Patty's Dream. A novel, etc

Front matter

NOW READY AT EVERY LIBRARY. COLONEL FOUGAS' MISTAKE. & gobtl, BY EDMOND ABOUT, TRANSLATED BY J. E. MAITLAND. 2 Vols., 2 IS. "It isa good thing for English readers that some one is undertaking the task of translating Edmond About's shorter stories. This story reminds one of some of Jules Verne's books ; but it is really much cleverer than any of his. * * Delightful for the lightness of its touch and the keenness of its sarcasm." — Scutsman. REMINGTON & Co., 5, Arundel Street, Strand, W.C. PATTY'S DEEAM. a Jlobd, IN THREE VOLUMES. BY D'AUBIGNE WHITE, Author of "The Artisan of Nismes." VOL. II. §J«r«inm: REMINGTON AND CO. 5, Arundel Street, Strand, W.C. 1879. [All Rights Reserved.] CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGE I. — We shall nine with our Children 1 II. — Titterley and Co 23 III. — Anna Maria and Matilda Sophia ... ... ... 44 IV.— I'm a Self-made Mau, Sir 69 V. — The Domenichino ... ... ... ... ... 92 VI. — I Draw the Line at Musicians ... ... ... 108 VII. — Close It and Lock It— Close It aud Lock It ... 136 VIII.— Beware— She is Fooling Thee 160 IX.— Chastelar 177 X. — The Glove-Box Mirror 212 XL— Never— Too Late ! 253 XII.— Dover 279 XIIL— Farewell, Sister Stella

Chapter I. We Shall Dine With Our Children

We must now return upon our footsteps, and follow for awhile those of Philip Sydney, from that morning, late in the November of the last year, when he left the Longwood town house a dismissed contemned suitor. Although the interview witb Lord and Lady Longwood had not been in the least more favourable than he had feared, yet Philip felt fate was not utterly against him ; that great dread of Gladys' possible desertion had happily proved baseless. She would re main faithful to her discarded lover, of that at least he was assured. They would have to wait for the present, yes, certainly they would have to wait, and for the future — well all things were possible in the future for the man of twenty-five, and the woman of twenty one. They could afford to wait. VOL. II. B In the meanwhile he had his own course to plan out, his altered course — how altered he dared not allow himself to think.

He would leave England for some time, a year at least, and thus escape the nine days' wonder already beginning, of his fall from fortune. Hints had appeared in one or two papers, that there were rumours of a disputed succession respecting one of the oldest peer ages in the kingdom. A case in short likely, it was added, to give long and liberal employ ment to the gentlemen of the long robe ! By the arrangement of travelling, he would avoid the many mortifications which would await him in association with his own little world, little in reality, although styled great by itself and its outsiders ; a well-bred world indeed, yet with an iron hand under its velvet glove, possessing, notwithstanding its out ward courtesy, a vast deal of common human nature beneath its polished exterior, and apt, upon times, to betray unpleasant facts under its pleasing mask of smiling lip courtesy.

Oh, yes, of all things, and above all things, Philip wished to avoid contact with the whole circle of his friends and ac quaintances, until the news of his disinherit ance had grown stale. So he lost little time in completing his simple arrangements, first resigning Netherleigh and all its affairs into the hands of Mr. Grale, and bis late uncle's London solicitors. Then he went down to see his small maternal estate, the mention of which had been so contemptu ously received by Lady Longwood — his uncle's funded legacy of course gave him no trouble — and finally finished his preparations by securing the services of an admirable Crichton of a courier, whose extensive know ledge of languages might have kept Babie to gether, had be only been there as general in terpreter ; a paragon, in short of all possible accomplishments.

Philip was indeed almost on the eve of departure, when the remembrance of the postscript in his uncle's packet came into his mind. " If you resign the earldom, go to Mr. Mavor, the clergyman who was with me to day, and tell him, as though it were a mes sage from the dead, the effect of his words." How Philip shrunk from this task he himself only knew. A proud reserved man, be could not brook thus laying open his affairs, his disappointment, his humiliation, he would have added, to this stranger. It is true he had met Mr. Mavor at Netherleigh Vicarage on two or three occasions, and the two men had been mutually attracted by similarity of character and interest. But not the less from this slight and previous acquaintance did he feel the bitterest repug nance to this painful duty. But Philip never shirked duty because it was painful, so he started next day by the mail for the great manufacturing town of Spinnerton, in which Mr. Mavor was rector of a parish once situated in its far neighbourhood, but now surrounded by its spread ing factories.

By noon on the following day, Philip found himself at Mr. Mavor's house, there had been no difficulty in finding it. The " Radical Parson," as he was called — and what the term radical then implied cannot be even imagined now — was no obscure personage, for he was dreaded, even more than he was hated, by the mill-owners, for his fearless advocacy of the rights and wrongs of labour. Its rights were nowhere in those days, and its wrongs — no African slavery, no cruel slaveholder, no brutal slave-driver, could exceed their excesses in the white slavery of Spinnerton ! Adored by the poor, towards whom bis large charity and larger heart was ever open, the name of Mavor was a household word in Spinnerton, and his house was as well known through its length and breadth, as their own dwellings. As Philip stood at the door, he thought, " How painful, how almost intolerable it will be, to bare my affairs and open my wounds, their causes and details, to the gaze and knowledge of this stranger, at least, this comparative stranger ?

There is one conso lation, however, this is the last of my heavy trials ; when this is finished — all will be done." He was too thoroughly absorbed in his own thoughts and feelings to look around or notice anything, as he paused to regain his self-composure, lingering long before he knocked. But we will take a view of the Rectory and its surroundings, ere we admit him within its walls. A few years before, the Rectory and church yard which adjoined it, were, as before said, situated beyoud the limits of the town. Now Rectory, garden and churchyard, were sur rounded by gigantic chimnies, lofty mills and towering warehouses, closing in upon this little oasis, and wrapping it in an atmosphere of smoke, and dirt, and impurity, which looked as if it could be cut in its foul thickness, and which clung round the devoted spot like the poisoned robe of Hercules.

Sad contrast to the time, not so long ago, when nothing was seen around but the soft greenery of nature, nothing felt but the sweet breath of heaven. One angle of the Rectory touched upon Cod's acre, the churchyard. When Mr. Mavor first came, three or four funerals a year was the average mortality. None dared count the num bers now, save by saying that the ground had risen some four feet at least above the cause way, which separated the deadly bank (once level with it), from the Rectory. Once the village children trooped there, converting the solemn old place into a merry playing-ground, dancing in joyous rings round the old yew tree, hiding amongst the dark buttresses on the northern side of the hoary chancel, and peeping roguishly over and around the quaint, ancient tombstones. Alas ! the children flocked there still, and in far, far, greater numbers — but with no pat tering of little feet, no sound of merry voices.

Silently they came, and silently they remained, never to return, no — never to return. For it was chiefly children's coffins, supplied by the cruel factories around, which had raised that melancholy ground. Ah, me ! ah, me ! how fast the little coffins came. At one time the funeral services went on all day long in dismal procession and succession ; now there was a stated hour each day when the bell tolled, and they were laid side by side in rows, and the solemn words were said once for all above their poor remains. A sedate man-servant had answered Philip's knock, who said his master was not at home, but would the gentleman like to see his mistress. She always saw every one who came when the master was out. Philip hesitated a moment, then said, yes, he should be glad to see Mrs. Mavor. He followed the servant into a large low roofed hall flagged with stone, and which struck rather a chill through Philip's frame, for notwithstanding a blazing fire, it felt so damp and chill.

Then he was shown into a long also low roofed sitting-room, one window of which was half buried by the churchyard bank on which it looked, and another opened on the garden still preserved, but crowded upon by hideous manufacturing buildings. Two fire places, one at either end of the room, and well replenished, rendered the atmosphere warm and pleasant, and imparted a feeling of com fort in spite of tbe dreary outlook. patty's deeam. A tiny terrier lay in a little white and gold basket on one rug ; a sleek Angora cat re posed upon another. A cockatoo, with his head on one side, looked down wisely from his perch, and flowers in every variety of graceful arrangement, met the eye every where. But Philip only noted the occupant of the room, a lady seated at the furthest end in an invalid chair, against which leaned a pair of crutches.

At her feet was a large case, just opened apparently, and only half emptied, containing the newest publications, and the choicest illustrated works of the day, and it was an age of luxurious illustration — which had just arrived from a first class London library. At her side was a table heaped Avith bright wools, gay silks, and coloured paper patterns of Berlin work, a fashion set by the good Queen Adelaide. The ladies who followed it, tracing and filling up their own figures and flowers, and doing every stitch of their choice tapestry — not merely grounding already completed designs, as is the lazy method now. It was not work, or book that attracted Philip, but the lady herself, who was perhaps of some five or six and thirty years of age. She possessed a countenance not easily forgotten, so full of intelligence, grace, and sweetness were her features, the attraction of which were, if possible, heightened by the delicacy and refinement imparted by long and gently borne pain and suffering.

" Pray excuse my rising," she said cour teously, " this is one of my bad days. Will you take this chair near me ? I generally see my husband's visitors when he is from home. Charles is so busy, so much away during the twelve hours of work, that it saves him and them much time and trouble if I take all messages. It is so little I can do to help." She was mistaken in her humility; she was her husband's second self, more than second, he would have said his first help; the friend with whom he took sweet counsel, the com panion who shared his hardly snatched leisure. She was the counsellor with whose bright mind he strengthened and refreshed his own ; the comforter, and he sorely needed comfort at times in the uphill battle of his life and work — who cheered his depressed spirit with her never-failing hope.

Something of this occurred to Philip as he looked at her animated face, marked her ladylike address and manner, and noted even patty's dream. her pretty dress, yes, on principle her pretty dress— for on principle she studied it for her husband's sake. " Was it not right," she said " that Charles should have something pretty to look at, something to relieve the ugliness of his life and duties, in their hard, almost revolting round at Spinnerton?" " You are very good to receive me, Mrs. Mavor," said Philip in reply, " my name is Sydney, I have lately come from Netherleigh in shire, for the purpose of giving your husband some messages from my late uncle, whom Mr. Mavor attended as a clergyman in his last illness." " Indeed," said the lady looking at her visitor with increased interest, " then I am no doubt speaking to the new Lord Netherleigh."

" No, madam, not so, I belong to a younger branch," and the colour rose to the roots of Philip's hair. " Ah ! " in a tone of slight disappointment. " Then you are not the Mr. Philip Sydney Charles has had the pleasure of meeting at Netherleigh, aud of whom he formed such high hopes ? " " I am Philip Sydney, Mrs. Mavor, and have had the pleasure of meeting your husband WE SHALL DINE WsTH OUR CHILDREN. 11 at Netherleigh, but I am not Lord Nether leigh," and again the speaker coloured, more from pain than from confusion. Mrs. Mavor, perceiving something was wrong, changed the subject. " I think, Mr. Sydney, you will be more likely to find my husband at leisure and alone, if you will join us at our very early supper at six o'clock; it is in reality his dinner, but he prefers the old-fashioned name of supper, and it is always with us a less formal meal, as we then wait upon ourselves.

It is part of his daily, I should rather say nightly duty, to be out in the town from eight till ten ; this he considers the most important part of his work, and he arranges the hour of his even ing meal to suit it. Will you give us the pleasure of your company then ? " " I shall be most happy to join you, Mrs. Mavor, and thank you very much for the invitation. Then he rose to take leave, and in her effort also to rise, an unmistakable spasm of pain passed over Mrs. Mavor's face, and she almost gave utterance to a cry. He stretched out his hands to assist her, and said in a tone of much feeling — - " I am very grieved to see you suffer so much." patty's deeam. " You are most kind to say so. I always do suffer more or less, but," with a smile, *' believe me, I do not often give such open expression to it as I have just done.

Pardon my impatience, pray." " Nay, on the contrary, I have been wondering at your patience. It must be very bard to bear, dear madam," continued Philip, lingering with willing attraction, near the gentle, and interesting invalid. " Sometimes I find it so, but generally I am cheerful, and find my strength equal to my day. My lot is so full of happiness and blessing, that if I had not this drawback, it would be too perfect, and there would come ' a needs be ' that some other mercy should be withdrawn, and I would not, if I could, change or choose my own trial." " But why, my dear Mrs. Mavor, is there any necessity for a ' needs be ?' " enquired Philip eagerly, for he was smarting, perhaps rebelling under his own trial, and did not like recognizing its necessity. " Does not the very idea wrong a good and merciful Provi dence, who delights in the happiness of its creatures ?

It would seem by thus attributing to its decrees, the need of suffering, we judged it hardly — as though our blessings were grudged, and therefore weighted with draw backs more or less heavy." " Do not say or think so, Mr. Sydney," she answered gently. " What is a spoilt child fit for, save to torment itself, and all around, and what makes a spoilt child, but giving it it's own will, loading it witb indulgence, and treating it with utter lack of correction and discipline ? Earthly parents err thus to their children's ruin, they err, too, with earthly error and passion, often even when they do chastise. Our father cannot err, or be un kind. He -will not spare the chastisement needful for our good for our crying. He will not give a stroke too much, or withhold one too little, but will select the cross best fitted for its work."

Philip was silent, I think his heart was too full just tben to speak. " When I came here first, Mr. Sydney," she went on, " I was a very young bride; to look at me now you could form no idea how full of life and vivacity I was. I have often ran out into the garden by moonlight after the servants were gone to bed and danced upon tbe green, tbat I might let off alone the childish spirits I feared they would judge un becoming in a wife, and especially a clergyman's wife. Oh, what a time of joy and love that was or — ought to have been. My husband's means permitted every enjoyment, allowed every whim, his love for me was almost idolatry, he denied me nothing. Then a dear child was sent to complete our happi ness, my own health was so full and perfect, I did not believe in pain or suffering, and yet — you will scarcely believe me when I say that I am a happier woman now, than I was then."

Philip still held his peace, what could he say? "The very smoothness of my life satiated if it did not exactly sour me," she continued, after pausing for an answer. " It sounds strange, does it not, even unnatural, but it is true, nevertheless, that this total exemption from anxiety, sorrow, loss, or pain, made me hard and selfish, and without sympathy or pity. When I saw their effects upon others, unbroken prosperity encouraged a scornful feeling towards those who were less fortunate than myself, whilst the silken skein of life ran so easily for me that the slightest hitch caused irritation, and a crumpled rose leaf made my soft couch as uneasy as that of the Sybarite. In short, I grew moody, discontented, unamiable, selfish, simply because, every desire being fulfilled, I had nothing left to wish for, nothing more to gain."

Again she paused for a response, none came, and again she went on — " I remember, Mr. Sydney, how unhappy I felt, no one seemed to care for me except my husband, he never altered ; but I can see now bow uncomfortable, to say the least, my fret ful disposition rendered his life. I really think it became as positive a disease of the mind, as my rheumatism is now a disease of the body. At last my first trial came, the loss of our only child. I took the affliction very badly. I am frightened at looking back on my undisciplined rebellion. Instead of curing, it aggravated my temper, so you see this remedy was insufficient, and soon after, about the time these hideous mills crept round us, and the churchyard rose, my health begun to fail. But I have been talking too much about myself, pardon the egotism, it is a temptation that too much besets an invalid."

" I pray you do not say so, Mrs. Mavor, your conversation has touched and interested me more deeply than you imagine. Your ill health then began with these buildings, and the raised burying ground ? " " I think it was so, I missed so greatly the sweet country air, to which I had always been accustomed, and the house became very damp. We have fires summer and winter, but it never seems dry, still my medical man, Dr. Doser, considers my complaint constitutional, and that it has not arisen from any external cause." (An invalid English lady's confidence in her doctor is only to be surpassed by an Irish woman's or Spanish lady's faith in her priest). Philip was of a very practical turn of mind, and believed every effect bad a cause. He felt convinced the buildings, but especially the burial ground, were in fault here.

But sanatory science in the thirties of this century was as unknown as the locality of the lost tribes, and he felt it was neither his business nor in his power to rectify the matter, if it was so. He was again taking leave of Mrs. Mavor, when the master of the house entered, and recognizing Philip at once, be gave him a cordial and hearty greeting. It struck Mr. Mavor there was a great change in his visitor's appearance, but he at tributed it to the fatigue of a long night journey, and finding he had only partaken that morning of a hurried coach breakfast, insisted on his remaining to their one o'clock meal, for which the bell was tben sounding. "We shall dine witb our children, Mr. Sydney," he said, remembering his guest by that name, and forgetting the title which would have fallen to Philip by his uncle's death.

The square jaw of the invited guest dropped, he forgot entirely Mrs. Mavor's mention of the death of their only child, and felt thoroughly disinclined to join the table of the happy man, surrounded with its olive branches, and supported by its fruitful vine. He was neither too proud nor too fastitidous to take an early dinner with a clergyman and his family, but he was over-excited and over fatigued, his nerves were overstrained, his feelings overtaxed. He would, be felt, rather dine alone. Just then, too, he remembered the family dinner at a country parsonage, at which he bad assisted some six weeks since. He had gone there on business, and could not well refuse the invitation. The ill-cooked, ill served food — the worried untidy mother — the forward children — the uncomfortable father — and worst of all, to aristocratc habits, the slovenly female service : fussy, awkward and behind-hand.

For, however smart and brisk VOL. II. c " woman waiting" may be at refreshment bars, or railway stations, it is usually a very in efficient service in the family, at best rendered without interest, and with the rarest exceptions given under protest. No, Philip did not feel equal to dining with Mr. and Mrs. Mavor and their children, and muttered something about his dinner at the inn. But Mr., Mavor had already half lifted, half assisted his wife into a wheel chair, and leading the way behind it, Philip felt he could not escape. His acquiescence was taken as a matter of course, and he had no choice but to follow. He might have spared his repugnant anti cipation of a meal of muddle and scramble. Mr. Mavor was a man of considerable for tune, and although a large portion of it was spent in charity, he yet reserved enough to live in a style befitting the good gifts be stowed upon him.

Mrs. Mavor, despite her infirmities, was an admirable housekeeper, and guided her house from her invalid chair far better than many a bustling housewife, ever on the scold and worry after her domestics. Not even at Netherleigh Castle would a meal have been better laid, provided, or Is) served. The table was covered with damask, which, both in quality and getting up, would have been reserved by Mrs. Jenner for guests whom she especially desired to honour. The plate, whether solid old-fashioned spoon, or chased tankard, shone as brilliantly as though Shanker bad polished, and Bateman had over looked the operation. It was truly a hospitable board, and groaned under good things, the piece de resistance, which was placed before the master, being an enormous sirloin ofroast beef, as prime and fine a joint as could have graced any table in England that day.

Mr. Sydney was spared the dreaded female aid, no weak wrists, or rust ling petticoats, or indifferent unready service was there. A grave butler stood behind Mr Mavor's chair, a footman scarcely less grave remained at the sideboard, and satisfied, so far, Philip now looked round for the interest ing nursery preparations — but he only saw covers laid for three. Considerably relieved, he accepted his host's invitation for the beef, and looked rather sur prised at the liberality with which he was helped, Mr. Mavor explained — " Excuse my profuseness, Mr. Sydney, but provisions disappear rapidly at this table. You must follow Captain Dalgetty's plan with us, and lay in supplies as you get the opportunity." " At any rate, it is ' cut and come again ' with that joint before you, Mr. Mavor." " Don't you be too sure of that," returned the host, with a smile.

Already the massive joint was lessening under the hands of the quiet, skilful carver. As quickly as the slices were cut, the man at the sideboard brought plate after plate, already provided with vegetables, that were supplied with meat and gravy by the master, and then placed on a tray which, when filled, was given to another servant standing behind a screen that concealed a swing baize door, opening without noise. Each time as it opened, a hum of voices could be beard, sub dued, and something depressed in tone, yet with a youthful ring in the poor thin sound. At last the meat was all gone, and Mr. Mavor turned the bone round and round, and scraping any morsels he could find left on the bare anatomy, placed them upon his own plate. " You have left nothing for yourself, as usual, Charles," said his wife.

" No, I have calculated badly, Edith. Send me some of your chicken ; I heard you say you would take chicken, so I supposed you had some," he added, looking rather hard at the empty dish before his wife. " Oh, my dear Charles, you told me this morning to be sure and send chicken to-day to those two poor factory sisters dying of consumption, and I cleared off all that was left, and sent it out to the mother, who was waiting outside for it, Griffin said." " Quite right, my dear. Then help me to some chops." " Oh, Charles, don't you remember you said chops were the best things the Lunns could have, they were so nourishing. They were waiting also. All are gone but this one.'' " Well, let me have that one," said her husband, good humouredly. " There's the servant's mutton, ma'am," suggested Griffin, in a stage whisper.

" Thanks, Griffin ; bring me some mutton, if you please." So the mutton was brought in a hot covered dish, and the clergyman at last made a good dinner. " Our favourite meal is our supper, Mr. Sydney," he observed, " which, I hope, you will verify by-and-by." When Philip followed Mrs. Mavor into the drawing-room to take the little cup of cafe noir, at that time the pleasant and invariable custom after a heavy meal, he said to his hostess, in a significant tone — " I think I can guess who the children were your husband said would dine with us, Mrs. Mavor." " Yes," she replied softly, with a sigh. " We have adopted the factory children — for we have none of our own — now — " No — none now ! There was a little grave in God's Acre close by, carefully railed in, and guarded from the bank which rose high above it.

On the headstone was carved a broken lily, and an unopened rosebud, and a few words of Scripture. And there was also another carving there : " Sacred to the memory of Nelly, only child of Charles and Edith Mavor."

Chapter II. Titterley And Co

Philip was punctual to his appointment ; the supper by courtesy was a delightful reunion, a dinner in all respects, save in the absence of servants, large joints, and removed courses. A dumb waiter was placed at the left hand of both host and hostess, each provided with all requisites for change, and convenient for receiving all that was superfluous. Every hot viand was carefully kept warm in heated dishes, the wine was choice, the cookery perfect, whilst the frank original conversation of the hospitable master, the fascination of the manners of the graceful mistress, made Philip acknowledge to himself he had rarely been so pleasantly entertained. Mrs. Mavor was a great and varied reader, and took a lively interest in all the passing events of the day ; so there lacked no material for conversation in which she took part, whilst the sympathy of her nature, her habit of living for others and forgetting herself, gave her an irresistible influence over all with whom she came in contact.

Hers was truly a heart " at leisure from itself to soothe and sympa thise;" whilst the strong plain sense of her husband, and the thoroughly gentlemanly spirit of his somewhat unpolished manner, brought a vigour and freshness into any subject discussed, which acted with the effect of a current of mountain air, over a fertile valley. An hour passed delightfully ; then Mr. Mavor said to Philip — " I am sorry to break up our pleasant chat, but if you have any private matter to discuss with me, we had better adjourn at once to my study, for I must be out of doors as soon as possible after eight to-night." When the two men were seated each side of the study fire, Philip gave Mr. Mavor the late lord's letter. " Read this, sir," he said, with his lip quivering, and his face very fixed and pale. " My uncle, as you will see at the end, de sired you should be acquainted with its contents."