A Troth of Tears: a romance

Front matter

THE SLAVE GIRI A Troth of Tear Front ispiec A TROTH OF TEARS % Romance BY CLEMENT A. MENDHAM WITH A FRONTISPIECE LONDON DIGBY, LONG & Co., PUBLISHERS 18 Bouverie Street, Fleet Street E.C. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. Father and Daughter i II. The Invitation 6 in. The Daughter's Reluctance 12 IV. The Ball and the Plot 18 V. The Farm House 28 VI. The Pursuit 33 VII. "Dick the Showman" 48 VIU. The Locket 58 LX. The Rescue 67 X. The Father's Alarm 72 XI. The Return to Brighton 77 Xn. "The Great Meeting" 87 XIII. The Press-Gang 97 XIV. The Merchant at home 104 XV. Adrift in Algiers 112 XVI. The Slave Girl 124 XVII. In the Desert 138 XVIII. News from Robert 150 XLX. The Merchant's Mission 157 XX. The Court-martial 164 XXI. Her Ministering Care 175 XXn. Old Maggie's "Warnings" 180 XXIII. The Old Bo'sun VI contents CHAPTER PAGE XXTV.

The Bo'sun visits Sir Richard 200 XXV. Robert Aroused 210 XXVI. The Boating Excursion 223 XXVII. "The Friendly Brothers" 228 XXVIII. Sir Richard's Anxiety 237 XXIX. The Coffee-house Syren 243 XXX. The Bo'sun Challenged 252 XXXI. Her Father's Birth-day 272 XXXLI. Concerning the Character of James . . 277 XXXIII. The Robbery 282 XXXIV. The Bo'sun in Gaol 293 XXXV. At the "Saracen's Head" 298 XXXVI. The Bo'sun released. . , 309 XXXVH. The Toy Boat 314 XXXVIII. The Doctor's Call

Preface

In presenting these pages to the public, the Author desires to offer a modest contribution towards the fitting celebration of the glorious record-reign of our beloved Queen. It appeared to him not out of place to contrast the present age of liberty, the present day of England's greatness and England's majesty — so undeniably associ ated with the name of VICTORIA — with the condition of society at the period with which this story deals. Granted that then there was more romance — when Nelson swept the seas; when wars and rumours of wars succeeded one another — yet, from the very fact of the turbulence which prevailed at that time, the hand of justice was, to a certain extent, tied; and to-day we enjoy a freedom utterly unknown to those who figure in this book. Those days were, indeed, the purchase-price of that majestic future towards which England was then moving, and of which our Empress-Queen has so unquestionably proved the Alma Mater.

As such they must always interest us; and the Author has endeavoured to place before his readers a picture of life as it was then, trusting to their charity for the rest. THE AUTHOR. London, 1897.

Chapter I. Father

and daughter At the beginning of this present century, in the days when Napoleon was ravaging Europe and utter ing his threats of an invasion of this country, there existed in the town of Brighton, not far from the Pavilion, the celebrated establishment of Joseph Tyler "Wig Maker and Hairdresser to the Royal Family," as the inscription over the portal in golden letters duly set forth. It was an autumn evening. The hour for closing had arrived, and the proprietor, the portly "Arbiter elegan tiarum," stood in the middle of his saloon. His age was forty-five, or thereabouts, and his disposition genial ; for, although a widower, he had as a solace in his bereave ment a beautiful and attentive daughter, whose careful study of her father's wants and comforts, nay, more, those scrupulous little endeavours to please in things which can hardly be described as wants, had perhaps a great deal to do with that appearance of self-satisfaction and contentment which the observer would have noticed.

Then we must add to this, the full pocket and robust health which he was happy enough to possess, as a further, more substantial reason why he was a happy man. Joseph Tyler was no inconsiderable power in the neighbourhood, for his heart and sympathy could always be counted upon in any case of distress, while his wisdom and discernment in most things were venerated far and wide. He had been standing wrapt in thought for a few moments, turning over in his mind a conversation he had recently had with a customer over the resignation of the immortal Pitt, when he suddenly came back from his dreams and addressed an apprentice lad who just then entered. "You can pull down the blind and lock the door, Davy." "Yes, sir," replied David Plumtree, a stout, sturdy lad of sixteen, with an air of respect not always met with in the present day ; but then he was an appren tice of the olden days, bound by indenture for the last two years to the affluent employer who addressed him.

After lingering for a few moments to see his orders carried out, Tyler disappeared through a little cur tained door at the rear to his comfortably furnished domestic apartments ; where, settling himself in the dining-room in his favourite easy chair, he lighted his pipe and began to ruminate. He sat there alone for some little time, and his features glowed as well as the cheerful fire, — an artist could have painted a very effective picture of dignified repose, had he sketched Joseph Tyler at that moment. He was attired in a dark grey cut-away coat and knee-breeches, with a sumptuously embroidered vest of buff-coloured material, while his legs, which were now comfortably crossed, were clad in silk stockings to match the knee-breech es, and descended into highly polished shoes with silver buckles.

He was clean shaven, with rounded features, together with a comfortable chin settling itself becomingly in the collar and ample neckcloth which rose to meet it. Joseph Tyler smiled to him- FATHER AND DAUGHTER 3 self every now and then, and smoothed back his powdery grey hair with his hand as he did so. Presently the door opened, and a fair, brightfaced girl danced into the room. She wore a pale blue dress with short sleeves, and her clear, beautiful skin showed up in striking contrast against the colour of her habit, while her bright, joyous eyes spoke untold volumes of affection and love. "Ahl Connie, my dear," exclaimed her father, for so he had always called his daughter Constance, "how light one's spirits are at seventeen ! " " Yes, father, but you are not so very, very old your self, as to reprove me for that which time will remedy."

"Well, I suppose after all, Connie, there is no reason why you should not be bright and gay; but, to change the subject, what news have you to-night?" " Little, father, very little ; I have been busy writing and working nearly all the day ; except for a hurried walk upon the parade, which I took this afternoon, where I met Sir Richard Leighton again. He was just as full of compliments and nonsense as ever; and even asked me," she added in innocent pride, "if I would like to go to the grand ball at the Pavilion which is to take place next month; but of course he didn't mean it." " Really, my dear Connie, I should be inclined to think Sir Richard is in love with you, were he not as old as myself." " O 1 father, how stupid you are ! " replied his smiling, blushing daughter ; " I know he only speaks to me because he knows you so well.

I speak to him quite as an old uncle, and that is why I told him about my engagement to Robert, in which he was apparently very interested." "Well, well, and what of Robert? I havn't heard of him for an age." " Oh, I had a letter this morning, saying he would not be back from London for another month; but I don't know how I shall live without him all that time." " Sly Boots ! then you had some news after all ; I suppose, however, you meant there was none for me, eh?" " No, really, father," returned Connie ; but just then the father's eyes closed, his hand dropped on one side, and his pipe on the floor; in other words he fell asleep, abruptly terminating for the time the con versation. Connie busied herself with some minor matters until the old Dutch clock struck ten, when she attempted to arouse her father, which task was not an easy one, but after numerous shakes on her part, and a few groans on his, the eyes gradually opened, and Tyler, with an effort of great self-denial, rose to his feet.

" Good-night, dear heart, good-night," said the father as he kissed his daughter. "Good-night," echoed Connie, with two additional kisses, after which they both retired. Joseph Tyler was not long in bed before he was asleep. He was a man not given to thoughts when stretched on the nocturnal couch, in fact it was one of his favourite axioms, that a person should not think much, especially when going to bed ; so pulling the clothes well over him, and giving his nightcap a final adjusting touch, he elapsed into complete unconscious ness in two or three minutes. Connie, however, did not thoroughly believe her father's doctrine, and sometimes thought a great deal, this particular night being no exception ; for her thoughts travelled far and away to Robert Goodridge, to whom the sweet promise of eternal fidelity had but lately been given; she wondered where he had been that day, how often he had thought of her, if he had written another letter, whether he would bring her a present from London, and what it would be if he did.

But FATHER AND DAUGHTER 5 at last she too fell asleep, not wrapt in deep oblivion as her father, but to dream of Robert, and to bathe, in the visions of the night, in such dancing streams of bliss and happiness as only youth like hers can picture to the mind. But rob her not of those ecstatic dreams, nor say, dear reader, whoever you may be, as you glance over these pages, that life is too real and too earnest for such phantasies. Whereas our life is too cold and too unreal without them ; the longer we can make a poet ry of our existence the better for us and all around ; the days of gnawing care come fast enough; and we want these flowers, even if some of them are but born of the imagination, to plant in the dreary garden of our lives. We must have them in the springtime of our existence; the summer of our life is unmeaning without them; and the "sear and yellow leaf" is dread indeed without a flower from the land of reverie.

Sleep, Constance Tyler, sleep, in all the beauty of your early youth — in all the imagery of your bright young heart — in all the rhapsody of those delights which well in countless streams from your first love.

Chapter II. The Invitation

One morning, a fortnight after the scene already depicted between the father and daughter in the fore going chapter, Joseph Tyler stood at his open door. The sun was shining brightly in his autumn glory, and the sea was shimmering in his sparkling rays ; in fact the very morning seemed to breathe of peace ; even the gilded Lion and Unicorn over the shop front appeared in a more pacific frame of mind than usual, so that one could, with a stretch of imagination, al most fancy that, for a slight inducement, they would abandon their bellicose attitude, and their exalted state of gilded idleness, for a stroll upon the Steine on such a day as this. It was about eleven o'clock, and the contemplative hairdresser was still gazing at the view before him, when a carriage suddenly came in sight. Presently it slopped in front of Joseph Tyler, beneath the frown of the Lion and the desperate Unicorn.

A sumptuously dressed gentleman stepped out, and with a certain pomposity of bearing entered the establishment, as the proprietor respectfully backed to admit him. A closer inspection of the visitor revealed him to be a man of middle age, rubicund of countenance and clean shaven. At first sight, tlie casual observer would THE INVITATION 7 have been at a loss to say whether it was a good or a bad face, but a closer scrutiny would probably have decided in favour of the latter opinion ; for it was one of those faces which lack any particular expression, save that of indulgent living, which characteristic was plainly marked ; but there was a decided droop of the left eye which marred, and gave a somewhat dubi ous kind of look to, the otherwise well-featured face. Still he was an aristocratic-looking man, of medium height, and neither fair nor absolutely dark.

"Good-morning, Sir Richard," said the hairdresser, with that obsequious kind of bow implying prostration, which the lower rungs of the social ladder meekly offer to the higher ones; and, when the gentleman was well inside, added: "what beautiful weather to be sure I " "Yes, Mr. Tyler," replied Sir Richard Leighton, with a lordly emphasis upon the Mr., "it is beautiful weather. I hope you are well." "Thank you, Sir Richard, thank you, my health is excellent; I trust you are enjoying the same great privilege; " and with these words the hairdresser bowed his distinguished visitor into a private room, specially set apart for customers of high degree upon whom he waited personally. " Well, Tyler, I want a little extra attention this morning, for the Prince will be down this evening, and I am going to the grand reception at the Pavilion."

"Really, Sir Richard, really 1 I am always most ready to lend whatever aid my art can bestow ; indeed it is one of the most pleasant tasks of my life to do so. Take a seat, Sir Richard." Sir Richard took a seat, while Joseph Tyler hung up his beaver hat, and placed the beau's gold-headed cane in the corner. Then he began the elaborate toilet, during which they talked on various topics furnished by the stirring political events of the day. The conversation had lasted half an hour, and the finishing touches had barely been given to Sir Richard's locks, when that gentleman remarked in a careless manner : " By-the-bye, Tyler, I have just been thinking whether your daughter Constance would like a peep at the Pavilion ball next Monday night; I think I could manage it; and I feel such a deep interest in you that any little pleasure I could afford a member of your family would give me the greatest satisfaction."

"Oh! Sir Richard!" exclaimed the astonished hair dresser in surprise, for it was a surprise notwithstand ing his daughter's mention of the same thing; and a peculiar feeling ran through him; he did not like it, yet he foolishly did not like to refuse. He felt some thing like Count Alarcos before the Spanish King, when the latter requested the Count to strangle his wife ; and might have replied as the Count did — " Good King, my hand thou may'st command, else treason blots my name, — " for he felt it amounted almost to a command which he was not expected to refuse; but he had no time for reply, as Sir Richard immediately continued. " I fancy your daughter's life is sometimes a little dull for such a bright nature as hers. I don't want thanks, but if you like to let her come under my charge, say for a couple of hours, the thing is arranged."

Tyler had an idea now, which he thought would drag him out of the difficulty, and he accordingly pro pounded it. "But, perhaps, Sir Richard, it would hardly do for one in your exalted position to be seen with a lady unknown, if I may put it that way, in high society." "Nothing of the sort; it's always easy to admit a lady, because nobody would take the liberty of addressing her without an introduction." THE INVITATION 9 " But I am afraid you would find my daughter too retiring." "That is why I think it will be an excellent opportunity for her to see what life is like amongst the lords and ladies of the land." "It is more than kind of you, Sir Richard." "Of course I shall require, if you acquiesce, to exercise a little discretion." "Pray, Sir Richard, do not take the trouble." "My dear Mr. Tyler," with another large emphasis on the Mr., " it is not a question of trouble at all.

I am, as you are aware, familiarly known to his Royal Highness ; it would hardly do to introduce your daughter as the plain 'Miss Tyler;' I would simply find an appellation for the time being— quite a common occur rence, I can assure you." Poor Joseph Tyler could not continue the conversation just then, he was too bewildered ; he was at that moment tossed about upon two great billows of opinion. The first was " Whether he ought to be firm and say no ? "__the other was " Would he not be foolish to refuse, and probably lose the patronage, together with other good things in store, for the sake of a whimsical idea of propriety?" It was useless for him to think which way he ought to strike, consequently he let him self, metaphorically speaking, drift, with the result that he found himself hoisted upon the latter.

If it had been a Mr., or an Esq., he would have said "No" at once, but an influential baronet took him off his balance completely ; so at length he stumbled forth: , , . . "Really, Sir Richard,"— he was very fond of this word " really "— " I cannot thank you enough for all your favours." "I don't want thanking, Tyler, I only wish to give your daughter a little harmless pleasure for your sake ; if you care to accept my offer, say so; I will arrange the rest, leaving you the one responsibility of buying a new gown, perhaps." Is this the only responsibility, Joseph Tyler ? Have you swallowed the bait for ambition's sake ? Have you failed to see that evil may lurk behind this seemingly generous act of personal regard ? We will question him no further; he was wise and thoughtful enough in most things, but a simple man at heart, with a mistaken notion that a person with a prefix to his name must be worthy of respect in a special manner, or else he would not have it, and that the friendship of such a person raises and exalts one beyond measure.

Yet he might have easily discerned, had he not so thoroughly believed this doctrine, that there was something more than friendship in the atten tions of that dandy aristocrat ; for the very fact of Sir Richard preferring to come to his establishment, instead of Joseph Tyler going to him, as had always been the custom until the last few months, should have opened his eyes and aroused suspicion ; but it did not. He loved the flattery of all this, and in front of such a man as Sir Richard Leighton, baronet, and friend of the Prince of Wales — though he had this latter information solely on the great man's word, he was, figuratively speaking, a mere footstool. So in this instance, as in many similar ones, he simply bowed and worshipped the god of his peculiar creation, trusting that the deity would deal favourably with him ; but whether or no, bow down he felt he must; and he did so.

This mental act of adoration being per formed, he found himself at once carried away upon the wings of enthusiasm, and with the smile which a man who has received a great honour or benefit generally makes— some people call it looking pleasant — he replied to his patron : "I do feel highly honoured, Sir Richard, highly honoured, and thoroughly understand the necessity of a THE INVITATION 1 1 strict incognito being preserved. I am sure my dear daughter will not only appreciate your unparalleled kindness, but also enjoy such a singularly magnificent spectacle as she will witness." The human angler smiled blandly, for the human fish was trembling on his rod. He had only to play it carefully and draw it to the net ; so he answered : "Very well, my good friend, not a word more; but remember, this is to be a little state secret between us."

"Certainly, Sir Richard." "Then I will call a little before twelve next Mon day evening — we shall not be away more than a couple of hours. Good-bye." In another moment the hairdresser was alone. A reaction followed, and for once he felt thoroughly miserable. He could not exactly accuse himself of having done wrong, for he had only laid another offering upon the shrine of his devotion; but he felt that if he had only been somewhere else that day he would have been happy ; and then he was afraid of breaking the news to his daughter, for he knew well enough that she would not enjoy, or even appreciate the privilege of which she was to be the forced recipient. That was a deliberate misrepresentation which Joseph Tyler had made to the baronet, but the law of society demanded it, and morality is not supposed to interfere with such questions.

Chapter III. The Daughter's Reluctance

When the portly figure of Joseph Tyler moved, somewhat uneasily, into the room where the mid-day meal was awaiting his arrival, Connie, with her cheerful, happy face, was there to greet him. Her father seemed kind enough, as usual, yet she noticed a certain fidgety manner about him, which a woman will often detect in a man. The repast was soon over, for Tyler was a prompt business man if he was not always a wise one. He did not, as a rule, waste much time over his meals, until his daily occupation was over; then he made it a rule to enjoy the remaining hours. However, to-day he was not in his accustomed hurry, for the extreme benevolence, no less than the great partiality shown him by Sir Richard Leigh ton, had rather overcome him after the first feelings of inquietude had calmed down; besides, he had to tell his daughter all the news.

He was not only madly fond of her, but being a very ambitious man, he desired to see her raised as high as possible upon the social pinnacle. This, not so much for his own sake or glorification, but for the purpose of fulfilling his one great dream of making her a lady in position, as she was already in her present sphere. He hoped therefore at some not very THE DAUGHTERS RELUCTANCE 13 remote day to retire, adopt the life of a country gen tleman, and show the world his perfect type of woman hood ; his absolute model of virtue and love ; his per fection of cultured mind, to say nothing of beauty, in which latter charm Connie certainly excelled. True, she was just engaged to Robert Goodridge, whose position was only that of a commercial traveller at present, but he liked the engagement, for the young man was a great favourite of his, and when they were married he would be able to place the lever of his wealth at the back of his son-in-law, whose business abilities, combined with a keen eye in most affairs of life, should, and no doubt would, make a great man of him.

Then in his day-dreams, he went still further, picturing to himself her children, if she should ever have any, and how they would toddle up to play with their grandfather's massive gold watch and seals; in fact in fancy's flight he could almost see the little ones' actual looks of pleasure and amazement as they listened to the ticking. No, there never was a man who lived more en tirely for another than Joseph Tyler lived for his daughter — a devotion which had banished all thoughts of a second marriage for himself, in order that he might the more effectually concentrate and focus all his energy upon his one great aim of making her a shining light. And turning from the father to the daughter, we can excuse a great deal in his parental vanity, for Connie was born a lady; not in the sense that the world at large interprets such a definition, but as an artist, or a poet, is called into existence, so was she.

For a maiden of her years she possessed qualities which have not often begun to bloom in others of riper growth ; her affection for her father was as great as his was for her; while her trusting nature and sweet disposition made her a general favourite everywhere. She had received a liberal education, not overdone, but sufficient to leave her as a splendid type of feminine perfection, both mentally and physi cally. Her history will, however, prove, far better than any description, the truth of these assertions ; and her fidelity, of which we might now draw a beautiful picture, will unfold itself later in a real and living landscape. But we must revert to the father, who was still lingering at the table. He had conversed with Connie upon sundry minor matters, but the great one, the target of success at which he meant to aim and if possible gain the bull's-eye, he had not as yet brought forward ; at last he began.

" I thought it was all a joke of Sir Richard's about the ball, but he really wishes to take you next Mon day evening. What do you think of that, Connie?" Connie thought a great deal of it, but not in the light that her father did, which made her maintain a silent attitude, rather than rush into a reply that might wound. Observing her hesitation, Joseph Tyler followed up his remark at once. "Of course you can't possibly refuse, my dear." "I cannot possibly consent, father." " Why, it's absolute madness, that's what it is, ab solute madness, to say such a thing." "Don't be angry, father dear. I should love to see the ball, but to go with a nasty old bore like Sir Richard, when I am just engaged to my dear Robert —think of it, father." "I am thinking of it, Connie; and it grieves me to the heart that you, my own daughter, should speak of Sir Richard Leighton as a bore.

It shows an un becoming disrespect to those who are over us; it almost makes me wish that I had never tried to raise myself, as I have done, for your sake, Connie, your sake mind, when you trample under foot a golden oppor- THE DAUGHTER'S RELUCTANCE 15 tunity like this, and treat your father as a perfect toy." She rushed to him in a flood of tears, and flinging her arms around his neck, cried : "Father! father! do not say such terrible things. You know I will do anything in the world for you ; do you not? Do say so!" " This is the first time you have rebelled, Connie." "I am not a rebel, father, I am just the same as I ever was, and I love you just as much. Do kiss me ! I am so miserable." And with this she burst into tears afresh. This was too much for her father, who started from his seat and folded her to his breast.

"We musn't disagree, we musn't disagree, whatever we do," he said, with a slight choking expression. " If you were going to take me — or Robert— I should be mad with delight; but I do not like him, father, really I do not like him." " Connie, my child, I suppose you mean Sir Richard when you say 'him,' but I can assure you he is a gentleman in every way, whose kindness, even though it may be a little eccentric, I will never scorn. My motto has always been ' Up 1 Up I Up 1 ' ; surely you don't wish me to stand deliberately in my own light ? " " I wish to love and help you in every way, you dearest of fathers ! " " I believe you do. I was hasty to fire up so. I didn't explain enough." " Tell me now, father. I feel as if I should die if you spoke another angry word." " Listen then, my dear. I am placed in a perfect six if you don't go, for I accepted the kind offer, and we made every arrangement."

" If I go, father, I should want a chaperone." " My dear little woman, you're making too much of it altogether ; the intention of our good friend is simply to take you in for a good look round ; you will pass incognito, as Sir Richard tells me is the rule in such cases ; and I suppose, after a few nice things to eat, you will return, having been in Royal company." "Do you actually insist upon my going, father?" " My love, I will use no pressure ; I simply tell you my views and leave you to decide." "Will it injure you if I do not go?" "That it most certainly will, Connie." "Then, father, I will go; for I see you wish it." "I'm sorry I was so cross, my dear child." " You are always trying to do something kind ; I ought not to have opposed you, and I never will again." "I have said, my dear child, we will not fall out; we never have and we never will ; you're a dear little woman, and I only want to make you happy."