HOLIDAY STORIES

BY

RUTH LAMB

AUTHOR OF "ARTHUR GLYNN'S CHRISTMAS BOX," "HER OWN CHOICE," ETC.

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS

THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY

56, PATERNOSTER ROW; 65, ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD

AND 164, PICCADILLY

1892

CHAPTER I.

MISTRESS AND MAID.—A BRIDE'S HOMECOMING.

"THORLEY; go and tell Miss Margaretta to make less noise. How can I get my afternoon nap with that girl screeching and screaming loud enough to be heard beyond the park? I suppose she thinks I cannot be disturbed by her noise when she is out of doors, though I have told her twenty times already that she has a voice like a railway-whistle, and that it travels as far as one. It seems to me I cannot get out of reach of it. Thorley, why don't you go? What are you waiting for?"

The last questions were uttered in such a shrill tone, and with such evident irritation, that the pale face of the listener flushed, and she answered in a frightened voice—

"I thought your ladyship was speaking to me, and I waited for you to finish."

"I was doing nothing of the kind. I gave you an order which might have been attended to by this time. Then I went on thinking aloud, and you stood staring there, and listening in place of going about your business. Go now. Wait! I cannot hear the girl's voice. She has stopped, but she will begin again, so go all the same."

The person addressed as "Thorley" did not wait for the speaker to change her mind again, but hastened to do her mistress's bidding.

"Poor young thing!" she murmured, as she went in search of the offender. "It is well she can sing. Only one that has not been long at Northbrook Hall would be likely to lift up a cheerful voice in my mistress's hearing. I believe she would silence the very birds if she could, but she cannot do that, thank God." And the woman listened with gladness to a flood of melody that was being poured from scores of bird-throats, and rejoiced again that a message from her mistress could not stop it.

Thorley was old Lady Longridge's personal attendant, and had been such for twenty-five years. She was a staid spinster of fifty or thereabouts. Not that she ever told her age, or that any member of the household would have ventured to ask it; but there were older retainers at the Hall than herself, who could put two and two together.

There was old Jakes, for instance, who had spent sixty out of his seventy years of life in and about the gardens. He was morally certain that Susan Thorley would never see fifty again.

"Why, it's five-and-twenty years last May since Susan were promoted to be maid to our old lady, and she was no chicken in those days. I should have said she was nigh upon, if not all out thirty, though I do not suppose she would have owned to it, any more than she would say straight out, 'I am fifty-five to-day.' You don't catch these staid women folks telling their age." And the old man wagged his grey pate knowingly.

Thorley was accustomed to say of herself, "I have aged dreadfully since I came here, and I look older than I am. Five-and-twenty years in the service of Lady Longridge would equal forty, for wear and tear, under a reasonable mistress."

If someone suggested that Thorley was not compelled to endure the aggravations of the tyrannical old lady, she would reply, "If I thought only of myself, or studied my own comfort, I should have turned my back on the Hall many a year ago. But look at her age. She is turned eighty-one, and her mind is as clear as ever. I may have had a deal to put up with, and seen my hair turn grey before its time through her worrying, but I feel proud of my mistress, who is a wonderful old lady. Conscience reproaches me whenever I think of leaving her, and seems to say, 'What will you be at eighty-one? You will want someone to put up with your tempers then.' So I bear as well as I can, and if I have an uneasy time of it, conscience tells me I am right."

Some of Thorley's acquaintances credited her with at least one other motive for remaining at Northbrook. Lady Longridge was reputed wealthy, though she professed to be poor and unable to spare money for much-needed repairs and renewals within and around her home. She was always quarrelling with her relatives, and altering her will, or adding codicils to disinherit one and reinstate another.

At one time she would declare that none of her own kindred should ever possess a penny that she could bequeath to an outsider; at another she would quote the old proverb about blood being thicker than water, and rail against those who left their own families out in the cold when disposing of their wealth.

That quarter of a century of service had not been without its disturbing elements. Lady Longridge's temper often got the better of her, and Thorley usually had to bear the brunt of these outbreaks.

The woman was wonderfully patient, but this fact often had a different effect on her mistress from what might have been expected. It only made her more provoking, and on several occasions Thorley had received notice to quit. At first these breaches between mistress and maid had been patched up by mutual concessions, but by degrees Thorley became less placable. Then the old lady found that all advances for a renewal of the former relations must come from herself.

Thorley performed all her duties during the month she was under notice with the greatest exactitude, but she only spoke when spoken to and said no needless word, but packed her boxes and made ready to go to another situation. With such a character for long service, fidelity, patience, and trustworthiness, there were plenty of doors ready to open for Thorley's admission, plenty of places where her duties would be of a pleasanter character, and where, as she indignantly put it, "One might expect to have peace, a kind word sometimes, and get a bit of credit for trying with all one's heart to do right."

So Lady Longridge became convinced that Thorley could do better than stay at Northbrook, but that she would herself find it very difficult to replace Thorley.

The squabble always ended in the same way. The old lady would offer her hand to her departing maid and wish her well in a new place. Then she would break down and say that she was a miserable old woman for whom nobody cared, and that she was being left to die in her loneliness and helplessness by the one creature in whom she could trust.

The maid's tears would then accompany the mistress's; Thorley's boxes would be unpacked, and Lady Longridge promptly paid any expenses that might have been incurred in arranging for the new situation.

It was noticed that after each of these quarrels, Thorley had a day out accorded her without a murmur, and that as invariably she paid a visit to the savings bank. She would have wages to deposit there, no doubt, but it was whispered that Thorley found these little scenes very profitable, each reconciliation being sealed with a present. At any rate, she stayed at the Hall and bore a great deal of ill-temper and many hard words from Lady Longridge with more patience than any servant not inured thereto by many years of experience could have been expected to manifest.

The old lady had been more than usually provoking on that fair spring day, when the birds and her granddaughter, Margaretta, were carolling in company, and Thorley was on her way to silence the girl.

The errand was very distasteful to Thorley. If there was a creature on earth that the woman loved with a true, unselfish affection, it was Margaretta, who had spent the last few months of her life in that dull house, once the home of her dead father. Now it was the home of the girl herself, or the best substitute for one that she could claim.

Not that it was the first time Margaretta Longridge had been an inmate of Northbrook Hall. She had lived there off and on from the time of her birth until she was twelve years old, and now after an absence of nearly three, it was settled that she should remain permanently with her grandmother.

This was perhaps the best arrangement that could be made under the circumstances. But there were plenty of people who said that to condemn the fair young girl of fifteen to live in that gloomy, tumble-down house, and under the guardianship of that terrible old lady, was only a shade better than burying her alive.

The circumstances were these. Lady Longridge had been left a widow at twenty-eight, with one son and three daughters. By her husband's will, she was appointed their sole guardian, and she ruled them with enough of firmness and a scant expenditure of tenderness until each was emancipated by attaining the age of twenty-one, and receiving a handsome sum from the estate.

The daughters, being well dowered, soon married, and without exception resided far-away from Northbrook, which they seldom visited, and then only for a few days at a time.

Philip, the one son, seemed likely to remain a bachelor. His home was nominally with his mother, but he was fond of travelling, and ever on the look-out for new countries to explore, consequently he never stayed long at the Hall. The brevity of his visits rather than the fact of his being her only son, probably conduced to the good understanding between him and his mother. She had really no time to begin fault-finding before the packing process was in full operation, and Philip was preparing for a new journey. Even Lady Longridge did not like to quarrel with her son when he was about to leave her for an indefinite period.

She rejoiced in his bachelor estate, for, so long as Sir Philip remained unmarried, her rule at Northbrook would be undisturbed.

As to her daughters, she would say, when someone suggested that it was a pity they were not nearer, "Nearer! They are better where they are. If we met oftener we should quarrel. As it is, we have a week of each other's society now and then, and we can be happy and love one another for that time. But we never get beyond the week. We know the length of our affections' tether, and we keep within bounds."

"But mother and daughters, Lady Longridge!" the old clergyman would say, with uplifted hands and eyes.

"What of that? We get enough of each other in a week, and we part friends. If we had a fortnight we should not part at all, or at any rate we should go through no formal farewells. We should have ceased to speak to each other six days earlier, the previous one having been spent in mutual recrimination. We know our little failings, and we strive to keep out of the way of temptation."

"At your age, I should have thought the young ladies would bear anything from you without retorting, and that they would be unhappy if they did not see you often."

"No fear of that," was the earnest response. "They will not lose an hour's rest owing to anxiety on my account. And to be frank with you, I think it is very good of them to come at all. The journey costs something, and takes time. They count the hours whilst they are here, and long for the last to come. They know they have nothing to gain, for, lest they should forget, I remind them every time that they have had their fortunes; also, that I have nothing to leave, and if I had, they would not get a penny of it. Frankness promotes a good understanding. I take care to prevent false hopes."

The rector, Dr. Darley, was going to reply, but one of Lady Longridge's peculiarities was a liking for saying her own say at great length, and then calmly ending an interview.

"I will say good-bye now," she added, extending two fingers, though her visitor had shown no intention of rising to leave. "When I write to my daughters, I will not fail to mention that you alluded to them as 'young ladies.' I like to please people when I can, and it costs nothing to do it."

Lady Longridge was quite the most impracticable of the kind old rector's parishioners. He knew her too well to suppose that she would listen to him, so he quietly took his leave.

Sir Philip was the youngest of the family, but at length he brought home the wife whose possible coming had been the one thing his mother feared. He was thirty-nine when this happened, and he had been absent a full year, when he returned accompanied by a beautiful girl less than half his age—in fact, barely eighteen.

"Mother," he said, "this is my wife. Make her welcome for my sake, to begin with. You will do so for her own when you know her better."

The expression of his mother's face as he made this announcement was something never to be forgotten. She had risen at her son's approach and stood erect, her head on a level with Sir Philip's, for she was very tall, and at sixty-five had not lost a hair's-breadth of her height. At the slight fair girl whom he was putting forward with his left arm, whilst he extended his right to greet his mother, Lady Longridge did not deign to glance. She looked past her and straight into the face of her son, whilst she locked her mittened hands one within the other, without appearing to see the one he extended.

"It is a pity that when you decided to bring a wife to Northbrook, you forgot the fact of your mother's existence. Had you written, I should have arranged for her and your fitting reception. We would have had a rustic fête, a gathering of tenants, the carriage unhorsed, and a team of enthusiastic cottagers to draw you and your bride home in triumph; perhaps even a triumphal arch at the entrance of the park. Why, Philip! The forgetting your mother has made your homecoming of no more account than that of old Jakes' son, who was married the other day."

Sir Philip moved uneasily, and his eyes fell before the half-angry, half-sarcastic look of his mother, whilst his wife shrank back within the encircling arm that had gently urged her towards Lady Longridge.

"We desired none of these things," he said. "Florence has known a great sorrow, too recently to allow of her entering into the spirit of such festivities as you speak of. The one thing we both wish for is a welcome from yourself. To some extent we can command it from all beside."

It was proverbial of Lady Longridge that she would indulge her temper at any cost of discomfort to others, but that self-interest would induce her to subdue all outward sign of anger. She would not forget her grievance, but she would bide her time. Her son's last words brought certain unpalatable facts to mind and effected a change in her manner. He was master of Northbrook Hall, and, if he willed it, she must give up the place of mistress to his wife. Quick as lightning the thought flashed through her mind, "Philip has never cared to live here. Is it likely that marriage will entirely change his habits, and that he who has been wandering the world over for more than half his life will settle down to the dull life of a country gentleman? I may remain mistress of the Hall to the end of the chapter."

Aloud, Lady Longridge said, but in softened tones, "I think, Philip, you must admit that I have cause for displeasure. That your mother should know nothing of your marriage until you brought your wife under the roof to which she herself came, a bride in all honour, five-and-forty years ago, shows scant courtesy in an only son. But you are master here, and we must try to make up for the want of a more formal welcome as best we may."

She extended her hand, which her son took, and once again he would have urged his wife forward. The latter, however, gave one terrified glance at Lady Longridge's face, then turned away, and clinging to her husband cried out, "Take me away, Philip. I care not where we go, but do not let us stay here. I thought I should find a mother in yours."

It was vain to attempt to bring the two together. The lovely, fair young wife, a bride of less than a month, was dressed in mourning, which betokened recent bereavement.

It was evident that she was ill-fitted to bear the trial of such a meeting, when she had hoped for a genuine homecoming, and to find a mother in Lady Longridge. But the sight of that tall figure, with its clasped hands, the look of dislike shot from the keen black eyes, together with the mocking words, so startled the girl, that she was terrified into the display of feeling already described, and which added greatly to the uneasiness of her husband.

There was nothing left for him but to lead his weeping wife to the room always kept in readiness for his reception, and to comfort her as best he might, until, wearied with her long journey and all she had gone through, she slept like a tired child.

There were servants enough to minister to the bodily wants of the pair, and, amongst others, Susan Thorley, my lady's own maid, and at that time sixteen years younger than she is represented at the beginning of this chapter, was sent to offer her aid, and "Mind you find out everything you can about the girl," said her mistress, as she sent her on the former errand.

CHAPTER II.

LADY LONGRIDGE MEETS HER MATCH.

SUSAN THORLEY had no chance of fulfilling the behest of her lady. Her offered services were declined with thanks, and speech she had none with Sir Philip's bride. He liked Thorley, but guessed his mother's principal object in sending her, so answered—

"I will look after my wife for to-night. She has not been accustomed to the attendance of a maid, so will miss nothing. All she needs is rest and sleep, and these she is more likely to get by not seeing any more fresh faces."

"The sight of one new face has been enough for her, poor dear young creature," thought the maid, but she did not say it. She only replied, "I hope you will call me, sir, if I can be of any use."

"I would rather call you than any one, if help were needed," said Sir Philip; and Thorley, not a little gratified, dropped a respectful curtsey and withdrew.

"Humph! So that is all you have to tell me?" said Lady Longridge, when her maid reappeared. "Well, that is something. Not used to the attendance of a maid! Just as I thought. Philip has married a nobody for the sake of a pretty face. And to be so foolish at thirty-nine. Older and madder—older and madder. You can go, Thorley."

Later still, when his young wife was sleeping calmly, Sir Philip joined his mother in a little sitting-room, which she preferred to any of the larger apartments used on state occasions. The two were silent for some minutes; then Sir Philip raised his head, and said—

"I hope you will forgive my apparent want of respect, mother. It was not intentional, but this whole affair has been so sudden—brought about, indeed, by such unforeseen circumstances—that I could hardly help myself."

"If you had been a hot-headed lad of twenty, I could have understood your conduct. At your age it is incomprehensible—inexcusable, I was going to say. Put yourself in my place, if you can, and imagine what I felt on hearing you say, 'This is my wife.' I, your mother, to whom you had not deigned to send a word of warning."

"You had been so used to my coming home just when the humour seized me—to my comet-like fashion of appearing and disappearing—that I did not expect you would be so annoyed at my arriving unannounced."

"Nor am I. It is to your wife's arrival—if this girl be indeed your wife."

Sir Philip started from his seat in anger. "This taunt is too much even from you!" he exclaimed. "How dare you?"

"I dare anything. If the words sound harsh, you have brought them on yourself by your rash act and forgetfulness of the respect you owed me. What will the world say about Sir Philip Longridge's marriage? Have you announced it in the papers, or is the world to hear of it through gossiping servants?"

"I have made no announcement of my marriage to outsiders. You are the first in England to hear of it. I crossed the Channel to-day, and hurried to Northbrook with all possible speed. At least, mother, give me credit for having lost no time in coming to you. If I had known what I now do, I should have hesitated before bringing my wife home!"

Sir Philip laid a bitter stress on the last word.

There was not much sign of feeling in the reply: "Now you are here you had better tell me all about it."