Margaret Torrington; or, the Voyage of Life

Front matter

MARGARET TORRINGTON; OK, The Voyage of Life. BY EMMA JANE WORBOISE. Author of " Violet Vaughan? " Thorny croft Hall? "St. Brctha's? " Hymns aud Songs? &c. " So he bringeth them unto their desired haven." — Psalm cvii. 30. London ; JAMES CLARKE & Co., 13, FLEET STREET. JACKSON, WALFORD, & HODDER, PATERNOSTER ROW MDCCCLXVIII. CONTENTS. Chapter I. PAGE Gilbert and I i Chapter II. Glimpses of the Future ... ii Chapter III. Our Pic-Nic — 20 Chapter IV. The Wreck of the " Little Gipsy " 29 Chapter V. In the East Room ... ... 37 (■ Chapter VI. Miriam 46 Chapter VII. A Root of Bitterness ... ... CONTENTS. IV Chapter VIII. PAGE The North Fort 65 Chapter IX. The Cross and the Crown 75 Chapter X. Christmas Day 84 Chapter XI. Fallen Asleep 93 Chapter XII. My Uncle Crofton 103 Chapter XIII. "My Affairs" t. ✓.. 113 Chapter XlV.

The Old Coach Days ... ... ... ».. 123 Chapter XV. The End of the Journey ... •■• ... 1*33 Chapter XVI. Gussie v.. 141 Chapter XVII. My Second Breakfast 152 Chapter XVIII. Nora ,63 Chapter XIX. A Magnificent Voice , .... CONTENTS. V Chapter XX. PAGE My Enemy i-83 Chapter lXXI. 'Lost in the Woods 193 Chapter XXII. The Palace of Content 202 Chapter XXIII. "Two Years ,. oil Chapter XXIV. Going Shopping 221 Chapter XXV. ""-What does it Mean?" .231 Chatter -XXVI. ' My First Dinner Party 241 Chapter XXVII. Difficult Circumstances 251 Chapter XXVIII. Other People's Troubles '662 Chapter XXIX. More Advice "271 Chapter' XXX. Tom Proposes 281 Chapter XXXI. " To be, or not to be " contents. VI Chapter XXXII. PAGE Another Proposal 3°° Chapter XXXIII. Sent to Coventry 310 Chapter XXXIV. The Alternative 3'9 Chapter XXXV.

An Opportune Meeting 32§ Chapter XXXVI. Another " Friend in Need " 33§ Chapter XXXVII. My New Home 34°" Chapter XXXVIII. Settling to Work 356 Chapter XXXIX. The Guardian 366 Chapter XL. Mirrie's Tidings 375 Chapter XLI. The Old People 384 Chapter XLII. Five o'clock Tea 392 Chapter XLIII. The Fate of the " Ellerslie " CONTENTS. VII Chapter XLIV. PAGE Nora's Shopping „ 412 Chapter XLV. A Visitation 421 Chapter XLVI. My Wedding Tour ... 431 Chapter XLVI I. Going Home 441 Chapter XLVI 1 1. The Haven MARGARET TORRIKGTOK

Chapter I

gilbert and i. It was a beautiful June evening, and I had no mind to shut myself up in the house, while the waves were dancing on the shore, and the sky was blue — oh ! as blue as the ribbon on my Sunday bonnet; and the bold scarred cliffs, that stretched themselves far out to the headlands of the bay, were bathed in all the glory of a broad, descending sun. Tea was over, and I took down my bonnet from the peg ; not the one, of course, trimmed with cerulean satin ribbon; but a great, misshapen thing of green and white check gingham, of very homely manufacture, turned to a sort of neutral tint by con stant exposure to the salt spray, and breezes, and wet weather. Also I put on my holland tippet and sleeves, the latter too short at the wrists, but concealing my angular red elbows. My dress was an old lilac print ; one of the old fashioned sort really and truly "warranted to wash," and to wear besides.

I had worn it in reversion from my mother, who had bought it as part of her marriage outfit, — people did not talk about their trousseau in those unenlightened days; — and now it was considerably faded, and, though every tuck was let out, was nearly up to my knees: but then I wore frilled trousers which came down to my ancles, as was the correct thing at that time for young ladies under fourteen years of age. Well, I took that unlucky bonnet of mine — a " drawn bonnet" I think my mother said it was — down from the peg that belonged to it — Miss Margaret's peg, as our old servant, p. Susan, always called it, and I stuck it on my head and pushed my thick curls under it, and, skipping-rope in hand, hurried down to the beach. Not that I intended to skip; " tom-boy " as I am afraid I was, I knew that I was too old to be seen skipping beyond the precincts of our own garden ; — but I liked to have something in my hand, something to swing about, and toss about, while I talked to myself — re hearsing imaginary conversations, or composing poetry by the yard, which had neither rhyme nor measure, — wonderful blank verse, that would have astonished myself had I ever taken the trouble to write it down in black and white, which I always meant to do, and never did.

We did not live exactly at St. Eldred's, a small, quaint town, sloping down from shelving heights to the very water's edge, and commonly known as St. Eldred's-by-the-Sea. My home for ten years had been at North Combe, a village one mile distant from the town ; for my father, a physician of considerable eminence in the large inland town of Dedding ton, where I was born, had given up his connexion there on account of failing health, and had bought what was con sidered a very snug and lucrative practice at St. Eldred's-by the-Sea, where he hoped by less fatiguing work, pure air, and marine breezes, to build up afresh the tottering edifice of an already shaken and undermined constitution. Therefore, in order to enjoy to the full all the advantages accruing from salubrity of climate, he refused to pitch his tent in or near the town itself, which certainly had, as he said, a very fishy smell at certain seasons of the year.

He might have chosen the genteel suburb of the town commonly known as " The Hill," far removed from unsavoury odours, and the vicinage of screaming fishwives ; but then he had come to St. Eldred's expressly to live upon the shore, and though the Hill looked down upon the waves, you had a tolerable journey before you reached them. Kelver House, at North Combe, was to let, most oppor tunely as my father thought ; for it was large and roomy, respectable-looking enough for a modest M.D., and not at all high-rented. " It was the most windiest, ramblingest, scramblingest, unconvenient house in all the world," was the verdict passed upon it by our faithful Susan during the first week of her residence therein, and she never altered her opinion. I knew well enough that it was both " rambling and scrambling,'' for it rejoiced in more little flights of stairs than I ever counted ; it had funny little passages that seemed to lead nowhere in particular, and three-cornered rooms, and plenty of dark closets, and a whole suite of garrets, given over to mice, and lumber, and general desolation.

But all this was what I liked ; and as for the wind, I gloried in it, and relished nothing better than standing on our lawn, when the breeze dashed the salt spray in my face, and nearly blew my bushy ringlets off my head. As for Kelver House being in convenient, I never believed it and I never shall ; it was to me as a fairy palace, — as the " House Beautiful," and nothing less ! and I loved its grey, weather-beaten stones, its dilapi dated chimneys, its small-paned windows, and its heavy, beam-crossed, low-ceiled rooms. Dear old Kelver House- — the blessed home of my thrice happy childhood ! I swung the gate behind me as I rushed upon the narrow strip of turf and thrift that separated our garden from the shingle of the beach, and, looking back, I saw my mother sitting at an upper window, busy with her needlework.

Oh, my darling mother ! how I left you to bear all the burden of our little household by yourself, in those selfish, careless days of my unthinking girlhood ! My mother called me back, I can see her face now, — her beautiful matronly face, so sweet, so pure, so tender, bending over the mignonette that we were coaxing into bloom upon the sill ; it seems but yesterday since I stood there, my hand clasping impatiently the gate, my dancing feet all eager for the smooth, cool sand, or a scramble over the fretted rocks a little lower down, and yet my heart beating with a childish and exulting pride in that fair face, that I knew was the fairest, and held so to be, in all the country round. But why chronicle thy loveliness of face and form, my sainted mother? — for long ago the dust was strown upon that pure B Madonna brow.

Rather let me tell of all thy gentleness and goodness, thy devoted wifehood, and thy faultless mother hood, of all the Christian graces that adorned thy quiet life, of thy faith, and patience and humility; for their memory was still fresh about St. Eldred's when people had well nigh forgotten how very fair was the casket that enshrined the jewel! For it was not yesterday, but thirty years ago, and more, that I stood, half-vexed to be detained, half-pleased to hear that musical low voice, calling, " Margaret, Margaret ! " " Yes, mamma." "Where are you going, dear?" " Only down the shore, as far as the black rocks. The tide is coming in, and I want to see Gilbert: he will be in his boat on the little creek." " Do not be late, darling : papa likes to see you at supper time; and, Margaret, your bonnet is all awry, and your tippet-strings are on your shoulder."

I gave myself a couple of jerks that were supposed to remedy the deficiencies in my toilet, and then, throwing a kiss at mamma, who, nodding pleasantly, resumed her work, I dashed down the shingly steep, and was soon threading my way among the salt-water pools which intersected there the sandy reaches. Now I leaped from one patch of sea-thrift to another; now I crossed a little purling freshet; now I stooped to gather the tender branches of the succulent salicornia, or glass-wort, which tasted so excellently, just like celery or cucumber, I was not certain which, — but my mother often pickled it instead of samphire ; — till at last I came upon the narrow cove through which ran the little creek that after wards developed itself into a salt marsh ; and there, upon the shallow waters, yet unaffected by the rising tide, I saw the boat I was looking for, and near it a figure, which I knew to be that of my friend and staunch ally, Gilbert Tredgold !

Gilbert was a year older than myself; his father was a fisherman, and, as all the neighbours said, of a very good old Cornish family, "but come down in the world." Much further down, in point of worldly circumstances, they ■could not come ; for Stephen Tredgold and his wife, though as decent as hands and thrift could make them, were known to be miserably poor, for the fishing was not what it used to be, — the "takes" were smaller and smaller, and the markets far from sure. Nevertheless, Gilbert followed his father's calling, and a bold lad he was, and as proud of his little boat, which he gloried in keeping all " taut and trim," as any captain who walks the deck of a gallant man-of-war. Stephen was getting rheumatic, and, though not old, was certainly wearing out; and it was to Gilbert — cheery, dutiful Gilbert — that all the family looked as to their main stay and anchor; and he, nothing loth, accepted the charge, and looked forward proudly to " doing for the old folk at home when father's rheumatism should confine him to the main deck of their own kitchen."

Gilbert was mending his nets now, and a fine odour of wet tar and fish saluted my olfactory nerves as I came along the bank to where he was sitting. The sea-birds were screaming so wildly, and a patched sail hung up to dry was flapping so vigorously against a rock, that Gilbert did not hear my step as usual, and only turned round to greet me as I reached his side. Then he sprang up, and, hat in hand, bowed like a finished gentleman ; — staunch friends as we were, and wild hoyden as I was, he never forgot that he was the poor fisher man's son, and I the daughter of Dr. Torrington, of Kelver House. When we had exchanged greetings, Gilbert returned to the broken meshes of his net. Beside him, on the bank, thickly covered over with sea milk-wort and matted are7iaria, lay a Latin grammar,- — my property, which, in the capacity of tutor, I had lent or given to the fisher-boy.

My father had begun to teach me Latin almost as soon as I could read the Bible in my mother tongue, and so, at fourteen, I could read Virgil as easily as Watts's hymns. As for French, I knew very little about it, though mamma and I, about once a fortnight, waded painfully through a course of " Hamel," both of us taking it as a duty we might not but fain would shun, for in mamma's young days every gentlewoman was not expected to speak French with the accent and intuition of a born Parisienne. And yet it was incumbent on the sons and daughters of a gentleman to learn French — after a fashion, that is. Italian you were supposed to study in the last year of your pupilage, and then forget all about it, save as the pages of your music-book brought before you certain words that were decidedly not English.

As for German, no one ever thought of such a thing, at least in mamma's young days, and so mamma was not to blame for knowing nothing of it, and, of course, she could not teach me what she did not know her self. And Gilbert, whose yearning after every kind of know ledge was irrepressible and ardent, had seized upon my im pulsive offer to teach him all the Latin I knew myself, though of what use it could be to him in steering and drawing for divers sorts of finny creatures I neither knew nor cared. It was enough for me that he wanted something I had it in my power to give him. I could ?wt give him new nets, which he needed, poor fellow, sorely, sorely, but I could give him Latin, and dearly I appreciated the luxury of giving. " Isn't it a lovely evening, Gilbert 1 " "The loveliest we've had this year, Miss Margaret; it will be such a sunset presently !

Only look this minute at the Rudrhoe cliffs on t'other side the Bay ! " Sure enough, the Rudrhoe cliffs were glowing like ruddy bronze, in the level beams of the fast sinking sun, and the white cottages of the far-off Rudrhoe village gleamed like silver in the hollow of the great scarred rocks ; the sands were golden brown, and the spotless wings of the gulls and sea-mews flitted like pure snowflakes against the deep and stainless azure of the sky. It was an evening to fill with rapture the passion-fraught, beauty-loving soul of poet or of painter ! "Gilbert, what is the use of mending those old nets? Don't you see they fall to pieces as fast as ever you repair them?" " Yes, Miss Margaret ; but don't you see they are all the nets I've got, or am likely to get, and I must make the best of what I have!"

" But the fish must often get away." " They do, they do, Miss Margaret ; but that's no fault of mine ; I mend them to the best of my ability ; and then, if the pisces wag their fins, and get into deep water again, I can't help it ; it's the good Lord's will." " You do not suppose God troubles Himself about mackerel, and whiting, and all the rest of the tribe? " " Well, Miss Margaret, I should say He does. Isn't it written that not a sparrow falls to the ground but what the Father knows of it? Well, then, surely He knows about the creatures of the watery world as well ! I wish it was His will that the nets would hold together, and that the slippery things would stay to be caught, and creeled, and sold." " But if it is not His will, what is the use of your mending and tarring your nets, and going out in such dreadful weather to risk your life ?

" " It's just this way, Miss Margaret. God has given me brains and hands, and I must use them as well as I can, and ask Him to bless the using. If I were lying on a bed of sickness, I would try to trust Him to send me food, with out making any effort of my own ; but, while I am young, and strong, and jolly well, I think He means that I should work with all my strength and all my sense, and I must leave it to Him to send prosperity. Why, I do believe our Saviour Himself would never have worked the miracle of the loaves and fishes if it hadn't been really needed. The people were in a desert place, where there was no meal for bread, and no lake or river where they could cast for fish : so the Lord fed them at once : He spoke, and it was done. But, if the means of procuring food had been at hand, I do think He would have made the five thousand, and the women and children exert themselves !

God does not love that we should eat the bread of idleness. No, no ; we must rig ourselves all taut and trim, and spread or reef our sails, according as is best, and we must steer knowledgeably and trust to Providence for prosperous gales. If I put out to sea, with tattered canvas, and helm out of order, and a leak or two in the vessel, I must expect disasters, and it is idle to cry to God to steer me safely back again to port ; but if I do all that in me lies, and a storm arises, and my sails are torn to ribbons, and my bows broken in, and my rudder will not answer, then I may call upon the Lord, and look for Him to succour me in my hour of need ; for it is written of them that see the works of the Lord, and His wonders in the deep, — ' Then they cry unto the Lord in their trouble, and He bringeth them out of their distresses.

He maketh the storm a calm, so that the waves thereof are still. Then are they glad because they be quiet ; so He bringeth them unto their desired haven. ' " " Why do you say those last words so emphatically, Gilbert?" " Because it sounds so good. I am only a sailor in a small way, — I never go very far from land ; but I know what it is to be tossed up and down, and like to go to pieces, and then get into port— into the desired haven ! And they do say, life is a voyage, and we are all bound for some haven or other. Do you think it is so, Miss Margaret?" "I do not know ; I never thought about it, Gilbert. If life is a voyage, I have always taken it, so far, in a snug little cock -boat moored on to a fine large bark, and I have never been in deep waters yet." " No, Miss Margaret, you haven't. You've just been rock ing about in creeks and shallow pools, and you don't know what a strong breeze or a heavy sea is like."

" I should like a little breeze, Gilbert ; it's rather tame living here at North Combe always ! " " Oh, Miss Margaret, don't'e quarrel with your calm, quiet life ; may be there'll come a time when you'll look back on these pleasant, free-and-easy days, just like a shipwrecked man looks back upon his leisure on the shore." " What makes you say that, Gilbert ? " " Nothing in particular, miss ; only there are hard lines for everybody ; and just now — dear me, you are not at sea at all, but on a little inland lake, taking your pleasure in a fairy coracle, with silken sails and golden paddles." " But, Gilbert, I should like to get out to sea. The lake is all very well for children, but I am growing out of childhood I shall soon be a woman. I should like to see the world. I should like — " "What would you like, Miss Margaret?"

" I should like to feel myself to be living ; to go to many places ; to know many people. I should like to be rich, that papa might give up his practice, and we could all travel for his health, and you should go with us, Gilbert. If I were rich, you should not spend your time in mending rotten nets, and caulking leaky boats, and going out with the night-tide ; — you should have your wish, and learn all that is to be learnt ! " " Thank you, Miss Margaret, just the same as if you put the money down, and said, ' Here, Gilbert, go to school, and aftenvards to college ! ' But I'll try hard to get some learning. I should like to be worthy of the Tredgold name, for we were not fishermen and peasants always ; — there's Tredgold-Austell, they tell me, down in Cornwall, a fine estate that once belonged to my forefathers, — a grand old place, I've heard, but very desolate.

I should like to see it ! " " So should I, Gilbert ; but I suppose it is out of the question ; I have never been ten miles from St. Eldred's since I first came here, a little child, not four years old. Suppose you should ever get back this Tredgold-Austell ? " " Tredgold-Austell is the name of the little town; Tred gold Court is what the house is called. Well, Miss Margaret, I mean to get it back, God helping me ! " " You do ! Gilbert, you are crazy ; you would want what Susan calls 'a power of money,' and you haven't any, now." " No, Miss Margaret, but I have got two strong hands and two good legs to carry me about; and I've got some brains, with not much in them at present ; but, look you, I mean to learn every mortal thing I can, and to be a good fisherman, too. I take it that it's a bad way to get on, to begin by neglecting your duty in that state of life to which it has pleased God to call you ; there's nothing gained by doing anything that's right to do by halves; and I'll mend these old nets as long as ever they will hang together ; and I'll take the fish to market with a will ; but I can take up the broken meshes and get my lesson too; and many's the page I've made my own between our cottage and St. Eldred's. Miss Margaret, you once lent me a map of the world ; have you another of Europe that you could spare me for a bit."

" You shall have an atlas, if you like ; at least I will ask papa about it, and he'll be sure to lend it you ; he likes you, Gilbert, and so does mamma !" " The doctor and madam are both very good to me, and so are you, Miss Margaret ; and that reminds me, I've seen some of the purple sea-weed you want a mile or two on the other side of Black Tor ; and there are handsome shells, too, — such as you would like for your collection ; — and next week the tide will serve, and I will take you there in the boat, if you please, and Alice, my sister, will like to go very much." " That will be charming ! I will ask mamma if I may go. Tell Alice she must not bring her knitting, but make up her mind for a real holiday." " And now you must go home, Miss Margaret, — it is twenty minutes to nine." " How can you tell ?

" " By the lights on Torstone Hill, also by the tide,— don't you see the " Little Gipsy" is afloat, and the creek is filling as fast as it can fill ? And look, the bar is covered, and there is surf as far as Stanger's Bank ! It is later than I thought, — only a quarter to ! " So I bade mjj friend good-night, and scampered home ; not so fast as I came though, for I had to keep nearly all the way upon the shingle, and everybody knows what sort of travelling that is. When I reached Kelver House, papa and mamma were at the gate looking for me, and the summer moon was beginning to cast long rays of silver on the placid sea. Oh, happy days of innocent trust, and peace, and pure unfeigned love ! Happy child that I was, in the safe anchorage of those blessed home affections ! Why did I long to set sail upon the troublous sea of life ?

Chapter II. Glimpses Of The Future

The next morning mamma and I sat with patience and resignation over a page of " Telemaque." Thirty years ago " Telemaque" was read or stumbled over by everybody who learned French, and the first two or three chapters are certainly interesting enough ; and it is very nice to read about Calypso, and Eucharis, and the rest of her nymphs, and very amusing to perceive how these fabled deities are as frail as the frailest of mortals, giving way to shocking tempers, burning with envy, wrath, and cruel jealousy, and occasionally taking such vengeance as only the sons and daughters of Olympus are privileged to take. But, then, there are pages upon pages of the driest and most ascetic morality, volumes of counsel from that trying Mentor, and confused philosophy, which I am pretty certain Frenchmen themselves never entirely understand ; and mamma and I were helplessly floundering through a string of sentences all pronouns and participles, and it seemed to our unenlightened comprehensions that the great goddess Minerva, the wonder ful Pallas Athene, under the form of Mentor, was really pouring out unmitigated " twaddle."

The page was accomplished at last somehow; there was rather more nonsense than sense in our rendering of it, — that was all ; and poor mamma was even happier than myself when the old calf-bound, dimly-printed book was closed, and we could turn with easy consciences to the comparatively recreative task of irregular verbs and numeral adjectives. Ah ! my dear young ladies, studying in the school-rooms of the seventh decade of this clever nineteenth century, you little know how hard we of the prior generation had to work, in order to get ourselves presentably educated and well "finished." There were no "Ann's Courses" then, no "Mary's Grammar," no systems teaching people all they wished to know in half-a-dozen lessons ; we had to toil, and grope, and wonder, for our teachers, whose advantages were scantier than our own, were often in a labyrinth of doubts themselves, and knew not how to answer many of the questions propounded by their pupils.

It is all changed now, and woe to the presumptuous wight who establishes himself in the tutorial chair without first qualifying. Teachers now are expected to know everything perfectly ; they are to teach without books ; they are to make lessons, however abstruse, positively charming ; they must supply ability where that slight requisite is wanting ; in short, they are to educate extensively and thoroughly, without pains or weariness on the part of the happy pupil without reproof, and, of course, without the smallest hint of punishment ; to carry the young student from the first step to the last of his or her curriculum, in a comfortable first-class carriage, by express, and sometimes, special train. Our parents trod the grand highway of learning painfully on foot, getting a lift now and then as chance might favour them ; we who are the middle-aged men and women of the day, travelled the same road respectably in a solemn, slow stage-coach ; our children take it jauntily by rail, and I should not be surprised if a fourth and fifth generation flew from point to point of science and accomplishment in air balloons or by electric telegraph.

I had finished my French lesson with an emphatic " No more of that till another week," when papa, who was not out that morning, came in, and, to my intense horror, proposed to examine me in the very studies I had just joyfully discarded. Even mamma looked rather melancholy, for " Telemaque," as usual, had made her head ache. "My dear," she said, "Margaret is tired, and, indeed, I am too ; take another morning, when she only has her Latin." " Only her Latin ! What a womanly impertinence ! Why, my dear Maggie " (Maggie was mamma, not I ; I always had the full benefit of my name in order to avoid confusion), * Latin is the study of a man's life, — a perfect Latin scholar is rare indeed ; while your jingling French can be picked up by any silly school miss who opens her ears wide enough, and has a tolerable memory."