George Goring: a novel

Front matter

In three Vols., 31s. 6d. TRUMPED WITH THE DEUCE, By J. PANTON HAM, Author of "The Bridal Bar." " It is well worth reading, and will be regarded with many a hearty laugh."— Despatch. " Has some capital description in it, and the characters are well worked out." — Morning Post. " Some scenes in the hook are delicious in the extreme, fascinating, and full of shrewd common sense, and no ordinary humour."— John Bull. In three Vols., 31s. 6d. (Second Edition). WILLIAM MELLISH. By PRANK TROLLOPE. Author of "An Old Man's Secret," " Broken Fetters," " The Marked Man," " The Gladstones," &c, &o. In three Vols., 31s. 6d. THE MILL WHEEL. By HELEN DICKENS. Author of " Wild Wood," &c. THE VISCOUNT FIGANIERE'S NEW NOVEL. In three Vols., 31s. 6d. PALMITOS. BY THE VISCOUNT FIGANIERE, Envoy Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary at the Imperial Court of Russia.

"Palmitos is interesting, introducing us to what we suspect English people know very little about, country life in the Empire of Brazil. The book is decidedly entertaining." — Athenæum. "We doubt if in 1874 a better, more interesting, or graphic novel will be published."— Daily Guardian. " Life on a slave plantation is described with a vividness which is at times quite frightful. For an appreciative and sympathetic history of slavery the book deserves careful study. A charming heroine, whose protests against cruelty and constant adventures add much to tne thrilling interest with which it cannot fail to be read." — John Bull. " It furnishes many interesting scenes of adventure and peril." Bell's Messenger. " The book is likely to be popular." — Mirror. " Abounds in thrilling situations and exciting adventures, and an air of freshness and novelty carries the reader gaily on through chapter after chapter." — Standard.

" It never flags, and its vividness is preserved from first to last."' Morning Post. GEOEGE GORING: A NOVEL. BY CECIL RUSHTON. London : MORGAN AND HEBRON (successors to t. cautley newbt), 30, WELBECK STREET, CAVENDISH SQUARE, W. [all rights reserved.] 1874. DEDICATION. TO "K." AND "K."

Chapter I

One morning in October I came down to breakfast, and found a letter, wbich was as follows : — *' My dear Ellie, — " Will you come and stay with us at Donnington P Please do. Not for a horrid little visit, but come for a month. There are some awfully nice people staying here ; — we shall be very cheery, I think. You'll wonder at my inviting you to this house, but Sandy's grandfather has goue to live abroad for good and all, as his health won't stand the cold and damp of England; B and Sandy is to have the bouse and land altogether, which is charming. I'm longing to shew you my boy Jack, and my husband. I'll meet you at Donnington ; write and say what train you'll come by. How pleased I'll be to see your dear old face again. Do you ever think of Medina Villas, and that little horror of a music master with his eye-glass ? and Madame's frills and grandeurs, and the young man in the Square, who would look at me, and you said it was improper ?

Now I sball stop myself, or I'd go on indefinitely. You must come — you shall not say no. I never could ask you before, because, you see, the bouse wasn't ours. Now I can, and I'm glad of it. " Erom your affectionate friend, "Laura Meredith." The key whereof is, that Laura and I had been at school together, bad been after a fashion great friends ; then she married a year after we left school, she and her husband had what you would describe as a very limited income, inasmuch as they were quite de pendent on Mr. Meredyth' s grandfather. They had travelled abroad a good deal ; in the intervals of this had stayed at Don nington. I — at Albury, a very quiet country place, eight miles from the nearest railway station — had since my school days lived an utterly uneventful life. We were quite alone, my mother and I. The only excitement or change in my life was when my mother's only sister came to stay; she spent her existence in going from watering place to watering place in a supposed search after good health.

She wished us to accompany her, but my mother shrank nervously from leaving Albury, where she had lived for twenty-five years without intermission or change. I used to long vaguely to go away some where, anywhere, so that I might see — hear something fresb. I knew all the trees, and b rooms, flowers, and ways of Albury by beart. I wanted to cross this enchanted land of sameness and silence, and get out into the world. And now suddenly came to me my wish. And I could go. Aunt Ellen bad just arrived for her annual visit — my mother was quite content. She gave me many cautions, however, and some rules as to my bebaviour. Aunt Ellen, who bad just come from Paris and Boulogne, produced out of her voluminous boxes the most lovely white silk dress. " There, my dear, I bought this for you in Paris — first-rate house !

It is to be worn with real tea roses, the fellow told me. I thought sometime or other you must go somewhere. Now, you see, it has come in." I was charmed, delighted by her kindness. I wrote my acceptance, two days after packed my finery, and started early in the morning on my travels. Negociated the perils and trials of London most successfully ; had a wonderfully exciting journey, flying along the country at express train rate, and then Donington at last. A small country station it was, a very narrow platform ; two bagmen on it waiting for the tiain, a woman with a basket, and a very smart groom in irreproachable top' boots and any amount of buttons. Dhectly the train stopped, and I looked out, and feebly attempted to undo the door, bis eagle eyes discerned me. He reached the carriage, opened the door, collected all my books — namely, a " Mayfair," " The Gayworthys," a "Punch" — got down my umbrella from the netting, found my boxes, told me bis mistress was waiting outside, all in such an incredibly short space of time, and so without the slightest confusion or hurry, that I followed him meekly to the carriage, feeling him to be a very, very superior order of servant to any I had ever come across.

Laura was charmed to see me ; and if there was a stronger term to be used, I could do it conscientiously. " You dear, dear old funny !" she cried out, " and I am pleased to see you ! Get in. Oh ! the luggage is all right; there's a cart for that. Oh, Ellie ! how nice you look — so fresh and delicious ! I should like to give you a kiss, you darling !" " Loll !" I cried, faintly, " and the station master looking on !" Loll laughed. " All right ; I'll defer it. There, now we are all right." And we drove off. When the first few minutes were over, and I'd inquired after her husband (Bob), pet name " Sandy," and her child, Jack, then she began to tell me who was staying in the house, in her usual rackety way. "There's Edie Hillyar; you'll hke her— she's very small and dark, and cheery ; and then there's Henry Biron, he's the very dearest little man that ever was created ; he's only five foot three, and very good-lookino-.

Then there's Vero Crocker ; he's a sort of cousin of mine, twenty only, hasn't left Eton more than a year ; he's jolly. Then there's George Goring, and he's — " Here she came to a dead stop, and hesi tated. I grew curious. " Well, Loll ! and he's — a darling I suppose, or jolly, or very handsome." " No," slowly flicking with her whip the mane of one of her ponies, the right way ; " he isn't anything of that. But his story is awfully sad. He was married four years ago — he's a soldier — and was ordered out a year afterwards to India. His wife, who was ill then, couldn't go with him, so he left her, and — and, Ellie, he came back ten months after wards to fetch her out to him, and — and found she had bolted with Lord Dampier' s eldest son !" " Oh ! how horrible !" " Yes— very " (absently). " So, Ellie, you see you must be kind to him.

He's got a divorce. I wish someone would take pity on him, poor fellow, and marry — " " Laura, how can you talk so ?" I cried. "Why, don't you know it says in the' Bible that—" " Hush ! hush, Ellie ! you'll horrify me ; you'll undermine my groom's morals. He can hear every word ; he isn't a married man ! Which speech effectually stopped my con versation for the next five minutes. Through a lodge gate, up a long avenue, then along by a spinney we drove; then another gate, and suddenly broke on my de lighted eyes a great grand sweep as far as I could see of exquisitely wooded park,— and the house an enormous red -brick building. " Oh ! how lovely, Loll." "Yes, very. There — -there's a shot — there's another and another. The men aren't far off. Steady you brutes, steady. You shall stop — you brutes."

Then ensued a scene of much plunging and rearing, wbich ended by Jackson, the groom, jumping down, and going to their heads. " Laura, how could you call them — I mean the ponies — what you did ?" I said, hesitat ingly. " That's far worse than what I said." " Nonsense !" laughingly, " Where's the harm of that ? You should hear Bob's stud groom swear, when they're doing the horses of a morning, when he doesn't know we are near. There, Ellie, right out by that spinney — Harthover it is — the men are. There's Bob first — I know — he's so big — and George Gor ing next, and Henry — no it isn't though, it's Vero next, and then Henry. They'll be in in half-an-hour. We'll get on, and order tea and hot buttered toast for them." Laura took me into the drawing-room, threw her hat and sealskin coat on to a chair, — looked round the room — " Where's Edie, I wonder?

Edie, Edie" — she went to the door, and called up the stairs to her. A far off voice — " I am coming." Then a great bang of a door — a clatter along the oak passage — a further clatter down the echoing shallow stairs — and a rush across the stone hall, and enter Miss Edith Hillyar. b She was a very small girl, with dark blue eyes, black lashes, beautiful features, and immense masses of bright light golden hair. Dressed in a perfectly tight black dress, ■ — made quite plainly. " Edie," said Laura, with one of her suddeu lapses into lassitude, which irresistibly carried me back to our old school days, " here is Elaine Knowles. Order the tea, dear. I'm so tired. My bead aches. They'll all be in directly." "I know — I heard the guns, Loll," says Miss Hillyar, noncbalently. " Were you in time for the train ?

Laura's always late, Miss Knowles, for everything. " She was in time," I answered her, smiling, " but the train was late." Tea was ordered — five minutes past — and then we heard a final shot delivered perfectly close to us. I started. Laura shrieked, and Miss Hillyar laughed, jumped up from her chair, ran to the centre window directly, flung it up, opened the half door, and went out on to the stone steps, that led on to the green lawn. First of all appeared a man I knew must be Henry Biron — from his size. Next a young man, with a pale face, blue eyes, and the most beautiful set of white teeth. Vero, I decided. Then, an enormously big man, with sandy hair and whiskers, and a loud voice. Laura, who hadn't taken the slightest notice of anything or anybody since her ladylike shriek, said faintly, " That's Bob, Ellie."

And then came a man last — tall, handsome, dark-eyed. That must be George Goring, I decided. They all stood talking and laughing to Miss Hillyar, for three or four minutes, then in a body came into the room. I was sitting half behind the curtain, it was getting dusk. " Why," said one (Vero Crocker, I discovered afterwards), " where's the sleeping beauty ? Why, Loll, you said — " Laura here broke in — " Ellie, do come out of the darkness. Oh ! there you are. No, don't move if you are comfortable. My husband — Miss Knowles ; Vero — Mr. Biron. Oh ! I can't go through it all ; you'll know them some day." Then everyone began to laugh and chatter, and I was left feeling rather forlorn, till a voice close to me said softly, in a very low, quiet, slow voice — • " I have brought you your tea, Miss Knowles, and you must let me take your hat from you, you see, or you'll not be able to drink it."

I had my hat in my lap. I looked up, and it was the tall man, George Goring, the man I had decided to myself to have nothing to do with, because of his unfortunate story. He gave me my tea, brought me sugar and cream, brought me biscuit and cake, found himself a chair near me, and talked to me till we went up to dress. I have often wondered since why he did all this. Simply, I believe, out of pure kindness ; he felt I was shy and strange ; that was quite enough to enlist his compassion, to ensure his kindness. Upstairs in my room were all my evening dresses laid out, so that I could choose which to wear; my candles lit, a bright wood fire, for the autumn evenings were chilly, and some lovely flowers — scarlet geraniums, white starry Cape jessamine for my hair and dress. I put on my white silk, fastened in my flowers, clasped on my pearls, my thick gold bracelets.

The second bell rang (I had dawdled and dreamed and dawdled again over my dressing), I seized my handkerchief, and ran swiftly down the stairs, coming suddenly the last flight on to Mr. Henry Biron, who, in all the glory of a scarlet dress hunting coat, wbite silk faced, a white waistcoat, and a flower almost as big as himself, was de scending. He looked back and laughed at me, when he saw my hurry. " You'relate, Miss Knowles, very late. Sandy (Mr. Meredyth) will be furious; he hates to be kept waiting a second, and — ■ what's the matter ?" " Oh !" I cried, " I've dropped my bracelet ; I put it on in such a hurry, I can't have clasped it. Oh ! never mind ; please don't hunt for it, I'll find it afterwards. Please." " Please, here it is. Now, as I've found it, I shall claim, as a reward, to put it on.

May I ?" " I can do it much faster," I said, rather crossly, vexed at being kept waiting, for ho was standing on the lower stair, so that I could not pass. " Please let me," smiling archly at my per plexity. "Ob! no." " How very unkind you are to me !" " Oh ! I am so sorry," I said, directly, really afraid I had hurt his feelings ; " of course you may put it on, and thank you so much, Mr. Biron," I added, after a pause, as he clasped it on, "for finding it." He looked at me doubtfully for a moment, saw I really meant my thanks, to a certain extent was gratified at my words ; took my candle from me, and put it down, opened the drawing-room door for me, and followed me in, keeping a respectful distance from my long white silk skirts. Mr. Meredyth, directly he caught sight of me, promptly advanced up the room towards me, and put out his arm.

" Now, Sandy," says Mr. Henry Biron, " don't be cross ! You look furious, but it's not my fault I'm late. Miss Knowles kept me ten minutes bunting for her bracelet on the stairs." " Mr. Biron !" I cried, entreatingly, " What 99 a — But here Laura interposed by telling him " to take in Edie Hillyar." Mr. Meredyth said something about, " Never mind— come along — forgive you !" By which pretty Christian speech I felt so overpowered that I was seated by his side ; bad said " white soup !" to the butler, and drunk some sherry, before I quite recovered my composure. On my other side was my little enemy, Mr. Biron, looking charmingly satisfied with himself and Miss Hillyar, and seemingly totally oblivious of my presence. Sandy (Mr. Meredyth), never conversa tional at any time, was less so than ever during the dinner-time, so I had ample oppor tunities of amusing myself by watching my neighbours.

Laura had George Goring on one side of her; be was her last "idea." Laura never flirted — it was bad style, and that sort of thing ; but she took fancies, which she indulged to her heart's content. Now, George Goring was her last, owing entirely to what she designated as " his sad story ;" if his wife had not left him very probably Laura would never have so distin guished him. But she bad, and the man was still miserable about it, though it had hap pened a year ago ; more, he showed that be was so by his face. Added to this, he had a dolce far niente slow way of speaking, and a quiet, sleepy smile, which was — even to a disinterested observer, like myself — rather taking. I saw in five minutes that he was a pet of Laura's, by her eyes, when she talked to him — her animation — her smiles. I was vividly reminded of an Italian master at school, whom Laura had admired, because he was very poor and, in his native country, a prince. • , Vero Crocker next received my regards ; he was simply a very cheery, pale-faced look ing young man, with a slightly insolent smile, which he evidently used principally for the benefit apparently of Miss Edie Hillyar.

Just then I heard Henry Biron say in a perfectly audible voice to her what follows, and I vouch for the literal truth of every word which is here written down. "Miss Hillyar." " Well." " We lunched at Charteris' to-day. Mrs. Cbarteris was tbere; has left her mother, who is better. Do you think she is good looking ?" " I think she's the most beautiful woman I ever saw in my life. Her complexion is lovely, anything like the exquisite red and white of it I never saw. I am sure she paints. Sometimes, if you see her quite early in the morning, they say she is pale." " What a shame !" smiling. " Miss Hillyar, how you ladies run each other down !" " I don't ; I don't care if she is painted, and her hair is dyed. I say, if she is, still she's the most grand-looking, splendid woman I've ever seen ; and her eyes — -those must be her own."

" Do you dye your hair ?" says Henry Biron, looking at her steadily. " No," turning deliberately round, and putting her head close to his to give him a better view, " I don't. It's very pretty hair, though, isn't it ?" " It's lovely hair, Miss Hillyar. It always looks to me as if it were going to blow away. If I were to give up hunting, and knocking about London, you know, and that sort of thing," pursued he, without the vestige of a smile on his face, " I should turn hairdresser — ladies' hairdresser," helping himself as be spoke to some ortolans. " I love the feel of their hair in my fingers !" " How are you," scornfully, " to know the feel?" " How am I?" unabashed; " quite easily. I've got a sister and cousins ; oh ! and lots of relations." " Fancy doing all the ugly old ladies' wigs." " Young ladies' hairdresser," says Henry, sententiously, " I wouldn't have any but them in my shop.

I could easily get a business. I've a very good connection to start with. When I do, will you come to my shop ? Will you, Mrs. Meredyth ?" " Will I what ?" " Have your hair cut by me, when I turn hairdresser." " Certainly," smiling. And then returning to Mr. George Goring — " But as I was saying — " I lost the rest of it, for the little horror (I hope this isn't slang ; if it is, Edie Hillyar's society it is which is fast demoralising me) turned suddenly round on me with the most charming smile, and innocent look in his cheery blue eyes. " And may 1 hope for your custom, Miss Knowles ?" I hadn't forgotten the ten minutes. " No, you mightn't," I flared out with, " for I prefer people who understand their business." " I should go under Truefitt, of course, for a couple of months," said be, imperturbably, smiling at my severity.

It was hopeless work trying to feel cross with him. He was far too pleasant looking and good humoured for one to be able to be long savage. I relented. " If you'll promise to do that, then, of course, you shall have mine." " Thank you." In the evening we sang ; Mr. Goring sang very well. Henry Biron whistled an accom paniment to Edie Hillyar's music. Laura made the tea in a very languid manner. Mr. Meredyth, on the sofa, went to sleep. Vero Crocker read " Baily ;" in the intervals of it he handed the cups, and most graciously vouchsafed to talk to me. To a certain extent he was amusing from his coolness and originality. Then Mr. Goring asked me to sing. As I finished I found Laura standing by me. " Ab ! Ellie, it is so like old school days to hear you again ! And have you got ' Under the Rose,' and ' Milly's Faith,' and * Rock me to Sleep, Mother' — how well I remember them !"

And when I had finished them, we went to bed. The next three or four days passed without anything worthy of note. The men shot, and we ladies took them their lunch, which proceeding really consisted in our walking or riding out to a given spot with two footmen burdened with large baskets ; their laying out the lunch, discreetly retiring, and our picturesquely sitting about on stumps of trees, or great water-proof wrappers, and eating a tremendous lunch. Afterwards we would go a little way and watch the shoot ing. Edie always went off with Vero Crocker, and, I believe, bad bis gun ; in fact I am sure did. After their shooting we all used to have tea in the library, Mr. Meredyth's especial sanctum, dedicated to his use and that of his guns, fishing rods, and various pursuits. They were very pleasant firelit hours there.

Then dinner, and then music or whist. A whole week passed away swiftly. Edie Hillyar and I began to be immense friends. She was a very taking girl, and one of the funniest mixtures I had ever seen. At last we got to be so confidential that, one evening as we said good-night to each other in the drawing-room, she asked me to come and talk in her room. Henry Biron was close by. He laughed. " You'd better not go, Miss Knowles. Talk ing in a lady's bedroom means that you will be kept up till two in the morning, listening to the lady's love affairs and pieces of scandal. You'll both be attired in fascinating dressing gowns, and have your back hairs loose, to display them to the greatest advantage. To morrow morning you'll call each other ' dear ' at breakfast." " You're very clever, Mr. Biron," says Edie, laughing ; " how do you pick up all this information ?

I never can imagine. I ex pect it's what you do yourselves — for ladies read men." " Use my eyes and ears. And allow me to remind you we haven't any back hair. Good night, Miss Knowles, be warned in time ! It's a fatal proceeding — talking to Miss Hillyar at night ; so young ladies tell me ; she can talk all night, and yet look fresh in the morning. They generally succumb after two or three nights at it !" Edie, without vouchsafing him the slightest answer, took her candle from him, ignored his proffered hand, and departed, I following more leisurely.

Chapter II

Directly I was undressed I went to Edie Hillyar's room. That young lady, in a light Eton blue dressing gown, faced with bright scarlet, and cut exactly like a man's Ulster, was sitting in the very front of a red-hot fire, with her feet on the fender, in a brown study. " Come in, Ellie." " What a pretty dressing gown ! But it's rather, rather a fast looking one, isn't it ?" I said, deprecatingly. " Copied in shape from my brother Frank's," said she, smiling ; " he's in the 20th." " I never knew you had any brother." " Have got seven, six young ones, and one sister, six years younger than me." Then, after this brief summing up, Miss Hillyar went back to her study of the red coals. " Edie !" " Well "—smiling. " What an odd girl you are ! I know you now, don't I ? And we like each other — is it not so ?

So I may say what I wish, and you'll not be offended." " How am I odd ?" " You are. You laugh and talk all day — ■ chaff is what you call it, I know — and all the men like you ; and yet sometimes when you're quiet for five minutes — to-night now, for instance — when you and I are alone together, and you need not be cheery with me — the other afternoon, when Mr. Goring sang * Just for the old love's sake, sweetheart — just for the old love's sake,' it was nearly dusk, but by the fire-light I could see your face. You looked unutterably miserable — broken-hearted — you'll laugh at me, but you cannot imagine the look you had in your eyes. I remember, that when he had ended, you c were quite silent. Like this for a while, then you and Vero began to laugh and talk ; and then you and he racketed till dinner."

" And you imagined that I was happy when I made all that noise ? " "I don't know," doubtfully; "when I'm, unhappy I am quite still. A sort of intense dreariness comes over me. I could not talk." " Oh ! Ellie," said the girl, looking up suddenly, " I can't afford to be dreary ! If I were still," smiling, and emphasing the word, " as you call it, I should go mad ! If one laughs and talks, one forgets." " But why are you unhappy ? " " Why am I ? Many reasons. We're awfully poor, and Frank's got lots of debts. All the boys are growing up, and want money. And — and — if I tell you something — you'll never tell anyone ? " "Never." " Well, two years ago, Frank came home on long leave — we live down south in Devon. Such a lovely country, loads of fishing and shooting. He brought down a friend with him ; his great chum.

I shan't tell you his name, it would do no good ; his Christian name was Hamlyn. He stayed two months with us. Frank was awfully glad to have him. I — I — " a pause. "Well! Edie. But don't tell me, if it troubles you." " No. I like to tell you, it eases me. Well, I didn't care for him at first ; not a bit ; he was not very handsome, and not very big — I swore by giants six foot high, golden beard, you know," with a sneer; "this man was a little fellow, with ordinary features, and the dearest dark blue eyes in the world ; black lashes, and a charming smile ; and the kindest, cheeriest, most loveable little mortal that you can fancy. Could ride and dance, and shoot, and sing like an angel. But he was young, and he wasn't very big." " Well ! And then—" " And then, by the end of the first month, he was spooney on me.

I didn't care at first, c2 for there was another man staying for the cock-shooting at our squire's — divinely hand some, and a tremendous flirt ; his name was Charles Henry. Well, Henry and I flirted, and made love to each other a goodish bit. Hamlyn used to be horridly jealous — and then Henry went away. I'd not really cared a hang for him ; and then I became spooney." " Well ! " " Well ! And then," said this queer little girl, beginning to cry ; " he — he told me he liked me, one day, and asked me to marry him. But, what a fool I am ! " she said, jumping up, and going to the glass. " What a fright I look. My eyes will be red to morrow. Vero will tease no end. How could I ? All the boys to see to, and the little foolish, with only his pay and one hundred a year." " So— " So I told him it couldn't be ever.