Walter Alison: his friends and foes

Front matter

Hooks for Joys BY M. L. RIDLEY, AUTHOR OF "WALTER ALISON." OUR CAPTAIN. The Heroes of Barton School. With Illustrations. New Edition. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3/6. "A first-class book for boys." — Daily Review. " A regular boy's book." — Christian World. THE THREE CHUMS. A Story of School Life. Crown 8vo, 8/6. "The story is well told, and the incidents are full of school-life: it is a book after a boy's heart. How can we better commend it than by saying it is both manly and godly?"— -Rev. C. H. SpuRGEON in Sword and Trowel. LONDON: JOHN F. SHAW & CO., 48, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C. CAPITAL BOOKS FOE BOYS. QUEER PETS AND THEIR DOINGS. By Olive Thorne Miller. Fully Illustrated. 4to, cloth extra, gilt edges, 7/6. "Those who delight to hear of the ways and doings, the manners and customs, of birds and beasts, will spend some happy hours in company with ' Queer Pets.' " Dublin Daily Express.

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Chapter I. The Abbey And Its Inmates

T/-trj\RE country round Wynfield Abbey was very WKv charming. A long sweep of low, beautifully- C_J_. wooded hills lay stretching far away, and at their base flowed a river, which — though overshadowed before it entered the sea by the dingy houses of large towns, and traversed by huge vessels — was yet au inno cent little murmuring stream, famous far and near for its pretty waterfalls, and the beautiful scenery that its winding course and wooded banks afforded. Wynvery, a corruption of Wyn Ferry, was the name of the small village that nestled on the southern slope of one of the highest hills, boasting of a church, a school-house, and a store, and besides these only consisting of a few clusters of white cottages, with here and there a newly built, new-fashioned brick villa, which rather spoilt than added to the beauty of the simple rural valley.

As far as the eye could reach, the bright fields of a rich agricultural district met the gaze, and nothing was seen to break the beauty and quiet repose. Further from the river lay several large houses, sur rounded by their own grounds, and only half visible through the trees, belonging to the gentlemen of the county, in which, when free from, or tired of the bustle of town-life, they spent many of their most peaceful days. The centre objects in the landscape were close down by the river, and from the adjacent country might be seen a pretty group of dark yews, and brighter oaks and elms, disclosing here and there portions of a somewhat ruinous old building of grey stone, which was almost joined to a small church, built in a similar way. Wyn field Abbey was formerly one of the monasteries that had been suppressed, or rather robbed, by the avaricious Henry VIII.

The monks of Wynfield had been in olden times respected by all who were in the habit of receiving instruction or benefits from them ; but their benevolence and goodness, which was rather a rare feature of their class in those days, had no power to save them from the fate which befell their brothers. In consequence of some supposed treasure being hidden in the Abbey, it fell under the notice of the king, who turned the monks out of their peaceful enclosure to seek their livelihood as they were able. The treasure was never found, but a great part of the building was sadly knocked about, and it was left to fall into gradual decay. The chapel was still in partial preservation, as well as part of the main building, when Thomas Alison, a gentleman of good family, who was knighted by Charles L, turned his attention to the land given him by that monarch, in return for some service the soldier had rendered him.

Having an eye for beauty, and means to carry out his plans, Sir Thomas completely restored the greater part of the building for his own habitation, marked out again the boundaries of the old monastery garden, cleared up the ruins of the fallen parts, leaving only the picturesque walls and arches, which were covered with lichens, wallflowers, and ivy, and completed his work by con verting the little chapel of the monks into a church. The gardens and orchards were the pride of the owners, and the envy of the surrounding country. No such fruit could be got anywhere like that which grew on the sheltered side of the old dairy ; the pas ture land even seemed to be finer than any one else's, and Mr. Alison, the present owner, was supposed to be the happiest man alive. The abbey was approached from Wynvery by a beautiful avenue, and from the other side of the river by an old stone bridge, which had been built for the use of the monks in their journeys to Wynford, the town out of sight behind the hills.

The river ran very close to one side of the house, being only separated by a narrow gravel walk. This walk, formerly unprotected, was now hedged in; for there was a story attached. Indeed, had that barrier always been between the river and the walk, my story would never have been written. The house itself was hardly like a monastery now in external appearance. True there were heavy stone walls and buttresses ; the front entrance was under a beautiful arch, which bore the arms of Sir Thomas Alison on its key-stone ; the windows were somewhat small, and for the most part mullioned ; there were the remains of the covered passages that had been cloisters, but they either were converted into servants' offices, or had fallen into ruin, and so helped to give a pretty effect to the whole building.

At the back of the house various improvements had been lately made. Long french windows opened on to the smoothest of lawns, on which graceful statues stood in the deep shadows of the old yew-trees that covered a great part of the garden. At the left side of the abbey was a small gate that led through the ruins to the prettiest of church yard enclosures; for Wynfield church seemed quite to belong to the abbey; indeed, the living was the family's. It was a beautiful building for an artist to sketch ; for its tower — one that had once held the curfew bell — was falling into decay, and seemed to be held together mainly by the ivy that clung to it. The interior of the church was low and dark, with small windows, and entered by a rather musty, worm eaten porch that still contained the massive oak alms boxes that had been there in the days of old.

But in spite of being old and uncomfortable, it was dearly loved by the inhabitants of Wynfield and Wynvery. It contained the " Alison " family vault, and the monu ments of each generation, from the one showing the old English epitaph of Sir Thomas Alison, who fell at Naseby, to the last added pure white marble slab in the chancel, over the Alisons' pew, which told that " Judith, wife of William Alison, aged 40," had been laid to rest about a year previous to that in which this story commences. The interior of the abbey was old and handsome. The large staircase was still in existence, and the lower rooms that opened into the square hall were for the most part beautifully panelled. The ceilings had great beams across them, and old fireplaces, big enough to burn the yule log, or roast a pig whole before them, still stood where the first owner had placed them.

One room, however, had been completely renovated, and not a trace of the old fashions and fittings could be seen. It was the most cheerful room in the whole house. Upstairs the rooms were not so large, and some of them were dark and gloomy, from only having small windows, and being shaded by the thick trees that stood so closely round the building on every side. Of course there were haunted rooms. No large house that had existed so long could be without its legend and its ghost. These rooms ran along one* of the outbuildings of the abbey, and overlooked the river and the Wyn Woods. They were kept locked, and the family rarely entered. The elder ones, of course, never for one moment entertained the slightest belief in their family legend, and, having plenty of room in the other parts of the house, rarely thought of unfastening the rusty lock, and making their clothes dusty and cobweby, for the sake of walking on tiptoe through rooms only tenanted by mice.

The younger members of the family and the servants had a wholesome dread of the "Lady of the Wyn," and never intruded on her premises. William Alison, the present owner of the abbey, was a man of good carriage and handsome mien. He was yet young, though his dark hair was beginning to be streaked with grey. He had married early, and his fair, delicate wife Judith had lived in that secluded spot for many happy years. They had three boys, bright-haired, grey-eyed children; but one, their little Edgar, the fairest of the three, had been taken from them when only two years old. Taken, but they could not be certain where. They had lost their child, but they did not really think it was death that had bound the floweret with other faded flowers. The boy might be still living, out of the reach of any who loved him, living without ever knowing a father's or a mother's love.

The story was short, but terrible in its truth. A silly nurse, having charge of the two little boys, had wandered away from her charges one day, when the eldest, Hugh, came running, as fast as his little chubby legs could carry him, crying : "Janet, baby's gone to the water!" The girl wildly ran to that dangerous walk, from which she should have guarded her charges. Nothing could be seen of the child. The river ran on swiftly and silently as ever ; the only clue to his having been there was a cluster of forget-me-nots, which had been torn from the river bank. Wild with terror, the girl proclaimed her dreadful news. The child was searched for, but in vain. No trace of little Edgar was visible, and there seemed little doubt but that the river had carried him away. But no body could be found, and the bereaved parents liked to cling to the one forlorn hope, that he might have been picked up. by some one.

Yet it was a terrible blow, and at last, after weary months of anxiety, the memory of Edgar became only a tender dream in the mind of the survivors. The mother tried to be com forted, for God gave her another son ; but she grew more and more delicate, and, after years of suffering, when Hugh was seventeen, and Walter thirteen, she was laid to rest in the churchyard, and the slab was put up in the church, to tell what it could of the loss the family had sustained. But how little could it say ! Constantly suffering, Mrs. Alison had not gone beyond her home for a long time, unless for quiet drives ; the neighbouring houses had not received her graceful form in their drawing-rooms ; in fact, of late years she had hardly left her sofa. But the more her sufferings in creased, the more the beauty and brightness of her life were apparent ; her colourless, gentle face had always a smile on it, and her words were always kind and loving.

Her husband and children idolized her. The great, strong, healthy boys would do anything to please her ; and it was good to see her careless, blundering Walter sitting quietly, as he loved to do sometimes, with his head on her lap, holding one of her transparent hands, while, as the shadows of the evening came on and darkened the room, he would tell his mother all his plans and aims, all his troubles and joys, scrapes and successes — all that was in his heart. And Hugh, quieter and more sedate, would sit by her side, laughing at Walter's tales, often looking anxiously to see that the cushions under her head were comfortable, or stoop ing to pull her shawl more closely round her as it grew cooler. But it could not last. The slender life was almost done, and at length, sorrowing and heart-broken, the three watched her glide away from them into the other world.

Walter was inconsolable : his mother had been his all, and now she had left him. Hugh's grief was as sincere, but it took a different aspect. He knew his mother was far better off now, with her pain taken away, her sorrows healed ; and he could not grieve as one without hope. Then too he was the eldest, his father's right hand now ; he must bear up, for the latter was entirely broken down. So while Walter gave him self up completely to his wild sorrow, and Mr. Alison shut himself up in his study, refusing to see anyone but his children, Hugh went about, treading softly, as he used to do when the invalid was alive, with a white face, betraying by no other sign the blank that was left in his heart. He sprang up into manhood during those days ; he never was a boy again. But soon his sensible influence was felt ; Mr. Alison began to notice him, and liked to have him with him in his study, and talk to him, first of the dear lost one, and afterwards of busi ness matters.

He now saw that Hugh's sorrow had also been almost overwhelming, and the two became indis pensable to one another. Poor Walter was cheered a little too, though he would not often submit to be talked to by his brother. Yet he felt the wisdom of Hugh's advice, and learned to lean on him, as he had done on his mother. He spent most of his days out of doors ; for it was summer, and Hugh could generally find him somewhere — either on a gate, or up a tree — that commanded a view of the centre path of the church yard. He professed to read a good deal ; but the same book was carried out day after day, and never finished. Hugh grieved for his brother ; for while he felt the loss deeply, he knew he should meet his mother again. She had taught her son to try and live as he would wish he had lived when he came to die, and Hugh had conse crated his life to God.

But with Walter it was different. He had listened eagerly and attentively to his mother's kind words of counsel, but they had rarely stayed long on his mind, and now he felt that she had got far beyond his reach. He imagined it was because he had loved her too well that a jealous God had taken her from him, and he felt angry at the visitation. Day after day he sat and dreamed and puzzled out this hard problem, and argued in his mind that he was an ill used, neglected boy ; and his face retained the dull look so long, that Hugh was alarmed. Then he took his brother to task, talked to him wisely and kindly, often by the side of their mother's grave, and by degrees Walter grew less unhappy, and when the summer was ended he was, in outward appearance, himself again. He never mentioned his mother to anyone, not even to his brother, unless she were first spoken of by him, and then it was with flushing cheek, and glistening eyes, and unsteady voice, which showed his heart was not healed yet.

So time sped, and at last Walter's merry voice was heard once more shouting out of doors and his noisy steps tumbling all over the house; and the hearts of father and brother were rejoiced to see the change, and find the clouds leave his open, boyish face, and his old smile, happy and careless as of old, return. Time heals every wound, and gradually but surely things got back to their ordinary course. Walter returned to his school at Wynford, to which he went every day on his spirited little pony. He was held in the highest estimation at Mr. Peppard's ; the boys, mostly younger than he, idol ized their frank, merry, noisy, unlucky companion. He did not learn much there now from books ; he was get ting beyond Mr. Peppard's control. Scrapes, as numerous as the days of the week, were his lot ; he was always being found out playing some prank or other.

Restless as it was possible to be, always taking into his busy brain wonderful stores of knowledge of human and natural life ; though lesson-books were his abhorrence, and sad were the blunders he made over his daily tasks, he was very fond of reading histories of travel or adventure. His love of insects and animals of all sorts made him a very clever naturalist, and his deep, impetuous, poetical appreciation of all that was good, and pure, and beautiful, gave him a wonderful insight into Nature, as she appeared round Wynfield. So Walter was perhaps learning deeper things that year than books could teach him, learning what helped to make the foundation of the character of an honour able, sensible, true-hearted man.

Chapter II

, NEWS fjT was late one spring afternoon, and the bursting | buds on the trees were just thick enough to throw a shadow into the apartment that the Alisons made their sitting-room. The window was open, and the curtains were blowing somewhat wildly about, to the imminent danger of some delicate statuettes that stood close by. The tea-things had been placed on the table, but no one had partaken of the meal, though it was long past the usual tea hour. The housekeeper had made a journey into Wynford that afternoou, and had not returned, so there was no one to come in and disturb the figure that sat motionless by the table, with his head on his arms, holding a letter tightly clasped in his hands. It was Hugh, who, with face hidden, and perfectly unconscious of time, wind, tea, or anything else, sat absorbed in his own thoughts.

Not a sound broke the stillness ; for even the canary, tired of the silence and chilled by the shade, had ceased its song, and it was only by the occasional movement of that tightly-clasped hand that you could tell Hugh was not carved out of stone. <7 £ What had so affected him, and why did he start so -when the door was thrown open in the noisiest way possible by his brother ? " Hulloa, Hugh ! not done tea then ? " "Done tea? no!" echoed Hugh, in a wandering manner, cramming the letter deep down in his pocket, and turning his face from Walter. " What 's the row ? Why have you broken your rule never to wait for me ?" " I didn't know it was so late," murmured Hugh, glancing at the clock. " Come along ; you can preside to-night ; Hart 's gone to Wynford." " I know," laughed Walter ; " at least she 's coming back now.

I overtook her, tramping along, with her goloshes, and waterproof, and gamp, and basket. What 's in the wind now?" " Her nephew, the sailor, is over there, and she 's gone to see him." He came and sat down with his back to the light, so that Walter should not see his white face; and the latter, so full of the importance of pouring out the tea, did not notice him. "Well, don't you want to know what made me so late ? You never ask any sensible questions ; I never saw any one so devoid of curiosity as you are, my fine brother," observed Walter, giving his brother a cup of very milky-looking tea. Hugh did not seem to notice it, but began stirring it in an absent manner. " Well, more scrapes, I suppose." " Hugh, you might give me a little credit sometimes I think," exclaimed Walter, half offended ; " but I suppose there 's no good denying it.

Old Pepper-box has News. 19 been mighty peppery to-day. I think the first thing that upset him was Roger not ringing the bell five minutes early, and then two or three of the fellows were cocky, so he dished us all round for something or other with a long lecture ; then I got caught, and his worship's displeasure was vented on my luckless head. How horridly cold this tea is !" "What for?" asked Hugh, not heeding the last remark. " Oh, we only tried to climb the tree at the bottom of the garden ! and I, of course, put my stupid foot through his fine cucumber frame. It might have been anyone else." "Well," said Hugh, with an effort at a smile, "if you will do such things you '11 have to pay for them." " I know," responded Walter, putting his hands in his pockets mechanically, " and I haven't got any chink till the pater comes home.

Oh, Hugh ! have you heard when he 's coming ?" Hugh clapped his hand over the pocket that con tained the letter he had been reading, and stammered : "Ye — es; he's coming on Friday." " Let 's see the letter." " No, no," cried Hugh eagerly ; " not yet: Walter brought his sharp eyes suddenly to his brother's face, and, dark as it was, he could not fail to see the trouble written on the features usually so calm and unmoved. It was too real even for Walter to tamper with, and putting his cup down, he laid his hand on his brother's arm. "Hugh, what 's the matter with you ?" Hugh turned his head away, and Walter, really frightened, continued hastily : " I say, Hugh, tell a fellow. Why can't I see papa's letter ? Is there bad news ? is — is he ill ?" " No ; oh, Walter " — began Hugh, almost wildly, and then he threw his arm round his brother's shoulder and hid his face from Walter's astonished, bewildered gaze.

" Hugh, do tell me," urged the boy ; " there must be something awfully wrong to make you do so." Hugh at last gave Walter the letter, and watched the boy anxiously as he went to the window to read. It was dated from Paris, whither Mr. Alison had gone on business. He had been absent three weeks, and now this was the letter that he sent home previous to his return. " My dear Boys, — My business being now completed, all being well, we shall be home " " Who's 'we'?" asked Walter at a loss. " Read on." " -We shall be home on Friday evening. Send the carriage to Wynford for us. I say ' we,' because, my boys, I am bringing home some one I trust, for your father's sake, you will be pleased to see, and will welcome, as you will me. Do you remember Mrs. Fairleigh, who visited your dear mother years ago ?

I have seen her often since then, and now I am bringing her home to the Abbey as my wife." Walter looked up, and opened his lips to speak, but for the minute no sound came. His cheeks grew as red as Hugh's were white, and he fixed brilliant, angry eyes on his brother. News. 21 "His wife !" he cried, crumpling the letter in his trembling fingers. " What business has he , and so soon ! " Then he dashed through the garden window, and disappeared from sight. Hugh was roused, in his noble unselfishness, by his brother's passion. He knew Walter would take it very differently from himself, and he had anticipated this violence. He sprang out after him, for he knew well where he had gone. It did not take him long to unfasten the little gate that led to the churchyard, and approach their mother's grave.

It was there Walter always took his troubles, and there Hugh found him, clasping the cold marble, with his hot cheeks laid against it, his wrathful eyes fixed on nothing. Hugh sat down beside him in silence, hoping that Walter would be the first to speak ; but as he remained quiet, Hugh ventured with : " Walter, you didn't finish the letter." "And don't want," cried the boy fiercely. "Hugh, do you intend to put this — this creature in mother's place ? Do you, I say ?" " No, never," answered Hugh warmly. " She will never fill the place our mother filled, in either papa's heart or ours. Still we must " " I know," interrupted Walter bitterly, " we must call her mamma, treat her as if she were the greatest personage in the world ; see her take all the things that were — that belonged to someone else, and forget mother."

" No, never ! " exclaimed Hugh again. " Walter, old boy, don't do like this. Papa has seen fit to try and make up for his loss, by marrying another wife ; we must be glad for his sake ; he will be better now." Walter kicked a few loose stones ; it was his way of showing his impatience. " You're a saint, you know, Hugh, and I'm not. It 's all very easy for you to put up with such innovations, but I cannot stand it — and I won't." He looked more determined than ever now. " What will you do then ? Oh, Walter, don't you think I mind as much as you do ? I can't bear to think of any one, as you say, taking her place in the house, using what she used ; but it can't be helped, we must put up with it. I wish you'd finish the letter." Walter took it up, and continued : " I know this will startle my boys, but I have too much faith in their love to doubt but that they will do their utmost to welcome the new inmates of their father's house.

Hugh will perhaps recollect that she has a son, a lad about Walter's age, who I think will be a com panion for him. His name is Claude. He is away at present at Boulogne, but will join us on Thursday, and we shall return home together. " I have written all necessary directions to Hart, so now farewell, both of you, till Friday. " Your affectionate " Father." Walter did manage to get to the end this time ; but his face was not altered when he looked up. " A nice thing, this ! " he exclaimed, " Do you remember Mrs. Fairleigh ? " asked Hugh at length. " No ; do you ? " " Yes, she came some years ago, when mother was so News. 23 ill, and I remember how she patronised us all round, and tried to get the upper hand " " And she '11 say she has a right to lord it over us more than ever, now she 's papa's wife," interrupted Walter.

" Well, Hugh, all I can say is, it's very hard and unjust." " Now, Walter, you know she may be very different now. We may be happy after all. It 's never worth meeting troubles half way — you've often preached that to me." Walter was silent. He had looked just then at Hugh's face, so white and distressed, with his quiet grey eyes fixed on his brother's disturbed face, and yet so full of sorrow, and his heart smote him for being so selfish. He looked at the date written on the stone at his side, and said more quietly, but a good deal more sadly : " And so soon after this — just a year." Hugh's lips opened as if he would speak ; then he laid his head down beside his brother's on the stone, and murmured, "Walter, it is hard ; but let us try and act as she would advise us. You know she would be grieved at this rebellion ; let us try and make papa happy by our obedience to him ; let us try and take this new friend into our affections, and our new brother.