A Tangled Garden. A novel

Prologue

. " Lorna, will you marry me ? " The speaker was a good looking young man with an attractive face. There were signs of power in the wide level brows and high forehead, balanced by a sensitive droop in the well-formed mouth which was only partially concealed by the slight brown moustache. A keen observer would have considered Dennis Ackroyd's face pre eminently fitted to express the passion and ten derness of love, and yet seen at a moment when one would have expected the most commonplace countenance to be fired and glorified, the well drawn features looked strangely cold and impas sive. H XTanalcb (Barben 2 " Will you marry me ? " Dennis stood leaning against the marble mantel piece, his hands behind him, his eyes fixed on the toe of the patent leather boot with which he was mechanically tracing one of the patterns of the Eastern rug at his feet.

Before him, reclining amongst great silken cushions, dressed in the richest and daintiest of tea-gowns, was a superb example of womankind. Lorna Fortescue was already past her first youth, but had blossomed into a fuller, richer beauty than even her girlhood had promised. Lovelier than usual she looked just now, in the softened light of a shaded lamp which lit golden gleams amongst her glossy hair. All the passion that was lacking in the young man's face was over flowing in hers ; her whole being was palpitating with love; her eyes dark, glowing, rested with hunger on his face, a hunger that comes to the heart of every woman sooner or later, sometimes, alas ! too soon, sometimes, God help her ! too late. But the young man never raised his eyes from the ground, shame rather than love showed in his face as he asked again: " Lorna, will you marry me ?

" Other eyes than hers were in his thoughts, H Uangleb ©arben 3 another face, no queenly beauty's this, but sweet and fresh and innocent, looked from the mist be fore his eyes and smiled at him. And still Lorna Fortescue did not reply, but drawing her hungering gaze from his down-turned face began playing with a costly feather fan, but her fingers trembled and the fragile toy snapped with a sharp sound. Dennis raised his head and a look of pity was in his troubled gaze; pity, but no love. " Lorna, " he said very gently, " have you no answer for me ? " and in the momentary pause which followed, his hurrying, galloping thoughts careered with him through the last few months: months spent for the first time in his life in the dizzy whirl of London Society. How well he remembered the night when he first met Lorna.

It was at a dance. Amongst all the beautiful women present she moved a queen. Dennis had not many acquaintances at that time, but one of the few chanced to be able to gratify his curio sity ' That lovely woman ! She's Mrs. Fortescue, young widow, knows everyone, I'll get Charlie Somers to introduce you.' And then that first waltz, and after that so many, many more. The charm of young Ackroyd's manner, his boyish a "Œangleb (Barben 4 innocence, pleased the jaded taste of the Society beauty. The interest she felt in him strength ened to a deeper feeling. Dennis, flattered by the notice of so beautiful a woman, was infatuated for a time, followed her everywhere, was admitted at all times to her presence and was in conse quence envied by some and laughed at by others, whilst a few kindly matrons said 'it was a pity'.

And Dennis, absorbed in his passion, forgot his home and the lessons of his childhood and youth —forgot his mother — hishonour— everything ! And then — just when lulled in lotus-eating bliss — even ambition was drifting away from him — just then he met Dorothy — Dorothy Temple — with her clear pure eyes, her fresh girlish face, and he awoke as if from a dream. Darkness as of the night rolled from him. Merciful Heavens ! Had he been mad ! Had he lost his soul inthe arms of Circe! Was it indeed too late? Oh Dorothy! Dorothy! Why in kind fate did he not meet you sooner — with his young manhood yet unsullied, worthy to woo and to win you? But one thing at least he could do, he could cut himself free from the evils that ensnared him. He would go away, he would never see that enthralling beauty again.

And then the blow fell. A rumour reached his ears. Envenomed scandal turned its evil head and hissed at him. Only half believing, yet all dreading, he sought one last interview. If it was as he had heard there was only one course open to him. He might have fallen, but he was not yet degraded. Love was dead but honour remained. And that was why Dennis Ackroyd stood sad, passionless, awaiting Mrs. Fortescue's answer to his question. It came at last, slowly, he could have almost thought unwillingly. "No." " You will not ? " Was it relief or hope or what strange feeling that surged through his brain ? " I cannot, Dennis." " Cannot, is it then — forgive me, Lorna, but I have heard — is it then not true?" " It is true, Dennis," and the queenly head was bowed, "but yet I cannot marry you." " Why ?

" from the young man's parted lips. " Because — because — " she rose and stood before him, and her face, the beautiful passionate face now trembling with emotion was close to his — " because, Dennis, my husband still lives. " The young man gave one groan and staggered as though he had been shot. " Is this true ? " he gasped. " Too true. Some amiable fool, doubtless, mis informed you at the first. A great many people think I am a widow. My husband, worthy man," she laughed bitterly, " holds a lucrative post in hottest India. The climate, perhaps, did not suit me. Anyhow I came home. We are not ex actly a loving couple. We never write to one another: he goes his way; I go mine: and only my banker's book ever reminds me of his ex istence. It was some time after we met before I realised that you believed my husband to be dead.

And by that time I had no wish that you should know the truth. Why not? — because I feared I might lose you, Dennis, I feared your boyish innocence, your sense of honour, I dreaded lest, knowing all, you should leave me — and I loved you so — Oh ! Dennis, Dennis, I love you still ! " But a great sickness of repulsion had filled the young man's soul and he spoke no word. Dennis was no hardened worldling brought up to believe the ten Commandments obsolete, the religion of Christ an effete superstition. The blood a Œangleb (Barben 7 of a long line of Quaker ancestors flowed in his veins— born in the far North he had been educated at Clifton, whence he had won his way to Cam bridge. There he had held his own both at sport and learning. There many of his angles and some of his inherited beliefs had been worn away, but still the spirit of his early faith was left ; the thou shalt not meant for him thou shalt NOT still.

And so the horror of what had befallen him for a time overpowered him — he was speechless. He remembered in a dull sort of way that he had never questioned for a moment the fact of Lorna Fortescue's widowhood — though he had never heard her husband mentioned, nor any reference made to his death. And this man yet lived. Great God, what a mockery life was! And at the same moment the self-same thought fired the woman's brain. The mockery of it all! And she bewailed her loveless marriage, too soon, too recklessly entered into. "Why," she cried, the tears now streaming down her face — "Why did not my mother shield me, protect me from such a wrong? And yet it was she, she who ought to have rather laid me a Uanaleb (Barben dead before her — she who arranged it all — who gave the ignorant child — I was hardly more — to the blase, vice-steeped man of society — because, forsooth, he was very wealthy and in the direct line to a Baronetcy — faugh ! as if that could heal a broken heart.

I did not know, she did — there fore hers was the greater sin. No woman can go through life without love. If it does not come before or with marriage, it will come later — and then the pity of it ! If, " she continued, her passion of weeping grown softer, "If I had had little children I think I might have been a better woman, but even this consolation was denied me. I have never had anyone to love, till now." But still Dennis did not stir. The ashes of his passion lay cold and dead, and no whispering warmth could fan them to a flame. Lorna sank back exhausted and hid her face in her hands. In that position she looked very sorrowful and womanly and Dennis went at last to her side. " Lorna, can you ever forgive me ? " " Forgive you, Dennis ! " she exclaimed, fixing her burning eyes on his. " Believe me, I would not alter the past.

I am not good like you. I would not part with the joy of the past few a TTangleb (Barben 9 months even to save my soul, if I have one. Come what come may, I shall have had my day." And then she broke down and sobbed again. The young man touched her bowed head softly, and the touch thrilled her through and through. "Go," she sobbed, "I am unworthy of you. Go and leave me to my sorrow, but before we part give me one last kiss. " And Dennis bent and kissed the hot pleading lips slowly, reverently, almost as we kiss the lips of the shrouded dead. And she " grew half-guilty in her thoughts again". But Dennis went out and the heavy portiere fell behind him and that episode in the young man's life was closed.

Chapter I

" Widow lady living on sea coast, North Wales, wishes to take charge of one or two young children. Large garden, sea-bathing, invigorat ing air. Apply Ard-dhu, Vriog, Dolgelly, North Wales." The above advertisement caught Dennis Ack royd's eye as he turned over the Standard whilst sipping his morning coffee. It is three years since Dennis received the news which was destined to alter the whole tenor of his life. Since then the boyish look has left his face, the lines of thought have deepened ; the blue-black eyes are set deeper beneath the level brows. If Dennis was good-looking before, he is strikingly handsome now, tall and broad shouldered withal. As fine an example of Eng lish manhood as one would wish to see as he pauses in the reading of his paper, his eye caught by the foregoing advertisement.

What could there be in it to interest him ? "Seems just the thing," he murmured. "If she really is a lady, well-bred and refined, that is. The only way to find out, I suppose, is to go and see for myself. I might go to-day, why not?" He touched the bell. "Vickers," to the man who quickly answered it, "put me up a bag for the night and get me a cab for the 11.40 Euston. I'm going to North Wales on business. If anyone calls say I shall be back to-morrow night. And, Vickers — see that that parcel of MS on the desk gets to the Office of the People before 1 2 o'clock. That's all. " From all of which it may be gathered that Dennis was fairly endowed with this world's goods, in spite of the fact that he had embraced the literary profession. In truth Fortune had already smiled upon him, and he was at that time practically independent of the very handsome allowance with which the worthy old Quaker couple still insisted on supplying their only and much loved son.

In the quiet seclusion of that simple though well-to-do home, shut in by the encircling arms of the Westmoreland Hills, how eagerly the London letters were opened. And of an evening the two dear people would draw in their chairs, soft roomy old-fashioned arm-chairs, to the blazing fire, whilst the mother, with a little pink of ex citement on her beautiful old face, would clear her throat before commencing to read aloud her boy's latest article in some leading Review, or a little pungent pamphlet from his pen on some of the topics of the day. To her all that he wrote was clever, astonish ing may-be, yet right and true. But the elder Ackroyd's slower brain was now and again surprised, not to say appalled, at some of the theo ries and doctrines set forth so cleverly by his son. He felt somewhat as we may imagine the foster-sparrow does when, having with some patience and fatherly care impressed upon the fledgling cuckoo the correct and only refined way of saying ' cheep, cheep ', he watches the young bird open his bill, and indulgently expect ing a quieter echo of the paternal note, is startled instead by a prolonged ' Cuckoo.' It may be all right and quite the thing now for the young cock-sparrows, but still he would perhaps have rather his son had been content to say 'cheep, cheep' as he had done all his life.

Not so the mother sparrow. See her feathers shining with pride, 'she always knew their son was no ordi nary bird', and she will fly away and call upon all the other mother sparrows, and ask them quite casually whether their little ones have learnt to cheep yet, and let fall in an off-hand sort of way, her heart meanwhile bursting with pride, that their son had given forth some notes very sweet and uncommon, 'but then his father was always noted for his melodious voice '. For Mrs. Sparrow always upholds her husband's dignity outside the family nest. Which things do show as in a parable the several states of mind into which the quiet old Quaker couple were thrown by the writings of their talented son. So that the one would ponder " Strange that child of mine should think thus and thus" , whilst the other would muse in her glowing maternal bosom " I always knew the boy was no ordinary boy.

These thoughts of his are true thoughts. Things he has dared to put into words, have they not often hovered in my own brain. The past must ever be the past, and the new thoughts of the present will be but the sands trodden under foot by the still newer ones of the future." It may be stated in passing that besides his handsome face Dennis had inherited in great degree from his mother his keen intelligence. This she had fostered by everything in her power ; sometimes his more narrow-minded father feared to the detriment of his spiritual welfare. Nevertheless, kind Nature had not altogether left the father out when fashioning this, her fa voured child. For from that father the young man had drawn a love of right and a keen sense of honour, such as is not often found in this fast waning Nineteenth Century of ours.

Whence the strain of passion in his nature is less easily explained. Perchance from some long buried ancestor, a mere name now, prim and plain upon the family pedigree, which was kept as carefully, and inwardly regarded with as much pride in the plain Quaker family, as any richly emblazoned tree, weighted with gold and blazing with colour, pertaining to any noble in the land. Mary Grace and William John Ackroyd had been married some years before the Lord had blessed their otherwise happy home with a child. This had been a great sorrow to them both, and a source of much bitter feeling to the young wife when at First day Meeting she saw all the other young matrons surrounded by their plentiful little Sarah-Graces, William-Henrys, and Lucy- Hannah-Marias ; whilst she alone had no little hot hand to clasp in hers, no little restless feet to keep still during the long unbroken silences of the quiet Meeting-hour.

And then at last a baby came. Unutterable joy was hers ! Her own child — her very own. In wild moments of her over-flowing maternity she would mumble the tiny fingers in her lips with joy of touch. Or, grown calmer, would gaze deep into the blue eyes as yet devoid of soul, giving no clue to the thoughts, if any, that were passing in the nascent brain. And then would come suddenly the terrible thought that other babes as tenderly loved, as fondly watched as hers, had grown up a curse and not a blessing. And she would pray long passionate prayers for the child's future. Prayers, perchance, that like angels were destined unseen to keep him in the battle that was to come. What should we poor soiled, tear-stained human souls be without that sacred mother love? Certain it is as regards Dennis, that his mother's love was as a shield to guard alike his boyhood and his youth.

And if afterward he fell, perhaps even then it was that mother-love that drew him back and helped him to rise upon the stepping stones of his dead self to better things.

Chapter II

North Wales in the spring time. Who can describe it ? Not even those who have tasted of its delights, have drunk deep draughts of its wondrous beauty; not even they can really share their joy with others. In their own hearts the fresh glory of it all lingers, sleeps it may be for years, and then something — perhaps the first faint fra grance of primroses— a whiff of primroses in the heart of a great city, and lo! a gush of remembrance wells up in the heart, tears even rise to the eyes, and the busy streets have disappeared and in their place is a winding lane. Soft moss lines it from bank to bank ; so few are the footsteps that ever come to crush the yielding green surface that their track is scarcely seen. Not now at any rate, when the snow so lately filled in all the tiny hollows, keeping the summer treasures safely sheltered with its warm white garment. a UanQleb (Barben 18 Each bank bears up a straggling hedge.

No improving hand ever reaches them here, and they grow up in nature's own wild luxuriance, sometimes almost entwining their waving arms overhead. They are already touched here and there with green and pinkish brown of budding wood. Beneath them amongst the freshening green of the grass are whole masses of sweet violets ; the scent of them is strong upon the warm spring air. Here and there is a primrose clump with one or two large pure blossoms wide open, wondering at the clear blue sky; but the greater number are only buds as yet, cuddling together for warmth, half fearing the cold may yet return. Little flies are sunning themselves on the fallen autumn leaves, brown and crisp, warmed once more by the noonday sun. There are green buds on the straggling brambles amid the purple weather stained leaves the last year has left behind.

From a field beyond the hedge comes the bleat of unseen lambs; above is the blue and white of the smiling sky, and under neath arching boughs of wintry trees, just where the lane takes a downward dip and sudden turn can be seen the deeper blue of the foam flecked sea, half encircled by the purple grey of a XTangleb (Barben 19 the distant hills which strike the deeper note in the harmony of colour and of form. Just such a lane there is at Vriog, and on just such a day, down that same lane filled with just such joy in the beauty of her surroundings went Mona Romney, one hand full of primroses and violets, the other drawing up her soft grey gown from the lingering moisture of the mossy lane. The figure was slight, graceful — the face was not young, almost middle-aged some might say after a glance at the snow white hair and the delicate lines that time, or maybe sorrow, had drawn on the high brow and about the curves of the well shaped mouth.

But when a smile illumined her face the dark eyes would sparkle, a clear flush come into the pale cheeks and Mona would look young again, the white hair seeming an anomaly and her age a mystery altogether. The truth is Mona was neither old nor very young but just at that age when an unmarried woman begins to be counted old by the younger girls, whilst a matron of the same age is still considered young. But here was another puzzle, for Mona was neither unmarried nor a matron. She was a childless widow. Her story was a sad one, though a ŒanQleb (Barben 20 not sadder, alas ! than so many of the everyday stories hidden away in the hearts of the people we meet and pass. Her engagement with Horace Romney had been a long one, not for lack of love, but lack of means. Horace was an artist, very industrious, fairly clever, but not brilliant.

It was up-hill work all along. Even as a student it was hard after months of patient plodding to fail where some other without half the industry, but having the divine fire of genius, flashed past like a meteor and secured success. It was many years before the young couple felt justified in risking the matrimonial voyage together. Seven long years he served for her. Then they were married. That first year they were all in all to one another; and the money began to come in quite fast, and everything smiled upon them ! And then the shadow fell. They had only been married a year and a day when a little child was born to them, born only to open its eyes upon the earth and to close them again; to wake the parent love in their hearts only to leave them empty and the mother hands stretched out in vain.

And Mona ailed for some time, and when she ©arben 21 grew stronger Horace fell ill. Only a cold at first but it clung to him and would not leave him, and fresh symptoms appeared. It is a commonplace story enough. The visit to the great London physician. The wearisome examination — and then the verdict. Horace was not the only man who has been ushered out of that consulting room with all the light of his life darkened; dazed, stupified — so young — and the tide of life rushing still strongly through his veins — and yet to die. He is not the only man to whom the bitterest drop in the deadly cup is the thought — 'How can I tell her? How will she bear it?' Mona bore it bravely, as do other wives mostly. Perhaps, mercifully enough, not fully realising the truth, clinging always to the half-acknowledged hope that some loop-hole of escape would be found — that this thing could not happen to them.

A change had been recommended, and so a move was made to one of the sheltered bays on the Western coast of North Wales. Here in the balmy sea-kissed, heather-laden breezes, for a while Horace grew stronger again and hope came back to both. Meeting in one of their wanderings with an old disused house, over-grown, but still sound and weather proof, they wrote to the owner, with the result that a few weeks later saw them comfortably settled in Ard-dhu. And here in this lovely spot came to them their Indian summer of happiness. After sorrow and dread and excitement and hope — came peace. Horace altered so little from day to day — the progress of the dread malady was so very slow, that there was time to grow reconciled to the thought of what was before them. They were always bright and cheerful, avoiding all talk of near future.

For them was only the sweetness of the present and the far Future be yond the dawn. One by one the accustomed walks grew too long for Horace. At last even the tiny waterfall, not a hundred yards from their garden gate, the last visited, best loved, became for him only a melodious murmur heard by day and most of all by night; the long, weary, sleepless nights that so slowly, surely were sapping his strength away. Mona never flagged. Her love lent her courage. But one by one the gleams of silver showed in her glossy hair like the first flakes of winter snow. (Barben 23 Horace painted almost to the last. Some of his best work was touched in by his dying hand; but one day he laid down the brush. " I don't feel strong enough to-day, darling. These hot summer days try me. I shall be better when it is cooler again."

Better ? God knows. The time was then very, very short. A few golden, heavy-aired, rose-scented summer days; a few more hot, weary, panting nights— and then the end. Mona was all alone. She stayed on at Ard-dhu, the spot so endeared to her by the loved presence never more to be at her side. She had sufficient to live on in that simple place. Horace had with loving forethought in sured his life during the early days of their en gagement. To this was added the tiny income derived from a few hundreds that had come to her on the death of an uncle. Little sufficed for her modest wants, and Mona lived on awhile alone. After a time the emptiness of her life began to overpower her. Was she alive at all, she asked herself, or only a dim wandering spirit, destined for ever helpless and hopeless to haunt her husband's grave?

She must have life, fuller life. The native villagers were so few in number, so simple in their needs, there was little to be done amongst them, and they rather held aloof from the Sassnach lady, so sad and gentle and different from themselves. And after a time the child hunger awoke in her heart and cried out and would not be stilled. She had few relatives of whom to take advice, for she was an orphan and an only child, and the aunt who had brought her up had deeply resented the marriage with the luckless young artist who was 'quite poor and not in our set at all!' She had no one's advice to take, but, fortunately, she was quite capable of arranging her own affairs. The first dim idea of adopting a child was modified by later reasoning, resulting in the advertisement which caught the eye of Dennis Ackroyd in his morning paper, causing him to make that sudden and impulsive departure for North Wales.

Chapter III

On the same bright spring day on which Mona Romney was gathering wild flowers in the sun flecked mossy lane, a wagonette with a loose coated, stout-bodied, brown horse and a looser coated, stouter-bodied driver was conveying a young man through the fresh mountain air along the Arthog road from Dolgelly. In some respects he looked out of keeping with his surroundings, and yet Dennis Ackroyd was interesting enough to draw attention wherever he found himself. He looked quite at his ease in the jolting con veyance, the inevitable cigarette between his lips, enjoying to the full the pleasure of his sur roundings. The tide in the wide estuary had ebbed some time ago, leaving long golden curves of glisten ing wet sand and shallow blue river-pools. In these stood the rough-coated black cattle, the a TTangleb (Barben 26 sun being already hot enough to make them enjoy the coolness of the running water amongst their legs.

Calm, thoughtful, they stood, their jaws slowly moving, their backs turned to the bright sun, their reflections black and distinct in the clear water below them. Un-narcissus-like, they heeded not their pictured selves, but gazed with calm, unmeaning eyes at the dappled purple of the distant hills and the rush-strewn bank of the far river-shore, where stood other cows as black, as glossy, as motionless as themselves. Another turn of the road between high banks overhung with tasseled birch and budding willow and the little village of Arthog came in sight. Such a funny little village with its long straggling line of cottages all on one side of the way, facing the river ; and its single all-sorts shop and post-office, clean and comely with its official white-wash and black lettering. A few women left for a moment the dusky fire-lit interiors of their low thick-walled cottages, to gaze, arms resting on their well filled aprons, at the passing conveyance, with perhaps a greet ing to its driver in their gutteral mother-tongue.

Two or three sleeping dogs rose and stretched themselves, turned round, then settled anew to (Barben 27 their slumbers. Half a dozen children scattered right and left from the very centre of the road, leaving their treasures of mud and stone to the mercy of hoof and wheel; the danger over, they stood staring solemnly and without comment at the dis appearing vehicle until it was out of sight, then, untaught by experience, returned to re-construct their broken houses and down-trodden gardens in the self-same place. Meanwhile Dennis had caught his first glimpse of the sea; had passed Barmouth junction stand ing lonely and unexpected amid the marshes, with its long bridge connecting it, as by a single thread, to the civilised life of the fashionable watering-place on the other side of the estu ary.