Better Late than Never, etc

Front matter

BETTER LATE THAN NEVER BETTER L.ATE THAN NEVER BY EMMA MARSHALL AUTHOR of "UNDER SALISBURY SPIRE" "THE LADY OP HOLT DENE" ETC. etc. ILLUSTRATED BY IV. A. MENZIES GRIFFITH FARRAN BROWNE & CO. LIMITED 35 BOW STREET, COVENT GARDEN LONDON [ The Rights of Translation and of Reproduction are Reserved] CONTENTS — ♦ — CHAP. PAGE I. IF LOVE COULD LAST ..... 7 II. TO BE DELIVERED IMMEDIATELY . . -35 III. IN THE HOSPITAL WARD. . . . .58 IV. THE NEW RELATION . . . .74 V. A DILEMMA ...... QI VI. RESCUED . . . . . . .113 VII. GONE — AND NO WORD ..... 133 VIII. COMPLICATIONS ...... 156 IX. ON THE TRAMP . . . . . -179 X. RUMOURS ....... 204 XI. "UN FAIT ACCOMPLI" ..... 225 XII. THE BUBBLE BURSTS ..... 242 XIII. REVENGE ....... 253 XIV. TWO YEARS LATER ..... 288 CHAP. — ♦ —

Chapter I If Love Could Last She

was singing as she came through the beech - wood — singing like the birds above her head — as if there were no trouble and no sorrow in the world. Pamela's young heart was in tune with the April day of awakening life and gladness. Her voice was sweet and clear ; it was not a cultivated voice, telling to the initiated of hours of practice and performance of the gymnastics of the professional singer. Pamela simply sang because she could not help it — out of the fulness of her young heart ; she had been reading these verses the day before, and now they lent themselves to a melody that was doubtless the reflection of some music she had heard, and was not altogether original. The words were these : — 'Yes, love can last; yes, love can last! The suture be as was the past ; And faith and friendship never know The chill of dwindling after-glow.

If to familiar hearts there cling The virgin freshness of the spring ; And April's music still be heard In wooing voice and winning word. If"— She stopped short here, for a voice near her said — " Rubbish ! No one believes that love lasts in these days." And from a side-path in the wood a girl apparently some years older than Pamela came up to her and put her hand within her arm. "Rubbish, child!" she re peated. "What a sentimental little' person you are ! I hate sentiment ; you love it. I know you think the world is a happy hunting ground, and there is nothing to do but enjoy u. " I don't think that ; though I feel as if to be alive on a morning like this is something to be thankful for, and so is love — real true love." " My dear, all love is real till it is proved to be a sham. Everything is gold that glitters — till the varnish is rubbed off.

Depend upon it, I am right." "I do not believe you are right, Barbara ; I wouldn't believe you were right for worlds — no, not for worlds ! " Barbara only laughed. "You are like many another enthusiast of seventeen." " Eighteen, please — nearly nineteen." " Well, eighteen, then ; and I am quite willing to leave you to your dreams. Only don't ask me to dream with you. There has been a war of words at home since you went out ; and as you must have seen the storm gathering at breakfast, it was mean of you to rush off as you did." "What is wrono-?" Pamela asked. "I mean, is anything especially wrong ? " "Oh, it is about money. There is a sheaf of bills unpaid. Sarah has been screaming like a peacock, and poor old Wilfrid keeping up a low growl. Do you call theirs love, Pamela ? Three years ago they were like turtle-doves, billing and cooing, and now — they are ready to tear each other's eyes out !

Love, indeed ! " " It could never have been real love," Pamela said, with heightened colour. " Sarah wanted a home, and Wilfrid gave it to her." "Then he had no business to give it to her ; he should have thought of his sisters, and not have allowed himself to be made a fool of. It is my private opinion that she never did care a snap of the fingers for poor Will ; but she liked the idea of being mistress of the Manor, and pushing us out of it. She is trying hard to get rid of me — and of you too, if the truth must be told. I often think of our father and mother, and wonder what they would say if they knew Will had proved anything but the good, generous brother they thought he would be." " He is good," Pamela said. " I hate to hear you say cruel things of Wilfrid. We ought to make him happier, and be better friends with Sarah — at least I feel /ought to be."

" Now don't indulge in mock humility, my dear. You know perfectly well that you are always friends with her — that your temper is angelic — and that you mean / ought to be friends with Sarah. I simply can't, and won't ! I abhor all her sneaking ways — her utter want of truth — her vanity — her ex travagance ! " Pamela knew that it was quite useless to attempt to reason with Barbara on this subject. She was the cushion in a house full of corners ; and though she got many a sharp blow from the said corners, her bright, joyous temperament helped her on her way, and she might well be called the sunshine of the old stone house standing above the little village of Croft, which the two girls had now reached by a road leading them to the back entrance. " A house divided against itself" describes it ; and the war of words, of which Barbara spoke, was of very frequent occurrence.

It was generally followed by a sullen calm ; and this was the case to-day. Silence reigned in the dining-room when Barbara and Pamela entered it. Luncheon was hearly over, and Sarah was nibbling at a biscuit and helping herself to little morsels of cheese, without addressing a word to her husband, who was leaning back in his chair with a sheet of the Times before him. Barbara flunQs down her hat, and drew a chair to the table, saying — " Is there nothing hot for luncheon ? " I believe there is a cutlet left," Sarah said, " but you can't expect it to be hot — it is nearly two o'clock." " I shall order whatever there is to be made hot," Barbara said, rising to ring the bell. " The servants are at dinner ; you may ring for an hour," was the answer. Pamela saw the risingstorm, ancl, takingthe dish in her hand, said — " I will take it to the kitchen and ask Martha to heat it," and she was gone before another word was said.

" It is perfectly ridiculous the way Pamela waits on you ! I wonder you are not too proud to allow it ! " "Pamela pleases herself!" was the reply. " You are glad enough she should wait on you." This was so obvious a fact that Mrs. Somers did not contradict it. She pushed back her chair and swept out of the room without another word. When Pamela returned with the news that Martha would send up the cutlet and some hot potatoes in five minutes, Mr. Somers laid down his newspaper, and with a heavy sigh said — " Kenneth Fairfax has been here this morning ; he brought a message from his mother, who wants to see you, Pamela, this afternoon." Pamela's face flushed a bright rose colour, and she said — " Barbara and I can have the cart, I suppose ? " " Yes, yes, of course ; there is nothing to hinder it" — adding as an afterthought — "that I know of.

Where have you been this morning ? " " I went to Croft, to hear about Jane Bond's boy, who was so terribly hurt in the mill. Mr. Morrison is so hard about it ; he ought to pay his wages now he is laid up. It was pure carelessness that caused the accident." "Humph! Poor boy! And Morrison is rich enough to pay a hundred fellows' wages if he chose." " The machinery of that room in the mill was out of order, and one of the screws was loose," Pamela went on. " The foreman had told Mr. Morrison about it several times, but he said he was not going to have the whole thing pulled to pieces. So the end was that the wheel flew round in that part of the mill after they believed it was stopped, and Jack Bond's arm was caught and crushed, and it will have to be amputated. It is very dreadful. It was no carelessness on Jack Bond's part, and if it was, Mr. Morrison's cruelty is the same."

"He is a money - making, money - getting snob," was the answer; "what can you expect ? " " I should like to see him, and see if I could make him do anything. Jack is in the Feather stone Hospital, and his poor mother is in such distress." "You had better not meddle with Morrison ; he is a purse-proud fool, and would probably be impertinent to you." Then, with another sigh, Air. Somers left the room. Wilfrid Somers was the owner of a small property three miles from the town of Feather stone, celebrated in times past for its cloth mills. The trade had declined — like the trade of many other provincial towns — till Mr. Morrison, who had, it was believed, made a substantial fortune in America, came to Featherstone, some five or six years before this time, and revived the failing industry by buying up the two principal mills, standing on the banks of the sluggish river which ran through the town.

Money is a great factor in every department of life, and Mr. Morrison, starting the mills with a substantial capital, soon wrought a change in the business of the town ; and by degrees he had the monopoly of the trade which had languished, and practically got it all into his own hands. He built a large house outside the town, and lived in it alone. Tradition said he had lost his wife in America, and he was looked upon as a possible prize in the matrimonial market of the district. Mr. Morrison was a man a little above the average height ; his shoulders were high, and he had an awkward gait, which was something between a limp and a shuffle. His head was too large for his body, and his face was covered with bushy, reddish whiskers and a beard. His head was bald, except for a fringe at the back, which flourished in spite of difficulties.

He had a suave manner when it suited him — the veneer which covered a coarse and selfish nature. His mill hands were only "hands" to him, and he ignored the fact that they had either soul or spirit, or any more feeling than the machinery of his mills. His head manager was an honest and con scientious man, who did his best in a very difficult position, and won the respect of all who came in contact with him. Mr. Morrison was, in his secret heart, afraid of his manager, Mr. Birkenstall, whose clear, keen eyes sometimes seemed to read his motives with unpleasant correctness. But for his own interest he kept on fairly good terms with him, and it was only at intervals that he burst out into invective, and stormed at Mr. Birkenstall, when he pleaded for some needed reform, or for a widow and children who were left destitute by the death of one of " the hands."

Barbara and Pamela Somers were step sisters. Wilfrid and Barbara were the children of Mr. Somers's first wife, and Pamela was the only child of a second marriage. Her mother died at her birth, and her father was never the same man again. He shunned society, and shut himself up at Beechcroft, resigning all care of the place to his son Wilfrid, to whom he gave a good public school and university education, and when he was dying commended his two sisters to his care. By his will they were to have a home at Beechcroft till they married, and the control of a small income when they came of age. Barbara had now enjoyed this independence for some years, but Pamela still took an allowance from her brother, who of late had not paid it very regularly, and had excused himself by saying that her education at an expensive school had rather crippled his resources, but that when she came of age she should have the same income as Barbara.

Three years before this time Wilfrid Somers had married the daughter of a penniless Irish peer, who had left his affairs in hopeless confusion, and his only daughter without a maintenance. Sarah Hastings was a distant connection of an old lady who lived in a large, old-fashioned house on the other side of Featherstone, and Sarah, immediately on her father's death, wrote to her cousin — of the third degree — claimed kinship, and asked to be allowed to pay her a long visit. Mrs. Hastings was more than a little doubtful about the proposal, but memories of a youthful attachment to Sarah's father touched a tender place in her heart. Sarah was invited to Staple Hill, with the understanding that the arrangement would be temporary, and could be ended on either side if it was desirable. Sarah made the best of her opportunities, and, being a woman of determined will, she succeeded in making the young squire, Wilfrid Somers, fall in love with her, and before she had been at Staple Hill six months he made her an offer of marriage.

Sarah was triumphant, and, as far as love is possible to a nature like hers, she loved W'ilfrid. He was absolutely and entirely devoted to her, and made her mistress of Beechcroft, and everything in it. As was only probable, Barbara, who had been head os her brother's house for some years, resented being deposed from her position, and from the first she had taken up the air of one who was injured, and who disliked with all her heart the person who had injured her. If Sarah had been wise she would have made it her first business to conciliate her husband's sisters ; but the reverse was the case. She made the most of her title, and talked incessantly of her family and ancient lineage. She made many alterations in Beechcroft. She had the drawing-room — a long, low room with oak panels — brightened by smart furniture and gay chintz ; spread a rich carpet in the entrance-hall, and put into it velvet-covered benches and easy-chairs ; and insisted on a small old-fashioned grate being removed and a large open hearth put in its place.

Every house, she declared, had a suitable entrance - hall, and it only showed entire ignorance of the manners and customs of the <__> best society, for guests to see a bare, desolate hall when the door was opened, instead of one which smiled a welcome. Wilfrid Somers was undoubtedly in his wife's power, and she had a provoking habit of laying the weight of all her extravagance on his shoulders. The outside world might have well believed that Wilfrid was the lord and master, while Sarah was his obedient and devoted wife. It would be vain to tell how Barbara chafed against this sister-in-law, and how daily the war of words at the least provocation grew fiercer and more fierce. As the two girls drove to Featherstone on this lovely spring afternoon, Barbara, who held the reins, drove at an almost furious pace, laying the whip upon the pony's glossy back, and never pulling up till they came to the foot of a steep hill, when Smut declined to do any thing but walk up it at a leisurely pace.

Then Barbara began — " I shall have to go off somewhere, Pam. I must nurse, or be a companion, or do something. I can't put up with her much longer." Barbara had made a like announcement so often that Pamela was not so much affected as she might otherwise have been. " I think you had much better stay at home and make the best of it, Bebe." "Home! — it is not home — and I defy any one, except a little saint like you, to put up with our position with that woman. You may grin and bear it if you like, but I can't ! Setting herself up because she has ' Honour able ' tacked to her name ! Her father might be a disreputable old lord, but her mother was a vulgar woman ; hence the snobbish strain in her — for she is a snob — with her patronage and stupid airs ! " " I hate that part of it as much as you do, Barbara ; but I think if you stay till I am of age, we will both set up together somewhere.

I shall have rather more money than you have, as I come in for my own mother's little fortune ; then we will go together to some dear little cottage and be happy — unless you marry first." " Marry! I am not likely to do that, child ; I have seen enough of the effects of marriage. Poor old Wilfrid, who was as happy and con tented as a king, has just spoilt his life. He has turned into Sarah's lacquey, and made himself a laughing-stock to his neighbours. You are going to see Mrs. Fairfax, so I shall drop you there and then put up Smut for an hour, and do some shopping. Perhaps I may come in for tea — if not, I will call for you in the cart — and here we are ! " Barbara pulled up Smut before a pretty house of many gables standing back from the road ; but Pamela said — " I will drive on with you into the town.

I want to see Mr. Birkenstall, or Mr. Morrison, about Jack Bond. His mother depended altogether for support on his earnings, and his father is a helpless cripple, as you know." " No, I don't know. I never can bother about the misfortunes of poor people, I can't help them, and so I leave them alone ; and you had better do the same." " You never really mean all you say ! " Pamela said. " I always take half as earnest, and often not as much as that. Here we are ! " Pamela sprang out of the cart, and, plucking up her courage, she went into a dark passage, and knocked gently at a door on which was painted in white letters, " Mr Morrison." A voice was heard, in no very dulcet tones, saying, after her second tap, which was louder than the first — ■ " Come in." Pamela entered with a beating heart, and was greeted with — "Didn't you see the bell?

What did you knock the door down for ? " Then Mr. Morrison looked up from his writing, and saw, for the first time, who his visitor was. " Miss Somers ! " he exclaimed in an altered tone. " To what do I owe the honour of this visit ? I am delighted to see you, though this den is no fitting place for so lovely a presence." Pamela shrank from the flattery, and from the bold, admiring glance which accom panied it. " I came on business," she said stiffly — " about a poor boy who has been hurt in the mill. His mother, Mrs. Bond, was an old servant of my father's ; her husband is crippled with rheumatism, and they are almost entirely dependent on the boy's wages. Will you do something for them ? The boy's arm is to be taken off, and he will never be able to work again. Mr. Morrison was taken by surprise ; he had little expected that Pamela had come on such an errand.

But he smiled blandly, and said — "The boy was guilty of carelessness, my dear young lady. As soon as the signal is given the machinery stops; and, as far as I understand the matter, this boy Bond — is that his name ?— took no heed of it, ancl went on cutting the cloth on the loom." "No," Pamela said bravely; "he was only doing his duty, and after the signal the men always have time to take the cloth off the frames. There was time, but a screw was loose in the wheel in this room, and Jack's hand and arm were caught, as the wheel did not stop, and cruelly mangled." "Jack is fortunate in having a special pleader like you, Miss Somers. What do you wish me to do ? " " I hope you will make the mother a proper allowance while the boy is in the hospital, and grant him a pension till by some means he can earn his living with one hand."

" I do not go into the details of these little accidents. I will speak to Birkenstall on the subject. I could almost envy the boy for the loss of his arm, which has secured him a friend like you ! " Pamela's eyes flashed upon Mr. Morrison, as she said quickly — " I should hope you will at once do some thing for a boy who has so cruelly suffered in your service — not from his own carelessness, but from yours, in not having the wheel properly secured." Then, without another word, she went to the door, Mr. Morrison in vain trying to pass her to open it, and perhaps prevent her from leaving the room, as he repeated — " My dear young lady, pray " — But Pamela was too quick for him, and she was out in the street before she knew that hot tears were falling down her cheeks. She had with a great effort controlled herself, but she repeated — " Wilfrid was right ; unfeeling, odious snob I have done no good on myself his insults.' he is a snob — a dreadful, Why did I go to him? and only brought down As she was walking quickly along the street, she met Kenneth Fairfax, who said anxiously — "Is anything the matter?

Is anything wrong ? " " No — not now," she said, smiling through her tears. " I am on my way to call on Mrs. Fairfax, who sent me a message this morning that she wanted to see me." Only half-reassured, Kenneth said — " I wish you would tell me what has annoyed you or grieved you. It must be something serious for you to look as you did when I first met you." " Don't ask me now; it is all over. I went to see Mr. Morrison about poor Jack Bond, and he was very rude to me — that is all." " The brute — the cowardly brute ! But what can be expected of a pig but a grunt ? " "It wasn't exactly a grunt," Pamela said, laughing ; "it was worse than that — but please say no more about it now. I will tell your mother about it some day, perhaps — but not now." Kenneth held the gate for her to pass, and said — " I wish you thought me worthy of your confidence ; I wish " — " I did not say you were unworthy, did I ?' she replied, as she ran lightly up to the door, which was opened by Mrs. Fairfax herself.

" My dear child," she said, kissing her, " I have been expecting you for an hour. I saw you and Barbara drive past, and I was almost afraid you were not coming, or that Kenneth had not given you my message. Now come in ! we have all been waiting for you." When Pamela followed Mrs. Fairfax into the drawing-room, she found three or four people there, and she was greeted with warmth by a Mrs. Tomlinson, who for some occult reason was considered the great lady of Featherstone society. She was a tall and very handsome woman, with a voice and manners which did not ring quite naturally. "Company manners — and a voice to match them," Barbara always said when she was describing Mrs. Tomlinson. " My dear Pamela ! how charming it is to see you ! And now Mrs. Fairfax has caught you, we mean to keep you till you say ' Yes ' to our little plan !

" " What little plan ? " Pamela asked. " Wre want to get money for the new aisle and parish-room at St. Bride's Church. And, of course, we must have a bazaar. Mrs. Fairfax and Miss Anstruther and I all agree we cannot do without you and your sister. You must arrange the concert and sing, and your sister must arrange the tableaux ; and we mean to get the Duchess of Swanborough to open the bazaar." Pamela laughed merrily. " I cannot sing." " My dear! — you sing like a bird — a second Albani ! " " How can you say so ?" Pamela exclaimed. Then turning to Kenneth, who had busied himself in handing tea to his mother's guests, she said — " You know I could not sing in public. The very idea of it ! " " You can sing in private," he replied. "We all know that." " Of course — now, you see, Captain Fairfax is on our side !

" "Well," Miss Anstruther said sharply, "if you refuse to assist us, we must think of some one else — that is all ! " "Yes," chimed in another lady; "we must get Miss Stuart ; she has a splendid voice ! " But Mrs. Tomlinson knew that Pamela was worth twenty Miss Stuarts. She was in the first freshness of youth, and had a nameless attraction about her; while Miss Stuart was plain and hard-featured, and made so much of her high notes that the lower ones were left to take care of themselves, and were often out of tune. And now Barbara was announced. She looked about her with her keen, bright eyes, giving a general " How do you do ?" all round, and seated herself near the tea-table, at which gentle Mrs. Fairfax was presiding. "What is up?" she asked. "You all look as if you had something important to discuss."

" We are meditating a bazaar for the parish room and new aisle of St. Bride's Church, and want to enlist you and your sister in the good cause." "Good cause!" Barbara exclaimed. "I loathe bazaars, and never intend to have any thing to do with them. Why can't people give money without all this fuss ? " Pamela was always ready to smooth rough places. " I think Sarah will be quite pleased to help you." ' Of course we should get her name as a lady patroness," was the reply. "Of course," snapped Miss Anstruther. "The more 'Honourables' the better; but Mrs. Somers is never particularly obliging, and it is generally remarked she does nothing in charitable work." " Do you call a bazaar ' charitable work ' ? " Barbara asked. " I call it an excuse for dress ing up, and flirting, and toadying duchesses, and getting rid of rubbish at a high price."

" Happily, Miss Somers," Mrs. Tomlinson said with an air of injured dignity, "your opinion is not of very great importance in the face of that of the great majority of excellent people who are ready to take any amount of personal trouble for a good cause." " I have heard," Mrs. Fairfax ventured to say, "there are those who do not approve of bazaars for religious objects." "Have you?" Mrs. Tomlinson said. "I will not put you to the trouble of naming them. Do let us proceed with business. Miss Anstruther is making out a list of names, and she is so kind as to say she will call on those ladies and find out what they will promise to do for us. Mr. Thornley would have been present, but he has been called away to a distant part of the county. But as this is only a preliminary meeting, to feel our way, it is not so important for him to be present."

" You will ask the Duchess, Mrs. Tomlin son r " With pleasure. I am a personal friend, and I shall make a point of getting to Swan borough Park next week ; and I propose we should meet again this day fortnight and report progress — that is to say, if Mrs. Fairfax will be so very kind as to allow us to meet here. I suppose," Mrs. Tomlinson continued, "we may leave it to Miss Somers to enlist Mrs. Somers's interest and patronage." "That will be very easy to obtain," Barbara said, "if it gives her no trouble beyond seeing her name on the bills. Now, Pamela, are you not ready to come ? The pony-cart must be at the gate." Pamela had for the last few minutes been talking to Kenneth Fairfax, and the discussion about the bazaar had for the time been for gotten. Kenneth was a fine specimen of a young soldier ; he had been fortunate in getting his promotion quickly, and was now at home on leave, but expecting his orders to join his regiment any day.