Somebody and Nobody: a tale

Preface

. -■"©.o©-!- Who cares for a tale unless it be enriched with thrilling incidents and stirring scenes ? Who cares to wade through a simple narrative of humdrum every-day life ? Who wants to be bored with a lengthy detail of other folks' heart-sorrows and joys ? Unless some do, we fear this little work will not find its way into many hands. Nothing sensational will be found here. Few care to face common realities ; and there is a harshness about them uninviting. All have have to do it, though. The brightest life is closely inter woven with joys and sorrows. If we would sketch faithfully, we must take the light with the shade. Not many lives are made up of great events. Society has its heroes and heroines ; but its members, male or female, do not in the general way become notorious through marvellous exploits or daring acts, or remarkable for carrying out or perpetrating the most unheard of — may- Preface.

VI be inhuman designs ; for instance, lovers are seldom known to be hurled into watery graves, or rescued from dizzy heights ; they somehow or other manage to steer clear of such dangerous positions, and do not allow themselves to be so ruthlessly disposed of. We do not ignore the fact that things do happen as fearful and as startling as the most tragical event re corded in the highest work of fiction. And authors and authoresses have as much right to scribble about the high-flown, as we have about the humdrum and real. But taking the world at large — north, south, east, and west — they certainly are exceptions to the rule. Mur ders, dark deeds, and barbarous acts are common ; but let us hope they are not characteristic of civilized society. Nothing of the marvellous adorn these unpretending pages ; written, not merely with the wish to afford an " hour's pleasure on a rainy day," but to do good.

Should the effort meet with but the smallest success, it will fully realize the hopes, and amply reward with feelings of gratitude, MARY ST. CLAIR. CONTENTS PAGE

Chapter I. The Rev

JOHN ALEXANDER BOUSCEFIELD WINGFIELD, M.A. " Man is blind — he cannot see What others see — himself." ivf|5?| EN o'clock in the morning. One os the busiest HHfl hours in the day. Half the world is astir: ' labourers at work ; children at play ; pleasure seekers, idlers, dreamers, all doing something — may-be nothing worth doing, or of any importance : for instance, gossipping, prying into other people's affairs, finding fault with this, condemning that, picking holes — not only in pockets — but in folks' characters, which is nearly as bad ; laying traps for birds and butterflies, with and without wings, &c, &c, &c. All these occupations are the height of fashion ! Is it necessary to speak dispara gingly of them ? The little market town of Stowbridge, situated — well, never mind where ; somewhere south of the great, big, B stirring metropolis — is not behind time.

Its busy bustle and street cries distinctly reach our ear — " Cherry ripe !" " Cherry ripe !" in four or five different keys, all pitched tremendously high (above concert pitch) ; but now and then a pleasant little voice seems to swell above the rest — " Any watercresses ! " — but is soon lost in the harsher and louder cries. It is imperative that you should like Stowbridge. Stowbridge thinks a vast deal of its little self. It is a clean, healthy, important little place ; inhabited by very important little people. What a lovely morning it is ! The sun shining brightly, birds singing gaily — yonder happy little lark is pouring forth melodious strains far up in the deep blue sky. Who does not feel brighter, better, and happier on such a morning ? — better able to cope with the toils and difficulties of daily life — enervated to push on, hope on ; having a feeling of gratitude deep down in our hearts to the Great Creator of all things pure and good.

But we must not beat about the bush. Nothing like being straightforward. Beating about the bush is too common a mode of transacting business. Folks seem to prefer it to being straightforward — -to state even a simple truth, without first varnishing it, and then wrapping it in tissue paper, is thought uncouth — to say nothing of the unhandsome trick some wise folks have of twisting, dis torting, and finally converting truth into anything but the truth. But it won't do for us to begin finding fault with just anything and everybody. Grumblers are not nice sort of individuals. Our intention is to introduce you to a very important individual. As we dislike lon°* introductions, simply because there is something so dis- AN A WFUL NAME ! 11 tressingly formal in them, this shall be as short as lucidity will admit.

The Rev. John Alexander Bouscefield Wingfield, M.A., at your service. Awful name ! Never mind ; do not be prejudiced. What is there in a name? Nevertheless, allow us to remark en passant, when we read or hear of any individual possessing a whole string of harsh-sound ing odious names, we directly feel a wee-bit suspicious. Something hanging to one or two of them we imagine — a gold thread may-be, or something equivalent. Very wrong to be so uncharitable, no doubt ; but when parents give their children heaps of absurd names, we naturally conclude it's either from peculiar motives or a weakness for singularity. There are exceptions to the rule, of course. Grandmammas and grandpapas, aunts and uncles, friends and foes, like to have their pets named after them, and the parents of the pets obligingly submit.

The Rev. John Alexander Bouscefield Wingfield is "Somebody," no mistake about it. He feels sure of it, and what is more, makes everybody else to be cognisant of the same indisputable fact. But stay, though — before seeing this somebody you would like to be slightly acquainted with his belongings, whereabouts, and position. Quite right ; it's unwise to pick up a friend in the streets. His father was a gentleman, and his mother is a lady. We believe it was a known fact that the former was de scended from one of our crowned heads. Surely that piece of information is highly satisfactory. Be it or not, we cannot undertake to trace the genealogy. Squire Wingfield, a popular, well-meaning, kind-hearted, extravagant personage, died very suddenly, some years ago, when John Alexander Bouscefield was at college.

Everybody, who knew nothing at all about it, thought the squire possessed vast riches, because he lived in such grand style. They forgot that those who make the greatest parade generally possess least. The widow found to her sorrow that her deeply-lamented husband had left affairs in a sad state. But after the said affairs were wound up it was found she would be able to enjoy a very comfortable little income. We are sorry to report that the said widow mourned greatly at the " nothing of an income," as she called it — shedding tears of sorrow at the thought of parting with that estimable butler ; that gem of a creature, her wait ing-maid Lisette ; and worst of all, her carriage and pair of prancing bays. How could she possibly live without such luxuries ! But John Alexander returning from college put a different face upon matters.

" A Wingfield is a Wingfield, mamma, dear. Although we shall be confoundedly poor, yet, when I get a curacy by and bye, we can manage to keep up a tolerable appearance ; and, of course, a Wingfield can maintain a good position." The widow, after a great deal more unnecessary sigh ing, lamenting, fussing, and crying, ultimately came to the same conclusion. After trying half a dozen different residences, she eventually settled down at Stowbridge ; occupying the "Beeches," a charming residence, about ten minutes' walk from the town. There Maud, her only daughter, (whom we shall introduce presently) finished her education under an experienced German governess. There THE CURATES STUDY. 13 John Alexander Bouscefield passed through all the forms and ceremonies that are considered essential before being acknowledged a sound evangelical clergy man of the established church in full orders.

And there we find the present curate of Stowbridge, John Alexan der Bouscefield Wingfield, M.A. Breakfast is over at the Beeches. The curate has retired to his study — a charming room, overlooking a smooth, grassy lawn, shaded by tall, majestic trees, through which may be clearly seen the little town of Stowbridge. A very model of perfection is this little room. Very unlike most clergyman's studies we should imagine. The Rev. John prided himself in keeping his sanctum sanctorum in a faultless state. Books elaborately arranged, ornaments carefully adjusted, plants and flowers here, there, and everywhere, which all contribute to the making any room look bright, com fortable, and cosy. Can we speak as highly of the inmate as of the room? Query. There is no mistake about his being a hand some man.

Rather short, but very erect ; dark hair, dark eyes — almost black, and almost faultless features. But the qualities that beautify almost any face are wanting — a good expression, and intelligence. Give us any day a plain, honest face, possessing those qualities, rather than the most exquisite features without them. There was an expression on the curate's face- — a self complacent one. It was characteristic. Mr. Wingfield enjoyed a first-rate opinion of himself. Can you wonder at it ? Was not his family one of the oldest county families ? Was he not nephew to Lady Bouscefield, who reigns in supreme magnificence at Bouscefield Court ? Was not his uncle Sir Theophilus Alexander Wingfield Wingfield, M.P. for D ? You must not forget these things, dear reader. What good fortune can exceed being related to some lord or lady ?

What does it signify whether a fellow be a scamp, a villain, or a spendthrift, if he be by birth a very aristocratic gentleman ? May he not commit the most unpardonable offences — do the most outrageous things ? " He is only a little fast," says " genteel society." " The naughty, careless boy will sow his ' wild oats ' by and bye," remarks his foolish, indulgent mother. But supposing the ironmonger's son, the draper's assistant, or the grocer's apprentice were to do such things, they would be looked upon as vile reprobates — a disgrace to society. Quite right too ; but undeniably wrong and wicked to think the sin less heinous because committed by a man of birth and position. But all this has nothing to do with our reverend friend. He would be shocked at degrading himself by any such enormities.

A most moral little man is he. Did ever anybody hear of a clergyman being guilty of immorality ? Absurd to ask the question ! Adieu to it. This aristocratic curate was a great favourite with the Stowbridge people. Fathers patronized him, mothers welcomed him to their homes ; old maids thought him perfection, and were continually asking him to cosy little dinner parties. What " young maids " thought of him is best left. Somehow or other he managed to win many hearts. Had he any faults ? No one is without them ; and A FLATTERER AND A FLIRT. 15 certainly not John Alexander Wingfield. (For brevity's sake we will in future call him John.) One half of his congregation knew nothing of these faults. The other half might notice — but if even they did, it's a question whether they would consider them failings at all.

We grieve to state the unvarnished truth, that in our humble opinion, he was one of the most despicable species of mankind — a flatterer and a flirt. These failings are not immoralities, not vices — very few would think of calling them sins. How can a man sustain a conversation (especially With the fairer sex) without flavouring it with flattery ? Is it possible to help now and then indulging in a quiet flirtation ? Diogenes, on being asked which beast was most to be dreaded, replied, " If wild, the slanderer ; if tame, the flatterer." We maintain a man cannot be one without being the other. He may possess many good qualities, be endowed with plenty of sense, (except common sense) of course lead a strictly moral life, and go very far in his religious professions, and yet be a flatterer. But no true man or woman, possessing any nobility of soul, would stoop to flatter or to flirt.

John Wingfield did not hesitate to indulge in both, and think nothing of it. Now it is by no means pleasant to sketch a curate of so peculiar a character. Critics ought to be able to come down hard and sharp upon an author who scribbles about haughty, flirting men occupying a sacred position : but can they ? They may find fault with the style of scribbling, but we fear they must confess to there being no lack of copies. This little curate was likewise very fashionable. He went to balls, operas, concerts, plays, and nobody knows what. And, don't be shocked ! he had his very own billiard board, which he was ver*,* proud of, and a choice selection of cards in a mahogany box. Shocked ! Ri diculous ! Why mayn't a fellow have his little harmless amusement ? What harm is there in billiards and card playing?

Harm! Hum! Haw! Just so. We won't dispute the point — only — well, never mind. Why was John Wingfield popular ? How can you ask ? Did he not preach the most touchingly pathetic little sermons, before the conclusion of which, many a dainty cambric handkerchief might be seen raised to tear-dimmed eyes ? Did he not carefully avoid harassing his audience with any unpalatable truths ? Could he not sympathize with any and everybody in the most affectionate manner ? Did he not call Mrs. W's plain little daughter a lovely child ; and Mrs. B's baby a perfect beauty ? Of course he was popular. But there is some one rapping vigorously at the study door. Thanks for the interruption. After all we have been a tremendous long time introducing you to the Rev. Somebody. " Come in !" shouts the curate from the depths of his easy chair.

" Oh, John ! what do you think ? Mr. Wilson has failed!" " Nothing more than we could expect, Maudie. If manufacturers will imitate their superiors, and live in such grand style, I say they merit" — " Be quiet, you senseless old tiling," interrupted Maud, MAUD WINGFIELD. 17 " and let me finish what I was going to tell you. Poor Mr. Wilson was found dead in his bed this morning. They say he died of a broken heart. Oh, I am so sorry !" This seemed to silence John. Maud turned from him to the window to hide the two pearly drops that were finding their way down her flushed cheeks. She makes a beautiful picture standing there in her loose morning robe, her golden wavy hair falling in showers around her shoulders. Very like her brother in face, but tall, graceful, and fragile as a flower. A lovely expression lit up her every feature.

Perhaps the dark eyes are a trifle too wicked at times, as she is a great lover of fun and mischief. Very wilful, as you may suppose, by the determined expression of that small pretty mouth. Maud cares for nobody. She rules her mother, and bothers her brother tremendously. They yield to her in almost everything. What else can they expect ? But who could resist Maud — gay, merry, happy, beautiful Maud ? Some one to his sorrow could not, of whom you will hear by and bye. "What will poor dear Alice and Nellie do?" she suddenly exclaimed, facing her brother. " The Miss Wilsons will most likely do what every young person would do under the circumstances — work for their own living," replied* her brother. Maud's face was all ablaze now. " I'll tell you what, John, if you continue talking in that cool, unfeeling, ignorant manner, I will give you a good sound box of the ears.

You speak as though they ought to have done it before. They have had no more right to work than myself. The Wilsons are as good as the Wingfields any day. I have no patience with such abominable pride. You ought to be ashamed of your self." This torrent of words seemed to have but little effect upon the Rev. John. Elevating his handsome eye-brows he merely replied — " Really, Maudie, if everybody pleads their cause one half as eloquently as you have just done, I should say they would not come badly off. Of course I am deeply grieved for them, poor things." " I don't believe any thing of the kind," again inter rupted the passionate Maud. "You are an old hand at saying things you don't mean. For my own part I mean to go up to the Lodge this very afternoon and sympathize with them." "What is that you are saying, Maudie, my love?" inquired Mrs. Wingfield, who, attracted by Maud's harsh tones, had entered the room.

Maud repeated her intention. " Indeed, Maud, you will do nothing of the kind ! I never heard of such a thing! You know I forbade your visiting there when all was right, and now to think of intruding upon them when their father lies dead in the house — absurd folly!" And Mrs. Wingfield seated her self on a chair close by, looking the very picture of righteous indignation. You would scarcely recognize in her the weeping, fussy, little widow of ten summers ago ! She has altered considerably ; grown marvellously like a Norfolk dump ling! but can and does assume a very important air. Dressed in an elaborate morning costume, she looks uncommonly like the curate's mother. A LETTER OF SYMPATHY. 19 " I don't believe they would consider it a bit intruding, mamma. I must see Alice." " Be reasonable, Maudie," spoke up her brother.

No body would dream of doing such an insane thing but yourself. It would certainly be no kindness." Maud was convinced, but not satisfied. " Then I will write them a long, kind, sympathizing letter, and send it by Edwards this very morning," she said. And rushing out of the room she banged the door so furiously that poor Mrs. Wingfield quite started. "What a wilful child!" exclaimed her mother in an aggrieved tone. " It's no use my interfering further ! She is quite ungovernable. What am I to do with her?" Ah ! foolish mother, you should have asked yourself that question long, long ago. Maud is often undeniably wrong. But who is to blame ? You have made her what she is by your constant mistaken indulgence. Do not lay the whole fault at your child's door. You suffer for your own sin. There is nothing noble in the over-indulging any child ; it is at once selfish and sinful.

Of course it is far easier to "give in" to a rebellious child, than to " stand out " firmly and kindly, but not wise. It is not love to say "yes" when we should say "no" to the little one given us to train. It is selfishness. Maud's letter was not long in finding its way to the Lodge. Alice and Nellie read it with tears streaming down their cheeks. "Dear Maud!" exclaimed the former ; " what an im petuous, kind-hearted girl ! How different she would have been had she been differently trained !"

Chapter II. The Orphans' Grief

" Death makes sad havoc here ; so stealthily He comes amongst us with his greedy hands Rifling our treasure-casket, stealing thence The dearest and the best." Marianne Farningham. p^pl|T was evening. All was calm, serene, and bright ; pSN b|11 no sound scarce heard, save the tinkling bell of k— *s^3| sheep returning to their fold, or, perchance, the faint echo of some harvest horn, so pleasing to the la bourer's ear, for 'tis a signal of the day's work being done. The sun has set in the western sky — beautiful in de parting radiancy. As we listen awhile, the thrilling note of some bird of song floats on the evening air. But, hark ! what is that booming sound that has just struck discordantly on our ear, revealing to us a mournful truth, telling us plainly another spirit has left its tenement of clay, bid adieu to earth and earthly friends, and gone to its final destination ? 'Tis the passing bell.

"Who is dead?" asks the humble cottager, at his evening meal. A LAMENTED DEATH 21 " They say it's our master, at the Lodge," replied an old man, who, in his younger days, had served faithfully the departed one ; " if so, all of us have lost a friend." Yes ; Bernard Wilson, the poor man's and the widow's friend, had been suddenly called to his rest. Once upon a time, he too was poor. His mother, a true lady, had been early left with her only child to struggle with ad versity ; ah ! even poverty. But long after that fond widowed mother had been lain in the grave, John, through his own perseverance and industry, rose to be one of the most wealthy and influential men in or near Stowbridge. Of course he was Nobody. That undoubtedly you are aware of. The idea of a man of that class being anybody !

" Only one of those risen fellows who must cut a great dash!" "We have no patience with a man imitating and apeing his superiors in that fashion!" So says born gentility — not born nobility (of soul, we mean). Gentility, in question, care but little about true nobility. Gentility is so perfectly satisfied with itself. Very strange ! We have always been under the impres sion that first-class is far beyond third. Tastes differ. For twenty years Bernard Wilson had lived amongst the people who now deeply mourned his death. His young and gentle wife did not live long to brighten his home — gladden his heart. Soon after the birth of their youngest child, Bernard sorrowfully laid her by the side of his departed mother. This sorrow did not crush him ; he lived to do good. All who thoroughly knew him loved him as a friend who had their interest at heart.

But, alas ! the best of men often greatly err. Some years ago, he speculated largely, and sustained a great loss. Again he speculated, staking more than his all on it, and anxiously awaited the issue, hoping and trusting all might terminate favourably. After a time, intelligence reached him — " It is a failure." Bernard Wilson retired to his room a crushed man, never again to go forth into the busy world ; never again would be heard that cheery voice and manly tread. That night he died. The- Lodge, the property of the deceased, was one of the largest houses in Stowbridge, situated about a few minutes' walk from the town, and surrounded by tall, majestic trees and bushy shrubs. A peaceful spot. A spot that as one gazes upon seems intuitively to bring to our remembrance memories of by-gone days — bright halcyon days of yore — long before we had weathered the storms of life.

There are some spots connected with the past that all of us love to linger around, for they awaken in our breasts blissful reminiscences of happy times, long, long ago, which, while memory lasts, we shall never forget. Where are they whose merry voices first echoed through those lofty halls ? Gone to rest. A sweeping carriage drive leads you through spacious grounds to a red-brick house, the walls of which are profusely covered with some sweet-scented creeping flower. A little to the left, our eye is charmed with gardens, tastefully and beautifully laid out ; here and there a tiny fountain, whose pearly waters often dance in the glorious sunshine. Now we come to a grassy slope, at the foot ALICE AND NELLIE. 23 of which flows rippling on, a rivulet, whispering to every passer-by its tale of lowly content.

There, a pretty willow bower, a favorite resort of all ; here a rustic bench, 'neath the shadowing elm, where one might sit for hours and (if they like to be so foolish) dream away to their heart's content. Truly it is a pleasant spot ! No moving forms are seen. The house looks desolate ; blinds down, doors closed, noise hushed. Let us enter the chamber of the dead. By the bedside kneels a maiden, her face bedewed with tears, hands clasped as if in prayer, and an unspeakable look of anguish resting on her lovely face. Now and then a great big gulping sob is heard, and then, " Oh, papa, papa ; my own dear papa ! what shall I do without you ? I loved you ; oh, so much !" and burying her face in her hands she weeps afresh. It is Nellie Wilson, the youngest child of the departed one. Presently, the door opens quietly, and her sister Alice enters — a tall, dark, graceful girl, not beautiful, but commanding in person, and possessing a true, noble face, full of expression and intelligence.

" Hush ! Nellie," she said ; bravely endeavouring to be calm herself: "you must not give way thus. God took papa away. Come with me, darling ; it is not good for you to be kneeling here so long." " Oh, Ally, dear ; don't take me away : I love to stay. Oh ! my dear papa, how can I live without you ?" " We that are left must cling together all the closer, Nellie, love. Let us be brave and bear the trial as it should be borne." She succeeds in drawing her from the room. Arm-in arm the orphans retire to the library, where they had spent so many happy hours with him they loved so well. Only three of them now. Alice, Sydney, and Nellie —at least, they think not. One, Bernard by name, the firstborn, who had well nigh broken his father's heart, through dishonouring the name of an honest man, had left the roof of his childhood, and had never been heard of since.

Dead, perhaps ! they think so. But, maybe, that poor deluded wanderer will return in penitence to the home he once turned his back upon. Who knows ? Alice was six years old when her mother died. Dis tinctly she remembers going into that dark, still room, and tearfully bidding farewell to a pale form lying on a bed of snowy whiteness. The words still ring in her ear, " My little Ally will be a comfort to her papa, be cause God is going to take mamma away ; and when she gets old enough she must be a good sister to Sydney and Nellie, and take care of them." "That I will," was the stout reply. Hitherto she has kept her word ; will she continue to do so ? We must introduce Sydney. Perhaps personal ap pearance is the thing more thought of than anything else in the world ; and yet the least important.

But we dare not presume to preach about what we ourselves are guilty of. It is an hereditary weakness. Surely it would be considered heathenish not to say something about the personal appearance of the three who will play an important part in this simple history. Their characters will be depicted as the tale proceeds. Alice we have sufficiently described. Sydney comes next. Strangely like her — tall, dark, and manly in form. A face one cannot Dut admire in spite of its CHANGES. 25 being somewhat plain. The lofty brow, clustered with dark, curly locks, bespeaks intellect ; volumes of ex pression in those fiery eyes. Rather a proud, passionate face ; maybe, it will soften by and bye. Until now, life has been to him one continued gleam of sunshine, very delicious and soothing, but shade is sometimes necessary.

The one enhances the enjoyment of the other — therefore good. Sydney has chosen to be a doctor, — is now the re spected assistant of one of the first practitioners in Stowbridge. At the expiration of another year, a considerable sum of money was to have been paid down, and Sydney taken into partnership. How about the money now ? Ah, poor Sydney ! life is one continued scene of change. Be a brave man, and bear the sorrows when they come. Alice is standing in the portal watching her brother's return. There he is, coming up the drive. Her pale cheeks and swollen eyes attract his attention. "Ally dear, you of all people must not give way," he remarked anxiously. " I will try not to do so, Syd. I came out to speak to you about Nellie. She will certainly make herself ill by taking this trouble so much to heart.

What can be done ?" "I am sure, Ally, I do not know. Poor little pet! she was so devoted to papa. Perhaps she will feel it less after a day or two. Passionate, unrestrained grief is not that which affects us most. I should be less sur prised if my eldest sister were to be ill who strives to bear it silently." c " I do hope she won't be ill. Have you spoken to the undertaker, Sydney?" "Yes; all is right. Now remember, Ally, you are not to worry yourself about anything of the kind ; leave it all to me. What is the good of having a brother unless you make use of him?" And Sydney tried to smile, but it was a poor attempt. " Dear old boy ! you are a brother of a thousand. What should I do without you ?" " Did I tell you, Ally, Uncle Edward comes to morrow ? I don't think Uncle Betts will be here until Monday.