One Reason Why

Front matter

VOL. I NEW AND POPULAR NOVELS AT ALL THE LIBRARIES. PEGGY'S PERVERSITY. By Mrs. Conney, author of 'A Lady Horse-breaker,' 'A Line of Her Own,' fae. 3 vols. CHARLIE IS MY DARLING. By Anne Beale, author of ' Fay Arlington,' ' Courtleroy,' fae. 2 vols. MAHME NOUSIE. By G. Manville Fenn, author of ' The Master of the Ceremonies,' fae. 2 vols. CASPAR BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. By Adeline Sergeant, author of ' Little Miss Colwyn,' &c. 3 vols. A SCOTCH EARL. By the Countess of Munster, author of ' Dorinda.' 3 vols. LONDON: HURST & BLACKETT, LIMITED. BY BEATRICE WHITBY ~~ i _/ AUTHOR of " THE AWAKENING OF MARY FENWICK," " PART OF THE PROPERTY," ETC. IN TWO VOLUMES VOL. I LONDON : HURST AND BLACKETT, LIMITED, 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 1892. All Rights Reserved. Richard Clay & Sons, Limited, London & Bungay.

CONTENTS OF VOLUME I. CHAP. PAGE I. AVHO HAS LOVE IN HIS HEART HAS SPURS IN HIS SIDES ... ... ... I II. WHEN THE NIGHT IS DARKEST, THEN THE STARS COME OUT ... ... ... 24 III. WHO HAS NOTHING, FEARS NOTHING ... 53 IV. ACCORDING TO HIS PINIONS THE BIRD FLIES ... ... ... ... 80 V. STRAIN NOT YOUR BOW BEYOND ITS BENT, LEST IT BREAK ... ... ... 106 VI. THE FIRE IN THE FLINT SHOWS NOT TILL IT IS STRUCK ... ... 132 VII. LET NOT THE TONGUE OUTRUN THE THOUGHT ... ... ... ... l6l VIII. WHEN WE HAVE LOAVES LET US NOT ASK FOR CAKE ... ... ... ... CONTENTS. VI CHAP . PAGE X. STARS ARE NOT SEEN BY SUNSHINE ... 224 XI. YOU MUST BE CONTENT TO LOSE A FLY IF YOU AVOULD CATCH A TROUT ... 247 XII. FOR A MORNING RAIN LEAVE NOT THY JOURNEY ... ... 271 XIII. THE NEAREST, THE DEAREST ... ...

Chapter I. Who Has Love In His Heart Has Spurs In His

SIDES. " We sit together, with the skies, The steadfast skies, above us ; We look into each other's eyes, ' And how long will you love us ? ' The eyes grow dim with prophecy, The voices low and breathless, — ' Till death us part ': — O words to be Our best, for love the deathless. We sit on hills our childhood wist, Woods, hamlets, streams, beholding : The sun strikes thro' the farthest mist The city's spire to golden : The city's golden spire it was, When hope and health was strongest, And now it is the churchyard grass We look upon the longest." E. B. Browning. " It is impossible to say. With care and under favourable circumstances I may live x9 a year. VOL. I. B " Sir William is an alarmist, Ursula ; every one says so. He wanted to make you careful, he said all that to frighten you. Why, you have never been ill in your life.

I don't believe him." " He told me the truth, John ; I felt how it was before I went to him. But I wanted to be sure ; I wanted to know the utmost limit of my time before I came to you. I suffer a good deal, so it is natural that I should be content to have it as it is. I am content but for the thought of my girl. You have children of your own ; you must know that the bitterness of death is in the prospect of leaving her." Mr. Le Terier certainly had children of his own, he had four sons and five daughters — most of the bitterness of life, to his mind, arose from that circumstance. He was a poor man ; he had no profession, but had inherited a small landed property and an income sufficient for his personal comfort, but quite insufficient to supply the clamour ing demands of his large family.

The constant calls upon his scanty purse were appalling, and now his sister, the widow of an Indian officer, whose. pension had hitherto sufficed to maintain both her and her only child, had suddenly descended upon him to beg his support of her daughter after her days — days which, he saw, by the look on her face, were numbered. He had had a most trying hour closeted alone with Mrs. Nugent in his study. She had made no direct appeal to him ; but she watched him with acute anxiety as she had, little by little, let drop the purport of her unexpected visit. She was very considerate : she feared the news of her fatal illness would shock and distress him, so she broke it to him gradually, hoping he would bear it better thus. But she found at last that he was impervious to suggestion ; he understood nothing but plain speaking, and that, if the object of this interview was to be obtained, she must speak plainly.

" If you would take her, John, you would find that she is, she really is a good girl. You don't know what she has been to me — from her babyhood ; I cannot bear the thought of leaving her alone." " It is very shocking altogether, very shocking," he groaned aloud in his per plexity, looking upon the floor to avoid those watchful eyes that never left his face ; " but, upon my soul, Ursula, I can't do it. I don't see my way to looking after the girl. We must be just before we are generous, and to tell you the truth, between ourselves, my own affairs are most unsatisfactory. Each year my expenses increase, and my income diminishes. I had to mortgage a farm to get Madeline's trousseau, and Dick has let me in for an extra to pay his debts at Cambridge. A big family is the very deuce, it is indeed ; there is nothing for it but to let the place and go abroad.

I wish to heaven I could promise to adopt Isla; it's far pleasanter to say 'yes,' let me tell you, than to say ' no ' ; but even if such a course were fair to my own children, I have to consider Louisa." " She would think, I am sure she would think," murmured Mrs. Nugent, earnestly, "of her own girls." " Of course she would — that's just it. Four unmarried daughters are a large allow ance for any poor mother ; she would never consent to undertake the care of another girl, a niece — you really could not expect it. In fact, I won't hum and haw any more about the matter, but I will tell you at once that it is impossible." Mrs. Nugent's eyes had left his face at last, she had cast them upon the ground, her worn face had grown perceptibly paler as he spoke. There was a pause before she answered ; her gentle voice faltered and hesitated, it was no longer steady.

" I would not have come to you, John," she said ; " I know how many calls you have upon you, but you are my only relation ; at least the only relation to whom I could apply. Isla will have her pension — sixty pounds a year — and the few hundred pounds which I can leave her. She will not be entirely dependent, but she will be alone. She is young, and it is so sad and dreary to be alone." "Well, well, a solitary life has its advan tages ; no company is better than uncon genial company, to my mind," he returned. He dreaded a scene, and did his best to brace the widow's courage. " If the worst comes to the worst — and, mind you, I think Sir William is wrong — she shall come to us for a time ; for a month or two, you know, till things are decided. People are very kind to their governesses nowadays ; if she should think of that sort of work, we would be careful she went to nice people.

Louisa has a large acquaintance ; don't worry your self, I will see to her welfare." " Thank you," she answered low, rising as she spoke. " I am sure you will do what you can. I understand your difficulty ; I know you will not lose sight of her." " Of course I won't, to be sure I won't. What, are you going now ? " " I must, my cab is waiting, the train starts soon. Will you take me to Louisa ? I must wish her good-bye." Mr. Le Terier, now that Mrs. Nugent was leaving him, now that the business was ended, his will disclosed, his decision accepted, felt a qualm of conscience. Might he not have been more sympathetic ? — might he not have said more ? — above all, might he not have felt more ? His only sister was dying ; her approaching death had affected him chiefly through the fear that its consequences would thrust an extra expense upon him.

For a deadener of feeling, for a blunter of sensibility, for a destroyer of the higher and more delicate emotions, the want of money is an unparalleled agent. Mr. Le Terier recognized and regretted his own want of heart, but when expenses have to be cut down, all luxuries, the luxury of liberality and generosity amongst others, are of necessity closely pruned ; he consoled himself by this reflection, and became more genial. He pressed Mrs. Nugent to stay and dine, he begged her not to hurry away. He assured her she was nervous, nothing more ; he prophesied that she would outlive him and see her grandchildren around her ; he was very hopeful and cheery. Mrs. Nugent had drawn her veil over her face and turned from him, or he might have forborne to talk so blithely of the future. Again she thanked him for his kindness, but she refused his invitation.

" Isla expects me by this train," she said. " I did not tell her what took me to London, or that it was possible I should come here on my way. She is a little over-anxious ; I did not like to frighten her ; there is time enough for that." Mrs. Nugent broke off and cleared her throat, then she followed her brother to the drawing-room, where his wife and several of his sons and daughters were assembled. The Le Teriers were a family who had been reared under the impression that life is a game in which every one should play for himself, with the lawful object of obtaining amusement. They all played with great gusto and spirit, and were indifferent as to at whose expense their pleasure was procured. There was so much noise in the drawing room that no one noticed the opening of the door. One girl was tuning a banjo at the piano, and whistling as she did so ; two more were haranguing one another at the window ; a youth was romping with a terrier upon the sofa.

Mrs. Le Terier, a plump woman with untidy hair and a crooked cap, was arguing hotly with her youngest son. " You are the worst-tempered, the most troublesome boy in the world," she cried, wringing her hands. " Indeed you are," corroborated his father from the threshold, and ordered the sinner to leave the room. He did so, retorting gruffly on his way, and banging the door behind him. "What was it all about, Louisa?' " He made my chiffon-fichu into a landing net. It was a new fichu, and he knew it. Now I have nothing to wear — Oh, Ursula, is that you? Be thankful you have no boys — no one knows what a trouble they can be." " Father, I want some new strings for this banjo," broke in the musical young lady at the piano. " Aunt Ursula, isn't it a shame that father won't give us an allow ance ?

We never have a farthing. Do speak to him." The question raised was evidently one of enormous interest in the home circle, for here the whole party began to talk at once ; every one appealed to Mrs. Nugent for her opinion, but they did not wait for her answer, which was fortunate, for she had none to give. Her senses were stunned ; the Babel of voices, the clamour of argu ment, the general excitement, with her own heavy heart behind it all, confused her so much that she could hardly speak. She was glad, thankful to escape from her brother's house. After all, perhaps, it was better as it was ; she would not break her heart at John's refusal of her plan now. How would her Isla fit into that boisterous crew ? Mrs. Nugent would strive to be content to leave the future unexplored ; a fuller Wisdom, a deeper Love than hers would remain when she was gone — she was helpless, so she turned to God.

Hitherto she had seen little either of her brother or his family. Her youth had been spent in India; since her widowhood and subsequent return to Europe she and her daughter had lived on the continent. There Ursula in a desultory, pleasant way had finished her education, learning little or much as the fancy took her, but working steadily at music, for which she had talent that was worth cultivating. She played beautifully, she sang nicely, and she painted well, but of the ologies she was sadly ignorant. The pair had wandered from place to place, from country to country, making many acquaintances but few friends, for beyond each other they wanted no one. Mrs. Nugent was a gentle, serene woman ; she possessed the honest and good heart in which some people find it so impossible to believe. She was unselfish ; she lived for those dear to her.

Her husband — even as husbands go — had not been a satisfactory helpmate ; he had spent her small fortune, and had been singularly surly and dictatorial ; but she had not so much as discovered his failings ; she was curiously blind to the defects of her companions. Charity, truth, self-abnegation seemed to be the natural outcome of her sweet nature. Her daughter could not bear to be away from her ; they were never apart, they shared their very thoughts. Ursula knew of no life, no happiness, apart from her mother. When Mrs. Nugent's health failed ; when she could no longer conceal the weary list lessness born of nights of pain ; when her sunken eyes, her worn cheeks, her failing spirits spoke for her, then her keenest sorrow was the knowledge that through her suffering her daughter, too, must suffer.

Then a longing to go back to England came upon her, and a fancy that the air of her old home would do her good. A change was all she wanted, and a breath off the Sussex downs. So they left the sunny south and made their way homewards, settling down in the country village where Mrs. Nugent's childhood had been passed. But her native air had failed in its purpose, and then they had told each other that the journey had been over-tiring and exhausting. " I must rest a little, Isla," Mrs. Nugent had said, " and then I shall be better." " And then" repeated Isla, slowly ; " we have had so many ' and thens,' but they do not come." " We must be patient, Isla. It is easy and quick work to run downhill, but the toiling up again takes time." " You must take more care of yourself, mother." " My darling, it seems to me that I spend my whole energy in taking care of myself."

After that she had rested day after clay, week after week, until the autumn turned to winter, and even Isla, blinded by hope as she was, saw that the " and then " was further off than ever. They had grown into a grave pair; if they relapsed into one of their old merry, laughing moods the reactionary sadness followed swiftly. They had acquired a trick of sitting in silence ; they would fur tively watch one another as though that tender, steadfast gaze was a forbidden luxury which its object must not suspect. They could not endure to be parted even for an hour, so that when Mrs. Nugent had said that she could rest no longer, for she had business which must be arranged and which would take her to London, it was strange that Isla did not dispute her decision ; it was odd that she asked no question as to the nature of that business.

" May I come too, mother ? " she had inquired. She was warming her hands at the fire, and Mrs. Nugent was looking out of the window ; they did not glance at one another. "It would be an extra expense, dear, — and" — a pause — "it would do no good." " I could take care of you." " I have grown so very clever of taking care of myself, Isla. I am becoming a valetudinarian in my old age. You young people are vain, you fancy we old folks can't manage without your help ; my dear, before you became my commander-in-chief I was quite independent." Then they both laughed, and Isla said no more. Upon the following day Mrs. Nugent had gone to London. Her daughter went with her to the station ; she was very bright and merry all the way ; they laughed over their parting as though their sky was cloudless, as though all earthly partings might be spanned by a day and night ; each thought how well she had deceived the other.

Isla, or, to give her her full title, Ursula Nugent, watched the train whirl out of her sight, then she turned away. The sickness of anxiety and nameless dread was with her night and day ; she could not shake it off, she could only conceal it. The very foundation of life seemed to quake ; she had lost her vigour, and slowly walked, as if her limbs were bowed with age, towards her empty home. She was a girl of two-and-twenty, a dignified girl, who looked at the world straightly and fearlessly from out of her hazel eyes. She was unusually handsome, unusually indifferent, also, to her own beauty, because such distinction as follows in the train of that endowment did not particularly gratify or interest her. Her trim brown head was well set on her wide shoulders ; she was tall ; all her movements were deliberate and very graceful.

She was rather a silent girl, but VOL. I. i C when she spoke, she spoke slowly and earnestly, forming her conversation from her own mind — and borrowing nothing. She was inexorably genuine. Her will was deter mined, she called it inflexible, and was rather proud of her own strength of purpose. Her experience of men had not been fortunate. Nothing " in her father's lifetime became him like the leaving of it." She had, like other girls of her age, received attention and even love at the hands of men quite as desirable and ingratiating as the majority of their sex, but they had not pleased her — she would have none of them. In fact her mother and her music was all she wanted ; she had discovered no niche in her heart into which she could fit one of those kind but eminently uninteresting young gentlemen.

She was a little sceptical of the advantage of matrimony ; her head governed her heart — it was a graceful, well-poised head ; her smile, too, was gentle and gracious, but it had been said that she was self-contained, cold, and conceited. Until within the last few months she had known no trouble ; her life had been cloud less, sheltered, and happy ; but her mind was of somewhat serious mould. She had seen the shadows in a scene before the sunshine; she had seen the sunshine too ; but she had rested her eye on the shade. She had coquetted with melancholy, but she strug gled against approaching sorrow as youth will struggle. " Get thee back, Sorrow, get thee back ! My brow is smooth, mine eyes are bright, My limbs are full of health and strength, My cheeks are fresh, my heart is light. So, get thee back ; go, get thee back !

Consort with age, but not with me : Why shouldst thou follow on my track? I am too young to live with thee." When Mrs. Nugent returned from the visit to London, Isla was waiting at the station to meet her; they were both very bright, and they talked fast of the weather, t of the journey, of the luggage. Isla asked no questions, her mother volunteered no explanations. It was the same throughout the drive home ; during dinner they talked on, skimming a hundred subjects as they helped each other to avoid a common cause of fear. When dinner was over and they had gone into the drawing-room, Mrs. Nugent lay down on the sofa. There was nothing new in that. For weeks she had lain there throughout each evening, finding some plea to excuse her laziness; but in her smile there teas something new. Isla, looking at her with a quick, guarded glance in which love was quenched by fear, felt what this unfamiliar thing meant, and thrust the know ledge from her and refused to know.

" Mother, you are tired," she said, " you are too tired to talk, it was such a lono journey, you know. Shall I play to you play you to sleep ? " " All the way home I was thinking you would play to me to-night." But Isla did not play. She was young ; she had not had the discipline of years to strengthen her, and she had had eternal hours of speechless dread during her mother's absence. She bowed her head upon her hands ; she was trying to bear her terror alone, and she could not bear it. " Mother," she said, still hiding her face, " it is so silly, but — -but you frighten me. I'm — rather — nervous. You are keeping something from me — you never have before. Don't you — think — we could bear — any thing — better — together ? Don't cry, mother — I'm not crying, it will make you ill to cry like that."

" My darling, it is better you should know, — you must know. We — had so many expenses — I didn't understand it was gone. I should have been more careful, I might have saved more. I blame myself; there is no money " Money ? is it money ? only — money ? " There was a fierce joy, an exultation in her daughter's cry that unnerved the mother. " Hush, Ursula, don't. I must leave you — there is no hope — none at all, and I must leave you poor. We have had so many happy years together — we may have one other year yet ; you will help me to be brave — we must help each other." Isla was kneeling by the sofa — she knew now, but she had known so long. She held her mother's hands, she pressed her cheek to hers, they murmured inarticu late words of comfort to each other. It was something that they could break their hearts together, thus, for that night ; just for that night they would hide nothing, pretend nothing, their wounds should gape, should bleed, unstaunched.

There was no one to shiver at the sight, there was no cold voice to bid them be decently composed in their sorrow ; no bracing observer to remark that theirs was the common lot of man, and borne in dogged silence by their brethren from day to day, from hour to hour. There, before them — how clearly they could see it, how plainly they could hear the sweep of its dark waters — ran the stream of death. The mists of mercy which obscure its presence from us travellers, who " nightly pitch our moving tents a day's march nearer " its dark shore, had cleared away. The crossing must be faced, and they must face it — each alone. One to clasp hands with the King of Terrors, one to stand watching on the shore. =4

Chapter II. When The Night Is Darkest, Then The Stars Come Out

" The dawn is not distant, Nor the night starless. Love is eternal." — LONGFELLOW. " Bay, you must." It is only the inexperience of extreme youth which would address any gentleman thus : its effect is obvious ; the sex may be led, but won't be driven. "Then, I won't." "Why for?" " No why for, cos I won't." " You're a crosspatch." " Ain't a crosspatch, but if I goes they'll put me to bed, and I wants to see her." The a crosspatch " who, with some truth and much vehemence, denied the accusation, was standing rigid and bolt upright in the centre of a large and beautiful old hall. He was a little boy of four or five, a handsome, dark-haired child, who looked manly and sturdy in spite of being dressed in a somewhat fantastic garb of velvet and old lace. Beside him stood his sister Elidora ; she too was clad in velvet and old lace ; she was " fair, and very fair " ; her skin was finely grained and tinted like the petals of a wild rose ; her brown eyes, soft as velvet, were set deep in her head " with dirty fingers," and looked out earnestly from beneath thick tangles of yellow hair.

She was two years older than the boy, and flitted about him in a sort of anxious, solicitous, feminine way, which was a correct imitation of her nurse's method of hovering round her charges. She acted the part of " guide, philosopher, and friend " on all occasions ; her airs of great wisdom and discretion rather awed the little fellow. The old hall was a fitting framework for the two children, who looked as though they had stepped out of a picture, a picture of Van Dyck's for choice, and belonged to any century rather than the nineteenth. It was a huge place, sixty feet long, per haps more, lofty in proportion, and but dimly lighted by four mullioned windows, the diamond-paned lattices of which were filled with stained glass. Overhead the plaster ceiling was decorated with flowers, bosses, and grotesques ; the broad cornice and the frieze were modelled in high relief; the walls were wainscoted ; the floor was of polished oak.

In the deep alcoves on either side of the staircase were ranged a row of armed figures ; on the polished breastplates and helmets of these wooden knights the firelight fell, for the logs in the vaulted grate burnt high and fiercely. The chimney-piece was of alabaster and black marble, the upper entablature was richly moulded. Before the fire, stretched at full length upon a rug of leopard-skin, a Scotch deerhound lay asleep ; he was only dozing, for every now and then he opened his eyes and cast a surly glance at the children ; they had no business in the hall, and he resented their presence. He did not like the children, and if they came near him he should growl ; he was no humbug ; he never wagged his tail unless he was pleased ; he would not descend to the crooked dealings of his masters.

He saw a great deal of the world and its ways from the hall of Hembury Fort ; he had no work to do ; his legitimate profession was barred to him ; no wonder he was soured and irritable. Time lay heavy on his head, and time unoccupied is enough to drive any dog or man misanthropical. The children were nominally on their way to bed. They had spent their hour — the teahour — with their mother, and such of her friends as had found no opportunity of escaping when this hour commenced, in the drawing-room. A romp was their idea of enjoyment, and a romp they had had. They had been wild and wilful ; they were, in fact, a good deal spoilt ; but their faces and frocks, their ingenuous frankness, their tender little ways, were passports into most hearts, and saved them from utter execration. But, for all that, when the clock struck six no one had frowned ; indeed every one, even their mother, Lady Wollastan, had said, " It is bedtime," with a sigh of relief and a sweet smile.

And the children, after a prolonged and lingering good-night of many kisses, had withdrawn. The children's mother looked very young, a mere girl, and a simple-minded, helpless girl. Her eyes were round and appealing, her eyebrows arched and interrogative, her whole air mild and docile ; she sought guidance and advice from every one ; she listened to every opinion, she was so very dependent and so very pliable — in manner. At eighteen she had married her father's friend, Sir James Wollastan, a widower thrice her age, and whose only son was considerably older than his step-mother. Some romantic people had wasted pity on the young bride — such people would pity Crœsus — but she had been exceedingly pleased with herself. Sir James was a capital match, and a " kind old man " ; she liked him amazingly, and if people pitied her it was only because they were jealous.

She did not understand what they could mean by their regrets. She had no regrets, had never had one save for her height, which was barely five feet, and which she deplored for its insignificance ; and for the freckles on her nose, which ingenuity could not banish, and which made the days of summer sunshine anxious davs for her. Such cares as she encountered in her married life were chiefly connected with her clothes ; she was always beautifully and elaborately dressed ; her head was a master piece of arrangement ; these externals were of absorbing interest to Lady Wollastan, and repaid her attention. Her confiding manner was ingratiating, and she had an innocent, naive way of saying either pleasant or unpleasant things as the fancy took her. The tendance of her health, which was delicate, was a great resource ; it ranked in interest next to the subject of her clothes ; she guarded herself carefully against over fatigue.