The Woman that shall be praised

Front matter

THE WOMAN THAT SHALL BE PRAISED. THE WOMAN THAT SHALL BE ■ PRAISED. BY HILDA EEAY. " Favour i_ deceitful, and beauty is vain ! but a woman that f eareth the Lord, she shaU be praised."— Peov. ___i. 30. SAMUEL TINSLEY, 10, SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND. 1876. [All rights reserved.] TO THE REVERED MEMORY OF MY GRANDPARENTS. *m* For certain reasons the Author desires to state that this tale was written and completed in the year 1873. THE WOMAN THAT SHALL BE PEAISED.

Chapter I

Four strokes had just drowsily tolled from the church clock of Abbotscombe village. It was a warm June afternoon, and the inhabitants of the little picturesque hamlet were either at work in the hayfields or occupied at home labour; for along the white road leading past Dr. Grant's house to the village there was no sign of hfe. Bright sun lay on the front of the dwelling, and this may have been the cause that had induced Persis Langton to take her work into the morning-room, so called, which was cool and shady. The house was perfectly quiet, and she at leisure for the moment. She was sitting now in this room that looked on the deep shadow of the house, as it gradually deepened over the mossy lawn. Bunches of sweet red roses clustered about the open window, and clematis and Irish ivy nickered in the light hay-scented breeze, which was just strong enough to cause the tall, lush grasses in the uncut meadow to tremble and bow.

Distant scythe-sharpening could be heard, and occa sionally the heavy buzz of a humble-bee, as it plunged for the second time into the luscious cup of a rose or honeysuckle. Persis sat in a low chair by the window, a quiet figure in the still picture. Her face was grave and calm, and although it possessed no pretensions to actual beauty, some subtle charm drew one to gaze on it, wondering wherein the extreme pleasantness of the countenance lay. Brownish hair, gathered smoothly into a loop at the back of the head, a square, broad forehead, a very indifferent nose, blue-grey eyes, somewhat deep-set, with black rims to the irids, and dark lashes, a re poseful mouth, and 3*011 have the sum of Persis' features. Her dress was of the simplest description ; in short, she was not stylish, and without a doubt would have passed unnoticed in a crowd.

She sat sewing for half an hour or more, when the quiet was broken by quick footsteps in the tiled passage. The room door hastily opening, a girl of some twenty years appeared, pretty and bright, who threw herself into a chair, exclaiming, — " Oh, I am so frightfully hot ! I am sure my poor cheeks will never be cool again this side Christmas ! You look so delightfully cool here, Persis. I wish I bad never gone to that horrid Dorcas, for of all detest able things that odious Miss Mantaple gave me a shirt, a coarse, unbleached shirt to make ! Just fancy, with the thermometer at 80° in the shade, and I'm sure 150° in that smoking vicarage parlour ! " She paused here for want of breath, and probably of adjectives. Persis smiled. " Poor Cecilia ! you never enjoy the Dorcas, do you ? You seem to have walked up very quickly.

It is scarcely five now." Her voice was low-toned and sweet, a strong con trast to her companion's rapid and high-pitched utter ance. ■"' No, I did not," returned Cecilia ; " only I fancied I saw that odious Miss Crux coming up the road after me, and I was afraid she would overtake me. Oh, you should have heard the way she spoke this after noon ! She was sitting next her chosen friend, Mrs. Croggett, and they discussed the new curate for Crof ton, who is coming in a week or two. She said she supposed plenty of young ladies would be Sunday-school teachers then ; and she hoped Miss Mantaple would not have him to read at the Dorcas, for then it might as well be a sewing-school at once, as all the misses in the village would come flocking in, who did not know how to put a gusset in a shirt, or turn down a hem rightly.

She gave such a spiteful look at me as she said it ! Old horror, I should like to prick her ' " And Cecilia gave herself a jerk, as she uttered this fierce denunciation, and petulantly swung her dainty gipsy hat to and fro. " Oh, Cecilia ! " said Persis, deprecatingly. " I daresay she did not think of you at all, dear. I am sure Miss Crux is as good a creature as ever lived ; only perhaps a trifle severe on young people." " Well, Persis, you always stick up for all the nasty people ! At all events, she's not hard on you ; but I suppose she does not consider you a young girl, as you are twenty-four. Where are all the horde ? Is it not almost tea-time ? " . " Maggie has taken the five younger ones to Farmer Brett's hayfield; they are to have their tea there. George and Alice, you know, are at the Westow croquet-party ; and Philip and Sam are out fishing.

Your mother has a headache and is lying down ; and I have let Mary go home and be with her mother, who is ill, till eight o'clock ; so I must get tea, as cook is busy preserving. We'll have it on the lawn, as there are so few. Your father always enjoys that." " What a horrid nuisance ! " exclaimed Cecilia, who much objected to be put out of her usual way, and giving a rueful glance at her dainty white pique and blue ribbons as she spoke. " Now I must go and poke about among pots and pans, and salt butter, I suppose. Why did you let Mary go out ? " she pouted, and the prettiness of the somewhat insipid face disappeared as the frown settled on the brow. " You need do nothing, dear," said Persis, gently. " I can quite well do it all. Go up and sit with your mother, she will want to hear the news; and tea will be ready in about twenty minutes."

Cecilia brightened, and went upstairs, her lithe figure and picturesque dress making a pleasant point of sight as she tripped up the old-fashioned staircase. Persis went down into the wide green-shaded kitchen to look after the kettle. The tea was set to brew in a small quaint teapot, and the home party being small to-day, the usual " omnibus," as they called the vast hritannia metal pot, was left in unwonted holiday on the shelf. The cups and saucers that Persis placed on her tray were chipped and cracked, the knives worn, the table-cloth darned, but all these little deficiencies, telling of long wTear and tear, in a large unruly family, were unobserved when the table was arranged, and set under a spreading horse chestnut tree on the long-shaded lawn. Crisp lettuces, sprinkled with pearly drops, ruddy strawberries, cunningly set forth amid clustering leaves in an old basket, firm white cream-cheese, nestling in a bed of dark watercresses and crimson radishes, were placed by Persis around a vase of June roses, and the finishing touches all done by her skilful hand just as Dr. Grant, wearied and heated from his long round, came out on the lawn to sink into his cushioned wicker chair, placed just at the right spot.

Then his garden hat and easy shoes were brought, without any fuss, and by the time Cecilia came out, fresh as a white daisy, tea was in a fair way of beginning. '*' Oh, Persis ! " she exclaimed, self-accusingly, " I did not think how much you would have to do. I forgot to come and help when I left mother. She is better, and wants some tea. I'll take it up to her. Well, papa, dear — how hot you look ! Is there any news ? " Dr. Grant pursed in his lips and slightly jerked hia head, expressiveof displeasure, as he answered, sharply, — " There, go in and wait on your mother ; you are always leaving everything to Persis to do." Foolish Cecilia ! She should have known that a more aggravating deed than that of telling a person he looks hot, when he feels so, and is aware such must be the case, can hardly be perpetrated; while asking abruptly for the news is the surest way of closing effectually the lips of a man.

Persis always contrived to learn the village gossip from Dr. Grant, first by attending to his creature comforts, secondly by asking no questions. When Cecilia returned from her mother again, her father had begun the recital of a very interesting piece of news. It was to the effect that Abbotscombe Manor, for some years empty and deserted, was about to be occupied by the owner, Mr. Peter Forbery, This gentleman, with his wife and young cousin, Miss Carmichael, was coming in a few days to reside on his property. " A very different man from the former squire, I should imagine," remarked Dr. Grant ; " a parvenu, I fancy, and cousin on the father's side to old Geoffrey Carmichael, who died without heirs. For four hundred years that old place has never been held by any but a Carmichael in the direct line ; and this man only gets it by a fluke.

Old Geoffrey in his dotage married his first cousin, and Forbery is her son by a former marriage. The noble old family has died out, and I believe this girl is the last of her name." " What girl ! whose daughter is she ? " inquired Cecilia, who had listened to her father's tale with great interest. " She is a sort of cousin to Peter Forbery," returned Dr. Grant, "and the daughter, it is said, of old Geoffrey's only son, who disgraced himself, and died a few years back estranged from his family. The less said about her parentage the better, poor child ! The Forberys have an only son, who will inherit before her, so though the last of her name, she can never hold the estates." Here a confused noise of childish voices was heard coming up the garden. The doctor rose, exclaiming, " Here are the barbarians !

" and went down the garden to meet them. Three very fat httle boys and two little girls, their ages ranging from three to nine, appeared, very hot, very cross, and very untidy. Their day in the hayfield had certainly impaired three precious things — their clothes, their tempers, and their brotherly kindness. They were under the care of a wearied young woman, who gladly left her charge in their father's care. He vainly endeavoured to soothe the excited tempers of his young brood. Cecilia threatened, and papa coaxed, but still Harry would insist on squeaking on broad grass blades, close to nervous little Nelly's ear, while Charlie, Minnie, and little Tom were employed in pulling each other's daisy-chains to pieces with much vociferation. At length Persis succeeded by dint of promises of stories in inducing Nelly, Minnie, and Tom to come off with her to bed ; while the other two were regaled by papa with strawberries, and promises of nightmare, the first of which they swallowed, and the latter disregarded.

Persis having placed the little tired children happily in their white beds, and soothed ,their excited spirits with the ever fresh story of that child who was cradled in a manger, proceeded to her cousin's room to see how the invalid was progressing. Mrs. Grant was one of those unfortunate members of society who seem to have been loosely put together, both mentally and physicially. She was devoid of self-reliance, and consequently was in a state of chronic dependence on others. Her nerves, eyes, and back were weak, and her hair of a pale drab shade. She had arrived at that particular age at which ladies, for reasons unknown, almost invariably part their hair in any line but a straight one, and her thin lorn locks were ever straggling above an untidy and not over clean collar. Her whole way of life was slipshod and colourless, and of course her family suffered in propor tion.

Since her cousin, Persis Langton, had come to take up her above in Abbotscombe, things had somewhat improved, as Mrs. Grant was only too glad to shift the burden of her household duties on another's shoulders. The eldest daughters of the family, Alice and Cecilia, had been brought up at a fashionable boarding school in London, and Cecilia had only enjoyed a short emancipation from its restraints. When the sisters returned home they proved to be finished specimens of nineteenth century "young ladies," much to their father's disgust and their mother's secret exultation. She held the mistaken and fatal notion that a woman only needs outside show and glitter to obtain a husband and a good establishment, both of which she considered the objects of life, the first merely as a means of providing the second.

Her daughters had certainly the outward show, for they were pretty, graceful girls, but utterly unfit for the wear and tear of ordinary life ; heedless and flighty, but yet with sufficiency of good left in their natures to form the basis of useful women, if any judicious friend would undertake the task of uprooting the foolish ideas which had been carefully implanted in their minds at Miss Tiffin's Establishment for young Ladies. Persis found her cousin lying in a heap at the edge of an untidy and ruffled bed. Her head was rough and dishevelled, and her whole appearance denoted suffering and discomfort. The room was hot and stuffy, the window having been closed to keep out the flies and other buzzing insects which are a torment to a poor creature with a nervous headache. Almost every article in the chamber was in its wrong place.

Dresses lay at the bed-foot, a dressing-gown over a chair, the wash-hand basin was full of soapy water, and the toilet china chipped and cracked. The window curtain, by no means in its first freshness, hung from its rod, unfastened from two of its rings. This room was Mrs. Grant's sanctum, where she reigned supreme. Hence the total absence of anything like neatness or arrangement. Persis had hitherto failed in reducing it to order ; but now she quietly picked up the dresses and placed them in the wardrobe, and moved about the room straighten-no; and arranging, but so that no jars or sudden sounds should torment the sensitive ears of the invalid who appeared asleep. In a few moments the room had another appearance, and Persis went quietly to the window and let in the delicious sunset air, fresh from hay fields, and the not far distant sea.

She stood drinking in the breeze, and feasting her eyes on the landscape, as it lay below in all the gorgeousness of June colouring. The sweet quiet o1" the evening was very refreshing to her spirit, as she watched the blue twilight gradually steal up, and the hill-top at the other side of the valley, in which the village lay, come out sharp and clear against the daffodil and rose flushed sky. The remembrance of One, told of in an old book, who at eventide was wont to be alone on the breezy hill-side far away in Palestine, came over her " with a touch of infinite calm." Yet Persis was no enthusiast, only a quiet woman, to whom the voice of nature spoke strongly. Her reverie was interrupted by the querulous voice of the invalid inquiring the hour. " Half-past nine," said Persis ; " do you feel inclined for supper now ?

" " Supper ! " moaned Mrs. Grant. " No, of course not. I wonder who would want supper after suffering as I have all day, and no one coming near me ! And those horrid hay-people sharpening their scythes just to tease me ! Why does Farmer Brett always have his hay cut on the days I have headaches, I wonder ? " The want of perspicuity in Mrs. Grant's sentences was always somewhat striking, but on the occasion of a nervous headache she usually evinced less regard than usual to the requirements of nominatives and logic. However, when Persis had brought fresh water to bathe her face and hands, and arranged the bed, replacing the tumbled pillow by a fresh one, the poor lady felt better, and less inclined to take a desponding view of life. She even consented to allow Persis to bring up some slight refreshment, of which she partook with an appetite that showed she was con valescent.

She praised Persis' neat ways, and said she should not mind if she were to nurse her, if ever she had a long illness. With which high mark of good will she dismissed her. Downstairs the rest of the family had assembled — the boys, hot and weary from their fishing, George, the eldest son, and his pretty sister Alice from their croquet-party — and all were laughing and talking at once. Dr. Grant came in, and added his quota to the family Babel, and his great piece of news about Abbots combe Manor was repeated and discussed. " Papa," exclaimed Alice, " Miss Stow says there is some sad romantic story connected with Magdalene Carmichael. She's a great beauty, and a splendid musician, they say. I hope we shall know her." " What for ? " inquired George ; " because she has some sentimental rubbish tagged on to her name, or because she is pretty, which latter would make you green with jealousy !

Women are so absurd in all these things." George's views were somewhat more cynical just now than is usual with young men of nineteen summers, because at the croquet-party aforesaid he had been decidedly snubbed by a pretty little girl, to whom he supposed his valuable attentions would be acceptable. Alice answered her brother in the same strain, and the whole ended in a laugh at George's expense. The girls soon retired to talk over and perhaps dream of the beautiful heroine in their rooms.

Chapter II

Abbotscombe Manor stood about a mile from the village of the same name. It was placed on a slight elevation, and was surrounded by lands of some ten thousand acres. It was a fair heritage, and had been the property of the Carmichaels since the year 1400, when Aubrey Carmichael was Abbot of Crofton. The monastery was destroyed by King Henry VIII., and the lands bestowed on a favourite of his, the abbot's nephew, who built the Manor House. The building was a picture in itself, long, irregular, and ivy-grown. Its twisted chimneys and pointed gables were the delight of artists, who flocked from all sides to study the ancient architecture and rich colouring. The house had been added unto by many a lord of the manor, but its frontage had preserved a tolerably harmonious whole. Oriel and casemented windows, with crumbling stone frames, parapeted roofs, and a noble porch, were among the outside beauties of the place.

Within was a grand old hall richly carved, secret chambers, underground passages, chimneys containing rooms, in one of which King Charles II. was said to have taken refuge from his pursuers, and strange old bed-chambers, with four-post bedsteads surmounted by nodding plumes. There was also a small turret with an alarm-bell, of which an awful story was told. How that Mistress Dorothy Carmichael in 1600, or thereabouts, had been decoyed by her wicked uncle up the stairs, and then cast over into the moat beneath, so that he might inherit her broad lands ; and how on windy nights Mistress Dorothy's moans could be heard as she paced the turret stairs, while, in the cellar beneath, the spirit of the wicked uncle walked and had no rest. Besides this kind of weird tale were many connected . with the monastery, whose ruins were hard by in the depth of the woods, especially of a clear well known as Abbotsbourne, where it was said at Hallowe'en a far lady waited to dispense the gift of second sight to any maiden bold enough to visit her at the witching hour of twelve p.m. These tales, and a hundred other legends equally probable, and firmly believed in by the country folk, together with many historical and archæological interests, combined to make Abbotscombe Manor a mark for curiosity for the counties round.

The entrance to it was through a noble beech avenue, winding through a park called the chase, once rich in game of all kinds, now less strictly preserved. For fifteen years the Manor house had been empty, except for a few old servants. The late owner, Geoffrey Carmichael, had died away from home, from a monomania that had possessed the latter years of his life. His story was a sad one. He had married young, and had one son, the mother dying soon after his birth. On this heir, the last of the name, every care and affection were lavished. The boy was noble-minded, refined, brave, but strong willed, and at twenty-one he asked his father's con sent to his marriage with Cecile Dumaurier, a teacher in a Norman school, whose acquaintance he had made while touring through Normandy. The old man refused sternly to accede to his son's request, saying that the last of the Carmichaels must mate with a noble house, and not with the dust under his feet.

High words passed between the two, and the heir hastily left his father's house, never to return. A few chosen friends knew of his whereabouts, but his father was in ignorance. It was said that he had taken up his abode in the Norman town where Ce'cile lived, and that they were together ; beyond this nothing was known. After a few years, old Geoffrey, whose mental powers were much impaired, was induced bj* his cousin, Maria Forbery, widow, to bestow on her his name and hand. She had one son, Peter, by her former marriage, a man in the prime of life, who used old Geoffrey as a tool, and managed his affairs entirely. He was a shrewd, long-headed person, always keenly alive to whatever would aggrandize himself, and he contrived to learn all particulars concerning Arthur, the proscribed heir, which he used to his own ends, as this story will show.

Things favoured him greatly. After a few years of marriage old Geoffrey died, followed shortly by his wife. Peter Forbery wrote to Arthur Carmichael to acquaint him with his father's decease, and in reply received a letter in a faint French hand, signed Cecile Carmichael. This informed Mr. Forbery that Arthur had died suddenly of fever a few months since, and she, his wife, was in a dying condi tion, with one daughter, just sixteen ; both were friendless and almost starving. To describe Peter's elation at this intelligence would be impossible. He, then, was heir-at-law to the vast estates of Abbotscombe-with- Crofton ! for that the little girl might have any claim to them never for a moment troubled him. He argued that in all probability Arthur Carmichael was not legally married, — Peter Forbery could easily imagine such baseness ; and even if he were, who would be the wiser ?

No, nothing of any moment now stood between Peter Forbery and grandeur, wealth, magnificence, things his sordid soul loved. If he might be forced to trample over a few small claims, what mattered it ? Had he not might in his hands ? sometimes a more potent weapon even in this enlightened nineteenth century than right. The result of these cogitations was his journey to Normandy, where he embittered the dying woman's ast hours by declaring that her connection with Arthur Carmichael had been an illegal one, which she, poor soul, knew not how to refute, for had not her Arthur been her king, her ideal of all that was good ? Had she any one's word to go by but his ? and now that this great Monseigneur from that wonderful country, England, came and hinted politely that Arthur had been a base deceiver, she could only weep and hug her crucifix closer to her fast failing heart, and pray to be taken from the trouble which over powered her loyal soul.

Peter promised with noble generosity to act as a father to the orphan girl, to send her to a first-class English school, and to get her well-married with a handsome dowry. With the gold of the Carmichaels almost tickling his grasping palms, he could afford to relieve his overflowing heart by fine promises. So the poor little Norman was laid to rest in a tiny, sandy graveyard near the channel, amid the blackened wooden crosses and decaying wreaths of immortelles. Her orphaned Magdalene placed fresh garlands of sweet violets and a cup of holy water on the resting-place. Having watered it with desolate tears, she left her only relation under the shadow of the Norman church, its quaint old bell tower lichened . and stained with the salt blasts of the wide sea. Not less desolate was the little maiden's own heart.

Impulsive and passionate, she soon got into trouble with her English school companions. Her eyes flashed, and she spoke hotly when annoyed. A momentaiy storm-cloud, and her resentment was over, while she found, to her horror, that her hearers caught up and cherished her hasty words, and hated her for them. Consequently Magdalene was not happy at school, although her benefactors, who wished, they said, to give her every advantage, kept her there till she was twenty. She was then to be brought down to Abbotscombe to live there per manently. During the interval that had elapsed between Geoffrey Carmichael's death and the present date Mr. and Mrs. Forbery had passed their time either on the continent or in London ; while extensive renovations had been proceeding at the Manor. Hence they were strangers in their own estates, but now they intended residing there entirely.

The new squire was a great man. He took pains to bear his dignities worthily. He hunted up a crest borne by a distant cousin of his, for it must be confessed that blue blood was not in large amount in the Forbery stock. The crest was imposing, however, and he had it quartered with the Carmichael arms, which he now assumed. Their heraldic device was a hand grasping a sword, with the motto, " True till death ; " it had been borne on many a battle-field, and had travelled as far as the Holy Sepulchre. It had never before figured on the custard-coloured chariot of a Forbery. I do not, however, wish to cast a slight on Peter's worthy progenitors. They had all been tradesmen, and his father, more personable than most of his name, had wooed and won Maria Carmichael. She was not unwilling to join her charms and ancient blood with Obadiah Forbery's gold and silver, even though this had been taken over a counter in retail dealino-s Peter Forbery loved state and show of every kind.

Once he lived in modest condition, and followed his father's trade. But as he went on in the world he began to ascend his front doorsteps, and announce his presence by a sounding rap, instead of modestly entering by a latch key, as had been his wont. When his wife took an airing, the hired brougham always waited outside her door fora quarter of an hour, and the steeds impatiently champed their bits, to the admiration of all the nursemaids and street urchins. Ill-natured persons affirmed that Mr. Forbery bargained with the keeper of the livery stables for horses which had these aristocratic habits, but of course no one gave credence to such malicious reports.

Chapter III

At length the day arrived when Mr. and Mrs. Forbery were to come in state to Abbotscombe, as lord and lady of the Manor. Mrs. Forbery was in all respects a worthy companion for her honest spouse. Being blonde, florid, and inclining to stoutness, she was a lady of great " presence." She was fully equal to her new position, and commanded her maid and footman, coach man and butler with the same arrogance she had used towards her " general " servant in the old days. They had one son, a promising lad of fourteen, just sent to Eton on the strength of his father's new-found magni ficence. It had been arranged that all the tenantry should meet the squire and his lady on the confines of their property and conduct them in triumph to the Manor. Edward Percy, the land steward, a gentleman by birth and education, had the arrangement of this ceremony, and by five o'clock on a lovely June evening the little group of horsemen were gathered together on a grassy knoll under glorious spreading beeches.

Some ten or twelve farmers, each on a rough cob, a sprinkling of women and children in their best, bearing great bunches of country flowers, to cast before the carriage, formed the group. One very old man, known as " Old Gabe," formerly a gamekeeper on the property, the oldest retainer of the family — numbering some eighty-six years — was under the care of his grand daughter. He was almost too blind and deaf to under stand by means of his senses what he had come to assist at. He leant on his staff, arrayed in a clean smock frock, somewhat to the front of the bystanders, and Edward Percy, a fine athletic, wholesome looking young Englishman, was at the head of the horsemen on a bright chestnut. Suddenly the village bells strike up, a noble peal rising and falling in a sprinkling cadence on the June breeze.