Colonel Fortescue's Daughter

Chapter I

Pass thou on ! for the vow is said That may ne'er be broken ; Tb e trembling hand hath a blessing laid On snowy forehead and auburn braid, And the word is spoken By lips that never their word betrayed. Pass thou on ! for thy human all Is richly given. And the voice that claims its holy thrall Must be sweeter for life than music's fall, And this side heaven, Thy lip may never that trust recall. N. P. Willis. TT was the height of the London season, -*- when the traffic of the streets was con tinually impeded by the dense crowds which thronged them ; when heat, and dust, and VOL. I. B glare, and noise were the pervading elements of life ; that there was even more stir than usual in one of the smaller streets that connect Park Lane with the still greater thoroughfares. Rows of carriages, three deep ; coachmen with nosegays and favours ; the doorstep of the largest house in the street covered with red cloth, and above all the travelling carriage with the never-failing four grey posters, all gave token of a wed ding ; and indeed it was well known to the fashionable world that on that day, the 18th of May, 18 — , the beautiful Georgina Lennox and the gallant and handsome Horace Fortescue, late of the 4th Lancers, had on that morning plighted their troth.

The customary crowd of idle boys and decently dressed people loitered round the door. They would not go away satisfied till they had seen the bride aud bridegroom leave the house to be whirled away on the road to Dover, for it was before the time that railroads had, by intersecting the face of the country, made travelling far less enjoy able, if more convenient. "You must come down now, darling," said Lady Lennox to her daughter, as she disengaged herself from her clinging em brace, " you must not keep your husband waiting." '4Your husband!" those words always sound so strangely to a young wife, and did especially to Georgina Lennox, who had never been a day from under her mother's roof, and whose passionate love for her was the combined feeling of daughter, sister, and friend ; for she was an only child, and the love that had been always lavished upon her was unshared.

" I am ready, but you will come down with me, mamma ? " she replied with a pale face and quivering lip. b Colonel Fortescue was already in the hall waiting for her. His bride took his arm and let him put her into the carriage wdthout trusting; herself to look back. As the car riage moved on she leant forward to obtain the last glimpse of her mother, and then sank back, hiding her face in her handker chief crying bitterly. But her grief only lasted a few minutes. Looking up she saw her husband's eyes fixed upon her with grave concern, and felt at once that her emotion was selfish, and hardly as it should be. She hastily wiped her eyes and turned to him with a smile, saying, "Please forgive me, Horace, I never left mamma before." " I have nothing to forgive, dearest," he replied, gently drawing her towards him.

" I only hope that there may be sufficient happiness in store for you to make up for all you have left." Colonel and Mrs. Fortescue Avere to spend the honeymoon in Switzerland. The new scenes and the very different life made it a time of enchantment to the young wife, and neither could bear the idea of returning to England. From Switzerland they went on to the German Tyrol, and lingered among its beautiful scenery ; from thence to the banks of the Rhine, visiting many quaint old towns which, in their own way, possessed an equal charm. They could not bear to give up their wanderings to settle down as common place matter-of-fact householders ; but sooner or later it must be done, and at last Lady Lennox's heart was gladdened by a letter from her child from Paris, to say that she and her husband were on their way home, and begging her to see that their house was in tolerable order for their reception.

The house which was to receive the newlymarried couple was a pretty, cheerful villa at Hampstead. It was not exactly the house that Colonel Fortescue would have chosen, but " Georgy " was so anxious to be near her mother, who spent a great part of the year in London, and, as in that respect it had its advantages, he made no difficulty in com plying with her wishes, and took Parkhurst Lodge on a long lease. As sundry alterations were deemed necessary, it had been placed in the hands of builders and upholsterers while they were abroad, but the decorations and ornamental furniture were left for them to decide upon after their return. It wTould be " so amusing," they thought, "to drive into London every day to shop;" but they soon had enough of that amusement, and when the small troubles and annoyances of daily life presented themselves to their inexperienced eyes, they looked back to the idle desultory time they had spent abroad with manyregrets.

So much of the autumn as was left passed quickly away, and both saw the approach of Christmas with pleasure. It was to be spent at Iffley Court, with Lord and Lady Lennox. Mrs. Fortescue was in raptures to be once more in her old home, and, truth to tell, her husband was equally glad to return to his customary outdoor amusements of hunting and shooting, and more freedom than he had found it possible to have at Hampstead. For Georgy was still too young a wife to be able to endure her husband's leaving her alone for a day ; while at Iffley Court it came in the natural order of things that gentlemen should go out and ladies sit at home, so there she bore it philosophically enough, only insisting on waiting for him in his room on his return, with warm slippers and dressing gown, so as to have him all to herself for the half hour before dinner.

When the winter was past, the spring found them again at Parkhurst Lodge, and early in June, when the days were longest, and the scent of may, lilacs, and syringa were even in that neighbourhood borne upon the air ; when the young thrushes sang lustily all the day long, and the cuckoo, nothing dis heartened by the mimicry of every idle boy, continued his monotonous call ; their happi ness was completed by the birth of a daugh ter, who in due time was christened Florence Gertrude, and who of course was pronounc ed to be the finest baby ever seen. Cer tainly Mrs. Fortescue believed so. She was enraptured with her new treasure, and would sometimes say, with tears in her eyes, that it frightened her to feel so happy. Poor young mother ! it was a short-hved happiness, but the memory of those days remained with her through all her life, though she looked back on them in after years with pain.

But now all was happiness and sunshine : her recovery was rapid, her beauty heightened, and her husband more devoted than ever. As soon as she was able to go out again she insisted on being driven to London to buy furniture for the nursery. " You can drive us all, Horace," she said. " All ! What do you mean by all ?" " Nurse and baby as well as me, of course." " I drive Mrs. Roundabout and a baby through London, my dear Georgy ? Impos sible !" protested her husband, with a face of dismay. " But what can I do ? I want to get nursery furniture — I want to get pictures for the wall. It is of such consequence for children to have everything about them bright and cheerful. Besides, pictures teach so much." "But you can't teach her now," said Horace doubtfully. " Can she see at all?" " How ignorant all men are !" returned his wife rather disdainfully.

"You think babies are like puppies, I suppose. Why, baby was five weeks old yesterday. I certainly cannot put it off, and as to dear old nurse, that you so disrespectfully call Mrs. Roundabout, why, if she were here baby need not go, but as she is gone I cannot leave her." " But, my dear Georgy, you do not mean to take the child about with you every wdiere ? I thought your mother had got you such a treasure of a nurse that you were never to have any anxiety about her." "I am not exactly anxious about baby, for Evans has been with her ever since she was born, but then nurse was with her too." " What, in heaven's name, is the good of having a nurse if she can't take care of baby while you drive to London ! " " I suppose she can, only, as she has never had her alone, I did not know if baby would be good with her.

But I will see about it to-morrow." As Mrs. Fortescue consented to accompany her husband to London the next day, it is to be supposed that in some incomprehen sible manner she had contrived to elicit the baby's feelings with regard to her nurse. She, however, left that important personage in anything but a placid state of mind ; and, indeed, the directions and counter directions that she gave with regard to the child were quite enough to irritate a better tempered person than Mrs. Evans. " If my mistress thinks I'm going to be dictated to like this, she's very much mistaken, and in the wrong box altogether," said Mrs. Evans to the little nurserymaid, who held her in great awe, as they stood together at the nursery window watching the carriage drive away. " It's never to be thought as I, who brought up all Lady Laura Vane's babies from the month, and lived in a nursery all my life, shouldn't know the fit time to take a baby out of doors.

It may be shady enough in the garden ; I'll be bound it is, and mop ing, too ; so I shall just take her out on the heath — do you go at once and bring up the dinner." "Yres, ma'am; and please will you take beer or porter to-day with your dinner ?" " Well, I think porter is the most refresh ing this hot weather ; and tell the cook to send me some other vegetables besides po tatoes. I never could dine off meat and potatoes alone." " Very well, ma'am," was her obsequious reply, as she ran off to do her superior's bid ding, wondering whether a walk on the heath was in store for her, too, that bright, warm summer day. But there was no such pleasure awaiting her. Mrs. Evans gave her some needlework to do wdiile she was gone, not being at all desirous of her company, for, as soon as she knew that she should have the day to herself, she had sent a message to an especial friend of her own to meet her on the heath that afternoon.

There was a kind of fair held there that day, and so many people in consequence that Mrs. Evans had to walk some distance before she could see any signs of her friend, who had been butler in Lady Laura Vane's house, and was now undecided whether to take a public-house with Mrs. Evans to assist him, or to procure another situation. She was soon tired of carrying the child under a scorching sun, and sat down on the first bench she could see. In a few minutes she saw her " friend" coming towards her, and they had a long and eager discussion upon their prospects, the baby conveniently assist ing them by the soundness of its slumbers. At length the nurse looked at her watch, re marking that the child must not stay out any longer ; " only just a minute," urged Mr. Parker; "you must not go till you have been into the booth to see the show.

Really it is worth seeing — a dwarf and a giant, both so extraordinary that you will never forget them to your dying day." Mr. Par ker was right in this, for she never did. " I can't, Mr. Parker, indeed, take the baby into that crowd ; I really couldn't — be sides it's as much as my place is worth." A woman who had been sitting for some time on the same seat here interposed and said that she was quite ready to hold the baby for her if she liked to go. The nurse hesi tated, but Mr. Parker was urgent, and at last she consented, saying, as she laid the child on the woman's knee, " I shan't be two minutes." "Two or ten it's all the same to me," replied the woman. " I've nothing to do, — pretty dear ! how sound she sleeps !" The nurse and her lover hurried away. As soon as they had mixed with the crowd and were fairly out of sight, the woman's manner at once changed.

She took up the baby and walked rapidly across the heath, ran down the hill into the London road, and never slackened her pace till she reached a public house where an omnibus was on the point of starting. She got in hastily. " The Strand — put me down in the Strand," she said, without any other reason for choosing that part of London than that it was the most crowded thoroughfare she could think of at the moment. "All right, ma'am," said the conductor as he banged the door, and the unconscious infant was being whirled off to London be for Mrs. Evans had sufficiently feasted her eyes on the wonders of the show. When they returned to the place where they had left the child, and saw the bench empty, Mrs. Evans uttered a shriek of dismay. "Hush — sh." said her companion, " you'll be getting a crowd round you, don't make a row, the child wouldn't sleep, maybe, and the woman's walking her about.

I'll go and look, and I'm not so sure that this is where we left her." " It is — oh ! it is. It was you over-per suaded me to go !'' " Well, and what if I did, what are you so scared about ? You may be sure folks don't steal such an article as that ; a good deal more likely to give it away, I fancy." He walked off rapidly in one direction and the nurse in another, but their search was of course ineffectual. " Taken her home perhaps," he suggested. " How could she? How could she know where her home was ? But I must go there at once. There's a policeman. Oh ! Parker, do call him !" This was done, and as far as he could com prehend the nurse's distracted statement, he wrote a description of the woman, and said that he would send at once to Scotland Yard in order that she might if possible be traced.

Mrs. Evans rushed into the house to see if any of the servants, finding the child with a stranger, should have carried her home, but that hope proving futile, she darted off again, declaring she could never again face Mrs. Fortescue. Meanwhile Colonel Fortescue and his wife were driving rapidly home. When they ar rived at the house he went to the stable to speak about one of the horses while she ran up to the nursery. The room was unten anted, every door and wdndow wide open, and the whole house seemed unnaturally still and deserted. Mrs. Fortescue called repeatedly, but no one replied. She was on the point of ringing the bell violently when she heard a suppressed sob, and the little VOL. I. C nursery-maid emerged from an inner closet, hiding her face in her handkerchief, and sobbing hysterically.

"Mary, where's baby? — and what's the matter ?" "Please, ma'am, she's lost, and Mrs.Evans is gone to look for her." "Lost! what can you mean ? — tell me, I desire, I command you !" And she almost shook the girl in the agony of her terror. But she could elicit nothing, and with wild frightened eyes flew down the stairs just as Colonel Fortescue was coming into the house and in time to see the housekeeper beckon ing to him to come to her. Then she felt the girl's words were true, and only just able to gasp out " Horace — baby," she fell fainting on the floor. " Poor lady ! poor dear soul ! I wanted you to tell her first, sir." " Tell her what ? What is it ?" he asked, utterly bewildered by the suddenness of all that had occurred. The housekeeper told him in a few words the state of the case, and begged him to send a man on horseback to communicate at once with the police in London, " for there's no doubt now, sir, that, whether for her clothes or for the reward, some wicked wretch has kidnapped the sweet darling, so the sooner the reward is offered the better."

" Where is the nurse ?" was his only reply, with a face pale and rigid in its sternness. "She is not here, sir." Mrs. Gryll could say so with truth, and as she looked at Colonel Fortescue she was thankful to be able to say so. He took his wife up in his arms, and carry ing her as easily as if she were a baby, laid her still unconscious on the bed. " I must go to the police-station myself," c2 he said. "Has any description ofthe woman been forwarded there ?" "I think so, sir; a policeman came up just now to make inquiries." " I must speak to him. Has Dr. Martin been sent for?" " Yes." Mrs. Gryll had sent for him at once. " But, oh ! sir, please don't leave my mistress yet, she's scarcely come to, and she never could bear, when she opens her eyes, to see no one about her but servants in such a trouble as this."

Colonel Fortescue hesitated. " There is no time to be lost. " But the doctor's sure to come directly," pleaded the housekeeper. " Maybe he'll give her something to make her sleep, then you could leave her." Mrs. Gryll had seen much sorrow and much sickness in the course of her life, and knew better than her master the risk of such a shock to a weak frame and excitable temperament. Mrs. Fortescue seemed still only partly conscious, and had not yet spoken. Colonel Fortescue consented to wait till the doctor came, and, leaving Mrs. Gryll to watch his wife, he went down to the policeman. He had brought a written description of the woman who had taken the baby, and wished to obtain some further particulars from the nurse, but she was not to be found. " The child's safe enough to be brought back as soon as the reward is offered — it's an old trick, sir," said the man.

" Any reward may be offered you think best — a thousand pounds if it would be ad visable." The policeman evidently did not think it would be, but, saying he would tell the superintendent the gentleman's wishes, carried off the hand-bills to be printed. Colonel Fortescue had his horse saddled and brought round to the door, and then returned to his wife's room to await the arrival of the doctor. He soon came, having heard the sad news by the way. Mrs. Fortescue, utterly prostrated by the shock, lay in a kind of stupor. Dr. Martin prescribed as much quiet as possible, and an opiate to be given if she became restless, and then eagerly offered his assistance in their search for the child. He promised to come back in two hours, and to wait till Colonel Fortescue should return from London. "Your wife will want watching, poor young thing !

She has scarcely got up her strength yet, and this is a terrible trial, a terrible trial ! " and the kind old man walked to the window, blowing his nose and wiping his spectacles, which had become very misty. "Tell me, doctor," said Colonel Fortescue eagerly, " do you believe the poor child has been carried off for the sake of the reward ? You don't believe that any one would — that any harm could happen to her ?" " No — certainly not — the child is safe enough somewhere, and as soon as the hand bills are out she will be brought back in no time." " Well, then, I'll just tell Georgy so before I go." " Better not — better not — " said the more cautious doctor ; " leave her alone, you will only make her restless. I left a good strong opiate, and I daresay if they give it her she will sleep all through the night."

The two men trotted off in different directions. Mrs. Fortescue had fallen asleep, and seemed to be sleeping quietly ; but later in the evening she woke suddenly with a ter rible consciousness of some calamity, though for a long time she could not at all under stand what had happened. Fortunately both her husband and Dr. Martin were in the house : " My darling ! my darling ! my pre cious baby !" wailed the poor mother. " Oh ! Horace, if she had died I could have borne it, for then I should have known where she lay, and that no harm could befall her ; but now — " You'll have her back in no time, never fear," said the doctor. " The handbills are posted all over London, and of course when the reward is known it will bring the child back at once." " Do you think so ? — are you speaking the truth ?

It's cruel if you are deceiving me." " If you think that I would do so, why do you listen to what I say ?" returned the doctor somewhat crossly. The fact was that his sympathy for the poor young mother was so great that he felt obliged to conceal it under an appearance of gruffness, besides which he thought anything that would create a momentary distraction in her mind was good for her. Sleep that night was procured for her by means of an opiate, and the next day she was quite calm, though very weak and de pressed. A message had been sent at once to Iffley Court, and in the course of the morning Lady Lennox arrived. This was a great relief to Colonel Fortescue, who felt that he could now go to London and pursue his inquiries systematically without the fear of leaving his wife too long alone.

Early in the afternoon of the second day from the disappearance of the child, a cab drove rapidly up to the house, and the bell was rung gently, but before the servant could open the door, it had driven away, and no one was to be seen, nothing but a common wicker cradle that had been left upon the doorstep. The man, without touch ing it, went immediately to call Mrs. Gryll, who, in her delight, scarcely glanced at the cradle, but rushed up to Lady Lennox's room to tell what had occurred, considering that she ought to have the happiness of break ing the good news to her daughter. With heartfelt thanksgiving she quickly followed the housekeeper into the hall, where a group of servants were standing round the cradle, speaking in whispers, and apparently per plexed. As they approached, the httle nur sery-maid seized Mrs. Gryll's arm, saying be tween laughing and crying, "Law!

Mrs. Gryll, wdiichever of 'em is ours ?" " What do you mean, child ?" exclaimed the housekeeper impatiently, kneeling down beside the cradle, and lifting up the coverlet, but she too looked up at Lady Lennox in dismay, when she saw two children dressed exactly alike ! " What a shameful trick ! Which is our darling ?" asked Lady Lennox. " I will call my daughter." " Oh ! my lady, stay one minute, for mercy's sake ! Wait till we can tell which child to put into her arms as her own. I cannot tell — it is so very strange. Mary, you must know which is which ?" Mrs. Gryll lifted out one infant and Lady Lennox the other ; they were exactly alike in dress, and had no distinguishing features either in form or colouring. Mary was silent. No one had an idea which was the missing child, and the servants shrank away from the cradle one by one, as from something uncanny and mysterious.

There was a pause for a moment, in which Colonel Fortescue, who had just returned from London, hastily entered the hall. Amazed at the scene before him, his one idea was that the child had been brought back dead. When he saw a living infant in Lady Lennox's arms — for he had not noticed the housekeeper, who was standing aside and rather out of sight — he darted forward to take the child. " My precious baby ! where — who brought it ? — and does not Georgy know ?" " No," answered Lady Lennox, " there is a difficulty ; two children were left at the door in this cradle." " Then that was the trick, was it ?" he said joyfully, " to palm off another child upon us as well. Well, we will take it thankfully, as it gives you back to us, my treasure ! " and he stooped over the baby and kissed it. " I think this is our baby, sir," said Mrs. Gryll, taking the child out of his arms and giving him the one she was holding.

" But, God bless me, you must know !" he said wdth a face of dismay. " All babies look the same to me — but you women surely know ?" " But we cannot be quite sure, Horace," saidLady Lennox ; "and you see Evans is not here." "No, curse her," he muttered angrily. " Well, I won't have Georgy kept in suspense any longer, only tell me which it is, and I'll take the child up to her." But no one could tell him, and the like ness between the two children -was really remarkable. There was nothing distinguish able in size, feature, or colouring. "Well, I shall tell Georgy," he said after a pause. " It won't do for her to be taken by surprise." In one moment Mrs. Fortescue w7as flying down the staircase into the hall. " I shall know, only let me see," she cried, kneeling down beside the cradle, as Mrs. Gryll had done.

She stooped forward to take up one baby and then the other. She evidently did not know. " Oh ! if nurse, dear old nurse were but here !" she said in great anxiety, turning to her husband. " If that is all, she shall come at once. I will send the carriage in for her." " Do, Horace, she will know of course ; and the other poor baby — it must not be turned adrift, we must take care of it." " Yes, to be sure," he answered rather vaguely, as the doubt of being able to identify his own child grew stronger every minute. But Mrs. Fortescue had no fear that the old nurse, who had been with the child from its birth, should not recognise her charge.

Chapter II

And thou, my child, My heart misgave me when I looked upon thee. N. P. Willis. They were Earth's purest children, young and fair, With eyes the shrines of unawakened thought, And brows as bright as spring or morning, ere Dark time had there its evil legends wrought In characters of cloud which wither not. Shellet. rjlHE curiosity of the inhabitants of a small -*- street in Bloomsbury was greatly ex cited when they saw a phaeton with a pair of horses stop at the small grocer's shop, over which Mrs. Cooper lodged. Mr. Tucker hoped he was about to receive an unlimited order for cheese, that being the article upon which he especially prided himself ; but his expectations were soon dis pelled by hearing his lodger open her window, and speak to the groom who was driving. " Why, Robert, is that you ?"

" Yes, the Colonel has sent the carriage for you, Mrs. Cooper, and I'm to take you back in a jiffy ; so -will you please to come down at once." " I'll come ; but what's wrong at the Lodge ?" she asked eagerly. " Is the baby ill?" " There's plenty wrong. Not exactly that, but I'll tell you as we go along." Mrs. Cooper in her black silk gown and clean white cap was always fit to be seen, and ready for any emergency, so beyond putting on her bonnet she had no prepara tions to make. She was the very ideal of a comfortable middle-aged woman, with a soft, fair, kind face, which still retained a good deal of its youthful expression. She was rather portly, but scarcely merited Colonel Fortescue's disrespectful nick-name of " Mrs. Roundabout." She had been originally nurse in Lady Lennox's family, and had known Mrs. Fortescue from a child.