Mr. Arle

Front matter

*THE AUTHOR OF "CASTE"

BY

ROWLANDS' ARTICLES

CHAPTER I. ILDA STANTON lingered in her garden

gazing down upon the lake-gemmed Wynndale ;

watching how one-half of the placid water still mirrored the hues of a bright sunset — while the other, overshadowed by abruptly-rising hills, lay black and gleamless. When she at length stirred and turned — her cheek paled by the dullness of the evening, or by the thoughts that set so resolute a look on the young face — it was to raise her eyes towards the wavy ridge of moorland, behind which the crescent moon was about to drop. Every bush and tall tuft of heather on the undulating line was sharply defined against the clear sky — so was a human figure which moved to and fro along it. Hilda's dark eyes intently watched this solitary some one a while. The little moon disappeared ; the sky grew grey. When she again looked down upon the valley, twilight had settled down soberly ; the lake was a dark mass, dimly discernible ; white mists shrouded the village, and crept stealthily up the clefts of the hills.

In the garden the dew fell heavily : it was cold to-night, though the air was richly laden with the fragrance of summer flowers. Hilda shivered, drew her light shawl round her, and went towards the house.

Drawing near an open window, by which she meant to enter, the sound of voices reached her, and she quietly retreated. A last look towards the moor showed her that nothing moved along its edge now. After a moment's irresolute pause, she drew her shawl over her head, gipsey fashion, went through the shrubbery, out by a little gate into the lane.

She slowly followed the winding way for some distance, then drew back into the shadow of a group of firs in the hedge-row, and stood still.

The wind moaned through the crests of the old trees, hoarsely complaining, like a troubled sea on a wild shore — a music very familiar to the girl beneath — there was always some sound among those gaunt branches. Hilda had not waited here very long before she knew that some one was coming down the lane: footfalls were muffled by the fallen foliage of firs which thickly strewed the path, but Hilda's ears had caught these a long way off. A gentleman was passing the spot where she stood, walking slowly with downcast eyes ; but she stept out of the shadow and lightly touched his arm. He started, and turned almost an angry look on her.

" Did I frighten you, Hendon ? " she asked, somewhat surprised at the expression of his face.

" You certainly did, Hilda ; I did not expect to meet

Hilda Stanton. 3

you wandering out in such gipsey-guise — the evening is quite cold, and the dew heavy ! "

" And you have been on the moor for hours, sir ! — so do not lecture me — remember, I was always stronger than you."

" But it is not proper for a lady to be out alone, so late ; my sisters would not think of it," the young man said, in an irritated tone.

"I dare say not," Hilda answered, "but I am very different ; I never take cold, and my country heart is not afraid. But no disputing, if you please. I have something to say to you."

"I intended coming to your house, to-night," Mr. Meynard said, drawing her hand through his arm, and looking more gracious.

" Of course ; but some one was with papa — we might have been interrupted. I want to speak to you alone.'*

" What is it ? You are not angry ?"

" No ! But I should like to know one thing, Hendon ; was it only care for me that made you so little glad to see me ? "

" Little glad ! I assure you "

" Don't assure me of anything — I do not accuse you of anything. It was natural ! You had built some stately castle in the air, were inhabiting it grandly, when the touch of this too real and substantial hand made it vanish — dissolve, like ' the baseless fabric of a dream.' Was it not so ? " she asked, with a smile more sad than merry.

Mr. Meynard pressed the little hand upon his arm, asking —

" And do you suppose, Hilda, that you were absent from my thoughts ? "

As if trying to ward off his tenderness, she answered, lightly—

"I do not know ! You staid long alone this last evening. I suppose you were so well pleased with my shadowy presence, that you wanted no more."

Her companion looked vexed — " You are unkind," he said.

" Am I ? " was asked, softly.

" Yes ; I must remind you that this is our last meeting for long. Think how many times we have walked here together, dear Hilda, can't you fancy these old trees know us ? "

She was silent, and, in the gathering dusk, he could not see her face distinctly, he went on —

" It was when we were walking through this lane once, soon after our engagement, and my father's death, that you spoke words that first kindled ambition in me. Some very different speech of my mother's, lately, since we lost poor Hartley, recalled them. Do you remember when I mean ? We spent a long day on the moor, and your father joined us in the evening, and we had much grave talk about life, and "

" No more reminiscences, pray ! " Hilda interrupted, hurriedly ; " I tried then to do a woman's work, to rouse a man to brave endeavour, but I failed. Circumstances have changed your position ; perhaps, npw, you might find your work near you, where Hartley found his. No matter ! But do you remember the spirit of my father's words ? — is your present ambition at all in accordance with it ? "

" You may still be my councillor, Hilda, you will be,"

Hilda Stanton. 5

" No ; one girl's voice won't avail if it is raised against the world's ; besides, I am ignorant, and, your mother thinks, romantic ; if I retained my influence, I might only confuse you by my ' unpractical ' way of judging of things and people. And," she added, "I am already tired of struggling against things stronger than myself; the struggle must cease. Only, dear Hendon, be true to yourself as a man, a Christian, and all may still be well for you ! "

" What do you mean, Hilda ? do you doubt my love, my constancy, my "

" It is not that ; that won't signify ; at least — I mean — I am a coward ; but I must speak now, and you must please to listen patiently."

Her voice trembled, so did the hand upon his arm.

" Hilda ! "

" Remember that I do not speak in anger, from caprice, or jealousy ; but in very sober seriousness. Since we were first engaged, your position has altered very much, Hendon."

" You cannot think me so mean, so base, so "

" Hush, pray ! Your father loved me, your mother does not ; even when you were ' a younger son,' she thought you were throwing yourself away. I do not complain ; it is natural that she should be ambitious for you. I will not stand between you. Our engagement must end now. Be quiet a moment more, you have not heard all. It is not only your position that has altered ; we have both noticed a change in papa. You spoke to me of it when you were here last, and I then evaded your questions, I knew what must come, though I refused to believe ic. He has talked to me— led me on, step by step, with him — made me feel that what is very r,ard is only right ; he has decided upon leaving Wynndale and the church ; nothing more about the future yet ; he may, if his health improves, become minister to some body of dissenters."

" Mr. Stanton ! Absurd ! You must have mistaken, Hilda. A gentleman in his position, he will not so disgrace himself ! "

Hilda withdrew her hand from Mr. Meynard's arm. "Disgrace ! " she repeated, slowly; "I did not expect to hear that word applied to my father first by you."

" It cannot be true ! " he went on without heeding her words; "yet, if it were — but it shall not be — it has nothing to do with us — with what you said before."

" Will Mrs. Meynard think so ? Didn't you speak of disgrace ? We shall be poor when papa gives up this living. My father is not strong — suppose I am obliged to work in some way — suppose it comes to the knowledge of ' the world,' that Hendon Meynard, of Wynndale Hall, is engaged to a daily governess, or something of that kind?"

Mr. Meynard, not knowing exactly how to meet these overwhelming revelations, grew angry.

" I see how it is, Hilda ! " he exclaimed. " You are tired of me ; I am not clever enough for you ; you are glad of this excuse for breaking our engagement ! "

" It is cruel and cowardly of you to say so. But do not let us quarrel," she added, sweetly; "It will be a bitter aggravation of pain, by-and-bye, to remember angry words exchanged to-night. You ought to feel

Hilda Stanton. 7

that I am doing what I believe to be right, at great cost ; and, at least, you should not insult me, Hendon."

He had not tried to replace the hand she had withdrawn, and he walked on in silence. Hilda, longing for a few kind words, waited instead — a storm she knew would come. They reached her home — leaning one hand on the gate, she held the other out to her companion. He took it, grasped it passionately.

" Do you think we part so — you cold, proud girl ? " he asked. "You think me fickle and worldly — think it accordant with your dignity to break an engagement you imagine cannot last long. I hold you mine still. My curse on any who comes between us ! Take heed that you are ready when I claim you."

So saying he threw away the hand he had crushed in his, and turned from the house.

Hilda stood where he left her. Her first movement was to raise the hand he had so roughly used to her lips, to kiss it, where she still felt the clutch of angry fingers. He had been her child-love, her girl-love, if she had grown to an intellectual stature, to which he would never attain, the growth had been unconscious ; the drapery of her love shrouded his faults from her view.

Going into the house, to her father's study, Hilda found it empty: she threw herself wearily into his chair — resting an arm on the table, pillowing her cheek on it. The light of a lamp fell full upon the beautiful bowed head and on one pale cheek ; while the oaken furniture and crimson draperies of the fine old room remained iu shadow.

Sitting so, in a profound quiet, Hilda tried to realize what it was she had done : — she felt desolate, chilled to the heart — and yet she had thought it would be worse. Did she, remembering his last words, allow herself to hope ?

After a while she raised her head, and a strange light was shining in her eyes — a stern resolution set upon her mouth. Just then the door was pushed open, and a dark young head looked in. Seeing Hilda, the boy came up to the table, looked inquiringly into her face, and said — " What is the matter ? What makes you so pale ? "

" I am tired, dear — but how is it you are up still ? "

" I wanted papa ; some one was here, and I've been waiting."

"And now he is gone out, I think. What did you want ? "

" Oh ! only to talk to papa a little as we do talk, he and I. You will do almost as well."

Hilda drew him near her, put her arm around him and rested her cheek on his head.

" What did you want to talk about, Ernest ? "

"You shouldn't ask that — papa doesn't, but lets me come to it in my own way — but I'll tell you. I've been saying over to myself, without knowing hardly, ' the noble army of martyrs praise Thee.' I want to know more about martyrs."

Hilda lifted up her head quickly, the quenched light rekindled in her eyes, but she did not speak till the boy said —

" Tell me something about them."

" ' The noble army of martyrs — ' " Hilda repeated

Hilda Stanton. 9

slowly. " But, Ernest, you know well what martyrs are, you have read all about the early martyrs."

" I want to know more about how people can become martyrs now."

"Anybody who steadfastly does what he believes right, spite of scorn, or suffering, or pain of any kind — who suffers for well-doing, may be called a martyr."

" ' Suffers for well-doing ! ' and I only suffer for illdoing ! That puzzles and troubles me. It would be very grand and great to belong to the noble army. I do not see how I can."

"Why not?"

" People don't suffer for doing right now. If Christ came now He would be loved and honoured, and no one would be able to die for Him ! "

Hilda shook her head. " We must be humble," she said, "not ready to think ourselves better than people used to be. Do you think, child, you or I, could suffer what those early Christian martyrs did ? Don't we sicken and shudder reading of those things ? But never mind ! God gives us strength as he sends need. There are martyrs, now-a-days, Ernest ; you may haply enter the army, it grows larger always — people are not punished now for calling themselves Christians — but they often suffer for being Christians. Ask papa some day if this is not true. The martyrdom of life is often harder than that of death — it may be easier to make one terrible, decisive choice, than to have, all one's life, to be continually choosing afresh between Christ and the world."

" Could you be such a martyr, Hilda ? "

" I do net know — you and I are young and know very io Mr. Arte.

little about real things-— papa can tell you a great deal more about the kind of battling the soldiers of the noble army have to do."

" You don't mind talking about it ? " " No ! it will do us good to think of this army — to remember that day by day God calls strong souls and true to join it, and may call us — only, we must be very humble and diffident of our own strength.''

" Do you remember that, before I settled to bo a painter, I used to say I would be a soldier — I may be both ! "

" A soldier of the noblest and best kind — a soldier of the cross — battling with evil, within and without, and bearing hurt patiently. You need not wait to be a man, before you practise yourself in this warfare." "It is difficult to know how to begin." " There doesn't seem anything grand in little conquests, does there ? But there is something good. Goodness is the only real greatness. Ernest ! you must grow up a good man — I long for the time ! But, now, good night. If we talk any more, those great bright eyes will never close."

But there was a little more talk ; and then Ernest went, and Hilda listened to his somewhat slow step on the echoing stair, to the closing of a heavy door, then to the quiet that fell.

If the musing into which she sunk was sombre-hued, that was unusual ; for her ignorant thoughts of life had hitherto always been warmly tinted by a glowing imagination.

The striking of a clock made her remember how late

Hilda Stanton. Ji

it was, and that her father had not returned. On enquiry, the found that he had been sent for to a neighbouring village, and had left word that she should not sit up.

She obeyed, because she was very weary, and her father's eyes would ask questions she would rather answer in the morning. According to nightly custom, she went to look at Ernest ; he was asleep ; shading the light from him, she stood beside him longer than usual. It was a very dark face laid upon the white pillow, not beautiful with any mere physical beauty now the fine eyes were shut ; but she could read subtle, suggestive promise in its every line. The boy stirred, and muttered something in his sleep ; Hilda heard her own name as she bent over him.

How much easier we find it to say for thy sake, with fervent sincerity, to a fellow-mortal, than to say those same words in like manner to God ! Hilda's eyes beamed with infinite tenderness, as she murmured that she could sacrifice all for that boy's sake and her father's. It is well that we may believe that when Christ tells us he accepts, as offered to himself, the cup of cold water given to one of his little ones, he teaches us that God accepts, as proofs of love to Him, deeds of self-sacrifice for our fellowrmortals, His children !

tesSi^MMil

CHAPTER IL

R. MEYNARD'S was a long homeward walk ; he chose the longer of the two ways — perhaps wishing to delay meeting his mother's eyes. When he left Hilda, he went down the lane, through the scattered village, along the road that wound circuitously by the side of the lake ; then crossing a rustic bridge over the mouth of a little river, he sauntered slowly through his own fields, the only hay-fields for miles round.

The night was passing fair ; the fragrance of the newmown hay went as " incense o'er the land ; " profound quiet reigned ; the murmer of the stream was the voice of the silence.

Nature laid her cool, kind hand on Mr. Meynard's brow and heart ; he grew calmer ; his thoughts of Hilda became more just and gentle. His face had assumed its best expression when he reached the Hall — of course, homeinfluences would soothe him yet more.

There was an air of confusion about the house, even the lawn before the drawing-room windows was littered

Mr. MeyuarcP s~ Resolution. 13

with straw and packing cases : the large room Mr. Meynard entered looked cheerless, pictures were gone from the walls, all its usual ornaments had disappeared. A lady set at a table, upon which the one lamp stood, looking over papers ; she glanced up sharply as Mr. Meynard came in, but resumed her occupation without speaking.

The young man threw himself into a chair, sat listlessly watching his mother's quick movements, all repose passing from his face. Tiring of his first position, and of the unbroken silence, he went to the window and complained of the heat.

" I find it quite cold," Mrs. Meynard remarked, with a shiver.

" Are you ever warm — too warm ? " Mr. Meynard asked.

He turned, paced the room, finally stretched himself upon a sofa.

" You seem restless, to-night," his mother observed.

Mr. Meynard shifted his head on the pillow, but made no reply.- The lady covertly watched him, as she pursued her employment. Mother and son were wonderfully alike. The gentleman's profile was sharply relieved by a dark curtain behind him ; his brown hair, neither dark, nor bright, pushed back, showed a white, delicately-cut, but somewhat contracted brow ; all his features were small, and of a womanly refinement of detail, yet there was no softness about his face ; the eyes, light and large, lacked depth ; it was hard to read the expression of the mouth ; a curious mingling of haughty consciousness, and of weak distrust, kept it ever changing. It was altogether a provoking face ; wanting an impalpable something which might have given it a saintly kind of beauty.

Mrs. Meynard's features were rather more marked thai} her son's, but as justly chiselled ; they seemed to have, frozen, when wearing their least pleasing aspect, never to have known more than a surface thawing since.

Mr. Meynard was not long left in such peace as his own thoughts allowed him. A dark, handsome girl came through the folding-doors from an adjoining room where she had been " sorting " music. Rising hastily, she had thrown some books from her lap to the floor, making no slight noise ; she entered the room with anything hut the quietness of a conventional young lady; and the quick blood flew to her cheek as Mrs. Meynard icily reproved her.

She went up to her brother's sofa, stood looking at him with an air of half-sarcastic pity, then said — ■

" Well, Hendon, you might find something better to dp, than to lounge on that sofa and look interesting, considering that you have been enjoying yourself while we have been working ourselves to death ; but, perhaps, you are tired, poor old fellow ! " she added, kindly, " and not merry, I dare say."

" Do not talk so loud, Anna ; you had better resume your occupation, it is late," Mrs. Meynard said.

But her son caught the girl's hand and drew her down to him saying,

" Rattle away, Anna ! it is quite rousing to have you among us — I am sure you don't stand in need of any assistance, though, you have energy enough for us both."

" But I hated having to stay in the house to-night. If you won't come and help me now I'll tell Hilda, to-

Mr. Meynard 1 s Resolution. 15

morrow, how disobliging you were when you came home —-perhaps she has been scolding you."

" For my part," interposed a tall girl, with " a clear and cold-cut face," who came gliding in, "• I think Miss Stanton does that pretty frequently : no doubt, thinking herself more competent to form Hendon's mind and manners than his own mother and sisters are."

" Even if she does think so — but I am sure she doesn't," Anna began with a tone and look of defiance, but she paused and then added, more temperately, " I only mean

that Hilda is a perfect lady — that she is as fit "

another pause.

" I don't know, of course, what your idea of a lady may be," Miss Meynard returned, with languid scorn, " I own she is well enough for a country parson's daughter. She has a temper of her own, though, I fancy, in spite of her gentle manners ; I have seen a queer look in her eyes sometimes. Well ! I hope poor Hendon won't find it to his cost some day 1 " she added, with an elaborate sigh.

" What do you mean by speaking so, Amelia ? " her pister exclaimed indignantly. " You lose no opportunity of talking slightingly of Hilda, and of pretending to pity Hendon, as if he were some poor boy entrapped by a designing woman."

" Such may be more the case than you imagine," the elder girl replied, calmly, adjusting her hair at the glass. " Hendon was very young when the engagement was formed ; I have always heard Miss Stanton spoken of as old for her years and as possessing great strength of character ! "

" Girls ! no more of this," Mrs. Meynard interposed,

" remember that your brother is present ; however much you may naturally regret his entanglement, Amelia, you must speak of Miss Stanton with respect."

" Of course, mamma, but Anna is too provoking ; she makes a heroine — a piece of perfection — of Miss Stanton. It is absurd ! "

Amelia, seating herself, took up a book ; but Anna could not let the matter rest there.

"Mamma reminds us of a fact that Hendon seems strangely to have forgotten," she said, flashing a glance towards the sofa, " that he is present. If I were a man, would I lie quiet to hear the woman I hoped to call my wife spoken of so ? "

" Keep your Irish eloquence for a more fitting opportunity of display, Anna," Mrs. Meynard said ; but her son sprang up, exclaiming —

" Anna is quite right — Amelia, you are intolerable — you provoke me to tell you what I meant to keep to myself — the noble girl of whom you, a worldly woman, dare speak slightingly, has done her part towards breaking off our engagement. How much your conduct towards her, mother, and yours, my sweet sister, may have influenced her decision, I cannot tell."

Mrs. Meynard dropped the papers she held ; a most unwonted flush came into her face ; it quickly passed, and she said, in her unmoved tone —

" You know, Hendon, that I never approved your choice, but I have always treated Hilda with respect and consideration."

" Poor warm-hearted Hilda ! " Anna muttered.

" Miss Stanton has broken off the engagement 1 " Amelia

Mr. Meynard? s Resolution. 1 7

said, incredulously. "If it is anything more than a ruse, to redouble your ardour "

" What reason does she give ? " the mother asked.

Mr. Meynard repeated what he thought fit of his conversation with Hilda, not heeding sundry characteristic comments.

" Miss Stanton may at last turn her talents to profit as a governess, — or an authoress," Amelia suggested.

" You must now see, Hendon, the absolute necessity of this unfortunate connection being at an end ; of course, you accepted the freedom so properly offered you," Mrs. Meynard said.

Anna looked at her brother ; her full upper lip curling disdainfully. He stood leaning both hands on the table, smiling slightly, his eyes fixed on his mother's face, his slight frame shaken by emotion —

" You are much mistaken in me, Mrs. Meynard," he returned. "I do not intend releasing Hilda from her promise to be my wife. I have told her so."

Anna took his hand and looked up at him proudly, Mrs. Meynard and Amelia, remained politicly silent, the latter wearing a significant sn:er on her mouth; her brother turned to her and said, with a tone of quiet authority —

"I require of you, Amelia, that, for the future, you speak courteously of Miss Stanton, at least, in my presence."

Miss Meynard, irritated by this peremptory tone in a younger brother, rose, and made a sweeping curtsey, saying —

" You think this all very grand and heroic, I daresay ;

it is quite too much so for my simple understanding. I shall wish you goodnight."

With another curtsey, Miss Meynard left the room.

Anna followed before long, after having given her brother a hearty embrace.

Mrs. Meynard continued her occupation, preserving an unbroken silence.

" How much Anna resembles my father," Mr. Meynard said, after a long pacing of the room. " It is strange that Anna and poor Hartley, the youngest and eldest, should be so different from the rest of us."

This remark, elicited no answer. Mrs. Meynard's mouth was a trifle more firmly compressed, her movements were a little more sharp and jerking.

At last, she had apparently finished the task she had set herself. She shut her desk, making the lock click noisily ; then, folding her hands resolutely, settling them on the table before her, she spoke —

" Be so kind as to give me your attention for a few moments. Hendon, take that seat," pointing to one opposite her own, as Mr. Meynard obeyed ; an old feeling of powerlessness before those cold eyes came over him as he did so, but he struggled against it.

By a few cleverly put questions, his mother obtained all further information she wished as to what had passed between him and Hilda.

" You parted in anger, it seems, then ? " she concluded.

" I was angry," Mr. Meynard, replied — " she was caltti and queenly, and "

" No raptures, if you please," Mrs. Meynard interrupted. " Now I know all the circumstances, I shall be able to advise you."

Mr. MeynaWs Resolution. 19

"Thank you, but I dd not need advice," the young man said, rising hastily. " My mind is made up-^HCtiy feourse of duty clear."

" Do hot deceive yourself by talking about duty— felling cowardice and self-indulgence by that name," his mother said, scornfully.

u Mother ! " Mr. Meynard exclaimed, resuming his seat and speaking earnestly, " you strangely forget some things ! Was it not almost the last request of my dead father that you would be a mother to her ? "