Trevor Court

Chapter I. Honour And Death

sTlHERE are very few places more attract- -*- ive, from antiquity and old associations, than Oxford University. The quaint and picturesque architecture of its colleges, and the memory of those giant intellects of olden times who studied within their walls, invest the place with a twofold interest. The window at which Milton sat ; the rooms occupied by Whitfield and Wesley ; the staff carried by William of Wycombe, Addison's Walk, and other associations too well known VOL. I. B to need mention, throw around this quaint old city of colleges a charm apart from its learning and renown. At the open-latticed window of a college room stood a young man, looking with grave, absent eyes on the patch of grass enclosed by cloisters which lay beneath him. The morning rays of a June sun threw upon it the strong, clearly-defined shadows of the various towers and pinnacles by which it was surrounded.

The lark sung loudly overhead, while blackbirds and thrushes flitted undisturbed in the silent enclosure. The young man's face wore a thoughtful expression ; evidently his heart was not with the scene upon which he gazed, and he started as his scout spoke : " Breakfast is ready, sir. " All right," he replied, without turning his head. The man left the room, saying to himself as he closed the door : " He'll stand there till the coffee and the eggs get cold, I know he will ; lor', after all that poring over books, and sitting up o' nights, he's sure to pass. I thought when he'd done studying and that, he'd look better, and begin to eat and drink ; but he's as gloomy as ever this morning. How little this really kindly-intentioned man understood of the sensitive fear and the deep anxiety with which men devoid of self-conceit look forward to the result of those agitating days in the schools !

To Edward Dormer success was of vital importance ; his whole future depended upon it. His father, a doctor in the Navy, with only his pay to depend upon, would have been unable to send him to the university, but for the young man's own exertions as a b tutor, and latterly as an usher in a school, the principal of which allowed him time to " trot his terms." These arrangements had caused delay, and he was now approaching his twenty-seventh birthday ; no wonder, therefore, he looked forward to the list which would appear that morning with painful anxiety. Nearly7 ten minutes passed, and the hasty opening of his room door caused him to turn with something like shame at having neglected the breakfast prepared for him. The scout cast a glance of vexation at the cold coffee and eggs as he advanced and offered Mr. Dormer a paper, say7ing, — " A telegraph message, sir ; the boy is waiting."

Edward Dormer opened it hastily, and glanced over its contents without realizing any definite sense in the words. He looked up, and with an effort said quickly, "Tell the boy not to wait ; I will send an answer." Stifling his curiosity7 — for a telegraph mes sage to Edward Dormer was a novelty7 — the man left the room, and then seating himself and struggling with the agitation which made the paper flutter in his trembling fingers, Edward Dormer read the telegram. " Mrs. Dormer to Edward Dormer. " Come home directly. I have bad neivs from Malta. Your father is dead." He understood the words now too clearly to be mistaken. For a time he felt stunned, and then, as the truth became self-evident that his mother was a widow and himself fatherless, a kind of despair seized him ; he rested his head on his arras on the table, and gave himself up to bitter thoughts.

His whole life seemed to pass before him as in a panorama. Those days of his boyhood, when he had looked in childish ad miration at his father in the full-dress uni form of a Navy doctor ; his father's fre quent absences from home, and the happy days of his return ; the attack of scarlet fever by which his parents had lost four little sons aud daughters, and from which he alone, the eldest of the five children, had escaped with life ; the sorrow and ill ness of his loving mother, and the sad meet ing when his father returned to his desolate home — all rose to his memory with vivid reality. How that loving mother had clung to him, her only remaining child ; how she had saved in her housekeeping and denied herself, to gratify7 his wish to become a clergyman ; and now, just as he was, as he hoped, on the eve of success, came this terrible news.

He pushed away the cups and plates of his untouched breakfast, bowed his head on his hands, and gave way to a burst of grief, which his manhood disdained, but could not conquer. After six weeks of hard study aud the days of excitement in the schools, the re action had produced a natural depression of spirits, which this sad news had increased. He had not sufficient self-confidence to feel sure of his name being on the list at all, and now the world seemed too cold and dark for him to care about its honours and distinctions. There were footsteps on the stairs, and some, more rapid than the rest, reached his door, and entered without hesitation. " Hurrah ! hurrah ! Dormer, you're all right, almost first on the list. I say, old fellow, a first-class man, eh! Why" — and the lively youth of nineteen paused in dismay at the sight of features distorted with grief, as the bowed head was slowly raised.

" What's the row?" exclaimed the young ster, in sympathetic slang. " Read that," was the reply, as the sorrowful eyes glanced at the telegram which lay on the table, and the head again drooped over the hands. " I'm sorry I came in — I'll go," said Ar thur Cleveland ; and with the fatal paper in his hands he rushed from the room, nearly knocking over three y7oung men who were about to enter. Closing the door gently, he exclaimed, " I say, you fellows, don't go in — just look here," and he held out the telegram. The faces but now so full of gratulation, fell as they read, and the four young men descended the stairs, talking seriously as they went. As they turned into the High Street, Arthur exclaimed, " Ah ! here comes Sterling — he's'just the one to rouse him up ; and they are such chums, too !

" Charles Sterling was quickly7 made ac quainted with the sorrowful news which his friend had received ; he did not delay a moment. Leaving the young men to pursue their way down the High Street, he very soon found himself at the gates of Magdalen Hall. Charles Sterling was just such a friend as Edward Dormer needed — high-principled, self-reliant, and fearless in the cause of the right. The two were spoken of as " saints" by the fast young men of the university, yet they were both respected for their talents ; and Charles Sterling's firmness and un wavering principles caused his friendship to TRRVOR COURT. be sought by many who could not imitate what they admired in his character. Edward Dormer's yielding, undecided manner, ex cept on religious subjects, had obtained for him the title of "a muff;" but now those who had laughed at him were ready to acknowledge and respect him as a man who had gained honours at the university.

After Charles Sterling had left them on his way to Magdalen Hall, the rest wan dered on down the High Street towards Christ Church Meadows, now and then join ing others whom they met, and forming a group as they talked which obstructed the pathway ; or raising their trencher caps to ladies introduced to them by7 proud under graduates, as sisters or cousins just arrived for Commemoration. The name of Dormer as a first-class man was on every lip, and the sorrow which had so literally " trod on the heels of joy " was talked over and com mented upon with various expressions of regret and sympathy. " Arthur," said his friend, as they returned alone to their college together, " how came y7ou to know Dormer?" " Oh ! he was my tutor before I went to Eton, and even then we were together all the long, and jolly times they were.

He's a capital fellow at boating and cricketing, and all that, and although now and then he would slip in a bit of religious advice, I couldn't help listening, and I dared not laugh, he looked so serious about it. Be sides, he is such a fellow for honour and integrity ; and if it's religion that makes him so, it's a pity there are not more like him ;" and the merry face looked serious as the youth bore testimony to the religion that is " known by its fruits." " But I've heard the men call him a muff." " Oh ! yes," replied Arthur ; " that is because he won't join their noisy wine parties, nor their sprees. They used to call him an 'awful sell;' but I think he must have a jolly lot of pluck to bear being laughed at ; and then, you know, he's not rich — his father was a doctor in the Navy, and their pay isn't much."

" How did he manage to keep his son at Oxford, then ?" asked Arthur's friend. " Oh ! he almost pays for that himself. After he gave up teaching me he went into a school. It must be awful hard work, but my governor says it is most noble conduct on his part, and I suppose it is." " He must have commenced teaching very young," remarked Arthur Cleveland's companion. " No, not so very young. He was twenty when he came to me first, and that's nearly seven y7ears ago. I'm jolly glad he's passed, for he can be ordained, and help his mother. She'll have only a pension now." And while expressing this kind feeling for his friend and tutor, Arthur, followed by his companion, entered the college. Meanwhile Charles Sterling had succeeded in rousing Edward Dormer from the state of depression into which he had fallen.

His first act was to send for hot coffee and eggs, and, when they arrived, to compel Edward to take something to eat. " When you have had your breakfast I will listen to your story," he had said cheer fully, and Edward Dormer knew he must submit. Then the two friends sat and talked over the strange events in Dormer's life which the morning had realized. It was decided that Edward should go at once to his mother, aud return in time for Commemo ration, and to have his degree conferred upon him. A telegram was sent off at once to Mrs. Dormer, a few things packed in a carpet-bag; and scarcely allowing him a moment to reflect upon either the sorrow or the happiness of the last few hours, Charles Sterling got his friend into the 12.30 train, and gave him at starting, as he said " good bye " for the present, cheering and hopeful words.

Chapter II. The Cottage On The Hill

"TTTHAT'Sin a name?" asks Juliet of ' * Romeo. " A rose by any other name would smell as sweet." And yet there are cases when names are detrimental, more particularly to counties or towns in England. Some peculiarity attending parts of the soil, or their proximity to rivers or factories, seems to create a prejudice which people often take for granted, without troubling themselves about proofs. Who has not heard of the Essex Marshes? And yet how few are aware that a high table land rises with a steep ascent from these very marshes, on which the air is most healthful, and from which can be seen the opposite hills of Surrey and Kent. No place has suffered more unjustly by this prejudice than Plumstead, once a strag gling village bordering the Plumstead Marshes, parts of which were then often covered with the Thames at high tide.

A dreary road from Woolwich for three miles, with the Arsenal walls or marshy7 ground on the left, and mean-looking houses occupied by small tradesmen on the right, is certainly7 not an attractive drive. But be tween these houses there are openings, every one a steep ascent leading to Shooter's Hill, the highest point of the many hills round London, except Highgate. More than half w7ay up this hill, which at times rises so abruptly as to make even walking difficult, we reach a level or shelf of the hill called Plumstead Common. Many years ago Plumstead proper did not extend beyond the dreary road above de scribed ; the Common was then indeed in the country. Now the roads leading to it are bordered with houses, and the air is as salubrious and bracing as any of the high lying suburbs of London.

Yet Plumstead, as the new buildings and streets are still called, has not lost the stigma of its early association with Plumstead Marshes. From the level above alluded to, several winding lanes lead to the summit of Shooter's Hill. Near the entrance to one of these lanes, not far from the Common, and therefore also in Plumstead, stood, at the time of which we write, a pretty, old-fashioned cottage, sur rounded by7 lawns and gardens, and separated by hedgerows from fields and meadows. VOL. I. c The high walls and slated roofs of two modern houses, which had been built near it, made the cottage look diminutive, but did not destroy its picturesque appearance, while the luxurious garden threw the bare, treeless, walled enclosures of its modern neighbours into insignificance. Beyond, on the hill-slope, the corn-fields and pasture-lands lay bathed in the June sunshine.

A brook sparkled and murmured as it flowed, separating the garden of the house from a field at the back ; flowers of all hues spangled with their delicate colours the beds round the velvet lawn in front ; roses climbed over the green verandah, and filled the air with their fragrance ; the birds were min gling their songs with the lowing of cattle and the bleating of lambs in an adjoining meadow, while the lark, fluttering his joyous wings in the clear blue, added his own rich melody. All around that low-roofed cot tage was joy and gladness ; but within those darkened windows sorrow reigned. In a room overlooking the garden behind the house sat a lady of about fifty years of age. She leaned back in a reclining-chair, with her hands folded on her lap, in that state of listless inaction which is the result of a deep and sudden sorrow.

The lowered blind waved to and fro in the gentle Summer air, the room was fra grant with its breath, and yet, with tear stained ey7es, she sat calm and still, as if the effort to say " Thy7 will be done " had shaken her nature to its very centre. Yet in that grave intellectual face, with its crown of prematurely grey hair, there was no sign of weakness ; every line of feature showed a power of endurance and self-command, even while, as now, distorted with grief, which as c yet the consolations of religion could scarcely soften. She was suffering the greatest loss which can befall a loving and devoted wife. That morning's post had brought news of her husband's unexpected and almost sudden death, and, as we know, the news had been telegraphed to her son at Oxford. Kind neighbours had been summoned by a faith ful old servant ; they had offered common place consolation and true sympathy, but at last she begged Janet to admit no more.

When alone, her heart in its sorrow had turned to Him who had sent this trial, and while she tried to realize the words of the hymn, — 1 Then shouldst Thou call me to resign What most I prize, it ne'er was mine ; I only give Thee what is Thine. Thy will be done." The effort brought her comfort and relief. Yet as she sat her thoughts would not be still. Over and over again she recalled the kind words of a letter she had received from the assistant-surgeon who had attend ed her husband to the last — his description of the rapid progress of the fever which carried him off, and the message from his dying lips : " Tell my wife not to grieve ; my son will take care of his mother." Could she doubt this ? No ; and the memory of these words was a consolation to her grief. Still there would arise in her heart a pang of regret at the thought that her hand had not smoothed his dying pil low, that her arm had not supported his head while he uttered those loving words.

Again, she thought with pain, as we all do when an absent friend is taken from us, " Perhaps, if I had been there, I might have saved him." These sad memories were interrupted by her trusted servant Janet, who brought in a tray containing wine and sandwiches deli cately cut. Pouring out a glass of wine un bidden, she approached her mistress. " Dear mistress, do take something to eat," she said ; " you'll be quite ill if you don't ; and you'll frighten Master Edward when he comes, if you look like this. He'll soon be here now ; it's nearly four o'clock." This hint was successful. The sorrows of the bereaved wife were lost for a time in the mother's unselfish love and care. She must not add to her son's sorrow. " There now, that's right," said the faith ful old servant, as her mistress took a por tion of the good things she offered ; " you'll be better now."

" I would rather have had a cup of tea," said Mrs. Dormer. " No, indeed," was the reply. " You shall have that as well when Master Edward comes ; you want something stronger than tea just now." Whether the old servant was right, or whether the prospect of seeing her son was the cause, we cannot say, but certainly Mrs. Dormer already seemed better for the effort she had made. Janet offered no remark openly at the visible improvement ; she merely drew a small table near to her mis tress, and placed before her the wine and sandwiches. Then she moved about the room gently7, dusting with her apron and re-arranging, as if unusually anxious to have every chair and book in order to receive her young master, for whose cleverness she had a profound admiration. Presently she took up the telegram in which Charles Sterling, without asking permission of Edward, had spoken of his having passed with honours at Oxford.

" Only think of Master Edward having honours ! I suppose it means something good, but honour isn't often much 'count, I reckon." Mrs. Dormer smiled faintly at Janet's depreciating opinion of first-class honours at Oxford. The old servant saw the smile with pleasure, and listened eagerly for the reply. " Honours at Oxford do count for something, Janet;" and then, as her heart bounded with joy at her son's success, her eyes filled with tears at the recollection that her husband was not alive to participate in her happiness. Janet was about to say something if possible to check these tears, when a well-known knock at the door caused her to start suddenly and leave the room. Mrs. Dormer heard her son's voice ; she rose to her feet and stood ready7 to receive her fatherless boy. As he entered the room she went towards him ; he clasped her in his arms, and while they mingled their tears together, he whispered, " Mother, I will supply my7 father's place."

Presently Janet appeared, and Edward drew back, more than half ashamed of his emotion ; but his mother instantly recovered her calmness ; she dared not encourage in her son the tears which had followed their meeting. She knew too well that, with all his intellectual power and studious tenden cies, his character was marred by a woman ish weakness which formed its greatest defect. A sensitive nature and overwrought sym pathies, without a firm will and a control over self, are sad stumbling-blocks in a young man's career, and in self-control Edward Dormer was deficient — to his cost, as our story will show. The calm composure of his mother at length roused her son from the burst of tears which had succeeded their meeting, and Janet completed the task by addressing him as in olden times. " Come, Master Edward, don't cry like that ; you'll make your mother worse ; she's enough to bear, without seeing y7ou unhappy.

That's right now," she continued, seeing him start up with shame at her words ; then drawing a chair for him near the table, placing the wing of a fowl on a plate, and pouring out a glass of wine for him as she had done for his mother, she said, " You eat this, Master Edward, and you'll soon be better." Edward, with a glance at his mother's pale, calm face, seated himself at the table, and made an effort to follow Janet's advice. "You'll soon be all right now, sir," said the old servant, with a newly-aroused re spect, as she thought of the honours at Oxford ; and then she opened the door quietly and left mother and son alone.

Chapter III. Caroline Trevor

A YOUNG girl stood alone in a large and -*-■*- superbly7 furnished drawing-room. The word " superb " is more suitable than " elegant," for the furniture, though as costly and rich as can be bought for money, lacked that something which can only exist with the choice of an elegant and refined taste. The y7oung girl herself seemed almost out of place in that splendid room, although her richly-trimmed white silk dress was in the most fashionable style of the day. Yet a something in the face spoke of innate re finement in which her surroundings were so plainly deficient. While the stylish little figure stands ad miring itself in one of the many full-length mirrors which adorn the walls, we will attempt to describe it. The golden hair, which is drawn back from the forehead and raised on the top of the head, falls in a profusion of glistening natural curls at the back ; the dark lashes now and then droop over the blue eyes, as if in shame at the vanity7 they express ; while the small straight nose, curved mouth, and dimpled chin are those of a child of fourteen, and the blush which deepens as she gazes, but increases the infantine expression ; y7et her figure, though small, is fully developed.

"I'm sure I don't look old enough to be married, though I am seventeen to-day," she said to herself, as her fingers re-arranged various parts of her hair and dress, " but grandmamma is always scolding me for being rude to Lord Clareville, because he wants to marry me. I don't think I ever can ; I believe I don't like him well enough. And why should I marry a lord ? It won't make me a bit happier to be Lady Clare ville. Grandmamma is right, I do believe — she says I've too much of grandpapa's nature in me, and I'm glad of it ; he was a most refined gentleman — everybody says so ; and he wasn't ashamed to own that his grand father came to London a poor boy, and worked his way up to be rich and great." And so the young girl ran on, in a kind of soliloquy, till the door opened and another young lady entered.

Though only nineteen, she looked several years older than Caroline Trevor ; she advanced a few steps, and then stood still to admire her sweet little cousin. " Hush !" said the lively girl, placing her self before the new comer, " you are going to admire me, Edith, and I won't listen. I've been admiring my appearance in the glass already7, and I know I'm vain enough as it is, without any7 remark of yours." For all reply Edith stooped and kissed the fair cheek of her cousin, with a suppressed sigh at the thought that vanity, and pomp, and show, and a good settlement were all the teaching the young heiress received to prepare her for the suture of this world or the next. There could not be a greater contrast than between the two cousins. Edith, tall and graceful, with her calm, intellectual face, dark eyes and glossy black hair, might have proved as attractive as her cousin in the society at Heathfield House, even in her plain silk dress and the almost entire ab sence of jewels or ornament, except the white camellia in her hair.

But Edith lacked one of Caroline's great est attractions — she was the penniless child of an officer's widow, not the heiress of thousands, nor the daughter of a baronet. Caroline was about to enlighten her cou sin, who had just arrived, on the subject of her grandmamma's wishes about Lord Clare ville, when a lady entered the room, to whom it will be necessary to introduce our read ers. Her age it is difficult to guess, for her light hair, which is fashionably arranged, has not a touch of grey. Her tall, stout figure is arrayed in a rich crimson moire antique dress trimmed with white lace — she is, in fact, over-dressed for a lady7 of good taste, when receiving visitors at home; but the still handsome face and youthful shoulders would cause a look of surprise at hearing her ad dressed as grandmamma.

Mr. Tremerton, a rich banker at Allington, who, as we have heard from Caroline's soli loquy, was not above owning his origin, had married the handsome daughter of a rich London tradesman. Mr. Tremerton inherited from his mother, the daughter of a poor curate, a natural re finement and a high opinion of women, which made him suppose they were all like his own mother. The young lady he married, late in life, was y7oung, handsome, rich, and accom plished, but wanting in that refinement which is the result of early training and good birth. Her only child, Caroline Trevor's mother, inherited her father's refinement, and learnt from a governess not only the many accom- VOL. I. n plishments required by Mrs. Tremerton, but that wisdom " which passeth know ledge." When only eighteen she was married to Sir Henry Trevor ; and, dying five years after the birth of her little Caroline, the care of the child's education and training was claimed by7 her grandmother.

Sir Henry gave way7 to a certain extent, for reasons which will be seen as we proceed. Mrs. Tremerton had been six years a widow when we first meet her at her splendid house near Allington. She is devotedly fond of her grand-daughter, for whose sake it is said she has refused all opportunities of a second marriage ; but her riches, and her position as a banker's widow, give her the entree into many good families, and make her house an attractive place for visitors. The room has been filling while we have given our readers some slight idea of the family of the two young ladies, who are now in close consultation together at a distant part of the spacious apartment. " Keep me near you, Edith," said Caro line, presently; "let the gentlemen take all the grandees down first. Oh ! here's grandmamma coming ; don't let her see me."

But this was impossible. A voice, whose imperious tone admitted of no inattention, soon made itself heard. " Caroline, my dear, why did you run away from me just now when I spoke to you? Lord Clareville will take you down to dinner." Caroline rose, and bowed to the fair haired young earl with a proud dignity which sat charmingly on the childlike face. With one hand pulling at the long fair d whiskers, which hung nearly to his shoul ders, Lord Clareville offered his other arm to Caroline, and they descended with the rest of the company to the drawing-room. The young lady at first felt too annoyed at her position to speak, but after awhile she began, as usual, to soliloquize to her self. " I needn't marry Lord Clareville, or any one else, unless I like ; papa won't allow me to be forced against ray will."

And then the young girl, who had never been taught that there are higher objects to live for than the frivolous conversation so often met with in society7, gave herself up to the amusement of the hour. She saw Edith's eyes fixed anxiously upon her, but she cast away7 the thought that this foolish flirtation was beneath a lady, and unkind to the young man who had already, as she knew, spoken to her grandmother of his preference. Mrs. Tremerton looked on with self gratulation at the evident success of her experiment. Edith watched her cousin with grave eyes and a doubtful heart. Could Caroline be really learning to love the frivolous, un principled young lordling, who was well known to be deeply in debt ? Could Mrs. Tremerton encourage her daughter's child to marry a man so unfit to be her ruler and guide, and who was a sceptic and a scoffer, merely for the gratification of seeing her a countess ?