Who is Vera? A novel, wherein English and Russian lives are interwoven

Front matter

WHO IS VERA? VOL. I a Still a Wife's Sister A NO VEL IN THREE VOLUMES. By A. E. SCHLOTEL Let me not to the marriage of true mind Admit impediments.' — Sliakespcare. ©pinions of tbe press. ' The book is cleverly written, and the interest is maintained fairly well throughout.' — Church Times. ' Is a very ingeniously complicated and successfully-told history. The descriptions are well done, and the author seems as much at home under Italian skies, or in South America, as off the Cornish coast.' — Yorkshire Post. 'A good deal of capital writing in the novel. The hero marries his deceased wife's sister, and is very happy ; but the law is hard upon him. Still, he has his deceased wife's sister.' — Western Morning News. ' There is interesting, even exciting, material here for a story.' — Sheffield Daily Telegraph. ' The three volumes which make up this novel are crowded with characters, full of incident, and replete with plot and counterplot The characters of the middle-aged lawyer, Dr Penson, and of the young lady who earns her living by writing sermons, and who becomes Dr Penson's fourth wife, in spite of his objections to her " opinions," are well drawn, and the book is evidently the work of one possessed of both learning and common sense.'— Jewish World. ' In an excellent, though complicated, story, full of incident, adventure, and capitally-drawn characters, the writer puts up an earnest plea for a change in the marriage laws, which forbid a man to marry his deceased wife's sister It is, in point of merit, much above the average of novels, while some of the characters are .

EeaWy\fine creations.'— Newcastle Weekly Chronicle. fi?\ ?~K GRIFFITH, F^-%R^;'0KEDEN & WELSH (sUCCESST^KSTb NEWBERY AND HARRIS) WEST CORNER ST PAUL'S CHURCHYARD Who is Ve r a ? A NOVEL Wherein English and Russian Lives are Interwoven BY A. E. SCHLOTEL AUTHOR OF 'STILL A WIFE'S SISTER ' Though human, thou did'st not deceive me ; Though woman, thou did'st not forsake ; Though lov'd, thou forborest to grieve me; Though slander'd, thou never could'st shake; Though trusted, thou did'st not disclaim me ; Though parted, it was not to fly ; Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me ; Nor mute, that the world might belie. — Byron. IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. I. LONDON GRIFFITH, FARRAN, OKEDEN & WELSH (SUCCESSORS TO NEWBERY AND HARRIS) WEST CORNER ST PAUL'S CHURCHYARD AND SYDNEY, N.S.W. \The Rights of Translation and of Reproduction are reserved.] Dedication. TO MY DEAR FRIEND MARION E. ROBERTSON, I DEDICATE THIS WORK, AS A SLIGHT TOKEN OF MY GREAT ESTEEM AND LOVE. A. E. SCHLOTEL. CONTENTS.

Chapter I. The Actress

4 Therefore she walks through the great city, veiled In virtue's adamantine eloquence ; 'Gainst scorn, and death, and pain thus trebly mailed; And blending in the smiles of that defence The serpent and the dove — wisdom and innocence.' Revolt of Islam. HE glare of the gaslights had been cast into darkness ; a crowd of gay spectators had left untenanted seats that were now covered with coarse cloth thrown hastily over them ; quiet and gloom reigned in heavy oppression where applause, and glee, and cheery voices had rung VOL. I. A ? 2 out well-deserved plaudits : the performance at a London theatre was over, and the very air seemed changed to a noxious, gaseous atmo sphere in the lone darkness. The exterior of the theatre was dull ; the night dark ; the gaslights reflecting on the still wet pavement rendered it shiny ; and brightness and shadow alternately marked the pathway.

Rain had ceased, but threatened to pour down again at no far distant moment. The actors and actresses were en route, some to quiet, sad homes, others to enjoy a merry supper, and gay, light, happy talk among kin dred spirits, before the vein of play and mirth had become drowsy, to remind them that rest was needed before the morrow — a morrow that would surely bring requirements mental and physical, which nolens volens must be per formed, under contract with managers to whom time and talent had been sold. An almost child-actress, fair and sylph-like, might be seen tripping lightly along the nearly deserted streets ; it was no night for pedestrians, but her conveyance and her guardian had failed to reach the theatre at the appointed time. All unseen by her fellows, she slipped out of the theatre, and purposed to make her journey home on foot.

Little progress was made when a large drop of rain fell heavily on her nose ; this reminded The Actress. 3 her she was unprovided with an umbrella, and that it would be well to hasten her steps ; more drops came in quick succession, then a pelting downpour. She took shelter under the first portico that offered protection from weather, there to wait the cessation of rain that in its present force could not continue long, judging from experience that nearly thirteen summers passed in England had taught her. She felt she was a trespasser, but gained her object in keeping herself dry. A large gas lamp hung under the portico, and shed a fierce light on features that could well bear the brilliant glare that brought out to clear view beauty often spoken of, often seen on canvas, but possessed by less than one in a thousand.

They were of marked type, and one that candle or gas light robbed not of charm. The complexion fair, untinted in its whiteness, except where the youthful bloom of rosy hue, deep yet soft, painted the cheek with tone of health ; hazel eyes, lustrous and full as a trusty dog's, shaded with long, bright golden lashes, flashed the light of intellect and innocence in their clear, ardent glances. Upon the ruddy lips still played the smile of pleasure caused by recent praise, and were ready to part in a merry laugh, actuated by the heart felt lightness still warm in the happiness of con tentment that animated the young, blithe being ; ? 4 for she felt she had within her grasp the crown of success, and hoped she was well on the road to lasting fame that would ensure her fortune. The rain dripped from the portico, and was forming little rills and pools on the worn pave ment ; the wind stirred, and drove the rain drops under the portico ; the young girl changed her position and went close to the door.

Under the knocker she read, ' Knock and ring,' and wished she could avail herself of the invitation. But no, it was not for her ; she did not know the occupant of the house, and the general invitation was not accepted, much as better shelter was desired. Then her quick eye read the sentence over the letter-box — ' Do not ring unless an answer is required.' This suggested to her mind that the establishment was one in which an extra servant was needed, — that economy was practised, even though the owner of the house might be wealthy, which she decided he must be. Then she fell into a train of thought, suggest ing to her mind the vastness of the necessary income required to keep up such an establish lishment, to which she supplemented another in the country ; and possibly the owners possessed property in moors, a marine residence, and re velled in hunting and sport, travel and expensive pleasures. 'Ah!' the girl sighed and thought on, ' with all this wealth they are no The Actress. 5 happier than I, perhaps not so happy, they in their well-lighted rooms, and I under their portico in the rain, and wind, and darkness ; they burdened with wealth, I earning my bread.

Yet I do wish I was under my own roof and out of this pelting rain. I have done a foolish act. Nobody will know where to find me.' The sound of wheels was heard. Instinc tively the young girl looked towards the street ; a hansom cab drew up and stopped at the curb, and from it hastily sprung a man. Hur riedly he ran up the steps, and found himself face to face with the weatherbound actress, who said quickly, — ' Have you further use for that cab, permit me to ask ? ' Had not the glare of gas shown him her features, her voice would have told him she was ' his destiny ' — a voice that for many days past had rung in his ears as he fell asleep, and whispered an echo when he awoke. ' It is at your service,' replied the man. The young actress signed to the cabman to stop, for he had delayed in lowering the glass blind, that hitched somewhere, and prevented him driving off. ' Give me a minute's grace, and you shall have the protection of an umbrella.

I think I recognise you as — as — Miss Verge.' The man raised his hat slightly, and thought ? 6 the face still more beautiful, heightened by the becoming effect of the light woollen cloud around the throat, than when behind the footlights. ' You are quite right ; and I fancy I recognise in you my friend who has more than once made me nervous. But I may be wrong, if this is your house ; no critic earning his guineas could live here. I will accept your offer of an umbrella — the rain is dreadful now.' The actress, when saying these words, looked in the man's face, and the thought followed, 'What a handsome Romeo he would make.' ' I have relations living here,' replied the man hesitatingly ; and he opened the door with his latchkey. He quickly obtained an um brella, turned off the tap of the gas lamp, and the darkness that followed was felt in the sud den extinction of light. ' Oh ! why do so ?

I cannot see the first step.' ' Pardon. I did not think of that ; the light was left for me to extinguish. . . . Take my arm, and you will be safe. So, step again ; now, the first step.' ' Please, the umbrella a little lower, the rain beats on my face. Thanks.' The actress seated herself in the cab. ' It is late — I will accompany you.' ' Distinctly and decidedly no,' replied the girl, with firmness. Then she told the cabman the number of the The Actress. 7 house, and name of the street to which he was to drive her, and ordered him to quickly lower the glass shade, for the rain beat upon her. ' I will place the umbrella there, outside, across the door. I, like Paul Pry, have an affection for my umbrella, and do not wish to lose it. I will call for it to-morrow.' ' I have no further use for it.

Pray remove it,' was the answer given. ' Certainly. Yet to-morrow I will call on you, and make inquiries as to your safe arrival.' The glass hitched again before it dropped into its proper place. The actress had time to admire the former occupant of her cab, and decided again, ' How charming a Romeo he would make ! ' She said, — ' Little need to trouble yourself. I am not travelling in a land peopled by Arab tribes, but in civilised Britain ; no harm can overtake me. Do not give me a second thought ; an hour hence I shall rest in perfect peace, and sleep well. My day's work is ended, and I am weary.' The man returned to the dark portico. The young actress was driven to her home, and on the way she dreamed of her future fame, but little dreamed that her rest in perfect peace was even now at an end.

Chapter II

A ROMEO AND JULIET ' Beneath this starry arch, Nought resteth, or is still ; But all things hold their march, As if by one great will. Moves one, move all ; Hark to the footfall ! On, on for ever. Yon sheaves were once but seed ; Will ripens into deed : As cave-drops swell the streams, Day thoughts feed nightly dreams ; And sorrow tracketh wrong, As echo follows song. On, on, for ever.' Song of August — H. Martineau. HE morrow came. Early was the hour that brought the fascinated Romeo to the home of the sad Juliet ; so early, that the door steps were receiving their matutinal mopping and sluicing, and the entrance door stood open. ' You need not ring, our lad is out. Your name and business, please ? ' said the servant, who stayed the process of sluicing to accost the stranger, and trundled her mop as the young man questioned her. ' Is Miss Verge at home ?' ' Certainly.

The actress, you mean ?' The man's face was suffused with colour, as his indignation was roused by the tone of voice in which the sentence was uttered. 'Can I see Miss Verge ?' he asked. ' She's a particular lady. What is your name and business ? I must give both, or she may refuse to see you.' The young man hesitated a minute. The woman continued, — ' Are you a hairdresser or draper ? They are admitted at all times. Their time's precious.' ' Neither: a visitor,' said the young man curtly. 'Your card, please, and I beg pardon. Men of all professions and trades are so much alike now-a-days. In my young days, gentlemen were stamped gentlemen ; now, any shoddy makes a gentleman.' The woman put her wet hand under her apron, to take the card that she expected to be proffered her. The visitor still hesitated.

The she-dragon at the door that stopped his entrance must be appeased, and yet he desired to keep his name unknown ; she devised the means, as she said, — ? 10 'Isa card is scarce, daresay you have an old envelope addressed to you ; for my part, I think that more genuine than a bit of paste board ; any scamp can get that manufactured, living at no home that is known.' A bright thought at the right moment. The she-dragon was propitiated ; the envelope of a letter was put in her hand that bore a name and address, but not those of the visitor, and the guarded portal was passed by the unknown intruder. ' Beg pardon, all the uppers are out or busy.' ' Possibly I can find my way unannounced.' ' La ! all this house does not belong to Miss Verge. She's the drawing-room flat. Tell me your name as is written here — all dash and splash obscurity in zigzags — and just follow me, and I will sing it out.

Sorry the lad's not in — for you are a gent, and no mistake — and he hates me to meddle with his work ; he calls me a heathen, he does ; but I call myself the slavey of the crew, I do.' ' That letter is addressed to the Honourable C. F. Crispe,' said the stranger carelessly. The woman closed the door, and, in her untidy condition, preceded the visitor, with quick, heavy step, up a broad staircase, and stopped on a landing spacious and handsome, bearing indications of having been once in the possession of wealthy owners. On this landing, decorated with columns and niches for statuary, opened four doors. ' Number six is the draw ing-room, slow and sure,' muttered the woman, as the young man delayed. He had to form plans that took him a few seconds, whilst she wriggled the handle of the door, with her wet hand under the apron, that was used as a safe guard to prevent soiling all she touched, though the apron retained little of the whiteness that it possessed when it left the loom.

The visitor was now by the door. ' Your envelope bothers me, and the door too ; and yet I would do the lad's work well if I could, and sing your name out.' Within the room a voice said, ' Come in.' A minute more the door was opened from the inside. ' Poor imbecile, what does she want ?' thought Miss Verge, when she heard the step and voice of the woman. ' His Honour, Cef Crispe, asks a word with you, Miss Verge.' The charming Romeo was again face to face with his Juliet, and she heeded not the mis nomer by which he was ushered into her presence. He met her eye now for the first time in broad daylight, and it brightened when she recognised her friend-in-need of the previous evening. Her golden hair was hanging loose, bound ? 12 only with a broad band that gathered it to gether to prevent too heavy a preponderance falling about her face and arms, and it streamed in long tresses over her shoulders.

Her dress was simple as a child's, hanging in graceful folds that took their play from the figure that upheld them rather than from the art of the tailleuse. The material was not costly, — a cotton fabric of the pale colour of tea rose — around her neck was a ribbon band of the palest blue, likewise the fillet that bound her hair was of the same soft hue. She would have personated a zephyr to the poet's or painter's imagination, so light and aerial was her appearance, and so noiseless her step. Miss Verge was lovely, and beloved for her loveliness ; and her Romeo decided she must be capable of loving. For many days past he had hoped to gain her admiration ; he fostered this hope, born from the longings of his own impassioned heart. This hope, now that he saw his dream of loveliness before him in the home garb of simplicity and natural vein of disposition, and no longer in dreamland, made him bashful, fearful, and nervous.

These three impediments to his entire happiness were in creased by the remembrance of a conversation he had had with his paternal parent, who had met him in no friendly frame of mind on his return home the previous evening, as he passed the A Romeo and Jidiet. 13 darkened portico and entered his house, after he had placed the young actress in his discharged cab. His parent had given vent to his dis pleasure in full force ; and in his anger and indignation had seemed to grow grander in aspect and taller in stature, though garbed in the non-dignity-giving costume of dressing gown and slippers, and the still less imposing addition of hair dishevelled, and candle in hand — for he had awoke in fright from a first sleep. Being disturbed at an unseemly hour caused irritation to a highly sensitive nature.

The dis quieted parent, hearing voices under his portico, had quickly imagined mischief working in his household. He was pained to find the culprit his own son. A son whose character had been spotless until that hour, but now must be distrusted and treated as faithless to his word and honour, until he retrieved both by test and trial. Question followed question as suspicion was aroused. Were the debts he had contracted those that an honourable man would not be ashamed of ? Were the pastimes he indulged in profitable, and becoming a Christian man in a Christian land ? Did he pass his time idly in wicked theatres, worldly clubs, and in society that would be a curse to body and soul ? Had he distributed the tracts given to him to dispose of among the ignorant, heedless, and unthink ing ? and did he require one himself to save ? 14 him from the ' wrath to come,' and from present wickedness ?

He should receive one to reflect on that night. The enraged parent had heard his son almost deny his home ; he had carelessly said a relation of his lived in his father's house, and said that to a ' giddy girl, who spoke with familiarity.' Yes, he had heard all. He dived his hand into his deep pocket and drew out a tract — tracts abounded in every pocket he possessed ; he glanced at the title, and said, with sanctimonious solemnity, ' Good watch words, "The wages of sin is death." Read, mark, and inwardly digest that, and, having de voured the contents this night, let me see the outward sign of the good seed thus implanted. Your latch-key I retain, to be restored to you when I see the fruits of repentance visibly shown in the course of a better life.' The young man had taken the tract and given his latch-key up to his would-be protector, with the full conviction that his father was in error, and that he was pursuing a course that was honourable and congenial, replete with good ness, and well according with his principles, — principles that were diametrically opposed to his father's. He had neither defended himself nor his newly-made acquaintance.

Self-defence was never his policy with his father, but he did not read the tract nor take to heart the forfeiture of latch-key. In a word, the son distrusted the father far more than the father distrusted the son ; but the filial feeling of the son actuated him to treat with profound respect his puri tanical parent, who had exacted from him from boyhood an entire deference, even to blind obedience, that neutralised his character to a sham in his own home. This deference had grown into habit from the effect of long usage now he attained manhood, yet it was unspiced with love or admiration for the object who called it forth. Thus the memory of the previous evening's altercation rendered the handsome Romeo bash ful, fearful, and nervous when he was again in the presence of his Juliet ; but Juliet would have been wanting in wit and perception, had she not been able to dispel embarrassment by a word of kind welcome, even though given to a stranger ; for the stranger had been kind to her, and this demanded civility in return on her part.

She proffered her hand, nameless as he still was to her except under the misnomer that she gave little heed to, blurted out indistinctly by the woman, who muttered, as she closed the door behind her, ' Suppose I am right to leave him, though he has no box of frizzled wigs. A hairdresser ? No, he is stamped from head to foot a gentleman ; but I'll just hide the um brellas before I take my mop in hand — they are all I'm responsible for; the actress will take ? care of her own good name, doubtless. But she is wondrous beautiful, and that's a snare — not a worse on earth ; and sharp as I keep an eye on the area and front steps, I never saw his feet on them before ; but they are honest feet, I'll swear, that dance under such a manly face as Cef Crisp's.' Nevertheless, the umbrellas were put safe out of sight.

A short talk for the space of a quarter of an hour sufficed to make the strangers of yesterday friends of to-day. Miss Verge, finding her guest still prolonged his visit, asked permission to continue the case she was making to cover her pet canaries, as time pressed, and they were to be removed to the country in the course of a few hours. She stated she intended to follow them after the lapse of a day or two. Her birds were dear to her — she had reared them herself. With out doubt they would like the country better than London, but she feared her time might hang heavily. To think over her fate made her sad. A disappointment amounting to pain passed through the feelings of the visitor. He knew so little of the young girl who held his love so firmly ; but he knew for many days past that the world, without the hope of hearing her voice, or seeing her beaming face and eye, would be come a desolate, dreary desert, with no object of living interest in it for him, rendering his life lone and blank.

The actual hearing and seeing \ 17 her had had the talismanic effect of making life lovely, and replete with brightness. He felt he lived day after day on the hope that he might see her, though only on the boards of the stage, for he could not surmount obstacles that blocked his way to gain an introduction or interview with her. He was a stranger, and she an actress. Yet he knew he loved her, knowing nothing of her. Now, gaining a long-desired but accidental acquaintance, was he to hear that he had a rival, and that his heart's choice was about to pitch her tent in the country far away from him ? He was much in earnest, and yet so diffident, that he feared he could not gain the truth that he ardently desired to know, of a probability that had never till this moment whispered a thought to damage his hopes.

All absorbed as he was in the present, yet he impulsively resolved he would at this moment leave her for ever should his dread of rivalry be verified. How could he arrive at this most important knowledge at this crucial moment of early acquaintance ? By what test could he learn had he a rival ? The young man went to the cage, as he re marked that birds were ' innocent toys.' The young actress was using a foot-rule to measure the proportions of the cage, to enable her to cut the baize covering she was hastening to make. He might render her assistance, and gauge her vol. 1. B ? heart at the same time ; he would try, though he felt diffident, and conscious of this weakness. 'Your birds look very happy, Miss Verge. Are they Chinese ? ' ' I should say first cousins, — Japanese. Dear little things, are they not ? and so tame.

I let them fly out of their cage, and they make a tree of me, — perch on my arms and hands and shoulders, they even mount the highest branch, for I often put their daintiest food on the crown of my head, and they are clever in finding out a bonne bouche. Do you like birds ?' 'Yes, very much,' replied the would - be Romeo. The gauge of his heart was easily taken on that score. He hesitated to touch on another subject, and Miss Vera noted the inches meas ured, as well as the silence that existed. She broke the silence by saying, — ' I like men to like birds. I like all pets ; dogs are my special weakness, but a marmoset is perfect. I have two such chilly dears ; I have them in my snug room, wrapped in flannel, dear pets ! Such lovely eyes, and little ear rings in their ears — so sweet! and they are so happy together.

They were sent me from Turkey, anonymously — so strange ! I cannot slight my pets ; and I find marmosets and live birds are bona peritura, so I give them a warm covering to save them. Vicissitudes of many sorts may beset my children during their long journey.' Miss Verge talked rapidly of her pets as she measured her baize ; when she had finished her task, her visitor continued the coversation, in view of probing Truth to quiet his fears. ' So you think your birds will like the country, and that you will not, Miss Verge ? ' ' A life must be lived before we can judge how well or ill it suits one's disposition. I have never passed any length of time in the country.' The man's earnestness overcame his diffi dence, and he dashed at his point recklessly ; be the result agreeable or disagreeable, he desired to learn it without delay. ' When a young girl accepts a golden cage, and changes her name, she generally anticipates happiness.' He pushed his sentence further, and asked a direct question, ' Is this not the usual hope, Miss Verge ? ' Through the bars of the bird-cage he met the startled glance and confused countenance of the pretty actress, as she caught the inquiring gaze of the handsome Romeo, and she said, — ' Possibly you are right.' Then her woman's wit told her she was misleading her Romeo, and she added quickly, — ' But I have not accepted a golden cage.

My name Verge, I am told, is but a nom de guerre, and can be changed twenty times a year; but I have ? 20 no wish to take any other. When I have that wish, I shall naturally hope that happiness may follow ; but — but — ' ' But ? What would you say ? Is fancy free, and heart whole, Miss Verge, and the companion of the golden cage unchosen ? ' asked the visitor, in accents of earnest inquiry. His happiness hung on her answer, he had known her in his dreams so long, and loved her so well. 'What would I say ? Simply this,' said the pretty actress archly,- — ' that I think I have not given reason to be questioned on such a subject by a stranger, and my idea is that a stranger is somewhat inquisitive. Pardon me, — I am out spoken.' The man's earnestness now sunk again into diffidence. He felt he had gone too far; he was silent under the smart lash, and would have been more cast down had he not caught the soft, fond, dreamy look in the hazel eyes under the golden eyelashes, that were not now seen through the bars of the bird-cage, but cast full on him ; and if there was language in them, it was the language of love.