The Heirs of Errington

Front matter

BY EMMA JANE WORBOISE, Author of 'Joan Carixbroke," "__ Woman's Patience," "Father Fabian." "Robert Wreforil's Daughter" &c. &c. " Tliy God knows what for tliee is best ; What looks the worst may work thy weal. Seek holiness ; and, for the rest. Leave it with God Himself to deal." 3Lon6on : JAMES CLARKE & CO., 13 & 14, FLEET STREET HODDER & STOUGHTON, 27, PATERNOSTER EOW. 1881. LONDON : W. SPF1IGHT AND RONS, PRINTERS, FETTER LANE CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I. Introduces Eleanor and Her Friend 1 II. The Evening Post 13 III. Warren's Diplomacy 24 IV. The Curate's Household 35 V. Paternal Commands 45 VI. Pastoral Advice 56 VII. Good-bye to Somerwood 67 VEIL TheCountess 78 IX. Eleanor's First Lesson 88 X. The Breakfast Table 100 XI. " The Last Kose of Summer " 109 XII. A Leisure Day 121 XIII. Village Gossip 131 XIV.

"Hip! Hip! Hip! Hurrah!" 142 XV. Mrs. Kexworthy's Story 153 XVI. "Bruce" 164 XVII. A Great Perplexity 176 XVIII. Midnight Meetings 187 XIX. " A Pie of Pies ! " 198 XX. In the Abbey Woods 210 XXI. A Tardy Confession 221 XXII. Hopes and Fears CONTENTS. VIII CHAPTElt PAGE XXIII. " Where is Agnes ? " 242 XXIV. The SonandHeir 255 XXV. Diamond Cut Diamond 267 XXVI. Regrets and Expectations 278 XXVII. Home Again 289 XXVIII. Mr. Gregory Has Something to Say 299 XXIX. The Agent's Story 310 XXX. Friends in Council 321 XXXI. Sir Lawrence Jasper Churchill 332 XXXII. An Early Morning Call 342 XXXIII. Coming to an Understanding 352 XXXIV. Amicable Rivals 362 XXXV. Between Two Fires 372 XXXVI. A Night of Alarms 383 XXXVII. What the ViUage Said 392 XXXVIII. The Meeting at Hull 402 XXXIX. Major Brereton's Impressions 410 XL.

Great Windmill Street 418 XLI. Too Late 427 XLII. A Welcome Visitor 438 XLIII. A Wintry Day 448 XLIV. Eleanor Takes Herself to Task 456 XLV. A Memorable Evening 466 XLVI. ALate Visitor 476 XLVII. To-Morrow Morning 487 XL VIII. Love and Death 496 XLIX. Mrs. Caldicott 506 L. A White Wedding

Chapter I. Introduces Eleanor And Her Friend

" By the soft green light in the woody glade, By the banks of moss where thy childhood played, By the household tree through which thine eye First looked in love to the summer sky, By the dewy gleam, by the very breath Of the primrose tufts in the grass beneath, Upon thy heart there is laid a spell, Holy and precious — oh ! guard it well ! " It was a fine March evening, and warm and genial enough for May. The sun was still shining brightly on the sweeping uplands of Derneford Moor, but it was fading fast from the yet bare woods that lined the quiet valley of the tranquil, shining Derne. The winter had been severe and prolonged, but spring had come at last, and with good will, for already the catkins were hanging by hundreds on the hazel boughs, the lilacs were bursting into leaf, the bnds of the horse-chestnut were swelling and glistening in the sunshine ; there was a tinge of verdure even on the barren moor, and here and there an adventurous blossom of golden gorse expanding itself among its furzy prickles.

There was the bleating of young lambs in the more sheltered fields, and all the birds of the air seemed joining in one full strain of praise for the hope and joy that had come to them, with the spring's sweet breath of promise. Derneford was a village of some importance. It boasted of one good street, in which stood the Unicorn Hotel, a " once famous inn, redolent of musty traditions of the old coaching-days." The church, standing a little apart from the main street, was handsome and venerable, almost minster-like in its proportions. The Bank was a most respectable, stone-faced edifice, open, however, on Thursdays and Saturdays only. The shops were tolerable, though, of course, not first-rate; and the Post-office — also an emporium for stationery and fancy goods — was a sort of non-political club, whence the latest news, both private and public, generally emanated.

Beyond the village — some of its inhabitants called it " the town "■ — were the beautiful Merridown woods ; and the shining little river wound peacefully through mead and garden at the back of many of the houses. Merridown Abbey, a picturesque and rather celebrated pile of ruins, was about three miles from Derneford proper, and in the summer time it was the scene of many a pleasant pic-nic, and visited by artists, and even archæologists. But, on the whole, Derneford was an exceedingly quiet, sober little place, rather given, perhaps, to an over-estimate of its own peculiar advan tages, and, as a consequence, conservative in all its ways. It prided itself on being old-fashioned and somewhat particular. It held itself aloof from Mattenham, where no end of gaudy, mushroom villas were springing up about the new railway-station ; and though not altogether unappreciative of the conveniences of the market-town of Stillborough, five miles further up the line, it despised it as being a place of very recent growth, given up to trade and commerce, and altogether deficient in good old county families !

Derneford looked pretty enough on that bright March afternoon, on which this story begins, though, as the sun sank behind the wavy moor, and the far-spreading Merridown woods, it lay very much in shadow. But a bright beam still rested on the battlements of the grey church-tower, and the river flowed serenely through the freshening meads, reflecting on its peaceful bosom the soft crimson of the cloudlets that floated in the clear blue zenith. Winding down from the moor was a broad white road, leading directly into the village, and on this road, just where it began to slope downwards to the valley, were two figures slowly advancing and evidently engrossed in conversation. The figures were those of two girls well known to all the inhabitants of Derneford, for one of them was Laura Beverley, the eldest daughter of the Rev. Richard Beverley, the hard-working and muchrespected curate of the parish ; and the other was Eleanor Churchill, the niece and adopted daughter of Mrs. Leigh, of Somerwood, — a widow-lady of ample means, and renowned for miles round for her piety and kindness and charitable disposition.

These two girls, both just nineteen years of age, were bosom friends, and naturally constant companions. They were " inseparable," at least, so said the good people of Derneford ; and, indeed, they were far more often seen together than alone. When Laura was not at Somerwood, Eleanor was generally at The Bays, where the former lived with her parents, and no less than ten thriving brothers and sisters. They studied together, practised their music together, read their favourite authors together, and, finally, did what in a town would be called their " district visiting " together. Nevertheless, these young ladies were about as diverse as possible in appearance, in character, and in the circumstances of their life. Eleanor Churchill was the younger daughter of a baronet, and reported to be a great heiress.

The father, Sir Thomas Churchill, was abroad, with his elder daughter Agnes ; he had been living in Italy for many years — almost ever since the birth of Eleanor, whose entrance into this world was mournfully remem bered by him, as the signal for the departure of the wife whom he loved most tenderly. His own health had suffered greatly after this loss, from which he seemed un able to recover ; and his physicians, prescribing change of scene and lengthened travel, advised the south of Europe for his residence, during the next few years. He was to take np his abode at Florence, or in Rome, and thence to make excursions wherever fancy or inclination prompted ; the greater the variety of experiences the better. Mrs. Leigh, the deceased Lady Churchill's only sister, 1—2 ■1 TOT HEiRS OF EKr.l.V- 1'.'\. had begrsjfMl to kare the charge of the iufant Eleanor during Lor father's absence from England.

Agne5 ( thu elder and only other child, he wonld tike with him, undor the superintendence of bpr Aunt, Desterre, wh'i. being a widow, wit.hoat ties of her own, was by no means averse to speudiuq a few years iu Ttaly with (lti limited means nf enjoyment at, her disposal. Fur Sir Thomai Churchill was rich and geoiinms, n,n<l it, was underarm I that shu was to be at. the hcaii of his foreign establish ment, with f nil control over tbo honsehold oi dfllBBBtlas S. i if, came to pass that Mrs, Leigh took the poor little baby to her nwn lo?in<r arniB, with tunny misgivings IflBI the frail life i-ornojitted to her cure should pass away before the earliest, flowers i-ould blnssom oa her mul IhtV grave; for Elranorwas lint, :i weakly infant, aud for tljn first few months of her axfetoiBB it seented most doubtful whether eho would ever attiiin the anniversary of hav birth.

Sir Thomas cnaM sciirccly boar tho sight of the cliild, and the tit'sitinni she w;i,s bronijht 60 liiru ot'kee tin ftitit-ral, ho had turni'il fn.int and whitf.', anil betrgrd fcfwfrt she niiy;ht, be t,akon back to the nursery ; rmd vvhpn In found lmw ailing she was, and how unlikely to suruv-p. In tried t" think as little about hi-r a* possibly, (1 reading t<> place hig affections upon what might, so speedily liu ta.kon l'roiri him. He beenme hinim'lf a, fryqnent, invalid, a'nl aFinut sis nr Beven months ut't pf his wife'n rajnovi*], grew sosenun-l. ill that, his ffienda were alarmed, aud pn^snd upi.ii Inm t.be necessity of a rhanffe, wlu'rh should be, fef n,t Ii.m,-i n few years, pprmununt. '1'lir town houaa <vas U. t. an i Errington was shut up, and lefjfe in the fehafga of old aiiti fnitlit'al retainers.

A vry few aj thu stuvaui^ ausam [i:iih,m| lln-ii uui:-ter and lj:<dy Lte.-tfirn nhro.'iil, eliiellv Si, Thrrmafl'a m n .tt.tarhod valet, Mtd tin: UBWaof Ihu ilniil Agnes, who wus "l fiaft 1 •[• .r.mi t ilt 1 1 1 r I - • niiiideu in li> r tfatv I year, the very [nctore of health, and jriviu^ pi'Qttlist ill nimsnal l'i:uity of face and i'lrm. i'bs. I^eigh took hounthe puny btiby (o SimnM-wo'id. sr.nrcely d:irin<; tu 1 i ■ < | » ' - thai — t j o iv ..uld be sjiatvd Ihrangll Ihc wnttui'i whii'h was just -ittiu.' in. IJut wbi'thfr ihc air of li'.riH'iord Baited the child bctlor tbu,u that t) Errington, or whether Mrs. Leigh's system was superior to that of the grand nurse who had been installed by Lady Desterre, it is impossible to say ; only this much was certain, that the little girl began to improve almost as soon as she was settled at Somerwood, and before the flowers of spring were in their early beauty had become almost as healthy as her elder sister, and throve abundantly.

As months passed on, Miss Eleanor grew and prospered, and by the time she was five years old it was evident to all about her that she was blessed with the soundest of constitutions. She was a sweet, affectionate little creature, most loving and caressing in her ways, with a high spirit and a will of her own, which sometimes scarcely brooked restraint. She grew up devoted to the aunt who had done a mother's part by her ever since she could remember ; passionate ist all her attachments, she thought no place equal to Derneford, no home so bright and pleasant as Somerwood, and she never returned to it, after even a brief absence, without a certain effusive happiness that expended itself upon everything animate aud inanimate within or about the house. Her girlish friendship for Laura Beverley was ardent in the extreme ; she was naturally enthusiastic in her attachments; and it was said by one of the old servants of the family that " Miss Eleanor loved the cats and dogs more than some folk loved their fellow-creatures !

" Eleanor was tall, fair, and finely formed ; her abundant hair was of a glossy, golden brown ; her eyes were of a peculiar dark, soft grey, that sometimes seemed almost black ; her features were well cut and regular, and her smile peculiarly sweet and radiant. Her father and sister still remained abroad, and though a regular correspon dence was maintained between Somerwood and Villa Fiore, and photographs were exchanged at different periods, Eleanor had come to think of herself as belong ing to her aunt entirely. Agnes belonged to ber father ; she was " auntie's child ! " And though no regular under standing respecting the guardianship of Sir Thomas's younger daughter had ever been systematically arrived at, it was taken for granted that she would not be claimed by her father while Mrs. Leigh lived and loved her as her own.

Laura Beverley, as we have said, was in every way unlike her friend. She was very dark, and of insignificant stature ; her face, but for its look of amiability and superior intelligence, would have been accounted plain ; she was the eldest girl of a numerous family, and it was as much as the household at The Bays could do to make both ends meet, with so many mouths to fill, and so limited an income. For though Mr. Beverley did nearly all the parish work, he received only an ordinary curate's stipend, and his private property was of the smallest. It was a continual problem with him and his worthy wife how to do the best for the eleven olive-branches round about their table, and the difficulty increased as time passed on, and it became a question of education, as well as of shoes and stockings and daily bread-and-butter.

It was with unalloyed thankfulness, therefore, that Mr. Beverley received Mrs. Leigh's proposals, that Laura should share the studies of Eleanor and take lessons from the same masters and governesses. The governesses had departed now, and the young ladies were emancipated from the slight restraint of the schoolroom, but they still read French and German together, and benefited by the instructions of a certain Herr Lindahl, who came weekly to Derneford on account of the girls at Somerwood, and of other musical pupils in the neighbourhood. As they walked down from the moor, on their way home from the outlying hamlet of Millerton, they talked together gaily and confidentially, as was their usual custom — talked on all sorts of subjects — "of everything in heaven and earth ! " as Eleanor used to say in after years when Laura and she were separated.

As the sun declined more and more, and the daylight began to fade, the young crescent moon shone out clearly, but palely, in the still glowing western sky — and both girls simultane ously exclaimed — " Oh, there is the new moon ! " " The first time I have seen her," said Eleanor. " I suppose she is not more than two days old, Laura ; it seems but a very little while since you and I watched the eclipse six weeks ago. How fast time flies ! And new moons and full moons, one after another, always seem to me a sort of reminder of the pace at which we are going on. I wonder if people in great towns think as much of the moon as we do here ? " " Of course they do not. The moon is of very secondary importance where there is plenty of gas ; we cannot forget the moon because we are continually obliged to calculate her age for a given date beforehand.

If we have an evening meeting ora concert, or if anybody gives a party, it is always contrived to be when our lady-moon sheds ample light." " Except, of course, in the delicious summer months, when it is not really dark all night long ! I wish it could be always spring and summer." " That would not be good for us, I suppose ! We want bleak winds and snows and pelting rain, as well as sun shine and soft dews, just as there must come sorrow and gladness into all lives, if they are to be good for anything." " Just so, and the sorrow is as sure to come as the sleet and the rain. Man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upward ; so says the Bible, and so have said all the wise men of the earth, in all ages. Nurse said only yesterday, speaking of some friends of ours, who are planning a visit to the Italian lakes : ' Ah, Miss Eleanor, dear, it's all very nice, I dare say, but they must not look to be com pletely and always happy ; there is a crook in all our lots, and I never knew a family that hadn't got a skeleton iu a secret cupboard, somewhere or other.' ' " Well, Nellie, that is what everybody says !

But it seems to me that the burdens of this life are very unequally divided. What cares have you ? Your life has been always sunshine ; the south winds blow for yon, and you never felt the blast of a regular north-easter." " Laura, I think I should die if real, downright trouble came to me, — especially if I had to bear with unkindness ! I don't know what it must be to live without love. What should I do if I had not auntie and you, and other dear friends, and my good old nurse, and some of the poor people in the cottages ? Why, Laura ! " — aud the girl stood still as she spoke, and a soft beautiful light came into her eyes as they looked round upon the lovely twilight scene, and down info the quiet valley, where there was still a gleam on wood and water, and a faint dying blush on the church-tower's grey battlements — " Laura, I love every tree and house in Derneford!

I love our beautiful old church, every stone of it ! 'I love her gates. I love the road ! ' I know every green path of the Merridown woods, and every curve of the river, and every bank where the wild thyme grows, and every cottage on the moor ! And I love them all — only next to the dear, dear people that have been about me, ever since I can remember ! I hope I shall never, never leave Derneford ! ' ' "I hope you never will, I am sure. But, Nellie, I often wonder your father is content to leave you here so long. I wonder he has not sent for you to go to him — foreign travel would be so good for you. I wonder Agnes does not want you ! " " Well, Laura, I have sometimes thought about it myself, and now and then it hurts me to think how little papa must care about me. You know he was devotedly attached to mamma, and she died when I was born, and he could not bear the sight of me ; he could not bear the sight of Errington, because every room reminded him of her, and brought back the memory of what he had lost.

And I suppose he has not got over it yet, and never will, and the long absence from England has weakened the ties that bind him to his country. He seems quite satisfied with Italy, and Agnes, as he says, is only half an Englishwoman." " Still, I am surprised that he never sent for you to Florence." " He did once, when I was about fourteen ; but the wording of his letter was so cold, so much like a formal invitation prompted by mere duty, and auntie at the same time was so poorly, that I begged to be allowed to post pone the visit. And, since then, no more has been said about it. But I should like to see Agnes ; it is so strange to think that I have a sister of my very own, and that we have never really seen each other except in photos ! For, of course, Agnes was too young when she went abroad to remember anybody or anything, and I was a sickly little baby, not many months old."

"I should love to see Miss Churchill myself; if that last likeness is a good one, she must be very beautiful." " She is extremely beautiful, I believe. And she looks like a queen, with her regal pose, and that magnificent coronet of hair. She is very, very dark, I fancy ; she takes after papa, auntie says, while I am just like mamma was at my age. _ She had a fair complexion, and bluish grey eyes like mine, and curling light-brown hair." "You have seen your mamma's portrait at Errington ? " "Yes; when auntie and I were there, nearly six years ago. It is a lovely picture ! Mamma must have beeu very good, I am sure ; she has such a sweet, serious face, gentle and winning, and yet full of thought. Auntie is a good deal like her, only not so fair and not so tall. That chalk drawing in my room is a copy from the portrait, yon know."

" Yes, but Mrs. Leigh says it hardly does your mother justice ; the artist she employed to make the copy did not quite catch the lovely expression of the mouth. What a pity that a place like Errington should be shut up so long ! I wonder if Sir Thomas will ever return ! " " Sometimes I think he will come home all in a hurry, when we least expect him. Sometimes I think he will choose to live abroad all his life." " Who will inherit Errington ? " "Agnes, I suppose, as she is the eldest; I believe my birth was something of a disappointment to papa, because he was hoping and longing to have a son to come after him. Girls are of very little account in the matter of suc cession, you know, and they are often set aside in favour of the nearest male relative. Errington, however, descends in the female line, but the baronetcy, of course, becomes extinct.

I have heard that my other aunt, Lady Desterre, could not forgive me for being a girl ; and I fancy papa would have thought more of me, but for my unfortunate sex." "I think I have heard you say Sir Thomas did not inherit either title or estates from his father ? " "No; from a cousin who died in India, or somewhere else, thousands of miles away. Papa was a boy — a young man rather — at Oxford, when news came to him that he had succeeded to Sir Lawrence Churchill's title and estates. He was very much surprised, for he had no idea that his cousin died childless. Had there been a daughter even, she would have had Errington, though she could not have taken tho baronetcv. And a very poor baronet papa would have been, for he had not more than five hundred a-year of his own, and that little farm of Hollylea, which aunt thinks may one day be mine.

She feels sure that papa intends to make an eldest son of Agnes, as far as he can." " Is that quite fair ? " " Quite, I think. If Agnes had been a boy she would naturally have taken all, so why should she not be Lady of Errington ! It is a pity she cannot be Lady Churchill in her own right. I am not ambitious, as you know, Laura ; I should not like to be exactly poor ; but I do not care about being rich or grand ! Auntie says I shall have Somerwood some day ; but oh, I trust that some day is a long, long way off ! I have all that I want of it now. If I ever do have Hollylea I shall let it, and live on here all the days of my life." " Only, Nellie, you will marry ! " " I don't know that ; everybody does not marry. I think I should like to be an old maid, and be my own mistress ; I should save a great deal of bother.

I should love to think that I meant to live on in my own dear home till I died. Agnes can be Lady of Errington, and I shall be quite content to be auntie's home-child at Somer wood, and always keep np the place, just as it is now. That will be enough for me ; great riches must be a heavy burden, a terrible responsibility, and I don't think I am fitted to rule over a great house. Now, Agnes looks like a princess born to reign and to inherit grandeur. Vast wealth would be a tremendous trouble to me. What are you sighing for, Laura ? " "I was thinking how nice it would be — not to inherit vast wealth, but to have just so much money that one need not always be anxious and worried as papa is. You cannot fancy, Nellie, how vexatious it is to be continually discussing trifles, endlessly considering ways and means, looking at every sixpence twice before you spend it — trying to make it go as far as sevenpence !

And then the dreadful fear of going just a little beyond one's tether, and not being able to pay one's debts ! I do think if papa ever came to that, it would kill him." " But, Laura, it is not likely to come to that ? " " I hope not ! But it takes ever so much thought and painful contriving to avoid it. There are so many of us, and common things that one cannot do without cost more and more every year, mamma says. And now the boys are growing up, and will have to be settled. I have made up my mind that it is quite time I did something to help." " Dear ! Don't you help in a hundred ways ! Don't you sew your poor fingers to the bone ? and don't you teach the little ones, and don't you even make puddings and things ? " " I am not very clever at the puddings and things, I am afraid. And don't you help me with the sewing and with the teaching ?

And, then, I owe it quite to Mrs. Leigh's kindness that I am able to teach the children at all ! I should have gone to Miss Fuller's, and been finished with Miss Mercer and Miss Figgins, and that vulgar little Araminta Hancock, if I had not shared your schoolroom .and your lessons. Papa could never have afforded to give me advantages, he often says so. I can never, never be too grateful to Mrs. Leigh." "My dear Laura, I am very grateful to your papa, I am sure, and so is auntie, for letting you be so much with me. I should never have done half so well if I had had to study all alone, and I never could bear the idea of going away to school. If there is any obligation, it is entirely mutual. What should I have done ever since I began to grow up, without a sister? for you have been that to me, Laura, and always will be — always, always !

After auntie, you are my very dearest and best, and if yon do not marry, I don't see why we should not live together presently, like the two ladies of Llangollen : two comfortable, useful, faithful, estimable spinsters ! " " You are very good to me, Nellie — very good, and very dear. But I shall have to live my own life, I think. And this is what is in my mind ; I can go out as a governess soon, and earn money to help the others. Evelyn is nearly sixteen, you know, and in another year she will be able to take my place at home. She is a very steady girl, and so thoughtful and industrious. There is that Miss Ledsam, who used to be at Mrs. Fraser's, getting sixty pounds a year." "Nonsense, Laura. I cannot spare you, nor can auntie, nor can your own family, nor can the Sunday-school, nor the old women — nor — nor anybody !

I almost think it would be nice, after all, to be rich — to have heaps of money ! Then I would do what you and I have often talked about — build a church on Millerton Moor, and make your papa the rector, and endow it splendidly ! 1 think the style should be pure Gothic, with an open timbered roof, and all the windows should be stained, and there should be a glorious organ. Oh ! and a pierced spire ; we must have a pierced spire, Laura ! " " My dear Nellie, I am afraid church-building in this fashion is about as aerial as castle-building ! And in the meantime " " In the meantime, yon are not to think of going governessing, or anything of the sort. And if we do not make haste, auntie will be waiting tea for us. It is almost dark." " I must go home, dear ; mamma wants me to-night. I promised I would not stay tea at Somerwood.

Bnt I will be with you by eleven o'clock to-morrow. It is Herr Lindahl's day, remember. Good evening." And with a girlish, fond embrace the friends parted. Eleanor went slowly up the drive to the side entrance she generally used ; Laura hurried to The Bays, the busy, crowded little house, where Mr. and Mrs. Beverley and their eleven children made the best they could of their uncomfortably slender income.