Lady's Holm

Front matter

" Dissimulation is but a faint kind of Policy or Wisdome ; for it asketh a strong Wit, and a strong Heart, to know when to tell Truth and to do it. Therefore it is the weaker sort of Politicks that are the great Dissemblers." — Lord Bacon : Essay on Simulation and Dissimulation. " Amor, che al cor gentil ratto s'apprende, Prese costui della bella persona Che mi fu tolta, e il modo ancor in'offende. Amor, che a nullo amato amas perdona Mi prese del costui piacer si forte Che, come vedi, ancor non in' abbatidona. Amor condusse noi ad una morte." Dante : Inferno, Canto v. L A D Y'S HOLM. X jSoDtl BY ANNIE L. WALKER, AUTHOR OF "AGAINST HER WILL," "A CANADIAN HEROINE," ETC, etc. IN THREE volumes. VOL. I. Jonoon : SAMUEL TINSLEY & CO., io, SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND 1878. [All Rights Reserved.} CONTENTS OF VOL. I. CHAPTER PAGE I. LITTLE MARY ------- 1 II.

SPECULATION - - - - - - - 19 III. LADY'S HOLM -------- 35 IV. MARY'S ADVENTURE ----- 53 V. THE CARYSFORDS - - - 71 VI. CARYSFORD - - - 87 VII. THE SHADOW OF DEATH - - - - - 112 VIII. PARTING - - - - - - - - 132 IX. NEW LIFE ------- 146 X. BEECHWOOD - - - - - - - 173 XI. MRS. RYAN'S TASK - - - - - - 190 XII. A LITTLE CLOUD ------ 209 XIII. LOVE'S BEGINNING ----- - 227 XIV. JEM FLOYD ------- 247 XV. MR. CRAWLEY - - - - - - 264 XVI. MILLICENT IN A NEW LIGHT - - - - 28_

Chapter I. Little Mary

A substantial five-barred gate stood firmly fas tened between the child and the lane ; she leaned against it, resting her head upon the top bar but one, and looking wistfully out into the world from which it separated her. All she could see was a short space of green country lane in its spring dress ; high grassy banks, where violets might be found for the seeking, and the little blue blossoms and sturdy leaves of Robin-run-in-the-hedge were visible to the prisoner ; a deeply-rutted roadway, more apt at all seasons to be muddy than dusty, but just now dry and inviting ; tall hawthorn thickets, by way of fence, rising from grassy banks, and overtopped here and there by great holly-bushes with their bright leaves shining in the sun. It vol. i. was, she thought, a very pleasant prospect, but oh, to get a little more of it !

To open the gate and wander down the lane to that pool over hung with willows which she passed every. Sunday, to get into the field where she had caught a glimpse of thick blue masses of wild hyacinths under the elm-trees, to see the world, the fairy world of a lonely child's imaginings — that would be happiness ! But Aunt Maynard never would let her go ; never. On Sundays, sometimes, as they walked slowly back from church, Aunt Maynard seemed so lost in medi tation that a daring thought crept into her niece's mind — would not it be possible to steal away and have just one hour of liberty with the birds and the field-mice % But it never went further than a thought and a longing. Aunt and niece always came through the gate together, and Sally made hasp and padlock fast when they were within.

The gate, unlovely as it was, shut in no ugly prison. A long white washed cottage, thickly thatched, and standing with its back to the lane, was Aunt Maynard's dwelling. Along its front, and round its black framed windows and door, climbing roses, honeysuckles, and travellers'-joy grew abun dantly, and to right and left of the snow-white doorstep there stretched, the whole length of LITTLE MARY. 3 the house, a border of homely flowers. The cottage looked west ; and on the southern gable a great pear-tree, well tended, still showed a few of the white blossoms which had lately covered it. A kitchen garden lay on this side, and was divided from the house and the pear tree by a broad gravelled entrance barred by the ever-locked gate. There were far pleasanter places in the little domain than this bit of gravelled road, and prettier things to be seen within the gate than that glimpse snatched through its bars ; and yet to stand looking, speculating, longing, with one cheek pressed against the hard wood, was the favourite occupa tion of little Mary Langford's play-hours.

The sun was shining warmly on her now as she stood there quite motionless, watching the movements of some birds which had built in one of the holly-trees. Her head was raised, and her white muslin sun-bonnet had fallen back so as to leave her face unsheltered. She had a print frock on, and a white pinafore— both spotless — and very neat, but substantial boots on her well-shaped little feet. The head, with its upraised eyes and smooth brown hair, was one pleasant to look at, fine and delicate in outline, and well poised on the slender shoulders. The child's complexion, though far too pale, was 1—2 fair and clear, and there was that lovely, wistful melancholy in her brown eyes that seems to live only in the eyes of children. A pretty child certainly, if you are one of those people who insist upon everybody being either pretty or plain, but not at all remarkable for beauty ; remarkable chiefly, indeed, for being rather quaint and old-fashioned ; with a want of vigour and brightness about her, like a flower which has been kept from the sunshine.

Still, undeniably pleasant to look at, if a little saddening. She stood there a long time, and quite forgot every thing:- about her in the keen interest she felt in those birds in the holly-bush. They were so busy and so talkative that she could not help feeling herself quite a sharer in their household arrangements, and laughed outright at some of their nursery experiences. All at once she stood upright, forgot the birds, and began to listen intently to some sound at a distance. Wheels were coming along the lane ! Once a day or so, a farm wagon or cart might be expected to pass Aunt Maynard's door, but rarely did any other vehicle come that way, and Mary could hardly believe her ears now. For these wheels came quickly and lightly, and indeed so quickly, that they had almost outstripped her memory.

It was but LITTLE MARYf 5 just in time that she remembered the often repeated reproof, " A gentlewoman does not expose herself to be stared at by every passer-by," with which Aunt Maynard could cover her with confusion ; and remembering it, turned and walked quickly but demurely away. But before she had quite gained the front of the house something entirely inexplicable happened. The vehicle, whatever it might be, drew up to the gate and stopped ! Impossible to resist one little hasty peep over her shoulder, just enough to show her a vision of delight — a fine chesnut horse checked reluctantly and tossing its hand some head, a beautiful, big, black-and-tan dog, smelling inquisitively at the place where the gate should open, and a man getting out of a gig, which was still partly screened by fence and gate-post.

She peeped and then ran on. Passing softly through the open door and the little entry, and casting a wary glance towards the parlour where Aunt Maynard sat, she slipped into the kitchen and thence into the scullery beyond. " Oh, Sally !" she said breathlessly, " there is somebody at the gate." Sally was washing, and inclined to be cross. She generally sang at her work, and as Miss Maynard objected to singing, she had taken refuge in hymns. By the hymn she was singing, you could guess at the state of her temper, and under ordinary circumstances Mary would have kept out of her way when she heard her chanting — " Fools never raise their thoughts so high, Like brutes they live, like brutes they die ;" but even the vengeful emphasis and florid turns with which the strong syllables were being rolled out did not frighten her in this exciting crisis.

" Somebody wants to come in," she repeated. Sally drew a pair of stout red arms out of her wash-tub, and stroked the soapsuds off them. It fell back into the tub in heavy white flakes, which Mary would have dearly liked to catch in her hands. " Who is it ." she said. " Not the baker, drat him ?" " Oh, Sally, Aunt Maynard will hear you ! It's somebody strange, with a horse and gig and .1 dog. Oh, do make haste !" Sally stared ; but, having hastily dried her hands, stopped for no more words. Mary followed her to the kitchen and lingered there, intensely curious. In another minute steps came back along the gravel. Then Sally appeared, and, seeing her, drew the kitchen-door together sharply and cut off her view. And then she distinctly heard a man's step follow Sally through the entry, and into the parlour.

The stranger had come in ! Had gone into the parlour to see Aunt Maynard ! What coidd it mean . and who could he be ? And why did not Sally come back ? She ventured to open the door, and go out into the garden. There was the chesnut horse with the gig actually inside the gate, and a small groom by the horse's head, and the dog lying in the sun at the foot of the pear-tree. And there was Sally fastening the padlock just as if these invaders were never going away again. Moreover, through the open parlour window came a murmur of talk in which a man's voice was distinguishable. What was she to do . Her usual solitude was peopled by the strange horse, dog, and boy ; Sally, in her present mood, would want no company in the kitchen; and most assuredly Aunt Maynard would not want her in the par lour.

She must either go indoors again, and amuse herself as she best could in her own small bedroom upstairs, or else walk past the visitors and betake herself to the company of the currant-bushes in the farther part of the garden. After all, she would be much freer in the garden ; so she put on her most grown-up air, crossed the end of the drive, and, the moment she was sheltered by the nearest fruit tree, set off to run to the very extremity of Aunt Maynard's domain. There was a queer old summer-house in one corner, among the potato plants, which would have been a favourite retreat with many children, but was spoiled for Mary by being the residence of a very lively colony of insects. She had a mortal terror of spiders, an ardent dislike to earwigs ; caterpillars she could tolerate because they moved so slowly, but the sight of a wasp seemed to her as dreadful as that of a scorpion.

Consequently she seldom dared to go into the summer-house alone, though on the rare occasions when Sally was at leisure and in a very good temper, the two had sometimes sat there comfortably enough. To-day, however, the summer-house seemed the best retreat open to her. She went into it, and sat down gladly, finding, to her satisfaction, that she had still a view from this safe distance of the heads of both groom and horse, and would therefore be certain of knowing when the strange visitor de parted. With great care and some difficulty she pulled a book out of her pocket, and after having anxiously looked round for spiders and earwigs, she settled herself to read. Her book was a small and very old one, bound in dark brown leather, printed with long s's, and with queer little woodcuts at the begin nings of the chapters.

It was odd reading for a child, being an old translation of " Gil Bias," of which she had the vaguest understanding possible ; but its attraction for her had lain in the pictures, and in the ease with which it could be carried about. She pulled it out now and laid it on the rough table before her, opening it scrupulously at the place where she had left off, only, after all, she did not care to read to-day — she preferred to keep curious watch upon the strange horse and groom. At last the watching grew monotonous. She turned to the page before her, and from the obscurity of old-fashioned printing, and of in numerable unknown words and phrases, began to disentangle a story of some kind. She had got interested somehow, and was even unconscious of the gradual advance of a bia* spider, when all at once a step and a voice startled her.

" Miss Mary ! Miss Mary ! Come in. Where are you 1" It was only Sally. " Gil Bias " went back into the pocket of the print frock, and the reader came out of the summer-house with a feeling that now she should know what it all meant. " Your aunt wants you," Sally called out the moment she saw her. " Go straight into the parlour, and be quick !" " But Sally, Sally !— stay ! Mustn't I wash my hands ?" "No; go in at once." Sally was already in hasty retreat. " Make haste !" she called again as she disappeared into the house, and there was nothing to be done but to obey. And Aunt Maynard required prompt obedience : to linger would be as bad as not to go at all ; yet it was dreadful to think of being obliged to walk alone into the parlour, and make her curtsey to some unknown visitor who was worse than half-a-dozen spiders.

And with Aunt Maynard looking at her ! What could they want with her ? Pulling her sun-bonnet straight, and casting an anxious glance at her hands (which were not, indeed, up to Aunt Maynard's requirements in the way of cleanliness), she walked quickly into the house, and up to the parlour door. There she could not help pausing a moment ; but, as she did so, Aunt Maynard herself appeared, and, taking her by the shoulder, drew her into theroom. ' LITTLE MARY. 11 A dozen years later, when Mary Langford had learned to use her pencil, she could have made a picture of the scene of this moment which should have been minutely accurate. Not that it was in itself at all remarkable, but that it was impressed on her mind by the excitement of the crisis, and fixed more and more strongly by after events.

The parlour was in its usual prim order : every chair in its place, an old china jar of sweet-scented flowers on the middle of the brightly-polished table. The casement window stood open, and the warm and perfumed air came in with a flood of sunshine from the gar den. Near the window the visitor stood, and the free, pure air and light seemed, somehow, to connect themselves with him from the very first in the child's mind. He was a tall and very handsome man — old, many would have said, for he was little under sixty — with silver-white hair, a splendidly well-knit and powerful figure, and a complexion fair as a baby's, where the sun had not touched it, but where it had, burned to a clear, wholesome red. A kindly, bright, vigorous presence, such as had never before crossed Aunt Maynard's threshold, was what little Mary felt as she was drawn forward to meet the visitor.

Drawn forward — and yet held back. Aunt Maynard's hand upon her shoulder seemed, though it touched her lightly, to be unable to let her go. She was conscious of the whiteness and thinness of the delicate fingers, and of two rings — an old-fashioned cluster of diamonds, and a, broad band of black enamel with gold letters on it ; and she glanced up instinctively from the hand to the face of her guardian. Miss Maynard had always seemed to her niece unimaginably old ; yet her tall and graceful figure was quite unbent, and her hair had lost neither the gloss nor the softness of its natural dark brown. Perhaps it was the cap, worn close round her face and tied under her chin, which gave her such a look of age. Perhaps it was the shawl ■ — in summer of creamy spun-silk, in winter of soft white wool, without which she was never seen ; perhaps it was the fact that she never laughed, and never said an unnecessary word.

Whatever it was, the effect seemed to be stronger than usual at this moment. A look of trouble in the dark grey eyes, a deeper gravity about the set lips, were in the portrait of her aunt which Mary's memory carried away ; and she only un derstood then, and that dimly, when she herself was a woman. " Mary," Aunt Maynard said, " your uncle Stephen wishes to see you." The stranger stepped forward, took the little girl's hand, and sitting down, drew her close to him. " So you are Mary Langford V he asked. " Yes.': "And I am Stephen Langford — Uncle Stephen. You did not know you had an uncle, did you 1" " No." He untied the sun-bonnet, and took it off. A great mass of bright brown hair, in a soft tangle of curls, fell loose about the child's head, the ribbon that should have tied it having slipped from its place, and the bonnet rubbed away all the smoothness.

With both hands he stroked back the curly locks, and, lifting the delicate little face, looked at it closely and curiously. Then he kissed the child on both cheeks, and, putting his arm round her, kept her in a gentle imprisonment while he spoke to Miss Maynard. " She shall be well taken care of," he said. " And I expect we shall soon be friends. Won't you change your mind so far as to come and fetch her back 1" " Thank you : I never leave home ; but I will send for Mary, if you please." " No ; you must not do that. I will bring her back to you myself, please God, when she must come back." Mary listened silently, more and more lost in amazement. Who could the " she " be, unless herself? But was there the least imaginable possibility that she, who was never out of Aunt Maynard's sight for an hour, was going away 1 Did Uncle Stephen mean to take her ?

Who was Uncle Stephen . The questions were so many and so confusing that she lost some part of what was being said, until the stranger spoke to her again. " Shall you be afraid to go with me I" he asked her. She had been aware that in the brief " Yes " and " No," with which she had answered his former questions, she had forgotten the politeness Aunt Maynard was constantly teaching her. She felt that this was an opportunity for retrieving her character, and telling the truth at the same time. "I am not at all afraid of you, and I should like to go with you very much, Uncle Stephen," she said, lifting her innocent, serious eyes to his face. "Good child," he answered, with a smile and a kiss ; and, as he released her and got up from his chair, she saw that the gravity of Aunt Maynard's face had deepened into sternness.

" Oh," she thought, " I ought not to have said that ! I wish he had not asked me !" and she shrank back into a corner while Mr. Lang ford was saying good-bye and going out, cere moniously attended by Miss Maynard to the door. She meant to run away upstairs the moment the entry was clear, for the puzzle in her brain had two new elements now, and she wanted to think it out. Why had he talked of taking her away and then gone without her ? And why did Aunt Maynard look so dreadfully grave ? But she had no time for escape. Miss Maynard turned back instantly into the parlour and called her. " Why is your hair so untidy 1" she asked calmly. The child put up her hands to feel among the thick masses for the truant ribbon, but it was not there. " I must have dropped it in the garden," she said, and turned as if to go in search of it.

" You have lost it, at any rate," Miss May nard said, stopping her by a gesture. " That is the second this month. Cannot you remember, Mary, that untidiness is a kind of coarseness, and that a gentlewoman who is refined in mind will be neat and orderly in person V Mary stood abashed and silent. She did not know very well what " coarseness " meant ; but she felt it was something very horrible, which she would almost rather die than be accused of. "You are going away on a visit," Miss Maynard went on. " Mr. Langford will come for you on Wednesday, and take you to spend a fortnight at his house. During that time I shall be obliged to trust you alone ; and with what confidence can I do so ." Mary caught her breath. She was going, then ? But how, indeed, could Aunt Maynard trust her 1 Tears of shame would come into her eyes, and she felt that in another moment she must sob.

" I would rather have kept you at home till you were older," Aunt Maynard began again ; " but Mr. Langford is your father's only brother, and has a sort of right to have you for a while. He says his housekeeper will take care of you ; but, after all, Mary, it is you who must take care, and see that you do nothing to disgrace me who have brought you up." Miss Maynard turned as she said the last words, and went slowly up the narrow staircase. She passed into her own room, and Mary heard her close and lock the door. There are some children to whom a blow is far less painful than a spoken or implied accusation of ingratitude. Mary most certainly could not have explained what hurt her in her aunt's words, but she felt it with a strange and wondering bitterness. Disgrace her ! — was she such a bad child, then ?

She knew well enough that the lost ribbon had nothing to do with those last words, but she could not understand how much of love and jealousy there was in them. She only thought, in a vague, distressful way : " Am I such a, very bad child . I don't feel like it. Aunt might trust me without being so much afraid I shall disgrace her." She sat down soberly on the chair Uncle Stephen had occupied ; but how could she remain long depressed ? Had not a most enchant ing, awful, and delightful vision just been opened before her ? Was not she going away into the world . Her eyes began to dance with delight as she thought of travelling on behind that chesnut horse, into unknown regions, which, if they were not fairy-land, were probably on its very borders. Presently she could endure still ness and solitude no longer : she jumped up from her seat, and ran — but not fast or noisily — to find Sally in the kitchen.

VOL. I. " Sally," she said eagerly : " where does Uncle Stephen live 1" " Bless the child ! What are you talking about ?" answered Sally, looking round in sur prise from her cooking. " Uncle Stephen, you know, who has just been here. I am going to his house, and I want to know where it is." " Well, you know more than I do already, it seems," Sally said, rather sharply : " so you'd better be off, for I'm busy." " Oh dear !" Mary sighed ; "I should so like to know. But never mind," she added, skipping out of the kitchen : "I shall see it on Wed nesday." SPECULATIONS. 19

Chapter II. Speculations

Miss Maynard had said all she cared to say to Mary on the subject of her visit. At dinner there was less talk than usual, and the ordinary interval between dinner and afternoon lessons was cut short. " We are late," Aunt Maynard said in her composed voice ; " take your history at once, Mary, and begin to read." Oh, how dry that history was ! Sometimes it was a little like a story-book, and she got dim pictures into her brain of people who were perhaps interesting to somebody in their own days ; but this afternoon it was all about Marius and Sylla, and she never could get so far as to remember which was which. For a whole hour the monotonous reading went on, until the child's voice began to falter from pure weariness. Miss Maynard had been sewing diligently all the time. All at once she noticed that her niece was tired.

She 2—2 glanced at the clock over the mantelpiece and said, " That will do;" but as she did so, a deep flush rose slowly and covered her worn face — she had forgotten time and place and all that belonged to the present, in a deep dream of the past. " Take your sampler," she went on, as Mary closed her book and put it carefully away. " You will have time to finish that line of marking this afternoon." Then she sank back into silence again, not suffering herself to be absorbed as before, but thinking painfully ; and, as she told herself, uselessly, of many things. The coming of her visitor that day had disturbed the calm of her waning life as much as it had that of Mary's opening one. The last time he and she had met, had been at the grave of the one who had been dearest in all the world to both of them — of the young widow who had left her baby to their joint guardianship.

Miss Maynard had kept the child, and Stephen Langford, knowing her and knowing the perfect love there had been between the sisters, had felt himself unable to interfere. What he did not understand was, why Miss May nard would never bring her niece to Lady's Holm, as he had again and again begged her to do ; SPECULATIONS. 21 and it was not until now, when Mary was ten years old, and might be trusted alone, that he had ventured to come in person and demand a, visit from her. He did not understand it ; putting it down, when he thought of it at all, to the solitary woman's jealousy of the one living object of love left to her; but Miss May nard understood thoroughly, and had never tried to hide from herself, the secret of her solitary life, and of her withdrawal, as far as might be, from all intercourse with her co guardian.

All her heart, all her emotions, be longed to the past. The mechanical part of her lived in the present ; ordered her little house hold, gave Mary daily tasks, daily food and clothing ; praised her very rarely, reprimanded her pretty frequently, but never caressed her ; the spiritual part had long since stopped short upon the journey of life. While the child, much pondering, shaped coloured letters on the canvas of her sampler, Miss Maynard was thinking, thinking, wearily and sadly, of those long dead. The other lives which had been closely twined with her own had been few indeed, otherwise she could hardly have been, at fifty, an utterly lonely woman ; but they had been loved with all the more intenseness. They could be counted on the fingers of one hand : her mother, to whom for years she had been stay and comforter ; her fair young sister ; her sister's husband, John Langford ; and the elder Langford, Stephen, sole survivor, beside herself, of the little group.

Whether she loved her little niece or not, she could hardly have told ; she had almost hated her in her babyhood, because she had come, a new guest, into the world which her mother was just about to leave ; because she had seemed something apart from, and even inimi cal to, those from whom she yet derived an indisputable right to protection. Even now she felt it almost an insult to her dead sister when any one said that Mary resembled her, and when Stephen's eye had rested so tenderly on the little face upturned to him, she had felt the thrill of an old pain — a double jealousy which belonged to both past and present. She had kept apart from Stephen Langford through all the ten years of Mary's life, limit ing their intercourse strictly to such letters as their joint guardianship of their niece rendered needful ; and she had desired never to see him a^ain. s When her sister died, she had lost the last of those for whose sake her life had been a long and hard-fought battle with self ; she had felt SPECULATIONS. 23 herself left alone, bruised, solitary, and em bittered ; so worn out with fatigue and emotion that all she was capable of desiring was to be free, if possible, for the rest of her days from everything that could disturb her dull and joy less calm.