My first offer

Chapter I

The music in my heart I bore Long after it was heard no more.’ —Wordsworth.

“ AND sol am to go?”

“Certainly,” replied my mother, putting down the letter which she had been reading, “and I am very glad of the opportunity for you to have such a thorough change.”

The letter contained an invitation for me from my great-aunt Mary to spend a month or six weeks with her in her southern home.

I was a Manchester High School girl, nineteen years old, and had just finished my education, and was intending to make my debit during the B

—— ensuing winter, in the circle that we visited in the northern capital. My mother was the widow of a Manchester doctor, who had died rather suddenly, leaving her with limited means and four children, of whom I was the eldest. We lived in Greenheys, in a pretty though not large house. Mother was a southern woman. All her friends and relatives lived there, and many were the tears and vain regrets she had wasted in her early married life, for the home and associations of her youth. The great-aunt from whom I had just received the invitation, was a maiden lady of good fortune, living in the lovely county of Surrey. I had not seen her since I was four years old, when I had gone with my parents ona visit to my southern relatives. At that time I have every reason to believe I was one of the most odious of enfants terribles, and certainly did not find much favour in the eyes of my great-aunt. Since that time only occasional letters had passed between us, and our surprise was great when we received the invitation. The letter was worded as follows :—

The Woodlands, Burnham Park, near Oakford, September 4th, 18—.

My Dear Fanny,—Many thanks for the kind messages sent me by you through Mrs. Milbanke. She tells me Alice has grown a nice companionable girl, and has left the schoolroom. If you think you would like to spare her on a Visit to me for a month or six weeks, I shall be glad to welcome her ; and as the Wyntons are at the Hall, can promise her plenty of amusement, such as tennis, impromptu dances, and other gaieties. If you will spare her next week, and let me know the day and hour at which she will arrive at Oakford Railway Station, I will send the pony carriage to meet her. Hoping to hear good accounts of yourself and chicks,—Believe me to remain, your affectionate aunt,

Mary LaAscELles.

These were the contents of the letter which seemed to afford mother so much pleasure. I did not feel sure whether I was quite so content. Really I felt secretly annoyed Mrs. Milbanke had not said something more flattering about me. “ Nice and companionable!” She heard I was that? Why, the same might be said of Lucy, our old sewing-maid, who had lived with us for years. In my very brief experience of life, I had always noticed when anybody was exceedingly ordinary, their friends always called them “nice.” Since we had got up the theatricals at the High School, during the past winter, when I took the part of “Rosalind,” it had been whispered to me I was not without my share of good looks, and I was getting rather fond of looking at myself in the glass whenever opportunity occurred. My two brothers being as complimentary on these points as schoolboys generally are gave rather a damper to my aspirations; my sister was too young to see any beauty in anything but a chocolate box; and, mother—oh, she was so obtuse! If I assumed a most becoming pose, she would immediately B 2 begin to tell me that my hair was very untidily arranged !

“What must I wear?” I asked, fidgetting with some of the flowers in a vase near me.

“Wear?” replied my mother, with an expression of astonishment at the question, “something simple; you are not going to Court, and a girl’s chief adornment is simplicity.”

“Of manner, mother! Does it go as far as dress? I do like to be a little in the fashion. Lucy will let me have only one steel in my dress, and Teddie says I am a regular guy.”

“ What does it matter what boys say? Leave matters tome. I will see you are properly fitted out.”

Mother’s promises reassured me. They were generally to be depended on, if she was not over-ruled by Lucy, who was, like all old servants, a great tyrant, and obstinate to a degree.

“Do tell me all about great-aunt Mary, and who are the Wyntons? Now, mother, see, here is Jane with afternoon tea—a capital opportunity for you to give me a nice long description of everything and everybody I shall see at Burnham.”

“ Really, Alice, you overtax my powers. I could not tell you about everybody; but you shall hear all I know, Pour me out a cup of tea; not so strong,—gently, child,” as I put in the sugar with a hand regardless of gout. “There, that will do. Now come and sit here;” and I sat down on a

Patience stool near her. She stroked my curly hair, and commenced by saying, “ Alice, shall I say, ‘Once upon a time,’ like old nurse with the fairy tales 2”

I laughed. ‘Go on, mother ; just as you like.”

“Well, Aunt Mary is, as you may have heard, an only child, and something of an heiress, having a fortune of £20,000. She never married, greatly because she would not leave her parents,and after their death she had arrived at that time of life in which she felt her habits and modes of thought were too formed to wish to change her state; besides, she was perfectly independent. Why should she not please herself? Her great friends, Sir Charles and Lady Wynton, who lived at Burnham Hall, hearing she was seeking a new home, were very anxious she should take a house called ‘Woodlands’ in their park, and, of course, on their estate. It had originally been built for a Dower house, but had never been used for that purpose ; and, as Lady Wynton declared she would never live in it, should the unfortunate necessity arise, it seemed the very place for Aunt Mary, their greatest friend, to occupy, and be so near them— for Woodlands is only about two miles from the mansion. It was not too large; would not be very expensive to keep up, and three or four servants would be sufficient. The market town of Oakford is only a mile and a half from the lodge gates. All arrangements were settled, and Aunt Mary became their tenant ten years ago. Since that time both her friends, Sir Charles and Lady Wynton, have died, and been succeeded by their son. He married one of the county beauties shortly after his father’s death, and after a brief married life she died very suddenly two years ago. He was fearfully cut up, shut up the mansion, and has been travelling abroad until very recently ; but you see, Aunt Mary says in her letter he is now at the Hall for the partridge shooting. His sister-in-law, Mrs. Robert Wynton, is taking the head of his table whilst the guests are there, as there are several ladies with their husbands staying in the house. Altogether, I expect you will have a charming visit, and see some of the best society.”

I twisted mother’s fingers in mine. It all sounded very well, but it seemed too grand. One did not hear much about estates, baronetcies, etc., in Manchester.

“Were Sir Charles and his wife so very happy?” I enquired, feeling I wanted to hear still more.

Mother looked grave; she thought a moment or two before replying, then said, “ Alice, I believe there was some misunderstanding between them, but you could neither follow nor enter into the causes and effects of it, so dismiss it from your mind, Perhaps I ought not to have mentioned it, but I do not suppose you will see much of him, With a large number of fashionable visitors, a little school-girl like you will scarcely be observed.”

“ Little!” I exclaimed, for I was considered rather tall. Mother was again trying to bring down my self-esteem, but I repressed my annoyance, in order to pursue my subject. “What sort of a place is the town of Oakford?” I asked, pouring out another cup of tea.

“Oakford?—a very nice clean little place. There is a fine church there, with a square tower and a grand peal of bells. The rector (Canon Wilkins) and his wife are very old friends of your aunt. There are delightful church services, and good singing. Of course there is the usual country-town society—lawyer, doctor, and so on, but I do not know anything about any of them. Aunt Mary chiefly visits the county people, and is a great authority amongst them in her way.”

“She is clever, then?” I asked.

“Oh ! very clever indeed, a woman of remarkable acumen and powers of discrimination.”

“Mother!” I exclaimed, jumping up from my seat and clapping my hands, “I shall be annihilated. What with baronets, estates, dower houses, Canons of the Church, ete., and a very clever woman for an aunt, you will see and hear no more of me.”

We both laughed.

“Go, silly child,” she replied, “we will write and accept the invitation by this evening’s post ;

and the first thing to-morrow morning will pay a visit to Kendal and Milne’s, to get you the necessary finery.”

The next week was indeed one of active preparation. Our sewing-maid, Lucy, whirred the machine from morning till night, and consulted fashion books; the designs of the patterns, however, were always altered to her standard of what was suitable for young girls. As I stood by her one afternoon, watching her deft fingers guide a long seam, the thought occurred to me that I would strike the iron whilst it was hot, and petition for a matrass pad, and an additional steel for my best dress.

Never shall I forget her stony stare of astonishment when I made known my request.

She jerked her thread off viciously, and tossing her head, replied in a voice of stinging scorn :

“Pad? why much good it has done you going to that dress exhibition, if that is what you want ! Eh! my word. Pad, indeed,” and she almost foamed. “Why, didn’t you hear the lady that gave the lecture say how very unhealthy they were, that they heated the spine, and brought on all sorts of internal complaints. Steels add to the weight of dresses dreadfully, and the lady said you must be very strong to bear the weight of about 28 lbs. in your dress alone. Eh! my word, your ma might as well give dummies the advantages of a liberal education as you children.

Young ladies now are pretty objects, with their tight lacing and heaped-up tournures. Fainting as they do in church, too! [ve no patience with ‘em. If the doctors was to cut their stay laces instead of giving ’em that there syrup of the Hypoppolises as a tonic, they'd be right enough.”

“Well, Lucy, I don’t agree with you; I like the fashions, little waists and everything.”

She glared at me, and absolutely snorted, saying

“The lady at the exhibition, that lectured, said that people who did so were barbarians; no matrass pad or top steels I put in for you, miss,” and she sent the machine off at score.

My brother Robert looked up from a book he was reading near the window, and, with a broad grin on his boyish merry face, said :

“Lucy. is of a classical turn, and admires the Venus of Milo. Her waist would not be under 28 inches—no local doctor required to cut her stay laces,” and he roared with laughter.

Lucy glowered at him; she neither understood nor liked “ chaff.” “ Master Robert,” she replied, with an air of injured innocence, “don’t talk of none of them wicked heathen goddishes here !” I laughed ; there was evidently no convincing her, as she was as obstinate as all ignorant people are, so I occupied myself with other preparations. We were all busy; every little thing I did or did not want was carefully packed in my travelling basket, - and, after many affectionate farewells from the dear ones at home, I arrived at Oakford railway station one bright September afternoon. It had been a very hot day, and I had found the journey long and tedious. Alighting on the platform, I looked around for the little page boy whe I had been told was to meet me with the pony carriage. A chubby-faced lad, in a neat livery, seeing me looking about, came up, and, touching his hat, said, “Miss White, I believe?” On my assenting, he continued, “The pony carriage is waitin’ outside, miss, and the luggage is to go on the light cart.” Turning to the porter, who had extricated all my belongings from the luggage van, and instructing him to follow me, I went through to where the little carriage was waiting. All arrangements having been satisfactorily made, I soon found myself being driven along at a spinning pace. We passed through the town, clean, well paved, and thriving, then along a good turnpike road, with cottages scattered here and there, till we arrived at some high iron gates. A pretty little gothic cottage, the lodge, was to the right of one of them. Pots of very bright scarlet geraniuims were in the window, and the little plot of garden in front was a blaze of flowers. A little girl with dark eyes came out to open the gates, dropping me a curtsey as she did so. We drove through a long avenue of fine trees, the bright afternoon sun was glinting through them, and throwing such lovely shadows ; then we turned down a road to the left, and came more into the centre of the park. The ground was undulating; fine trees, clumped and massed together were scattered at intervals, and small groups of deer stood peacefully browsing under them. The air seemed so light, the sky was so blue, diversified by the most beautiful fleecy, feathery clouds. My spirits rose rapidly, although I felt a little nervous at going amongst comparative strangers. We descended a hill, and I saw in the distance the chimneys of a long, low, brick house, embosomed in a mass of trees.

“Ts that Woodlands?” I inquired of my young driver, who was carefully holding up the pony’s head.

“ Yes, miss, that is it,” he laconically replied.

Whisking off some flies with the tip of his whip, then gently urging on the too-willing pony, who knew his stable was near, we trotted away till we came to an open gate, into a small carriage drive, the beds at the side of which were well planted with shrubs and flowers, till we stopped before the hall door of Woodlands. My great-aunt was on the door step to welcome me, and kissed me most affectionately. She was tall and slender, with a great deal of natural dignity. Her hair was of that silvery whiteness which is both so lovely and becoming, and was neatly arranged under a cap of Honiton lace. Her face was oval and features well cut, not so much lined considering her years, for she was over sixty. Her dress was of black silk, well cut and fashioned, and a white shetland shawl enveloped her shoulders. Her eyes, certainly the most striking part of her face, were of a soft grey, which changed in shadow to a more intense colour; they had a distrart far-off look about them which was most peculiar. She led me into the house. The hall was large, not quite square, with walls panelled in carved oak ; chairs, and a table of the same, comprised the furniture, with handsome rugs thrown over the polished oaken floor ; several pots of palms were distributed about. A wide staircase, with fine balustrades of carved oak, was at the left side of the hall, and on the table was a blue and white china bowl filled with Marshal Niel roses. Even now, I can smell the delicious perfume from them. Let me lay down my pen for a brief retrospect. . . . Yes, the soft summer air of that afternoon passes over my face again; the smell of the roses, the gleams of the western sun streaming thrcugh the open front door; the stately figure of my great-aunt and her silvery hair forming a fine foreground to my picture. My own bright youthful hopes, coursing with the strong sanguine pulses of nineteen, all are before me for a brief moment. My heart swells. And what is this that dims my sight? % * * * *

To the right of the hall door was the drawing-room; it ran the whole length of that side of the house. There were two large long French windows, one at each end, the one looking on to the carriage drive, the other to the lawn and shrubberies at the back. It was furnished in an esthetic fashion, but perhaps looked rather sombre. The dining-room and library were on the opposite side, and before coming to the handsome oak staircase, there was a red baize door studded with brass nails, which led into the kitchen and offices.

After drinking a cup of afternoon tea, Aunt Mary took me upstairs to my bedroom, where a smart looking housemaid was unstrapping my travelling basket, and placing out some things from my hand bag, she asked me if she could render any further assistance, but not being accustomed to anything of the kind, I politely thanked her and refused, whereupon she left me. I had now an opportunity to observe all my surroundings. The room was at the back of the house, over the drawing-room, with a large window looking on to the lawn and distant park; the view was lovely. The walls were papered with a light paper of a geometrical pattern, and embellished with a few good engravings. The bed was an old fashioned four poster, with heavy dark moreen hangings ; a writing table, small sofa, and an easy chair or two, gave an air of comfort and snugness, As we were to dine at seven, I changed my dress for a simple costume of cream nun’s veiling ; and taking a small cluster of scarlet geraniums out of the vase on my dressing-table, pinned them at my neck, in order to lend colour to my rather severe costume. My hair was short and curly, of a ruddy gold colour; my complexion rather pale, and my eyes grey, in some lights blue. When I had completed my toilette to my satisfaction, I went down to the drawing-room. Dinner was served punctually, everything perfectly appointed, glass and silver spotless; the page was the only servant waiting, but he seemed to anticipate one’s wants, and moved about with a deftness of purpose which was simply marvellous to me, after my experience of our northern housemaid, with her heavy thumping tread, loud stertorous breathing, and noisy clatter. The room was dark, owing to the walls being of oak. Two lamps, with amber paper shades, gave the only light. The flowers on the table were beautifully arranged ; all svoke of elegance, refinement, and quiet. Here I felt I had left the busy turmoil and noise of a great city, and was in perfectly different surroundings. Aunt Mary chatted briskly during dinner, telling me all the local news; the beauties of Burnham Hall, the seat of Sir Charles Wynton ; the grandeur of the gardens, the number of visitors there for the shooting, were all descanted on in their turn. I mentioned the late Lady Wynton, but as I did so I noticed that a deep shadow passed over her face, and she did not gratify my curiosity more than politeness compelled. She went on to speak of Oakford Church, of its delightful curates, Mr. Peel and Mr. Ashton, who both came in for a share of good-natured criticism. Canon Wilkins she was sure I should like; he was a powerful and impressive preacher, etc., etc.

As I was eating a pear at dessert, she gazed intently at me for some time, then said in a bantering tone, “And so you are a Manchester High School Girl ?”

“T was, but I left school last term for good.”

She smiled, “Learned in all the ’ologies ?”

“Oh, yes!” I replied, laughing. “ Bioplasm and protoplasm, Latin and Greek—Uncle James says I have been educated to death.”

“Can there be such a thing, Alice, in these days? Still education cannot be of such very great importance to you.”

“« Why, Aunt Mary ?”

“Cannot you guess?” she replied, looking to me with a meaning smile.

“Oh! I suppose because I am not to be a governess,”

“Well, not exactly; but you must know you are good-looking; men like pretty fools——”

I blushed furiously. There was something after all in what Ella Smith said to me after the first rehearsal of the theatricals at school.

Dinner over, we retired to the drawing-room. It was a hot night, and a gentle breeze came in through the open window which led into the garden. Aunt Mary took her knitting, whilst I reclined in a comfortable easy chair, resting from the fatigues of the day. After a time she asked for a little music, and I played one or two sonatas. The piano was good—a grand of Erard’s, and stood near the window; it was very rich and full in tone, and I anticipated great pleasure in having it to play on whenever I liked durimg my visit. At last my aunt, looking at the little Swiss clock on the mantelpiece, said, “Past ten! What time do you usually retire, Alice ?”

“About this time, or when mother goes,” I replied, turning over the leaves of some music ; “but I’m in no hurry. I am not so very tired.”

“T think you must be, my dear; you have had a long journey, and there is a tennis party at the Rectory to-morrow, to which we are invited. You know where to find your room. If you want anything, if you rmg Emma will come.”

I saw she wished to retire, so said good night.

Really Aunt Mary was charming, of that there could be no doubt. Fascinating ? Well, fascinating also, Her will seemed irresistible, yet she was not in the least aggressive or egotistical.

Taking a silver candlestick off the hall table, I slowly wended my way up the broad oaken stairs, which were covered with a very thick soft carpet. All was still. No one seemed about, no sounds were heard from the kitchen regions, owing to the thick red baize door, which shut off all communication, An old-fashioned clock stood in a little recess halfway up the stairs; it ticked very loudly, and as I stood looking over the balustrade at the palms and flowers in the hall below, seemed to say to me in rhythmical tones, “ Don’t go—don’t go—do not go, go, go.” It was aggravating, and I laughed at my ridiculous fancy, and its pertimacity. Arrived at my room, I looked all around to see that there was nothing or no one concealed, a school-girlish idea of a probable burglar under the bed still remained an article of faith with me—no one of course was there. In a short time I was in bed and fast asleep.

* * * * *

Something seemed gradually to awaken me. I sat up and listened. Music it was; of that there could be no doubt; soft, gentle plaintive strains; one of the most beautiful of Mendelssohn’s “Songs Without Words.” Striking a light, I looked at my watch. Half past one! Some one was at the piano in the drawing-room, for it was. from thence the sound emanated. I got up, and, wrapping a shawl around me, softly opened the window and looked out. It was a bright moonlight night, the rays casting a silvery sheen on the rustling leaves of the adjacent trees. <A heavy dew was falling, and the air seemed laden with delicious country scents. No one was to be seen on the lawn, or near the shrubberies. Cc

Surely Aunt Mary could not be playing Mendelssohn at this hour? Besides, she had years since given up her music.

The materialist reader will say, “ Oh, the piano had been left open, and it was a cat running over the keys.” But I was something of a musician, having had all the advantages that musical Manchester affords, and could tell that these sounds proceeded from a musician alone. “A burglar, then,” argues my materialist, who will have a definite reason for everything. Well, if so, he must greatly have mistaken his vocation.

I felt certain the drawing-room window was open, from the sound, but could see no reflection of any kind from an interior light.

What should I do? I wathdrew from the window, and, as is my wont when agitated, commenced pacing the room,

Should I go and arouse Aunt Mary? And face waiting at her door alone on the landing whilst she answered my knock? Call the servants? I did not know where they slept. My strong-minded readers will say, why not have gone down to the drawing-room, and seen for yourself who it was ? Well, I was only nineteen, in a strange house, and the shadows of the nursery bogey tales were not yet effaced by time from my imagination—I trembled with a vague indefinable fear—I was afraid of—I knew not what—I was convinced it was neither Aunt Mary, nor burglars; it must be some other visitant, supernatural or otherwise, playing Mendelssohn in a dark room, with windows opening to the ground, at such an hour. The only plan I could conceive was to remain quiet; the morning would prove what it was; as I should, of course, make every inquiry. Extinguishing the candle, I lay down to try to sleep again. The sounds seemed to die away, gently, softly; the notes were as follows, in very slow time :— dim. = =e ieee rs Sere eo a Pre a | dieser, ae SS Ze8 [sss os a “-6- Chia 0. a =a J ae z= ee | E | ritard. GN Sr) lp oe emerge et at =a = (qamreeneres ommanine oe “|| “Pte ae SiGe ~ am Sy ‘ne: ~ —— lg pig one

The last bars seemed to reverberate on my brain—

then a silence ensued. I was becoming more

composed, the fascination of the beautifully exe-

cuted music stealing over my senses, when I heard

some one, or something, in my room. Strange! I c 2 was sure that I had taken particular care to search every corner on coming to bed. It must be some fancy. It was not sufficiently light to distinguish the outline of any form, as the venetian blinds were well closed the reverse way, to prevent light entering.

The Presence approached me ; I dared not move. My heart beat quickly; a cold wave passed over my brain, and I became unconscious !

Chapter II

‘* Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare, And Mammon wins his way where Seraphs might despair.”

—Childe Harold.

WHEN I = awoke to consciousness the sun was streaming into my room. It was morning then ?

What could the terrible experiences of the past night have been?

The birds were carolling loudly, and all nature

seemed rejoicing. Past terrors assumed a trifling

aspect, as is so often the case when daylight, and especially sunshine, revives the nervous system. I determined to rise, dress, and make it my first object to discover the cause, or causes, of my disturbed night. As soon as I was ready

I went down to the dining room. John, the

page boy, was putting some knives on the

breakfast table, and the housemaid giving the furniture some finishing touches with a duster.

Going to the point at once I said, “ Emma, I had a very disturbed night. Somebody was playing the piano in the drawing-room between one and two, and I am sure I heard some one in my room quite close to my bed. What could it have been ?”

She coloured, and exchanging glances with John, became very busy over polishing up a knob of the chair ; then, looking up, said, “Oh! Miss, it must have been fancy.”

“ Nothing of the kind,” I quickly replied. “I never fancy things. Is there any one else in the house but my aunt ?”

“ Any one else, miss? Nobody but the servants; and I’m sure they wouldn’t touch the pianner at that time of night.”

“Some one was in my room; I heard breathing.”

They both exchanged a quick, meaning glance. Emma was the first to answer—

“Oh! miss, it must have been fancy.”

Really, the audacity of these servants was too much ; to think I did not see their telegraphic communications, and then to assure me what I had stated was simply fancy. I took up a book and sat down to read; it was no use to think I should elicit any information from them. At nine oclock breakfast was served, and John informed me that as my aunt seldom came down early, IJ was not to wait for her. I felt disappointed. My mind was bent on a quick solution—logical, illogical, or otherwise—of this mystery, and I should have to school myself to suspense. I was naturally anxious to hear her solution and view of the matter. When I had nearly finished breakfast, a gentle tap came at the door. On my saying “Come in,” Sylvester, my aunt’s confidential maid appeared. She was the very embodiment of respectability and primness; about fifty years of age. Her black hair, which was well sprinkled’ with grey, was arranged in old-fashioned sausage curls each side of her face, kept in their place by side combs; a white cap, trimmed with black and white satin ribbon, black dress, and linen collar and cuffs completed her costume. Her eyes were black and beady, with cunning in their twinkle ; complexion sallow ; features of a strongly plebeian type. Plausible and deferential in manner to a degree, she was eminently adapted to retain a strong hold over those who came under her influence, should it be worth her while to do so. I instantly distrusted her—nay, even recoiled from her as one would from a serpent. After clearing her throat, she commenced to explain the object of her visit by saying, “I beg your pardon, Miss, but Emma happened to tell me you had complained of not having slept well, and of having been disturbed by sounds of music. Therefore, your aunt wished me to come and see how you were ?”