Doris Cheyne; the story of a noble life

Contents

CHAP. PAGE

I. UNPREPARED, 9

II. WHAT IS TO BECOME OF US ? ... 29

Chapter I Unprepared

‘When sorrows come, they come not single spies,

But in battalions I’

Shakespeare,

HAVE not consulted the girls, Uncle Penfold, but in all probability we shall elect to remain in this house. It has been our home so long, that though we shall be daily reminded of our loss, I am sure we shall all be happier here than anywhere else. Then we are surrounded by friends, whose sympathy and companionship will somewhat soften our sorrow/

Mrs. Cheyne delivered her neat little speech with a certain quiet pathos, which sat admirably upon her. She wiped her eyes with her deep black-bordered io DORIS CHEYNE,

handkerchief, and gave a gentle sigh as she looked complacently into the lawyer’s face. She had called him Uncle Penfold, but in reality he was only a distant relative, with whom they had always been on intimate terms.

At great personal inconvenience, and in wild wintry weather, he had travelled from London to the Lake country to attend the funeral of Eobert Cheyne. Perhaps, had the circumstances of his death been different, and his affairs less complicated, Jacob Penfold would have excused himself to the widow and family, and sent his condolences by post. It was pity for Emily Cheyne and her daughters that had brought him to Rydal that dreary November day.

While Mrs. Cheyne was speaking, his keen quiet eye was fixed on her pretty faded face, and there was deep compassion in that look. Emily Cheyne was a woman who could be measured almost at a glance. She was kind-hearted, affectionate, lovable, so long as all went well ; but what in the hour of trouble ? The most of us have had some experience of these butterfly natures, which the winds of adversity harden and sour, making them fretful, peevish, discontented, and wholly selfish.

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After that penetrating look Mr. Penfold dropped his eyes on the table, and fidgeted with finger and thumb among certain documents lying thereon. The task before him was not pleasant; shrewd, hard-headed man of business though he was, Jacob Penfold at that moment wished himself a thousand miles away from the Swallows’ Nest.

‘Did Kobert speak much of his affairs before he died, Mrs. Cheyne ? ’ he asked at length.

‘ Dear me, no ! You need scarcely ask. It was all so dreadfully sudden. How could he have any time to speak or think of wills or such things; a man in the prime of life, and who never had a day’s illness in his life ? But, of course, he always intended that I should get everything. Yes, he had every confidence in me, and we were very happy,’ said Mrs. Cheyne, and her tears fell afresh.

Mr. Penfold fidgeted yet more nervously with the papers on the table. In what words, he wondered, should he acquaint this unconscious, self-satisfied woman with the stern fact that her future, instead of being, as she fondly imagined, one of ease and affluence, must be darkened immediately by the shadows of poverty and care ?

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‘You are not aware, then, that he speculated largely during the last years of his life?’ he asked gravely.

‘ No ; I knew nothing about Robert’s business affairs. He never troubled me with them. It was his constant aim to keep me in ease and freedom from care. He was indeed the best of husbands/

Emily Cheyne was sincere in the tribute she paid to her dead husband. He had indeed sheltered and cared for her very tenderly. Had he been less solicitous for her absolute ease, she might have been better prepared for her fallen fortunes.

‘May I ask your attention for a few minutes, Emily, while I endeavour to explain this unhappy business to you as simply as possible ? * said the lawyer, in his calm, grave, professional manner. Arrested by his words and looks, Mrs. Cheyne dried her eyes, and fixed them, in soft bewilderment, on his face. Mr. Penfold did not like that look ; there was no strength of character, no firmness of will in it. He feared the result of the communication he was about to make.

‘ You know well enough, I think/ he began, ‘ that I never approved of Robert retiring from business in

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*3 his prime. A man who has been long accustomed to an active life cannot live in idle seclusion. Either he must get some engrossing hobby to ride, or he will fall into mischief. I am sorrow to say, that the demon of speculation — it is nothing less — got possession of Eobert ; and to my certain knowledge, he risked his means often in a foolish and wicked manner. I frequently remonstrated with him, but it was of no avail. You know that he was a man who would have his own way, who would go the full length of his tether, if I may so put it. That was his weakness/

Mrs. Cheyne drew herself up a little, resenting the tone in which the lawyer spoke of her late husband.

* I really don’t know what you mean by all this tirade against my dear husband, Mr. Penfold, ’ she said stiffly. * On the very day of the funeral, too ! It is as extraordinary as it is unkind/

‘ I am trying to prepare you for what I have to tell you, Emily,’ said the lawyer quietly. ‘ I suppose I had better out with it plainly, or you will not understand me. Briefly, then, Eobert’s death is a greater calamity even than you have imagined, for he has left next to nothing. It will be impossible

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for you to live in anything like the style to which you have been accustomed.’

As he spoke he glanced suggestively round the handsomely - furnished room in which they stood. It was the library of the house, and contained not only expensive furniture, but a large and valuable collection of hooks. Eobert Cheyne had had his fine tastes ; well for the helpless women he had left had he been content with these.

‘ There must be some mistake,’ said Emily Cheyne incredulously. ‘ Eobert made a great deal of money in business ; quite a fortune in fact, and he bought the Swallows’ Nest. It is impossible that his money can be all gone already. We have been only six years here; we came on Eose’s eleventh birthday, and she will be sixteen next week.’

‘It is quite true, Emily. I only wish it were less so. These rash speculations on the Stock Exchange have not only swallowed up the hardwon earnings of a lifetime, they have cost him his life. There cannot be a doubt that anxiety undermined his constitution, and prepared the way for the shock under which he succumbed. Don’t think me harsh and cruel, Emily. I do feel for

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you ; but I cannot help my indignation at . Robert’s folly.’

4 What are we to do, Uncle Penfold ? Explain it again,’ said Mrs. Cheyne very pitifully. She had received a great shock.

‘You’ll need to leave this place, and your girls will need to turn their hands to work. It will be their duty and privilege now to make you feel the difference as little- as possible.’

‘ Is it so bad as that ? Are we beggars, Uncle Penfold ? ’

‘After all just claims are settled, there will be very little left,’ answered the lawyer candidly.

‘ But there is the house. Robert paid three thousand pounds for it. If we sell it, that will be something,’ said the widow eagerly.

Mr. Penfold shook his head.

‘ It is no longer yours, Emily. I question if even you will be allowed to claim the furniture.’

‘ This is terrible!’ said Emily Cheyne, with a kind of wail. ‘ What is to become of us ? ’

‘ You must not despair, Emily. There are five strong young women up-stairs who ought to, and I would fain hope will, bear the burden for you,’ said

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the lawyer practically. ‘ They will have a chance now to redeem the time, and to make good account of the means their father spent so lavishly on their education and accomplishments. There are many who have less to fall back upon/

Mrs. Cheyne wrung her hands. No face ever wore a more pitifully helpless expression than hers did at that moment.

4 You are quite sure there is no mistake, Uncle Tenfold ? ’

‘ I only wish I were less sure/ was the grave reply. ‘ I need not assure you, Emily, that you may rely upon any assistance I may have it in my power to offer you. I am not a rich man. I have pursued my business in the old slow beaten tracks where no fortunes are made. But I will do my best for you. I must return to London to-morrow, but I shall be glad to answer any communication you may address to me after you have consulted with your daughters ; and if I can do any good by coming back again, I shall come/

Mrs. Cheyne did not acknowledge the lawyer’s offer of assistance. I am not sure even that she heard it. She walked away out of the room without

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uttering another word, and left her adviser to his own meditations. He stood for a few minutes in the same attitude, absently fingering the papers before him, his face wearing an expression of deep thought. Jacob Penfold was indeed perplexed regarding the future of the six helpless women up-stairs.

He was not, however, long left to his ruminations, for he heard the sound of horses’ hoofs on the approach, and presently the loud ring at the hall bell sent its deep echoes resounding through the silent house. Shortly thereafter the library door was opened, and a gentleman shown in. Mr. Penfold looked up quickly, and then returned, with some stiffness perhaps, the bow and bland smile with which the intruder favoured him. He recognised the face as one he had observed among the mourners at the burying -ground a few hours before.

4 Afternoon, sir,’ said the stranger affably. * Coldish day.’

‘Very,’ was the lawyer’s brief reply. ‘But it is seasonable. We look for wintry weather in November.’

‘So we do, we do,’ said the stranger, nodding 2 i8

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complacently. ‘ I’d better introduce myself, I suppose. My name is Hardwicke, sir; Josiah Hardwicke of Hardwicke Manor, at your service. An intimate friend of the deceased, and a sincere sympathizer with the bereaved family.’

The lawyer gravely bowed.

* My name is Penfold,’ he said, but made no effort to sustain a conversation. He was, indeed, not greatly drawn towards the Squire of Hardwicke Manor. Certainly his appearance was not prepossessing. He was a short, squat man, with a bald head, and a fat, sleek, complacent face, adorned by bushy grey whiskers. He was well dressed in the garb of a country squire, and had a great quantity of jewellery about him, his fat hands being ablaze with brilliant rings. He presented a great contrast indeed to the slender, spare, meeklooking little lawyer, whose appearance would never attract the slightest attention anywhere.

Mr. Hardwicke had about him an air of easy selfsatisfaction and complacency, which seemed to indicate that his position was assured, and that the word care had no meaning for him. But though his outward expression was one of affable good-

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nature, he had a keen, hard eye, with a peculiarly cunning gleam, which did not commend itself to the discriminating observation of Jacob Penfold.

‘ You are a connection of poor Cheyne’s, I believe,’ he said, by way of passing the time, while he waited a message from the ladies. * Very sudden for him, wasn’t it ? ’ he added, rubbing his large fat hands complacently together. * He was a fine fellow, Bob ; pity he got so foolish latterly. Fact is, Mr. Penfold, few folks can work the Stock Exchange to advantage. It requires a life-long apprenticeship, and even then, unless you’re uncommonly sharp, you’ll likely be nipped. I was born speculating, so to speak — for my father was a stockbroker, and he taught me all the tips he knew. Then I picked up a lot for myself, being rather wide-awake, so I’ve made a pretty good thing out of it, but it was very different with poor Bob Cheyne.’

‘ You say you were intimate with him, Mr. Hardwicke. Did you never try to show him his folly ? ’

* Didn’t I, just ! ’ said Mr. Hardwicke, with a grin. ‘ I was always at him, but, bless me, it was no use. If Bob Cheyne was anything, he was self-willed, and

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so it has all come to an end. Do you know what they are saying up at Ambleside ? * he added, lowering his voice. ‘ They’re hinting that he didn’t die a natural death. That when he knew how bad things had turned out, he took his own life. Do you suppose that's true, now ? ’

* No, I don’t ; it’s a vile calumny, just like the tittle-tattle of these little places,’ exclaimed the lawyer hotly. ‘I was particular in my inquiries, and that fine young fellow, the surgeon at Grasmere, assured me he died of syncope and failure of the heart’s action, due to intense excitement. No, sir; Eobert Cheyne was not such a coward as that.’

‘ Very glad to hear it, I’m sure, for the sake of the poor ladies up-stairs,’ said Mr. Hardwicke, not in the least ruffled by the lawyer’s frowning brows and indignant voice. * Fine woman, Mrs. Cheyne, and fine girls, particularly fine girls every one of them. Fact is, where there are so many pretty flowers in the bouquet, it’s not easy to know which to admire most, eh, Mr. Penfold ? ’

Mr. Penfold’s face assumed an expression of intense disgust. He felt much inclined to order the affable squire out of the house. What right

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liad this vulgar, self-satisfied, impertinent man to intrude at such an unseasonable time ?

* So there’s nothing left ? ’ continued the squire more soberly, seeing his little pleasantly had fallen rather flat. ‘ Pity for the old lady and the young ones. But I guess more than one of them have good cards to play, if they only play them out careful. That’s the whole secret of success in life. I always say it’s just like a rubber at whist. Play out your trumps in due course, and you’ll swim into fortune ; play ’em wrong, and the game’s up.’

‘ You appear to have studied the game of life, Mr. Hardwick e,’ said Jacob Penfold, with mild sarcasm.

* So I have, or I wouldn’t be where I am to-day, as snug as I can be at the Manor. It’s a fine place, though I say it, but for that matter you will get plenty to endorse my statement. If you are making a stay, I’ll be glad to see you over to a knife and fork. I’ll promise you as good a drop of Madeira as ever you tasted in your life.’

‘Thank you, sir, but I return to London by an early train to-morrow.’

‘ Eh well, another time, perhaps, I may have the pleasure,’ said the squire affably. * But to return to

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the ladies. I was in earnest about the cards, Mr. Penfold. Young Windridge, the surgeon, of whom you spoke so favourably a minute ago, — though I must say he is an upsetting young ass, — is as sweet as he can be on Miss Miriam. They say she’s the beauty, but give me Miss — Eh well, my girl, what message ? ’ he broke off suddenly, as a servant appeared at the door.

* Mrs. Cheyne’s compliments, sir, and she is sorry she will not be able to see Mr. Hardwicke to-day ; but if he will take the trouble to call to-morrow, she will be glad to see him.’

‘ All right, my girl. My compliments to your mistress, and I’ll ride over to-morrow morning, about eleven. Good evening, Mr. Penfold. Happy to meet you, sir. Hope we may have the pleasure of becoming better acquainted some day.’

The lawyer thanked him, but did not re-echo the hope. When he was again left alone, he walked to the window and watched the squire mount his beautiful thoroughbred, and ride away. When he was out of sight, the lawyer left the room, and, taking his hat from the rack, went out of doors. As he passed out he could hear the sound of excited

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voices in the drawing-room, and again that look of deep and kindly compassion came upon his face. Jacob Penfold was sincerely sorry for the helpless women upon whom the burden of Eobert Cheyne’s folly had so cruelly fallen.

He drew a breath of relief as he stepped out to the gravelled sweep before the door, and stood still a moment, looking about him somewhat sadly. Even in the subdued grey light of that wintry afternoon, it was a lovely and desirable place, the home where Eobert Cheyne had expected to pass so many happy years. The house, a long low building of only one storey, but possessing large accommodation, was built upon the brow of a hill which looked down upon the little hamlet of Eydal and the quiet still waters of Eydal Mere. It was sheltered on every side by noble trees, which, though now bare and leafless, still broke the fierceness of such winds as found their way into that sheltered vale. The ample grounds were tastefully laid out, and made the house perfectly secluded, although the approach was not long, and opened upon the public road.

Jacob Penfold looked about him with a sigh, and then began to walk slowly along the avenue towards

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the pretty entrance-gate. Then, with a kindly nod to the lodge-keeper’s little hoy, who ran out to open it for him, he sauntered out to the road and turned his steps down the hill.

The descent from the Swallows’ Nest to the high road was like the approach to a mansion-house, so evenly and closely were the trees planted, with their great boughs interlacing overhead. There were lowsloping green banks on either side, which in the spring and summer were covered with the bloom of the sweet wild-flowers which grow in such profusion in the district. They were bare and bleached now with the wild rains which had ushered in drear November, and the sodden leaves lay thickly under foot. It was one of those still, grey, chilly days when the air seems soundless, as if some dead weight oppressed it — not a pleasant day to be in the country. Yet Jacob Penfold enjoyed it after his own quiet fashion, and saw beauties in the grey November landscape which might have escaped a less observant eye. When he reached the high road he crossed it at once, and cutting through a narrow belt of trees, found himself at the edge of Eydal Water. It was like a dead thing ; there was no ripple on its breast.

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nor a motion among the tall reeds standing so solemnly erect at its edge, yet it reflected the leaden sky and the green slopes of the encircling hills.

The silence was almost oppressive; and when suddenly he heard the quick sharp click of horses’ hoofs approaching from the direction of Ambleside, the solitary stroller almost started. He retraced the few steps to the road, feeling a trifle curious, perhaps, to see the horseman.

‘ Good evening, Mr. Penfold,’ cried a cheery voice, even before Mr. Penfold had recognised the grey cob and its rider. * Contemplating the mystic beauty of Rydal Mere ? Rather dreary work on such a night ? '

* Rather/ answered the lawyer, and stepped on to the road while the horseman drew rein. He was a young fellow of six or seven-and-twenty, with a wellbuilt manly figure and a strong decided cast of face, redeemed from harshness by the mobile mouth and the kindly gleam of the honest grey eye. He wore a tweed suit and cap and a pair of top-boots, and looked more like a young squire or a gentleman farmer than a professional man. Such was Gabriel

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Windridge, surgeon, assistant to the oldest practitioner in Grasmere.

* It is a pity you had not seen our classic ground in more propitious weather, Mr. Penfold, ’ continued the surgeon. ‘But perhaps it may improve before you return to town/

‘That is hardly likely, as I return to-morrow morning/ answered the lawyer. ‘ But this is not my first visit to Bydal/

‘ I suppose not. I have just been at Ambleside, Mr. Penfold. Forgive me for repeating a rumour I heard there ; hut is it true that the poor ladies up yonder/ he said, nodding towards the Swallows’ Nest, ‘ are left in straits ? *

‘ Quite true, Mr. Windridge ; they will be nearly penniless/

The surgeon whistled. Perhaps it was out of place, the subject being grave, but it was a boyish habit he had never rid himself of, and somehow it did not sit ill upon him.

‘ I am very sorry to hear it, sir/ he said at length, and his honest eyes confirmed his words. ‘What will become of them ? *

‘ They’ll need to work, poor things/ returned the

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lawyer briefly. * It’ll be hard upon them at first, but they are not without resources. They are accomplished girls, I believe.’

* They are, exceptionally so ; but being accomplished for pleasure and for necessity are two different things. It is no kindness to children, Mr. Penfold, to rear them without any preparation for the vicissitudes of life. There are so many.*

‘ Ho, it is not right. It is wrong and wicked, but I daresay poor Eobert Cheyne never looked at it in that light. Poor fellow, he was a most devoted husband and father. These women ought to revere his memory in spite of this.’

The surgeon did not at once reply. Looking at his fine face, which seemed just then wonderfully softened, Jacob Penfold recalled Mr. Hardwicke’s words about Miriam, and decided that she was a lucky girl. He had not met any one for a long time who attracted him as Gabriel Windridge had done that day.

* I hope some way will be opened up. It would be a shame if they should be made to feel the sting of poverty/ he said presently, and with slightly heightened colour. ‘Well, I must go ; good-bye, Mr. Penfold/

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‘ Good-bye, Mr. Windridge ; I hope to -meet you again. I like you ; there is no nonsense about you/ said the- lawyer frankly, as he warmly clasped the outstretched hand. ‘ If you hear that rumour about poor Cheyne’s end, you’ll contradict it, I am sure/

‘ Of course I will, flatly. It has no foundation in fact. I know who set it abroad; a man whose mouth it is impossible to stop. Perhaps you know him — Hardwicke of the Manor ? *

The lawyer nodded.

‘Yes, I know him. Thank you. It will be well if the rumour doesn’t spread. It would be a pity if the widow and the girls heard it. Good-bye/

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‘Remember in that perilous hour,

When most afflicted and oppressed,

From labour there shall come forth rest.*

Longfellow.

HE drawing-room at the Swallows’ Nest was a pretty and luxurious apartment, and had that homely, comfortable look which a room acquires when it is much occupied. The furnishings were in the best of taste, and there were many specimens of art, both in needlework and painting, which told that Mr. Cheyne’s daughters had employed some of their leisure for the adorning of their home.

They were all in the drawing-room that November afternoon, waiting for their mother to come up to tea. On the skin rug before the cheerful fire Eosamond

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(commonly called Eosie) was stretched at full length, deep in the pages of a story - hook. As yet Eosie Cheyne had had no grief heavy enough to refuse consolation in the magic pen of fiction. She was the youngest of the flock, and the pet, because of her happy, sunshiny temperament, her unfailing goodnature and unselfishness ; she was indeed a sunbeam in the house. She was not particularly pretty, being of short stature, and having a round, red, comical face. Her hair was her one beauty ; it hung in a thick brown plait down her back, and had a sheen like gold upon it. Sitting quite near to her, so near indeed that the black folds of her dress sometimes interfered with the turning of the pages, sat the eldest sister Miriam. Mr. Hardwicke had spoken truly when he alluded to her as the beauty ; there could be no comparison between her and any of her sisters. I do not know that I shall try to describe her, for when each item is written down, what have we, after all ? We cannot express in words the Eving grace and charm with which every look and movement of a beautiful woman is instinct. Miriam Cheyne was quite conscious of her great beauty ; she knew her own power well. On an ottoman almost in the

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centre of the room the third and fourth daughters, Josephine and Kitty, were poring together over the pages of a fashion journal

Josephine was tall, and pale, and slender, with a strong look of her mother about her. Her movements were indolent and languid, her manner indifferent, as if she had little interest in anything. Josephine being delicate in her childhood, had been much indulged, and was consequently selfish and exacting, and rather fretful in her ways. She presented a striking contrast to the frank-faced, merry-eyed girl beside her. Josephine was a refined and even distinguished-looking young woman, Kitty one of the most ordinary and commonplace ; but very often the commonplace girl is much the better and sweeter companion with whom to walk through life. Kitty Cheyne was a general favourite, perhaps because she was invariably natural and unaffected. She was accustomed to speak her mind, and to act accordingly.

Josephine was more discreet, and sometimes found if to her advantage to hold her tongue.

A little apart from the rest, standing in the sidewindow which commanded a fine view of the sweet vale of Grasmere, stood the second daughter, Doris

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Cheyne, the heroine of my story. Perhaps nobody ever looked less like a heroine than Doris Cheyne, or more uninteresting than she did at that moment.

The sombre mourning gown, so exquisitely becoming to Miriam’s delicate beauty, seemed to make Doris’s sallow face darker in hue, and her hands larger and redder than usual. There was no reason why Doris should have such hands. She had never been placed in the interesting position of a household Cinderella, she had never swept or dusted a room, or washed a tea-cup in her life. The same dressmaker who took such delight in the gracious curves of Miriam’s perfect figure was in despair over Doris. Her clothes never fitted, and there she was, to the ordinary observer not half so attractive as the smart housemaid who had just brought in the tray for afternoon tea. Mrs. Cheyne was wont to sigh when she spoke of Doris, and to refer to her as * a trial.’ Poor Doris ! Sometimes she was a trial to herself. But had you looked into Doris’s eyes just then, as they were fixed with a wild passion of yearning on the low-lying mistenveloped roofs of Grasmere, you would probably have forgotten all about the awkward figure, the red hands, the sallow face, and the stern, resolute mouth ;

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because you would have seen in their troubled depths the unspeakable longings of a woman’s noble soul.

There had not been any talk in the room for some time, except Josephine and Kitty’s low- voiced discussion of the fashion plates. Kitty was deeply interested in the new clothes which their bereavement demanded, and she did not think it heartless to wonder what new winter shapes of hats and jackets Jay would send for their approval. Doris thought it strange that they could bear to think about the symbols of their sorrow, much less to discuss and plan how they should be made ; but then Doris was not quite like other women. Had she been better favoured, perhaps her interest in gowns might have been livelier than it was.

Kitty glanced once or twice at her, wondering, perhaps, how she could stand so long motionless in the cold window, but she did not address any remark to her. As a rule, Doris did not take much part in her sisters’ talk ; she seemed to live outside of their circle, and she was seldom consulted on any domestic or social question.

‘ What can mamma and Uncle Penfold be talking, about all this time, I wonder ? ’ said Miriam at length

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seeming to awake suddenly from a reverie. * Don’t you think we might have tea, girls ? *

4 Oh, yes ; do let us have tea,’ cried Kitty, quite relieved. 4 When do you suppose the old creature means to depart ? ’