty Among the fallen on evi] days — And well thou knowest a mother never Could doom her children to this ill.' Shkllet It was early in the memorable year, 1815, that the Earl of Clancurran saw fit to take unto himself a second wife. The village that lay round his ancestral home was en site, of course, on the occasion. There was plenty of whisky going, and bonfires blazed on the hills, but outside the village the spheres were not much shaken by the event. An Irish peer, but in no sense representative, his VOL. I A RHODA 2 lordship's name was hardly known beyond his own county. Only twice or thrice in his life had he even visited Dublin. He preferred the free life of his own castle with the comfortable easy ways that had come down from father to son, its dirt almost as ancient and undisturbed, and its semi-squalid splendour.

But his motive for this second marriage was not far to seek, as they say in those parts. By his first marriage he had one daughter, a large eyed child of ten. Being loveable, self-indulgent, extravagant, and poor, he had made no provision whatever for her, and had spent every penny of his own that he could lay his hands on, besides sundry that by rights belonged to other people. At his death, title, house and land, would pass to a distant cousin, a Scotchman, to whom the ways and tastes of Lord Clancurran were simply hateful, and a new wife, with a possible son, seemed the only hope he had of leaving Harriet with even a roof to cover her, or a friend in the world. It was a failure, however. The second Lady Clancurran was the half-educated, pretty daughter of a third-rate attorney, who, dazzled by the only ambition that could have entered her silly little soul, had married Lord Clancurran for his position, and always sincerely hated the tall brown haired child whom she found in her new home, whom she dimly suspected of holding her very cheap, and in

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3 whose direct open gaze she always believed she read contempt. She showed her hatred, too, with the charming frankness, only possible to a vulgar and silly woman ; and when her ladyship had blighted many hopes by giving birth to a useless daughter, she revenged her disappointment on her step-daughter in a thousand petty ways. Harriet was but fifteen when her father died, worn out in his prime, more beloved and regretted than many a better man, but certainly not able to delude him self with the idea that his marriage had been a blessing to his daughter. And now the home and all friendly faces must be left, they must brave the world and live as best they could on a pittance, that would not half dress most women of their rank. It was a hard ex perience. Harriet had to live with her step-mother, bear with her, work for her, stand the strain and stress of every day, and all the friction of existence in third-rate lodgings, constantly changed, with only one wretched sitting-room and not even a bed, far less a bedroom, to herself.

Not allowed to show love even to her spoilt little half-sister, the poor child, who had acquired a dim sense of duty, principally from seeing how persistently her father ignored everything that could possibly come under that name, made a vow to do her duty by them both. She kept it too, and so grew up to womanhood, RHODA 4 handsome, quiet, cold, completely wn-Irish in manner, whatever she may have been at heart, but with the conviction burnt into her soul, that poverty and misery were synonymous, and that the want of money meant the want of everything that makes life bearable. For ten years, this life lasted. Harriet was five-and-twenty when her stepmother and sister both fell ill of fever, and died in one week, and she was left — strange and desolate state for a beautiful young woman — without one human being in the world who had any claim on her, any love for her, any right or any desire to advise or care for her.

For many weeks she was miserable, sad, and lonely, unable to exert herself, or even to think ; but the inevitable reaction came at last with a brilliant May morning, and she woke to a joyous sense of youth, of freedom, of life untried and unknown. For two hours she enjoyed herself thoroughly considering what she should do, and then — she advertised in the Times for a situation as travelling companion. She was not ill-qualified for such a post. By sheer force of will, and in constant defiance of circumstances and her step-mother, she had acquired a fair knowledge of French and Italian. She had an eager desire to see the world, and much 'roughing it' had given her that readiness of resource which

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5 seldom comes to the well-to-do. Moreover, she was shrewd enough to know that her title was a market able commodity. Had she not sickened daily over the adulation that her step-mother demanded, and commanded in her tenth-rate circle of acquaintances on that account only ? Lady Harriet was very young for her years, she actually had a sense of daring delight and excite ment in writing that advertisement, a sense of putting her fate to the touch that thrilled her deliciously. And for once fate did not prove un kind. A rich Manchester man, with a wife and two daughters, required her services and companion ship. One daughter was sickly and plain, the other gay and pretty. Their tastes, ideas, and fancies were different in every particular, and being rich enough to gratify every whim, they wished to find a young person who would agree with them both when desired, and sit at home with the invalid, or run to and fro with the beauty, with equal cheer fulness and contentment.

Lady Harriet seemed made for them; and her title did even more for her than she thought, for it not only got her the post, but protected her in it from unreasonable exaction. Before starting, Harriet made a journey to visit her old home, and brought back with her — Mr Smith having intimated that no lady in his circle could travel without a maid — a slim, red-haired, RHODA 6 utterly untrained girl of twenty — Bridget Durarty by name, who, ten years before, had scampered barefoot over the bogs, proud to do Harriet's bidding, and now prouder still to be her servant was to prove the first, yes, and the most faithful friend of her life. The journey began. The Smiths travelled as they themselves said ' in style,' Harriet was well treated, heard her title loudly and frequently used on all public occasions, saw much that she had desired to see, and found on the whole that the claims upon her were not more than she could satisfy.

Of the two sisters Harriet liked the sick girl best, she could do more for her that was not in the bond than for the other, but to attach herself to any of the party seemed difficult. Sometimes she thought she had lost all capacity for loving, and laughed bitterly at her own hard-heartedness, sometimes she felt that the fault was not in herself but that the family were simply and hoplessly uninteresting, because so taken up with themselves that nothing else interested them. Even the beauty had a strong resemblance to that young woman whose name was Dull who dwelt in the city of Mansoul, while the pleasing anecdotage of her father, chiefly concerning his own success in hfe, wrought unut terable weariness in poor Harriet's soul, not to be

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7 dispelled even by Mrs Smith's gentle aimless talk, of the beauties of Castlewood Villa, (their home in a Manchester suburb) whither her thoughts were ever turning — fondly as regarded its furniture — anxiously and fearfully as regarded those denizens, whom she called ' the domestics.' But this phase of life was not to last long for her. Two or three accidental meetings, two or three not quite so accidental, and the party fell into an easy intimacy with one Richard Ferrol, a joyous athletic young Englishman whose plan of travel seemed to coincide with theirs rather curiously. The pretty Miss Smith was aware that the coincidence was singular and was cherishing a delicious little hope that her own blue eyes were accountable for the matter, some time before Lady Harriet had discovered that there was any coincidence at all, but she was soon undeceived.

Dick Ferrol quickly made it clear to the meanest capacity where his attraction lay, and Harriet, the stately dignified Lady Harriet fell as deeply in love ' with the first man who ever looked at her ' as Miss Smith some what spitefully observed, as if she had been a school girl of seventeen. None can say what that love was to Harriet only one who had known what her early life had been could partly guess at the transfiguration of earth and heaven that it wrought for her. Joy RHODA and peace, sunshine, freedom and gladness, instead of wearing monotony, toil and poverty; love and appreciation instead of dislike and contempt, the law of love to rule her actions instead of loveless duty — what changes were these ? Richard adored her, and she loved him with the fervid intensity of her impulsive Irish heart, hitherto so controlled, so repressed, that she had almost believed it dead.

Richard did not leave her long with the Smiths. They were married at the Embassy in Dresden, and the Misses Smith were greatly consoled, one for the loss of her friend, the other for the wound to her vanity, by appearing as the sole bridesmaids at a wedding which was mentioned as a marriage in high life, in Galignani, the Cov.rt Circular, _c. The Ferrols went first to Vienna, and then travelled leisurely, idling, lingering, enjoying, till the honey moon stretched out almost over two enchanted years. Richard Ferrol was a rich man at eight-and twenty, though until three years before he had been poor enough. He was the youngest of three brothers ; Anthony had succeeded, while a boy, to the baronetcy and estates, John had inherited a fortune from an uncle of his mother's, while Dick was the typical penniless younger son, handsome, happy, careless, and good-hearted — far more inter esting and taking than his brothers — the always

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9 successful youngest prince of fairy-tale and legend. Fortune had come to him, however, in a way that had taught him to despise wealth, almost as much as Harriet had learnt to overrate it. John Ferrol was killed by a fall in the hunting field, his property had passed to Richard, and the simple good fellow never ceased to regret the death by which he was removed for ever from all fear of poverty. Richard and Harriet had been married nearly two years, and had never visited England — there was not much affection between him and Anthony, and but for that one brother, he was almost as kinless as his wife — when in Paris, a son was born to them, and within a month afterwards, the happy sunny life, they had led, came to an end for ever The baby, the joy and pride of Harriet's heart, was but three weeks old when his father was taken ill with a disease, which the doctors had just begun to call Boulogne sore throat, less understood and even more deadly then than now, under the dreaded name of diptheria.

It was soon over. Two days saw the end ; two days, in which Harriet never left him, while her agony was almost as speechless as his. He clung to her hand, poor fellow, and during the last day strove repeatedly, as she thought, to explain some thing to her- Only broken words and half-gasped RHODA 10 phrases reached her ear, and she did not — could not then realise their meaning. ' In Scotland— John and I— four years ago '— Then an agonized struggle for breath and power to speak, and at last the hoarse words, ' It was a Scotch marriage — one child — a boy — John Andrew — and the words died away again in hoarse murmuring. Her only thought was to soothe him if possible. ' I will do whatever you wish, darling, if you can only tell me what it is,' she said earnestly. ' I mean — I ought to have told you before,' came the broken words, while he grasped her hand more tightly. 'It was — not right.

No one knows — no one.' Harriet knelt close beside him to catch every syllable. 'At Finloch — in Morayshire — John and I — fishing. Her name was Annie — Gair — a boy — she died — John,' — and again all power of utterance failed him. Harriet had gathered something — but what, she dared not — could not think yet. Her whole soul, her every thought, was given up to him ; with all her powers she clung to the moments that she felt with deadly certainty were slipping fast away, and carrying with them that treasured beloved life. Even the cry of her three weeks' old baby from the next room did not attract her atten-

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11 tion, nor did she hear or heed the nurse and Bridget when they begged her to take care, of herseU. The doctor came and went, promising to come back, but knowing he could do nothing. Richard took but little notice, and Harriet knelt down beside him, aching with longing, that he should again be able to speak to her. She knew — she had read his doom in the doctor's face ; she seemed to herself to have had no hope from the first moment that she had heard he was ill — and now was unconsciousness, the forerunner of death, to rob her of those last precious hours? No, not yet, at least, for she could feel his hand close on hers now and then with an attempted caress, and by and-bye he smiled at her faintly, and spoke again. 'It is getting near — the end — dearest,' he said. ' It's strange — John and I — both young — strong — If John had lived. — You will not — forget — bring him up. — The names — can you remember ? ' Very calmly Harriet took her pocket book, a little ivory toy which he had given her, and wrote down — ' Annie Gair, Finloch, Morayshire.' Time enough for weeping by-and-bye, and she put her hand back into the longing hand stretched out towards it, already, alas, growing cold and feeble.

He seemed satisfied, that was all she could think of now. RHODA 12 It began to grow dark : but she would not have lights, he always liked the dusk hour. Now and then she offered him cordial, or would have tried some alleviation suggested by the doctor, but all were in vain, and the power to swallow was gone. He was more restless, too, if she were not close beside him, so, hand in hand, they awaited in silence the approach of the dread Severer of human ties. ' Forgive me — all — dearest,' he murmured, presently. ' My darling! I have nothing to forgive, nothing ' Oh, stay with me, Richard. Don't leave me ! ' The passionate cry seemed forced from her in her despair. Richard tried to smile, and then lay so still that she thought he slept, and for the first time a ray of hope came to her. 'If he sleep he shall do well.' These familiar words came beating through and through her brain with weary, monotonous persistency.

At first she hardly knew whence they came, or connected any idea with them ; but then a strong shudder shook her as she remembered that they were spoken of one already dead. Suddenly Richard opened his eyes and looked full at her. ' Dearest' he said, in a voice which made her start, his own joyous voice with all that strange horrible hoarseness gone — ' dearest — you

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13 have made life very sweet to me ! ' then smiled at her, clasped her hand, and died. Bridget found her mistress kneeling by the bed side clinging to that still, cold hand. The next day saw her stricken by the same disease, lying in merciful unconsciousness of all but physical pain. Stricken — but not unto death. Contrary to all expectation, to every probability, Harriet passed through the valley of the shadow of death and did not enter the portals of the grim king. Slowly, painfully, with sorrow and difficulty, she turned her back on the quiet home to which he invited her and toiled up out of the dark valley into the light of common day. Bridget was her faithful nurse, but for Bridget she never could have got through those horrible days and weeks, but at last she was able to gather into her hand once more the scattered tangled threads of life and consider what she should do.

Six weeks after her husband's death she was able, for the first time, to visit his grave. Bridget went with her of course and the o _ doctor also; after the manner of men of his profes sion, he had been a true friend to her in her loneli ness, and she was still so weak that he feared to let her go alone. Indeed as she stood beside the grave she looked almost unearthly in her shadowy pale ness, ' Elle a trouve le chemin du Paradis, cette RHODA 14 dame Id' thought the old man, who directed them through the vast burying-ground. He was wrong. She rallied from that day, and grew stronger. The baby throve under Bridget's loving care ; and by-and-bye came a day when Harriet said, ' Bridget, we must go to England now. I feel I can, and we will go. I cannot bear this place any lono-er,' looking out with unseeing eyes, as she spoke, into the brilliant sunshine, at the ever shifting crowds. ' It's meself that's glad to hear ye say it,' cried Bridget; ' and where will we go in England, mistress dear ?' But Lady Harriet shook her head. ' I don't know Bridget, I can't tell anything yet, I must think — I must think.' So to England they went, and, like all other waifs, found themselves in London, where they stayed while Lady Harriet thought.

Poor woman. Her husband's dying words had lain like a dark mystery on her consciousness, over shadowing all other thoughts; through her illness and her convalescence, a dull sense of pain had never left her, had weighed on her even more than her sorrow, and now, as her powers returned, the dull pain seemed to quicken into shoots of acute an-

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15 quish as she learnt to know what it was she really thought and feared. What did it mean — what could it mean, but that John Ferrol had left a son ? And what besides ? Her husband had known it and concealed it. Was it possible ? No, the very thought made her writhe, as if in physical agony. And yet, what else could it mean ? ' No one knows ' he had said. Then Sir Anthony did not know, and just at present he was making a tour of the world in search of wild creatures to slay, and probably did not even know yet of the death of his little cared-for young est brother. But why had Richard concealed it ? With a horrible shock the answer suddenly broke in on her thoughts, making her whole frame tremble with agony. If John had a son alive, Richard had no right to his brother's fortune. Horrible, it seemed almost to kill her, it could not be — and yet . . . yet how she dreaded for her boy, her idolized only treasure, the grinding misery of poverty, such as she herself had known.

Pity her ! She was very weak in those days, physically weak. The grass-hopper was a burden, and she trembled and broke down at the thought of trials, that in stronger days, she would have boldly faced. Her only friend, who had been friend, lover, husband, all in all to her, was dead ; RHODA and worse, she was almost forced to acknowledge that he was less worthy love and honour, than she had once believed him, while the terrible dread of poverty for her child's sake, not her own, was ever present to her, embittered by the recollection of her own youth, exaggerated by her weakness. Richard had left no will ; to all appearance, she and her child were well provided for. Human nature is consistent in nothing but in being inconsistent, she was tempted by, drawn to wards the very action that seemed so incredible, so dreadful in her husband.

A fire burnt in her veins, she could not think clearly. All her life seemed unreal to her since the double blow fell, that had shattered at once her life and love, and trust, and yet it was intensely vivid too, like some weird dream, from which, though we would wake we cannot. Yet she remembered those words — ' bring him up.' She would do a sort of partial justice, or she would try. A fortnight after they reached London, Lady Harriet placed Bridget and the child in lodgings, and started alone ' on a necessary journey.' Three months later, Sir Anthony Ferrol, who had returned to England, sated with the slaughter of fierce creatures, bethought him of his brother's widow and her little son, who, if he did not marry soon, might chance (detested thought) to be his heir,

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17 and he travelled down to a little place Harriet had rented in Surrey, to see them. Sir Anthony was a sportsman before all else, a man who found the society of women of his own rank, simply uninterest ing ; he was bored by them ; he had never seen a woman in his own class who interested him half so much as a fine well-bred dog ; and women of a lower class than his own, of course, he could not marry, though they might amuse him, and please his fancy for a few weeks. Nevertheless, he deigned to approve of Lady Harriet, she found favour in his eyes, possibly because he actually looked at her twice. Generally one hasty glance was the utmost he vouchsafed to any woman, but the fact that she was his brother's widow de manded a little more attention from him, and he was rewarded by discovering that she was grace ful, pleasing, as little out of drawing in her move ments as a deerhound, gentle, yet dignified. 'Dick had better taste than I gave him credit for,' reflected his loving brother, and then suddenly remembered to ask after his nephew.

Harriet rang the bell, and Bridget appeared with baby Richard sitting erect on her arm, surveying the world with the curious impassive solemnity of a very little child, and with a bonny little lad of about four, well brushed and curled, with head erect, and shining blue eyes, holding to her skirt. VOL I B RHODA 'Take Master Richard to his uncle, Bridget,' said Harriet. She could not utter another word ; her hands were cold and trembling. She jealously watched Sir Anthony's eyes and lips as he feebly tried to speak a few words to the baby and its nurse. The little boy had run straight to her side and there he stood silent, but radiant, evidently happy to be near her, and interested in seeing all that went on. Sir Anthony turned to her. ' A very fine baby, I suppose, Lady Harriet, though I am not much of a judge.

And who is this other little fellow ? Come to me, you rogue. He is a handsome boy.' ' He is a distant relative of my own. John Andrew Francis is his name, but we call him Andy. I intend to bring him up.' Her words rang clear and hard. They seemed forced from her, for until that moment she thought she had not decided what to say, nor foreseen what she would say, when the inevitable question came. ' Indeed,' said Sir Anthony, indifferently, dropping the child's hand as he spoke. ' I did not know you had relatives of that name,' and he beo-an to talk on other subjects. Andy instantly returned to Harriet's side, and Sir Anthony soon took his leave, promising to come again. "rt'

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19 All that afternoon and evening Harriet was brighter than she had been for long, her step was firm, her spirits lighter. She told stories to Andy when she went to the nursery at night ; she even sung to the children, and went downstairs after kissing them in bed with a gay tune still on her lips, though till that night she had never once sung since her widowhood. Bridget did not understand her mistress, nor did Harriet understand herself, but, for the moment, her burden was gone ; she had the relief, the unspeakable relief and rest of decision. She slept profoundly and awoke refreshed. After breakfast the children were brought to her. Dick lay cooing and gurgling on the rug, while Andy drove imaginary horses up and down the room with much cracking of his whip and stamping, having to 'double' the parts of horses and driver.

Suddenly he stopped by Harriet's low chair, where she sat working, conscious of little but the strange peace that often comes after conflict of mind, alike whether the end be victory or defeat. 'Nanna said that big gentleman was Dick's uncle. Is he mine uncle, too?' he questioned, looking up in her face. Harriet started. 'No, my child ; no, no!' she cried, with a force and anger that frightened the boy ; then dropping RHODA 20 her work, she covered her face with her hands, and burst into bitter passionate tears. ' Don't ky, my lady dear, don't ky,' begged Andy, tearfully patting her shoulder with the round brown fist that held his whip. He had caught up Bridget's way of addressing her. ' I don't mind — I don't 'ike him much. I don't want him. Oh, don't ky,' his blue eyes almost overflowing.

Bridget had entered unperceived ; she, too, tried to soothe Harriet's grief, but in vain. The word less storm of sobs would have its way. Once, but only once, after Bridget had taken the children to the nursery, and in deep distress come back to her, she cried aloud, despairingly, ' What can I do ? Oh, what can I do ? ' But she made no -effort to undo — that seemed impossible now.

Chapter I Spring-tide

1 A glorious morning. . . . Kissing with golden face, the meadows green, Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy.' Yes, a real spring morning had come at last, and such a morning as can only be hoped for once or twice, even in the most favoured and balmy spring in the east of England,— a morning, when the light wind, that lifted the smoke from the cottage chimneys of Westhorpe, was a breath from the west ; and the sad fact that winds could blow from the east, was a thing to be utterly forgotten ; while the clouds, that had so lately brought storm and tempest, were now, in their soft fleecy gray and RHODA 22 white, things of such tender beauty, that the eye wandered from shaded clouds to pure blue depth across the wide fields of sky, uncertain on which loveliness to rest. It was a morning, when new life, joyous and beautiful, seemed everywhere hurryinginto being ; when the little children were more riotous than usual in their play ; when young men and maidens smiled to each other at their work, and were glad without knowing why ; while the old folk tottered forth to enjoy the sunshine once more, congratu lating themselves, perhaps, that they were alive to see another summer, or more likely muttering a wonder that ' owd Thurn mas be tliere yet.

I never 'd a thought he'd have climb Spring Hill ! ' It had been a dreary winter, prolonged far into the months that should bring better things, but it was ended now, and spring had come to the world with one triumphant rush. So rapid was the march of those silent forces which transfigure earth for us, that even one day seemed to work a marked change. Where yesterday the hedgerow shoots were set with tiny round buds, to-day showed half unfolded leaflets of living green — where yesterday, the willow branches were but slightly thickened and blurred in outline, to-day they showed against the sky, a light and delicate tracery of pointed leaves. The drops from last night's rain still SPRING-TIDE 23 quivered and sparkled on every leaf and sprig, and the sunbeams seemed fairly entangled among them.