Life's Wheel

Prologue

....... I I. MOTHER AND DAUGHTER .... J II. ALDERLEIGH COURT . . . . . 1 4 HI. A CHANCE MEETING ..... 24 IV. vera's FIRST BALL . . . . 32 V. THE FIRST CLOUD 43 VI. A NEW FRIEND 55 VII. A REHEARSAL 67 VIII. THE CLOUD DEEPENS 77 IX. THEIR ONE DAY 87 X. DELAWERE'S PROPOSAL . . . . 97 XI. THE SHADOW DEEPENS . . . . 108 XII. THE FALLING OF THE SWORD . . . lig XIII. A TERRIBLE AWAKENING . . . . I3I XIV. GOOD-BYE 1 43 XV. LEAVING HOME 1 55 XVI. AN

Introduction

165 XVII. THE TARTAR CAUGHT . . . . 177 XVIII. FACE TO FACE 1 89 XIX. A DARK NIGHT 1 98 XX. JEMSIRJEE ....... CONTENTS CHAP. PAGE XXI. DEATH 219 XXII. AN ESCAPED CONVICT . . . . 226 XXIII. TRAVEL ....... 238 XXIV. A NOBLE HERO 248 XXV. AFTER MANY YEARS 260 XXVI. THE CONVICT DIES 272 XXVII. BRIGHTER DAYS 280 XXVIII. HAPPINESS 289 XXIX. WEDDING BELLS 297

Epilogue

PROLOGUE.

Night ! A small, filthy attic, in a many-storied house in one of the vilest slums of London. Narrow rickety stairs creak with a foreboding sound, as though to warn the hardy one mounting, to go no farther in this God-forsaken abode. Thick clotted dust, the accumulation of years, is everywhere. Here and there a muddy footstep has left a tell-tale message ; large and ragged holes appear in the tattered flooring, through which, ever and anon, a dark fierce-looking rat scampers, only to reappear at another opening followed by his dusky family. Below, loud, horrible oaths, and heavy blows vibrate and echo ; cursing, brawling, drinking and bloodshed, were all fellow vices in the pest-house beneath. Surely a ray of sun has never crept in here, a flash of brightness never peeped in through that dirt-grimed skylight.

A sickening smell of oil, from a dim and smoking lamp, assails your nostrils as you open the A I wretched apology for a door, and a still more sickening sight meets your eyes. Stretched on a floor, not more than nine feet square, are men and women, sleeping ; huddled together in that den of misery, lie children with little elfish faces, on which want and sin have already left their mark, tiny shrunken creatures, clothed in filthy rags, the forgotten belongings of an almost unrecognisable mass of men and women, wrapped in drunken slumber. Occasionally, a curse breaks from one or another, or a brutal kick silences some poor shivering mite, straying too near in search of warmth. Outside, the rain pelts heavily against the window ; each second the water-drops find their way through the roof, and form inky streamlets amongst the heedless sleepers.

What a sight ! We, living in comfort, cleanliness and luxury, can scarcely realise its horrors ; the good English folk cannot grasp the fact, that in our so-called Christian country, are multitudes of our brothers and sisters, living in heathendom and sin. How many of these little emaciated creatures have heard of the Land of Promise, have ever been lulled to sleep with songs of the God of Love ? poor little imps, flung, as it were, on a dung-hill of vice and misery, only to crawl through as best they may. In one corner, on a few handfuls of straw, crouches a woman, elbows on knees, head on hands ; gray straggled hair hangs about her shoulders ; rough, un kempt and dirty, she matches her surroundings. What is in that little moving bundle at her feet ? See ! 'Tis

PROLOGUE.

3 a little lovely child ! Dirt and rags cannot hide the plump, baby face, and fat little hands, or the big blue eyes and silken curls. Is this another to be brought up, and made an associate of the forlorn little elves yonder ? No ! instinct answers no ! Surely, that bright angel face never gave its first smile to such a mother. Then, how came it here ? — how ? Morning ! The stormy night is followed by a calm. In the great metropolis, business men hurry to and fro, with smiles upon their faces for the day promises success. Carriages roll through the parks, and London — the London we know — is rej'oicing. A Sister of Mercy, clad in her sombre garb — a greater protection than a dozen policemen — steps briskly on her charitable way. She has a beautiful face, — once seen, never forgotten ; a life of noble purpose speaks from her bright, dark eyes.

Street after street she traverses, not a sign of weariness crossing her brow. At last she turns down the narrowest and dirtiest slum of all. Coarse men and loud voiced women pause respectfully in their drunken arguments, as the Sister of Mercy trips past with a nod, and occasionally a cheery word and bright smile to the little gutter urchins. No one molests or interferes. ' The Sister,' is well known in that locality. Rumour has it that she was a great lady who left her home and friends, to work in these horrible dens. Pausing at a small opening intended for a doorway, she mounts up rickety stairs ; one, two, three flights are passed, a fourth, dirtiest and creakiest of all, is scaled. Morning in the attic is found to be only a little brighter than night ; no stray sunbeam comes peeping through the thick grained glass.

The Sister pauses on the threshold, the men and women of yesterday are absent, the little elfish children have also vanished. A moment only she stands irresolute ; her eyes are growing accustomed to the dreary darkness, she discerns a figure crouched in the corner, as she had seen it, only yesterday. ' Mrs Stones ! ' The dirty bundle moves, a bony hand is stretched out convulsively to clasp a half-empty gin bottle, which she draws to her side with a muttered curse. ' Mrs Stones ! ' Another movement, this time accompanied by a dissatisfied, ' Ugh ! what d'yer want now ? ' The Sister crosses the room, and with a smile of infinite pity says, ' Have you forgotten why I am here, Mrs Stones? Did you not say you would see me at ten o'clock ? ' ' Eh !— what— can't ye leave a poor auld woman alone, thin ?

Did I iver do ye any harm ? What's the row now ? ' ' I called yesterday,' answers the Sister clearly, ' about your child ; you said you would not part with it, unless I gave you a sum of money. I have some money for you — do you understand ? ' ' Money ! ' the wretched remnant of humanity rose to a half-sitting posture. ' Money, did yer say, my jewel ?

PROLOGUE.

5 Now, 'ow can I sell me only child for money — me only comfort,' whimpering. ' You forget, Mrs Stones,' — the Sister speaks sternly — ' yesterday we settled everything but the price ; do not go over the old ground again. My friend is willing to pay the sum you asked for your child — five pounds — and I have come to take it away. Now, if you will fetch it here, I will wash and dress it. You will sign this paper, and receive your money.' ' An' what if I don't let yer have it ! ' snarls the woman, her greedy eyes fixed on the dainty purse the Sister holds in her hand. ' I shall return without it,' answers the Sister, smiling, for well she knows that the greed of the woman will overcome all other feelings. ' Ugh ! ' the woman rises and slouches across to another corner of the attic, lifts a bundle from the floor, and bringing it to her visitor, throws it down at her feet, saying — ' tak' it, then, and gie me the five puns.' The little child, thus rudely awakened, sets up a lusty squall, and two little fists fight for liberty. ' Poor little mite ! ' murmurs the Sister, lifting it in her arms, and gently soothing it ; then turning to the woman, she says, 'Bring me some water in a bowl, please.' ' Water ! where d'ye think I can get water ?

Ye've got the brat, tak' it away, and get the water yersen.' The Sister does not answer, but tearing off the filthy rags from the child's body, quietly envelopes it in an immense shawl, then, turning to the hag, says, ' Sign this paper, Mrs Stones.' ' I ain't a-goin' to sign no paper, I ain't.' ' The paper merely shows that you have resigned your child fully and freely ; that you have received five pounds for it, and that you are not to attempt to see it, or lay any claim to it again.' ' Gi'e us a pen, then ! ' The Sister hands her a pen from her own bag, and the woman, in a shaky hand, writes across the paper, ' Rebecca Stones.' ' Here is your money ! ' Two bony, dirty hands grasp the gold eagerly, and the dirty old woman sinks on the floor, simpering drunkenly, ' Five golden guineas ! five golden guineas !

Heaven bless ye now, pretty lady, for making me so rich. Five golden guineas ! five golden guineas ! ' For a moment the Sister gazes on her, half in pity, half in contempt, then, turning from the gruesome sight, she dismounts the stairs with the baby tightly clasped in her arms, the old woman's croon following her — ' Five golden guineas ! five golden guineas ! '

Chapter I Mother And Daughter

A gracious woman, whose reserve denies The power to utter what consumes the heart. WOOLMER. ' Vera ! ' ' Coming, mother.' It is evening in Hazeldeane Manor, and the old place is radiant with light. It is an old, old Manor, one of those quaint buildings that are now seldom seen, except in ruins. As we enter the spacious hall, in the silent and invisible fashion of the novelist, we find that we are not alone, for there, gazing into the fire, stands a silver-haired matron. Presently there trips into the room, a young girl, dainty to behold. Her beautiful red gold hair, carelessly massed, crowns a shapely head, small aristocratic features, a skin fair as a peach blossom, make a true type of English beauty. ' Did I keep you waiting, mother dear ? ' ' Waiting, Vera ! ' replies the mother, passing a jewelled hand caressingly over the bright head, ' I am afraid I am growing selfish, darling, for I always want you now.' ' Selfish !

You ! Why, mother dear, I am never so happy as when with you.' ' But, Vera, I am afraid I have kept you very secluded. As yet, I have not granted you a London season ; many girls far younger than you have had two or three seasons, and are even married. How old are you, dear ? ' ' Twenty-one — nearly.' ' Twenty-one ! is it possible ! My darling, it is not selfishness alone that has made me keep you all these years. Twenty-one — and what am I to give you on your twenty-first birthday ? ' ' I don't know,' laughingly. ' I have everything I want. Nero is the best hunter in the county — clears hedges splendidly, and yesterday took farmer Harpoon's high stone wall. Then I have my dogs — Pompey, Vixen, Toby, and little Mungo ; why, mother darling, I want nothing.' 1 No jewellery ? ' ' Oh, no, no ; I like this kind of jewellery best,' pointing to a rose-bud in her dress. ' What do you say to a ball ? ' ' A ball ! do you mean a real ball, mother, like those I read about, and should I go all in white, as the heroines always do ?

Oh, mother ! ' and the pretty face, full of merriment, broke into a wreath of smiles. ' Why are you laughing, Vera ? ' asked Lady Hazel deane. ' Do you not like the idea ? ' ' Like it, mother ! Yes, only it seems so strange to have a ball given in honour of oneself. You know MOTHER AND DAUGHTER 9 don't you,' wistfully, 'that I love the dear old life at home, you and my Nero, and all my dogs, the grounds, the church, the poor. There is not a girl in the land happier than I.' Lady Hazeldeane smiled. ' Some girls are pitying you, Vera. When you have experienced one season of gaiety, you will perhaps wonder how you have lived without it. I have had reasons for keeping you back so long. I would I could keep you altogether, child.' ' Then do, mother. Never mind this ball or any other. I am never so happy as when at home.

Let my life go on in the same dear old way. I do not crave for these things, to me they are nothing. The world is so beautiful, mother, I do not want gaiety and dancing ; to talk with you, ma mere, is greater pleasure than to listen to the idle compliments of strangers.' ' Child,' murmured Lady Hazeldeane, with a pained, far-away look in her eyes, ' where do you find your queer fancies and sayings ? You are so different from other girls.' ' Different ! then perhaps I am like my father, am I ? ' — wistfully — ' I do not recollect my father ; tell me about him, mother mine.' 'My darling, be content, I do not know whom you resemble, but you are beautiful and winning, and it is only right that you should see the world and its pleasures. So, Vera, make me a list of all your friends, to which I will add mine, then the invitations may all be issued in good time ; the old ballroom has not been used for years, so it will require renovating.

I will leave you to give orders to the steward, and to-morrow we will write to " Worth." ' For several minutes Vera sat still, her beautiful eyes gazing thoughtfully into space, her bonny head resting on her mother's knees. She had never been to a ball, and had no inclination to go ; all the dances she had attended were at school parties and soirees, and the idle chatter of her boy companions had tired her long before the evening came to an end. It was all so artificial ; there was nothing real, as there was in her beautiful park, nothing so gentle and soothing as her own beautiful lake. She loved her mother, her horses and dogs, her magnificent home, with all the strength of her loyal heart, and the glare of the dance room at school jarred upon her sensitive taste, and spoilt her pleasure. ' It is very good of you, mother,' she said at length, ' and no doubt I shall enjoy it.

Do not think me unappreciative, but oh, what a lot of things I could buy with that money for my poor old women. How much will it cost ? a hundred pounds ? ' Lady Hazeldeane laughed heartily. ' You innocent child ! ' she said, ' do you not know your dress alone will cost that. Why, dearie, if one could give a ball for one hundred pounds, people would be giving them every night in the week.' ' Oh — and do people always spend so much in dancing? They haven't much idea of what is really nice, have they? Why, my Nero only cost one hundred and twenty.' MOTHER AND DAUGHTER 11 ' You are a strange girl, Vera ! ' laughed Lady Hazeldeane ; ' can you never imagine a change taking place in your life ? Do you think you will always be happy Vera Hazeldeane, aged twenty-one ? ' ' I never thought about growing old,' answered Vera, raising her clear, steadfast eyes to her mother's, ' I have been so happy since my school-days ended — here, with you, my life has been so perfect.

I think I shall always live in the present, mother.' ' God grant you may, dear,' murmured Lady Hazel deane, bending to kiss the upturned face. 'And now, I will wish you good-night ; to-morrow we have to be very, very busy. Will you ring for my maid, dear ' — and as Vera rises — ' and call in my room as you pass.' ' Good-night, mother mine,' says the girl tenderly, as Lady Hazeldeane leaves with her maid, ' I will call in a few minutes.' For some moments she stands deep in thought, then, sitting down suddenly at a dainty little davenport, she commences writing — ' Ivy Ferras,' she says aloud, ' and her brother, Hugh Ferras, my dear old Duke of Ainsleigh, Nellie Smythe, the three Misses Gardener, Sir John and Lady Gardener — why, those are all the people I know. What a tiny list for mother !

I'm afraid that unless she has a very large circle of friends whom I have never met, my " snuggery " will be large enough for a ball-room ! ' Sir Evelyn Hazeldeane had for many years been a Lieutenant-Colonel in India, when ill-health demanded his return home. He was comparatively young, and possessed all the good looks of the Hazeldeane House. When, after an absence of nearly twenty years, he returned to his home and country, every house was thrown open to him. Fond mothers never tired of singing their daughter's praises, match-making guardians gave great fetes in honour of his return, but somehow or other the grave-looking colonel was proof against all. One day, however, society rose up in arms against him, for the newspapers announced in startlingly large type, that a marriage had been arranged between Lieutenant-Colonel Sir Evelyn Hazeldeane, of Hazel deane Manor, and Miss Templar 'of Stoneleigh, only daughter of Major the Hon. Audrey Templar.

Shortly afterwards, the marriage was solemnised — the bride and bridegroom sailed for India, where Sir Evelyn was to join his regiment, and for a time the world forgot the colonel and his bride. A few years afterwards, Lady Hazeldeane brought her husband home — to die. They had with them one little girl, not more than two years old. As soon as possible after the decease of her husband her ladyship closed the Manor, and travelled for many years, returning three years ago with her grown-up lovely daughter. Society expected something then. Surely Lady Hazel deane would throw open the long closed doors of the Manor, and show the hospitality it had shown of yore ; but several seasons had crept by, and all the soft MOTHER AND DAUGHTER 13 inducements failed to draw her from the shelter of her home and the companionship of her only child.

She was rich and her daughter was beautiful, and both would have been received with open arms in any English home. But Vera seemed to have no inclination to change her name and surroundings. Her companions were her mother, her horses and dogs, the old women and poor children, and with these she seemed content. Many a young squire had sent countless invitations to Lady Hazeldeane and daughter, hoping against hope that she might be enticed from her seclusion, but her ladyship, for reasons known only to herself, preferred to live in retirement. And so time passed on, and her fair young daughter had reached the age of twenty-one.

Chapter II Alderleigh Court

Earth is sick And Heaven is weary of the hollow words Which states and kingdoms utter when they talk Of truth and justice. Turn to private life, And social neighbourhood, look we to ourselves ! A light of duty shines on every day For all ; and yet how few are warmed and cheered. Wordsworth. Alderleigh Court was at its worst. For some weeks they had entertained a houseful of guests, and now they had all departed save one — the Hon. Lady Eva Alder leigh's bosom friend and confidante, Miss Norris. The Court was noted for its hospitality, garden parties, soirees and balls, were liberally given in season, and to be a visitor at the ' Court ' was held an admission into the best society. The earl and countess had spent most, if indeed not all, their lives in England. They were wealthy, and did not spare any cost, for the pleasure of their only son and daughter.

From the time when he attained his majority, the Court had thrown open its spacious doors, and a welcome was extended to all the nobility around. Proud, they were too, with that stubborn, high-born pride that still clings to some of our aristocrats ; birth was everything, it came before riches, beauty of mind or form ; to be nobly born, was, to the countess, a sufficient guaran tee of all that was worthy and good. No beauty could blot out the shame of a lowly birth, no grace could hide it. She herself was born in the purple, and, beautiful and gracious as she was, her geniality extended only to her noble-blooded friends. No self-made men found their way into her unapproachable circle. ' Honour to whom honour is due,' was not one of her mottoes ; no beautiful actress, suddenly raised by marriage to her own level, was admitted to her surroundings.

Elinor, Countess Alderleigh, acknowledged none, socially, except those who held the key of nobility, and aristocratic descent. It was morning, the dining-room table groaned under its weight of silver and china, evidently waiting for the company to appear. Presently the door opens, and a very handsome man saunters in, tall, dark, broad shouldered ; hazel eyes, shaded by black lashes ; a long, brown, drooping moustache, partly covered a mouth, firm, and even a trifle cynical. A man who had reached the age of thirty-two, surrounded by luxury, who was tired of the world's hollowness and emptiness, a man with a heart and mind noble as his face. Such was Lord Delroy Alderleigh. Walking to the letter-casket, he looked to see if the letter bag had arrived. Finding it had not, he took from the rack one or two daily papers, and flung himself into an easy-chair.

Mr Wakefield's speech at Cardiff ; that did not interest him. The situation in Morocco — Fashionable ball at the Duke of Pendleton's — Marriage in high life — Sad accident in a colliery. He flung the papers down ; this was unbearable. To please his mother he had sold his commission, and agreed to spend at least four months of the year at his home. At the end of two months he was suffering from ennui, at the end of three, he made up his mind to travel, for he could not bear this aimless, monotonous existence. After a busy, reckless, happy-go-lucky life, toned with some measure of discipline, he could not content himself with the idle chatter of silly women. It wearied him. The women of his mother's world were aristocratic ; doubt less they were well bred, and some were beautiful ; they would sit gracefully, and listen to all the pretty compliments you could pay them ; they raised and lowered the eyes at proper periods ; they were learned and musical ; as pictures they were perfect, but he wanted — soul.

Now the great gong resounded through the hall, summoning the family to breakfast. ' Good morning, Roy,' said Lady Eva, going to her brother for the usual salutation, ' early as usual. How is it you are such an early riser ? We find it difficult to rise at all, don't we, Minnie ? ' ' Soldier life would teach you,' said Roy gravely, offer ing his hand to Miss Norris, and leading her to a chair. ' Three letters for you, Roy,' said the earl, handing them to his son, 'one for you, Eva. Miss Norris you are neglected this morning, there isn't one for you. Five for you, my dear Elinor, and for me, well, the same as usual — they can wait. Now I am ready for all the news contained in yours, my dears.' ' How strange ! at last, after these years of seclusion, Lady Hazeldeane is about to give a ball,' said the countess. 'It will be nearly the last of the season.

Do you remember the lovely ball-room, Henry ? ' ' Yes, my dear, I believe I do ; was it not at the Manor that the colonel met with an accident — the night of the ball ? ' ' I think it was — it must be nearly twenty years ago.' 'I did not know Lady Hazeldeane had any children,' remarked Eva. ' I have heard you mention her, mother, but have never heard you speak of a daughter.' 'I did not know myself, dear. You see they have travelled for so many years, that one seems to have lost sight of them altogether. Miss Hazeldeane is twenty-one, according to this.' ' I wonder if she is pretty ? ' said Miss Norris. ' Sir Evelyn and Lady Hazeldeane were the hand somest couple I ever met,' answered the earl ; ' she cannot fail to be beautiful.' ' A girl, aged twenty-one, and has not yet made her debut !

Ye gods ! ' exclaimed Roy, ' what an exception.' ' It is very remiss on Lady Hazeldeane's part to keep her back so long,' said the countess. 'I think, mother, it is a pity there are not more B of Lady Hazeldeane's wisdom and judgment,' said Roy gravely. ' Do you ? But then, Roy, you are a cynic,' answered his mother, smiling ; ' you prefer, I believe, very learned women to society beauties.' ' I think I do, mother ; beauty of mind is far more important in my eyes, than beauty of form.' 'Then if Miss Hazeldeane is a pale, "lanky" girl, who can talk Dante by the yard, can quote Shakespeare in any subject, knows a little about politics, and is a " dab " at ancient history, you will straightway become her slave ? ' laughed Eva. ' Hardly ! ' Roy spoke laconically ; it jarred upon him to hear such an expression as ' talk Dante by the yard,' when probably his sister had never gone farther in that divine poem than the title page.

He was glad when the meal ended, and arose and left the room. Half-an-hour later he was galloping across country on his favourite steed, Firefly. His eyes lit up with appreciated pleasure, as he scanned the beautiful scenery around. Above and below everything seemed indeed perfect. Nothing was wanting ; life and happiness were fellow passengers on the earth this day. ' You look happy, Alderleigh ! ' Roy turned in his saddle. ' You here, Delawere ; what in the name of fortune brings you down here ? ' ' Visiting ; you know my aunt, Mrs Hungerford ? ' ' Slightly.' ' The old lady has taken it into her head to make me her heir, so, you see, my visit here is one of approbation. Didn't know you lived so near, Alderleigh.' ' Oh, yes — the Court is not two miles distant from Mrs Hungerford's. I am glad to see an old army face ; you will find it dull here, though, Delawere.' ' Suppose so ; only came last evening ; invitation to a ball this morning — friend of Mrs Hungerford's, I suppose.

Do you know them ? Hazeldeane is the name.' ' No ' — carelessly — ' my mother is acquainted with her. It is a treat in store for me.' Delawere laughed. ' Still in the same old trail, Alder leigh ; three months here ought to make you appreciate womankind. What an old fossil you are. Do you mean to say the local beauties have no attraction for you yet ? ' ' The barracks had more,' answered Roy. ' I am too old for that sort of thing now ; find me a woman whose heart is as single as a child's, a woman who has not bowed to the shrine of vanity, who lives for some thing more noble than a new gown, and before that woman I will bow low, and give her the honour she deserves. Bah ! I am tired of the women I see.' ' What a paragon you require, Alderleigh. Take a country walking tour, and choose the first simple dairy maid you fall, in with.

Beauty, simplicity of mind, why, you will get all in a nutshell. Are you so good yourself, that you want such a saint ? ' Roy's face flushed darkly. ' We will change the subject,' he said briefly ; ' we never did agree, you know.' ' Agreed ! Have you heard of the last escapade of that fool, " Blue Eyes ? " ' 'No.' 'No? You remember he was somewhat "gone" on the colonel's daughter ; well, last week, in spite of the old man's fury, he eloped with little Edith, and made for the nearest registrar. Needless to say, the old bird gave chase, and caught the pair, just as the knot was about 'to be tied. Poor "Blue Eyes" is in awful dis grace — the fair Edith going off in a decline, they say. No chance of the colonel relenting.' ' Poor " Blue Eyes," ' laughed Roy, ' he will live to thank Providence in the shape of the colonel, for intervening in time.