The Light at an Upper Window. A novel

Chapter I

"/"lLARE ! you seem to see plenty to interest you!" " The people and things passing are so amusing, Auntie," was the reply of a tall, fair girl who was gazing from the draAving-room window of a house in Park Lane. It was a lovely June noon-day, and London was bright with life and warmth and sunshine, and as Clare Stanley said — There was plenty to look at, people and things, interesting and amusing. " Remember," she added, smiling, " London is still a new world to me. Even a month is not sufficient time for the novelty of such a scene quite to wear off, when the only prospect AVINDOW. from my home of the last nineteen years, has been an endless display of hedges, fields, and trees ! " Miss Stanley sighed — perhaps she was thinking of the days when London was fresh and new to her ; but she Avas not a lady given to sighing.

She was Clare Stanley's maiden aunt — but someAvhat unlike the ordinary type of maiden aunt. To begin with, she could hardly be termed an old maid — though certainly not a young one ; but she Avas still on the right side of five-and-forty, and looked youthful for her years. Her gold-coloured, wavy hair showed no silver threads, her blue grey eyes were clear and keen. Rather tall and rather stout, and ever dressed most strictly to fashion, from the bright-bowed cap on her head to the gay slipper on her foot, she was, as I said, very unlike the usual type of maiden aunt ; and having plenty of money, plenty of wit, and plenty of good-looks, it was a mystery to her friends, how it came that she was ' Miss Stanley ' still. Yet she never boasted of rejected offers or hinted at tales of blighted affections.

Perhaps she owed her single blessedness to a certain touch of sarcastic humour that made those who did not know her w7ell, stand off and fear to approach nearer — or perhaps in the distant past some thing had happened to cause her to doom herself to perpetual virginity. Be as it may, and although she had known trouble, Miss Stanley AA7as a cheerful lady and not given to sighing generally — though she did sigh just then, as she gazed on the pretty, young face and form at the window. People said that Clare Stanley wTas like her aunt — both in appearance and manner — and it pleased the elder lady to hear it said. There certainly were some points of resemblance be tween them. There was the same gay activity, the same lively expression, oval-shaped face, and clear complexion. But Clare's large, bright eyes were grey, without a shade of blue in them, and w7ere shaded by long, dark lashes, and over-arched by dark-pencilled eye-brows.

Her hair was thick and Avaving like her aunt's, but it was not golden — it was the deeper WINDOAV. colour, which the forest-leaves appear in October, when the last rays of the setting sun are shining on them — a rich auburn brown. To complete the picture of Clare Stanley, she was tall and slight, fair, with the faintest pink tinge on the dimpled cheek, small-featured, and perhaps a little childish-looking for her years. Yes, Clare was a lovely girl, and two or three more years promised to make her a more beautiful woman than her aunt had ever been. "Lunch is ready, madam," said the footman, entering the room. " Come, Clare," said Miss Stanley. " You must leave your window now." " What a bother !" said the girl, pouting her pretty red lips. " I was waiting to see Mr. Clavering pass : he told me that he always went to lunch with his mother."

" Clare ! Young ladies do not generally oxvn that they are looking out of the window for gentlemen ! " " I beg your pardon, Aunt, I am so rusti cated as to forget that in London young ladies never give true reasons for their actions ! " " Nonsense ! And what should you know or care about Edward Clavering — you have only seen him twice." " But yTou knoAv him quite AveU, Auntie — and his mother and sisters ; you told me so only the other clay. And I like him very much ! I danced four times Avith him last night, and he did not talk such nonsense as the other men. " You ought not to have danced four times in one evening with the same gentleman ! " said Miss Stanley, gravely shaking her head. " You must look more sharply after me, Auntie," replied the girl, laughing. " Besides, I had met him before, and he said twice meeting in ball-rooms made old friends."

" A proverb quite of his own making, I should say ! " said Miss Stanley, drdy. " Now Clare, do come," as her niece still lingered at the window. " Ah ! There he is ! " was the ansAver, in an excited tone. " Then Mrs. Clavering must have lunch just at the same time as Ave do — for she is only four doors further up ! He is WINDOW. crossing the road. No ! Why Auntie, he is coming here ! " And the pretty face, flushed crimson, was turned to gaze into Miss Stanley's keen, blue eyes. " It must be convenient for Mrs. Clavering if she lunches at two and is in the habit of waiting for her son," observed Clare's aunt, coldly, but not without a smile on her face. " I suppose he intends giving us the honour of his company. So perhaps, Clare, you wdl have some consideration for Mr. Clavering's lunch being hot (though you don't seem to have for mine) and come down at once."

But Clare seemed suddenly to have become shy and yielding, and she followed her aunt Avithout a word. But as they reached the door she gently laid her little, white hand on Miss Stanley's arm. " You Avon't tell him I was watching to see him go by !" she whispered. " I am sure I shall make no promises ! " was the unsatisfactory reply.

Chapter II

1\riSS STANLEY descended the stair-case and Clare followed — crimson as the rose that adorned her pretty morning-dress of pale blue and cream sateen. Edw7ard Clavering was drawing off his gloves in the hall, having just given his card to the footman, w7ho wTas about to carry it up-stairs wrhen Miss Stanley appeared. " You are coming to lunch with us," said that lady graciously, as she gave him her hand. " It is a long while since you so favoured me." But Edward Clavering, though he was certainly looking rather eagerly towards Clare, was ready with his excuses. "It is indeed a long while since I had the pleasure, Miss Stanley, but when my Mother is in town she always claims me for this hour. THE LIGHT AT AN UPPER WINDOAV. She left last night for Brighton with my sisters, and I thought 1 would come and throw myself on your hospitality.

How are you after last night's little dance, Miss Clare ? " " Oh, I was not tired — it was quite an early affair, you know," replied Clare, and they followed Miss Stanley into the dining-room. " And whatever has made Mrs. Clavering run off so soon?" asked the lady, as she seated herself at table. " Nothing the matter, I hope. Brighton in June ! I should not like it much ! " " No, nothing is the matter — but my uncle wiU not be persuaded to come up to London — and so she has gone to visit him for a few days." "And taken the girls off just when the season is at its height ! That is hard — is it not, Clare ? " Clare only smiled. She was so dreadfully afraid of wdiat her aunt's next remark mio-ht be — and that, either in jest or earnest, Miss Stanley would allude to her morning sojourn at the window — that she could hardly trust WINDOW. 9 herself to speak, lest the sound of her voice should remind her aunt of the episode.

She need not, however, have troubled herself. Miss Stanley wTas fond of teasing, and occa sionally delighted in making people uncomfor table, but she was too fond of Clare to risk humiliating her in other people's eyes. Clare, how7ever, at the present moment, could only remember her aunt's sarcastic disposition, and was therefore ' On tenter-hooks ' and silent through fear. But Edward Clavering was very anxious that she should join in the conversation. "Do you think it hard, Aliss Clare?" he asked, turning to her with a bright gleam in his dark eyes. Clare glanced shyly at him from beneath her long lashes. The crimson flush had not yet faded, and added to the brightness of her countenance. "She looks lovelier by day-light than by candle-light — that is, if possible," thought her admirer. " I should not Uke to leave London just now," Clare said, gently.

Then she felt as i£ THE LIGHT AT AN UPPER WINDOAV. she had made an admission, and blushing deeper than ever, added — " But then it is my first season." " Oh, well ! that makes a difference," said Clavering, smiling. " Maude and Cecile are going their second round now, and the others have not yet begun." " And then they have not lived in the country all their lives," said Clare. " No. They have only had just enough of it to make them think country life the most enjoyable under the sun. And I do assure you, Miss Clare, our home in Devonshire is by no means to be despised." When EdwTard Clavering was once allowed to get on the subject of his Devonshire home, he generally gave his hearers a fair share of description. And Clare was very ready to listen. She thought such conversation was a safe-guard against Miss Stanley making the dreaded remark.

Edward Clavering was a dark, handsome young fellow of about five-and-tAventy. He was head of his family, for his father had died AVINDOAV. 11 wdien he was quite a youth, leaving his eldest son large estates as well as a sah fortune, so that the young man was well known in fashionable society as "a good catch ". His talents were aboATe the common order, and his manners were pleasing, and his conversation brilliant. But though he had had several fancies, and indulged in not a few flirtations, his heart had, so far, been proof against love's arrows. " But I fancy he is touched now," thought Miss Stanley, who had not the slightest objection to his paying his attentions to her pretty niece. " Though," she added to herself, as she watched the girl's blushing countenance and Clavering's earnest manner, " I should have liked to have kept the child with me for a year or two."

" And so you have never stayed before with your aunt, Miss Clare ? " observed Clavering, when he had given his southern home its due of praise. " No. I had never seen the great city till last month." " They Avould not spare her to me before," AVINDOW. said Miss Stanley, " and it was with some difficulty that I persuaded them now ; but I represented that it was high time Clare saw something of the world; it was too bad to keep a girl of nineteen shut up in the school-room of a country house." " Too bad indeed ! Not only for the young lady herself, but to those who were being de prived of the pleasure of her society, though I quite sympathise with the inhabitants of the country house." It would hardly seem that Edward Clavering was used to making compli ments, his olive skin so flushed as he uttered this shadow of flattery — or perhaps it Avas that making them meaningly was a new experience to him.

" I think," he continued, laughing gaily, " that Miss Stanley ought to have received a vote of thanks from the fashionable world for rescuing the princess from the castle." Then he added, "But, surely I heard some years ago, when I was at Oxford, that one of Miss Stanley's nieces was the beUe of the season — I remember my mother mentioned it in her AA7IND0AV. 13 letters — but I suppose that was an elder sister of Miss Clare." " Yes, yes !" said Miss Stanley, in a slightly hurried tone. "That Avas Marion — my brother's eldest daughter — it must have been six — seven years ago. But as I was saying. The last visit I paid my brother I found Clare — a great girl turned eighteen — still under the control of a daily governess. ' You must let her come to me next season,' I said, and this time I had my way.

We said it was for masters — did we not, Clare? But the girl has been like a caged bird set free ever since, and has been ' trying her wings ' — and I do not think it is any use to make an effort to capture her again — and so I shaU tell her father." Clare and Edward both laughed. " Poor Papa," said the girl, " he shall have me back whenever he wishes it ! " " And I hope you are going to ' try your wings,' as Miss Stanley says, at Lady Hudson's ball to-morrow evening," said Edward. " I am going to try my feet there," she replied, laughing. " It will be quite the WINDOAV. grandest dance I have been to yet. Shall you be there ? " she added shyly, looking down as she spoke, and again blushing rosy red. " I shall have that happiness, Miss Clare, they say it will be one of the finest balls of the season.

My sisters expressed theh regret at missing it, and told me that if I did my duty to them I should go down to Brighton to-morrow morning and fetch them home on purpose. I would have done so, but the good Mother interfered with something about it being impossible for them to go Avithout a proper chaperon and that she could not expect my uncle to be satisfied if she only paid him a visit of two days." "If that is all, and you can really spare time to go down to Brighton to-morrow," said Miss Stanley, "do so, and say I should be delighted to escort them with Clare, and if Mrs. Claveiing would trust them with me they could return with you." "It is very good indeed of you, Miss Stanley, I really tliink, as you are so kind, I shall at tempt the enterprise. The girls would be so AVINDOAV. 15 delighted, and it really is a pity for them to miss this ball — my young brother is coming from Sandhurst expressly for it.

I shall have the pleasure of introducing him to you, Aliss Clare, and my sisters too, if my Mother will consent to your aunt's kind plan." " Oh, Lionel has obtained leave then," said Miss Stanley. " Mrs. Clavering was telling me the other day how much he wanted to be at this baU. I did not know then that she was going to Brighton, or I should have made the offer of my services to your sisters." "I do not think she knew it herself till the day before yesterday, Miss Stanley. Yes, Lionel is very anxious to attend Lady Hudson's dance — more to display his uniform than for any other reason, I believe." " Come — that is unkind. I suspect that you are jealous that you have no uniform to display," said his hostess, laughing, as she rose from the table. " Perhaps so — at any rate we must expect a little vanity at one-andtwenty."

"How sagely you talk! But AA7e must make AVINDOW. our adieux to you — Clare and I have tickets for a private morning concert. So good-bye — unless you will come with us ? I have no doubt I can gain you admittance, the male sex is generally rather badly represented at these sort of entertainments." " I am most sorry to say that I was due about a quarter-of-an-hour ago at a friend's house in Harley Street," replied the young man, with a look of genuine disappointment. " Then be off at once — I do not approve of young people not keeping their appointments." " I obey, madame. You go to Mrs. Leslie's ' At Home ' to-night ? " " No. We were united, but I must keep Clare fresh for her ball. She is not used to hard work of this sort yet. So we are going to stay quietly at home this evening." " Then I must expect no further pleasure till to-morroAv," said Edward, as he took Clare's offered hand.

She blushed again, but simply said " Good bye," feeling very thankful to her aunt for allowing him to depart Avithout mentioning WINDOW. her folly of the morning, or making any sar castic allusions thereto. And, with a polite leave-taking of his gracious hostess, Clavering left the house. Clare followed her aunt to her dressing-room after lingering for five minutes' romp with her favourite terrier. She found Miss Stanley busy turning over her niece's gay assortments of summer robes, in order to decide which should grace that afternoon's concert. " Aunt Stanley," said the girl, as she joined in the inspection. " You never told me what a sensation Marion made iu London." " Did I not — wTell, she did. You must see and know she is very beautiful. I really do not know which suits you best, Clare — pink or blue."

" But," persisted Clare, whose attentions at that moment were not concentrated on her warb-robe, " why cannot Marion sometimes come to London now ? You knoAV one or two very fashionable ladies, Auntie, Avho are wi dows, and whose husbands have not been dead as long as James Ruthven has, and yet — "Clare!" suddenly interrupted Aliss Stanley, looking up with a serious countenance. " I must warn you of that which perhaps I ought to have mentioned to you before — you had better not mention in society your brother-in law, or your poor sister's married name ! " Clare stood aghast with astonishment, " Aunt, what do you mean ? Why not ? " " I will tell you some other time. Do not look so startled, dear child, you need not fear now. Death ought to obliterate everything." " Aunt — I cannot understand.

Do explain — tell me all at once. Can there there be any thing I do not know — have never heard ?" " I shall tell you nothing now. I should never have said so much but that it was needful to put you on your guard." " Will you tell me this evening ?" " No. We are going to have a nice, quiet time Avith Miss St. Clair and her cousin, whom I have asked on purpose that you should hear their beautiful music and singing." " But Aunt, is it—" " Ask me no more questions for I shall not answer them," said Miss Stanley, with a rather forced attempt at her usual cheerful smile. " Believe me, Clare," she added, gravely, " were it needful or right that you should know, I would not withhold the secret. It is done for your happiness. Some day you shall hear all." She sighed as she said the last words, then added in a livelier tone.

" See ! this blue and grey sateen w7dl be lovely with some forget-me-nots — now call Alelanie and go and dress — you really must be quick, Clare, else we shall be late !"

Chapter III

T1HE shadows of the summer twilight were falling over the country; the open, the fresh, the beautiful country ; the dim grey of evening was obscuring the prospect of the distant hills, verdant slopes, and rich pastures, among which stood Hurstleigh, Clare Stanley's home, in one of the loA7eliest of the midland counties of England. Five miles distant from the county toAvn, and two from the nearest railway station, its position, though extremely beautiful, was somewhat isolated and solitary. It Avas a large grey-stone house, surrounded by extensive, but rather neglected grounds. At present, not a single light was visible at any one of the numerous windows, and notwithstanding the calm of the hour, and the beauty of the even ing, and of the scenery around, there was an AVINDOAV7. 21 air of desolation rather than of repose about the place.

It was not only the exterior that was sombre. Inside the mansion, the most absolute stillness reigned. The halls and rooms were so thickly carpeted and heavily curtained, that the sound of the most hasty footstep was lost to the ear. The furniture Avas massive and old, and the wainscotted walls were adorned with faded oil paintings, mostly master-pieces of still-life or mythological subjects. The centre part of the house contained the large saloons and dining-hall, now shrouded in coverings, and whose walls and floors were thick with the dust of years. On either side stretched a large wing. The west, drear and desolate as the body of the house. Silent galleries, lone stair-eases, darkness and stillness seemed there to reign omnipotent. Yet there had been a time — when the life that ebbed away with Clare's birth had reigned mistress of the mansion — there had been a time when gay voices, light footsteps, and lovely forms had thronged those deserted AVINDOW. galleries, and listened to whispered confidences of love and admiration in those now desolate state-rooms.

Only the shadowy ghosts of the gay parties that had once assembled to enliven the old country-house now remained. A memory — a vision — a passing away. For nineteen years now, the fahy of those innocent revels had slept in the quiet churchyard. The east wing was now the dwelling-place of the famdy. The rooms there were large and spacious, though somewhat gloomy, for most of them looked out on the balustraded terrace, whose creepers and vines kept out the light, or on the thick shrubbery. Some of the upper rooms, however, looked across the park, and were more cheerful. There w7as a nursery Avhere a tiny, fair-haired maiden slept soundly in her cot, and there were the school-rooms, now deserted, but where Clare's books, and work, and music, still remained. And well shut off from the rest of the house was the servants' hall, from whence, across the thickly carpeted and heavily furnished apartments, muffled sounds now and then proceeded — the WINDOW. only signs of life amid the hush of the evening hour.

In a room on the ground floor at the ex tremity of this wing, sat a gentleman, not much past middle age but grey-headed and evidently an invalid. The red firelight flick ered on the shelves of books that lined his room, for, notwithstanding the season, a warm blaze filled the old-fashioned fire-place. The gentleman was lying on a sofa-chair, a writing table was by his side ; it w7as strewn with books and papers, as was his couch, and some were lying on the floor — but unheeded. He was neither reading nor writing. He was dreamily watching the flickering flames, and once or twice sighed gently to himself, as if at his OAvn thoughts. A little clock on the mantel-shelf was ticking loudly — it ticked on and on. At last the bright blaze died out ; — then the gentleman looked towards the window, and said: "The fire wants seeing to; — Marion, will you see to the fire ?

" He was not then alone. No. In the deep bay of the window was seated a female figure. AVhen the gentleman spoke, she moved and came out of the shadoAV into the red reflection of the fire. She stirred up another blaze, and the bright flames threAv their full light on her. She was stately, beautiful, and fair — like a princess in a fairy tale. " It gets dark, we must have the lights," said the gentleman. " Not yet," she said, shortly and decidedly, yet not unkindly. "I do not like the dark, now I am ill, Marion, and without Clare. Clare used to come and sit with me in the tAvilight, and her gay chatter made it lively ; it is A7ery dull without her. You send the dear baby to bed so early. She is hardly with me any time, and I miss Clare dreadfully." " I do not think you did so much at first — it is because you have not been well this last day or two.

Clare is enjoying herself, and you should be glad." " So I am. But promise me, Marion — if I am ill, you will send for her. She w7ould not wish to be away if I were really very unwell — and I feel so to-night." O " You are loAv-spirited, Father. You have not been out for your daily drives so regularly since Clare went away — perhaps that is the cause." " Perhaps so. But is it any wonder if I am low-spirited ? Some men at my age seem in the prime of life, and to think that I should have been held captive to my couch for the last five years through that fall ! And not a surgeon from London or about here able to do anything for me ! It is no wonder if my health fails ! And sometimes the worst part of the trial, my poor child," and here he looked tenderly at his daughter, "is the reflection that I am making your sad life yet sadder ?

" " Life is over for me ! " was the reply that came from the lips of the beautiful woman at his side. " I am glad to be able to be Avith you, Father, and to be of use." Her father looked sadly at her. " For the sake of your child," he said "you must not say that life is over." She did not reply, but came and sat by him. He took her hand in his, and went on — " By the time Elaine has grown up, all will be forgotten and forgiven, and you must begin to live again for her." "Do you think I should care to re-enter society on the strength of my husband's crimes having been forgotten or forgiven ? " Her tone was more perfectly unfeeling than hard — or perhaps more perfectly under control than unfeeling. She sat with her eyes fixed on the fire and without a muscle of her beauti ful face relaxing. Her father sighed, but made no answer.

After a few moments' silence, she said, as if trying to speak cheerfully— "I expect there will be letters from Aunt Stanley or Clare to-morrow. You will be glad to have them, they always amuse you." "Yes. But Clare does not write such letters as you did, Marion, w7hen you were in London. They were like histories. I remember General Dalton and his cousin were staying with me then ; I used to read them extracts at the WINDOAV. supper-table, when we came in from our day's fishing or sporting, and the General used to call them the " London chronicles ". A look of bitter anguish past over her face as she answered. "They say the life is happiest that has no history. I believe it. I trust Clare's wiU be so." He looked at her remorsefully. "Poor chdd, poor chdd — it was thoughtless of me — I should not have mentioned those days !

But I am tired — I think U you wdl ring for Thomas I Avdl go to bed, Marion." His daughter rose, and lighting a taper, lit the candles on the mantel-shelf and table. Then she crossed the room, and gave the bell rope a gentle pull. The grey twilight was also lingering over London town, but all the lamps were lighted in Miss Stanley's house in Park Lane. In a pretty dressing-room, brightly furnished, with the gas-jets shining through coloured globes on gay hangings and choice ornaments, stood Clare Stanley. Her toilet for the baU was just completed, and it was no wonder that her maid was regarding her with admiration. A Avhite and silver brocaded silk covered with a cloud of pure white net, elegantly and tastefully fashioned, formed her costume. The auburn-brown hair waved and curled over the marble forehead in artistic profusion, and, braided into a thick knot behind, was adorned with the only jewel she wore — a diamond arrow, clasping a spray of half-opened cream roses and clustering green leaves, wdiich just touched the lovely, flushed cheek and fell against the alabaster neck.

The door softly opened, and Miss Stanley stood on the threshold. " Well, Aunt, what do you tliink of me ?" asked the girl, turning, smiling, towards her. Miss Stanley did not immediately answer. She came into the room with something A7ery like tears shining in her eyes. At last she said quietly. " I have only seen one who ever looked lovelier — that was your sister on her wedding day." " Thank you, Auntie. But I shall never be as beautiful as Marion." " No. But you are more like your Mother, Clare. Ah ! I wish she could have seen you now." " So do I !" echoed the girl, with a touch of tender, loving regret in her voice for the mother she had never known. " But come. W7e must not be late, for we haA'e to caU for the Miss Claverings, and the carriage waits !" and so saying, Miss Stanley led her lovely young niece away.