Two men and a maid : a tale

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Dedication

My dear Mrs Stirling,-

As "good wine needs no bush," so a good and great name like yours needs no further honouring ; but I have long wished to put yours where I, honouring it in the world's sight, might honour literature and myself. I have therefore ventured to inscribe it here, with the sympathy which all who know you well must feel, and with the gratitude which I, more than most, owe to a generous friend and a vi Dedication.

wise teacher. When I first tried to lisp in that beautiful Art wherein you spoke and speak so beautifully and so eloquently, you assisted me with your counsel, your encouragement, and your generous approbation. Among the rich memories and tokens of a gracious fame that will certainly not die so long as the Drama has a history, try to find a place for this Dedication — a pledge, not only of my sincere homage to a great artiste, but of my warm affection for a brave and true-hearted woman.

Contents

CHAPTER

I. THE SEA SANDS — LOVERS' FOOTPRINTS,

II. A LOVERS' QUARREL, .

Chapter I. The Sea Saxds — Lovers Footprints

IT had been a very unpleasant morning. Seated in the high-backed vicarage pew, with her lover beside her, Alice Chepstow had been alternately listening to the pattering of the rain, and watching for stray gleams of sunshine which crept through the diamond panes of the church windows, and trembled across the floor.

There had been a hard battle between rain and sunshine, and, for a time at least, it had seemed that the rain would win, for though the showers were not of long duration, they were possessed of remarkable earnestness and strength. But when the last hymn and the last benediction were over, and the congregation streamed forth into the open air, the sun was shining as brightly as if his rule had never been interfered with, and the only tokens left by the rain were white wreaths of steam, clinging about the peaks of the highest hills, and floating in light clouds across the sea,

A

Two Men and a Maid.

Alice Chepstow was glad of the change; with the light-loving instinct of delicately nurtured damsels, she disliked damp weather. During that morning the sound of the rain, pattering persistently upon the slated roof of the half-empty church, had rendered her deaf to every word which her father said. How could she possibly think of the sermon, when her brain was so busy trying to settle the momentous question, whether, when the service was over, she should slip quietly into the vicarage, there to wait until the storm had ceased ; or, boldly facing the elements, walk straight down to the shore, and, taking shelter in some sequestered nook, enjoy there the two hours' conversation with her lover, which every Sunday morning was her due?

Alice was the one representative of her house at church that day. Her sister, the only other member of the family at the vicarage, — the eldest daughter, — upon whom the duties of the dead mother had devolved; who had to help her father in his parish work ; to look after the welfare of her younger sister, and take upon herself all the troubles of home, — toiled so hard during the week, that she sometimes remained at home merely to rest on Sunday.

But with Alice it was so different. During the week she had nothing whatever to do. To her the Sunday service was a kind of recreation to be looked forward to with pleasure, and enjoyed when it came. Ilegularly every Sunday, therefore, in answer to the ringing of the church bell, she started on her way, sat demurely in her pew during the service, and enjoyed a walk with her lover when the service came to an end.

Rumour, which never pauses before a pretty face, did

The Sea Sands — Lovers* Footprints. 3

not pass lightly by Alice Chepstow. It was averred, and pretty openly too, that there had been a time when Alice, although the clergyman's daughter, had been by no means a perfect devotee ; that during the time of her other lovers, she had been content to spend her Sundays in the vicarage garden too, or to roam along the silent sea-shore while the church bell was ringing or the villagers were at prayer. But times were different now, Richard Glamorgan had returned from his appointment in India with a fair amount of youth still left to him, and had asked Alice Chepstow to become his wife. And though the man was almost double her age, was not at all good-looking, and was of a very morose temper, she had accepted him and his fortune, and for some mysterious reason had rigorously espotised piety too. Of course the immediate cry was that, at the bidding of Richard Glamorgan, Alice Chepstow had ruthlessly broken with all her lovers, and, merely because he was the heir of Plas Ruthven, had gleefully consented to marry him. Of course the report reached the embryo husband's ears, and there the memory of it lingered longer than he cared to say.

When Alice had sat in church that morning, listening to the pattering of the rain, her lover had been beside her ; when she came out with the congregation he was before her, pushing the people to the right about, and leaving her path clear. When at length she gained the threshold, and stood eagerly drinking in the fresh breeze, he took her hand upon his arm, and the two walked away from the church and took the path which led towards

the sea.

How bright the day had grown after the heavy storms

Two Men and a Maid.

of rain ! The mist still clung about the hill-tops, and the grass and heather were still dank with dew, but the sun was shining its brightest, the larks were carolling overhead, and far away, out of the shelter of the Plas Ruthven woods, Alice could hear the faint cry of the cuckoo. The sky was of a bright azure blue, — cloudless, and throbbing with heat and light. The sea was like a mirror — not a ripple to be seen anywhere ; its glassy surface bright with reflected brightness from the sky.

" What a gorgeous day," said Alice quietly. " Now that the sun is shining, and everything looks so bright, it seems difficult to believe that very little more than an hour ago the rain was falling so heavily. I am afraid," she continued, running glibly on, "that during the service this morning I was dreadfully profane. I could not give my mind to the sermon ; every time the rain came down, I had a vision of you and myself sitting disconsolately in the vicarage, unable to talk and enjoy ourselves because of papa and Marion."

She paused, but got no answer. She was not surprised at this. Her companion was evidently in a dreamy mood, more eager to drink in the beauty and quietness of the surrounding scene than to descant upon it ; and Alice, falling in with his whim, walked silently along by his side. When they reached the shore, she took her seat upon the shingle, while her companion placed himself close by.

The tide had ebbed a little, just enough to leave uncovered a little strip of sand, still damp and darkened from the touch of the outgoing tide. Alice, who had seated herself close to the edge of the shingle, began to amuse herself by throwing shells and pebbles into the smooth sea. So interested did she become in this pastime, that

A Lovers' Quarrel. 5

she seemed to forget for the moment the very existence of her companion.

She was recalled to herself by the keen scrutiny of his eyes. They were fixed upon her with a look that startled her. For a moment she returned the look in amazed silence, then she opened her lips to speak. Before she could do so, her companion had bent forward and taken both her hands.

" Alice," he said quickly, " I wonder if you do love me % I wonder if you love me better than any living creature on this earth 1 "

For a moment Alice staved on ; then she sighed, as if relieved from a spell, and broke into a laugh.

" Do I love you 1 " she said. " Do I love you 1 If I did not, why then should I have said ' yes ' when you asked me to become your wife 1 "

Chapter II. A L O V Ers' Quarrel

"We quarrelled this morning, my lover and I, We were out of temper and scarce knew why, Though the cause was trivial — common."

"It is very strange," continued the girl, fixing her eyes earnestly upon her companion's face; "but during the last month you have asked me that question twelve times at least. Do I love you 1 I thought I had answered when I consented to marry you and to spend with you the remainder of my life."

Two Men and a Maid.

He smiled very grimly as he returned the girl's earnest look.

" You thought so," he said, " and yet, Alice, you have seen quite enough of life to know that nine girls out of ten marry for money, not love."

An indignant flush rose to the girl's cheek, but she answered quietly enough, —

"And you think it is for money, not love, that I am going to marry you % "

" I did not say so "

" No, you do not say so, but I had rather you did, than convey it to me as you do. You have not said you have no faith in my sincerity, my truth, my affection ; and yet at times I have seen this in your eyes as plainly as if it had been written there, and once or twice when I have seen this I have thought — "

"Well, Alice, what have you thought?"

" That — that — if your opinion of me is not likely to alter, our married life will not be a very happy one — and that perhaps it might be as well for us to part before it is too late."

She moved slightly from him as she spoke, and turned her face towards the sea.

" So we have come to the root of the matter at last," he said. " You really think it would be better for us to shake hands and say good-bye 1 "

Alice did not reply. She felt that already she had said too much. When she had uttered those words, she had done so with the view of making peace — not of uplifting between them a greater barrier than ever.

"When two peoplecome together without sufficient trust and without sufficient love," he continued, seeing that she

A Lovers' Quarrel.

remained silent, " parting is sure to come sooner or later, and perhaps, as you say, the early parting is the best."

He rose as he spoke, but the girl remained silent and speechless still. She had dropped her cheek upon her hand and her eyes were fixed upon the sea, but she saw nothing, for they were dim with tears.

Such scenes as these were common between Alice Chepstow and Richard Glamorgan, although their engagement was only two months old. Lovers' quarrels they called them at home, when, after some lonely walk, Alice returned looking sad and out of heart ; little episodes which came to ruffle the smooth course of love, like storms upon a summer sea. At first the girl herself had regarded them as necessary evils, and had consoled herself with the old adage, that " the course of true love never did run smooth," but since they had occurred so often, she had come to regard them more seriously, and to wonder if those storms were to continue in a more aggravated form after her marriage.

Did he love her 1 If so, why should he continually introduce cause for strife ? and if he did not, why had he asked her to become his wife 1 He was not marrying her for money, of that she felt very well assured ; for beyond the pin-money of fifty pounds a-year which her grandmother had left her, she had not a penny in the world. He did love her, there was no doubt of it ; and as Alice took this assurance to heart, she felt in a measure relieved.

" You are very unkind to me," she said, struggling to repress her tears. " It is I, not you, who ought to say, ' Do you care for me 1 ' "

" You think so, Alice \ "

Two Men and a Maid.

" I am sure of it. If I doubted you as you doubt me, you would never believe in my affection at all ! "

She had risen from her seat, and now stood before him with eager, outstretched hands. It was very peaceful all around them, with the sort of peace which is invariably brought by the shining of the mid-day sun. The cuckoo still told his name to the hills, the larks carolled overhead, and out at sea a flock of seagulls hovered, uttering faint far-away cries. These, and the monotonous washing of the water, were the only sounds to be heard.

" I did think," said Alice, biting her quivering lip, " that we should have had a pleasant walk to-day. When we were in church I felt miserable because it rained ; I wish now that it had continued to rain. I wish we had had to sit in the vicarage until nightfall. Anything would have been better than quarrelling like this ! "

" Whose fault is it that we quarrel 1 "

" Yours," returned Alice promptly. "You watch me about like a cat watching a mouse; and no matter wliut I do or say, I am sure to be wrong ! Richard, why can you not trust me 1 " she continued, after an impassioned pause, again turning towards him, and outstretching her trembling hands; "why will you not believe me, once and for all, and set those wicked doubts of yours at rest for ever 1 "

He stooped towards her, took her face in both his hands, and kissed her quivering lips.

"Alice, my darling," he said quietly, "you do not understand. It is my great love for you that makes me what I am. My life is yours to make or mar just as much as if you were one of the old Fates, and held the scales of my destiny in your little hand."

A Lovers' Quarrel.

" Is that so % " she said, raising her smiling eyes to his face ; " then your life will be a very happy one — so happy that you will wish you had trusted me from the very first ! "

She put her hand through his arm, and they walked away together ; Alice leaving a print of tiny footprints behind her — and several jagged marks from the end of her parasol. Now that she believed the storm was over, she was quite content, little dreaming that in less than half-an-hour she woxild be plunged into still greater disturbances than before.

" In order to punish you for your cruelty to me to-day," she said, looking up into the grave face which was just an inch above her, "I shall make you take me to-morrow over to Glen Ruthven. We will dip into the magic pool and see if we are to have any more quarrels. Shall we?"

He smiled down upon her.

" If you wish it, Alice, but I warn you that I am not superstitious, and that I have no faith in the fortune-telling powers of water or any other element. I hope you have none1!"

" "Well," returned Alice earnestly, " I do not know — certainly I never did believe the strange tales until I dipped into it with Philip Kingston, and — and — "

She paused, blushed painfully, then turned white and frightened. What had happened ? Nothing apparently. They were still walking amicably side by side, she looking up, he looking down, still with the same grave, quiet expression in his eyes. But though no change was apparent, Alice felt that the whole soul of her companion had suddenly arisen in tumult.

" Who is Philip Kingston 1 " he asked presently, seeing that she remained silent.

Alice turned away her head.

"Philip Kingston is Philip Kingston,' she replied, in as light a tone as she could assume. " He was brought up here, but he left about six months ago, and I hear he is studying in Rome ! "

" Why did he go away, Alice ? "

"I should imagine," returned the girl, gazing around her with a strange forced smile, " because he did not find his artistic talents sufficiently appreciated in the wilds of Wales."

Silence again. — not even the sound of the measured footsteps on the sand. The sun was shining more brightly than ever, but Alice felt quite cold and sick at heart.

" How chilly it is getting," she said presently; "this is a very changeable day ! "

" It is not cold, Alice. It is hotter than it has been all day, and the sun is shining upon you brightly enough to give you sunstroke. Put up your parasol ! "

The girl obeyed his orders, withdrawing her hand from his arm to do so. When the parasol was up — its handle resting upon her left shoulder, its lace wafting a refreshing breeze about her head and face — she summoned up sufficient courage to raise her eyes.

"Shall I shelter you? The sun is shining full upon your head ! "

" I have been in India, and am used to it ! "

Silence again. The two were walking apart by this time. Alice had not been asked to replace her hand upon her companion's arm, and she had not chosen

A Lovers' Quarrel. II

to do so without an invitation. Thus they walked on for fully ten minutes ; then the man spoke again.

" Yes."

" Did this man — this Mr Kingston — paint the portrait of you that hangs in your father's dining-room 1 "

"Yes."

" And did he not give you your dog ? "

"Yes."

"Anything else?"

" Yes, a ring, the one with the blue stones in it."

Silence again, broken this time by the girl.

" Philip Kingston was always very friendly with us," she said. " Are you angry that he should have given me those things ? "

" No ; it was natural. I have nothing whatever to say against him ! "

" Only against me ! You are very unjust. I could not help his caring for me ! "

" You could help telling me a lie about it."

" I have told you no lie ! " returned the girl, flashing up into real anger at last.

"Dissimulation is another name for lying. You intended to make me believe that you and this man were nothing to each other, whereas you were engaged to him, I suppose 1 "

" I was never engaged to Philip Kingston in my life," returned Alice quickly.

"Then why did you dabble your hands together in the Devil's Pool at Glen Ruthven 1 "

" He was very fond of me," quietly returned the girl, "and he wanted me to marry him, but I felt ]

could not care for him enough, and I told him so ; yet he urged me so much to try to like him, that at last I consented. I promised to think of no one but him for one month, and if at the end of the month I still felt I could not marry him, he said he would trouble me no more. I refused to be regularly engaged, but he pressed me to take the ring; so I did take it."

"Well?"

" We were a good deal together during that month. He took my portrait and gave me my dog Oscar. One day we all went a picnic to Glen Ruthven, and that was the day we dipped our hands in the basin for fun. A week from that day he asked me finally if I would marry him, and I said ' No.' I offered him back the ring and Oscar, but he would not take either. He said lie did not care for dogs, and as he was going away, and we might never meet again, would I do him the favour of wearing his ring."

" And you do wear it ! I have seen it on your finger."

" Yes, I have worn it ever since. It is only a memento of an old friend. If you wish it, I will take it off."

"You will do nothing of the kind," he said abruptly. "Good-bye."

Without another word or look he left her.

Chapter III. Peeps Into The Past

He left her standing before a little green gate, which was half smothered in a hawthorn hedge. Behind the hedge nestled the vicarage, Alice Chepstow's home. A cottage looking like a Swiss chalet, a rambling, uneven, three-cornered place, with every vestige of its wall hidden behind a profusion of ivy, and some strange wild creeping plant which bore bright red berries all the year round. Behind it the hills rose, and before it was expanded the open sea.

Alice did not look at either — her eyes were steadily fixed upon the man who was walking rapidly away. Would he turnl No — there was no sign of it. The head was resolutely set upon the shoulders ; the step was decided and very firm ; he moved steadily forward until he passed round a turn in the road and disappeared.

Alice watched, and as she did so she felt a lump rise in her throat which almost choked her, and all the prospect began to swim before her eyes. She felt impelled to call to him : had she done so her voice would not have reached him : it would have died away amidst the silence of the shore.

" Alice, do not linger. You are late already, dear — the dinner is almost served ! "

Alice did not look up : had she done so she would have seen her sister — who, having run iipstairs to prepare herself for dinner, had seen the lovers separate at the gate.

" Come in, child," continued Mai'ion Chepstow, leaning still further out of the window. " Solitary walks and loving speeches may be very satisfying, perhaps they are, but remember papa and I have had neither — we are very hungry, and the dinner is quite done ! "

"I am coming, Marion ! "

And Alice, her throat still swollen, her eyes still dim, turned, pushed open the gate, and passed through. She entered the house unperceived, ran quickly up to her room, and hastily casting off her hat, jacket, aDd gloves — stood irresolute at her door when the dinnerbell chimed loudly through the house. To Alice the sound was not welcome. She felt sick and dispirited, and she had much ado to keep the tears from her eyes. But she knew she must go down ; if she absented herself from the dinner- table, the cross- questionings of her father and sister would be sure to drag from her the account of that morning's adventure, and Alice had very strong reasons for wishing that it should not be brought to light. So she quietly descended the stairs and entered the dining-room, just as the last sound of the bell had ceased. Her father and sister had both taken their seats — without a word to either, she took hers.

It was very cool and refreshing here — much more so than it had been out on the sands or in the church that morning, and Alice, folding her delicate hands on the snowy cloth before her, and turning her face towards the window, felt that the peace and coolness of the room were already acting as a sedative to still her throbbing nerves. The window was thrown wide open, and the breeze, which was wafted down from the hill-tops, and crept into the room to touch the faces of those within, brought with it the sweet subtle scent of flowers. Though Alice had come down to join in the meal, she had not been able to trust herself to speak, but, save by her sister, her silence had not been observed. Mr Chepstow, noted in the village for his strange dreaminess and absence of mind, was thinking more of his sermon than the dinner or company ; but Marion, looking up quickly when her sister entered the room, saw the quivering lips, the heaving breast, the tear-dimmed, downcast eye. She checked the bantering words which were upon her tongue, and, turning to the table, proceeded to eat her dinner in silence. But when, the moment the last course was disposed of, Alice rose and made for the door, Marion also pushed back her chair as if she too were about to depart; at this Mr Chepstow awakened from his dream, and assuming that they were about to prepare to accompany him on his Sunday visiting, told them to hasten, in order that the first part of the walk might be accomplished while the sun was still high.

Alice paused, gazed over her father's head, with an appealing look at her sister, then hastily quitted the room.

" Alice has a headache, papa," said Marion, in explanation. " We shall have to wait a little," and, having seen to her father's comforts, she hurried upstairs to find out if possible the real cause of her sister's trouble.

She found Alice seated on her bedroom floor, her face buried in the white counterpane, her whole body convulsed with sobs. Marion knelt down beside her, stroked her hair, patted her head, and tried to soothe her into more tranquil sorrow,

16 Tzvo Men and a Maid.

" Alice, do not cry so ; tell me, dear, what is the meaning of all this 1 "

As soon as the violence of her grief had somewhat abated, Alice laid her head on her sister's shoulder, and cried quietly there.

" We have quarrelled again, Marion — that's all."

The elder girl buried her delicate fingers amidst the soft tresses of her sister's hair.

" The old story," she returned gently. " Alice, my pet, have you quarrelled for the last time 1 Have you really summoned up courage to-day to break off your engagement with Richard Glamorgan 1 "

Alice raised her head, passed her handkerchief over her burning cheeks, and gazed at her sister with wondering, tearful eyes.

" Broken off our engagement ! " she exclaimed. " No, Marion ; it's not quite so bad as that. He will be sure to come round in the end ; but indeed he is too hard upon me ! "

For a moment Marion sat silent ; she was disappointed, and, indeed, as angry as it was possible for her to be. Only another lovers' quarrel ! And she had hoped — earnestly hoped when she had looked that day upon her sister's pale face and quivering lips, that the engagement which had brought with it so much sorrow and very little gladness, had at length come to an end. In Marion's opin ion the engagement had been a mistake altogether. It wan incongruous, she thought, that Alice, who, all her life, had been the spoilt pet of every one, and who had received plenty of suitable offers of marriage, should at length fall to the share of a gloomy misanthrope — almost a misogynist, who loved her with the cruel earnestness of

Peeps into the Past. \J

a tiger, and seemed determined to wear her young life away in savage quarrels and disputes.

" Alice," she said quietly, " if you have not already broken with Richard, take my advice, and do so now. It will be a wrench at first, no doubt, for you have set your foolish little heart upon him so much ; but believe me, my darling, it will save you many years of weary sorrow. He is not the man for you, Alice ! if you marry him ; he will break your heart, and hurry you to an early grave."

Alice did not reply. She had replaced her head on her sister's shoulder, and was crying quietly again, holding her handkerchief over her mouth to stifle the sound of her broken hysterical sobs. Marion placed her arm around her sister's waist, and quietly spoke on, —

" You do not know Richard as I know him, Alice, or perhaps you would not love him quite so much. You were in France when he came home to spend a few weeks at Plas Ruthven before going to India ; but I was here, and I saw him very often indeed. They told strange stories about him in the village. Some said he was bi-utally unkind to dumb animals ; some, that he was kind, self-sacrificing, and good. I did not believe much in either, for I know what stories our villagers can tell ; but one day I had an opportunity of judging for myself. I was coming home from the village, when I suddenly came upon Richard walking with his dog along the shoulder of Glen Heather Hill. He was training the dog, and, as the afternoon was fine, and I was not in a hurry, I sat down on the heather to watch what was going on. Richard was a manly-looking young fellow in those days, Alice, — tall and straight as a dart, with a fine, handsome open face, and the loveliest black eyes I have ever seen. As I looked at him, I found myself disbelieving every one of the unpleasant stories I had heard. There was no vice in him, I said to myself, and all the stories I had heard were but malignant inventions to bring him into discredit amongst his own people. He was so fond of the dog, too, which gambolled at his side, fixing its gentle eyes upon him, and obeying every wave of Ids hand."