Life's Aftermath. A story of quiet people

Front matter

LIFE'S AFTERMATH " An old apple-tree, with a gnarled and knotted trunk, and twisted branches, was Winifred's favourite seat." — Page i. LIFE'S AFTERMATH & rSturjJ ni a Quiet Jjtoplc. BY EMMA MARSHALL, AUTHOR OF "MRS. MAINWARING'S JOURNAL," " NOW-A-DAYS,"' "HEIGHTS AND VALLEYS," ETC. " When the summer fields are mown. When the birds are fledged and flown, And the dry leaves strew the path. With the falling of the snow, With the cawing of the crow — Once again the fields we mow, And gather in the aftermath."— H. W. Longfellow. SEELEY, JACKSON, & HALLIDAY, 54, FLEET STREET,. LONDON. MDCCCLXXVI. TO HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW, IN GRATEFUL REMEMBRANCE OF ALL I OWE HIM AS POET AND FRIEND. Gloucester, February, 1875. CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I. — friar's BRIDGE I II. — ON THE HILL-TOPS - - - 25 III.— RACHEL - - - - 51 IV. — A FAMILY CLAN - - - - 74 V.— ONWARD - - - - - 94 VI.— FORESHADOWING - - - - II 7 VII. — A BACKWARD GLANCE - - - 141 VIII. — DISCORDANT NOTES - - - - 1 68 IX. — STEPPING ONWARDS - - - - 191 X. — PARTINGS AND GREETINGS - 214 XI. — UNATTAINED ----- 233 XII. — PER PACEM AD LUCEM - - "255 XIII. — DARK SHADOWS - 276 XIV. — IDEAL ------ 299 XV.— STORM AND CALM - - - - 317 XVI. — THE FULFILMENT - 34-0 XVII. — MAY AND SEPTEMBER - _S7 LIFE'S AFTERMATH.

Chapter I. Friar's Bridge

*' One morning, oh ! so early, my beloved, my beloved ! All the birds were singing blythely, as if never they would cease ; 'Twas the thrush sang in the garden, — hear the story ! hear the story ! And the lark sang, give us glory, and the dove sang, give us peace." Jean Ingelow. Only a town garden ! but how beautiful it was in the eyes of the child who wandered about in it, dreaming her sweet dreams of early youth. Half-childish, half womanly, half-sad, half-joyous, as the day-dreams of fourteen are wont to be. The garden was bounded by a wall on one side, and by the straggling wing of the old-fashioned house on the other. A long piece of grass stretched out towards a few trees, and behind them was the kitchen garden, with its strawberry-beds and raspberry-bushes — now full of the promise of fruit.

The trees were neither stately nor tall, but they were dear to the heart of Winifred; and in one, an apple-tree, with a gnarled and knotted trunk, and twisted branches, was her favourite seat. -It was here we find her on this sweet May afternoon • 4/ where the shadows were lying from the west upon the smooth grass, and the wind coming down from the hills which rose round Birkdal was sweet with the scent of the gorse, now blazing over the country-side like gold dropped down from heaven. The old apple-tree had been late in coming into blos som ; and now that the big pear-tree, stretching countless arms against the red gable of the kitchen wall, had lost all its beauty for that year, the apple-tree was still a miracle of loveliness, with itspink and white flowers, and its rounded buds, shut close as if they never meant to open.

The branch where Winifred sat swayed to and fro in the soft breeze • her dress was flecked with the light and. shadow as the leaves played with the slanting sunbeams, and one or two of the white petals had fallen upon her hair and upon the book which lay upon her knee. One little sunbeam seemed to love to linger on that young head, for it came through the thickest of the leaves, ever and anon, and touched the soft, fair hair with gold. Winifred's hair was very soft and fair, but it was cut closely to her head, worn short, as the custom was for the children of Friends five and twenty years ago. No falling tresses or rich full plaits adorned Winifred's head. Her slender throat was not shaded by the cloud of wavy tresses which we think now-a-days the natural adornment of maidens of her age. Winifred Pennington had indeed no adornment of hair or dress.

Her cotton frock was plainly made, and was of no particular shade or colour. A white apron, cut with what is called a bib, was buttoned behind ; and she had nothing extraneous about her little person, for she was the only daughter of plain Friends — Quakers of the old-type — kind consistent, and decided, and anxious that their children should follow in their steps. But there was no stiffness or harshness about Mr. and Mrs. Pennington. Indeed Anna Pennington was a sweet and gentle woman, who ruled by love ; and Robert Pennington, the banker of Birkdal, was known for his kindness to rich and poor all over the district. Robert Pennington was a prosperous man, and, had he chosen to do so, he might have built himself a country-house, and driven in to his business at the Bank every day. His partner, Henry Stackhouse, did this, and by degrees that sort of superiority which outward show gives, had clung to him, and he felt himself, with his late dinners and handsome carriage, a different sort of person to Robert Pennington, placed on a higher level, and, moreover, related by marriage to one of the best families in the county.

But Mr. Pennington was quite content to live in the house where his father and his grandfather had lived before him, and to pursue there his quiet, useful, unpretending life. The Bank faced the street, but though it was at tached to the dwelling-house, the only connection with it was by a door opening from the wide front hall into the Bank parlour, — a mysterious region to Winifred, and she seldom crossed the threshold, for she associated it with big books with stout leather backs ranged on shelves, and tin boxes and iron safes ; and then, moreover, there was a great portrait of an old partner in the firm of Pennington and Stackhouse, which followed her with searching eyes on the rare occasions, when she had ventured within the precincts of the Bank parlour. She could not bear to think of those eyes of her great uncle's, and she was teazed by the resemblance she fancied she saw between them and those of her brother Richard, now serving his appointed time in the Bank before being en tered as a partner with his father in the old-established and prosperous business.

I — From her post of observation in the old apple-tree, Winifred could see quite over the walls, and could look into the square yard of the Friends' meeting-house on one side, and on the other to the church of St. Mary's — whence the sounds of the organ would come to her ear on quiet Sun day evenings, and once on the week-day ; and were to this child one of the greatest pleasures in her simple life. The sound of the music, and the sight of the distant mountains, dimly seen through a gap in the range of level hills nearer Birkdal made food for many of her day-dreams ; and to get near those distant hills, and know them better by close acquaintance, was one of her desires. So, also, to be inside that grey old church, and hear the organ as others heard it, was her great ambition. The silent worship of the Friends was beginning to ex cite Winifred's wonder.

The thrushes sang ; the moun tain rills made music ; the wind whispered soft melodies amidst the leaves of the trees ; — why should Friends sit silent and give no voice to their praise, and send up no audible expression of their devotion to the Great King. " Winifred ! Winifred !" called a voice from the end of the garden near the house, " art thou never coming in to tea ? Thy brother Richard has been asking for thee. Art thou up in the tree ?" " Yes, Sarah Day ; I am coming. Does Richard want me ? Are we to have tea in thy room ?" Winifred descended from her elevation as she spoke, and ran to meet a woman of mature years, dressed in brown, relieved only by a white cap tied under her chin, and a white muslin 'kerchief crossed over her breast. Sarah Day was the confidential friend and housekeeper in Robert Pennington's family, and had her own little sitting-room, where she presided over all the confectionery of the establishment, and held the keys of cupboards in the neat grey panels, which were filled with rows of jars of preserves, bottles of home-made wines, and a variety of concoctions for bruises, sprains, burns, and the like.

" There is a letter for thee, Winifred ; but I am sure Anna Pennington would like thee to smooth thy hair and get neat for tea before reading it. Thy brother Richard brought it in from the Bank an hour ago." " A letter ! Oh, let me have it !" and Winifred's violet eyes flashed, the colour came into her cheek, and the dreamy maiden who had been perched, musing, in the apple tree for so long, was transformed into an eager, excited child. " Oh !" she cried, opening the letter ; " it is from my mother. They are coming home from Yearly meeting on fourth day — the day after to-morrow — and do listen, Sarah Day: " ' We are to bring with us thy cousin Rachel Fre mantle. She has come over from America with two ministering Friends, and will now make her home with us in Birkdal. Thou wilt find her a pleasant companion, dear Winifred ; and she is a person of some education.' "A person !"

Winifred exclaimed. " I thought Rachel was young. Oh, here is Richard ! Richard, dost thou know cousin Rachel is coming to live with us ? Art thou, glad ?" " It will not make much difference to me," said Richard, in an indifferent tone. " But, doubtless, Rachel will keep thee in order ; and so it will be a gain to the household indirectly. Are we to take tea with thee, Sarah Day ?" Richard asked. "Yes, Richard Pennington. It is all laid ready in my room, and there is a plentiful supply of thy favourite wine-sour plum-jam." Richard followed Sarah Day into her little room, and Winifred rushed upstairs to tell her maid Jane the news of her cousin's expected arrival. " Yes, Miss Winifred," said Jane. " Mrs. Day has told me all about it. She has had a letter from my mistress ; and Miss Fremantle is to have the small room next this.

But, pray, let me brush your hair ; it is full of leaves and things out of that tree. You ought to put a bonnet on if you will climb up there." Winifred submitted to Jane's hand, and then, full of thoughts of her cousin Rachel, went downstairs to tea. Sarah Day's little room was flooded with sunshine, and it was sweet with the scent of an early china rose which grew against the window • while a canary was trilling its loud, shrill song, heedless of Sarah Day's warning, oft repeated. Richard Pennington was a square - browed, square shouldered man of two and twenty. His face would have been handsome but for the defect of thin, compressed lips, and a somewhat retreating chin. His eyes were dark and searching, and had that keen, penetrating glance which suggested foresight and shrewdness, and gave the resemblance to the portrait in the Bank parlour, which was Winifred's special aversion.

Richard was in his way very fond of his little sister. They were the only two left of a family of seven, and the five intermediate little brothers and sisters lay under the flat, gray stones in the Friends' burying-ground ; the spot pointed out only by initial letters, and distinguished and individualized only by the quiet and gentle mother, who often visited the grassy square of ground where her children lay — in their last, long sleep. And, in truth, Rachels who mourn for their children need not storied urn, or animated bust, or lengthened inscription to keep their dead in mind • though words of Christian faith and hope may fitly mark the spot where we lay down our beloved to rest in hope of a glorious immortality. " Wilt thou take a walk with me this evening, Winifred ?" Richard asked, as the piles of hot cakes and buns had grown visibly less and less under his repeated attacks.

" Yes, oh, yes ! Richard, wilt thou go up Preston Knot or Kirk End ?" " That is too far • but I want to take a look at the stream under Friar's Bridge. There has been a great deal of poaching of late, and the Mayor has ordered a watch to be set. I shall be ready in ten minutes ■ and, Wini fred, make thyself look respectable. Hast thou nothing but that old maidish frock, which looks like thy great grandmother's ?" Winifred blushed, and shrank from Richard's satire. She was dimly conscious that her dress was unlike that of girls who were not in the Society ; nay, even that the Stackhouses and the Donnes, who were Friends, were less peculiar in appearance than she was. She was waking up to the instincts of womanhood, loving in an innocent way all that was fair and beautiful, and yet never dreaming of setting her father and mother's wishes at defiance by striving after ornament.

" I will ask Jane if I can put on my dove-coloured merino. May I, Sarah Day ? Thou knowest my mother is sure to bring home a new frock from Yearly meeting." " Well," said Sarah Day, " thou hadst better take care of thy best frock. Thou must not climb trees, so please remember that." " Make haste, whatever thy garments may be," said Richard : " for it is a good step to Friar's Bridge." Winifred was soon ready in the dove-coloured merino, with its little round cape ■ her face hidden in the ■depths of a very straight straw bonnet, tied close under ERIAR'S BRIDGE. 8 the chin with white strings, and a curtain behind. A quaint little figure she looked as she walked by Richard's, side. Leaving the straggling streets of Birkdal behind, they took the path by the banks of the river, and followed its course till they reached Friar's Bridge.

Here the Birk, after flowing over its rocky, uneven bed for some two miles out of Birkdal, meets suddenly wilh more formidable interruptions, and pours its clear waters over huge boulders lying up in mid-stream. A picturesque stone bridge spans the river just below, and the banks are skirted by trees and shrubs, while pendant wreaths of ivy and plumy ferns wave over the dark-brown waters of the Birk, and see themselves reflected in its depths. After the rush over the big boulders, the rapid river is suddenly very calm and still • and Winifred, seated on a fragment of rock, waited for her brother, who went higher up the stream to look into the truth of the report that nets were spread there to catch lusty trout and greyling by unlawful means. " Sit here till I come back, Winifred," Richard had said.

" It is not worth while for thee to come further." So Wini fred obeyed, and looking down, saw the blue sky and the fresh young green of the trees as in a mirror at her feet. A thrush near by sent forth a flood of song, and the drips of a tiny stream winning its way through moss and stones, made an undertone of melody. The child's heart beat in response to this, and she took no heed of time, nor whether Richard had been gone for hours or minutes. A voice near her startled her, and she sprang to her feet, the colour rising to her cheeks as she looked shyly up into the face of a tall young man, with a travelling ap paratus strapped across his shoulders, and a stout walk ing-stick in his hand. " How far am I from Birkdal?" he asked. " Will yom. tell me if I can reach it this evening, and if I am in the right road ?"

" Thou art only two miles from Birkdal," Winifred said ; and then stopped and hesitated from an unconquerable feeling of shyness. " What a pretty child," the traveller thought. " But how can any one have the heart to disguise her in that poke bonnet ? Only two miles !" he said aloud — " my geography must have been much at fault. And perhaps you can direct me to the house of the banker at Birkdal, — a Mr. Pennington, a Quaker? Every one is a Quaker at Birkdal, I believe ?" "There are a great many Friends at Birkdal," Wini fred said, recovering herself. " But my father is Robert Pennington, and this is my brother Richard." Richard now appeared from amongst the trees, and the stranger introduced himself at once in a frank, easy way, which contrasted with Richard's stiff, unbending manner. " I am on a walking tour," he said ; " and an uncle of mine, whose name will be familiar to you, gave me a letter of introduction to Mr. Pennington.

My name is Mans field, and my uncle is Mr. Buchanan, a banker in Hor chester. We ought to live in Scotland, but the fates have decided otherwise, and I am now on a pilgrimage to my fatherland before deciding where my own lot shall be cast." " I am sorry to say," said Richard, in low, measured tone, with a decided North Country accent lingering about it, — " I am sorry to say my father and mother are at the Yearly meeting of Friends in London; but they re^ turn on fourth day — on Wednesday," he corrected himself. " I shall be very pleased to show thee any hospitality in their name ; and I know, of course, thy uncle, as a banker of great repute." "Ah ! I thought there was a freemasonry amongst bankers. I had better present my uncle's letter in due form ;" and Chrystie Mansfield took out a large pocket book, and finding the letter, presented it to Richard.

Richard opened it, and read it in a business-like man ner, and then, re-folding it, said they ought to be turning their steps homewards ; for the evening was drawing on. What conversation there was, was due to the young stranger's exertions. Richard was, like many of his people, utterly devoid of small talk, or that easy ripple of light nothings which is the characteristic feature of the society in which he had never lived and moved. Winifred walked by her brother's side silently, and was occupied with directing shy glances towards their new companion, and wondering what Sarah Day would say at their unexpected visitor. But in the North Country hearts are warm, and kindly greetings meet all guests at the threshold of homes where the best is always set before them, and everything breathes a welcome.

Nor are the homes of Friends the least conspicuous for this genuine hospitality, which shines forth pre-eminently amongst them. Just as Richard had led the way into tli2 high road to Birkdal, the sound of horses' feet was heard, and a small pony carriage passed them at full speed. " Richard ! Richard !" Winifred exclaimed, " that is Elsie Stackhouse's pony carriage, and the horse is running away." The words had scarcely left her lips when the carriage came in violent contact with the trunk of a fallen tree by the road side, and was overturned, throwing the two girls who were in it into the hedge, and propelling the little foot-boy who was in attendance from the back seat into a neighbouring field. Richard and Mr. Mansfield has tened to the scene of the accident, and Richard was greeted by a merry laugh.

" I am not one bit hurt — are you hurt, Elsie ? Oh ! is -she hurt ?" for Elsie did not move, but lay very still in Chrystie Mansfield's arms. " She is stunned, I think," said Chrystie Mansfield ; " but she will soon come round. Run to the turnpike for some water," he said, looking at Winifred, " and make haste." He spoke peremptorily, and Winifred obeyed. Help was soon forthcoming, and the sprinkling of cold water restored Elsie Stackhouse to consciousness. The little groom had apparently suffered no more than an in dia-rubber ball would have done under the circumstances, and it became evident that the chief sufferer was the little bay pony, which lay as it had fallen, and when freed from the traces made but a very feeble effort to regain its feet. " Poor, dear Bluebell !" exclaimed Elsie.

" I am afraid she is very much hurt. I cannot think how it was she was so frightened." " Why, it was the report of a gun in a field that first set her off flying — but all is well that ends well. And I am delighted to find I have no broken bones. I am of more value than Bluebell," said her companion. " Undoubtedly," ejaculated Richard Pennington, " art thou sure thou art unharmed?" A pair of laughing hazel eyes were now turned on Richard, and she replied with another silvery laugh, and then said, " Elsie, introduce me, please." "This is our friend Dulcibella Reynolds," Elsie said; "she is come from Falmouth to pay us a long visit. Richard Pennington and little Winifred Pennington, Dul Æibel," and Elsie paused. " Our friend Christopher Mansfield," Richard began. Mr. Mansfield raised his hat.

" Let me say how glad. I am to know Miss Reynolds and Miss Stackhouse, but I demur to the name of Christopher. I am Chrystie, my grandmother's Scotch name." " Oh ! I ask thy excuse !" said Richard, in friendly phraseology, which evidently amused the little lady im mensely. " But we really must consider the best means of your reaching Kirk Lodge, Elizabeth. Clearly you cannot drive home in this shattered carriage." The men who had come to give assistance were quite of that opinion. Bluebell must be led quietly, and the carriage left to abide in a shed near the turnpike till it could be drawn to the Birkdal coachmakers." " Let us all walk of course," exclaimed Dulcibel. " Can you walk, Elsie ?" " Oh yes ; I am quite well now — only a little shaky •. but I would rather be the first to take the tidings of our accident to Kirk Lodge.

If cousin Eliza sees Bluebell led home, she will be frightened." Elsie, or Elizabeth Stackhouse, was turning to say fare well to Richard and his companion, but Mr. Mansfield in terposed. " Will you not allow us to see you home ? I do not know the distance, but a few miles more or less make no difference." Poor Richard had been longing to make this proposal, but had been unable to do so from the stiff shyness which held him bound — as in icy chains. " Of course, we will walk home with you if we may," he now said. " It is little more than a mile out of our way, and the moon is rising." Richard was in truth fascinated by the fairy-like form. of Dulcibel Reynolds. She was, in his eyes, like the. •creature of a dream, arrayed in pale pink muslin, which in itself was a novelty to a young Birkdal Friend of twenty five or thirty years ago.

Then her bright chestnut hair fell in clustering curls over her neck and shoulders, and a dainty white bonnet with a wreath of pink roses crowned all. Everything about her was bright and gay — and there was a charm for him in her airy, graceful move ments, the form of her slender wrist, and the rings which sparkled on one of her fingers. Just by force of contrast this girl was beautiful in Richard Pennington's eyes ; but the beauty which dazzled him made him shrink back into a more than ordinary crust of stiffness and shyness. He could find no re sponsive banter for Dulcibel's little jests. She seemed as much at ease with him as if she had known him for years, while he was strange and awkward, and could do no more than utter monosyllables, and laugh in a repressed manner, almost as if laughing was a sin.

The young stranger meanwhile was perfectly at home with Elsie Stackhouse, and she was able to talk with him of all the Lake District, upon the borders of which Birk dal lies, and could sympathise in his wish to visit Fox How, the quiet retreat of that great man, who had then been so lately called from the place where his name is yet held in reverence ; and could enter into his enthu siasm as a Rugbean, when he kindled into fervour as he spoke of the days when he had played in that Close, shaded by stately elms, and lauded his house on a pin nacle of glory, at a foot-ball match, though it cost him a broken collar-bone in the fierce final scrimmage. As the four elders of this party walked along the bowery lanes, all dressed in their early summer greenery, and the moon looked over the crest of Kirk Hill, the youngest silently followed, wondering much in her heart at the talk of the two strangers, so different to any which she was accustomed to hear in her quiet Quaker home.

She felt herself shut out and lonely, and as if she, in her dull plain dress, belonged to another world altogether, to that in which such people as Dulcibella Reynolds lived and moved. Then what a contrast there was between Richard and the fine athletic figure by Elsie's side. How different were the tones of their voice, their choice of words, their whole bearing and manner. The instinct of Winifred's nature seemed to assert it self, and she looked at Richard's collarless coat and wide brimmed hat with a feeling of positive dislike, and then at her own dove-coloured frock sadly and sorrowfully. I even she could have a delicate lilac silk like Elsie Stack house's for best, and pretty quilling inside her bonnet, it would be better ; but all she had was so irretrievably ugly — and why should it be ?

The moon's familiar face smiling at her over Kirk Hill seemed to rebuke her dis content ; a late throstle piped out his evensong of happi ness, sweet scents from the bracken unfolding its leaves from their crozier-shaped stems — mingled with the heavy odour of the syringa in the shrubberies as they passed up the drive to Kirk Lodge. " Everything is so beautiful," Winifred said, rallying from her musing. "What does it matter that Dulcibel Reynolds wears pink ? I can see and feel all this as well as she can." When they were all in the drawing-room at Kirk Lodge, where the candles had just been brought in, questions and explanations, and sympathy and gentle reproach for carelessness, followed quickly upon each other. Cousin Eliza purred and cooed over Elsie and Dulcibel, and prescribed instant departure to bed, and a composing draught.

Mr. Stackhouse, pompous and grand, -responded but stiffly to Richard Pennington's introduction of the stranger till he heard that he was a nephew of the banker, Mr. Buchanan. How was it the introduction had been given to Robert Pennington instead of to him ? From the heights of lofty indifference, Mr. Stackhouse now came down to the most lively interest in his unexpected guest, and begged him to make his house his home while in Birkdal. Then finding that Mr. Mansfield was resolute in his intention of pushing on to Windermere the next day, insisted on the whole party joining the family at supper, which was served at nine o'clock with some pomp and circumstance. " We dine usually at six or seven, but to-day I was so closely engaged in magisterial business that I could not reach home till eight ; and I thought cousin Eliza would feel it better to have an early one o'clock meal.

Now shall we adjourn to the dining-room, as I see Thomas announces that all is ready. Naughty puss !" he said, as he passed Elsie, " thou must not drive again unattended. Are Bluebell's knees broken, dost thou say ?" " No, father ; I hope not — but thou surely canst not think of the pony's knees now thou seest me safe and sound." "A charming young Quakeress," Chrystie Mansfield thought as he seated himself at the table, which was spread with everything that could tempt the appetite. The wax candles of two large silver candelabra gave a pleasant soft light, and all the linen and china was of that irreproachable purity in which Friends delight. The mistress of Henry Stackhouse's establishment was fully equal to the requirements of her position, and ever since Elsie had been a baby she had reigned there.

For Elsie's mother, who was the daughter of poor people, the off-shoots of a noble-family, had always been delicate, and unable to take any active part in what the Americans call "the celestial mechanics of house-keeping." She had in truth been a colourless pretty woman, who had been thankful to escape from the miseries of a proud poverty, to the comforts and luxuries of the rich Quaker's home. Henry Stackhouse had been disowned for marry ing Isabella St. John ; but he had been quickly received back into membership, and the children of his marriage were born in the society of Friends. Elsie's mother had sunk into an indolent indifference as to religious matters, and making bad health the excuse, she seldom if ever entered either a Church or a Meeting-house. But Elsie herself, though dressed without any strict regard to Quaker rule, had always gone to Meeting with her father and her two brothers, and had adopted from close intercourse with cousin Eliza the friendly form of speech.