The Dean's Daughter

Front matter

BV SOPHIE F. F. VEITCH Author ok 'Angus Graeme, Gamekeeper,* 'James Hepburn, Free Church Minister,' etc. ALEXANDER GARDNER puiliolirr to $?« fttajfBtP tf)e <&.mtn PAISLEY ; AND PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON CONTENTS Chapter pAGB I. — A Born Bohemian, .... ! II. — Flash to the Rescue, - - - •• n III. — An Adventure in the Chase, - - 22 IV. — The Haunted Copse, - 33 V. — Pricking a Windbag, - 42 VI. — Diplomacy, 51 VII. — Rash Candour, ... - 61 VIII. — Simon's Commission, .... 73 IX. — Superstitious Terrors, - 84 X. — Mr. Wilbraham's Tactics, - 95 XL — A Mutual P.evelation, - - - 107 XII. — Honour versus Inclination, - 118 XIII. — Mrs. Mason's Development, - - 129 XIV. — Major Fordham Rides in the Chase, 140 XV. — In the Moonlight, - - - 151 XVI. — The Wolf and the Lame, - - 162 XVII. — The Shadows Deepen, - - - 172 XVIII. — The Last of the Deanerv, - 183 XIX. — A Sphinx, - 192 XX. — Melodramatic, - - 201 XXI. — Gathering Clouds, - 211 XXII. — Plot and Counterplot, 221 XXIII. — Which Will? '- - 232 XXIV. — Brightening Prospects, - 243 XXV. — A Bolt out of the Blue, - - • - 253 XXVI. — Arming for the Fight, - 263 XXVII. — Victory in Defeat, . - - 274 XXVIII. — Onward into Light! - - DAUGHTER.

Chapter I

A BORN BOHEMIAN. </'-\H, mamma, Flash ran over a pig, and he never fell down. V_>/ Wasn't it clever of him ? ' My mother was seated in the drawingroom, in company with Miss Lambert, my governess. She turned her beautiful brown eyes upon me with a faintly inquiring glance — they were generally very innocent of any expression. ' My dear Vera,' she said. ' What do you mean ? ' ' Just what I say. Flash bolted — he was very fresh to-day, he bolted three times — and a nasty great ugly black pig got in the way, and Flash rolled him over in the road. I've heard papa say a pig getting in the way is nearly certain to throw a horse down, and Flash never fell down a bit, so he must be very clever.' ' Do you not think, Veronica,' put in Miss Lambert — She always called me Veronica when she wished to be impressive, — ' that it would show more humanity on your part if you thought less about Flash's cleverness, and more about the unfortunate pig ?

Do you suppose the poor animal has no feeling ? ' ' No, I am sure he has no feelings, hideous old brute, or he would never have got in the way as he did. Why if Flash had come down on that road he would have cut his poor knees frightfully.' Those were not the days of afternoon tea, but my mother always had coffee in the afternoon. Cumming, the butler, was standing with his back to us, arranging the coffee table. I heard a strange sound from his direction, and I think Miss Lambert must have heard it also, for I saw she grew very red. She answered sharply. 'I said "feeling," Veronica, not "feelings." There is a difference. The poor pig must certainly have been much hurt. I think it most inhuman of you not to have stopped to see how much it was injured.' ' If you were on Flash when he bolts — but then you wouldn't be, for you'd tumble off,' I added, parenthetically, and I fear contemptuously.

Cumming disappeared with marvellous celerity — ' But I mean, you know, if you could sit on him, you would find it is not so easy to stop. I did go back when I managed to pull him up, but the pig was gone, and I hope that he was hurt and that he will be stiff and sore for a long time to come. It will teach him not to get in the way again.' ' My dear Vera,' put in my mother, ' all this talk about Flash and a pig is not very interesting. You had better go up stairs and see if your tea is ready. Good gracious, child, why is your hair tied up in that ugly lump behind ? What can Waters be thinking of! ' ' It is'nt Waters, mamma, it's Jackson. He told Waters he should speak to papa, if I went out riding with long plaits hanging down my back. Flash would scramble through a hedge the other day, and my hair nearly got caught Jackson said I might almost get scalped.

You would not like to see me come home some day all scalped and bleeding.' ' Heavens, child, you are unendurable ; go away up stairs directly. Give me a cup of coffee, J Iiss Lambert, if you please.' In no way abashed by this rebuff I made for the conservatory, into which the drawingroom opened. The gardeners' entrance was from a stone passage leading to the servants' department and the back staircase, and that was the shortest way to my nursery. Pausing for a moment to look at a plant in the conservatory, I heard my mother say — * Really, Miss Lambert, I wish you could do something with that child. She is insufferable ! ' ' My dear Mrs. Dormer,' responded Miss Lambert, ' I am in despair. I never had such a pupil. She is a born Bohemian.' A Bohemian ! What did that mean ? I waited to hear more, quite undisturbed by any scruples about eavesdropping.

I was but nine years old, and Miss Lambert's automatic administration of religious instruction had not greatly aided my moral develop ment. I do not think it would have crossed my thoughts to listen to a conversation which in no way concerned me personally, but discussions about myself were quite another thing. They generally portended a lecture of some sort from Miss Lambert, were in fact a sort of full-dress rehearsal, my unsuspected attendance at which had more than once enabled me to prepare my defences so as to rout the enemy with ease and rapidity. Besides, my curiosity was much excited by that word ' Bohemian.' and its application to myself, I wanted to hear more about it. ' It is most extraordinary,' I heard my mother say ; I cannot think where she can have learned it' ' She has not learned it,' replied Miss Lambert, with a slightly fretful intonation, as though her unvarying precision was irritated by my mother's irrelevance of thought, ' she is a born Bohemian.

I never was so puzzled how to manage a child. It seems absolutely impossible to instil into her any perception of the proprieties of life. She said the other day that Mrs. Charles Mitchell was a lying hypocrite, because of her conduct to eld Mrs. Mitchell, and when I reproved her for using such expressions, she said it was quite true, and everybody knew it, so where was the use of pretending not to know or believe it' ' Yes,' replied my mother, placidly, ' that is just what she would say. She is very truthful, I must allow. I suppose she will outgrow all this sort of thing, so it is no use worning about it' My mother was generally quick to seize upon a conclusion which justified a policy of taking no trouble, and leaving things alone — about the only sort of quickness she ever did manifest. ' I do not feel sure about that,' Miss Lambert said, ' if she is not put under much stricter rules ; and really, if she grows up as she is, I do not see how you are ever to take her into society.

I do think, Mrs. Dormer, this riding about by herself should be stopped. It encourages these wild gipsy habits.' This was growing serious. From the first moment of Miss Lambert's arrival at the Deanery, a year since, I had regarded her with sentiments of hostility, not unmixed with both suspicion and contempt. If she was going to interfere with my liberty — I listened eagerly for the answer. When it came, I detected by the sound my mother was speaking through a yawn, and I breathed more freely. I did not think people generally yawned when they were much in earnest. ' You must talk to the Dean about that,' she said, ' but I do not think you will get him to interfere. He has a theory that girls who ride should know how to manage their own horses, and that they learn best by going about alone.

He tells me the way Vera can manage that pony is quite extraordinary. It will come expensive though, if she takes to running over pigs, for I suppose we shall have to pay for them. Do you know the price of a pig, Miss Lambert ? ' ' No, indeed, I cannot help you there,' replied Miss Lambert, in a deeply offended tone, which was quite lost upon my mother. ' I suppose they can't be very dear, or the poor people couldn't afford to buy them. Be kind enough to ring the bell, Miss Lambert I think Murray shall bring my bonnet and cloak, and I will walk as far as the Court before dinner.' Much reassured I made my way up to the nursery, where my nurse, Mrs. Waters, was seated, mending some fine old lace of my mother's. ' Waters,' I promptly demanded, ' what is a Bohemian ?' ' A Bohemian, my dear ? Why a native of the country called Bohemia.' ' But I'm not a native of it' ' Certainly not.

You were born here, in the Deanery.' 'Then that isn't it. I heard Miss Lambert tell mamma I was a born Bohemian.' 'You must have mistaken the word, my dear.' ' No, I didn't. I heard it quite distinctly, and it has something to do with my calling Mrs. Charles Mitchell a lying hypocrite.' ' Miss Vera, how ever came you to do such a thing as that ? ' 'Oh, I said it just to shock Miss Lambert, she's always so prim and proper. But it's quite true. I heard mamma and Mrs. Cranley talking about it, and I've heard other people talk about it I often hear things when they think I'm not listening. She does hate old Mrs. Mitchell, and yet she pretends to be very fond of her, for fear she should leave her money away to some one else, so she is a lying hypocrite.' ' But it isn't kind to say it, my dear.' ' It isn't unkind.

She doesn't hear me, so it doesn't hurt her, and everyone knows it, so it isn't telling tales. I wish I knew though what it has to do with being a Bohemian.' ' Come and have your tea, and don't think any more about it. You can have your tea first, and then change your habit.' The first injunction I obeyed, but not the second. My mind was much taken up with that mysterious epithet, and its apparent connection with two such wholly different phases of conduct as my remarks on Mrs. Charles Mitchell, and my riding Flash. After tea I betook myself to the garden to reflect upon the subject undisturbed. The Deanery grounds were very beautiful. The Cathedral and Chapter buildings quite shut out all sight or sound of the town, so the Deanery might have been an isolated country house. A very extensive undulating lawn, on which grew some magnificent old trees, was only divided by a sunk fence from a piece of park-like ground sloping down to the deep, swift, clear river running at about a quarter of a mile's distance from the house.

Beyond the river, sloping upwards again, was the beautifully-timbered park of Wichborough Court, a fine old country house, partially visible in the distance. The Deanery grounds had been skilfully laid out, and were kept in most perfect order, far too perfect for me, even when I ran no risk, as I did at that moment, of meeting my mother. I was not partial to her society. I think I regarded her as a piece of quite unobjectionable but by no means interesting household furniture. My favourite haunt was a piece of ground known in Chapter parlance as ' the debatable land,' a plot of about two acres in extent adjoining, and only partially fenced off from the Deanery grounds, respecting which there was some little uncertainty as to whether it was actually a part of the private grounds of the Deanery, or whether it belonged to the Chapter.

In times past I believe this uncertainty had given rise to heart-burnings, even to quarrels, upon which it was said local lawyers had thriven amazingly. But this had never been in the days of my liberal, genial-tempered father. What did it matter, he said, whether the ground belonged to him or the Chapter? His gardeners could easily give it all the attention it needed, and it was a fine place for the Chapter babies and nurses, they were out of the way of the soldiers, and there was plenty of shade. This was my general resort. I could cut sticks, or do anything disorderly, without dread of suddenly encountering the wrathful glare of the head gardener. The time for babies being past, I now betook myself thither to meditate undisturbed. There was, however, a door in the wall which separated the debatable land from the public road, and coming from certain directions the route was a short cut to the Close.

I had not long established myself on a favourite seat when I heard the click of the door latch, followed by footsteps approach ing, and shortly there emerged from the shrubs which hid the door from my sight, one of the minor canons, and, to my great satisfaction, one for whom I had a special regard. 'What, Vera,' he said, ' safe home? How many times did Flash bolt to-day ? ' 'Three times. He was very fresh; but he did not get into the hedge, though it would not have mattered, for Waters had tied my hair up tight. He did pull very hard though. But please sit down, Mr. Charlcote, if you are not in a hurry. I want to ask you a question.' ' By all means,' he said, seating himself beside me. ' I want to know what a Bohemian is ? I don't mean a native of Bohemia, you know, something different' He looked rather curiously at me. ' Who said anything to you about Bohemians ? ' he asked. ' No one.

It was something I overheard, but I will tell you just what happened. Then you will understand.' I was tolerably accurate, and faithfully detailed all that had passed until I came to my candid remarks and Cumming's sudden bolt Then I discovered that Mr. Charlcote was shaking with laughter. ' Why do you laugh ? ' I abruptly broke off. ' Is it at the pig ? I am sure Miss Lambert would not consider that very humane.' ' I was not laughing at the pig, but at the idea of Miss Lam bert riding Flash ? ' ' Why shouldn't she ? If he did not run away.' ' Well, Flash is not exactly what is termed a safe and steady mount' ' Is he very difficult to ride ? I was thinking of getting Edith Cranley to change ponies with me some day, and, see if she could ride him.' ' My dear Vera, do nothing of the kind ! He would pitch her off in two minutes.

You and Flash understand each other, but I can tell you I should be very sorry to ride him. But go on with your story. You have not got to the Bohemian part of it yet' I finished my recital, and then I saw he looked grave. ' Do you understand what they meant ? ' I asked. ' Perfectly well. A Bohemian, in the sense in which they used the word, means some one who will do just what he pleases, without attending to any rules of society, or caring what anyone thinks.' ' Well then, for once Miss Lambert is right, for I do always mean to do just what I like, and not care the least what anyone thinks. Aunt Marion is always going on about Edith Cranley, and asking me why I cannot be a perfect little lady like her. I think Edith is a great baby, and she is a little sneak. She puts on her ladylike manner when it suits her, or she can get any thing by it ; but she can be rude and disagreeable enough if she likes.

I don't want to be like that. I want to be always the same.' ' Quite right. But it is not necessary to be unkind, to avoid being a sneak.' ' But I am not unkind.' ' Not about Mrs. Charles Mitchell ? ' ' It doesn't hurt her. I don't say it to her.' He was silent for a moment, looking down thoughtfully. Then he said : ' Do you ever do anything very naughty, Vera ? ' ' Oh yes, some times. Do you know why my daily governess, Miss Jones, went away ? ' 'No.' 'Well, I'll tell you,' I replied. ' It was the naughtiest thing I ever did. Miss Jones was a nasty, mean little wretch. She was always prying and poking about, and trying to find out everyone's business. Well, you know my little dog Peter; she didn't like him, and wanted him kept out of the school-room. She said she was shortsighted, and was afraid of treading on him, but it wasn't that.

She used to bring a basket, and steal cake and things from the tea table, and Peter went sniffing at it ; that was what she didn't like. She wasn't a bit shortsighted. Shall I tell you how I found that out ? It was such fun.' ' Yes, tell me.' ' She was always going on about Canon Duncombe in such a silly way — he was the dearest, sweetest, most angelic man. You might have thought he was a sugar doll; and she detested Mr. Stevens. One day, when we were out, I saw Mr. Stevens quite a long way off. I could only just tell that it was him. So I said "Look, Miss Jones, there is Canon Duncombe just going into the Close." She exclaimed directly," What nonsense, Vera, that is Mr. Stevens. How can you take that odious man for dear Canon Dur.combe?"' ' He is so far off,' I said. ' How much your sight must have improved.' She turned quite red, and said I was very im pertinent, and she was so sulky.

Next day we had the row about Peter, and I am sure she did it out of revenge. She was spite ful. We were just going to have tea, and she took the kettle off the fire to pour some water into the teapot. Peter was lying on the rug, and she pretended to stumble over him, and upset some hot water upon him. It was not very bad, but of course it hurt him very much just for the moment. I had just come in with such a big egg I had found, a hen's egg you know, that I was going to show Waters. I saw quite well she did not really stumble over Peter, that she only pretended, and I was in such a rage I just threw the egg at her as hard as I could, and it hit her on the side of the head. There was such a row. I was sent to my room for the rest of the day, and Miss Jones never came again. Miss Lambert came soon after.

Mr. Charlcote tried not to laugh, but I could see his shoulders shaking. ' You needn't mind laughing,' I said encouragingly. ' I shan't think you approve, if you do. I know it was a horrid thing to do, and I was really very sorry afterwards. I would have told her so if I had seen her again. But I was so angry. I don't think I knew what I had done until I saw the great egg go smash against her head. How she did scream ! What between her screaming, and Peter howling, you never heard such a row. They were at tea in the servants' hall, and all the servants came running, and the men did laugh. I overheard Cumming telling Jackson he and Robert were so tired with laughing they could hardly wait properly at dinner afterwards. ' Well,' replied Mr. Charlcote, ' You have just enabled me to show you what I mean about being unkind.

If I went and told people you had thrown an egg at Miss Jones, and never said a word about Peter and the hot water, you would think it very unkind ?' ' I should think you a horrid sneak,' I promptly replied. ' Exactly. But, really Vera, that is very much what you have been doing, though you do not know it. It is a great pity a child of your age should ever have heard anything about the Mitchells, but as you have heard, I will tell you more. Mrs. Mitchell did not like her son's marriage at all, but Mrs. Charles was supposed to be a great heiress. It turned out all a mistake, and she has no money, so she is always afraid that just because he married her, her husband will be very poor all his life, for old Mrs. Mitchell can leave all her money away if she likes. Mrs. Charles is very fond of her husband and children, and she frets very much about it 1 do not say she acts rightly in making false professions of affection for her mother-in-law, but you see how different the case is when you know the whole truth, and how wrong it is to say what she does without saying why she does it.' I burst into tears.

I could not help it. The simple illustra tion he had used brought home so clearly to me the injustice of which I had been guilty. ' Oh, Mr. Charlcote,' I sobbed, ' I am so sorry. I will never say a word about it again. And I will always try and defend Mrs. Charles Mitchell.' He shrugged his shoulders. ' Scylla and Charybdis,' I heard him mutter. ' No, Vera,' he said, ' don't do that. Simply be silent. These are not questions a child of your age can under stand. I only want you to feel how wrong it is to judge harshly. But sometimes we almost seem to imply that it is no consequence whether people do right or wrong. Whereas, the truth is, we can never judge, because we never know what the temptation has been. Sometimes the person who has done wrong hardly knows, It would puzzle many people who have committed great crimes to mark the exact spot at which they began to deviate from the right path.

We have only to try always to do right ourselves, and though we must never attempt to make out that wrong is right, still never allow ourselves to judge people who do wrong.' ' I will try never to do it again,' I exclaimed vehemently. ' But why couldn't Miss Lambert put it in that way ? She only said it was unladylike and improper to use such expressions. I am sure if she is ladylike and proper, I do not want to be. I suppose she daren't put it like you do because she is constantly saying nasty spiteful things about people herself.' 'You must give her the benefit of the same doubt,' he replied, smiling a little. ' You cannot tell what may have happened to sour her temper.' At this moment I heard the gong. ' I must go now,' I said. ' Good night, Mr. Charlcote. I wish you taught me, instead of Miss Lambert I don't think I should be a Bohemian then?' He drew me to him and kissed me. ' Whatever you are, my child,' he said tenderly, 'you will be true metal, no counterfeit. Be loving and true, Vera, and things will come right for you ; though I doubt there will be a fiery baptism.'

Chapter II. Flash To The Rescue

INCREDIBLE though the fact may seem, it is none the less an indisputable one, that I, Veronica Dormer, the only child of the Dean of Wichborough, born and reared amidst all the solemn stately surroundings of a rather more than usually aristocratic cathedral establishment, was, at the age of nine years, as thorough-going a Bohemian as it was possible for such a child to be. A good many factors had, I suspect, been at work to bring about that amazing result. Heredity may have played its part, for I have come since to know that my placid imperturbable mother came of an old north country family, whose almost sole occupation for centuries had been raids, successful or not as the case might be, on their neighbours' cattle across the border, and desperate resistance against reprisals. Perchance a dormancy for a few generations of the hereditary tendencies of the race had caused a storage of force, and I was the favoured recipient of the accumulated results.

At any rate I am certain, had I been born a man, a few centuries since, I should have been the boldest moss trooper on all the border side. I am sure that until I was fully nineteen I never knew what fear was. A sudden momentary start, such as people often term ' a great fright,' I had often known ; but never until then did I know what it really was to feel dread sickening terror fix its cold grip upon my very heart, taking from me for ever the reckless hardihood of ignorance, and making courage, in future, the steady reasoned action of practised self-control. Apart from hereditary influences I have always regarded myself as a sort of incarnate French revolution ; not, however, a revolt against oppression and exaction strained to the breaking point, but against repression and extinction of freedom and independence, strained beyond endurance by the demands of society.

It is difficult in these days of comparative freedom and gradual effacement of social distinctions to picture clearly, even to oneself, what the life of the so-called upper classes was when I was a child ; especially that life as exemplified within the precincts of such a cathedral close as that of Wichborough. The Chapter of Wichborough was not a specially wealthy one, but it had rare attractions for men of a certain stamp, if they chanced to possess fortune enough to render them careless about a few hundreds more or less of income. The neighbourhood was beautiful, the number of good country houses within easy range exceptionally large, the Cathedral itself was magnificent, and the Canons' houses were large, well-built, and commodious. For a man possessed of private fortune, and that sort of refinement which shrinks from the jolting and friction of the working world, and contact with vulgar, common-place troubles and worries, no more charming sojourn in this vale of tears could have been found, or one from which the christian duty of bearing one another's burden could be inculcated with more perfect certainty of an absolutely unbiassed view of the subject.

These were not days of undisturbed calm in the Church of England. The Liberal movement, the Hampden storm, the Tracts for the Times, had all ruffled, or were ruffling the serene calm of ecclesiastical repose. Of these things I, of course, knew nothing, but I am inclined to think they were only heard of in Wichborough Close as echoes from afar, and that a comfortable conviction that ' things will last our time,' kept interest in them at a low temperature. I remember sometimes hearing my father indulge in pessimist forebodings when he read the papers, but it seems to me as if it was with an undercurrent of well-satisfied assurance that for so long as it personally concerned him the Deanery would never lack excellent cellars, unimpeachable plate and crystal, well-trained livery servants, a superlative cook and admirably appointed stables.

Satisfied on these points, a man •can indulge in the most gloomy prognostications without any serious disturbance of either his temper or digestion. A kindly, courteous, easy-going English gentleman my father was, in every way, and a most popular Dean. He lived in peace with all men, even the Bishop ! entertained hospitably, and held always an open purse. I suspect he spent more than his whole official income on objects connected with the Cathedral and Chapter. He preached short sermons in gracefully, scholarly English, and possessed a rich, musical voice and accurate ear, which rendered his intoning, when he took any part in the prayers, a treat to hear. He was always ready to take the chair at meetings in the town, and to subscribe handsomely to local charities. What more, in those days, could have been demanded of a Dean?

My mother always was, and has always remained an insoluble enigma to me. Anything more nearly approaching vegetation than her life I never saw. The daily routine of existence seemed to be in her more an automatic process, than the result of any distinct volition. She was regular in her habits, never, save from illness or accident, missing morning prayers in the Cathedral, or her daily interview with the housekeeper. Then she took up her position in the drawingroom, on a certain sofa, with a small table beside her, on which were the papers, books, and always some piece of fancy work in a sandal-wood work-box, and there she sat till luncheon time. In the afternoon she took a drive, or, perhaps, walked as far as Wichborough Court, or into the Close to call on some Canon's wife, but I do not think in her whole life she ever set foot in the town, save in getting in and out of her carriage.