The heir of Charlton : a novel

Front matter

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POPULAR NOVELS.

By May Agnes Fleming.

Part First. Chapter Page

I. — Shaddeck Light . 7

II. — Charlton Place . 15

III. — A Fairy Tale . 21

IV. — A Man’s Letter . 27

V. — Before Breakfast . 34

VI. — After Breakfast . 44

VII. — In the Cool of the Evening . 55

VIII. — By the Light of the Moon . 66

IX. — How the Game was Made . . . 76

X. — The End of the Fairy Tale . 85

XI. — Shaddeck Light . 104

XII. — An Evening at Shaddeck Light . 115

XIII. — A Night at Shaddeck Light . 123

XIV. — A Morning at Shaddeck Light . 13 1

XV. — Captain Dick’s Wooing . 139

XVI. — How Dora Does It . 148

XVII.— A Girl’s Letter . 157

XVIII. — The Days Before . 167

XIX. — Captain Dick’s Wedding . 182

XX. — Post-Nuptial . 194

XXI.— “ The Girl I Left behind Me.” . 206

XXII. — “When Day is Done.” . 217

VI

CONTENTS, .

Part Second. Chapter Pag8

II. — A Look Behind . 234

III. — “ Love Took up the Glass of Time.” . 242

IV. — At Dawn of Day . 258

V. — A Summer Afternoon . 270

VI. — A Summer Night . 282

VII.— “ We Fell Out, My Wife and I.” . 295

VIII. — “ O, We Fell Out, I Know not Why.” . 305

IX. — Charlton Place . 311

X. — Husband and Wife . 325

XI. — A Cry in the Night . 339

XII. — In the Dead Hand . 350

XIII. — In the Dark Hour . 363

XIV. — Tracked . 374

XV. — Trapped . 383

XVI. — Shaddeck Light . 391

THE HEIR OF CHARLTON,

21 Story of Sljrtiiiicck Cigljt.

Part I

“ She is too low for a high praise, too brown for a fair praise, and too little for a great praise ; only this commendation I can afford her — that were she other than she is, she were unhandsome.” — Much Ado about Nothing.

Chapter I. Shaddeck Light

T is very hot even for a July afternoon, and he has walked — if his lazy, graceful saunter can be called walking — fully two miles ; so, coming upon a green spot, he throws himself down in the warm, sea-scented grass, pulls his hat over his eyes, and prepares to think it out. It is a good place for introspection ; not a living thing any¬ where, except now and then, a whirring seagull. At his feet a long stretch of silver-gray shore and sand dunes, beyond, until lost in the sky line, blue, limpid, lovely, sunlit, treacher¬ ous, the sea.

“ She won’t like it, that is a certainty to begin with ; ” so run his musings. “ And if her mother finds it out, she will raise the devil. She is a personal friend of his infernal ma¬ jesty, and raising him is the principal amusement of her life. I suppose it is in accordance with the eternal fitness of

SHADDECK LIGHT.

things, that the more charming a girl is, the more utterly detestable her mother must be.”

He raises himself to shy a pebble at a sand-martin, hop¬ ping near. He is a slender, well-dressed, well-looking young fellow, blonde as to hair and complexion, and wearing, quite honestly and naturally, the listless look of a man bored habitu¬ ally by this wicked world, and the people in it.

“ Let us see what she says.” He pulls out a letter, after some search — a lady’s letter, long, crossed, and in the usual angular hand. “ ‘We leave on Tuesday next for the North,’ yes, yes. ‘ Mother is delighted ; ’ of course she is, mercenary old screw. ‘ Mr. Charlton speaks of his son, step-son rather,’ hang Mr. Charlton’s step-son. ‘ You must on no account fol¬ low me here.’ Oh, but that’s precious nonsense, you know, and after eight months’ separation, and St. Ann’s not three hours’ ride from New York, and as good a place as any other to kill — ” a great yawn cuts short the soliloquy, and exhausted by so much mental effort, the thinker closes his eyes, and, lulled by the warmth and the wash of the tide, lapses into gentle slumber.

He sleeps about half an hour, then he opens his eyes and looks about him. Presently his drowsy glance changes to a stare ; he sits suddenly erect, struck by a peculiarity in the view.

During his brief “forty winks,” a little island, about half a mile off, has changed as if by magic into a peninsula. No magic has been at work, however ; the tide is on the ebb, and has dropped away from the rocky bar that connects it with the shore. On the small island stands a small house, and how the house comes to be there would surprise him a little if it were not too warm to wonder about anything. He half rises, with the momentary intention of testing the solidity of this new path which has risen like Aphrodite out of the ocean. But it is still sultry, and the sea-weed will probably wet his feet, and it is not worth while ; so he

SHADDECK LIGHT.

yawns again, and settles back on the grass. Come to think of it, how few things are worth while in this world. Even this trip of his down from the mountains, although the mountains in themselves are a delusion and a weariness — is it not a mistake ? It will be pleasant to see his fair corre¬ spondent, doubly pleasant to outwit her mother, trebly pleas¬ ant to do something clandestine and wrong ; but, after all -

The door of the small house on the islet opens, and a figure comes slipping and shambling over the rocks. He breaks off his train of thought to watch, with the same listless glance his handsome blue eyes casts upon everything, this ungainly new comer. He draws nearer and stands disclosed — a long, lank, tow-headed, ill-favored, half-witted hobbledehoy. He stares stolidly for a moment out of a pair of “ boiled eyes ” at the gracefully indolent figure on the grass, then is shuffling on his way, when he finds himself accosted.

“ I say ! stop a moment. What do you call that ? ” He nods lazily towards the solitary cottage on the rocks, without moving. “ It has a name, I suppose, and a use. What may they be ? ”

“That air,” the lean youth responds in a nasal drawl, “that air is Shaddeck Light.”

“ What ? ”

“ Shaddeck Light. Can’t ye hear, mister ? ”

“ Do you mean it is a light-house — that you live there and keep it ? ”

He has no particular object in putting these questions beyond the one object of his life, to kill his great enemy, time.

“ Mostly, boss ; me an’ the cap’n, when he’s to hum.”

“ Who is the captain ? ”

A light comes into the dull eyes, a flash of intelligence into the stolid face.

“ Reckon you’re a stranger reound here, mister, or you

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IO

SHADDECK LIGHT.

wouldn’t ask that. Captain Dick, I guess there ain’t many folks reound Shaddeck Bay don’t know Cap’n Dick Ffrench.”

Up to this point the questions have been asked with lan¬ guid indifference. But as this name is uttered the young man sits erect, and his blue eyes kindle into swift eager in¬ terest.

“ Ffrench ?” he repeats, sharply — “ Captain Ffrench ? — son and heir of Mr. Robert Charlton ? ”

“ Wall, I reckon, mister, that’s abeout it.”

The interrogator pushes up his wide-awake, and takes a long stare at his companion.

“And you — you’re Mr. Richard Ffrench, otherwise Cap¬ tain Dick’s factotum, I suppose ? Like master, like man. Is Captain Dick there now, and at home to callers ? ”

He does not wait for an answer, but rises to his feet, flings some loose change to the lank lad, and starts at once for the bar.

“ Durned if he ain’t goin,’ ” the youth remarks. “ Won’t he spoil them swell boots though ! City chap with store clothes. I see him yes’day a loafin’ reound the hotel.”

He picks up the pennies — the backsheesh is by no means princely — and plods along towards the town.

The shiny boots have reached the bar and pick their way lightly and carefully over sand, and sea-weed, and slippery rock. It requires some care to avoid stumbles and wet feet ; but he does both, and stands, at the end of fifteen minutes, on the grassy slope of the little islet, upon which the small gray house perches solitary and wind-beaten, a mark for blistering summer suns, and beating wintry rains. It possesses two windows like port-holes, and a door ; all three hospitably open to the cool and fresh sea-breeze. On the threshold he pauses. He sees a small room, the board floor scrubbed to spotless white, the walls glittering with whitewash, two or three easy-chairs, a comfortable-looking

SHADDECK LIGHT.

II lounge, a table littered with books, maps, manuscripts, news¬ papers, pens, pencils, and bristol-board, and sitting among the literary chaos, his back to the door, reading and smok¬ ing, a man.

“ If that is you, Daddy,” he says without turning round, “ I will break your neck if you come in.”

“It isn’t Daddy,” answers a quiet voice. “I suspect I waylaid Daddy about twenty minutes ago, and wrung from him the information that the master of this hermitage was at home. Idleness — the parent of all evil — suggested I should come. I have the pleasure, I think, of apologizing to Cap¬ tain Dick.”

He takes off his hat, and still with his afternoon languor upon him, leans against the door-post. The strong salt sea-wind stirs his fair hair which he wears rather long, a strong , contrast in that respect to the gentleman he addresses, who is cropped within an inch of his well-shaped head. Indeed they are a contrast in other respects, for “ Captain Dick,” turning squarely round in surprise, rises, takes out his pipe, and stands, a tall, broad-shouldered, sunburned young man, with a pair of fine gray eyes, under black, resolute brows, mind and muscle, brain and body, evidently equally well developed — quite unlike the slender, elegant, city stamped individual he confronts.

“ Perhaps I ought to have sent my card by Daddy, with a request for permission, as one does when one visits a show place abroad,” suggests the stranger, plaintively. “ I really fear I intrude. You were reading, 1 perceive. I am Ernest Dane, trying to kill the dog-days, down here by the sad sea waves, and finding it consumedly slow. Most things are consumedly slow, if you observe. Don’t let me interrupt ; it isn’t worth while. Being an inveterately lazy dog myself, I have the profoundest admiration for industry in others. We will meet again, I daresay. I stop at the St. Ann’s. Until then ! ”

SHADDECK LIGHT.

He replaces his panama and is turning to go, but Captain Dick interferes.

“ No, no ; ” he says, laughing. (l Visitors are rare birds in my rock-bound retreat, and to be treated as such. There is no hurry as far as the tide is concerned, and, like the tide, my industry is on the ebb. May I offer you a cigar ? ”

“Thanks, no ; I don’t smoke. Curious little den this of yours, but a capital place for hard cramming, I should say. You have rather the look of a hard thinker, by the by. Never think myself, if I can help it — one of my fixed prin¬ ciples. Wears a man out, I find, and there’s nothing in life worth wearing out about. Do you mean to say you live here ? ”

“Not exactly, but most of my days, off and on, I spend in this shanty when I am down in these parts.”

“ Ah ! not your nights, then. That must be a relief to your anxious relatives.”

“ My nights, as often as not, I spend drifting about the bay with my friends the fisher-folk ; ” responds the captain, good-humoredly. “ I am an amphibious animal, I suppose ; I thrive best in salt water.”

Mr. Ernest Dane regards him with languid interest.

“ Your days in study — Spanish, I perceive — and your nights in fishing. You never sleep if you can help it, I pre¬ sume. But don’t you find the everlasting swish-swash of the sea, down there in the rocks, rather maddening ? ‘ What

are the wild waves saying ? ’ and so on, something of a draw¬ back to close application ? ”

“ I never hear it,” answers Captain Ffrench. “ With my pipe and my traps here, and my solitude, you behold in me, Mr. Dane, that rara avis, a perfectly happy man.”

He stoops to gather up a quantity of papers and memo¬ randa that have fallen, and replaces them with care. Order enters largely into the phrenological development of the student of Spanish, as may be noted by the perfect neatness

SHADDECK LIGHT.

of everything in the bare little room. As he assorts his papers, his visitor rises and crosses suddenly to the chimney-piece, over which hangs the only picture on the walls. It is unframed ; a head in colored chalks — a woman’s head, of course ; a low-browed, fair-faced, serene-eyed, smilingmouthed woman ; and underneath, in pencil, “ Mademoiselle - , New Orleans, May — , 1861.”

Mr. Dane produces an eye-glass — his handsome blue eyes are short-sighted — and looks at this picture. Then he turns and looks at Captain Dick, a look so keen, so suspicious, so swift, so full of fire, that for one second it alters his whole expression. For one second only — when the other glances up from his manuscripts, the habitually negligent and indif¬ ferent air returns.

“ A pretty face,” he says, lightly. “ You add artistic ten¬ dencies to your other virtues, I perceive. I don’t know, of course, but it strikes me I have seen a face very like that somewhere.”

“ Very likely. I have a portfolio about in some corner, if you care for that sort of thing. Do you sketch ? There are some rather good views here and there in the vicinity of St. Ann’s and Shaddeck Bay.”

“ My dear fellow, I do nothing — nothing — absolutely and utterly nothing. I am ashamed of myself. I can recollect no time in which I was not ashamed of myself. I have suf¬ fered from chronic remorse for my laziness ever since I had a conscience. But all the same, I never reform. I don’t suppose I ever shall. I don’t sketch, I don’t read, I don’t smoke ; I have no aims, no mission, no sphere. The world goes round and I go round with it. I drift with the tide, and am bound to no port. And, apropos of tides, the tide of our affairs will soon be the flood again, and our peninsula once more an island. So I think I’ll make off. I see you have no boat here, so I conclude it is nothing unusual for you to be oceanbound.”

SHADDECK LIGHT.

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“ A boat is one of the necessities of my existence,” Cap¬ tain Dick says. “ If you are going, I believe I will go also, I am due at the house before six.”

“ Meaning by the house, the residence of the Honorable Robert Charlton ? ”

“ Ah ! you know. Yes, Mr. Charlton is my step-father ; and, by the way, as he is the soul of hospitality, I think I may tender you an invitation in his name. You must find time hang rather heavily, I should say. at St. Ann’s.”

Yes, Mr. Dane admits with a gentle sigh. To find time hang heavily is, he regrets to say, one of the fixed conditions of his existence. It is the penalty, he supposes, life exacts from perfectly idle men. Very many thanks for Captain Dick’s friendly offer, which at some future day, he hopes to avail himself of. Then he lifts his hat and turns towards St. Ann’s while Captain Dick, whistling as he goes, gets over the ground with long strides, in a directly opposite course.

The sun is setting. The sea lies smooth and sparkling below, the sky spreads yellow, fleecy, rose-flushed above, the fields swell green and golden far away, the beach stretches white and glistening near.

Mr. Ernest Dane turns and watches his late companion out of sight, a stalwart, strong figure, clearly outlined against the western red light, with something unmistakably military in the square shoulders and upright poise of the head, some¬ thing bright and breezy in air, and eye, and frankly ringing voice, something resolute and decided in the very echo of the firm, quick footsteps. Mr. Dane’s face darkens, as he watches, and his handsome, bored, blonde countenance set¬ tles for a moment into as darkly earnest an expression as though he were a man with a purpose in life which that other man had crossed. It is but a moment. He turns away with a slight, contemptuous shrug, just as the tall captain wheels round a bend in the white road, and disappears.

CHARLTON PLACE.

Chapter II. Charlton Place

HE is a handsome girl, and yet at first sight there are people who do not think so. It is the sort of face that owes nothing to bright coloiing of hair or complexion, little to dress, and less to ornament. The hair is pale brown, absolutely without a tinge of warmer tint, either gold or russet, the complexion, clear and health¬ ful, is colorless ; the eyes like a fawn’s, soft, thoughtful, peculiarly gentle ; the mouth at once firm and sweet, the profile nearly perfect. Above middle height, with a figure well rounded and flexible, hands long, tapering, beautiful ; dressed in black silk by no means new, but well-fitting, a touch of fine lace, and a coral pin at the throat — that is Elea¬ nor Charlton.

She stands at the open window and looks out ; a wonder¬ ful light of pleased admiration in the hazel eyes. Honey¬ suckle and sweet-smelling roses cluster all about the case¬ ment, and fill the sweet summer warmth with perfume. A sea of fluttering green leaves and brilliant flowers spreads out just beneath, and far beyond, with the hot, yellow blaze of the July sun upon it, another sea, all a-sparkle as if sown with stars.

“ How pretty ! how pretty ! ” she says, a smile of pleasure dawning on her lips ; “ how pretty it all is ! How happy one might be — could be — in such a home as this.”

The smile dies away, and a faint sigh comes instead. For all the home Miss Charlton knows, has known for the past eight years, is the hopeless home of a city boarding¬ house.

A breeze comes up from Shaddeck Bay and flutters the

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CHARLTON PLACE.

honeysuckle bells, and swings the pink clusters of the roses. A bee staggers heavily by, drunk with sweets, booming drow¬ sily. Little white-sailed boats glide about over the shining water, a door shuts somewhere in the sleepy afternoon still¬ ness of the house. Then there is a tap, and before Miss Charlton has time to say come in, the tapper comes in and proves to be Mrs. Charlton’s mamma, a lady of the fat and fifty order, with a hooked nose, a double chin, a thin, com¬ pressed mouth, a hard, cold eye, a false front, false teeth, a good deal of gold jewelry on hands and bosom — the well-preserved remains of a “fine woman.”

“ Eleanor,” she says, abruptly, and turning the key in the door.

“Yes, mother.”

Miss Charlton’s voice is as gentle as her eyes, as sweet as her smile. Mrs. Charlton’s, on the contrary, is of a rasping and astringent quality, that leaves an impression as bitters in the mouth.

“ I wish to speak with you, seriously, my dear, v-e-r-y seriously,” says Mrs. Charlton, taking a chair, folding her hands, and fixing her glimmering eyes on her daughter’s face.

“I have just been talking to Mr. Charlton, and he says -

Sit down. ”

She pushes a chair up, and Eleanor obeys. A look of weari¬ ness comes over her fair face, as if the ordeal of being “ v-e-r-y seriously ” spoken to, was no new one and no pleas¬ ant one.

“ As I inferred from the first, my dear,” begins Mrs. Charl¬ ton, with unction, “ Mr. Charlton had a motive in sending for us to visit him, other than that he set forth. People may remember their deceased cousin’s widow and orphan, and blood may be thicker than water ; but, as a general thing, they don’t send several hundred miles for these relatives to visit them, without some other motive than pure benevolence being on the cards. That something else I have discovered, and its name is - ” Mrs. Charlton pauses in triumphant

expectation, and Miss Charlton smiles.

“ Yes, mother, I know your perspicacity. It’s name is - ”

“ Richard Caryl Ffrench.”

Miss Charlton lifts her pretty eyebrows, but she is not sur¬ prised.

“ Captain Ffrench — his step-son ? Well, that is very natu¬ ral, mother, only I don’t perceive the connection. What have we to do, what has our coming to do, with this modern Sir Philip Sidney ? ”

“ My dear, everything, everything ! ” Mrs. Charlton looks about her, glances out of the window, lowers her voice to a gunpowder-plot whisper, “ Mark my words, Eleanor, Robert Charlton has sent for you with one purpose — only one — to marry you to Richard Ffrench.”

“ Mother ! ”

“ It is perfectly true. He did not say so in so many words, of course. How could he ? All the same, that is the hidden meaning of our invitation here. And, Eleanor, mind what I am saying, it is the best chance you have ever had, ever will have. I look to you not to thwart Mr. Charlton.”

“But, mother - ”

“You can raise no obstacle — none at all. When you dismissed Mr. Gore a year ago, you said he was notoriously dissipated, and I accepted that reason, although I failed to perceive then, and do still, what a little wildness in a man with a million can signify. But here it is different. Captain Ffrench, from what I can hear, is all the most exacting could desire ; handsome, young, brave, clever — everything. I look to you, Eleanor, to do all you can to please Captain Ffrench.”

“Oh! mother, mother, hush!” Her color has flushed, then faded ; a look of pain, of shame contracts her brows ; her hands lock and unlock nervously.. “You are always dreaming, always talking, always hoping for this. Why i8

CHARLTON PLACE.

should Mr. Charlton have meant so absurd a thing ? Cap-1 tain Ffrench has no need to have a wife chosen for him, and' thrown at his head. If he is all you say, is he likely to let any one choose for him? And besides - ■”

“Well, Eleanor, and besides?” says Mrs. Charlton, aus-l terely ; but Eleanor rises; biting her lip and flushing guiltily.1 She goes back to the window, where the roses hang and the woodbine clambers, just as sweetly as half an hour ago, but the soft eyes are only full of impatient, impotent pain now.

“There can be no ‘ besides,’ ” says her mother, still more austerely. “And I have made no mistake in Mr. Charlton’s meaning. It is not my habit to make mistakes. It is Mr. Charlton’s wish that you should marry his step-son, who is a little, just a little, hair-brained about exploring and soldiering, and liable to run away at a moment’s notice.”

“ And so is to have a wife tied to him as a sort of drag-anchor, whether he will or no. Well, mother, I decline be¬ ing that drag-anchor.”

“ You will do exactly as you please, of course,” retorts her mother, angrily ; “ as you always do. But, remember this, if you are perverse, if you take to riding any of your ex¬ tremely high horses here, if you refuse the heir of this noble estate - ”

“ Mother, listen to me,” Eleanor Charlton says, and puts her hand with a tired gesture to her head ; “ do not let us quarrel — oh ! do not this very first day. What you hope for cannot be ; there must be a mistake. You know — his letter of invitation said so — that he has also invited those two young ladies in New York, his distant relatives, as well as we - ”

“ That but confirms my suspicion, my certainty,” inter¬ rupts her mother, calmly. “ Richard Ffrench is to have his choice — all in the family. Very naturally this great fortune is to be kept with the Charlton blood, if possible, and in your veins and in theirs alone does it run. Richard Ffrench

CHARLTON PLACE.

is to choose between you. But you are first in the field, and to an impressionable young man fresh from wild Northern regions - ”

“ Mother, hush ! I ca?mot bear it,” Eleanor cries out. “ Oh ! how many times have I listened to this ; how many times have you not tried to sell me to the highest bidder. How many times have I not been shamed, shamed to the heart, by the looks men gave me, after talking to you. Let me alone, mother. I will work for you, I will give you all I earn, I will never complain ; but for the sake of our com¬ mon womanhood, do not make me blush again before the master and son of this house. And hear me once for all — I will work until I drop dead from work, I will lie down and die of starvation, before I marry any man for his money, and his money alone.”

“ Hush-h ! ” says Mrs. Charlton, “ hush, for Heaven’s sake!” There has been a rap at the door, now there is another. She smooths her angry face, rises, opens it, and sees a trim and smiling housemaid.

“ Master’s compliments, ma’am, and any time you and Miss Charlton is ready, he is waiting to show you through the grounds.”

“ Thank you,” Mrs. Charlton responds, suavely. “Tell Mr. Charlton we will be down in one moment. Eleanor, my love, if you are quite ready we will not keep our kind host waiting.”

The rose light of the sunset has faded out into opal and gray, the cool of evening has fallen upon the world, at white heat all day, when Richard Ffrench turns into the ponderous iron gateway, between its couchant lions, and goes up the long, leafy, tree-shaded drive. The old elms and hemlocks meet overhead, and make green gloom even at noonday. It is deepest twilight beneath their arching vault now. He emerges in front of the house, a large, quaint, red brick struc-

CHARLTON PLACE.

ture, set in a great slope of velvety turf and lawn, with wide halls, and bay-windows, and open doors. Brilliant beds of gladioli, geranium, verbena, heliotrope, and pansy crop up everywhere, and off yonder among a very thicket of roses, he catches the sound of ladies’ voices, the flutter of ladies’ skirts.

“ Humph ! ” says Captain Dick, and stops in his whist¬ ling ; “ so they have come. I thought they would. I hope the governor — dear old woman-lover that he is — is happy at last.”

An amused look is in the young man’s gray eyes, as he stands and reconnoitres. The trio examine the floral beau¬ ties, unconscious of the mischievous gaze upon them.

“As if I didn’t see through the transparent ruse — bless his innocent old soul — and as if they won’t see through it too, before they are an hour in the house ; I only hope the young lady has some sense of humor. And three of them, by George ! I should think the Sultan of all the Turkeys must feel something as I will, when the last lot arrives.”

Captain Dick throws back his head and laughs all by him¬ self ; a mellow, ringing, thoroughly joyous laugh. Then he turns to escape into the house, for it will not do, he thinks, to shock these delicate creatures with a rough jacket and a slouch hat, when Fate wills it otherwise. The trio turn suddenly, advance, see him, and retreat is cut off. He accepts defeat with calmness, and stands and waits. And as he waits his eyes widen, dilate, with surprise, for the face of the younger lady is the face in colored chalks over the man¬ tel at Shaddeck Light.

A .FAIRY TALE .

Chapter III. A Fairy Tale

NCE upon a time there was a king who lived in a lovely castle, and had two daughters. The oldest was ever so pretty, and her name was the Princess Snowflake. The youngest wasn’t pretty at all, and her name was the Princess Brownskin.”

The narrator pauses for breath. She is an extremely young lady, certainly not more than sixteen. The captious critic might perchance find fault with her grammar, particu¬ larly as she is a preceptress of youth ; but there are no cap¬ tious critics present — only a very small boy and a smaller girl.