Cecil Forrester, a novel

Front matter

In 1 vol. Price 12s. ON CHANGE OF CLIMATE, A GUIDE FOR TRAVELLERS IK PURSUIT OF HEALTH. By THOMAS MORE MADDEN, M.D., M.R.C.S. Eko. Illustrative of the Advantages of the various localities resorted to by Invalids, for the cure or alleviation of chronic diseases, especially consumption. With Observations on Climate, and its Influence on Health and Disease, the result of extensive personal experience of many Southern Climes. SPAIN, PORTUGAL, ALGERIA, MOROCCO, FRANCE, ITALY, THE MEDITERRANEAN ISLANDS, EGYPT, &.. " Dr. Madden has been to most of the places he describes, and his book contains the advantage of a guide, with the personal experience of a traveller. To persons who have determined that they ought to have change of climate, we can recommend Dr. Madden as a guide. — Athenæum." " It contains much valuable information respecting various favorite places of resort, and is evidently the work of a well-informed physician. — Lancet."

" Dr. Madden's book deserves confidence — a most accurate and excel lent work." — Dublin Medical Review. " It cannot but be of much service to such persons as propose leaving home in search of recreation, or a more benign atmosphere. The Doctor's observations relate to the favourite haunts of English invalids. He criticises each place seriatim in every point of view." — Reader. " We strongly advise all those who are going abroad for health's sake to provide themselves with this book. They will find the author in these pages an agreeable gossiping companion as well as a professional adviser, who anticipates most of their difficulties." — Dublin Evening Mail ' " To the medical profession this book will be invaluable, and to those in ill-health it will be even more desirable, for it will be found not merely a guide for change of climate, but a most interesting volume of travel." — Globe.

" Dr. Madden is better qualified to give an opinion as to the salubrity of the places most frequented by invalids than the majority of writers on the subject." — Liverpool Albion. " There is something, and a great deal too, for almost every reader in this volume, for the physician, for the invalid, for the historian, for the antiquarian, and for the man of letters. Dr. Madden has rendered a necessary service to the profession and to the public upon the subject under notice." — DubtinEvening Post. " Dr. Madden's work is fraught with instruction that must prove useful both to practitioners and patients who study it." — Saundei-s' News Letter. " Dr. Madden deserves the thanks of all those persons afflicted with that dire disease, consumption — as well as of those who suffer from thronic bronchitis, asthma, &c. It is the best work on change of climate that has ever been presented to the public." — Daily Post NO HOME COMPLETE WITHOUT A WILLCOX AND GIBBS' NOISELESS FAMILY SEWING MACHINE.

Chapter I

It is a sad scene — a convict's cell — the convict a woman, and dying. She is not alone. There are two men with her, men used to look upon misery — the chaplain and the surgeon of the gaol. The one lingers on near that dying woman's bed though his duty is done. No drugs of his can call back the fleeting breath. The other, scarcely able to suppress his emotion, with pain and diffi culty discharges his duty — the duty of endeavour ing to comfort the last sad moments of a woman more sinned against than sinning. Perhaps she hears that good man's words, bidding her remember Him who loved the re pentant Magdalen, perhaps —but stay, one deeper B sigh, one gentle pressure of that good man's hand, and Ellen Winter is gone— Heaven grant it ! — to another and a better world. She had stood that morning in the awful dock, and had watched with desponding yet anxious eyes the pitying but determined gaze of the twelve men who had sat there to judge her, and had heard, or rather had not heard, the dread ful words of the judge who had pronounced her doom.

Yes, she had stood there for three whole days ; beautiful even in her misery, a mother accused of the most unnatural of crimes, the murder of her only child. In vain it was that she told them that she was innocent ; that her child had been stolen from her in her sleep, that she knew not what had become of him. The evidence against her was irresistible, she was doomed to die. Yet a greater Judge than he who had pro nounced sentence upon her had willed that she should not die a felon's death. She had left the dock a faded lily that already drooped its head, and now, but three short hours gone, she had breathed her last in that good chaplain's arms. And a good man indeed was that kind worthy chaplain. He never forgot, even when he was talking to the most abandoned, the words of Him who bade us "judge not; — " and poor Ellen Win ter I how could he but pity her sad, sad, fate, though she had died, and he shuddered as he thought on it, persisting in the tale which had been proved so false.

Are you, gentle reader, too proud to hear a tale but only too common in this Christian country? If such you be, put down this book at once. Far better not read it at all, than read and refuse to pity. Ellen Winter was the daughter of humble pa rents,who managed to live respectably and to bring up their three children respectably on the scanty wages which the father earned as a labourer in Wiltshire. The eldest, a son, was doing well now; he had gone out to service as a stable-boy, and b was now a groom. The youDgest, a daughter, was also out at service, while Ellen had been apprenticed to a dressmaker, and had but recently come to London, to learn, as it is said, her business. Poor Ellen, a labourer's daughter in Wiltshire, yet what beauty was hers ; merry sparkling eyes flashing under a brow that was shaded with the most luxuriant auburn hair.

Rosy cheeks and ruddy lips that seemed only created to be kissed, and withal as light a step and as graceful a figure, as ever tripped along a village green in England, happy, merry England ! Such was she. But a few months in London and how changed by that hot, unhealthy air ; that ever aching head, that endless toil hour after hour in a little close room, bent over the work, which was her food, her lodging, her all. She had no roses now. Nay, she was as pale as she had been blooming, her eyes as dull as they had been flash ing, her lips as still as they had been moving. Yet the toil that had driven all trace of health from Ellen's cheek had added the only charm that it CECIL GORRESTER. 5 lacked before — the charm of delicacy. It had turned the merry country village belle into the graceful, delicate, yet melancholy beauty.

Weeks rolled on, every day more weary than that which had gone before. When was it — she hardly knew herself — that she first saw Cecil For rester? He was passing the shop in a hurried abstracted way, when he caught a glimpse of her pale sad face, and paused awhile ere he passed on. Often afterwards he passed the shop — never without pausing before he passed on his way. But weeks elapsed, and still it was but that. They already seemed to be known to each other, yet the most they had exchanged was a smile. One wet, cold, evening Ellen Winter was pre paring to return home from her work. No en ticing walk that through the muddy streets, in the splashing rain, but on this most inclement night, for the first time, Cecil Forrester was standing waiting for her. She did not even know his name then, yet no wonder that she was flattered by his attention, and when he offered her the use of his brougham that she had not courage to refuse it.

She even regretted that her strange admirer did not accom pany her in it ; yet when she reached her humble home he was waiting to receive her. A hansom had brought him quite as quickly as she had come herself. They often met after that. He often walked home with her. She saw nothing wrong, willing beauty that she was, in listening to the tale of love which he poured into her ears. Did he ever make a proposal to her which her virtue withstood ? Reader, I have never known. The tale that I have told you I have copied from her defence on her trial. It is the artless, simple tale of a heart-broken maid. But whether pique, or love, or disappointment, influenced him I know not, certain it is that on the 1st of May, 184 — , Cecil Forrester and Ellen Winter became man and wife. Such was the fact incontestably proved at the trial.

Cecil Forrester and Ellen Winter were man and wife ; and John Stubbs, Cecil Forrester's servant, had witnessed the marriage. She was happy then, happy for the first time since she had left Wiltshire, happier than she had even been in her happy cottage home. It was true that he never introduced her to his relations, but he told her that he would, that he would when Bhe was a mother. She knew that he had married badly for her sake, so she forgave him that. She cared not for his relations, she cared but for him. And so they lived in their little cottage ornee in Berkshire ; he all attention, she all love. She was enceinte. He had been absent much of late, from business he said. She wished that the business had come at any other time, but she never suspected him. One day he came, he had been to London ; he had taken lodgings there ; it would be better, more comfortable, for her to be confined there.

Would he not take her ? No, it was most unlucky, pressing business prevented it — Stubbs would take her ; he kissed her and left her. Reader, that was the last time that Ellen ever saw her husband. Yet she doubted him not. She went to London with Stubbs. The cab stopped in a little lane far more dirty, more miserable than that in which she had lodged in the days of her poverty. Was there no mistake ? He took her up a creaky flight of stairs, past dirty, uncombed children, into a dirty unpapered room. There must be a mistake, she would not stay there. She turned to go back — Stubbs was already gone. She rushed to the door — it was locked outside. Such was Ellen Winter's story. For I cannot bear to call her by the name of the husband who so cruelly deserted her. The rest of the tale is too easily told.

It is gathered from the evidence of the man and woman in whose house she had been left. An uncouth couple they ; their house was well known to three classes — thieves, prosti tutes, and the police. Yet they told their tale unhesitatingly. No cross-examination shook them even in the detail. This was the tale : — Within a few hours of Ellen Winter's arrival, she had been safely delivered of a boy. The boy had been born alive. The boy had lived notwith standing all her sorrow ; the mother had grown rapidly stronger and better; her love for the child had been the best medicine for her disease. One day, early in the morning, she had gone out with the child. The next time they had seen her she was in the hands of the police, who had been just in time to save her from a watery grave. It was in vain for her to acknowledge that she had indeed wished to destroy herself, but that it was because her child had been taken from her, she knew not whither ; both witnesses agreed that she had gone out with the child.

The child then must have been made away with by her. Her b stray was alas too common a one ! The jury pronounced her guilty ! Such was Ellen Winter's tale— I will repeat my words— more sinned against than sinning. Yet ere the cold hand of death has robbed every trace of life from her beautful face, draw nigh for one moment, and view it as it lies in the cold still grasp of death. Her hair still waves in all its beauty, her brow is even more pearly white than it was in life ; her eye is closed, yet the long silken lashes tell a tale of what that eye has been, and even now her lips have not lost the ruddy tint which they had worn when they first tempted him who had so fordly wronged her; and that calm settled smile which rests on her placid countenance, and will rest till the decomposing earth has claimed again those features as its own — is that the smile of a guilty felon, or the smile of a happy spirit that has hastened to meet its Saviour ?

Chapter II

On the evening that Ellen Winter died, the Earl and Countess of Everton had a large dinner party at their house in Grosvenor Square. The belle of the room — nay, she was the belle of the season — was Lord and Lady Everton's daughter, Lady Isabella Charleswood. And it gave one no mean opinion of London beauty, even if there was none other's that could compare with hers, to find in its prima donna so peerless a gem. She was one of those few people whom all the world agree to admire. Eyes, now drooping in pensive sadness, and welcoming the shade which nature had so amply provided for them in their long silken lashes, now sparkling as they claimed one more triumph, or recognised a new admirer dazzled by their brilliancy. Lips, so tiny, so loveable, that you were afraid she would open them and destroy the expression — the expression of infinite gentleness that reposed upon them ; but when she did open them, a smile, so beautiful, so tender, that you wished that she would never close them again, never cease to wear that winning smile.

Features too which would have served as a model for a Grecian sculptor, a figure which, in grace, would have surpassed his choicest production; and skin, aye ! there lay her greatest charm (and perhaps in those few words some one now may recognise my poor description of Lady Isabella) ; for hers is no fancy portrait that I have been sketching. Skin, so white, so transparent ; how was it that the jealous lustful sun had never robbed that lovely skin of its peculiar beauty ? And as she sat there in her father's drawing room, silently admired by all, envied by many — mark her well. A plain white muslin dress, a plain white camelia in her hair, a plain gold chain, with a small pearl cross, are the only additions which Lady Isabella has made to charms which are more than sufficient of themselves.

One gentleman is talking to her, yet she does not seem to be listening, though many a proud beauty would wdlingly have listened while George Sinclair was speaking. George Sinclair was a distant cousin of the Evertons ; his dress revealed his profession at once — the church. He was rector of a large suburban parish, the parish of Hamphdl, though at the time that I am writing of he was only eight and twenty. Possessed of ample means, he had gone into the church from pure love of the work, and aleady he had risen, risen high for so young a man, risen too in the esteem of all who knew him. And well might he rise — a double first at Oxford, yet never attempting to thrust forth his talents. Unrivalled in the charm of his conversa tion, with winning manners, a pleasing smile, and good looking, if not handsome face, surely even Lady Isabella Charleswood might have paid a little more attention to George Sinclair.

And yet rumour said that there had been a time and that not long ago, when Mr. Sinclair had been in much more favour than he seemed to be at present. The world said — but then the world is ill-natured — that Lady Isabella had once been willing to give her hand to this distant cousin. The world had shrugged its shoulders at the bare thought of so untoward an event. It had thought that Lady Isabella was fit for more than a country rectory. Perhaps Lady Isabella had thought so too ; certain it is that she had lately been infinitely more reserved in her behaviour towards her cousin ; and the ill-natured world had shrugged its shoulders again, and said that Lady Isabella was going to discard plain George Sinclair for the Marquis of Langmuir. The guests apparently have all arrived ; there has been no arrival for the last twenty minutes, yet dinner is not announced.

Lord Everton is clearly impatient, for he looks at his watch, and glances uneasily towards the door ; Lady Isabella is impatient too, for her eyes restlessly follow her father's glances, and it is not until the door opens at last that they brighten, and then but for one single moment, as she rises to welcome the Marquis of Langmuir. And now, as the latter hands her down to dinner, look at him, for he has to play a part in this little tale. The Marquis of Langmuir was one of those men whom women admire, but men call effeminate. He had the whitest face, the whitest teeth, the whitest hand of any man in London ; the most jet black hair, scrupulously parted exactly in the middle of his head ; eyes, black, and handsome in themselves, but sunk in their sockets with a weary satiated look. Add to this that Lord Langmuir was the best dressed man of London, was nearly six feet high, and tolerably well made, and a woman may guess pretty well the charm that he possessed in the eyes of her sex.

During dinner his lordship clearly did his best to please Lady Isabella ; he never spoke during the whole meal to any one but her, and to her he spoke in so low a tone that it was impossible to overhear his words. Once, indeed, he was silent for many minutes, and so absent that he heeded not the questions which Lady Isabella then proposed to him, but is it uncomplimentary in a lover to be absent even in the presence of his love ? Dinner was over ; Lord Langmuir was forced to sit for a long weary hour in the dining room ; Lady Isabella was equally constrained to exert herself in her mother's drawing-room; Lord Everton and his guests noticed how absent Lord Langmuir was that evening ; the butler thought that Lord Langmuir was drinking hard, as for the third time he was summoned for a fresh bottle of port.

No wonder then that when they joined the ladies in the drawing room, Lord Langmuir's eye flashed as it seldom had flashed before. No wonder then that Lady Everton smiled in confi dent assurance of success, or that Lady Isabella gladly made room for her lover on the settee beside her. The evening passed, the guests retired, carriage after carriage drove away, till Mr. Sinclair, who had stayed till the very last, went up to Lady Everton and wished her good-night. " Goodness," exclaimed Lord Everton, as Mr. Sinclair left the room, " where is Isabella, and where," he added, " is Langmuir ?" " Hush !" And Lady Everton led her husband up to the window, and drew aside the blind ; Lord Lang muir was sitting in the balcony with Lady Isabella, his arm round her waist, and just imprinting a kiss upon her cheek.

Lady Everton replaced the blind and returned to the fire place ; then she called " Isabella," and the two came in together looking very guilty and very foolish. But Lady Everton was all smiles. " Would not Lord Langmuir stay a little longer ?" "No." "Must he really go ; would he not call then to morrow for luncheon ?" " Yes." " Oh, mamma, I am so, so happy," and Lady Isabella flung herself, crying, into her mother's arms. " Curs'd, if I mustn't have beon drunk to have done it,'' such was his lordship's ejaculation as he drove away from the house.

CHAPTER IIL

Lady Isabella was sitting in her mother's drawing-room in Grosvenor Square. Her little brother, Lord Charleswood, was busy at her feet with a book. It was a few days after the events of the last chapter. She was sitting working ; at least she had work before her, and now and then she did make some hasty stitch, but she was expecting him, and disappointed that he had not come. Her brother was a fine boy of some eight years of age. The same regular features ; the same soft eye ; the same well-made frame ; but his was the frame of an active boy, hers of a graceful woman. He was dotingly fond of Lady Isabella, and she too loved him dearly. "Sister, darling," he began, "don't marry Lord Langmuir." "And who told you, my little man, I was going to marry Lord Langmuir ?" " Oh, I heard mamma tell that lady who called here yesterday ; but you won't marry him, will you, sister ?"

" And why shouldn't I marry him, dear ?" " Because, sister, when nurse used to tell me that you would marry some day, she said I should have another brother ; but I don't want to have Lord Langmuir for a brother, I don't like him at all." " And why don't you like him ?" " Oh, I don't know, but he always looks so black and cross, I always am afraid of him, and, sister, don't let him take you away, I'm sure he'll be cross with you." " Well, you little rogue, tell me who I am to marry ; who would you like me to?" The child reflected for a moment. " I should like you to marry Mr. Sinclair, sister ; I'm sure you'd like him, he is always so kind, he gave me a new whip last week." Lady Isabella smiled at the reason which he gave for her marriage, but the next moment turned crimson, as the servant entered the room and announced Mr. Sinclair.

But the child relieved her from her embarrass ment, for running up to Mr. Sinclair he cried out: " Oh ! Mr. Sinclair, how glad I am; give me a ride." And Mr. Sinclair put him on his shoulders and trotted him up to where Lady Isabella was sitting. " Now, my little man," he said, after asking her how she was, " run along to nurse, and if you come again in a quarter of an hour, you shall have another ride." The chdd trotted off with a laugh. " To what have I the pleasure of owing Mr. Sinclair's visit?" " I was obliged to be in London this morning, and I heard at the club for the first time of your . I beg pardon, I hardly know whether it is actually arranged." " I presume, sir, you mean my marriage with Lord Langmuir," said Lady Isabella, very pale and very cool. " Yes, Lady Isabella, I am afraid even now that I have presumed too much on my distant cousinship, my acquaintance with you ; will you pardon me for what I say ?"

" What is it you wish to say?" " I know I have no right to ask it. I assure you I only do so from the love — I mean from the interest — I take in your family. Do you know Lord Langmuir well ?" " Mr. Sinclair !" " I must again ask your pardon. Let me tell you I have only asked you the same question which others are discussing in half the club houses in London. Lady Isabella, do let me entreat you to pause for a few weeks before you ally yourself inextricably to that man." " And why should I do so?" " Men who know him say that he is debauched with wine, and even worse. I regret to say I fear that it is only too true. Oh, Lady Isabella, I will not tell you all, for it is too horrible, too wicked to tell you. Will you forgive me telling you one thing I heard to-day ? it was that he was drunk when he proposed to you."

" Mr. Sinclair, you forget that I am engaged to Lord Langmuir, or you would hardly have dared to say this." " I forget nothing, my dear Lady Isabella; it T " IS I "Then, sir, I can only suppose that it is jealousy that has prompted this," and Lady Isabella rose and walked towards the bell. " One moment, Lady Isabella, before you summon the servant to dismiss me; I came here solely because I longed to be of ser vice to you. I may have been presumptuous. I see that I have faded; but listen for one moment. If there was a time that you might CECIL FOBRESTER. have charged me with jealousy, that time is long gone by. I have long seen that a poor rector's house was not a fit home for Lady Isabella Charleswood; and I schooled my foolish heart, and only hoped that he who won you might be worthy of winning you.

I fancied that it must be so — I loved to hope that it would be so; but believe me, Lady Isabella, you would be happier as the wife of the poorest clerk you meet in London than as Lady Langmuir. One moment more, Lady Isabella, and I am gone. You may rely upon me never intruding upon you again, but if ever you should want a friend, and remem ber that your father is getting on in years, and that your brother is very young, wherever I am, whatever I am doing, it will be a pleasure to me to render you the slightest serviee. Lady Isabella. it is the last time, will you not shake hands ?" She took his hand and said nothing, but she trembled from head to foot. Just at that moment in burst little Lord Charleswood. " My ride, my ride." "Not to day, my little man, some other day." The next time Mr. Sinclair met the boy, the Lord Charleswood had merged into the Earl of Everton, a fine young man of 24 years of age.

And he was gone — gone thus — and did Lady Isabella for one moment regret the coldness of his parting ? Perhaps if you could have read her heart then aright, you would have found written there not a little interest, and interest is a dangerous thing, in the outspoken honest gentle man who had left her so sadly. But if she felt this, she had not much time for reflection, for her little brother peered into her face and began : " Sister, what have you been doing to Mr. Sinclair ?" " Doing, child ?" " Yes, sister, I never saw him look so sad before." "Sad, child?' " Yes, sister dear, why he was crying, didn't you see ? besides he never gave me my ride. Sis I wish you wouldn't make Mr. Sinclair cry." c CECIL FOBRESTER. A second visitor : " Lord Langmuir." " How are you, Isabel ? I am late to-day, but after these confounded balls, one is so infernally sleepy ; have you recovered the effects of last night's dissipation ?"

The child clung to Lady Isabella. "Why, what's the matter ?" asked his lordship ; " are you afraid of me ?" and he caught hold of Lord Charleswood and placed the boy on his lap. " Sister, don't let him take me," screamed the child, as he put his arms tight round his sister's neck ; " I don't like him. Tell him not to touch me." " Nonsense, dear, you must learn to like him, he's very fond of me." " Everyone loves you, sister ; Mr. Sinclair does, and I love him too, very much indeed." Lady Isabella turned scarlet. " Well, and you must like Lord Langmuir too. Now run off to nurse since you are afraid of being here." The child slunk away unhappily enough. u How odd he should have taken such a dislike to you." " Yes, unless he is afraid of my whiskers I must make friends with him, I suppose." " Oh, he is sure to like you soon ; he must, am sure," she added, as he stooped down and kissed her. Let the curtain drop on those two, for I for one have no desire to pry into a lover's interview. c

Chapter IV

I must introduce you to another scene — a labourer's cottage in a little Wdtshire village. From the door you may see that sort of view which every Englishman appreciates. A farm yard well stocked with cows, which had been just driven home for milking; large ricks of hay, and still more valuable ricks of corn. A farm-house smding with clean windows, peeping out of an ivy frame. Beyond this the vdlage church, a plain stone building with a tower, of somewhat olden date, and no little rustic beauty ; the parsonage, a clean, neat budding, with close cut lawn and blooming flowers ; and yet further on a young beech plantation, standing on the very march of the Squire's park. Such was the scene. Inside the cottage all was scrupulously neat. The floor had been carefully washed and sanded, the chairs rubbed, the grate cleaned, the kettle polished ; the windows shone in their cleanliness ; the plates, ranged on a sort of dresser at the side, were white as snow ; everything gave proof of care, for there was no more careful housewife in all the county than Mrs. Winter.