A Question of Honour. A novel

Book II. Chaptee

I. PAGE Past and Present 1 CHAPTEE II. Explanatory 9 CHAPTEE III. At the Seaside 3,3 CHAFTEE IY. Wil es's Cows CONTENTS. VI CHAPTEE V. PAI.E Stuart's Quest 73 CHAPTEE VI. The Letter 92 CHAPTEE VII. Off the Scent 113 CHAPTEE VIII. A Happy Eelease 133 CHAPTEE IX. Grace Breaks Out Again 151 CHAPTEE X. Mr. Melville's Walk 174 CHAPTEE XI. A Legacy contents. VII CHAPTEE XII. PAGE Orme Court 221 CHAPTEE XIII. Stuart asks Miss Stapely's Advice . . . 251 CHAPTEE XIV. Walking on Egg-shells 270 CHAPTEE XV. Bates and Hobson 290 CHAPTEE XVI. Une Partie Carree 312 CHAPTEE XVII. A Picnic . . . .

BOOK II. CHAPTER

I. PAST AND PRESENT. " I pledge her silent at the hoard ; Her gradual fingers steal, And touch upon the master-chord Of all I felt and feel. Old wishes, ghosts of broken plans, And phantom hopes assemble ; And that child's heart within the man's Begins to move and tremble." Tenwtson. Stuart Oriee sat in his chambers in the Temple face to face with his past. If it had been possible to embody that past and mould it into a living form, instinct Anth every thought, and Av"ord, and deed of that irreArocSble time, so that one glance should VOL. II. B bring back to him all the passionate struggles ending in defeat, the still more passionate efforts to retrieve the field, the cutting, cruel disappointment, the days of happiness, the months of agony, and the long years of regret, — if all this could have been embodied in one beautiful but sad figure, and this figure had come behind him as he sat before his mirror and shoAva her reproachful, miserable, but still loving face, Stuart would have experienced emo tions in no way differing from those with which he gazed on that small sketch of the sea-shore, Avish the one tower, and the one cloud, and the bright foreground of sunshine.

If one could have listened to the beating of his heart as he sat, this morning, gazing with a long, uninterrupted gaze into the little sketch, and could have interpreted its muffled throbs into words, this is something not unlike what one would have heard : — "Art thou dead, my past? So fair, so PAST AND PRESENT. beautiful, as thou wert, before my folly slew thy happiness ! Why call it folly ? — my sin, crime. We have no secrets, thou and I. Art thou dead, buried in the deep leaves of many autumns, covered with the snoAVS of many Avinters ; or dost thou still live a maimed life, Avith thy beautiful feet torn with the thorny underwood or scorched by the desert sand ? Oh, my love ! how haA'e I sought for thee with piteous cries, un manned, a mere child, with eyes full of tears, and arms held out for comfort, long ing to be consoled and to console thee ! — for I should have been a man if I had found thee.

I would have bound up thy bleeding feet, and staunched thy wounds with my lips. I would have covered thee with my arms, and stilled to happy heaving thy palpitating breast. But thou hast floAvn from me, my sweet ; thou hast floAvn from me as the hart from the hunter ! Thou hast floAvn from my love as from another's hate, from my arms as from the spear of a warrior ! My kisses have turned to cruel stings, and my love-words into goads ! Art thou dead ? — dead long since ? Hast thou been at peace while I have wan dered in agony ? Have I sought thy shadow on earth, while thou, secure in happiness above, hast looked with calm pity on my terrible travel ? I hope so. Would that I could know it ! Oh, Ida ! Ida ! my love, my bride ! if thou art still alive, and in need of comfort, come to me, and thou shalt find it ; and if thou art at rest, removed far above the need of any comfort which I can give thee, come and comfort me !"

He needed comfort and strength. Bound, as he still thought, by indissoluble ties to a woman who was, and yet was not, his wife ; and haAdng spent the most active years of his life in searching for the lost one, sys tematically at first, and, when system proved fruitless, in a restless, unmethodical way, wandering from place to place, and seeking PAST AND PRESENT. for that one face in the crowd, in the alley, in the fields, on the mountain, everywhere, without success. Tired at last, and hope less, he had settled a little while, as we know, in Australia, and had then returned home. He would have quiet, if not rest, he thought. He was yet young ; if he could but get rid of his past, there was a future yet in store for him. Lately he had been conscious that Grace Melville had in a strange, slow way become mixed up in his life, in his thought.

Her beautiful face followed him wherever he went; her sweet, bright voice rang like bells around him as he walked. In her presence he forgot for a while his past. His mind became stilled, unvexed, and untor mented, and visions of a yet happy future would sometimes come unbidden. He struggled little at first against this new in fluence. She had been to him nothing. He had not cared or thought much about her. He had admired her beauty, and somewhat pitied what had seemed to him her unhappy, morbidly sensitive mind. She was, as we know, influenced at that time by prejudice, which had made her uncomfortable in his society, and she had acted a part for which nature had not fitted her. As the barrier had broken down between them, as they, in spite of all things, had found much pleasure in each other's society, she had insensibly, little by little, interested and fascinated him.

He became at ease in her society. It was something altogether new to him to be at ease in this way, and to hold commerce with a mind that had much to give, and desired to receive much. Erom the time of his first serious conversation with her (by serious we mean without any garment of flippancy or sarcasm), when he found himself speaking, for the first time for years, from his heart instead of his head, thinking not only about his words, but about their full sense, • — from this time his whole life seemed to have gained a new vitality, a new joy. PAST AND PRESENT. Eor years he had never cared much what he said, so that it served a present purpose — never cared what others might think of his words or him. _Now he was conscious that there Avas one person in whose presence he did measure his Avords, and his thoughts too, because they Avere measured by her, and the pith of them extracted with almost unfailing judgment, and the husk of them bloAra away with laughing satire or deep feeling earnestness, and he did care what she thought of his words and him, precisely because he found that she thought that he ought to care.

She often complained to him of his inaction, and he then felt her voice like a trumpet to battle. She taught him to feel his strength even in his bonds. But he was like a war-horse struggling at his tether. He felt that it was his duty to lie down and wait till the past should free him with her oavu hand. This disturbed him much ; but something disturbed him more. He could suffer even A QUESTION OF HOMOUJ.. this additional burden, for it brought its OAva relief with it ; but for her it was dangerous. He could see that he was already becoming of importance to her, that he had entered into her life, as she had entered into his, but Avith this difference, that she was unconscious of it. He saw that she did not yet trust him completely ; but he knew that a little thing might alter this in a moment, and show her plainly that she loved him in spite of all.

And this made him tremble. He had spoded one life. Was unrelenting fate to force him to spoil another ? So, as he looked at the little sketch, his heart poured forth its beseeching appeal to his past, which became to him embodied iu the image of his lost Ida. It was more like a prayer than any utterance, spoken or un spoken, that had poured from his heart since he had knelt, a little boy, at Miss Stapely's knee.

Chapter II. Explanatory

" Vouchsafe to those that have not read the story That I may prompt them : and of su^h as have, I humbly pray them to admit th' excuse Of time, of numbers, and due course of things, AVhich cannot in their huge and proper life Be here depicted." King Henry V. (Chorus to Fifth Act). Pitiful, indeed, is the attempt to express, in the miserable machinery of words, the eloquent language of a human heart, torn Avith the agony of love and doubt. It was long since Orme's heart had been so stirred to the depths ; and, to understand his feel ings properly, it is necessary to turn back the pages of his life, and commence at the first. We will promise to be as terse as we can. Stuart's father had been a strange, wild man in early life. Left in the possession of a large fortune, he had given way to all the follies and vices that beset him, had married a disreputable woman, and had gambled and betted until he had had to fly aAvay from his debts.

At this point he was arrested by what seemed to him, then and ever, the Divine arm. He had entered a small chapel in the small seaport from which he ultimately took leave of England, and had been what is called " converted." For the first time in his life his soul was touched by the deep-hearted earnestness of an old preacher, one who, in spite of his opinions (which were doubtless most heretical), had yet the power to call sinners to repent ance. As we have promised to be terse, we will not more particularly describe the means of conversion, or attempt to explain how it was that a heart, that had refused stubbornly to yield to orthodox exhorta tions, should suddenly yield to one discourse of a narrow-minded heretic. It is sufficient EXPLANATORY. for us that his heart did yield ; and perhaps, on the whole, it Avas as Avell (at all events, from a worldly point of view) that it should, eA'en though the good effect was pro duced by questionable means.

At any rate, Stuart Orme the elder never gambled or betted again, but lived to the end of his life in a sorrowful and somewhat stern repentance, spending little except in charity. Late in life he married for the seeond time. His new wife Avas a sister of the sect which he had joined. In a year's time he was a widower with an only son. Though a stern religionist, he had yet sufficient of his old pride left to wish his son to regain the social position which he himself had lost, and so he lived on the sparest diet, saw no society, and spent the few remaining years of his life in freeing his estates from their encumbrances. His estates, however, were not yet free, his son was still an infant, when he was struck with paralysis, and was told that he had probably but a few days to live. Luckily, the stroke had not materially im paired his mind, and he used his last days in providing, as carefully as he coidd, for the earthly and spiritual future of his son.

Although he carefully, and indeed, as he thought, wisely, prepared his will and ex pressed his wishes Avith regard to the guar dianship of his son, he yet framed his plans too exclusively on his OAvn personal expe rience. He knew what temptations he had met with, he knew what defects in his oaati training had been followed by the most dis astrous effects, and he jumped to the conclu sion that his son must meet Avith precisely the same temptations, and was to be saved from them only by remedying the defects in his own training. He dated all the misfor tunes of his life from a miserable youthful alliance Avith a disreputable woman, and he set down this and all his other misfortunes to the fact that his father had been injudici ously severe in his treatment of him when a boy. Religious training his son must have, EXPLANATORY. and the training of the one sect which held the truth in its greatest purity ; and so Mr. Stapely, a powerful elder, was appointed his guardian, a choice almost forced upon Mr. Orme by Mr. Stapely himself, who had great influence with him, and was with him to the last.

But knowing the power of this man OATer him, he shuddered at the thought of entirely submitting his curly headed darling to his rough mercy. He would thus make the same mistake which his own father had made. He had told his mind in this respect to his lawyer, Mr. Starkie, and had begged that gentleman to take the guardianship himself, or to name some other man whose Adews of life were respectable, but not so strict, and who had a kind-hearted wife. Mr. Starkie was a bachelor, and refused the responsibility, having already much of his own ; but he readily entered into the spirit of Mr. Orme's request, and suggested Mr. Mehdlle as a man Avho would be in every way an admirable counterpoise to Mr. Stapely (to whom he had personally a great dislike), and as possessing a wife who had the kindest heart in the world.

Mr. Orme had met Mr. Melville in former years, and had con ceived a great liking for him; and so, as there was no time to ask Mr. Melville's assent, the name was inserted in the will without his knowledge. Stuart Orme the elder, having thus settled all his affairs, signed his name for the last time, took his last cup of beef-tea, and fell into his last sleep, happy in the conviction that his son would profit by the experience of his father. The important provisions of the will were : — 1. That the entire property, real and per sonal, except a few legacies, should be held by Mr. Stapely and Mr. Melville in trust for Stuart tdl he became of age, when it should become his, if in the meantime he had not married against the will of both his guardians ; otherwise the property, with the EXPLANATORY. exception of an allowance of a hundred a year, was to go to a distant branch of the family. 2.

That Mr. Stapely should superintend the religious, and Mr. Melville the secular, branch of his training. 3. That he should spend his time equally betAveen the houses of Mr. Stapely and Mr. Melville, untd he was old enough to go to college. Mr. Melville was somewhat astonished when he learnt that he was appointed guardian to the son of a man of whom he knew so little, but he acquiesced at once with an easy good humour which was natural to him. Mr. Starkie had calculated upon this good humour, and also upon another fact, namely, that at that time Mrs. Melville had no child, and feared that she might never have one. Grace Melville was born about two years afterAvards, when Stuart was a fine little boy of seA'en. It was scarcely Mr. Orme's fault that his educational scheme did not turn out as well as he expected.

It was not, perhaps, a bad plan theoretically, judging from his personal experience ; and that experience, though a narrow one, might have been useful in its way. For Stuart was not altogether unlike his father ; but he possessed far greater powers of mind, and a more complex and sensitive organisation. He had his father's love of pleasure, but he also had a love of books, and was in one respect like his little playfellow, Grace, — he had a much larger natural capacity than either of his guardians, and was as little understood by them. Chilled into unnatural depression at Mr. Stapely's, where everything was so dull and formal, and allowed to do almost any thing he pleased at Mr. Melville's, the boy, who had a high spirit, soon rebelled against the provisions of his father's will, and refused to leave Mr. Melville's to return to Mr. Stapely's. When compelled to return — for Avith Mr. Stapely there was no EXPLANATORY. chance of any relaxation of the letter of the covenant — he would refuse to do his lessons, refuse to eat, and on two occasions actually ran away back to Fulham, haA^ing made his escape out of the Avindow, at gloomy Kenilworth Street.

It was not an easy place to escape from, there being no thing but a small yard at the back, and some low rambling buildings which covered the space between Kenilworth Street and Robsart Alley ; but Stuart had leapt from his window, which was on the first floor, to the top of a cistern, from the cistern he had got on to the wall at the back of the yard, thence he clambered to the low roof of a tallow-candle factory, which was but a foot or two above the wall, thence had got through a skylight on to the staircase of a printing house, which had its door at the bottom open night and day, into Robsart Alley. As we have before stated, by the provisions of the will, he was to spend his time in equal proportions between the two houses vol. n. c of his guardians, so that it Avas out of the question to send the young reprobate to any of the large public schools, or to any boarding-school ; but it was clear that some thing must be done.

This was Mr. Mel- A'ille's business, and Mr. Stapely would not assist even by a suggestion. Under these puzzling circumstances, Mr. Melville asked Mr. Starkie's advice; and it Avas at his insti gation that Stuart was sent to St. Peter's, an old classical school in London, Avhere there were no boarders. We must pass over Stuart's school time, interesting in little to us, save that it was there that he met Charles Jermyn. At the age of eighteen, having achieved the honour of being captain of his school, he was obliged to leaAre. Before he entered the highest form, he had taken few prizes, and won few friends ; but he had come out so wonderfully in the last year, that the school looked for ward to his doing them great credit at the university. EXPLANATORY. The commencement of the change in Stuart, from a dull, melancholy, sarcastic boy, to a bright, happy youth, had com menced from the day AA'hen he Avas informed by Mr. Melville that as soon as he went to college he would not be compelled to live Avith either of his guardians, unless he wished it.

He had neA'er since his first day at St. Peter's rebelled against the change from house to house ; but the gloom of the one had been greater than the sunshine of the other, and the perpetual change was irritating to the last degree. He was like Tantalus, but almost worse off; for he was allowed to drink a little, Avhich made his thirst greater. We think Tantalus must have got reconciled to perpetual thirst at last. His mouth must have got too wise, if it was not too dry, to water ; and his eyes must haA'e A'iewed the rising tide with scornful indifference. The change from Kenilworth Street to Fulham, took place regularly once a month ; for Mr. Stapely would not permit him to be away longer than a month at a time. Here he stepped in on religious grounds. He looked upon Mr. Melville as an unbeliever, and laid all the trouble he had with Stuart to the poisonous moral atmosphere of Fulham. lie sowed the wheat, and Mr. Melville the tares ; but he was not content to leaAre them together to the harvest, but did his best to pull them up regularly once a month.

Though the wheat and tares is a false me taphor, it was true at least that the seed that was sown in Kenilvvorth Street was as different as possible from that at Fulham, and it is equally true that neither of them were altogether wholesome for Stuart. When he left school, we believe that he had as little of what is called fixed principle as any boy in the United Kingdom. The state of his mind shortly before he was told of his approaching release may be told in his own words, written in his pocket book. This strange entry was headed — EXPLANATORY. "My Creed. " I hate Mr. Stapely. I like Mr. Melville; but he is an ass. I loA'e Aunt Stapely. I love Mother Melville and little Grace. Jermyn is a brick, and so are Bates and Thompson : the rest are snobs. All the masters are snobs, except old Smith.

He is a gentleman, and I wdl be one some day. I hate religious people." Remembering our promise to be brief, we AA'ill pass over the history of his life at St. Ursula's, Oxon. He wished to be a gentle man, and in the main he carried out his wish ; but it is very difficult for a youth, knoAvn to be the heir of an enormous for tune and an old name, to be a gentleman at St. Ursula's, unless he has had a different training to poor Stuart. We are, on the AA'hole, afraid that his father would have seen much to regret in the manner in Avhich his educational scheme had turned out, if he could have visited St. Ursula's in those days. Stuart's unhappy childhood had had, how ever, in some ways a beneficial effect. He had thought a great deal more than most youths of his age, and had read a great deal more miscellaneous literature.

He found that most of the men with whom he associated were conspicuously his inferiors in taste and general knowledge. He allowed himself to be draAvn into a fast set of men, for they were his superiors in the knoAvledge of the world, and in what the world calls "pleasure," the only kinds of knowledge which he courted at first ; and he enjoyed his liberty for a Avhile Avith a true natural zest. He threw books aside. What did he want with a good degree ? In three years he should be his own master. Boat ing, cricketing, hunting, wine-parties, and worse, were all he cared about for a time. But as time went on, and pleasure palled, his reading tastes returned, and he sought for other society. He never became a reading man, but he became very friendly with the EXPLANATORY. reading set. He was in fact a favourite with all, and was the only man in the college Avho AA'as at once the friend of Lord Bilk and Tommy Fagman.

The former was obliged to withdraw, after a short but glorious career at St. Ursula's, and that grateful college has recently elected Tommy Fagman its Rector. Nevertheless, in the mud or out of the mud, Stuart kept pretty close to his idea of a gentleman, though perhaps his idea was not a very high one, till a trial came, not prepared for in his father's schemes. One evening, when he had obtained leave to come up to toAvn for two days, as he was returning to his hotel late at night, he found a gild wandering about the paA'ement with out cloak or bonnet. She seemed young and lady-like ; but her steps were unsteady, and her hands were clasped on her head. His first thought was that she was intoxi cated ; and as if to confirm the idea, in another moment, her hands fell from her face, and she tumbled flat upon the pave ment.

He called a cab that was passing at the moment, and took her to the nearest hospital. This poor girl, whose name was Ida Tremaine, was not intoxicated, except by grief, and had been turned out of her brother-in-laAv's house by her oavu sister — the only relation she had in the world ; and the reason for this sisterly conduct was jealousy. We tell the plain facts merely for brevity's sake. Her husband was, of course, away at the time ; and it was perhaps true, and a by no means astonishing truth, that Mr. Entick preferred his wife's sister to his wife. But her sister was pure in thought as well as in deed, and this fact should perhaps have weighed in her favour ; but one is apt to look over such special pleading in cases of jealousy. Stuart came the next day, and heard the poor girl's story, and believed it.

He went to her sister, and pleaded for her ; but Mr. EXPLANATORY. Entick was not likely to be home for six months (having gone to the Cape of Good Hope, on business connected Avith the wine trade), and Mrs. Entick turned a deaf ear to all his pleadings, did what she could, in a lady-like way, to damage her sister's character, and rang the bell for the ser- A'ant. Stuart waited only long enough to give Mrs. Entick his concise opinion of her conduct, expressed in someAvhat un qualified terms, and left the house. What could he do ? He took lodgings for Miss Ida Tremaine. She had a dan gerous illness. She recovered. He was her saA'iour ; she was his ideal. She Avas beautiful, and pure, and lady-like, with a talent — a most decided talent — for painting. Why should she not be his Avife ? She should be his wife !

The long vacation was approaching ; he would take her to some friends of hers — the only friends that she had who would be likely to give her shelter. They lived in Manchester. She would not write to them for her sister's sake. He would gain the consent of his guardians, if possible ; and if not, he would wait a few months tdl he should be of age. Then all Avould be well On second thoughts, he would not try to gain the consent of his guardians, but would wait. Another week, the vacation would begin, and they would go to Manchester. If he had gone to his guardians then, perhaps all the trouble of his life might have been saved. But he had not been near Mr. Stapely since he had left his house for the University, and had stayed but a few days at Mr. Melville's. His new life had entirely replaced his old.

He could not bear the sensation of the old restraint winch oppressed him, both at Fulham and Kenilworth Street. Not a soul had heard a word respecting his romantic adventure ; and no one should know. It would only expose his poor Ida to fresh insult and calumny ; he kneAV AA'hat hc might expect EXPLANATORY. from Mr. Stapely ! Better wait. _TSTo one would dare to whisper a word against Mrs. Orme. The vacation came. Beaming with fresh health and beauty, Avith a new cloak and new bonnet — the gift of her dear Stuart — Ida placed her arm in his, and the pair started for Manchester, cheered by the smiles of the good old lady who kept the lodgings where Ida had stayed, and knew all the history of their young loves. But, alas ! when they arrived at Man chester, the friends were gone. What were they to do ?

Stuart had the whole vacation before him. Another month or so, and he would be free to do as he liked : why should they part ? They should not part ! They would go to Scotland, and live there during the vacation. There was no ceremony needed for marriage there, beyond their own word, — at least, so he thought; and at the end of the vacation he would be free, and they would proclaim their marriage. It was not a very difficult matter to pro cure Ida's assent to this arrangement. He assured her that it was the best course to preserve her honour. A small difficulty did, indeed, present itself to 1dm, but hurried along by passion, and a fierce sense of delight at setting Mr. Stapely at defiance, he dis regarded it. Confident in his oavti gentle manly instincts and his mental dexterity, he persuaded himself in a minute that the little difficulty could be overcome.

It might frighten Ida, so he would not mention it to her. She had no one else to trust to but Stuart, and she did trust him as the noblest, kindest, best being in the whole world. He was as a god to her in those days. All might yet have ended well but for Mrs. Entick, who, with a malice worthy of an evil conscience, found out what had become of her sister, and told a tale to Mr. Stapely, which sent him post-haste to Scotland. Now, Stuart's difficulty was this. If he EXPLANATORY. married without his guardians' consent, he lost his property. When he came of age, he must either declare himself married or un married : if he did the former, he became almost a beggar ; if the latter, his wife's character must suffer. They had a month of pure or nearly pure happiness ; but as his twenty-first birthday approached he could no longer remain in his dream.