A Rude Awakening. A romance, etc

Preface

. This story, now published for the first time as a book, appeared originally in Colburris New Monthly Magazine. It was with no desire to pander to a taste for forbidden subjects that the Author ventured upon the plot in ques tion, but to emphasise a point of view too often over looked by those who, becoming a law unto themselves forget the harvest of sorrow they leave the innocent to reap. In the swiftly-advancing strides of a Divine Humanity, much that took the form of an ideal in the Author's mind when the book was written has since been realised in the world, because " The new Creation dawns apace Pervaded by God's breath." New Year's Day, 1891. CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGE I i II io III 28 IV 42 V. . . 51 VI 61 VII 75 VIII 84 IX . . 96 X. ...... . 107 XI. ... 130 XII. ....... 140 XIII- 154 XIV ,64 XV ,83 XVI. ....... 202 XVII 2'17 XVIII .330 XIX. .......

Chapter I

" Backward, turn backward, O time in your flight, Make me a child again, just for to-night." Yes, just for to-night ! Draw aside, O kind memory, the curtains which hide that far-distant past, and let me be once more in heart and feeling a little child ! Six years old, pale, blue-eved, happy. Flittering hither and thither without a care, in company with another child two years older, who is my sister. We are running about through the spacious rooms of an Indian bungalow, which stands in the centre of a compound, or enclosure. In front are noble tamarind and peepul trees, which form a shade for the dogs, goats, and poultry shelter ing beneath their foliage from the burning B rays of a midday tropical sun. On either side of the compound stand a row of huts, in and out of which flit the dark figures of native servants, while playing about, enjoying the luxury of dirt, are a brood of nude black children.

The impatient neighing of the horses in the stables announces with clock-like regu larity that the hour is twelve at noon. The little ones leave their mud-kingdoms and hurry into the tents for their meal of curry and rice. We have ceased to run about also, and are lying quietly, half undressed, on our ebony cots, which are daintily curtained with lace, and stand in a large nursery adjoining our mother's bedroom. A native woman with shining black hair is seated on the floor talking to us, and drilling us on a point of behaviour in which we had failed during our walk of yesterday evening. " Now, missy baba, what you answer when gentlemens ask you your name ? " she en quires in her broken English. " Medora Prior," says my sister, yawning. "And you, missy ? " " Mary Prior," I reply, absently ; for I am always wondering, as I watch her during the preliminary quiescence of our noonday siesta, how she contrived to stretch the holes in her ears to contain the enormous gold ornaments encased in each lobe.

"Very good ! and now, when sahibs speak pretty and say, ' Whose little children are you ? ' what you say ? " "Captain and Mrs. Prior's," we both reply. "Very good! Now don't be foolish any more, but speak nicely, and now be good babas and go sleep while I go drink water." Knowing from experience that the process of drinking water generally took half an hour, and meant a comfortable gossip with her friends in the tents, as soon as she is out of hearing I rise, not a little fearful of Medora, or Dolly, the name by which I had learnt to know and love my sister, when consciousness first dawned upon me that I was a sentient atom, born into a world of toys, bread-and- B milk, white frocks, and sundry other delights, with a beautiful mother for a providence. It was in search of my providence I was now bent.

"Just you lie down !" says Dolly, authori tatively. " No, I won't ! " "I'll tell Aya, see if I don't !" But I am soon out of hearing of the doom in store for me, as with bare feet and lightly clad, I run into the drawing-room, where I know I shall find my mother. She sits on the sofa reading, and has not heard the pattering of my swift, naked feet, which bring me unannounced to the very centre of my small heaven — her lap — which I have reached with a bound. A glow of childish, passionate delight thrills me through when I feel her arms about me, for I idolize my mother, if the intensity of childish love can be called idolatry. Ah ! how beautiful she is ! but her face is pale, and very sad. Around her mouth hovers a tender expression, and she sighs as she reads, while the delicate hands, which have thrown aside the book to clasp me, tremble.

Why does she sigh so often, I wonder, " my dear mammy " ? for so she has taught us to cail her. " Why has my darling left her cot ? " she asks. " Come, lee me take you back." " Oh, let me stay with you ! " I plead, clinging tenaciously to my position until she consents, and I sit quietly for awhile, gazing into her face. " What are you thinking of, my pet ? " she inquires, seeing me scan her face so earnestly. " Of you, mammy darling ! I was thinking just then that you are like God!" I whispered. I scarcely uttered the last word when, snatching me closer to her heart, she burst into tears, exclaiming : " My child ! my poor darling little child ! would to God we were both dead ! Ah ! why did you ever say such words ? Will a day ever come when you will know the truth, and " Sobs stifle her further utterance.

Her words have no meaning for me ; I can only feel her tears and kisses as I throw my arms around her neck, and weep for sympathy, entreating her " not to cry." I only know that I am in the heaven of her bosom, and, her tears excepted, I ask no greater joy. In a little time she dries her eyes, and I lie quietly in her arms until we are at last disturbed by someone who never brought any delight to my young heart, or my mammy's either, I used to fancy. It is my father who comes in, looking very grand in his uniform and sword, with fierce eyes that remind me of the wolf in " Red Riding Hood." He is very tall, and walks with a quick, heavy step, which makes me fear to get in his way. His mouth is always an object of wonder to me, hidden, as it is, beneath a pair of heavy moustaches. Could I have defined my sensations, the effect it produced would have made me liken it to the gate of the infernal regions, such cruel, flaming words issue therefrom, which frighten us children, and make our mother cry.

On his entrance to-day she rises and carries me in her arms to the nursery. That evening they went to a large party. It used to be our great delight, on these occasions, to watch our mother dress, and to-night we are in high spirits, capering about, and apportioning out her possession, saying what we would wear when old enough to accompany her. We are in our little nightgowns, and the effect of the various ornaments we try loses none of the delight bestowed by anticipation because of their incongruity. Dolly, rich in the possession of a pair of white satin shoes, is holding up her night-dress to observe the effect in the large looking-glass, while I busy myself with the powder-box ; and laugh with glee at the brilliant pair of stars which shine through the cloud on my face. In the midst of our mirth who should come in, like a thunder bolt from Jove, but our father.

Going up to our mother, with a fierce, angry frown on his face, he said something we could not hear. She never replied, but motioned him im ploringly to leave the room, pointing to the door. His eyes flashed with fire. Putting one hand on her shoulder, he tore the wreath she was about to fix in her hair from her hand, flung it to the ground and stamped upon it. Then, with a fearful oath, he flung her from him and left the room. We little ones, who had fled for refuge to the centre of our mother's bed, set up a cry of dismay on witnessing what had occurred, but our mother's calmness soon restored us. Without betraying any symptom of emotion, beyond turning deadly pale, she picked up the wreath and threw it over to us, saying : " There, children, you will be glad of it for your dolls." Dolly was delighted, but I could only think of my poor mammy ; creeping to her side I whispered, " Darling mammy !

" She was smoothing her ruffled hair at the time, but put down her brush to stoop and kiss me. " My pet, my consolation, and my sorrow!" she murmured, as she folded me in her arms, smiling through a rush of tears which my childish sympathy had called forth. " Don't fret for me, my love ; mammy does not mind, for she has her little Mary to love and comfort." With this assurance I cast all trouble from me. Rich in my secret knowledge, I could afford to be magnanimous, and handed over my share of the mangled wreath to Dolly, who, fearing I might repent of my generosity, carried her treasure to bed with her. All is confusion in my memory after this, except one scene which stands out vividly. We are seated on the deck of a large vessel bound for England. Our father has kissed us for the first and last time, in our recol lection.

My mother is thoughtful ; and, as my father's boat is pushing off from the ship's side, and he is waving adieu, I hear her say : " What a death in life he has led me ! God grant we may never meet again ! "

Chapter II

" By this couch I weakly lie on, While I count my memories, Through the fingers, which, still sighing, I press closely on my eyes." E. B. Browning. On reaching Southampton we were met by my mother's sister — Mrs. Worthington — Aunt Jane as we called her, the wife of a naval officer then taking his turn of service on the Gold Coast. Though ten years my mother's senior, Aunt Jane was a young-looking woman still. She had one of those faces that never grow old, let ruthless Time play what pranks he will. Her heart was so young, so simple, in its single-minded good ness, that it wrote its story on her face, in some fresh beauty of expression each succeed ing year. When first I remember her she was about forty — a fair woman, with blue eyes that were tender and expressive, brightening with joy when under the influence of any glad emotion, and full of sorrowful depths in grief.

Her hair, sprinkled with grey, was arranged in curls, confined by side-combs, according to the fashion of her youth, from which she never departed ; thus preserving in her an individuality many lack who change with existing fashions. Tall in height, upright of carriage, she presented a contrast to my mother, whose drooping figure matched the weary look in her eyes as of one grown tired of life, and longing only for the rest beyond, in the hopeful future. We were to live with my aunt, who then occupied a small house in a large village in shire. Aj>retty garden attached to the house was my delight. I can recall how I made particular acquaintance with some of the flowers, talking to them quite seriously as if they understood me, which at that time I never doubted. " London Pride " was' a homely little plant with which I was on the most familiar terms ; it was so good-natured, and never seemed to mind how much I denuded it of leaves when I wanted them for plates and dishes to make a feast for the elves and fairies that supped at night on the grass while I was in dream-land.

There was an elder-tree at the end of the garden that would nod and beckon to me, as if inviting me to love it ; but I felt no in clination to respond. All my affection was bestowed on mignonette. It was so small and pretty — about my own size I thought — that I felt a strange tenderness towards it, as if I were grateful to it for growing. My aunt and mother led very quiet lives ; for my mother's health was delicate, and at times she would say — " I am wearin' awa, Jean, To the land o' the leal while my aunt would sigh and look at her reprovingly. It was on one of the occasions that they were talking in a more than ordinary tone of seriousness about the sorrows of life, long partings, and the comfort of believing in a hereafter, which enabled mankind to rise above sufferings which would otherwise crush them were there no such hope.

It was on one of these occasions that I stole into my mother's lap and watched her face, which wore a distressed, far-away look, as if her soul were journeying whither I could not follow. "Mammy, darling," I whispered, "come back. Why do you talk of going ? Let me come with you, if you go. Yes, I will come." My words roused her, as she bent over me and whispered : " My little messenger ! " There were tears in her eyes which fell upon my cheek as she kissed me. " From where, mammy ? " I asked, feeling the dignity and importance of a whispered secret, yet alarmed and doubtful at the falling tears. " From God," she whispered again, solemnly. Hushed and awed, I lay quite still, wondering what she meant. This happened one Christmas-eve, I remember ; for we had spent the afternoon decorating the house with holly.

We were in the drawing-room at the time, a long, low room, with French windows opening into the garden. Aunt Jane and my mother were seated opposite each other on either side of the fire. Dolly, on a stool in front, was burning out her eyes in the endeavour to read by its flickering light ; and I, as I have described, on my mother's lap. We had sat thus for some time when the postman's familiar step and welcome knock was heard. He brought a letter for my mother, soft and limp, with an ominous black border. The handwriting was not familiar, and she turned it over several times in her trembling fingers before she broke the seal, remarking : " I wonder who it is from ? " She had her arms around me as she read it ; but I soon felt her bosom heave and her heart beat loudly. " Oh, Jane ! " she exclaimed, in a choking voice, " he is dead !

" and then her hold of me relaxed, and I slid down, only in time to see my aunt rush across and support my mother's head. I gave a scream of fright as I ran with Dolly into the kitchen to call for aid ; for we did not know what had happened, and, in our confusion, our mother's suffering took for us the form of death. "Oh, Ann, Ann, mamma is dead!" we sobbed. The maid was soon in the drawing-room helping my aunt, while we remained in the kitchen, scared and trembling, going very softly now and again to the drawing-room door, peeping between the cracks of the hinges fearing, yet longing to learn something. When the maid returned, telling us our mother was better, we found it difficult to believe her ; but presently we ventured back, still rather frightened, as though not quite certain what metamorphosis she had under gone during her temporary absence from this life.

She looked pale and shocked when we went in. Calling Dolly to her she said : " My dear child, your father is dead ! " " Is he ? " said Dolly, with awe, trying to cry, but finding it an effort. And soon, as no one else was doing so, she ceased the pre tence and looked into the fire. "Yes, dear," continued my mother, still addressing Dolly, " he died quite suddenly of cholera, so his friend, Captain Domville, writes. He was seized after breakfast one morning, and buried before nightfall. How awful ! Ah, Jane, what an end ! " We all turned round, shocked ; but I remember, down in the depths of my small heart, feeling rather glad — little sinner that I was — to think that never again could he spoil mamma's pretty flowers, or make her cry ; the sense of relief was unmistakable. I never heard my mother mention his name again ; but when Aunt Jane spoke to her on the subject of mourning, she remarked : " It is such utter mockery, Jane ; what is the use of it ?

If you love me, don't ask me to wear it ! " " Mary, dear what do you mean ? It is not respectable of you to give expression to such a sentiment ! Of course, you must go into black." "Respectable!" echoed my mother, peev ishly; "let us be truthful first. I don't mourn : then why thrust me into the decep tion ? But there, dear," she added, in a milder voice, " if it is to please you, go and buy black ; I shall not want it for very long ! " So into black we all went, Dolly and I liking the importance of it vastly, especially the commiseration we received at the small day school which we attended when it was known that we had lost our " dear papa." We were supposed not to be in spirits to take our dancing lesson that week, and were sent to walk quietly in the garden by our selves, when we discussed our new black frocks with great complacency.

My mother's health began to fail so much as the spring advanced, that Aunt Jane in sisted on her having medical advice. How well I remember the doctor's visit ! Too weak to rise, my mother generally remained all the morning in her room. I was allowed, and enjoyed the privilege, of carrying up her cup of tea and slice of toast each day, entering the room with triumphant pride as I succeeded in my heavily laden ascent without disaster, and looking for her loving smile and word of praise as my great reward. She would only drink her cup of tea, while usually the toast was consumed by me as I sat perched on the edge of her bed, watching her until a call from Dolly would disturb my enjoyment, obliging me to bolt the toast in order to escape her remarks about the disin terestedness of my services.

On this particular morning the doctor arrived as I was taking up her breakfast. Never heeding me, Aunt Jane led him up stairs, I looking on unobserved while he spoke with my mother. After a few questions, he took out of his hat a mysterious instrument ; then I heard my mother say : " Tell me the truth. You cannot tell me anything I do not anticipate." Although her voice was calm, I could see that her mouth quivered, and that her face had grown very pale. He shook his head gravely, and said : " Your illness is deep-seated and incurable — a complication of heart and lungs. Still, with care " " Don't you think it would be advisable to take her to a warmer climate — Italy or Madeira ? " suggested my aunt. "She has not strength for the journey at present. You must keep her quiet, and take every care of her until the warm weather sets in, which will no doubt revive her."

With that he took his leave, and followed my aunt downstairs. As soon as he had gone, I crept to my mother's bedside to know the meaning of all I had seen and heard. She had that far-away look I have before described, and did not seem to hear me, and I heard her murmur, " The wages of sin is death ! " while her lips moved in prayer. " Mammy, here is your tea," I whispered, c as I brought the cup to her side to attract her attention. She gave me a pitying look and a tender smile which encouraged me to ask : " Does the doctor think you will get well in the summer ? " As I looked into her face I saw that she was crying, and could hardly swallow her tea. In an instant I was by her side, with my arms about her neck. She put her cup down, and, bending over me, cried in a heart-breaking manner I was powerless to console.

I could only cry, and cry, for sympathy. " Mary," she said at length, " will you think of me and love me always, even if I must go away and leave you, my poor child ? Oh ! how can I fancy you without me in this wretched world ?" The thought I now for the first time realized, that she was going away somewhere without me, produced an agony of alarm, and I cried : "Take me with you, mammy darling; I'll be so good, and keep so quiet." " Would to God I could, my child ! But I cannot. It is part of my bitter sorrow and punishment." " But no one will be cross and punish you, mammy darling — my good mammy ! " I ex claimed, clinging to her with loving ardour, as if my child arms were all-powerful to pro tect her from harm. As she never answered, we remained sighing and sobbing together for some short time, and then growing calmer she told me to fetch my Testament, as she wanted me to read something to her.

I brought it quickly — a little well-worn brown leather Testament. She bade me find the sixth chapter of Romans, pointing her finger to the last verse, where I read aloud : " For the wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord." After I had read it, she took the book from my hand, and with a pencil marked the passage. Then folding the leaf she said earnestly : " Mary, when I am gone to that other country where the doctor says I must go, all by myself, and cannot even take you, my little child, will you sometimes read this verse, and remember it for my sake, and that I found it true — the first part by terrible experience, the second by love and faith ? Experience and love and faith are difficult words for you to remember, and you don't know the meaning of them now, but you will one day.

And now I am going to write them for you in the margin opposite each sentence, and then you will never forget them. I want you to remember them when you grow to be a woman, and have few to guide you over the troubles and dangers of life, as I would have done had 1 been so permitted." Exhausted, she lay back on her pillow, while I sat stupidly wondering what she meant, with the tears still wet upon my cheek. After a pause she continued : " And when I am gone away into that other country, and people tell you I am dead — don't start, love, but listen — you must remember I am not dead but alive somewhere, leading a better, nobler life, I hope, and not unhappy, because our Father, the Great God, knows all, and has forgiven me." Very much subdued and awed by her mention of that other country, I said in a hushed voice : " Heaven, mammy ?

" " I hope so, dear," and she sighed deeply as she answered me. "And can't I write you letters sometimes ? I could put ' Heaven,' you know, on the outside." " I should not get them, darling." " Why not ? Would not the angels be kind, and take them to you ? " She only smiled at my remark, which I made with all a child's sweetfaith, that believes all things are possible, and never limits the power of the Unseen. Aunt Jane came in at this point, and, bid ding me get ready for school, put an end to our conversation ; but as I left the room I heard my mother say : " The fiat has gone forth, Jane. God grant me strength for my task ! " For several days she did nothing but write. In vain did my aunt try to dissuade her from what appeared to exhaust her so much. Her one reply was : " Time is precious, and this must be done before I go.

As you love me, Jane, I charge you to fulfil my instructions, if you live to do so. If not, leave directions that they be carried out according to my wishes. Should they surprise you, do not judge me too harshly. I feel compelled to do what I have done by a power beyond my control. I can not die — my spirit would not rest with it un accomplished. It seems as if I were bidden to write. Ah ! Jane ! Jane ! it is terrible to die and leave her. But God will help. See — Jane, it is a letter — I — have written to my little one. Oh ! my God, be with her — always, always ! " My darling mammy ! I saw she was sobbing, and I, looking from where she could not see me, cried too. Such scenes were frequent. What was it she was doing ? Always writing — always crying. I could not tell. One day I crept up to her bedside.

She had two letters closed and sealed in her hand. She kissed them passionately. And oh, how she wept ! I could not bear it, so I cried. " Mammy, mammy, my own darling ! what is it ? " " Ah ! my child, is that you ? " She had not seen me, and I climbed on the bed beside her. "Who are these for?" I asked, with all a child's curiosity. " Shall I, put them in the post for you ? The post is quite near, and I'll be so careful. Do let me go, mammy. Dolly and Aunt Jane are out. May I go ? But there is no stamp on this one. Who is it to?" " My God, help me ! " she murmured, with a low moan, as she took me in her arms and put the letters aside. I liked posting letters. The mystery of their disappearance through the mouth of the letter-box had a fascination for me, and I was eager to go. The post office was not far from our garden gate, and Dolly and I were often entrusted with letters to post.

" Won't you let me go, mammy sweet ? " I pleaded. "Yes, yes — take this one," she cried, hurriedly ; " go and post it." " And the other ? Who is that for ? Isn't that to be posted ? " " No, no. Now run quickly, and come back to me again when you have put this letter in the post." In a very short time I had returned, and was once more in my old place, my curiosity still tenacious about the fate of the other letter. " What have you done with it ? " I asked. Looking down on me with a look I still see, she said slowly : " The other letter is for you, my love, and some day, when you are a big woman, and can read writing, then Aunt Jane will give it to you. Then — then — it will tell you — oh, child ! — child ! — how I have suffered and how I have loved you ! " she cried, flinging her arms around me in a paroxysm of anguish.

A letter ! It was grand to get a letter, I thought — half glad on that account, wholly sorry for my mother's tears, which no love of mine could ever dry, it seemed. When should I grow big ? Would it be very long before was as big as mammy, I wondered ? After that day my mother became more cheerful, until at last I grew accustomed to the idea of her going away, and could even talk with her about it. I never associated her departure with death and its ghastly details, of which I was then happily ignorant. With childish fancifulness I pictured her vaguely as going away somewhere by train, with a carriage waiting at the door to convey her to the station. Surely the blessedness of childhood is this : It knows not evil, therefore knows no fear. Its little world is just To-day!