The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, December 25, 1896, Page 24

THE SAT\} FERANCISCO CALL, FRIDAY. DECEMBER 25, 1896. PROLOGUE. 4F you marry him, by the Lord, I tell you, I will never call you daughter of mine again!’’ cried the Squire. eanor Carteret looked at her father with proud indignation in her handsome eyes. Sbe was a tall, dark girl, splendidly handsome, and v bair was s raven black, his face rugged and deeply lined, while hers was jair and young. But their war of stand- ing was alike; their eyes flashed under coal black brows with the same wild light; the father’s haughty curve of nostril and | lip were repeated in the features of the daughter. No wonder, then, that when the two strong wills clashed there should be revelt on the one side and fury on the | She had never known a shadow of nt or autbor for her mother had died when she was born and the Squire, John Carteret of Moorsholme, had adored her and sporlt her from her babyhood. It was too late now, when she was one and twenty, to put on the curb’ aud draw the rein; she had always taken her own way and she meant to take it now. She was very musical, and during the last few months she had been staying with | a friend in London, in order to take les- | s of a well-known professor. | It seemed | that this professor, havinz many engage- | ments, sometimes deputed his work to an assistant, who was a clever musician, | juite capable of giving lessons on bis own acconnt. Unfortunately he gave lessons in other things besides music—lessons in ove, forinstance. He had caused Eieanor | Carteret to attach herself to him so pas- sionately that she had come straight | home to announce to her father that she meant to marry the music-master, Lance- lot Hervey, no one else. “1t is only fair to tell you what I mean 1o do,” she had said in her haughty way. “[ will disown you—disinherit you,” 4 old Mr. Carteret, violently. *I will | cut you off with a shilling.” “And let Moorsholme go to the Rush- tons, I suppose?” The Rushtons were distant cousins, | nearly the only relatives that the Squire possessed, and whom he cordially dis-| liked. “I would sooner it went to the Rush- | tons than to a beggarly music-master and | his chilaren,” cried the Squire. “Very well,” said Eleanor; “I do not mind what becomes ot Moorsholme—" | “You do not mind what becomes of it!"” gasped the father. To him Moorsholme | was as the apple of his eye. ] “Not in comparison with the manI love. I mean to marry Lancelot Hervey and share his povert: “Then ycu go to the devill” cried the old man in farious anger. e “Oh, no,” said Eleanor, quite calmiy; “‘we shall only go to America.” She thought that he was going to strike | her for this flippant reply, and for a mo- ment she queiled before the expected blow, but it did not come. The Squire’s hana had been lifted, certainly, but it sank to his side, and he turned away without | another word. .A thought of Eleanor’s mother, whom he had fondly loved, came | between him and his anger. If she had thrown bherself upon his neck at that moment and besought him to forzive her he might even have been won reluctantly to consent to her desire. For, in spite of his violence and his gustsof sudden anger, John Carteret was very soft of heart. But Eleanor was of 2 proud nature, as all the Carterets had been, and she would not go one step to meet her father, al- though he might be on the very point of giving way. She waited for him to yield and he would not yield. He said no more jor the moment, but on a future occasion he reiterated his threat, with less violence but more obstinacy, that he would no longer consider Eleanor his daughter if she married without his permission. Eleanor, of course, took his own way. She left the house openly one day, saying that she was going back to London. Ina short time the announcement followed of her marriage to Lancelot Hervey, and then she dropped out of her old friends’ ken. Her father refused to speak of her; but 1t was noticed that his hair changed {rapidly from gray to white, and the neigh- bors said amonz themselves that the disobedient daughter was breaking her father’s heart. But, on the other hand, Mr. Carteret continued hale ana hearty. He strode about his land as usunal and seemed as much interested as ever in the state of stock and the condition of politi In these recpects he was quite like him- self, and possibly he was not the sort of man to sit down quietly with a broken heart. He was too vigorous, too young in spirit to be easily broken down. And he was also very vindictive. When the clergyman of the parish spoke to-him about his daughter he refuded to.listen. He forbade her name to be mentionéd in his bouse. He would not open the letters that came to him from her. Five years passed without any sign of ‘relenting ‘on his side. Then came a curious change, Oneday Eleanor Hervey walked up the " avenue to Moorsholme ‘Hall ‘with a baby in her arms and a little child clinging to her gown. She was greatly changed— pale, thin, worn, but with' the old'stately grace of bearing and the-proud turn of her head. She was dressed in 'shabby black, but not in widow’s weeds, and she certzinly did not wear the look of grief and loss which is peculiar 40-a recently made widow. She came rapidly up the | steps of the great front door, rang the | bell and asked for Mr. Carteret. Thé man who opened the door did not know her by sight. “Yes, ma'am, he is at home. name shall I say, ma’am?”’ I am his daughter,” said Eleanor, ab- ruptly. “Is be in bis study? Then you need not announce me; I will go in.” The man tried to stop her by a feeble remonstrance, but Eleanor waved him aside and walked with a firm step toward the study door. She entered and closed it behind her, leaving the man outside in a state of the greatest tre_pidntion and alarm, The Squire was sitting in an armchair What | if you do not make him your keir, by the fire. He had a newspaper in his hand, but did not seem to be reading. He was looking at the red embers and dream- ing perhaps of other days. When Eleanor walked into the room and stood before him hedid not rise, but gazed at her as if he was dreaming and spoke in alow, ab- stracted tone. you have come back?"’ he said. “Yes, I have come back,” said Eleanor. “And these are my two children.” She stood like a statue before him, with the baby in her arms and the little girl hiding her face in a frightened way in the folds of her mother’s dress. The autumn wind howled in the chimney and shook the branches of the trces in the avenue, while a dash of ramn against the window added another eound of desolation to the desolate day. The Squire pressed the newspaper firmly down upon his knees and seemed to awake to the exigencies of the situation. “I do not know what you have come back for,” he said, with a menacing growl in his voice, “and I suppose you are aware that you are no daughter of mine—that I have cast you off forever.” “Yes, I suppose so,” said Eleanor, calmly. *“But these are your grand- children. Have you cast them off, too?” The Squire muttered something which she could not catch. She was removing the veil and other wrappings from her baby’s face. *‘This is the boy,” she said. *“I called him John Carteret, after you. He can drop the Hervey, if you like, when heis olaer. He ought to be provided for, even And this is the girl: Aary, after my mother. It was a sort of pleasure to me to call my children by your name and hers,” “Where is your husband?’ asked the Squire, abruptly. *Ido not know.” ‘‘He has left you?” She met his gaze unflinchingly., “Yes. He left me—for another woman. He has gone away with her—1I don’t know where he hasgone. Ishall never see him again.” “So—now thas you have met with the due reward of your undutifulness,’”’ said Mr. Carteret bitterly, ‘‘vou think you can quarter yourself and your children upon me, as if you had been the most obedient daughter in the world!” “No,” she answered, still occupying herself with the baby’s wraps, “no—I do not. Iam going back to London to earn my living by teaching music. And, if you ke, I will take Mary—Molly I call her— back with me. But I can’tearn enough for all three of us. Look at them; they are much too pale and thin. They will die of slow starvation in the horrible Lon- don fogs”—there was a note of passion in her voice—‘“and I cannot bear to see it any longer. I have brought them here— | Mra. Vinton could take care of them—and Jack is a big fellow now, nezrly 18 months old; he will flourish in the fine fresh air and the dear old country place.”” The Squire rose to his feet. He was moved, but it was evident that he did not wish to show his emotion. He spoke hoarsely, and the hoarseness made his voice sonund harsh. ‘Leave them here, if you will,” he said. “Jack, as you call him—of course he is my = Z == > 2 s beir. Itis better for him to be brought i b up at Moorsholme. But why should you go away?”’ “I? You told me that I was never to consider myself your daughter again.” “I don’t take back my word. ask you to consider yourself my daughter, did I? All I ask of you is tostay and look after your own children. It would be better than leaving them to Mrs. Vin- cent.” “I see. You offer me the post of their nurse,” said Eleanor, a little bitterly. The Squire brought his hand down on the table beside him with a resounding | blow. “—— it, no!” he cried angrily. *‘Be mistress of the house, do anything vou like, only—stay !’ He did not offer her forgiveness. Well, | she had not asked for it. She stood for a moment almost stunned by the novelty of | the proposal. She was to come back to the old home, where she had once been | 4 il Idid not | = @é@TQ@@fifi:\\, i | Eleanor pressed her baby closer to her breast and said no more. Presently the Squire came back from the window and rang the bell sharply. “Send Mrs. Vincent here,” he said to the man who appeared. And when Mrs. Vincent, resplendent in black silk as be- came an old and trusted housekeeper, entered the room, he turned to her with a few curt words: *Mrs. Vincent, here is Mrs. Hervey, who has come to stay. Please see that she wants for nothing and make the chil- dren comfortable.” He left the room without a further glance or word, and Mrs. Vincent hastened to embrace the children and to express, in rather a flattering voice, the pleasura that it gave her to see her own dear Eleanor once more. All this was when Jack was a baby, and Moily only 4 years old. Since then, three years had come and gone, but the Squire and his daughter were not yet reconciled, Suddenly the Younger Man Gave Way and Went Down Like a Log. her father’s idol; she was to come back with authority, with a position, with all the privileges of weaith and station, but without reconciliation. She wasto live as a stranger in her father’s house; as its mistress, verbaps, as he had said, but | still as a stranger; for the children’s sake. Coula she do it? Could she bear to meet her father every day upon these terms? Yes, for the children’s sake she could do anything. She suddenly felt how hard it would be for her to leave them; how she would perscpally have preferred starva- tion witn Molly and Jack to living upon ber father’s charity. Forit was charity, of that she felt stre; charity and conven- ience—not love. Neverthelese, for the children’s sake, she would do it. She turned to her father with pale lips and gleaming eyes. “If you wish me to stay with my chil- dren,” she said, “I will stay.” “'Stay, then,” growled the Squire, with rugzged emphasis, and turning away from her he went to the window and looked out through the rain-washed panes. although they:lived in the same house, and saw each other every day. CHAPTER 1. “It will be a white Christmas this year,” said old Gaffer Jones, shaking his hoary head. “And isn’t a white one better nor a green one, Gaffer?” said the landlord of the George, as he brought his guest a brimming tankard, and placed it careiully on the table at the old man’s side. “‘A green Christmas makes a fat churchvard, so I've heerd tell.” “I shouldn't think you often had a very green Christmas in this part of the world,”” said a stranger’s voica, “It's too bitterly cold for that.” The men turned their heads and looked at him. He had drawn up a chair to the fire, and sat cowering cver it, with his hands spread out to the blaze. His back was turned to the company, but even his shoulders looked chilly. His black hair was wet with ‘melted snow, as much as | pale, and his hands shook as he held them to the fire, There was a moment’s silence. Then one of the men spoke. “You be from the soutb, surely, mas- ter?” “Why s0?” said the stranger sharply. “Because you be so weakly like. We folk i’ the mnorth don’t feel the cold like that.” *“Weakly I'’ cried the stranger, suddenly sitting erect and throwing his long wet hair back from his ghastly face. There was a fierce gleam in his eyes. “You're the first man that has éver said so.”” He sprang to his feet, squared his shoulders and clenched his firsts. ‘‘Come on, every man of you. You shall feel whether I'm weakiy or not. I’ve fought half a dozen men, one after the other, ten times stronger than any of you. I’'m not afraid of you.” Then he dropped back into his chair and panted for breath. The short gasps made a painful commentary on his war- like words. ‘‘Steady, lad!” said the landlord at last. “Nobedy wants to fight thee that I can see. Have a drop o’ summat to drink, and don’t quarrel wi’ peaceable folk like us.” Receiving no answer, he fetched a tum- bler of strong brandy and water and set it beside the stranger, who turned peevishly away from him and relapsed into his bend- ing position with his elbows on his knees and his hands over his face. Seeing that he did not intend to speak, the company began to exchange remarks among them- selves on various topics, partly from love of gossip in general, and partly from a feeling of delicacy which suggested that the stranger would feel more comfortable if he were not noticed. They were not quick enough to observe that he grad- ually changed bis position a little, and lowered his hands so as to hear better the conversation that went on. ~lt would not have occurred to them that he was likely to take any intersst in their talk about local things and local people. *‘f see the Squoire to-day,” said one of them, puffing a great cloud from his pipe, “and he say to me, ‘It be goin’ to be a white Christmas, Giles. Thee mun look after the beasts,” says he.’’ “Ay, Squoire be main takken up wi’ his beasts,” said another voice, “but it moight be better if he thought less o’ them an’ moor of his oan foalk.” “Don’t he think of his own folk, then?"” piped a shriller voice. It wasthatof a young man newly come to the place, who sometimes betrayed what his compeers thought a shocking ignorance of the tra- ditions of the neighborhood. *“Why, surely tha knows, Simon Com- bermere,”” said one of the older men very slowly, “that Squoire and his daughter don’t scarce speak, although they live i’ the same house and has their meals at same table?” “Eh! you don’t say so. And how’s that?” inquired the younger man. ¢Miss El'nor married against her fey- ther's will—and that’s th’ long an’ short o’ the matter,’”” said his informant. *‘A harum-scarum, good-for-nought chap by ail I've heerd, an’ went off to Ameriky with her—" “Then he's dead, I reckon?’ said the newcomer. “Doan’t go so fast, young man. Dead? I lay twould be a good thihg if he was dead. Didn’t Miss El'nor come back wi’ two bonay children of her own, her man having run off an’ deserted her in Amer- iky? Thats what it was; deserted her, he did, the ill-doing rogue, and left her to addle her bread for hersen.” The stranger in the chair before the fire stirred uneasily; it seemed almost as though he, too, wanted to ask a question. Baut the shrill-voiced young man broke in before him, and he once more dropped his face upon his hands. “Did the Squire let his own daughter work for ber bread, then? Eh, but Idon’t wonder that you say he don’t care for his own folk,” ““Tha goes so fast, Simon Combermere,”’ said Gaffer Jones peevishiy. “I doubt but thy feet isn’t so nimble as thy wits, by all accounts. Hold tha tongue for a bit, and a’ll tell tha, Squoire didn’t knaw nought of what his daughter doing till she coom to the hall wi' the two childr:n, one in her arm, an’ one clinging on to her gown. My boy was gardener at the time, and he see her come. Many’s the time he’s towd could be seen of the side-face was ghastly me—eh, neighbors?’ /) 7 ‘/’//‘ PIGTURESQUE GOUNTRY ROA y HIS picture is from a photograph taken a few hundred feet south of the Almshouse gate. It isa view > to delight all lovers of nature, notwithstanding it Jis only a short distance from the busy life of the metropolis. At this point the beautiful eucalyptus trees form an archway overhead, and beneath it == = ES = - ——— o= o —— = D WITHIN THE | That's true, Gaffer,” and “Eb, that's reet,” was echoed in various tones around the room. Eyidently Gaifer Jones had some reputation as a narrator. “And in she goes to Squoire’s room, as my son tells me,” continued the old man, raising his voice a little, ‘‘and says to him: ‘Here am I back again, with my two bonny bairns, an’ my leyther’s the proper person to take us in.’ An’ Squoire, he says: & “*You may live here wi’ your two bairns if you like, but we hain’t friends,” says he, ‘any the more for that, an’ we'll speak ss little as possible, because I can't forgive ’ee for being such a aisobedient daughter unto me.’” By what method this story had got abroad no one was ever able to ascertain; perhaps a servant had listened at the door, perhaps the housekeeper had performed the process known as “putting' two a'nd two together.” Atany rate this version of Eleanors Hervey’s relations with her father had obtained full credit in the vil- lage, and was, on the whole, substantially correct. “Tut, tut, tut!” said Simon Comber- mere. ‘‘But that do seem & little hard upon the young lady, do it not?” “Squoire knaws his oan business best,” said Gaffer Jones, loftily. *‘Miss El'nor were a fine young woman, but she had a will of her own and woulan’t hear a word from any one. It’s her turn, maybe, to bow her head an’ feel the touch o’ bit an’ bridle now.” “Squire be good to her i’ th’ main, how- ever,” said another of the guests. “She’s welcoms to th’ best of everything in th’ house, and has her way wi’ th’ servants, and all.” “And he fair worships th’ bairns,” said the landlord. ‘*Many a time I see him go past, with one or other hanging on to his hahd, and sometimes one on each side. Young Master Jack now, he can lord it over every one, same as his grandf'er, and Squire likes to see it, too. An’then Motly, every one knows as she’s the very apple of his eye.”” There was apparently a consensus of opinion that whatever the Squire did was right. Only the newcomer, Simon Com- | bermere, lifted up a piping dissentient voice. ““Well, it don’t seem a Christian-like thing to me,’” he said, “that father and daughter should be at variance like that. I wonder your parson don’t have naught to say to it. In the parts where I come from our minister would have been fine an’ put about by a thing like that in his congregation.” *Ay, you came fro’ the south!” drawled | Gaffer Jones in a tone of mild depreca- tion. “They ao things different down there, a’m towd. Our parson bain’t one o' th’ meddlin’ sooart.” Simon felt himself crushed, but tried not to show any sign of discomfiture. He smiled, shook his head once or twice, then clapped on his hat and went out with a general good-night to the company. ‘‘He’s a bit flighty, that chap,” said one of the older men, with a solemn tone in his voice. And an assenting silence fol- lowed, which was broken in an unex- pected way. The stranger turned round in his cbair and addressed the company in an abrupt, masterful way. ““You tell fine tales of your Squire and his daughter,’” he said, “and you seem to think the Squire a fine fellow, bat it seems to me that he’s a barsh, tyrannical >ld man, who won’t abate a jot of his pride for the sake of his daughter’s happiness. A man like him calls himself a Christian, does he not? Curse all such Christians, Isay. Isita Christian thing to be cruel to your own child ?"’ There was a stunned pause as the men | laid down their clay pipes and stared at the speaker, whose pale face worked with | emotion of a kind which they could not | understand. His eyes gleamed strangely under their thick brows, and a lock of black hair fell wildly over his forehead. “You don’t answer,” said the stranger, with more vehemence than ever. “Itis because vou dare not say what is in your heart. You are bound hand and foot to this man, who thinks thaf'it suthces 10 give his daughter board and lodging and fine clothes, while he closes her heart to her love. Are you so blind to the real worth of things—the real value of life?"” His vehemence seemed only to close their lips. They sat and stared at him as GITY OF SAN FRANGISGO the sunlight and shadows play at hide and seek. One never tires looking upon the charming scene, which is at the same time novel and picturesque. It is a rare view in a great city, and delightful to the eye as it is odd and unexpected when it first meets the if they had never heard such words before. The Vicar was a sleepy old man, whose sermons were almost inaudible, and other means of light ever came to the vil. lage of Moorsholme. The stranger’s dark eyes ran over the stolid faces with a look of mingled impa-y tience and contempt. “You don’t understand me!”’ he cried, almost passionatély. “Then I'll speak to you in another tongue. Let me see if you will understand it any better!” They could not imagine what he meant, and they gaped at him open-mouthed with astonishment as hedragged an oddly shaped black case from under the settle at his side, opened it and produced a violin. In anocher moment it was under his chin and the bow was working furiously. It seemed as he was working off his emotion by means of the strong, rich chords that he drew from the instrument. He played a wild, martial, passionate melody, and the faces of his hearers brightened as they heard it, for they were music-lovers, one and all, and knew a good performer when they heard one. And the siranger played magnificently; there wasnodoubt of that. His languor, his fatigue, his look of ill- ness all dropped from him like a garment as he stood in the centerof the room play- ing with the fury and the fervor ofa Paga- nini. Nobody present had ever heard such musicin all their lives before. By and by he dropred into a minor key, and bis music became sad and pite- ous, as if it expressed the depths of de- spair too terrible to be put into words. Then a strain of sweeiness stole into the measure, as if a comforter had appeared with words of healing and of hope. And gradually it seemed as if the clouds of de- spair and sorrow cleared away, and the blue sky appeared and the sun shone, and the birds sang, snd the world was full of love, human and divine. And then by some touch of art that was prompted per- haps by sympathy, the player glided into the simplest of all melodles—the tune which every one knows, and by which every one has some time or other been touched to the heart—the wmelody of “Home, Sweet Home.” Itspoke to these rough and unlearned men as perhaps no other strain of music could have done. Then he stopped short. The men were looking down. Gaffer Jones was wiping away the ready tears of old age with a snuffy blue handkerchief. The landlord blew his nose loudly and prepared to offer consolation to wounded hearts in the shape of hot brandy and water or warm spiced beer. “Don’t you feel it now?”’ cried the stranger, lowering his violin. “Don’t you think it a pity that a woman should have no home but one where her father will not speak to her?” “Ay, ay, it do seem hard on her,’”’ mut~ tered one of the men. “Poor crittur!” moaned Gaffer Jones. “We be main sorry for poor Miss El'nor,” said another, ‘and always have been, let Squire say what he will.” The stranger broke into a discordant laugh, which "jarred on his listener’s nerves as if he had drawn his bow at ran- dom over the strings of his violin. “I haven’t lost my power, then!”” he ex- claimed, with a toss of his black hair back from the forehead, where beaas of perspi- ration were shining in the lamplight. “I can still mold the hearts and wilis of men a little to my liking. Good friends,. [ am glad you are of my way oi thinking, and I hope your change of mind has done yott good. Landlord, I'll stand drinks round to the company if you'll allow me. 1 wish you good-night, gentlemen.” And with a low bow, which breathed of* mockery rather than of respect; he threw down his violin, tossed a sovereign to the landlord and went out into the night. **A strange man, surely,” said Gaffor Jones, shaking his head. “But his gold rings true. I'll have it steaming hot, landlordg, if it please tha, an’ we'il drink to the health of Squoire, and a better agreement atween him and his daughter?’ Ay, poor soull” CHAPTER IL “What's & white Christmas, grand- papa?” asked little Molly. Siae always came in at dessert, and sat demurely be- side the Squire, who plied her with aranges and raisins, and daintier sweet- meats now and then. She was a fair, pretty child, with long golden hair and biue eyes; while five-year-oid Jack was dark as a Spaniard, and not like the Car- terets at all. The Squire was fond of them both, but his love for them had no soften~ ing influence upon his manner to his daughter, to whom he was uniformly harsh and cold. The villagers were wrong in one re- spect. Mr. Carteret had never left off speaking to his daughter. He conferred with her respecting the management of the house and'children whenever it was necessary to do so. He spoke to her about dinner and told her when he ex- -~ vision of the beholder, and one which is as refreshing l pected visitors. But be gave her no ten- derness, no confidence. He never met her eye nor kissed her cheek, never touched her hand. They lived as strangers, as if she were the hired house- keeper and he the stern employer. And this state of things had continued for three years, She sat opposite the Squire at table, with a big silver epergne between her face and his. A gentle old lady, generally known as Aunt Maria, sat at the side. The Equire addressed observations to her from time to time, and she in her turn occa- sionally conversed with Mrs. Hervey. The meals were not lively, but they were decorous. And at breakfast and lunch and dessert Molly was present to make things go more easily, and Jack was ex- pected to join the dining-room party as soon as he was six, The bread that she | ate must sometimes have been bitter to Eleanor, but she never opened her lips upon the subject. “What's a white Christmas, grand- papa?’ Molly asked. *I heard nurse say- ing to Janet that we should have a wkite Christmas this year.” *It means that the snow has begun to fall, and that by Cnristmas day we shall have a white carpet of show over all the ground, Molly,” said the Squire. “1t is white already; I looked out at the anding window, and I could see nothing but white—white everywhere. But isthag ali” There was such a look of disappoint.- ment on the child’s face that Mr. Carteret smiled, ““What else did you think it could be?’ he asked. ) Molly hung her head. “*Oh, I don’t know,” she said, drawing away from him a little. “Indeed, I don’t know. I couldn’t tell you; indeed I coaldn’t,”” she went on, with a iook of distress, *Oh, well, well, never mind. Perhaps you thought the fairies were to lay down white velvet everywhere,” said the Squire, jocularly. < > “I thought it might be an " sail Molly, ina very soft voice. i But no one pursued the subject. Aunt Mn_nn and Mrs, Hervey were not in a conversational mood, and the Squire had no particular desire to hear about angels except in church. But Eleanor, whose eye was very watchfui for her child, saw that something was puzzling little Molly’s mind, and when the Jittle girl was in bed