The Idol-Maker. A novel

Front matter

SECOND EDITION. BY THE SAME AUTHOR. ROGER VANBRUGH'S WIFE. In crown 8vo, cloth gilt 6/-. A FEW PRESS OPINIONS. Globe. " Miss SERGEANT'S ability is beyond question ; and it is not less evidenced in the book before us than in certain others. The story is the work of an accomplished craftswoman, who has learned the first duty of a novelist — to be interesting." e Scotsman. "It is eminently readable, containing good descriptive matter, pas sages of animated dialogue, and presenting striking, even dramatic, situations. Madeleine is in all respects a charming character. A strong, if not entirely original plot, which is developed with skill." Dundee Courier. "The many admirers of Miss SERGEANT will welcome with pleasure a new story from her pen. 'Roger Vanbrugh's Wife' has a powerful plot, skilfully worked out.

The story is intensely dramatic and interesting from beginning to end, there not being a tedious page in the whole forty chapters, and it will undoubtedly add to Miss SERGEANT'S reputation as one of our foremost writers of fiction." Academy. " All who revere the traditions of old-fashioned melodrama will be delighted with 'Roger Vanbrugh's Wife', in which Miss SERGEANT has been careful to combine the elements desirable to insure success in this kind. A story which will make middle-aged people feel young again." Western Morning News. " One of the best of the author's novels. A very readable story." Dundee Advertiser. " The heroine is a well drawn character. A well contrived and care fully worked out plot, showing in every development the eye and hand of a master of the craft. The characters are all well drawn.

The interest begins with the opening chapter, and is maintained with growing intensity to the close. A novel which may be recommended for the wholesomeness of its tone quite as much as for the merit and interest of its story." Daily Graphic. This is a book to read with real enjoyment." Liverpool Post. " A strong novel, both in plot and characterisation. Few characters in modern fiction are better drawn than that of 'Roger Vanbrugh's Wife'." London: HUTCHINSON & CO., 34, Paternoster Row. THIRD EDITION. BY THE SAME AUTHOR. THE MISTRESS OF QUEST. In crown 8vo, cloth gilt 3/6. A FEW PRESS OPINIONS. Scotsman. "The latest story by ADELINE SERGEANT, 'The Mistress of Quest' is likely to prove a favourite. It has all the elements of a successful novel. Her story is of pathetic interest. 'The Mistress of Quest' is one of the most creditable creations which the well-known author has outlined."

Chapter I. The English Mail

"A letter from Nora," Stephen Lydiard said to himself as he turned over a pile of letters on his writing-table. " What has she to say, I wonder ? This is not her usual day." The English mail had just come in. It had brought him a good many business communications and several news papers and reviews ; but few private letters, because Mr. Lydiard was not a man who had many friends. He had been absent from England for some time, and he had too many pressing cares and interests in the place where he lived to allow of his keeping up old acquaintanceships. He had few relations living ; and it must be added that he was a man of reserved nature and silent habits, with whom it was not altogether easy to become intimate. Almost the only relative with whom he corresponded was his young cousin, Nora Dysart, and this was chiefly because she had been left in his charge upon her parents' death, and he considered himself responsible for her education.

He was certainly interested in her; and his eye lightened as it fell upon the rather poor and common little envelope on which his name was written in a straggling, schoolgirl hand. He was a tall spare man, largely made, with a pale and somewhat long face, remarkable for its keenness rather than for its beauty. The features were clearly cut, how ever; the nose long and finely aquiline, the mouth dis guised by a thick dark moustache, but giving the impression of firmness and refinement; the clear, thoughtful dark grey eyes, deeply sunk between straight dark brows and a massive forehead, above which fell a wave of dark hair which showed here and there a silver line. The grey threads did not come from age so much as from hard work, anxiety, and a hot climate; Stephen Lydiard was not yet thirty-five, but he had managed to make his mark in the world ; he had shown intellectual ability in various directions, had published a digest of die laws of some strange tribes, which was much esteemed as a work of reference, had collated ancient MSS., and had also exhibited so much tact and skill in dealing with Orientals, as well as knowledge of legal matters, that he had been made Judge in a great Indian city, and afterwards sent as a Commis sioner — practically a governor — to some outlying district of our Eastern possessions, where he was given almost unlimited powers and ruled with the authority of a king.

He had a look of power and authority stamped upon his eagle face, but it was pleasant to see it soften into a smile as he cut open the envelope that contained Nora's letter. " What does she want now ? " he asked himself as he drew out the thin scrawled sheet. And this was what he read: Grantham House, Bournemouth. February 18, 189 — My dear Cousin Stephen, " I am writing this in my bedroom after dark, so you must please excuse the scrawl, for I can scarcely see, but I want to send you a letter that nobody shall read but yourself, for I know that Miss Quillin an looks over every word I write to you. Dear Cousin Stephen, I am so awfully miserable, I don't know what to do. I am seven teen, nearly eighteen indeed, but Miss Quillinan treats me quite like a child. I do not mind working hard at my lessons, but I do not think that I ought to be sent to bed at four o'clock in the after noon if things have not gone quite right, nor do I think that you would approve of the way in which Miss Quillinan speaks sometimes.

The fact is, dear Cousin Stephen — I do not want to complain, but we all think that she is going out of her mind and that at times she is really not responsible for what she is saying or doing. Several of the girls left at Christmas and there are now only five boarders beside myself. I do not wish to be troublesome, but I feel tbat you ought to know all this, especially as she has taken a violent dislike to me and shows it in all sorts of extraordinary ways. I am sometimes quite afraid of her." " A nice state of things ! " said Lydiard to himself, in some dismay, as he laid down the first sheet of Nora's letter and took up the second. He elevated his brows as he went on, with an air of mingled perplexity and surprise. "Do you remember Geoffrey Valmond?" the girl wrote. "You must have seen him when you were in England, for he used to spend nearly all his holidays with us.

Dear Mamma was very fond of him and he was like a brother to me. He went into the — th Regiment, and we lost sight of him altogether — at least I did, but a few days ago, when I was walking in the town with Miss Quillinan and the other girls, Geoffrey met us and of course I spoke to him. I hope it was not very wrong ; do you think it was, Cousin Stephen ? Miss Quillinan has been extremely angry about it, and said such dreadful things that I cannot bear even to repeat them. Geoffrey said he should come and see me ; and he sent me a lovely box of chocolate bon-bons on my birthday, but Miss Quillinan would not let me have them — and oh, everything is so uncomfortable, that I do wish I might leave at once, instead of waiting until you come home ! " " All very well, but what is to be done with her ?

" muttered Cousin Stephen to himself. " And a young man on the scene already ! " "I was wondering," Nora went on, "whether I might accept an invitation from Lady Dysart for Easter. (I suppose I ought to call her Grandmamma, but as I have never seen her I find it difficult.) If she is as kind as Grandpapa used to be, I am sure I should like her. She has twice written to ask me to visit her, but Miss Quillinan wouldn't let me go. Dear Cousin Stephen, do write and say what you wish me to do. Lady Dysart intends to write to you, I believe — I should like to go to her very much, for even if she is strict aud old-fashioned in her ideas as Grandpapa used to be, I would rather be with her than with Miss Quillinan. Forgive me for troubling you, and believe me, " Ever your affectionate little cousin.

"Nora Dysart." " What is to be done now ? And I thought the Quillinan woman so suitable ! " groaned Stephen. He had chosen Miss Quillinan's school, because the children of an old friend had been sent there and he had implicitly accepted the friend's recommendation. He was not versed in women's ways; he told himself that he did not know how a girl's school should be conducted, nor what accomplishments were necessary before a girl could be called ' properly educated.' He was in the dark about female education altogether. He supposed that women still worked samplers and made wax flowers and fainted at the sight of a mouse, for he did not read modern novels and he had no feminine relations of whom he knew anything to speak of. He had been mixed up with exclusively mas culine matters all his life, and was by no means a ladies' man.

So that he had taken Nora's school and Nora's teachers very much on trust. And now it seemed as if he could hardly have made a worse choice. He had overlooked a postscript of the letter. " I send you a photograph of myself which I had taken during the holidays. It is only a small one, but it is considered rather good." Nora's photograph ! He remembered that the only one he possessed had been taken when she was a bright-faced little girl of thirteen, with her hair hanging loose over her shoulders. And now she was more than seventeen! He took the carle de visite out of its wrapper with some curiosity, and looked at it. Ah, it was the same face ! There was the old brightness and sincerity which he had always liked, together with an innocent vivacity and sweetness; but there was a change too. It was a woman's face, not a child's, that looked at him from the printed card.

Thc beautiful, candid eyes — they were grey, he remembered, with long dark lashes — had grown thoughtful ; there was even a certain pensiveness in the turn of the head, the droop of the pretty curved mouth. Intelligence and gentleness were not absent; it was a face to be loved as well as admired ; and Mr. Lydiard laid it down almost with a sigh. "I must do my best for the child," he said, "but it is difficult to know how. Her grandmother's house is no doubt the best place for her, but I don't altogether like what I have heard of Lady Dysart. Let me see— what was it ? Fond of fast society, somebody said — h'm. Per haps Miss Quillinan was right after all." Nora would scarcely have understood this judicial balancing of the matter in her guardian's mind; she was not old enough to know that there are two sides to everything in this world and that Mr. Lydiard was apt to consider both.

It was after a little reflection that Stephen took up another letter from the pile that lay before him and contemplated it steadily. " The Dysart crest," he muttered, " I suppose this is from my lady. Hasn't she the grace to mourn for the man she married for his money ? " For there was no sign of mourning about the faintly tinted square envelope that he was opening— none, at least, to his mind. The grey paper, of the most fashionable and expensive texture, with the crest stamped on it in black, might be considered 'mourning paper' in London, but Mr. Lydiard, whose tastes were old-fashioned, did not recognise it as such. Sir Henry Dysart had been dead for nearly three years and it would have been unnecessary for his widow to make a show of deep mourning — especially, Lydiard reflected, when everyone knew that she had married the old man from purely mercenary motives— but surely she might have maintained the ordinary decen cies of life.

Stephen Lydiard's mother had worn ' weeds ' for the twenty years of her widowhood ; and he was rather of opinion that all respectable widowed women should do the same. Even his experience of Indian life when he went to the Hills, had not taught him differently. He had nothing but contempt for the flirtations in which his countrywomen lowered themselves, as he thought, to the level of the vacuous idlers at their feet. The very appearance of Lady Dysart's envelope made him frown and tighten his lips, and his opinions were not modified by the handwriting or the sentiments of her letter. The handwriting was not bad, but it was 'mascu line' — bold, decided, upright; and Stephen had a fancy fer the sloping ' Italian hand ' of his grandmother. " Dear Mr. Lydiard" (wrote Lady Dysart familiarly, as if she had known him a dozen years, thought Stephen), "May I be allowed to run away from school with your pretty little ward Nora?

She is not at all happy, and I think that an outing would be good for her. Girls, you know, require amusement now and then as well as instruction, and I think that I have not yet performed my stepgrandmotherly functions towards her as I ought to have done. But Miss Quillinan has hitherto opposed her visits to me, and I understand that she acts by your instructions. Can this be so? "You are no doubt aware that my husband changed his views considerably regarding his younger son and his son's wife before he died, and I feel that I shall be carrying out his wishes by doing whatever is in my power for his granddaughter. I should be glad of a companion, especially when I am in these country soli tudes, and if you will allow Nora to come to me — you see, I acknowledge your claim as guardian!— I shall be very glad.

Suppose you were to let her come to me to our dear old owl's nest for her Easter holidays, to begin with? With kindest regards, I am, dear Mr. Lydiard, "Very truly yours, "Aureole Dysart." " What a signature ! what a name ! " said Stephen, as he irritably tossed the letter away from him. " Who would ever think of calling a woman 'Aureole'? I suppose she belongs to the sentimental high-flown school ; probably her name is Ann! What nonsense it all is! I wish she would have let Nora alone." His mind reverted to certain matters of family history, which affected Nora's past and Nora's future. Sir Henry Dysart had been the father of two sons; the elder of whom lived the life of a bachelor recluse and died at the age of forty. The younger son, who had been Stephen Lydiard's intimate friend, had entered the army and achieved some distinction, but mortally offended his father by marrying, as Sir Henry thought, 'beneath him.' James Dysart had been cast off and disinherited by his father, who, even after the young man's death in an Indian war, refused to receive his wife or to provide for his little daughter.

He had done his best to supply the lack of an heir by marrying again, and marrying a woman young enough to become the mother of children; but the marriage proved a failure from this point of view. Lady Dysart was childless; and Sir Henry had left her mistress of his house and lands and income, without bequeathing one farthing to his granddaughter, Nora. It was a manifestly unjust will, as everyone had said at the time ; and Mr. Lydiard, in common with a good many other people, had felt distinctly surprised that Lady Dysart did not endeavour to do something for the girl whom she had supplanted. He was surprised, but not altogether displeased. For when poor Mrs. James Dysart died, she left little Nora to his care. She knew that he was the one friend on whom she could rely. And Stephen Lydiard had not proved unworthy of her confidence.

He was a distant cousin of the Dysarts, and he told himself that in all he did for Nora he was but repairing the omissions of his family. He took upon himself the expenses of her education, and tried, as well as he knew how, to do what was right by her. He had not yet decided what would become of her when she grew up. It had occurred to him several times that he might marry her, but he shrank a little from the upheaval of his lonely habits that marriage would imply. Sooth to say, he had lately shirked the question of Nora's future; but now it pressed itself upon him with irresistible force. Here was Nora, in spite of all his efforts, miserable and unhappy at the school where he had placed her. Here also was Lady Dysart evidently repenting her illgotten gains, anxious to receive Nora into her house — the house where Nora had a right to live.

It was the most obvious thing in the world that Nora must be at once packed off to her grandmother's house, there to blossom out into the beauty and heiress that she ought to be. Yet Stephen Lydiard hesitated — doubted — trembled on the brink of a decision. What made him hesitate ? he hardly knew. Perhaps it was that Nora's candour and innocence were dear to him, and he feared to imperil them by sending her to the house and the companionship of a woman whom he did not admire or respect. True, he had never seen the second Lady Dysart ; but he had at different times heard a great deal about her, and he had liked nothing that he had heard. Her first offence was that she had married poor old Sir Henry at all ; her second that she had apparently made no attempt to reconcile him to his son or to care for his granddaughter.

The personal trouble and expense which had been thus entailed on Lydiard, he passed over as a thing of no account ; but at the same time, it had its weight in the judgment that he passed on Lady Dysart. She ought to have done more than she had done for Nora. And now, when the girl's school education was nearly finished, and she could be of some use, Lady Dysart wrote to say that she might come and stay with her ! It was almost an insult, and Lydiard for one moment thought of writing curtly to decline the invitation, at once and for ever. But he was a just man, and he reflected that he had no right to do this. Nora ought to know her father's house and her father's people — even if these were represented only by a step-grandmother ; Lady Dysart was rich ; no doubt she would leave Nora a fortune, if the girl pleased her.

Stephen Lydiard was not mercenary, but he did not see how he could stand in Nora's way. She must go to the ' owl's nest ', as Lady Dysart called it, the stately old house in the Midlands, and there she must take her chance. It added to Lydiard's dislike of the scheme that he fully believed Lady Dysart to be a scheming, worldly, unprincipled woman. The easy, self-possessed tone of her letter, carried out his idea of her. Evidently she had no remorse for what she had done. She wrote as if Lydiard had been an old friend of hers, and as if pure accident had previously prevented her from asking Nora to The Towers. " She must be very false," said Stephen to himself, rather bitterly, as he folded up his private papers and put them away. "I am sorry to entrust Nora to her care."

Chapter II

the parting of the ways. Lydiard had matters of greater importance to settle than Nora's place of abode, and accordingly he postponed further consideration of her letter until evening, when he knew that he should be alone. Late in the afternoon he as usual ordered his horse ; but he did not take his accustomed ride on the beaten road where he was likely to meet acquaintances. There were a few English army-men and their wives whom he knew well enough ; but on this occasion he felt an inclination to be alone, and struck therefore into a lonely mountain-path, where he was not likely to find companions. He had not been home for some years, and he knew that it would be perfectly easy for him to get leave, long or short, as he chose, and start almost at once for England. He could be home in a month.

Then he could see Nora, remove her from Miss Quillinan's school, if necessary, and decide upon her future prospects. It would be a satisfaction to him also to see Lady Dysart for himself. If she meant to do anything for Nora, she ought to be made to do it definitely. Nora's future must not be left entirely to the caprice of an unscrupulous woman ! And suppose Lady Dysart would do nothing — and sup pose a home could not easily be found for Nora — what should he do with the girl ? A vision of the sweet face that had looked at him from the photograph that morning, brought a sudden smile to his lips. Why should he not bring her back again with him to India as his wife? He had a good position: he had a very respectable income: he thought that he could make a woman happy. It was a disturbing, yet a very feasible, idea.

At that point in his reflections he paused, because he had come to a fork in the road, and for one moment he did not know which way to take. One path lay along the hill-side: one led into the heart of the highlands of the country. And here, if Stephen Lydiard had only known it, was also the turning point of his career. Humanly speaking, if he had chosen the lower road, he would have gone home by the next steamer, married Nora within the year, and 'lived happy ever after,' as the old story-books say. But he chose the upper road— and with it, another fate. He turned to the left, and urged his horse up the hill. At a little distance his servant followed — a brown-faced, imperturbable, white-turbaned Mussulman, on whose faith fulness Lydiard knew that he could rely. Lydiard was no stranger to the road that he had chosen.

He knew that it led upward to a point from which there was an incom parable view of the surrounding country ; and that a little further on, there stood a fine old heathen temple, which had considerable repute among the neighbouring tribes. Lydiard had often marked the crowds of pilgrims that repaired to this apparently sacred spot ; and had wished that he had the chance of inspecting the interior of the shrine. But to him, as to every other Englishman, the place was barred, and he knew very well that it would be worse than useless to attempt to gratify his curiosity concerning it. The temple stood on a bare plateau at the summit of the ascent. It was built with some show of magnificence : a flight of steps, guarded by massive stone lions, led to the doorway, which was flanked by enormous pillars on either side.

Lydiard, who had often passed the place, gave the building only a passing glance, and turned his eyes to the stretch of country which now lay below him, softly illuminated by the rays of the setting sun. He heard a sound of drums and tom-toms in the distance, and he noticed that the courtyard of the temple was full of worshippers, hence, he concluded, some festival or solemnity was going forward, and it behoved him, as a matter of prudence, to push on his wa)'. At such periods, the natives of this district were apt to be animated by a fanatic zeal which made them dangerous to Europeans, even to one who was so well known among them as Mr. Lydiard himself. He gained the highest point of the hill, and, having attentively surveyed the lovely sunlit scene he turned his horse's head once more toward the valley, and rode slowly down the road.

A strange and somewhat novel sound made him pause, and in another instant his servant Mahomed was at his side. Both men listened intently. The sound of the tom toms rose higher and higher, but above it rose also the roar of a multitude— the cry of infuriated men, one of the most terrible sounds that can fall upon the human ear. Suddenly the drums stopped. Then the roar of execration rose higher still, and swelled to the very doors of the temple, which burst open to allow the angry crowd to stream out upon the steps, to fill the courtyard, to throng closer and closer to a central figure, against which, as Lydiard could now perceive, their fury was directed. Lydiard's face changed as he looked. " Good heaven ! " he said. " It's an Englishman ! " One word to Mahomed, one touch of the spurs to his horse, was sufficient.

"They'll tear him to pieces in five minutes," he muttered to himself between his set teeth, as he galloped back to the gate of the courtyard where, he would have said a few minutes previously, entrance meant certain death. The Englishman stood with his back to one of the pillars, his arms folded, his eye steadily surveying the scene. " He must be a plucky fellow, though infernally rash," Lydiard found himself thinking. Then — " Is he unarmed? Why doesn't he fight for his life? Is he a fool?" — and even as he asked himself these questions, he was plunging into the crowd, fighting off the hands that clutched at his bridle-rein, and displaying very freely a small but service able revolver which he had always at hand when he left the beaten track. He shouted aloud, hoping to quiet the villagers by the words he used, for they all knew the reality of English authority and had many a time cowered before him: but on this occasion, his voice seemed to produce little effect.

Their attention was centred on the young Englishman, who stood white and motionless against the pillar of the temple, and it was round him that they were pressing with curses and threats, with looks of vengeance and flashing of weapons before his eyes. An old priest who screamed out orders to the crowd from the top of the steps alone restrained the fanatics from plunging their knives into the white man's breast. But he seemed to confine himself to enjoining his followers to bind the infidel who had profaned the temple by his entrance, so that he might be brought before the judge and punished according to the law. The old priest was probably astute enough to know that these utterances, in Lydiard's hearing, would conduce to his own safety, but it was quite possible that he had previously stirred up the crowd to its present state of wild fury, and moderated his tone only when Lydiard came on the scene.

But the Englishman saw his advantage and was quick to take it. " What your holy priest says, is true," he shouted. " I will punish the Englishman if he has transgressed the laws — I, the judge, say it. Give him to me, he is mine!" And bringing his horse's head round by a sharp jerk, he ranged himself beside the pillar, and laid his hand on the young man's shoulder. "Jump on my horse," he said, in an undertone which anxiety rendered almost savage. "Do you hear? — jump! Are you deaf or mad ? Up with you, or they'll have your blood in another moment, and then there'll be the devil to pay. Up with you, I say." The lad — he was only a lad — seemed hardly inclined to move. Whether he was paralysed with fear or not, Lydiard could not tell: but he made very slight efforts to save himself. The crowd pressed nearer and closer, with fierce brown faces and flashing eyes: something else flashed too, here and there— the gleaming blade of a sharp edged knife.

The men were growing mad with their desire of vengeance : it would not long be deferred. And with the swiftness of thought, which sometimes amazes us in the retrospect of moments of danger, Stephen Lydiard recognised the lad's face, and knew how small the importance of his life would be to the rulers of India, if they weighed it in the balance with his own, and saw as in a vision the confusion and disaster which might follow if an official like himself were killed, and remembered the history of the Mutiny and a hundred other things, all in a minute of time ; and it would not have been in human nature not to feel a sudden thrill of anger against the young fellow whose folly or rashness had brought matters to this pass. For that they were now both in danger of their lives, Stephen Lydiard knew full well.