Her Father's Child. A novel

Front matter

THREE NEW NOVELS AT ALL LIBRARIES. RIVEN BONDS. By E. Werner, Author of "Success, and How He Won It," " Under a Charm," &c. Translated by Bertha Ness. 2 vols., 2 is. (Now Ready.) " We would advise the reader, if he have any taste for novel reading, to lose no time in making acquaintance with this charming book."— Court Circular. HEIR TO TWO FORTUNES. By the Author of the " The Life of the Moselle." 3 vols., 31s. 6d. " It has dash, and go, and promise." — World. THROUGH THE BREAKERS. By the Rev. Richard Bulkeley, Vicar of St. John's, Dukenfield. 3 vols., 31s. 6d. "The Crimean episodes are treated with a good deal of spirit. "- Athenæum. REMINGTON & CO., 5, Arundel Street, Strand, W.C. a Jiobel, IN ONE VOLUME. BY Mrs. W. R. SNOW. iLonfion : REMINGTON AND CO., 5, Arundel Street, Strand, W.C. 1878. lAll Rights Reserved.]

Chapter I

" Her Ladyship will be in immediately, madam; I was to beg you to be good enough tocome in and wait for her, if you shouldcall." Tbese words are addressed by a gorgeous creature in plush and powder, to a lady who stands at the open door of a house in Por chester Terrace. Another moment, and the visitor has exchanged the drizzling rain and biting east wind of a late spring day for the cosiest of arm chairs, by the brightest of fires ; and having thrown aside the furs which envelop her, taken off her bonnet, and received a satisfactory answer from the pier-glass to the inevitable enquiry, " am B HEE FATHER'S CHILD. I tidy ? " she resigns herself — with what patience she may — to the endurance of, per haps, that greatest of small annoyances, an unexpected wait. The room into which Edith "Wentworth has been shewn, is the morning-room of her aunt, Lady Archdale, and as she glances round the familiar scene, certain thoughts — not altogether flattering to the usual occupant of the apartment — pass in rapid succession through her mind.

" Surely Aunt Margaret might have con trived to be at home to receive me ! or at least have left word as to when Harold and Mabel are expected home from Paris ; just like her, however ! thinks of no one but herself — never did, and never will, I suppose. She ought to know I should be dying to hear when I am to see my husband again : I wish now, that I had not granted him leave of absence— Mabel will be grateful, though, for I am sure Harold is a pleasanter travelling companion than her mother would be, even without the possible addition of sea-sickness. I wonder what Mabel will be like, and how HEE FATHER'S CHILD. 3 she and her mother will hit it off ! I don't envy her, poor girl ! Oh, really this waiting is intolerable ! I have half a mind to ring and ask the servant if he knows when Mabel is expected.

But, no ! that would not do, for — as my husband accompanies her — I should be supposed to hear news from head-quarters ; I hav'nt though ! The lazy fellow only says he has ' had to spin a long yarn to the old woman, and that I am to go to her for par ticulars.' " Here a loud knock at the hall door gives promise of a speedy ending to Edith's sus pense, and she runs eagerly downstairs to meet her aunt, rather to that lady's astonish ment, for she is unaccustomed to such dis plays of affection on the part of her niece. " How are you, my dear? I hope I have not kept you waiting." " Only about three-quarters of an hour ! the longest forty-five minutes I have ever spent. "When is Harold coming back?" " They will be here to-morrow afternoon, but I must sit down before I can tell you about them. Has not Harold written to you?"

" Only a few lines, he refers me to his letter to you for particulars." Both ladies have, by this time, made their way to the room which Edith had just left, and Lady Archdale leisurely unlocks the drawer of a writing-table, and produces therefrom a letter. Whilst she is thus em ployed, we may take a quiet look at the subject of so many unfavourable reflections on the part of her younger companion. At the first glance at Lady Archdale's figure and general contour, the expression which would rise to the lips of most people would be, " How beautiful she must have been ! " another look, and the thought is, " No ! never really beautiful, good-looking perhaps, and even that much longer ago than I thought at first." The figure is still slender, and, at first sight, its moulding gives an idea of youthfulness which a closer scrutiny dispels : Lady Archdale is fortunate, inas much as advancing years have not assailed her with their deadliest weapon — the demon of corpulence has never yet marked her for its own.

She can still smile, in sublime pity, upon many an ex-beauty, perhaps some ten years her junior, but who has, long since, been driven to that last stronghold of fat middle age, " You would never think it to look at me now, but I assure you that, when we married, my husband could span my waist" — an amusement which would appear — by the way — to have been indulged in with surprising unanimity, during the honeymoons of most very fat women. As to figure then, Lady Archdale has, undeniably, the pull over many a much younger woman, but, with her features, time has not dealt quite so tenderly: her face is one on which to gaze, and gaze again, but from the study of which most gazers would — after all — come away unsatis fied, as to why the union of so many charms has not produced a result entirely satis factory.

To a keen observer, however, the secret does not lie very deep : Lady Arch dale's face is wanting in that, without which no face can be really lovely ; by the aid of which the plainest features may become beautiful — sympathy is totally absent from her countenance. The " shadow " of " the sorrow of others " is the softest, most kindly of veils, but the symmetry of that clear cut outline has neverbeen disturbed by the know ledge of a fellow-creature's woe : no hungry soul has had its craving satisfied by an answering gleam from those calm grey eyes. Edith is right, her aunt " thinks of no one but herself — never did, and never will." " Here is Harold's letter, my dear Edith, full of news of my child, and of kindness to myself* most thoughtful of him, I am sure, to give himself the trouble. Listen to this extract : — " ' The sight of Mabel literally electrified me !

She is, out and out, the prettiest girl I have seen for half a dozen seasons ! No chance for any of the expectant mammas this year ; they had better keep their girls out of the race, and let Mabel walk over the course. Don't ask me to describe her, she is like nothing I have ever seen ; a great look of her poor father's picture, but more like you, with a difference, an indescribable difference, your face softened and yet intensified, your face as it might look if you were hearing the confession of some tale of sin or sorrow, or if you had your finger on some pulse which noted the failing heart-beats of a life dearer to you than your own. And yet Mabel is the merriest girl ! her laugh is positively in fectious ; altogether she is the oddest mix ture, and — as I said before — like nothing I have ever seen.' " " And least of all like her own mother !" is the mental comment of Edith ; " the idea of Aunt Margaret being taken into any one's confidence* or caring one straw about ' failing heart-beats ! ' Does Harold send any message to me?" she asks, when Lady Archdale comes to a full stop.

" No, not a word ! Stay a moment though ; here is a line or two crossed in one corner, which I had not observed — ' Please tell the missus I shall be home to dinner to-morrow, and that she is to mind that the chill is off a bottle of the Chateau Latour.' " Now is not that a gratifying description of my daughter ? And how delicately Harold has conveyed his idea that she scarcely comes up to her mother." Edith is pretty well used to the inordinate vanity of her aunt, which has, for one of its most curious developments, a tendency to discover veiled compliments in words which are, perhaps, meant in a totally opposite sense ; but even Edith opens her eyes very wide indeed at this audacious misinterpreta tion of her husband's words, and she boldly says — " I don't think that is the idea Harold means to convey, Aunt Margaret."

" Ah, my dear ! you have not had such experience in compliments as I have ; there can be no doubt about your husband's meaning. By the by, his message to you is not particularly gushing ; the temperature of his claret appears to come before the warmth of his welcome from his wife." " Probably because he is sure of the one, whilst the other might be forgotten." " Oh, well ! if you are content, it is no business of mine, but I must say that a very little satisfies you ; your late dear uncle would have said something very different after a fortnight's absence from me — but then he never was absent." Edith checks the retort which she feels tempted to make, and which her aunt certainly richly deserves. It is the custom of Lady Archdale to levy contributions for the aliment of her self-love, to shine by a reflected light is not one of her aims, but rather to shine by the force of contrast with the shades around her — shades of which she herself is, usually, the creator.

For this purpose she spares neither feelings nor reputations ; no matter how black surrounding objects are made to look, if the blackness do but impart to her own greys and neutral tints the semblance of the highest lights. To those who know Lady Archdale best, one of the most familiar of these tricks of her brush is the use to which she puts her dead and gone husband ; and to such, it is amusing to watch the various positions which the figure of the defunct baronet is made to assume in order to give value to the principal personage in the picture which forms the life study of his widow. " Are you going to Mrs. Vincent's ' At Home ' on the 27th ? " asks Edith, by way of changing the conversation. " I think so. How splendidly their son has done at Oxford ! he seems to be quite a genius ! " " I am astonished he was not plucked ; his mother always made such a ridiculous fuss about him, and mother's darlings don't often do much at college.

Has Mrs. Vincent decided yet if he is best suited for the Woolsack, or to be Archbishop of Canterbury ? " " It does not matter much what profession is chosen by a young man who is heir to fifteen thousand a year," remarks Lady Archdale, with some asperity ; "but why are you putting on your things to go away, Edith ? won't you stay to dinner? " " Many thanks, but I have promised to go to the Templetons ; I will come and have a look at Mabel in a day or two. Good-by." " Don't forget Harold's message. He would find something else besides his claret warmed, if I were in your place ; my temper would be up, I can tell you. However, give the bad boy my love ; augh ! how sea-sick I might be at this minute but for his charity in taking Mabel off my hands. Good-by my dear." " Thank Heaven ! that infliction is over ! and we have not come to open warfare yet," thinks Edith, as she passes downstairs, and leaves the house.

The home to which Mabel Archdale is about to return, is one in which comfort and ease reign supreme. No care can enter it, which may be kept at bay by those two powerful sentinels, wealth and worldly posi tion. She is the only child of a marriage which had brought little besides her bright young life to solace the last years of a disap pointed man. Clement Archdale and Margaret Delamotte were the children of neighbouring country gentlemen in one of our Midland counties, the one the representative of an ancient line of baronets, the other making up in acres for his want of a title. Clement was the younger of Sir Thomas Archdale's two sons, for which reason his love for Margaret was coldly looked upon by her family, and the young man, in despair, accepted an appointment in Australia, hoping to find amid new scenes the secret of forgetfulness.

To the young lady herself , the presence or theabsence of any one particular admirer was a matter of indifference ; she sunned herself in the smiles of all, enjoying the homage paid to her, but giving nothing in return from her own heart's depths : in fact — even then, one and-thirty years ago — it was currently rumoured that " Margaret Delamotte had not got a heart." Clement Archdale sailed for Australia when Margaret wasjust twenty year's old, and, for ten years, he sought to efface her image from his too faithful memory : from time to time — through all those years — there came to his lonely home tidings of the woman he loved ; she was still unmarried ' so the spark of hope was kept alive, " perhaps she really cared for him." Then — when he had been absent some seven years — came the news of his father's death, his brother was now the baronet, and the master of the old house.

Then (this in pitiful loving words from his pet sister) Margaret and his brother were en gaged to each other ! " But " wrote the indignant woman, " Don't take it to heart, dear old Clem, you are well rid of her. Above all things, if you must fret, come and fret where your little sis can scold you for being such a goose. Dick will be charmed to see you, and our baby Clem's fat little arms will do their very best to go round your dear old neck — come, like a good obedient darling ! " Thus urged, and with a great " hunger gnawing at his heart," Clement Archdale took his passage for England; but — before he could seek his sister's warm welcome — he must take one look at the home of his boy hood, the home so soon to be hers. Ten years had made a great change in the out ward man of "Mr. Clement," and he passed unrecognised through park and gardens, until he reached a spot in the grounds which .com manded a view of the house.

What did he see ? Blinds down at every window ! and — slowly passing down the main avenue — a funeral procession ! His wish to remain un observed was forgotten in the horror and ex citement of the moment — and he rushed to the hall door, where his frantic ring was answered by a servant who had been in the family for years. "Mr. Clement! — beg pardon, sir! Sir Clement ! My dear master ! how did you hear of the trouble ? " It is indeed true ! Just a week ago, an awful accident in the hunting field had given back to Margaret Delamotte her plighted troth, and had transferred to her discarded lover the title and estates of his ancestors. What followed may be told in very few words : another year, and Margaret was Clement's wife ; " all is ordered for the best," said she, " we must bow to the decrees of Providence."

To Sir Clement the said " decrees " were less easy to obey; his married life proved miserable in the extreme, for, in expecting from his wife a return for his own devotion, he had made a fatal error: his was, however, a misery silently and patiently borne, the uncomplaining grief of a brave man who had staked his best treasure on a throw of the dice, and — lost. When little Mabel was one year old, her father first showed symptoms of the malady which eventually proved fatal : he lived just long enough to take his place as a sweet and tender memory to his baby girl — " if you are very good, you shall go and see papa" was the innocent nursery bribe. And so it came to pass — on a certain day, some sixteen years before our story begins — that a little silky sleeping head was found nestling to the heart of a dying man.

TIER FATHER'S CHILD. " Take her away, Margaret ! before she wakes, and"- — this with a last, long, lingering kiss — "if she lives to be a woman, tell her that the most cruel thing a woman can do, is to marry a man whose love she cannot return." A few more hours, and a troubled heart was at rest a few more weeks, and Lady Arch dale's reign at the old house was at an end 5 she left it to make way for the distant cousin who succeeded to the baronetcy and estates.

Chapter II

" Now let me think ! Is there anything I have forgotten ? " Such is the question which Edith Wentworth puts to herself late on in a day, which has been dedicated to preparations for her husband's expected arrival. "Oh, yes ! to look over the letters which are wait ing for Harold, and keep back all those nasty bills which always make him so cross : if the dear fellow has a fault in the world, it is a slight inattention to business ; but he shall have his first evening at home in peace, the darling ! " So Edith runs her eye over the letters which are placed ready for her husband, and removes from the collection all noxious weeds; the said weeds — it must be confessed — con siderably outnumbering the flowers in the parterre of Harold's correspondence. " Oh ! c what a lot of bills !" thinks his wife ; " what a naughty, careless darling it is !" then, taking up the last of the suspicious-looking envelopes, " this can't be for him — ' Madame Clarisse, Court Milliner and Dressmaker ;' well, that is amusing ! when I have not had a single new thing this year !

Nothing but my black silk turned, and a few other economical contrivances, that Madame Clarisse would faint at the very idea of having attributed to her ! A dun, too ! evidently, otherwise, it would never be sent to the master of the house ; Madame has done her best to get her money out of her actual customer first, we may be sure. How glad I am that my eye happened to catch the name on the seal, it will make one worry the less for my darling ; all I have to do is to send the letter back to Madame, pointing out that it is wrongly addressed, as I do not owe her anything. Harold will enjoy the joke ! it will be something to keep him awake after dinner; poor dear ! " — here Edith looks, with mournful interest, at the packet of bills she holds in her hands — " some of these, I fear, would keep him awake much longer than I should wish.

What do you want, Jenkins?" she asks of the servant who has just entered the room. " Please, ma'am, I think I have attended to all the master's usual wishes : there is a good fire in his dressing-room, and his clothes laid out ready, but, perhaps, ma'am, you could tell me which shaped collar as I had best put out for him ; the master was wearing the ne plus hultrer when he went away; but that is a fortnight ago, and he don't often keep to one shape for a fortnight. I thought, per haps, ma'am, as the master might have given some order for me in a letter to you." " No !" replies Edith, " perhaps the safest way will be to have two of each sort your master has at present put into the oven for ten minutes before you take them up to him ; he will then have his choice both as to shape and stiffness."

" Yes, ma'am ! I will see if the cook can spare room in the oven ; there will be a good many collars ! master have such a many shapes. There's ' The Prince,' ' The Duke,' ' The Don,' ' The Gordon,' ' The Shakspeare,' ' The Polo," The Non Parell,' 'The Heclipse,' and two or three more as I can't call to mind just now. Two of each sort will take up a goodish bit of room in the oven, and Mrs. Flareup can't a-bear to be put about." "You really must manage it somehow, Jenkins ! You know how particular your master is about the stiffness of his collars." This remark of Edith's calls forth a feeling: assent from the long-suffering Jenkins, who could tell many a tale in full corroboration of the fact asserted ; he presently appears in the sacred precincts of Mrs. Flareup, laden with the result of his forage in Mr. Wentworth's drawers.

" What have you got there, Mr. Jenkins? " asks the cook, raising her head from an in spection of the contents of the oven. " Collars, ' assorted,' Mrs. Flareup ! It is the missus's orders as they is to go into your oven, to get stiff agin the master comes." " Now of all the unreasonablest of orders, that beats everythink ! when my oven is chock full of his fandangles already. Here's ' pulled bread ' for his cheese, and — one — two — three — yes ! actually four different sorts of pastry ! ' I can see which your master likes best, Flareup,' says the missus ; and now there's them collars to go in likewise ! Lord ! how she do humour him to be sure ! and much good it all does, if 'alf as one 'ears is true. Here you are, Mr. Jenkins ! I've cleared a shelf for you ; the missus has trouble enough, and more comin', I shouldn't wonder : I won't make no fuss, altho' I has known a party as gave warnin' for less."

Our readers have, probably, by this time discovered for themselves that Edith Went worth is a relic of the good old times when wives used to love their husbands, when the change from the first person singular to the first person plural, meant something more than self-love multiplied by two. She looks upon her husband as the embodiment of all the virtues, and this belief has withstood the vicissitudes of six years of married life — years which have been crowded with events sad enough to have cast a gloom over a life time; but which to Edith have but served to heighten the value of her one inestimable treasure. " I have still my husband ; whilst he is spared to me I will not repine." So she consoles herself. Edith Wentworth is the only surviving child of an elder brother of Lady Archdale ; her father died in her early girlhood.

The first grief of her married life was the loss of her mother. But soon there came heavier and keener sorrows, her three little children had all been taken from her— two dying in earliest infancy, the eldest living to take deep root in her heart, only to be torn away — when he was just four years old — by that fatal malady, diphtheria. Even in this bitter grief, the poor mother still clung to the one niainstay of her life ; her husband was ill, too, with the same complaint, but struggled through it. " Harold is with me still ; it is wicked to repine." Thus she finds energy to move cheerfullv about her childless home, and buries deep in her inmost heart the memory of the three little faces. " He must not see me fret, is not the loss his as well as mine ? We must comfort one another." " Yes, Clayton, I will dress for dinner now, and get it over before your master comes," remarks Edith to her maid, when, at last, she has exhausted the list of her husband's possible requirements.

" Please do my hair at once." The maid has taken down the hair, and is hard at work with brushes and combs when her mistress interrupts her — " Stop a minute, Clayton ! I want to listen ; I do believe I heard a step on the stairs. Good gracious ! what is that ? " This last exclamation has reference to a crash upon the landing just outside Edith's door, and both she and Clayton run to see what has happened. " A confounded coal-scuttle left just where it oug-ht not to be, of course ! Blue blazes ! how I have barked my shin." " Oh, Harpld, I am so sorry." "What's the good of being 'sorry?' it won't put the skin back on my leg. Don't stand staring there, for mercy's sake ! Can't you ring for that lazy hound, Jenkins, to bring my luggage up from the cab ? " " Of course, darling. I never heard you knock."

" A most surprising fact, considering I let myself in with my latch-key." " Go down, Clayton," says Edith, " and see that the boxes are brought up at once;" then — when she is alone with her husband — " and how are you, darling ? You have not given me one kiss yet." " Oh well, there ! " and Harold Wentworth presents one side of his face to his wife, "you don't deserve it though, for letting coal scuttles be left all over the place. Hang it ! how my shin smarts ! " " You took Mabel home, I suppose ? " " Yes, dropped her at the old woman's on my way here." " Old woman's ! " laughs Edith, " what would Aunt Margaret say if she heard you ? Such a joke, Harold — she took all your ad miration for Mabel as so many skilfully wrapped-up compliments to herself." " No, impossible ! By Jove, what a lark, though !

Upon my soul, that old creature is invaluable ; as a cure for low spirits I don't know her match." " It must be very comforting to think so well of one's self," answers Edith, "but here comes your luggage, and Clayton and Jenkins ; let us dress for dinner ; you must be half starved." When the threatened starvation has been duly guarded against, and the servant has left the dining-room, Edith introduces the subject which has been on her mind ever since her visit to Lady Archdale — " I am dying to hear all about Mabel ; but, first of all, you naughty boy, why did you send me such a shabby letter, last time you wrote?" " Why, what more did you want ? but that is always the way with women, they expect you to cover three sheets at the least ; and half of them would call you a brute unless two of those were crossed."

" Ah ! but Harold, in these days when there are such terrible accidents continually ! " " So one must be everlastingly telegraph ing, or writing to say that one is not dead ; why, you noodle ! if anything of that sort were to happen, you would know it soon enough." " How ? " asks his wife. " The body would be brought home." " Pray Harold, don't joke about such awful things. How would you like me to make fun of you on such a subject ? imagine your feelings if anything very dreadful were to happen to me. Oh, Harold, what would you do, darling?" " Change of air, my dear, change of air ; I should travel in Bohemia for a year or two." " Is that a good thins* to do ? " "Very, for some constitutions." " Well, I must forgive you, I suppose, for your laziness in not sending me a longer letter ; but now tell me about Mabel — is she really so very pretty ?

How you launched out about her to Aunt Margaret." " By Jove ! half London will launch out I suspect, before many more weeks are over our heads. And so Aunt Margaret appropriated all the compliments, did she ? you may de pend upon it, she will think half of Mabel's lovers want to marry her." " No doubt she will ; I got out of patience with her yesterday, and told her downright, that I knew you did not mean what she thought." " That was rather ' rough ' on the old girl ; Aunt Margaret's one sensitive point is her vanity. I bet you, that — within the next five minutes — she had her revenge, some little gnat-bite of malice." " Perhaps she had," and Edith thinks for a moment of the bottle of claret, and then adds, " but, after all, the buzz and the whur-r of small insects are for more irritating than their sting is painful; Aunt Margaret certainly did buzz and whur-r a good deal, but the amount of venom finally dejDosited was any thing but alarming.