Rendelsholme. A novel

Front matter

At Every Library. THE FIFTH EDITION OF PARIS HERSELF AGAIN. BY GEORGE AUGUSTUS SALA, With 400 Illustrations by the first French artists, including many by the lamented Cham. 2 Vols., demy, handsomely bound, 25s. REMINGTON & CO., 133, New Bond Street, W. OF EVERY BOOKSELLER. RENDELSHOLME. ■ A NOVEL. IN TWO VOLUMES. BV ANNIE M. ROWAN. VOL. I. 3j>n&0n : REMINGTON AND CO., 133, New Bond Street, W. [Removed from 5, A rundel Street, Strand.} 1880. DEDICATED IO MY NIECES AND EDITH LEIGH. CONTENTS. C'HAP. PAGE I. The Fashion of this World passeth away ... ... 1 II. Denzy 25 III. A Little Stranger ... 38 IV. A Treasure of a Governess ... . ■ ■ 63 V. A Sonless Father 75 VI. Uncle and Nephews ... ... ... ... 101 VII. School 122 VIII. Father and Daughter — Mother and Son ... 139 IX. Biographical and Genealogical ... ... ... 166 X. Three Cousins 187 XI. Bright dreams of Springtime ... ... ... 204 XII. Stable Opinions 222 XIII. A Ride for a Life 262 XIV. The First Awakening ; ... RENDELSHOLME.

Chapter I. The Fashion Of This World Passeth Away

The fashion of this world passeth away. Kiches crumble. Pomp tarnishes. Vanity fades. Glory dies. Even love is but a fevered dream, which vanishes ere we fully realise its dizzy height of bliss, or discover all the de lights hidden in its unfathomed depths. All life is fleeting and disappears from this world as swiftly as the mist of the breath does off the polished surface of a mirror. All we know is : it was, and now it is not. How we came ; the manner of our going, who can tell ? All is mystery. We cannot account for the growth of a single blade of grass, much less for the fact of our existence and the many curious mysteries of our being. Our lives are like a fast flowing river, full of VOL. I. B RENDELSHOLME. broken lights and shades, in the still parts of which vivid pictures are reflected with en trancing distinctness ; but even in these still parts the pictures are ghost-like, as the passing clouds quickly blur and extinguish them ; while the waters of life flow on, tinged by the banks of circumstances which direct our course.

Thus mankind is formed of a conglomerate of grovelling desires, mingled with high aspirations, fomenting and seething together, first one and then the other, taking the prominent part in the action of our lives ; thus producing the many incon sistencies of our human nature. None are utterly bad ; a few have the good perpetually bubbling upwards, so that, as with observant eyes we take notice of our fellow men, we acknowledge strange likenesses, curious travesties of ourselves in each of our neighbours. In one a sin disguised ; the counterpart of which we are aware lies deep buried in our heart, we fondly imagine completely hidden from enquiring eyes. Another flaunts a petty weakness, which B •we despise, and blush to remember time was when we, too, were guilty of the same de linquency. So on, signs and tokens every where proclaim all are akin to one another.

Like sheep following the bell wether, we all join in condemning a detected sinner, even when conscious of secretly cherishing the same sin. Aye ! sometimes we gloat over, hug- — though we carefully hide the dear sin from good Mrs. Grundy — and in our own hearts triumph at our superior sagacity, while we pity or blame tbe " found out " de linquent, according to the weakness of our hearts or the callousness of our conscience ; loudly condemning the sinner, who, weaker, more open to temptation, or less circumspect than ourselves has let the world know of his misdoings. With righteous indignation we turn away from the perpetrator of the overt act, all the while fully conscious that under our own decorous exterior the same canker is fattening on our vitals. Our outspoken dis gust is not aroused by the sin, but by the wretched sinner who has allowed himself to be detected.

RENDELSHOLME. Sometimes we see a paraded repentance, and tremble as we recognise the signs of the sackcloth and ashes which we wear beneath our broidered coats, and wonder if our at tempts at disguise are as futile as theirs ; are we, too, found out, and is the world making merry at our expense ? Thus, everywhere we perceive traits of character, some of which are vile, distorted reproductions of ourselves ; and while, open mouthed, we "good people" shrink from the sinner, we, in our inward hearts, acknow ledge a brother reprobate, and fain would cry with John Bradford of old, " There goes I,. A, B, or C, but for the grace of God." So each one of us, according to the dic tates of our idiosyncrasy, shudder with fear, sneer with contempt, or pass with a shrug of aversion, as circumstances compel us to rub shoulders with these disagreeable reminders of ourselves.

Occasionally, when a small foible or weak ness crosses our path, we give a helping hand to the victim ; our good angel is then in the ascendant. At times, we receive like congenial assistance ; this is when some special power in us, or needs, gives or craves assistance. So each to other gives or receives sympathy. Often propinquity draws like to like, they cling together ; or opposing qualities fuse and amalgamate, makiug a perfect whole ; soul grows to soul and people call it love. It is but a poor imitation of the " real thing," but still with the multitude it passes as such, because the real thing is so very rare that few have had an opportunity of studying it. In this sin-sown world of ours, where ill weeds are strong and grow apace, smothering the good seed, this delicate exotic, the true, pure flower of love, rarely flourishes, or meets with soil to encourage its growth.

True love inculcates forgetfulness of self, a putting forth of all our best powers in the service of, a living for the good of, others. To be perfect it must be reciprocal. The secrets of our soul must be transparent, and there must be no disguise from us in the heart of our friend. Our past, the joy of RENDELSHOLME. our present, and the hopes of our future ar© unreservedly shared. All is good faith, truth, happiness; as each see themselves mirrored in the heart of their love, clear and distinct, without flaw or blemish (for, fortunately, true love is blind, they say), and without any shadow coming between. This, indeed, if only a fleeting joy, is still a joy, once enjoyed to be remembered for ever.. And now for the opening of our story. This true pure love, this rare exotic — more of another world than of ours — has been, and is even now vanishing away; it has shone on the life of a man, and is now taking angel's wings, wafting itself to more congenial spheres.

Let us catch, ere they go, the last gleams of this perishing joy. Let us note the twain who were one flesh. See, the one leaving the mortal, to take her portion with the immortal, where chance and change cometh no more. Leaving the precious memory of short but true love photographed on the heart of a mourner. Photographed, fixed with stinging, sharp acids, so that the picture will remain stamped THE FASHION OF THIS WOELD PASSETH AWAY. 7 clear and distinct on the tablet of his heart to the end of his days, till time for him shall be no more. No human eye sees them ; but we may take our stand in the chamber of death, and note the one taken, and the one left. In imagination we may hear the voiceless wail that m >ans ceaseless in the heart of the twain. Voiceless, for neither gives words to their sorrow, fearing that by so doing they would but add to the agony which each knows is piercing the breast of the other.

Ah ! in hours like this, riches, pomp, power, of what avail are you ? Even love, all-powerful love, how utterly helpless it is. All are unavailing to delay or avert the coming blow ; they cannot arrest the steps of King Death, who is hovering near, pre paring to clutch in his cold embrace his most unwilling prey. A silver lamp, shaded, sheds a subdued light upon this touching scene — Death. To some, death comes as a welcome friend; willingly they lay their throbbing brow and fever-tossed frame to rest in his cool arms. RENDELSHOLME. Others shudder as they shrink from his chill embrace; they have all they need or wish for here, and still would fain cling to the warni, earthly arms that press them softly, and whose loving touch plays pleasant tunes on all the fibres of their being. They are loth to tear themselves away from these sweet delights, and yield themselves to those other stretched-out arms, which, no matter how long they elude them, are sure, sooner or later, to seize and carry them away. .

Yes, all the sons of men born of woman must, willingly or unwillingly, submit them selves some day to the arms of Death, and receive the cold kiss of the grave. On this present occasion the call of King Death has been most sudden and very unex pected, and is indeed, most unwelcome. The victim is young, strong, full of life and love and has many tendrils clinging round and binding her to the present. The crimson pile carpet, the ebony and gold of the canopy bed, the delicate white walls, from which sunny landscapes stand out in cameo relief, the rich, gold-coloured satin curtains drawn across the windows, the antique lace decorating the toilet-table, the silver appointments on the same, the soft couches, the handsome mirrors, all betoken wealth — lavish wealth — luxury, ease. It is hard to leave all this.

Harder still to leave the loved one who bas surrounded her with all these — to leave the husband who has been to her all in all. And he, devoted to her as he is, it is hard that all his wealth and love and strength are powerless to bribe, elude, or defy King Death. It is hard that his earthly arms cannot shield ber whom he loves so tenderly from this masterful cold tyrant who is stepping be tween and wrenching them asunder ; who, even now, is twining his bony arms with petrifying clasp around her shrinking, warm flesh to drag her ruthlessly from the shelter of her husband's love, and who is stilling ber palpitating, fluttering spirit with his chill kiss of death. Aye, kissing away her feeble remnant of life even while her dis tracted husband kneels by her bedside clasp ing her soft hand in his.

RENDELSHOLME. The bowed figure by the bed is that of a man in the prime of life, whose dark eyes are now clouded with despair, and whose face is drawn and blanched, as, stunned, he gazes on his beautiful wife. Gazes in speech less agony on that fragile form that lies so still on the soft bed, from which (the fiat has gone forth) she is never to rise again. She is very lovely as she lies there on her death-bed; waves of golden hair, touched here and there with glints of light, shine like gleams of glory round her angel face. A face fair and young, on which no ravages of long illness have left unsightly traces. Her soft cheek is flushed fatally brilliant with fever, her pouting lips scarlet, and her eyes — those beautiful, star-like eyes — gaze with loving, startling intentness into his. Mo mentarily this intentness increases, deepens, as glimpses of the unknown, fathomless eternity dawns upon her soul and shows the wife, wavering on the border land ; sights and sounds, indications of the coming glory unveiled to her, still a sealed book to him.

As the present fades from the dying woman's mind, as its pains and regrets are merged in the future glories, the wife's wistful, loving gaze speaks unutterable things to his tortured soul. He, who has always given ber freely all she asked, cannot now under stand the question in those loving eyes. It is three years since their happiness began. Only three short years since the young Englishman stole the heart of the novice, and bore the willing French girl away from her threatened convent prison. The proud, French nobleman had refused to rescind the vows that had dedicated his beautiful child to the Church, vows which his poverty had necessitated. But the Church, ambitious for the conversion of the young nobleman, a precious soul to be saved, and riches past counting to win for the good of the Church, suggested that the prize of Rendelsholme was well worthy of the need ful sacrifice.

The young lord was deeply smitten — the child should be the means of winning him to the true faith ! So they baited their hook and talked, till, wearied with their sophistries, Lord Rendels- RENDELSHOLME. holme cut the matter short ; eloped with the young girl, almost a child, who devotedly loved him, married, and took her to Rendels holme. There ever since she had reigned the one idol of his life, and cherished, petted, worshipped, had never regretted the step she had taken. In the French convent or English castle she would alike have been separated from the father and mother; names, that to her bore no loving significance, being merely the symbols of an authority that would have condemned her to a liviug death. In the loving atmosphere of her new home her childlike nature had quickly expanded ; she clung with unquestioning devotion to the man who had made her his wife.

Every fibre of her tender nature twined round him ; she knew no will but his, and had be so de sired it one word from him would have made his religion hers; but, in truth, he never thought of it. He was wrapped up in the present, so completely contented, that he never gave a thought to the future ; so Marie Lady Rendelsholme worshipped as she had ever done ; prayed childish innocent prayers, and poured out her full heart in thanksgivings to the good Virgin, the saints, and the angels for all the blessings which she enjoyed. As her bliss increased each day ; as the child nature grew, nurtured by the sweet influences of loving wifehood and blossomed into tender motherhood, her thanksgivings increased ten fold. She never dreamed that, according to the tenets ofher Church, her beloved husband stood outside the pale, and that the religion he professed damned him eternally.

This thought never entered her head, therefore never troubled her heart, as, in her perfect happiness, she daily breathed forth, with all the strength of her loving nature, petition after petition from her pure lips to saints and angels and all the company of Heaven for continued blessings on the man she loved. Dear soul ! she never doubted that her prayers were heard, for was not he, and was not she unutterably happy ? But, alas ! in the height of her wealth, health and happiness, in the flower of her RENDELSHOLME. opening womanhood, the curse of sin found them out. The fiat had gone forth that was to shatter their earthly paradise — - Marie Lady Rendelsholme must die. Her husband's wealth, which is great, his love, which is greater, is helpless to save her. She must die. Must leave all and be buried in the cold, black grave.

Leave all. Leave husband ; leave children ; leave the lovely, bright world that love has made so fair for her, and that she has enjoyed so well — leave all that her heart clings to, and be put away alone in the cold, black grave — that gloomy stone vault, which, once her husband had shown her, standing on the bare hill side, as the last home of the honoured of his race. She had shivered when she sawit, and turned away. It looked so lone, so helplessly lonely. And now, they told her she must die. Recalling the gloomy vault to mind she shuddered. Must she lie there, all alone, cold and dreary ? Must it be ever there, in the cold, black, unfriendly earth with the sobbing wind alternately sighing, and shriek ing wild wails round her narrow bed ? Then her spirit wandered and evolved to ber shuddering soul a consolation, the blessed fact there was a further hereafter.

Where ? How ? What was it to be ? Was she to be alone ? And those she loved — where, oh ! where were they to be ? Together, or separate, which ? She was sick, weak, confused. Wild memories flew through her brain. Wants and wishes, hopes and fears, rushed headlong, chasing each other through her helpless mind as she lay, past the power of reasonably thinking, almost pulseless — dying. A few hours since, almost unconscious, she had received the last rites of her Church. Been confessed. Absolved. Now, other shadows than the shadow of death came darkening the anxious mind. Doubts arose. Had her past happy life been one huge, deadly sin ? She, the promised bride of Heaven had turned her back on the life, to which, from her cradle, she had been dedicated — come out into the world and married — worse still, had married a heretic.

Was this early death a RENDELSHOLME. penance for the sacreligious crime she had committed ? Was she snatched thus early from her earthly happiness as an expiation of that sin ? Poor soul ! It was only yesternight that Lady Rendels holme had given birth to a little daughter. Only an hour since the doctors had left saying their skill could do nothing to prolong her precious life. Alas ! for the stunned hus band. Alas ! for the disappointed Father- Sinclair, and three times alas ! for the de frauded Church ! When the dread fiat " no hope " had been spoken, Lord Rendelsholme had closed the door, shut out the curious world, and re mained alone with his dying wife. No pen can tell the great torrent of woe that swept, inundating the soul of the stricken man, as he threw himself in helpless sorrow on his knees by his wife's dying bed.

He would give all he possessed to preserve the life of his dear love. His whole beino shook with the big agony of his present woe. He had no thoughts for the happy past, nor to spare for the future ; he was thoroughly THE FASHION OF THTS WORLD PASSETH AWAY. stunned by the misery of the present, and hardly thought of the blank that life would be to him without her, as he hung upon the present moment — watching with a hungry longing for one last look, for one word. Still, with eyes closed, appallingly beautiful she looked on her death bed. The minutes passed, the awful stillness lasted, broken now and then by short, gasping breaths, at which his agony intensified, till the great drops of clammy perspiration stood out upon his forehead, rivaling the death dew on her brow. At last the great hollow eyes opened, dilated — a look almost from the other world — the dying wife cast on the desolate husband a look of love untold — of mute appeal for a something that the poor quivering lips could not demand.

" My darling ! my darling ! " he gasped, " what is it ? Say but one word. Leave me a something to do for your sweet sake." A poor, weak smile — all that exhausted nature could give — swept like a gleam of wintry sunshine across the face of the dying VOL. I. c EENDELSHOLME. woman, and the poor lips feebly formed the words — " Denzil — love — love — " Then a film darkened the beautiful eyes ; the colour fled from the cheeks, the drawn lips grew blue and cold, and a grey hue fell like a mist, obliterating the beauty of life from the sweet face, leaving it cold, cold like chiselled marble, beautiful to look upon, but no more like the living, loving wife. With the word love, which had been her life upon her lips, the pure spirit took its flight from its tenement of clay, and Marie Lady Rendelsholme lay dead.

The little hand grew cold in his grasp. Cold, stiff, and, ah ! how heavy. Still Lord Rendelsholme knelt on. Knelt, he never could tell how long; he was only conscious of one thing, the stunning grief that Marie lay dead. All light was gone out of his life. All was .black, dark, and still around him. Whether it was one hour, two, or three, he never knew, when, like a man walking in his sleep, he arose and felt his way to the door. There he turned and looked towards the bed. The still white face, the effigy of his dead love, unmanned him completely. With a wild cry he staggered forward and fell insensible across the remains of his wife. There the attendants found him, as, alarmed by his cry, they rushed in. He lay white and still, almost as cold as his dead wife. For days after he lived as a man in a dream.

Father Sinclair, the chaplain and trusted guide of the late Lady Rendelsholme, ordered and arranged everything for the funeral. He was deeply affected by her ladyship's death. A clever, far-seeing, astute man, he had been really attached to her ladyship ; equally attached to his Church. He had ever lived in the hope that the hour would come when he might safely use his influence and authority over her ladyship so as to induce her to persuade her husband to come over to the Mother Church. She had been so absorbed with her husband, his wisdom, and his right-minded ness, that the priest had never found a RENDELSHOLME. favourable opportunity for infusing doubts into her mind as to that husband's spiritual welfare. She, herself, had been sweetly pious, devout — very lavish in her charities — but, being young and very happy, had not been tainted with superstition, so the wily priest had felt convinced that any doubts or fears which he might insinuate would at once be laid before her husband.

Lord Rendelsholme was a devoted husband, careless in religious matters — at least careless when his prejudices were not attacked. He was quiescent at present, but there was no knowing what he would do, if unwelcomed doubts were intruded into his Garden of Eden. Probably his influence, which was all powerful with his wife, would scout her timid fears, and end in withdrawing her and her wealth from the priest's influence and the watchful care and lynx eye of the Mother Church. She was supremely happy, devoted to her husband — thus argued the priest with him self. If the Church's curb was drawn too tight she was sure to say with Ruth — " Where thou goest I will go, and thy God shall be my God." She would throw his threats to the wind and follow her husband out into the broader light ; therefore he had bided his time.

Presently the cares of her earthly Paradise would increase — the child ren would make a difference— create a diversion in her mind. Through the child ren he would surely acquire more influence — over them he would be able to exert un limited control. This thought had consoled him — and, therefore, he had waited; be would not be precipitate, but by persevering patience win the day. Good man ! and now, alas ! the chance had slipped from him ; so Father Sinclair was sadly grieved at Marie Lady Rendelsholme's death. Sorry for the sweet, fair, tender woman— doubly sorry for the loss her death would be to his loved Church. The husband existed, but hardly lived, while the weary days dragged out their lagging hours, and the wearier dark hours of the silent night wore themselves somehow away. And the priest came to and fro, RENDELSHOLME. arranging the stately funeral — that mockery of death— and, seeing the grief and supineness of the father, his ever busy brain commenced to weave further plans for the winning of the children and of Rendelsholme.

At last the sad day arrived when the mortal remains of Lady Rendelsholme were to be laid in their hallowed rest. The black hours of the past night had been filled with the shrieks of wild storm, which, as the grey, spring morning awoke, were drowned in torrents of pitiless rain, but, as the day grew, the floods of rain were staid, and a sombre pall of inky cloud shut out the canopy of heaven and lowered over the sodden-soaked earth ; while, ever and anon, faint growls of distant thunder, and fainter sobs of tired wind fell upon the ear, as the storm, like a restless, naughty child, sobbed itself to sleep. The distant thunder and the wearied wind making fit orchestral accompaniment to the sad funeral procession of Marie Lady Ren delsholme as it wound its way slowly across the beautiful park, through smiling valleys and over crested hills to the lone, bare hillside where the family mausoleum stood.

Then, as they carry the coffin to its final resting place, and the sad De profundis strikes the ear, the black pall that clouds the heavens parts, and great piles of velvety softness fall in light folds earthwards, shroud ing the watery landscape ; while skyward the edge of the purple pile is threaded with a dazzling fringe of pearls, tinged with the tender light reflected by the silver lining of the black cloud, revealing, above and beyond, as far as eye can reach, a vast expanse of clear sepsia-washed heavens, where tiny breaks of timid light faintly peep, suggesting a something brighter than the dark present, as lying beyond and above that great limitless, cloudy span. It is on such a gloomy spring day as this that they lay the young wife to rest in her narrow grave. The chief mourner walked sadly and alone in the procession, acquiescing silently in all Father Sinclair's suggestions, as if he had no will or thought of his own, and was deaf and blind to all around him.

RENDELSHOLME. With lac-lustre, unseeing eye he gazed while the ghastly, gorgeous pageant went on ; with unheeding ears he stood while the solemn mass was sung. He had neither eye nor ear for the present as the light and the joy of his life lay buried in the oaken coffin. When all was over, one by one slowly the mourners took themselves away, he followed in their wake, stunned and bewildered found his way to his carriage, where he hid himself as he was driven to his empty, desolated home. Arrived there, with weak, unsteady foot steps and blind eyes he groped his way to his lonely chamber, were he shut himself up with his sorrow. Hours after, when their fears gave them reason and courage to intrude, his servants found him lying unconscious on his couch. Days and weeks followed, during which Lord Rendelsholme's life trembled in the scales.

It was thought that death would not long divide the sorrowing husband from his idolised wife. During this anxious time Mrs. Devereux, his widowed sister, was summoned and took her place by his side.

Chapter II

" DENZY." Haughty Olive Devereux — the lines of her proud face softened as she sat watching the sick bed of her brother. His poor, wan face was indelibly lined with the finger of sorrow, and whatever feelings of hurt, pride, jealousy or ill-will she might ever have harboured against her half-brother, these died out as she watched ; and she only remembered he was her father's son — the head of the family — a stricken man, apparently dying before he bad reached the prime of life. But, Lord Rendelsholme did not die. His cup of life was not yet drained to the dregs. If the sweetness of the draught had been swallowed for good and all, God in His wisdom only knew how bitter the latter sups from the cup might prove ; how much more •of grief, pain, and misery the crushed heart would have to bear ere the day came when RENDELSHOLME. the silver cord would be broken, and the ransomed spirit take flight from its tenement of clay.

God send, when that day comes, that the soul may be able to answer the question, " Traveller, where goest thou ? " As the weeks wore away, strength re turned to the sick man, but no life or heart seemed to animate him. Day after day he lay or sat listlessly, looking from his study window. There was a far away look in his eyes, as if he gazed on some sad scene in the distance ; they certainly were not resting upon, nor was his mind thinking on the towering elms that graced his lordly lawns ; neither were they arrested by the graceful beeches, beneath whose rustling leaves his two baby children were sheltered from the noon-day sun. Moreover, since the day when the great vault had been closed on the remains of his wife, he had never seen, or asked to see those poor little ones. A very wreck of a man he looked — ruined at the outset of life.

How still and sad his room was, how empty ! Striking contrast to- "denzy." 27 the full joyous nature that revelled outside, where soft winds whispered soothing sounds, and carried sweet scents to those who would have them; where the birds flew hither and thither, chanting their gay carols ; where proud trees raised their noble heads, courting the heat of the sun or cool refresh ment of the passing shower ; where gorgeous flowers flaunted their dazzling beauty, as they bespangled the verdant green, that, like an emerald jewel, lay beneath the lone man's window; where the very insects hummed ceaselessly in very joy and thankfulness for their fulness of life, for the blessing of the warm sun and the fair summer weather. God help him ! He saw none of it — felt none of this beauty — no summer sun was to shine for him ever more.