An Unlessoned Girl

Front matter

AN UNLESSONED GIRL AN UNLESSONED GlRL BY Mrs. HERBERT MARTIN Author of " Bonnie Lesley," " For a Dream's Sake," &c, &c. IN TWO VOLUMES Vol. I. Xonoon: MARCUS WARD & CO., 67, 68, CHANDOS STREET And ROYAL ULSTER WORKS, BELFAST CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGE I. — The Home in Old Ireland, . . 7 II. — The Young Mistress of Beaumont, 23 ILL — Her First Flight, . . . .40 IT. — " Neither Young nor Fair," . . 52 V. — Far from Home, 74 VI. — A Young Man about Town, . . 101 VII. — New Thoughts and New Wats, . .114 VIII. —A Talk and a Walk, ... 129 IX. — Gladys on her Dignity, . . .150 X. — Different Points of View, . . 171 XL — Gladys disregards Mrs. Grundy, . 188 XII. — Confessor and Penitent, . . 204 XIIL— Friends or Foes 1 . . . .224

Chapter I. The Home In Old Ireland

Heaven knows how loath I am to part with thee ! So from the seal is softened wax disjoined, So from the mother plant the under rind. Dryden. COLONEL BYRNE was sitting in his study, deep in thought, one soft spring morning. Before him lay one or two letters which he had been reading, and which he smoothed absently with his lean brown hand from time to time. The Colonel's study was about as untidy as every other room in the large rambling house of Beaumont, Co. Kerry, Ireland. No wifely eyes were there to spy out confusion and disorder, and the Irish girls left the dust pretty well undis turbed on guns, fishing-rods, and books, which lay one upon another, scattered over shelves and tables and chairs. The Colonel was a tall, thin man, with a face like an old eagle, and a pair of very bright blue eyes set near together in a yellowish-brown face.

He had a somewhat melancholy cast of countenance, but a pleasant smile, and was one of the easiest tempered and kindest hearted of men. No one was ever afraid of him in or out of the army, and everyone, from his daughter to the stable-boy, took liberties with him with perfect impunity. Beaumont was a large decaying place, which might have been turned into a handsome country residence by spending plenty of money, by an en ergetic owner, and a set of capable servants ; but as these means were not forthcoming, it looked neglected. The grass in the garden and the paddock grew long and weedy, the flowers straggled here and there, the fruit dropped off and lay unheeded, the greenhouses were not properly attended to. The house was neither particularly picturesque nor particularly comfortable, though there were one or two pretty rooms in it.

One wing was supposed to be haunted, and was left entirely deserted. None of the servants ever ventured in these rooms, and even Gladys never went there by herself. None of the gates were in good order, the windows rattled in a high wind, and a great many places in the roof let in water. This sounds dreary, but Beaumont was a happy house for all that, and those who lived in it loved it ; the servants had good wages, little to do, and plenty to eat, B and were happy accordingly ; and Gladys had no cares, and loved her home dearly. She was always content with her father's society and the open-air occupations, which were congenial to her. The Colonel asked little of life but good tobacco, some lazy work about the fields and garden, and his girl's companionship in-doors, with friends dropping in whenever they liked to partake of the perfectly free hospitality of his house.

But the Colonel was now contemplating a change, and he looked grave over it. His eye glanced out of window, and dwelt with a regretful pleasure on the beautiful view of the distant blue mountains of the Killarney range. To him it was the loveliest and the dearest prospect in the world. He had lived for a great many years in this old house, which had come to him with his wife ; every corner of it had associations for him. He had retired thither after all his wanderings about the world, and had buried his wife in the little cemetery amongst the hills, close to the ruins of an old abbey, where all her ancestors and some of his were laid, for they were related to each other. And now the Colonel was uneasy in his mind at a general unsettle ment of his fixed mode of life which seemed inevitable.

He hated change above all things, now that he was on the shady side of sixty. As he sat, he heard a clear and pleasant voice sing a few notes — not particularly in tune, by-the-bye — and he called, "Gladys!" " Yes, Papa," the girl's voice cried back ; " do you want me ?" And she presently appeared outside the open window, a girl rather above the middle height and slender, dressed, without much regard to becoming ness or fashion, in a limp holland that had seen better days ; a girl not beautiful, but decidedly pleasant to look on, and with a pair of very sweet blue eyes. " Come in, dear ; I can't shout to you through the window," her father said, a little fretfully. " Is there anything so very important to tell me, then ? Very well, I '11 come in and hear it when I have got rid of this pertinacious pug."

In another moment Gladys entered by the door, but left it open as usual — doors and windows were never shut at Beaumont. Her father, however, this time desired it closed, and his daughter obeyed him, and then came and placed herself on the arm of his chair. " Now, sir, for your news. Do you want me to read these letters ?" " Presently. When I have told you what they are about." " Papa, I do believe you have been keeping a secret from me ! How very wrong of you." Gladys spoke half in fun, half in earnest. There had been, in truth, the very completest intimacy between them all her life, and she could hardly under stand any reserves. " There was no good bothering you with it, my darling, till I had settled it," the Colonel said apologetically, putting his arm round her waist. " It would only have troubled you.

It 's nothing really bad, Gladys ; but I have got to go back to India for a twelvemonth." " Go back to India ! And take me ?" " Oh no, my sweet child ! There would be no sense at all in doing that. I have to go on business, which it would take a long time to explain to you just now, and your going with me would double my expenses, would do your health no good, and be in every way unadvisable." " Then what do you mean to do with me ? Am I to stay on here all alone 1 Papa, this is a horrible piece of news. What am I to do without you ? what are you to do without me for a whole year l. " My dear pet, don't make so much of it — a year soon slips away. I don't want to go, Gladys, I can tell you, but needs must when, &c. — it is business connected with some property of my brother's, and no one can manage it but me.

But of course I 'm not dreaming for a moment of leaving you here alone. That is a preposterous idea. Look here, read this letter ; it has come quite apropos — it is from my first cousin, Marian Ellison. I haven't seen her for ages — but she writes very kindly to invite you to go and stay with her at Putney; she has settled there after wandering about the world for years. I am sure you would like her, she is such a good-natured, kind creature." " I don't want to go anywhere," Gladys answered, looking rather mournful ; " but if I must — let me read the letter then, dear." It was a kind, diffusive sort of letter, in a ladylike but rather spidery hand not easy to read, warmly inviting her " little Cousin Gladys " to come and make friends with her English cousins, " though I don't feel myself English, or anything but a daughter of dear old Ireland, which I haven't seen for such a long time.

I shall never forget our happy old childhood's days at Beaumont, and my friendship with your dear sister, while you were almost a young man, and were grandly patronising to the small, shy cousin. Every body connected with those old days seems dead and gone except us two, and we ought to keep up the friendship, I think, dear Michael. It is a long time since we have interchanged letters, while Janet and I have been roaming about here, there, and every where, trying to make a light purse go a long way. A small legacy lately has helped me a little, and we have pitched our tent at last in respectable quarters — very respect able. Putney is quite undeniable ! I don't like the place very much, but it is near to some friends, and we have rather a pretty little cottage on the Wimbledon side. My half-sister, Mrs. Barrett, has a big house in Wimbledon Park, but I can't say that is a very great inducement ; she is kind in a way, but not sympathetic to us — we are too Bohemian for her, and she is too rich for us.

Dear Janet and she never could quite hit it off. I wish you knew Janet, she is so very clever (though you may think this is only motherly partiality). I often think there is nothing that she cannot master, and she is so bright and lively. As for me, I was always an old muddlepate, as they used to call me, and I don't improve. I do so want to see your Gladys — the photograph of her looked like her sweet Aunt Nelly, my dear childish friend, and it made my heart yearn over her. Do let her come and pay us a long visit now that we have a house to ask her to. Come and bring her, and leave her with us. I was going to say she might like to take lessons, quite forgetting she has attained the dignity of twenty-two. How time flies, and how old I am getting !" " It's a kind letter, isn't it ?" Col. Byrne said, as Gladys laid it down ; " just like Marian — she was always so vague and forgetful, but clever in her way, and good natured.

I thought it might be a nice plan for you to go there and see how you would like to spend the time I am away with the Ellisons. In some ways it would be an advantage to you, dearie. I 'm afraid you are a little bit ignorant, eh ? — a wild Irish girl ?" Col. Byrne never found fault with his one child ; he only now and then half insinuated a doubt of her absolute perfection. She was the darling of his heart, and the intercourse between them had nothing in it of authority — only pure love and sympathy. " I am dreadfully ignorant," Gladys said, sighing deeply. " These people will be shocked at my stupidity." " My pet, you are naturally exceedingly clever — it is all my fault that you have not learnt more." Gladys laughed, but her laugh had not its usual mirth in it. "' Exceedingly clever 1' come, come, Papa, even from you, that is a a little too strong.

But never mind that now. I can't think about anything but this hateful news that you are going away I When must you go V "The beginning of next month." " Oh, how soon I But perhaps, since it has to be, one had better get it over. Well, if you must leave me, and if I must leave Beaumont, I don't care a bit where I go. If you like me to be at Putney, it makes no difference." " Don't speak so dismally — you may really be very happy there." Gladys shook her head ; she could not speak just at that moment. She was of a nature whose affections are intensely and abnormally strong, while the lower passions are not dominant — one of the women whose heart governs the whole inner self, and in whom it is painful almost to torture to have any fibre unwound that has learnt to cling to a beloved object. She was constant in everything, and had still, in a nature slowly developing to womanhood, the persistent and simple devotion, the candid truth and credulous imagination of a child.

But there were possibilities and complexi ties hidden somewhere in her which were not allied to childhood, and as yet Gladys was known entirely to no one, and least of all to herself — she was diffident to a folly. She walked about the room, apparently busy in putting things straight for a few moments till her voice was to be trusted, and then she said, " You will go with me to Putney ?" " Oh yes, I will settle you there, if we are able to come to terms with Mrs. Ellison. I thought of paying her £150 a-year for you, to include lessons, if you take any. That would leave you £50 for your own pocket money out of the £200 which is yours by right. You would find that plenty V " Why, Papa, it is absurd. I never spend more than £18 or £20 on myself." " But you will want more fineries near London.

By the way, we must rig you out first. Well, I '11 write to Marian. And now, dear, please go and tell Tim about the dog-cart — it is high time he started, if he is to bring Lance back for dinner. It 's a ten mile drive, if it 's one, from that station." Gladys left the room to give Tim his orders. The expected " Lance " was another distant cousin — Col. Byrne kept up with all his relations in a clannish fashion — a certain Mr. Lancelot Chester, a young man in one of the public offices — which berth the Colonel had procured him — of some twenty -five years, who had been in the habit of spending many of his holidays with his Irish cousins, and who, in remote days, had been wont to consider Gladys as his "little wife." When she had arrived at the age to discard dolls, and he to set up Eton jackets, this under standing had gradually ceased to be talked of between them, but a certain amount of intimacy had survived.

Gladys generally looked forward to visitors at Beaumont as an agreeable and exciting event, and she had always enjoyed Lance's society before ; but to-day her mood was despondent, and she was not inclined to take pleasure in any thing. Phrenology would have said that she had " concentrativeness and adhesive ness " strongly developed. She was not fond of change, and it seemed to her that things could not be improved in their way of living. She shrank from Putney, and above all she shrank from a parting, even for a time, between her father and her. He had no rival in her heart.

Chapter II. The Young Mistress Of Beaumont

She did not attract, In the sense of the brilliant or wise ; I infer 'Twas her thinking of others made you think of her. E. B. Browning. GLADYS had arranged for herself many an errand of kindness that day before the arrival of their visitor; but she felt now disinclined for any of her usual work — listless and dissatisfied. Do what she would, she could not reconcile her mind to this twelvemonth that she was to pass away from the home she loved much, and the father she loved more. So many things might happen, she might never take up the old threads again. The bright ness seemed departed from the fair spring day, and everything was out of tune. Her father came in presently with a would-be cheerful air, and gave her his letter to Mrs. Ellison to read, in which he proposed the terms of his daughter's visit.

" It will be quite a nice change for you, my pet," he said, as she returned it to him without a word. " Papa, I think you might leave off pre tending that," she said, quite pettishly, "when you know perfectly well the thought of it makes me wretched!" " Oh no, not wretched, my sweet child," he said in his tenderest tones, putting his arm round her waist. " I can't have you say that. And you quite forget that it is no happiness for me to go ; you make it more difficult." An appeal to Gladys' soft heart was never lost. She had, what it is perhaps a misfortune to a woman to have, an almost exaggerated tenderness of feeling and sensi tiveness towards those she loved. " I am horribly selfish," she said, changing at once into impetuous self-reproach ; " don't mind me, dear, the time will go somehow.

I shall be always thinking of your coming back." " Will the letter do ?" " Oh yes. It is very affectionate. Papa, was this Mrs. Ellison one of your first loves ?" There was a joke against the Colonel — who had always been a " lady's man," and an ardent admirer of the sex — that the number of his "first loves" was legion. So many disputed the honour, that the real one was quite lost in mystery. Col. Byrne laughed ; his laugh was like a boy's still. " Oh no, not exactly ! Perc haps we may have had a few tender passages — a sort of sentimental, cousinly friendship, nothing more. Oh no, it never came to that. Marian was rather pretty, though in a soft, loose, untidy style." In spite of her despondency, Gladys broke out into a laugh. She looked very charming when she laughed — it gave a childish soft ness to her face, and there was a dear little dimple round her lips, and her teeth were even and purely white.

" I did not know people could be pretty in a ' soft, loose, untidy style ;' but I can fancy her. And what is she like now ?" " I haven't seen her for years — she cer tainly was no beauty when I saw her last — but pleasant-looking. Poor thing, I think she has had uphill work. Ellison was a well-connected, clever fellow, and agreeable, but scampish. He ran through all Marian's little money, and I fancy left her badly off. Her father forbade the match, but Marian ran away with him. It was a silly business — she was six-and-twenty, old enough to know better — and of course they could not really prevent her marrying him either ; but Marian liked the romance and excitement of an elopement. She was always like that, romantic, impulsive, and heedless ; she got into no end of love affairs, and of course ended by marrying the worst of her suitors.

But she has tamed down ; she is really getting on in years — let me see, Janet must be some way over thirty." "What is Janet like?" " I only know she is very clever and accomplished, and, I believe, very pleasant. She is not — well, not pretty." " That means very much the reverse when you say it of any woman, Papa. I hardly know any lady that you allow to be plain." " Very few women are, if you look at them the right way," the Colonel declared. And he certainly managed to see charms in most which were invisible to the rest of the world. A very well-regulated young lady might have made up her mind, from Col. Byrne's description of Mrs. Ellison, that she was not exactly the person to make a perfectly correct chaperon ; but Gladys had been brought up in a somewhat happy-go-lucky fashion, and did not study the strict pro prieties of society, or rather she knew nothing about them.

She was, on the contrary, more inclined to think she should get on with her new relations, now that she heard that Mrs. Ellison had been romantic and unlucky. She began to take a more cheerful view of things, and, throwing off the languor of discontent, put on her hat, and took her basket of good food for poor Dan the gardener, who had broken his leg, and was laid by in his cottage at the bottom of the grounds. When Col. Byrne had first left the army and settled at Beaumont, he had tried, with his usual benevolence, to improve the con dition of the poor about him ; he had given good wages to those whom he employed, and had attempted to insinuate a better state of things into their homes. But, like others before him, he had generally failed. He had not energy or perseverance enough, for one thing ; he wanted the resolute obstinacy of purpose that can stand against defeat.

He had been beaten by the inert mass of gentle resistance which met him — his blows fell on a feather-bed. 1 " Shure his honour was very good." They had always a pleasant word for him, but they did not " throuble." Their old ways suited them best. He built pig-sties, but the pigs preferred their usual quarters in the living room, and the two-legged inmates apparently liked the company of the pigs. They would not cultivate their fields and gardens as the Colonel's books on agriculture told them they should — they would beg, and teach their children to beg ; it seemed no disgrace to them, but the natural order of things. So the innovations died away, and the Colonel and Gladys had to give in. And since they had both a large share of the weakness for being beloved which belongs to most kind-hearted people, they encouraged some of the evils of the place by giving too much.

Col. Byrne knew it was too much, and had spasms of severity and discipline which his tenantry, with the usual quickness and tact of their race, exactly estimated at what they were worth, and submitted to with outward docility and real amusement. They bore him no grudge for his fits of sternness, for they knew they would soon give place to his usual state of sweet-tempered tolerance ; but Gladys was consistently indulgent. She could not bear to listen to the whines of the women and children without trying to relieve them ; if they were ill, she was unwearying in helping them ; she would kiss the dirtiest little pretty face in the village, and could not resist the wistfulness of the soft eyes, blue or brown. The Irish peasant almost always has that pleading expression which in the children is very pathetic.

Dan, the gardener, was a respectable, steady man, and compared with some others, his cottage was really decent. He had not only a chimney, but a window, and there was not the usual menagerie inside the room. But after leaving him, Gladys went to see the Widow Maloney, and of all typical Irish hovels this was the worst one in the village. A floor that was simply wet mud ; the thick, blue smoke of the peat fire finding its way sluggishly enough out of a hole in the thatch ; two beds, by courtesy so called, one on each side of the fire, on one of which lay the old woman, groaning with rheumatism ; and, scattered about the room, any amount of children clothed in scanty rags — pig, cock, and hens sharing alike with them. An English girl would have sickened at such a scene, but Gladys was used to it, and bore it all like a heroine.

She com forted the old woman, and talked to the children, whose mother was out fetching turf from the hills, and left them amidst a rain of blessings on her " sweet face." " AVhat will the poor things do for a whole year without us ?" she thought, sigh ing, as she stood by the door taking in a long breath of pure air, to refresh her lungs after the reek of the atmosphere within. As she stood looking up the winding road which dipped down from the brow of the hill above her, the rattle of wheels was heard, a familiar rattle which Gladys recog nised as the dog-cart. In another moment it came in sight, and she went forward to greet the fair-haired young man who jumped out as he saw her. Lancelot Chester was a good-looking fellow of a not unusual type, not either short or tall, with a pale face and light moustache, and blue eyes with a non chalant expression.

He looked as if he might be a little "fast," and as if he con sidered himself about the most interesting object in creation ; but it was not at all a bad face — on the contrary, it was pleasant to look upon, and on the whole open and candid. Of course as he was a regular " young man about town " he was some thing of a flirt ; but he knew Gladys Byrne too well to attempt flirtation with her, and indeed there was not an atom of coquetry in her straightforward nature. They were on friendly and intimate terms, and Lance liked being with her better than with girls who had seen more of his world. He shook her hand with the most hearty friendliness. " Here I am again, you see. Always turning up at Beaumont like the irrepres sible 'Any out for an 'oliday. How jolly it is ! We haven't had such weather for Easter in the memory of man, 1 should think.

Where have you been with that sweet thing in baskets ? Into some of your dear dirty cottages?" " I 've been to see the Widow Maloney, poor old thing." " Oh, I know her — the picturesque old hag in a cloak and red handkerchief. She would get the prize for dirt, if there were one here — only she 'd be hard run for it ! " " Don't begin by laughing at the poor people, Lance," Gladys said, almost implor ingly. " I have got to leave them, and I feel tender over them." " Leave them ! What can you mean ?" " Only for a time — only for a year. Papa is obliged to go to India on some wretched business, and I believe I am to go to Putney, to stay with the Ellisons." " With the Ellisons ? Why, that will be very jolly. I know them well, and I shall see lots of you." "How can you say it will be jolly?" Gladys cried, indignantly, " when I am to lose Papa, and be away from home!"

" Well, I meant jolly for me. Don't fire up so — you aren't like yourself to-day a bit, Gladys ; you are dreadfully cross." " Yes, I know I am. I feel cross ; but it is too bad to show it directly you come. Papa has to go the beginning of next month." " In a fortnight ? Then perhaps I had better not stay here. I only came for a week, but you may find me in the way." " Oh no, nonsense, Lance. Of course you will stay. We need not be inhospitable, anyhow. Papa will be very glad to have you ; he will want cheering up, and the new billiard -table is a beauty." "That's right; but I shan't trouble billiards if we get weather like this." Gladys shook her head. "I'm afraid it won't last. I don't like the looks of those clouds." " Oh yes, it will last. I am always lucky in weather and everything else."

" I believe you are — you never have any troubles, Lance." " Yes, I have. But I generally make them for myself. I get into scrapes, and have a wigging from the chief ; but I manage to wriggle out of them." o OO " Why do you get into scrapes?" " Why ? — I don't know. Because other fellows do — because I like a spree awfully •because I 'm a fool. " But why should you not have fun without its getting you into trouble ? What is your idea of a 'spree,' Lance ?" He looked at her for a moment, and his careless face took upon itself a sudden shadow which made him look considerably her senior, while, as a matter of fact, there were only three years between their ages. " My dear innocent girl," he said, with a dry smile, " never enquire into the ways of men. They are not your ways, thank God ! You would hate me if you knew all about me, Gladys."

"No, I should not," she answered, flush ing slightly, and holding up her head with a little air of dignity ; "I am not quite such a baby as you think me. And I know that young men have a great many temptations." " Suppose we change the subject," Lance said, with a peculiar half-embarrassed laugh. " I '11 allow, if it pleases you, that you have an extensive knowledge of the world. Well, since you have to go somewhere, I 'm glad it is to the Ellisons. They are jolly sort of people — one can drop in anytime one likes, and it is always free and easy — there 's not an atom of stiffness about them. Miss Ellison is very clever and amusing, capital company, and such a beauty too !" " Is she 1" Gladys said, opening her eyes. " Papa fancied she was not all pretty." " Did he ? What a mistake !" and this was all Lance would say on the subject.