Alleyne: a story of a dream and a failure

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ALLEYNE a ALLEYNE A STORY OF A DREAM AND A FAILURE BY E. T. P A P I L L O N Still nursing the unconquerable hope, Still clutching the inviolable shade.' ' We must live for the effort that life requires, we must live to contribute our share to the mysterious work whose accom plishment may yet be far distant : and the only peace of heart possible in this world lies in the joy of having made this effort, of having accomplished one's share of toil.' LONDON T. FISHER UNWIN PATERNOSTER SQUARE In some quiet hour the Spirit crie ' Lo ! the unrecollecting urn Looms on the verge of Life; our eyes Nothing beyond it can discern, Nor whither those new pathways turn ; And Time the answer still denies. He through slow generations brings Our knowledge into wider range ; Faith, only, in the darkness sings And triumphs over time and change, Murmuring of that sweet tale and strange That spoils not by our questionings.

But ye who thus your answer find Contemn not one, who, leaving these, Erect with meditative mind, Dreams with the stars and down the freeze ; Content if some part he may seize Of that vast Truth that lies behind.

Chapter I

Lady Panting evidently had something on her mind. ' I'm sure we are a very nice little society here, and we don't want any new people, do we, Mrs Carlile ? You know I always think that Otleigh is such a perfect little place — so sociable and so respectable ; what do we want with any intruders ? ' So spake Alice, Lady Panting, of Panting Grange ; a lady born and bred in Belgravia, yoked five years in calm and dispassionate matrimony with Sir Geoffrey Panting, thirteenth baronet of the race, to whom she bore the fourteenth baronet, a young hopeful who before he was twenty, married a farmer's daughter of dubious reputation, quarrelled violently with his mother, and swore never to set his foot in The Grange again ; which promise he fulfilled by setting both feet in the Otter one dark and drunken night, and being fished up five days afterwards at the next village.

This untoward event in no wise discomposed his widowed and destitute mother, for, as she remarked A ALLEYNE 2 to Mr Holbury the clergyman, between the hock and the champagne, ' We all have our trials to bear, which the Almighty in His providence sees fit to give us — champagne to Mr Holbury, John.' She continued in possession of The Grange and great comfort, acknowledged queen of Otleigh, and object of aspiration to more than one titled and moneyless young member of her fashionable county acquaintance, but showed no inclination to provide an heir to whom she might leave the desirable and unentailed acres, albeit the censorious world whispered that her dispassionate exterior was not all her nature. She regarded 'her village,' as she graciously condescended to call it, a perfect model to the surrounding country, and her little court of deferential subjects exactly suited to her, inasmuch as they never attempted to kick over the traces or contravene her ladyship's opinion, but had long ago enthroned her as oracle on every subject worth talking about.

Just at present she was not a little exercised at the rumour of an impending tenant for Marlowe Park, the other large house of the parish, and the deserted property of a ruined family ; hitherto it had been only occupied by an old caretaker, and, consequently, inoffensive to the queen of Panting Grange. She did not by any means relish the possibility of a rival in her kingdom, and the thought had been a thorn in her side for many days. As she spoke there was a shade of anxiety in her voice, for Mrs Carlile was the only uncertain one of her courtiers, and she wished to make sure that her views were quite sound. ' Don't you think it is not such a bad thing to have a little new blood in the place occasionally — I mean, a little addition from outside? I don't think he will hurt us so very much.' ALLEYNE 3 This rather tentatively, as one who trembles to revolt before the face of majesty.

Majesty puts up her pince-nez — that sceptre of authority wherewith she has been wont to quell the first symptom of rising rebellion. ' I had never regarded the subject in that light, I must say, my dear' (Mrs Carlile was a fair widow of twenty-five — Lady Panting within speaking distance of forty-five) — ' not exactly in that way. Not but that of course you may be in some way right ' (here diplomacy steps in), ' but still, as my dear Geoffrey used to say — always mistrust a stranger.' To this cheerful maxim the young widow had no answer. She knew by experience that it was no use dashing oneself against the adamant wall of that calm placidness. They walked on some moments in silence. The scene is not a drawing-room, nor the con versation over a tea-table, but in the presence of the hospitable, warm beauty of a Devon valley.

The long street, broadening out here and there into a small open green, runs right up against the sun set which flames out (most beautiful just before its death) over the top of the gorse-covered hill the other side of the valley ; on each side are the straw thatched cottages, with their white flights of steps spanning as bridges the little chattering stream that runs down the side of the street to join the Otter at the end of the village. Overhead pure blue air, no cloud ; nothing indeed between earth and heaven except one or two stray gulls that betoken the neighbourhood of the sea. The pair walk on down the village, under the east end of the great church standing in its church yard knoll of rising ground beside the street ; they receive respectful but by no means obsequious recognition from the clean, healthy-looking women ALLEYNE 4 standing at their doorways in the evening glow.

Presently they stop still — two inky figures against the bright light — on the bridge. To right and left spreads the beautiful valley, bearing in its bosom of lush water meadows the sweet Otter, who comes from his high woods and hills inland down to the sea two miles below the bridge, whence the ' mur murs and scents ' come every now and again even up hither. By the bridge he receives the tribute of the little brook that runs through the village, and, thus augmented, flows broad and even under a low red cliff, overhung with luxuriant green, now reflect ing them on his smooth surface, now rippling gently over his pebbly bottom, till the banks begin to look muddy and the water's flow is no longer swift or musical, and he is merged into the sea arm that comes up from Salton Bay ; and from the bridge can just be seen the low hill that juts out into the valley before the weary river finds its way into the Channel. ' The sight from this bridge is the most beauti ful in the country, Murray says,' observes the elder lady after a time. ' I suppose it is nice — at least, I mean,' she continues, apparently conscious of some inadequacy in the word to express the beauty all round her, 'it is a — a pleasing view.' 'Pleasing' is Lady Panting's highest recommen dation of either scenery or wine.

Her last male acquaintance is invariably pleasing — so are the risque tales he tells her ; the newest scandal is pleasing — unless she happens to fall on one that relates to herself. It seems to her to exactly meet the requirements of the present situation. ' It is unspeakably lovely ! ' is her companion's comment, passionately whispered ; ' dear Otter ! dear Devonshire ! You see,' she says in hasty apology, ' it was always my home — and then — ' ' Yes, my dear,' interrupts the queen briskly, ALLEYNE 5 ' of course it has such interests for you— such painful interests, though of course sweet' — forbear. reader, to think of that moral ' of course ' in the light of her ladyship's own brief but eventful married life — ' let me see — was it eight or nine years that you and your poor husband lived to gether ?

Oh, of course ! How foolish of me ! I remember it was eight years and a month, because I remember that your poor husband — he was such a dear man ! — died just the same day as my beloved poodle — poor Nero, you remember him ? Yes ; we said at the time, how curious that those two deaths should occur at the same time ! But, then, my dear, it was the will of Providence.' (Though whether Providence willed that the fat poodle should come to a happy release or the strong man should die, is not explained.) ' God lays His trial on all of us ! But, my dear, now I come to think of it, let me whisper to you ' — in a very loud whisper, close to her auditor's ear — ' this — this man who is coming to Marlowe — is single ! ' 'Well, Lady Panting?' — a little puzzled. ' Well, my dear ! What could you do better for yourself?

It's true your first husband died, but then he was a poor man ; and this man, they say, is really very rich, and you know I am told he's not an old man at all ! Oh, you must try, really ! ' Alleyne Carlile was pretty well used to the pleasant way this aristocratic dame had of putting things, but she was momentarily staggered by this. The blood mounted to her cheeks, and she was about to make some angry reply, when the other went on eagerly, — ' Because, you know, as I was saying, we do so very well as we are, and we don't want any fresh people brought into the place ; and as we've got ALLEYNE to have this man, well, we must have him ' (she would have added ' it is God's will,' but in the excitement forgot even to be pious), 'but I'm sure we don't want a strange woman at Marlowe ; and you know he's quite certain to marry, he can't help it, men never can.

I've known lots of them, unless they go and do what's worse, and who could be better than you ! oh, promise me you'll try ! ' Lady Panting stopped for sheer want of breath, so great was her eagerness for her new-found idea. She was excessively elated at her own astuteness, and could not understand anyone being so suicidal as not to fall in with it ; but she forgot to whom she made the proposal. ' Oh, Lady Panting,' she cried, when her first angry impulse was past, ' how can you suggest such a thing? Please don't speak any more of it. Let us be going back, if you have finished your visits ; I must be getting home, I think.' After the first disgust at the idea, she felt almost inclined to laugh ; for there was a comical as well as a revolt ing side to Lady Panting. ' Shall we go through the village again, or through the fields ? ' Lady Panting raised her pince-nez, and regarded this audacious woman with astonishment.

She was unaccustomed to find anyone absolutely and publicly scouting her proposals, however much they might be averse to them : and here was a woman — a mere girl — not only putting her most astute and masterly line of policy calmly by, but even at that moment barely concealing a smile ! It was a situation she hardly knew how to deal with. ' I made the suggestion with a view to your advancement,' she observed frigidly, ' and I cannot see what there is in it that you should treat it with such undisguised ' (with great emphasis — public ALLEYNE 7 expression of feeling was the great sin in her eyes) 'such undisguised contempt, As you receive it unfavourably, however, we will not continue the discussion.' Alleyne apparently thought so too, for she only answered quietly, ' Thank you, Lady Panting ! ' and began to walk on over the bridge.

Lady Panting stopped her. ' I think I must be going back this way,' she said softly, with that characteristic tone of voice that her admirers called ' calm ' and her enemies ' oily.' ' I have business that takes me through the village again. I am so sorry if I have offended you by touching on this subject ; but I hope ' (very insinuatingly) — ' I hope that if such an idea should occur to you at any time, you know that — there is no saying what might happen, is there ? — you will remember who first thought of it for you — Good bye, my dear.' So they parted — the one going back to play Lady Bountiful and patronise the rough independent Devon villagers so far as they would let her, the other to walk home along the bank of the beautiful river, in the now nearly vanished sunset light and the warm evening air.

She always chose this path because it ran along the bank of the river; its rapid stream seemed to give a kind of com panionship that she loved ; and it had been her favourite haunt since the days when, as a little child, that valley had seemed all the world, she had spent the summer hours idly watching lights in the smooth, swift pools, or fitting childish words to the music of the shallows. This evening she walked quickly along with con fused and angry thoughts : partly consumed by wrath that such an insult should have been offered to her, and partly by shame to find herself contem- ALLEYNE plating the very suggestion that had insulted her without any of the aversion that a few hours ago she would have felt to it. The workings of the human mind are inscrutable ; and though our friends are always ready with explanations of the exact mental process that led from the beginning through startling changes to the end, it is generally quite incomprehensible to ourselves.

It is as if there were really in our systems a separate material mind, working independently of the rest of our selves, and not answerable for its actions to either heart or brain or body. ' How could she dare to do such a thing ? ' was the first indignant sentence that framed itself a hundred times in her brain, and found utterance once in an angry muttering whisper to the river. ' How could she dare to suggest such a thing ? ' 'Yes,' answered a little voice within, 'how could she ? But where did the insult lie? in the suggestion, or in the fact that she suggested it ? ' Indignation is checked at the intrusion of this idea ; and like an advocate not quite sure of his ground, begins to vacillate. ' The worst insult, of course, is that she suggested it ; but — but,' pursues the little voice, ' are you sure that the suggestion is so offensive?

If you come to think of it as if she had never suggested it, what does it look like ? ' ' It ought to be offensive,' says Indignation, growing weaker and giving way like a coward. ' But is it ? ' answers the little voice again. Thus she arrives at that most central of all test questions round which no plausible theory or doctrine or morality can ever creep — ' Never mind what ought to be ? What is ? ' It sweeps away at once all argument all pleading of real or fancied duty, all elaborate systems built up for itself by the ALLEYNE 9 self-deceiving soul ; it calls for instant examination of the facts, sums them up, and has pronounced the verdict — indelibly recorded — before the routed forces have had time to collect and come in again to the assistance of convicted self-respect.

Chapter II

When Alleyne Grayan, at the age of seventeen, had married Mr Carlile of Tarlton, she was assuredly determined that she had given not only her hand and her fair person, but also her very heart and life to the man of her choice, and declared that if he were to die there would be nothing left for her to do but to die herself upon his grave. She loved him passionately for eight years, and they were the only couple in the neighbourhood about whom local scandal had absolutely nothing to say. When her husband's last remains were lowered down, according to our strange custom, to corrupt in a damp and chilly hole, she collapsed entirely, and for three days well nigh fulfilled her own prediction by killing herself with hysterical grief, sleeplessness, and inanition ; and after the usual period of retirement relapsed into a more or less miserable widowhood ; hung about with the usual dismal ensign of crape, and understood to be desirous of shunning all society, or taking any part in the daily life that reminded her of her loss.

On an indiscreet rela tive, who ventured in a weak moment to suggest the possibility — on the ground of her extreme youth — of some day marrying again, she turned with a fury of insulted passion that very much astonished that good lady. ALLEYNE 11 ' Do you suppose,' she cried, ' that I could so far forget the sacred memory of my dear husband as to give myself to any other man as long as I live? I should feel that all the time I was' (im pressively) ' living in adultery towards him ! ' To which strong view of the case her aunt's experience of the world could suggest no answer ; but it was said that she smiled. But nature, however long and forcibly suppressed, will sooner or later assert herself; and little by little this unnatural coating of her real life began to weaken and fall away. It is not natural for a woman, young, fair, and healthy — she was twenty-five, and in the prime of her rich beauty— to live in enforced solitude and separation from the world ; it is not natural to abstain from the united life which is woman's function and end of being.

It was only while this false death in life — a state bred from sentiment and religion in heated exaggeration — while this lay upon her, that she gave herself over thus to mourning for the memory of the departed ; and it was not very long before the dead man in the grave relaxed his hold on her, and finally dropped it altogether, and life and living had its old joy and interest for her. She was saved by the twin forces of youth and intellect. It was three years now since he had died ; and already the strong current of her young, vigorous life had nearly swept away the memory of that overwhelming grief; and, though it came as a sur prise to herself, and in the mouth of her friend roused all her indignation, the idea was creeping in, not to be cast out, that it was hard that all the pleasure should be gone out of her life.

Solitude — uncheered, unloved solitude for a huge expanse of lonely years — seemed at this moment very dreary and distasteful. ALLEYNE ' I am young still,' she thought, gazing absently at her own reflection in a still pool of the river ; ' I am still beautiful, and strong and in full, warm blooded life — why should I be without what others have ? ' So her thoughts ran on, till she pulled them up in shame. 'How can I think such things?' she says now to the swirling, rippling stream ; but has forgotten entirely how a few minutes before she said in anger, ' How dare she suggest such things ? ' The feelings that prompt the two thoughts are very widely different ; for in that short time she has travelled-— but does not know it — from one side of feeling to the other ; and now there is no retracing.

With a little gesture of her arms, expressive of the action of her mind, she puts such thoughts away easily enough, and walks on thinking of other things, as one can do at twenty-five. It is not easy to stay long over the analysis of one's own mind in the scenery of the valley where that stream winds down from the uplands ; amid rich green water pastures, dotted with red kine standing more than knee deep in the grass, and wooded hills sloping gently away on each side, holding in their green bosoms those old, red homesteads that seem a very essence of English country life — 'homes of ancient peace.' Far in front are the swelling uplands, grey and blue, where the sources of the river are, among the hills that look down on quaint old Honiton ; and from them the twilight shades seem to be slowly stealing down to the sea, softening and mellowing all they touch ; as the evening deepens, the colours grow softer and richer, then greyer and more like each other, and the sounds of the day are not any longer heard ; while as they grow quiet and still there comes more clearly ALLEYNE 13 the one sound that goes on for ever, the ancient sea murmuring down there at the river's mouth.

The path at last crosses the stream by an old wooden bridge that sways under the passenger's weight, and striking across a broad green meadow — the night mists now rising up from its moist surface all round — passes through a wicket gate into such a ' deep and bowery lane ' as is only found in Devonshire. Here the tall hedges on their high, red banks rise so high, on each side as to shut out all but the deep sky above — in some places even combining to shut out that. Here is cool shade in summer heat, except when, at noon, the sun pours his rays straight down into its re cesses ; here, when the winds rush across the country with shrill whistling and roaring, the riot seems far away and faint, outside those high red and green barriers. Here it is very seldom that any one passes to disturb the solitude ; only in the mornings and evenings in the hay time the great carts go slowly down to the fields and back — the heavy wheels creaking in the same ruts that have received them year after year, and the labourers lying on the fragrant load, looking out at the sunset valley over the tops of those lofty hedgewalls.

Not far from the gate through which Alleyne passes is another, leading into a gravelled drive, of which a few yards bring her to the long, low ivy covered house which has been her home since she became a widow. She calls it ' The Cottage ' ; but though it is not large, and is only two stories high, it is a comfortable, almost luxurious little home inside. Alleyne is a person of taste and has an eye for pretty things, and her income is sufficient to give her plenty of scope to exercise that taste. Her drawing-room is the admiration and the de spair of all the ladies in the neighbourhood. ALLEYNE 14 It was now quite dusk, and she lingered only a few seconds at the meadow gate to take a last look at that favourite view, before she walked on to her own drive. As she swung the white gate back, there was a sudden sound of swift wheels — not often heard in this out-of-the-way lane.

A dogcart came up out of the darkness between the hedges ; she could just distinguish two men sitting in front. Before it had gone past, to her surprise the horse was pulled up sharply, and one of the men got down and advanced towards her. ' Excuse me,' he said, raising his hat, ' but would you be so kind as to tell me the way to Marlowe Park ? We have apparently come down the wrong road, and there appears to be absolutely no one in it ! ' His voice was low and delicately modulated. It came as rather a shock to Alleyne, who expected the broad and level tones of some farmer or grazier, lost on his way to a strange village — these were the only living beings, beside the haymen, who ever passed in front of her gate. ' I am afraid this is a very out-of-the-way part of the world,' she answered, with a little smile. 'You will go a long way before you meet anyone to show you the way ; you should have taken the turning before this,' and she proceeded to explain the way.

He listened with great attention, but more inter ested in the explainer than the explanation. ' I'm afraid I haven't been very clear,' she said at last, tentatively. A ready compliment rose to his utterance, but he checked it, feeling that here it would be out of place. 'Thank you very much,' he said instead. ' I am sure I shall find my way now. So sorry to have troubled you ! ' ALLEYNE 15 And so, bowing hatless, he turned and mounted the dog-cart again, and drove off. ' By Jove, Dymenter,' he exclaimed to his com panion, ' isn't she splendid ? Never saw a prettier girl in my life. Wish I could have stayed behind with her in this light, eh ? Who d'ye think she is ? What? Must find out her name to-morrow.' ' Is she pretty ? ' asks the other, rather ab sently. ' Pretty ! Why, my good fellow, I tell you she's perfect — perfect.

You didn't see her — but I — oh, it was glorious to talk to her — a perfect creature, every part of her ! ' ' You speak of her as if she was your favourite mare, rather,' said the other drily. He did not share Grand's enthusiasm on many points. Grand laughed. ' Well, there are a good many things in common between them. I suppose one's only a sort of edition de luxe of the other. As far as my experi ence goes, the only difference is that the one has the power of telling you lies, and the other hasn't' ' Do you find lying a particular monopoly of " the fair sex," then ? ' ' Men lie accidentally, but women make a trade of it' ' Perhaps you're easily taken in, Grand,' suggested Dymenter. It's true 'you've had a pretty large experience of ladies. I suppose now you'll set to work on this one ? ' Dymenter always spoke in a level, sarcastic tone, profoundly irritating to angry patients, but a wonderful weapon of authority over some.

He was the only man who could manage Edward Grand, and of him he had made a study. There was no answer to his last question, and ALLEYNE the dogcart spun along between the tall dark hedges. The doctor was occupied in keeping a look-out into the black shades ahead, and his companion seemed wrapt in thought, presumably on women in general, and this last specimen of the race in particular. After half-an-hour's drive, following the directions given them by the unknown charmer, they came to a pair of tall park gates beside a deserted lodge guarding the entrance to a broad, bare expanse of grass, sparsely dotted with trees, and intersected by a long, straight gravel drive, the whole looking chill and ghostly enough in the strange glimmer that a summer night seems to hold over large open spaces. The big bell was found, and rang rustily ; its melancholy sound travelled round among the solitary trees and away over the empty park, and died away, unproductive and unanswered.

The tall iron gates, when tried, opened and swung stiffly back, shrieking and grinding on their rusty hinges ; they drove through and up the long drive. ' Doesn't seem a lively place, does it ? ' says the future tenant. ' Miles from any habitation, apparently.' ' I chose it because it seemed some way from two things,' calmly returns Dymenter ; ' one which you want to avoid, and one which you've got to avoid.' ' What are they, then ? ' ' Things you've had too much of lately,' says the doctor, grinning grimly. 'Bless you or d — n you. — I don't quite know which,' says the thankful Grand. 'And what do you suppose I am going to do here ? Turn philan thropist and be a blessing to my tenant cottagers ? ' ' Hardly, I should think, from what I know of your dispositions that way.' ' You can't tell what might become of me ; or, as ALLEYNE 17 my good friend Prendergast says, you never know what mind Providence may put into me.

But, seriously, what is there to do down here ? What do people do who live in the country?' They seem to find plenty to do, after their way,' rejoined the doctor. ' They stagnate comfortably and look after their horses and dogs ; they spend as much as possible of each twenty-four hours in eating and sleeping, which is excessively beneficial to the doctors ; they get books four weeks old from Mudie, and read them slowly one by one and label them either " very well written " or " not at all nice" (the two are opposites with them, you per ceive). They look out of their windows at each other, and always know where you are going, when you drive past, by the shape of your hat, and for how long by the size of your Gladstone ; they thoroughly discuss their neighbours' affairs at least three times a day, and never let a story lose in the telling ; they go to town once a year, and every body knows them for C.C.'s at once by their umbrellas.