Langton Hall

Chapter I Poverty

Y brother and I lived in one of the poorest streets in the south-east of the vast city of London. Did I say lived ? It was as much we could do to keep body and soul together : it could hardly be called an existence. We occupied one small back room, on the third floor of a rickety old house, No. 9, Street. Across the centre of the room I had hung a curtain, behind which I slept ; not on a bed, but on a bundle of straw, with a few rags for my pillow. B John, my brother, hired a street organ, by which we earned on the average from one to two shillings a day, out of which we had to pay at the rate of five shillings and sixpence a week for our room, in which we had a chair, minus a back, a wooden stool, a box in the centre which served as a table, and a bucket which we used as a wash-hand basin.

We rose every morning at six o'clock, partook of some dry bread — with occasionally a little fat spread sparingly upon it — and water. Before leaving our room, we always asked God for his blessing throughout the day. We never left later than half-past six, for we generally walked some miles before we stopped and played. Oh, how many shook their heads when I begged them for a copper ! How often I thought if I were rich I would never turn a poor person away ; a penny which they would never miss, was all I craved, and how much good it would do us ! We usually had a penny loaf each at twelve o'clock, and sometimes, but very seldom, some kind-hearted lady would have us into her back yard, and give us the scraps from her well-stored POVERTY. pantry. What a harvest that was for us ! and we always prayed that God might bless those kind-hearted ladies who had done so much good to two poor children.

We returned home usually between ten and eleven at night, sometimes with — what was to us — a good supper ; but more often only dry bread. On Sundays we generally afforded ourselves tea, but without milk or sugar. This, however, was a great luxury to us. I must not murmur, for had I not a blessing, one which I prized highly, namely, a good brother ? I was only fifteen years of age when my story commences, and Jack was one year my senior, and he was the only one I had in this world to look to for protection and support. My day's work was never ended when his was. After we had wished each other " Good night," I sat up for more than an hour working at my needle. A neighbour, who had six children, was glad for me to help her to do a little sewing ; and although she could not afford to pay me very liberally, I found at the end of six months that I had put by five shillings of my own earnings.

This I decided to keep in case of sickness. Are you surprised when I tell you that if I walked to Hyde Park of an afternoon, I should most probably see a relation roll past in her carriage and pair ? This was my dead mother's sister. Surprised though you may be, it is none the less true, and she would not throw me as much as a copper from her well filled-purse.

Chapter II. My Grandfather's Establishment

I must now carry the reader back twenty years, when my mother was a young, lovely, and happy woman, without a care or sorrow. My grandfather, Squire Langton, as he was called by his country tenants, was a millionaire, and at the time I am now writing of, a widower with two daughters, aged respectively twenty and nineteen. My mother, being the eldest, had been more her father's companion, and when his wife died — which happened when his daughters were just the age to need a mother's watchful eye — he turned to her for comfort, and not in vain. She had always been her father's favourite, but he now seemed to idolise her. Ella, her sister, felt this very much, and vowed if ever she had the opportunity, she would make her sister suffer for it. LANGTON HALT,. How well she kept her word, my story will show.

Edith, my mother, was of course, the mistress of her father's establishment. Three months of the year they resided in their mansion in the west end of London, and the remainder of the time was passed by them on the Continent, at Brighton, or Dartmouth, having houses at the two latter fashionable resorts. Mr. Langton was of a most passionate and unforgiving nature, but a thoroughly good friend and master. His servants, many of whom knew him well, having served his father before him, were careful not to transgress his rules. Only one person dared to go near him when he was annoyed, and that was his daughter Edith. She seemed always welcome ; he was never happy when she was out of his sight, never contented unless his visitors were always praising her, or showing her attention. Is it any wonder that poor Ella was jealous, and vowed some day to have her revenge ?

MY GRANDFATHER'S ESTABLISHMENT. 7 Edith was tall, of a fair complexion, with soft violet eyes which are so becoming to a blonde ; her hair, which hung in ringlets to her waist, was of a pale golden hue, her features were perfect, and she carried an air with her at once so imperative and stately, that it was impossible for any one to offer her an insult. Ella was a good height for a woman, and a brunette, of a most lovable but jealous disposi tion, one who never forgot or forgave a wrong. Twelve months after his wife's death, on Edith's seventeenth birthday, Mr. Langton made her a present of a chaise and pair of grey ponies, giving Ella, whose birthday fell on the same day, a handsome diamond bracelet. This was adding fuel to the flames, for Ella well knew which present had cost the most money.

Edith gave her permission to use the chaise whenever she wished, but this was not what she wanted, she would have liked one to call her own. Her proud spirit would not allow her to put her foot inside her sister's chaise. One day Edith ordered her carriage to be at the door by four o'clock punctually, as she was going to call for a friend — Amy Lynne — and drive to the park. One of her father's orders was that his daughters should never be kept waiting; imagine his anger when ten minutes after the hour had passed before the chaise was seen approaching the front entrance. He opened the door himself, and immediately dismissed hia daughter's coachman, not allowing him to say a word to exonerate himself. Ah ! Mr. Langton, if you could have looked into the future, you would not have dismissed such a faithful servant so hastily. You little thought that, by this one act, you were hasten ing your own as well as your beloved child's death.

Chapter III. Edwardes

It was Mr. Langton's fondest wish that Edith should marry Lord Lynne, her friend Amy Lynne's brother, a noble, good-hearted man, one who was ever ready to do good. Edith, who knew she could never sufficiently care for his lordship to make him her husband, avoided his society as much as possible. Edwardes, the new coachman, had been in Miss Langton's service about two months, when, one day as she was driving to the Park, one of the ponies shied, jerking the carriage to such an extent as to nearly throw the mistress out, and by the time Edwardes had sufficiently quieted the ponies to be able to resume his seat, he found Miss Langton was fainting. He drove as gently but as fast as possible to Miss Lynne's, it being the nearest house he knew his mistress visited. She was there taken to Miss Lynne's dressing room, where the usual restoratives soon brought her back to consciousness.

Edwardes could not get his mistress's image out of his mind, she looked so lovely whilst lying in a state of unconsciousness by his side. He had admired her the first time he saw her, and now felt he loved her. He wished he had been born in different circumstances, and began curs ing fate for having allowed him to come into the world to be made so miserable as he then felt. Had he been born in a better sphere of life, he thought he might have wooed and perhaps won the heart and hand of this lovely London belle. He flattered himself there were many lords who could not boast of such regular features and fine figure as his. There was no disguising the fact, he loved his master's idolised daughter, yet he could not afford to give up his situation ; he knew he could never dare to speak of love to his mistress, he who only spoke to her when she gave a command, and then, not without touching his hat.

However, he felt EDWARDES. thankful that he should have the pleasure of driving her home, and of sitting next to her ; for he well knew she would not feel capable of managing the ponies after her late excitement. In the midst of his musings, he was ordered to take the chaise round to the front, not as he hoped to fetch Miss Langton, but to take word to his master that his mistress would remain at Miss Lynne's that night. Although under the same roof with Lord Lynne, Edith had made up her mind she would not see him, so she remained in her friend's sitting-room, feigning headache as an excuse not to go down to dinner. Lord Lynne was an orphan, and his only sister Amy lived with him and ruled his establishment ; he was only two and twenty, she three years his senior. She had received several offers of marriage, but thought it her duty to refuse them all, until her brother married a wife who would fill her place.

She had seen the error of young men living alone, with apparently no one to care for them and make their homes attractive. Is it any wonder they seek pleasure elsewhere, and have no desire to come to such homes ? We know that a wife has more attractions than a sister, but a loving sister can do a great deal to draw a brother to his home of an evening, and prevent him from having a desire to seek amusement elsewhere. It was Lady Lynne's dying request to her daughter, to watch over her only son, and if possible, to keep him from evil ; this duty she had fulfilled faithfully for the past three years, although she had occasionally found it a very hard task. Amy loved her friend Edith, and it was the one great desire of her life that she should eventually be the wife of her brother. She had her at her brother's mansion as often as possible, for she knew that while Edith Langton was in the house, he would not stir out of it.

But it was very seldom her friend would remain for a meal, and Amy concluded by that, that the millionaire's daughter did not love her brother as she would have wished her to have done.

Chapter IV. The Elopement

Twelve months after the events narrated in the last chapter, we find the Langtons again in London. Edith has consented to become the wife of — not Lord Lynne, but — Edwardes the coachman. She thinks it is impossible to live without him. She does not drive to the Park now, but through quiet roads, so that Edwardes can sit near, and talk to her. This has come about gradually ; no one has watched the growth of their love, or even suspected such a thing. " When will you be ready, my darling, to fly with me and become my wife? " Edwardes said one day, during one of their usual drives. "I have promised you, John dear, that I will leave the house at eleven o'clock to-morrow evening. You know I always give my ponies an apple each at that hour, so papa will think that I am gone to the stable as usual.

I have enough money to last us a few months, and by that time papa will have forgiven us, and be only too glad to have his pet by him again." " How can I ever thank you, dearest ? my one aim through life will be to try and make you happy." "I know that, dear, or I would not trust myself so implicitly to you." He leant forward to alter the mat at her feet, and whilst doing so kissed her hand, immediately afterwards returning to his seat behind, as they were nearing the West-end. Edwardes was once more the coachman, instead of the lover, as a few minutes previ ously. The next evening was the Langton's "at home." Edith had been accustomed for the past six months — since she had been enamoured with her coachman — to visit the stables every evening at eleven o'clock, taking her ponies an apple each.

This evening she had intended taking advantage of that habit, and instead of going to the THE ELOPEMENT. stables, go to what was ultimately to prove her ruin. At half-past ten — having put everything ready before dinner — she begged her friends to excuse her for half-an-hour, leaving her father and sister to entertain them. She flew to her room, and took a small bundle from a drawer into which she put all her jewel lery ; she then took her purse from her desk, changed her evening dress for a dark travelling one, and put on a waterproof and bonnet. Having looked carefully around to see that she had not forgotten anything, she gently opened the door and hastened down the back stairs. As luck would have it no one saw her, nor did she see or hear anything till she found herself in her lover's arms, and heard his loving words.

" My darling, have I really got you safe and sound at last ? I have been ready and waiting for you so long ! but we must hasten on, or we shall be missed before we reach the station." Outside the gates they hailed a hansom, which took them in ten minutes to the station. It was their intention to go to Margate, and be married there in the morning, remain there"a few days, and then visit Brighton. They reached Margate without any mishap, in about three hours, where Edwardes first found Edith comfortable lodging and then went himself to the nearest hotel. The next morning, before twelve, the beautiful Miss Langton the millionaire's daughter, had become the almost penniless wife of John Edwardes, the coachman. Here we will leave them, and wishing them every happiness, will return to the bride's father and sister.

Chapter V. The Note And Its Consequences

After Edith had left the drawing-room, Mr. Langton asked Ella if she knew where her sister was. Ella replied in an indifferent manner, that she supposed she was gone to give her ponies apples. Lord Lynne rose and asked to be allowed to visit the stables to look for her. Having obtained Mr. Langton's consent, his legs could not carry him fast enough, to think he might have five minutes alone with the object of his affections. As he walked on, he soliloquised as to what life would be without Edith, and made up his mind to come round early in the morning and ask Mr. Langton's consent to try and .vin her affections. He had no doubt in his mind as to what Mr. Langton's answer would be, for he fancied he was fonder of him than of any of c Edith's numerous admirers, but he feared that she herself felt no spark of interest for him.

He met the groom, as he came to the end of the garden, who told him that Miss Langton had not been to the stables that evening, so he had himself given apples to the ponies. Lord Lynne walked back alone to the house, very much disappointed, as he had made up his mind he should have Edith's company up the drive. He was surprised to find she had not yet returned to the drawing-room. He told Mr. Langton that his daughter had not been to the stables, and also that he had not seen her. Mr. Langton requested him to ring the bell, which he did, and was answered by a servant. The master said, " Tell Miss Langton I wish to see her." Five minutes afterwards the servant returned to say he could not find his mistress any where. "Cannot find her, John? what do you mean? She must be in the house ! Where is Janet?"

The old gentleman was moro agitated than he THE NOTE AND ITS CONSEQUENCES. 19 cared to show. Janet had been Miss Langton's maid for five years. She now came into the room and said she had come from her mistress' boudoir where she had found a note addressed to her master. Mr. Langton took the note, and dismissing the servant, tore open the envelope and read the following : — " My Dearest Father, — You will, I know, forgive your pet when she tells you that unless she married Edwardes, she would never have had another day's happiness. I will write to you again, dear papa, telling you our address, when I hope to get a long, kind, forgiving letter from you. " In haste, " Your loving daughter, "Edith. Before Mr. Langton could finish the note he fell heavily to the floor, from which he was taken insensible to his room.

Lord Lynne, Amy, and Ella were the only ones allowed to read Edith's note. The doctor, who soon arrived, was doubtful if Mr. Langton would ever speak again. He ordered perfect quiet, remaining with him that night, and at six in the morning had the satis faction of seeing his patient's eyes open. From that time he rallied, but never smiled again, and never forgave his daughter. He made a fresh will, leaving everything he possessed — with the exception of some trifling legacies to the servants — to his daughter Ella. Ten months after Edith's elopement Mr. Langton heard she had become the mother of a fine boy. The renewal of the subject of his daughter's disgrace so enraged him as to cause another fit, from which he never rallied. His death was a great grief to all who knew him, for he Avas universally respected.

It was some weeks before Edith could be told her father was no more, for she was in a very dangerous state of health ; when she did hear it she wrote to her sister, and asked her if her father had not left her anything, not even his blessing, but the letter was returned unopened. Now Ella had the revenge for which she had so long craved, and she never meant to relent

Chapter VI. Sickness And Death

Twelve months have passed since the events recorded in the last chapter. I was only a month old when my mother's life was despaired of. Time had gone very heavily with my parents; my mother, who had never before known what it was to want a five-pound note, now found it a hard matter to get five pence. She still loved her husband as fondly as ever ; he reciprocated the feeling, but at one time he was six weeks without employment, and then Mr. Langton's daughter found out what poverty was. They had returned to London after their honeymoon, and took apartments in a quiet street, from which they soon had to move, the rent being more than they could afford to pay. Their present landlady was a motherly old woman and very kind to my mother and her children. Have you ever entered into a sick chamber — one that serves as a sitting and bedroom, where a window is never opened to admit the httle fresh air to be found in London ?

If so, you can picture Edith's abode. She was sinking fast. She had her infant on one arm and her twelve-months-old boy on the other; her sorrow-stricken husband was kneeling at the foot of the bed, his strong frame con vulsed by the agony he could not stifle. He said he had killed her by bringing her from a home of affluence and luxury to one of penury and want. His agitation excited his dying wife, and the doctor, who then entered, told him he must control his feelings for her sake. The former was a kind-hearted man, and his heart ached for the beautiful woman who would so soon leave them for ever. He said softly, " Twenty -four hours; " the landlady hearing this looked at the husband, but he, evidently, had not caught the words. SICKNESS AND DEATH. The doctor then took his leave, promising to come again in a few hours, which he did, and remained with her till the last.

She died, praying that her sister's heart might be softened towards her motherless chil dren. My father wrote to my aunt, informing her of his wife's death, beseeching her to have a little pity on Edith's children, and telling her her sister's last words. That letter was not returned unopened, but it was never answered. Driven to despair, he made up his mind to call at Langton Hall, and if possible obtain an interview with its mistress. He refused to give his name to the footman who an swered the door. Miss Langton sent word she would not see him, unless he gave in his name ; this he did, and was ordered from the house. He survived my mother thirteen years, but never managed to save a penny for his children to enjoy after his death, hence we were driven to our own devices. A neighbour lent Jack sufficient to pay for the organ for the first month, and he was to refund her as much as he could every month.

Aunt Ella had always secretly loved Lord Lynne. She had had many offers, which she had refused, hoping that in time he would propose to her ; and vowing that if he did not, she would go to her grave an old maid. He had often asked her if she knew anything about Edith — if she was in good circumstances, saying what a pleasure it would be if he could do anything for her, but she always said she knew nothing about her, nor did she want to. After my mother's elopement Lord Lynne had taken his sister on the Continent for a year. Hearing of Mr. Langton's death, they hastened their return, hoping to hear or find out some thing of Edith, but Ella kept a rigid silence. Lord Lynne never proposed and Ella never married. We will now return to the time when my story opens.

Chapter VII. Unexpected News

One morning Jack proposed to go to the West end with our organ. I immediately consented, as I had a great curiosity to see my aunt's house. We were playing in front of a very large house when Jack told me to look into the carriage, pointing to one which was passing, which I did, and saw a lady sitting upright in one corner, with a dog in her lap. I knew this was my aunt — she who could have thrown us ten pounds, and not have felt the want of a penny of it. Would God still continue to bless her ? would she never have pity towards her sister's children ? A thousand such-like questions rose in my mind as 1 gazed till the carriage was out of sight ; then I looked at my brother, and saw tears in his eyes. " How do you know it is she, Jack ? " I asked. " Because father told me, Edith, if ever I saw that crest on a carriage door it was aunt Ella's. I have only seen it once before, and then I was with him — we were close to it.

I looked at it so earnestly that I shall never forget it." "Do you think we shall ever ride in that carriage, Jack ? " I ventured to ask. "No, Edith dear, I do not." At that moment a lady passed, stared at me, and put a shilling in my hand. Could it have been any one who knew my mother ? Could she have recognised me in my strong resemblance to my dear, dead parent? Oh, she had such a kind face, I should like to speak to her. I had forgotten to say I was exactly like my dear mother, every feature of mine my father had told me resembled hers, and I was also growing very tall. My brother was proud of me, for he said I should one day be a lovely woman. We had no associates, for the amusements of the class of people amongst whom we lived did not suit our tastes, so we kept to ourselves. We returned home very disconsolate.

Seeing UNEXPECTED NEWS. our aunt, had made me feel dissatisfied with my lot in life, yet I could not murmur; my brother bore everything so patiently, and was it not as hard for him to bear as for me ? After we had been sitting some time in silence, I said, " Jack, do you not think if I went to Langton Hall, aunt would see me ? She was, perhaps, fond of dear mother, and I am so much like her, father said ; perhaps I could soften her heart a little, telling her we are really very poor. Shall I, dear brother ? " " No, Edith, never ask me that again. While father lived he could please himself whether he went or not, but you shall never go and beg of her as long as 1 have a crust for you. Go to bed, dear sister, you look tired." I obeyed him, and wished him good-night ; but for hours I heard him sobbing like a child.

Ours was a hard, bitter lot. Were we always to live like this ? never to know what it was to have a bed to lie on ? The more I thought of the future the blacker it seemed. I rose once, intending to go and comfort my brother, but remembering his proud, reserved nature, I changed my mind, thinking it would be best to let him weep on undisturbed. I had proposed to Jack that I should try and get some work to do indoors — such as cleaning, minding a baby, or anything I could get ; but he said no, alone he would not get a penny, it was only me people took pity on, and they would think he could rough it, and not trouble to throw him anything. I was glad he thought me of so much use, so I remained content to go with him all weathers, pouring Avith rain, or with the sun scorching my skin. The Christmas Eve after my sixteenth birth day we had only taken sixpence, and it had been snowing all day.

We were playing outside a nobleman's mansion when the cook came out, and attracted, as she said, by my pretty face, took us in by the fire, and gave us some tea, each of the servants also giving us what coppers they had. We were eating some cold roast beef when a footman came in. The cook asked him how Miss Langton was. How breathlessly we listened for the answer ! UNEXPECTED NEWS. It was, " Still very ill, three doctors attending her." My blood ran cold, my appetite was gone ; what I had heard made me feel sick and faint, and I longed to be out in the open air again. " Do they think she will recover, John ? " another servant asked. "Cannot say, I am sure," John answered. " Who will have all her money ? Has she no relations ? " was another's question. " Oh, she will leave it to some charitable institutions, I expect."

"Yes, she has some nephews or nieces, or something, but she won't have anything to do with them; they are very poor, I believe. Nobody seems to know much about her relations. Mrs. Morris, the housekeeper, and a few servants who hved in Mr. Langton's time know, but the horses will tell you as much as they will." " Well, I hope she will live long, for mine is a very good post, and not much to do. Good night, cook. Good night, all of you. Pleasant dreams." So saying, the footman — who was evidently Miss Langton's — took his departure. I could see my brother's appetite, like mine, was spoilt by this unexpected news. I made signs to him to eat, or the cook would not like O it. My heart bled for him — a good meal before him, as hungry as it was possible to be, and yet too disappointed to eat. When we had finished we rose, thanked the servants, and walked home in silence.

On reaching the straw which served for his bed, Jack sank on it and moaned. I went over and kissed him. He did not repulse me, but said, " Oh, Edith ! fancy leaving her money to some charitable institution, when it is ours by right. I did think she would let us enjoy her wealth after her death. I wonder how long she has been ill ? " " You must not take any notice of what servants say, dear Jack, regarding things they know nothing about. You may depend upon it, she has not read her .vill to her footman or any other servant. She may leave us a few pounds : that will be better than nothing, will it not, dear ? " " Would that I could look at it as lightly as UNEXPECTED NEWS. you do, Edith ! Think that I shall have to stay here for ever, sleep here night after night, live on bread and water for the remainder of my hfe, and I may live till seventy."