O'er moor and fen : a novel

Front matter

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S O^* y if

/) o /Jo c

BOOK THIRD. CHAPTER I. page

In the Convent Garden 221

CHAPTER II.

A Joyful Surprise 229

CHAPTER III.

Among the Rocks 237

CHAPTER IV.

Friendship or Love? 246

CHAPTER V.

“ Bobby ” 252

CHAPTER VI.

A New Hero 257

CHAPTER VII.

Passing the “ Lines ” 266

CHAPTER VIII.

What shall He do with Her? 275

CHAPTER IX.

A Desperate Remedy 285

CHAPTER X.

What They thought of it 293

O’ER MOOR AND FEN.

Chapter I. Uncle And Nephew

“ Oh, my heart is sick with longing,

Longing to escape from study,

To the young face fair and ruddy To the summer’s day.”

IT was the month of August, in the year 1869, and the city of New York lay baking beneath a fervid summer sun. Not a cloud was in the sky to intervene between its rays and suffering humanity. Horses fell in their tracks overwhelmed by the heat ; dogs lay panting on the sidewalks and in the gutters, disputing every inch of shade with les gamins , and even the bootblacks, that most wiry and untiring portion of the human race, had collapsed, and lay curled up on vacant doorsteps, regardless of all “shine ” save that of the sun.

The fashionable parts of the city seemed deserted, so profound a silence reigned thereabout. No more rolling of handsome equipages along the paved streets ; no prancing of fiery horses ; no sounds of revelry issuing from the stately mansions, which stood sombre and gray, with closed windows and doors, on either side of the way.

o’er moor and fen.

A foreigner might have supposed Fifth Avenue to be depopulated, but a New Yorker would at once have exclaimed, “ Every one is out of town, and, according to custom, the houses have gone into mourning — linen covers within, dust and ashes without!”

In the business portion of the city, however, life was not yet extinct, for Wall Street does not recognize either heat or fashion, but, like the sun, remains “in town ” all summer; and here, in close offices, chafing like caged animals, were to be found unfortunate wretches, who, bound for life to the “Bulls” and “Bears” of the stock market, bore all the miseries of incarceration during the long hot days, without the air and comparative freedom of a zoological garden.

In one of these dens, on the day on which my story opens, sat a young man of prepossessing appearance, but who was nevertheless one of the most miserable specimens of the class I have just mentioned.

Most young men in his position had homes to return to when the business hours were over, and the afternoon trains bore them from heat and dust to domestic comfort and social enjoyment; but Robert Weston had neither home nor parents, and his evenings were not much more enjoyable than his days.

Left an orphan at an early age, he had been adopted by his uncle, Mr. John Roderick Von Decker, to whom he was indebted for his education, and in fact everything, even to his present position in the office in Wall Street.

Hitherto his summers and holidays had been passed with his cousins, but this year, unfortunately, he had displeased his uncle, and in consequence had been forbidden the house until such time as he should see the error of his ways.

Business was dull, and many were the impatient glances turned upon the clock by those favored ones who looked for a happy release when the hour-hand indicated four; but Robert, or Roy, as he was commonly called, took no note of time, save to congratulate himself when the sun left his window, and the ghost of a breeze fluttered into the room.

Coat, vest, collar, cuffs, had one by one been discarded as the heat increased, and now, partly baring his breast, he turned his face towards the window, pushing back a mass of glossy black hair from a broad white forehead, with a careless, easy grace, and fell to work industriously filling in an outline sketch of a young girl drawn on a piece of waste paper.

His straight brows were drawn slightly together over an aquiline nose, and lashes long and silky as a girl’s shaded a pair of large black eyes, as they followed the motion of his fingers, whilst from under a slight moustache issued a melancholy whistle, a fit accompaniment to his dismal reflections.

On the opposite side of the room sat Mr. Von Decker, too completely absorbed over his books and papers to pay much attention to his nephew’s moods, and on whom the lugubrious music acted only as a gentle irritant, preventing him from lapsing altogether out of life, and becoming one with his ledger.

He was a man of about sixty years of age, hale and well preserved in all respects save his hair, which was as white as snow, and formed a vivid contrast to his keen bright eyes and florid complexion.

Whilst at his office, he was heart and soul absorbed in his business, and nothing short of personal violence ever aroused him when engaged with his books, yet, once at home, his cares were all forgotten, and no one was lighter-hearted, or more enthusiastic in the pursuit of enjoyment than himself.

Devoted to his wife and his family, which consisted of two daughters and three sons, he still found a place in his home and i6 . o’er moor and fen.

heart for his sister’s orphaned boy, and up to the present time, Roy had received nothing but unvaried kindness from his uncle, nor had he ever heard from him a harsh word.

The remembrance of his past happiness was ever present with the young man, and as he sat idly at his desk this hot morning, he could not but deeply deplore the circumstances that had caused him to offend so true a friend.

A vision of Beechcroft, his uncle’s country-seat, and all its attendant pleasures, passed before him, and with a sigh of impatience at his weary exile, he dropped his pencil, and, rising, crossed the room to replace some books upon their proper shelves.

So accustomed was he to his uncle’s automaton-like silence during business hours, that he was sometimes scarcely aware of his presence, and it was, therefore, with a start of surprise, that he heard his name called, as* he passed his uncle’s desk.

“Roy!”

“Sir?” and he paused beside the speaker, who, he now noticed, had closed his all-absorbing books, and, leaning back in his chair, was thoughtfully regarding his nephew.

“ Where are you going ? ” said Mr. Von Decker.

“ To put these books in their places, sir,” replied the young man, bewildered at so unusual a demonstration of interest on the part of his uncle.

“Ah, yes; so I see,” replied Mr. Von Decker; “but I was not speaking of the present moment. I intended to ask where you were going to pass your holidays. You have been at the office every day during all this warm weather, and if you have made arrangements with your friends to take a trip, I can let you go now, at any time, and that lazy boy, Jack, shall supply your place. ’ ’

“You are very kind, sir,” replied the young man, hastily, o’er moor and fen.

“ but I have no plans for the summer. I do not care to leave the city — indeed, I cannot very well afford to. ’ ’

“I will advance you any sum you may require,” said his uncle, slowly; “or, rather, I will give it to you;” he added, “ I owe you as much for exiling you from Beechcroft.”

“I would rather not increase my obligations, sir,” replied the young man, flushing deeply. “I already owe you more than I shall ever be able to repay. Let Jack enjoy himself,” he added, with a sigh of resignation; “a summer in the city will do me no harm — I am not at all delicate,” and he unconsciously straightened his symmetrical form, and expanded his chest as if to corroborate his words.

His uncle looked at him wistfully. “I wish,” he said, at length, “ that you could put all this foolishness in regard to Elsie out of your head, and let me send you home again. Why will you stand thus in your own light ? Come, act like a reasonable fellow ; give me your word not to speak on forbidden subjects, and go to Beechcroft by the next boat. The girls will give you a hearty welcome. ’ *

“I dare not promise, sir,” replied the young man, with feeling ; “I have never yet broken my word, and have no desire to begin now. I cannot trust myself to see Elsie if I may not tell her that I love her.”

“Such folly!” said Mr. Von Decker, in a vexed tone. “ The idea of a young man of your age, with the world before him, bowing down -at the shrine of a child, a baby, not yet sixteen years old.”

“ Sixteen last month, sir,” said Roy, with a smile.

“Ah, indeed,” said his uncle, sarcastically; “is she really so old as that ? No wonder that you think it necessary for her to marry immediately. She will be gray-headed, doubtless, if she wait much longer. Come, Roy, you must see how pre- 2* B i8 o’er moor and fen.

posterous this is. If you must marry, pray find some one else. Surely there are plenty of attractive girls in the world, much better suited to be your wife than my little Elsie.”

“ Do you think there are many like her, sir? ” replied Roy, pushing towards his uncle a paper-weight, in which was enclosed a photograph of a child of twelve or fourteen years of age, with small, regular features, delicately pencilled eyebrows, large hazel eyes, and a low, broad forehead, shaded by a perfect halo of curling golden hair.

Mr. Von Decker looked with a father’s pride at the pretty picture before him, and a tender smile played over his face as he replied :

“No, Roy, no; she is a peerless girl, and quite as beautiful now as she gave promise of being when this was taken. She ought to marry well, with her many advantages,” he continued, musingly.

“And is it not marrying well to marry the one she loves, and who would give his life to secure her happiness ? ’ ’ asked the young man, eagerly.

“ Love is a very good foundation for happiness,” replied Mr. Von Decker, with a smile ; “ but, alas, in these degenerate days, my boy, money is absolutely necessary for its completion.”

“ Is my poverty all that you object to in me, sir? ” inquired Roy.

“That is all, Roy,” replied his uncle, kindly, “but it is a great deal. Personally, my dear sister’s child is very near my heart, and to no one would I so gladly resign my treasure as yourself, were you only in a position to support her ; but look at it, you are penniless, and Elsie but sixteen years old. Educated as she has been, she is utterly unfit to be a poor man’s wife, and young as she is, she is incapable of comprehending the fact ; did I not, therefore, stand between you two foolish o’er moor and fen.

children, you would exchange vows of everlasting fidelity, and end by making each other miserable for life.”

“ I will be very patient, sir,” continued Roy, in a pleading tone. “I will bind her by no promise; only let me tell her how dearly I love her, and then I will bid her good-bye until such time as you see fit to recall me.”

Mr. Von Decker answered by a negative shake of the head, and resting his head upon his hand, sighed deeply.

Roy stood silent also for a few moments, and then taking from his pocket a small box, he handed it to his uncle, saying :

“ Then if I may not see her, sir, will you be so kind as to give her this ? She has never returned to school since she was a very small child without some remembrance from me, and I would not have her think that I had forgotten her.”

“ No, no,” exclaimed his uncle, hastily, “you must not waste your money on her, Roy. It is ridiculous. She has already more trinkets than she can wear,” and he put his hands resolutely behind him, refusing most positively to accept the box that his nephew extended to him.

“It is such a trifle,” said Roy, imploringly ; and opening the box he disclosed to view a small gold chain, scarcely thicker than a golden thread, but Mr. Von Decker remained motionless, with his eyes fixed upon it, as though seeking some fresh pretext for refusing it.

Another silence ensued, during which the elder gentleman reviewed the subject in all its bearings. He felt assured that Elsie reciprocated her cousin’s attachment, and had deeply resented his prolonged estrangement, being entirely ignorant of the cause, and attributing his absence to neglect. Should he leave matters as they stood, the chances were that she would treat the whole affair as a dream, and fix her heart on some one more suited to her ; but at the same time her father felt that o’er moor and fen.

he was practising deception towards her in regard to Roy’s feelings, and his open nature revolted at it. She would be leaving home very soon on her way to school, he argued, and Roy promised not to bind her with any engagement. A week of “fool’s paradise” could not do any great harm. And then a vision of Elsie’s wistful face, should he return home this evening still companionless, completed his defeat, and, thoroughly routed, he gave up his last defence, saying sharply :

“ There ! Be off with you ! Take it to her yourself.”

“And the conditions, sir?” inquired the astonished young man.

“ Make a fool of yourself, if you choose,” growled his uncle ; “but understand that I will have no formal engagement.”

“All right, sir,” said Roy, springing with alacrity into his clothes. “ I do not wish to bind her for a dozen years to come. I only ask to be allowed to love her, and to tell her so.”

“Go ahead,” said his uncle, smiling at his enthusiasm; “ but keep a firm hand on the helm, and a sharp lookout for breakers. ’ ’

“Aye, aye, sir,” replied the young man, as he hastened down the stairs, his heart beating with anticipated happiness.

o’er moor and fen.

Chapter II. Beechcroft

“ A handsome house to lodge a friend,

A river at my garden’s end.”

ALAS ! when and where shall poor humanity be certain of finding happiness ? Often our brightest hours are those of anticipation of that which in reality falls far short of our hopes. Yet it is as true as it is strange, that all mankind still believe in the existence of something better than they possess, and pass most of their lives in a hopeless pursuit of happiness, convinced that they know the secret of its hiding-place.

Men of all ages have sought it, and left behind them records of experience ; but still the world groaneth and travaileth, and still the burden of its song is, “ Where may happiness be found ? ’ ’

Who is there of us that is willing to accept the experience of another? None ; no, not one. We must each of us work out the problem of life for ourselves. “ Though one rose from the dead,” yet would we not believe him.

“Happiness,” saith the shade of Epicurus, “is to be found in pleasure ; not such as arises from sensual gratification or from vice, but from the enjoyment of the mind and the sweets of virtue.”

Epicurus, retire. Perchance in Hades thou mayest be listened to, but not on this earth wilt thou find many disciples. Thou art old fashioned, my friend, retire.

“Get out of my sunshine,” growled Diogenes to Alexander. His happiness was in a tub.

o’er moor and fen.

“Happiness?” exclaim those worthy literal gentlemen, Messrs. Webster, Walker, Reid, and others. “Is it not in our dictionaries? Look under the head of H.”

Coming down to a still later date, we have Mr. Robert Weston’s opinion, as he makes his way to the water’s edge this hot August day.

“Take the Staten Island steamer!” he exclaims, with a blissful smile. “Beechcroft is the abode of happiness.” And truly, of all these varied opinions, I am most inclined to accept his, for certain it is that the dwellers at that scene of fairy beauty seemed to bask in perpetual sunshine.

Most of my readers are probably familiar with the general character of Staten Island, and to those who are not, it is sufficient to state that it is nearly oval shaped, fourteen miles in length and eight in breadth. Its shores, along the^bay of New York, are dotted with lively villages, and all over the broad range of hills that extend from the Narrows across the Island, are superb country-seats and neat farm-houses.

On one of these heights, and commanding a fine view of the bay, stood Beechcroft, with its grassy slopes as smooth and even as a piece of velvet ; its parterres of flowers, its fountains, its miniature lake, looking not unlike a huge mirror in its glassy stillness, and over and above all its magnificent woodland.

About three-quarters of a mile from the shore stood the house* a handsome modern residence, replete with all that art, taste, and wealth could furnish.

A “ porte-cochere ,” composed of massive blocks of stone, stood before the principal entrance, which opened on a large hall, tiled with variegated marbles. On the right of this hall stood a long saloon-parlor, furnished as became its grand proportions.

The large windows, opening to the ground, were gracefully o’er moor and fen.

draped with rose-colored tapestry and lace curtains. Luxurious chairs and low divans abounded. Statues, pictures, and various objects of vertu were placed here and there with artistic taste, whilst the large mirrors that covered the walls reflected and magnified the whole, so as to bewilder a stranger with all this repeated grandeur, and lead him to suppose himself in a suite of apartments all furnished precisely alike.

The corresponding space on the left was divided into two rooms, one of which was a dining-room and the other a library. Around the walls of the former, which were painted a neutral tint to form an effective background, were hung the family portraits.

From thence looked down Von Deckers of all ages, from the sere and yellow likeness of old Ulric Von Decker, the original purchaser of the Staten Island property, to the present proprietor’s eldest son, Jack, whose fashionable attire and general air “ de bon ton ” seemed to be continually putting his worthy ancestor to the blush.

The room beyond this was, as I have said, the library, and here everything was beautifully afo-arranged. All the disorder of the household reigned in this apartment. It seemed as though the animal spirits of the family had here revenged themselves for their continual restraint in other parts of the well-ordered establishment.

Elsie’s piano stood at one end of the room, and beside it hung Maude’s guitar, whilst the music for both instruments lay around%nd about, upon chairs and tables, in hopeless confusion.

Then, again, a large easel struck the eye, with a half-finished picture thereon, begun by Maude, assisted by Elsie, with some master touches here and there by Messrs. Jack, Ned, and Alfred, or, as they were better known, “the boys.”

Maude not un frequently found it necessary to explain the

O'* ER MOOR AND FEN.

original design of this picture to visitors, so many were the changes it had undergone in the hands of these various artists, and she always pathetically alluded, at the same time, to the impossibility of prosecuting the study of art in a house where there were “ boys,” whilst they, on their part, demanded to know whether “ boys ” were to be expected to resist touching a picture when left continually upon an easel, with all the paints, pallettes, brushes, etc., within easy reach, inviting them constantly to their use.

Jack, of course, smoked and hunted ; he added, therefore, as his contribution to this museum, numberless pipes, cigar-cases, and smoking-caps, not to speak of breech-loaders and pistols.

Edwin and Alfred, respectively eight and twelve years of age, had a taste for natural history, and supplied to the omnium gatherum, aquariums, large black beetles with pins run through them, snakes preserved in alcohol, and several other interesting subjects for natural science.

In this curiosity shop, which was indeed their favorite resort, were the family assembled on the morning when Roy Weston left New York, another victim to the search for happiness, and whilst we are awaiting his arrival, I may as well introduce the reader personally to the occupants of the room.

First, there is Maude, the eldest, aged twenty-three, and already considered by her younger brethren to be past the bloom of her youth.

As she sits in the recess of the large bow window, sorting her Berlin wool, or working with her small deft fingers, remarkable roses and lilies, as much unlike nature as possible, she might pass for a beautiful woman, with her yellow hair, her pale sweet face, and gentle languid motions ; but, one glance at bright Elsie as she sits just now at the piano, with a ray of sunshine, which has stolen in through the half-closed shutters, o’er moor and fen.

crowning her head with a diadem of light, and Maude ceases to be an object of attraction. In fact, she always seemed like a pale reflection of her sister, who glowed with life, light, and coloring.

Next in order comes Master Jack. This young gentleman has just reached his twenty-first birthday, but he passes for at least twenty-five. Of medium height, with eyes not unlike Elsie’s, and a quantity of wavy hair two or three shades darker than hers, it was his lazy composure on ordinary occasions, more than his appearance, that gave him the air of a much older man.

Last, though not least, in his own estimation, stands Mr. Leonard Strathmore, the heir to all the Strathmores, and proprietor of Strathmore Park — the owner, also, of a house in town, a shooting-box (on the Hudson), a drag, fast horses, and, in fact, all the luxuries of life.

It is well that he was thus endowed with artificial attractions, for personally he was utterly insignificant, and without his broad acres and their attendant revenues, he would have met with but small success in society.

At the present time he was devoting himself to Elsie; hence his appearance in the family room, and, according to his established rule of courtship, he had been singing feeble love-songs to his idol all the morning, to the secret discomfiture of Maude, and the openly expressed dissatisfaction of Master Jack, who, regardless of manners, had thrown himself upon the sofa, and from thence criticised this vocal entertainment.

Duets succeeded solos, and Elsie was straining her voice to the utmost extent, in a dismal “adieu,” Strathmore was howling a lamentable acquiescence, and Jack was groaning a double bass, when a quick, light step was heard in the hall, with a merry whistling accompaniment.

2 6 o’er moor and fen.

4 4 Thank the Lord,” exclaimed Jack, sotto voce , “here comes Bob,” and he stretched himself out at full length with a sigh of satisfaction.

The step approaches, the door opens, and enter Bob. Not a man, nor even a lad, as the reader might suppose, only a slender girl.

The loose folds of a riding-skirt hung gracefully about her, a jaunty little cap rested upon her smooth dark hair, and her sparkling blue eyes flashing with mischievous daring, slightly retroussi nose, and brilliant complexion, completed a piquant picture, which answered well to the name of “Bob.”

She ceased whistling on the threshold as her rapid glance took in the tableau at the piano, and, with an expressive look at Jack, she pointed towards it with the end of her whip, then making a little “ moue" endeavored to steal unobserved into the room.

But Elsie had already noticed her entrance, and advanced, followed by the attentive Strathmore, to greet her.

“Good-morning, Bob,” she said, whilst Maude simply nodded a welcome from her seat. “ How good of you to ride over in the heat. Will you go up to my room and change your dress before luncheon ? ’ ’

“No, thanks,” replied Bob, advancing towards Jack; “I shall do very well as I am. I only came over to make this lazy fellow get up from his sofa, where my prophetic soul told me I should find him. Go back to your seat ; do not let me interrupt the music, I beseech you. I do not think I know your young man,” she continued, in a low voice.

“ Oh, I beg your pardon,” said Elsie, in confusion ; “ Mr. Strathmore, Miss Stevenson.”

The parties thus introduced bowed formally, but without much apparent interest in each other, and the young gentleman, after o’er moor and fen.

a prolonged stare of surprise at the young lady, returned with alacrity to the piano, and the duets recommenced.

Bob, or rather, Roberta Stevenson, for such was the name given her by her “sponsors in baptism,” looked about her for a moment, hesitating as to where she should sit down, and then, as Maude took no further notice of her, and Elsie was engaged, she dropped into a chair beside the still recumbent Jack.

Maude highly disapproved of Bob’s manners, or rather her want of manners, and her general freedom of speech and action ; she, therefore, took pains to be only coldly civil to her on all occasions, lest any warmer reception should be construed by her as encouragement of her lawless ways, and her increasing intimacy with Jack, which was a cause of great uneasiness to his sister.

Although Bob was too independent to care much for her opinion, her quick intelligence led her to perceive that for some reason her company was not acceptable to Maude ; she was, therefore, very chary of intruding upon her.

But Jack had always a ready welcome for her, and thus she had accustomed herself to turn to him on occasions like the present, when there seemed no particular place assigned for her in the family.

“ How long has this been going on ? ” she inquired of Jack, as she seated herself at his side, nodding her head, as she spoke, towards Elsie.

“They have been at it since nine o’clock this morning,” groaned Jack, “and if they continue much longer, they will have an opportunity of singing my requiem.”

“ Has it come to such a pass as that? ” said Bob, laughing, and disclosing thereby two rows of pretty white pearls.

“Alas, yes,” replied Jack, “I am sinking rapidly; I shall hardly last through the next half-hour.’

o'er moor and fen.

“Is it the music or the love-making that has brought my noble boy so low ? ” asked Bob.

“It is the frightful combination,” replied Jack, in a sepulchral tone. “Either might have been borne alone, but the continuous braying of that ass Strathmore, added to the lachrymose expression of his gooseberry eyes, are rather more than even my Christian fortitude can stand.”

“Thus then we part,” sang Elsie, in a sweet treble voice.

“Thou hast my heart,”

replied Leonard’s shrill tenor.

“Just listen to them ! ” exclaimed the exasperated Jack.

“ My precious pet,” said Bob, unable to repress her merriment at his discomfiture, “ let me take you away from here. Your brain will assuredly suffer if you continue to contemplate this interesting tableau much longer. Come with me at once, if you would preserve your reason. ’ ’

“ Where will you take me ? ” grumbled Jack ; “ I would have gone away long ago, had I known where to take refuge, but their din can be heard all over the house, and I cannot make up my mind to go out while it is so confoundedly hot.”

“Was it afraid of its complexion?” said Bob, saucily. “ Ah, well, it would be a pity to burn its dear nose. Borrow a veil from Maude, or, see, I have a sunshade on the end of my whip — you shall have that to hold over your pretty face.”

“ Stop your nonsense, Bob,” replied Jack, with a grim smile. “I wish you would try the other end of that whip on Strathmore’s shoulders,” he added, as she unfurled a pretty little sunshade, which was ingeniously attached to the whip-handle, and held it up for his inspection.

O ER MOOR AND FEN.

“I would much rather use it on you,” said Bob, playfully threatening him with it. “ Get up, you lazy, good-for-nothing scamp, and come out with me, ‘ Across the fields of barley O’.”

“Not if I know myself, and I think I do,” replied Jack. “ Nothing but yourself or a salamander could stand the heat of the sun to-day, without being thoroughly cooked.”

“Yet there seems to be another human being who has survived the ordeal,” said Bob, “ for, if I am not mistaken, I hear footsteps on the river-path.”

“By Jove ! ” said Jack, after listening attentively, “ I believe there is some idiot ringing the door-bell ; but it remains to be seen whether or not he be baked brown. Girls,” he added, “ visitors.”