MY HONOURBRIGHT

BY

ANNETTE LYSTER

AUTHOR OF

"THE FORTUNES OF PEGGY TREHERNE," "THE WHITE GIPSY," ETC.

WITH TWO FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS BY W. S. STACEY.

LONDON

NATIONAL SOCIETY'S DEPOSITORY

BROAD SANCTUARY, WESTMINSTER NEW YORK: THOMAS WHITTAKER, 2 AND 3, BIBLE HOUSE [All rights reserved.]

LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER

I. THE OVERTURE

II. DR. ELLIOTT

III. MISS VANDELEUR OF S. CANICE

IV. FAMILY CARES

V. THE BEAUTY OF THE FAMILY

VI. A RUBY RING

VII. THE OTHER MISS VANDELEUR

VIII. UNDER OBSERVATION

IX. THE FIRST MARRIAGE IN THE FAMILY

X. A DISAPPOINTED BENEFACTOR

XI. HOW THEY ALL LEFT S. CANICE

XII. MISS VANDELEUR'S HEIR

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

DR. MUSGRAVE CALLS ON MARIAN AND HONORA (Frontispiece)

THE RUBY RING

MY HONOURBRIGHT

CHAPTER I

THE OVERTURE

ON the west coast of Cornwall, not many miles from Truro, there is a small village, inhabited almost altogether by fishermen and their families. It lies in a little bay, and is completely sheltered from the east wind by high cliffs. Ten minutes' walk along the road which goes toward the south, following the coast-line for some miles, there is a very curious house called S. Canice Castle, the village being S. Canice. From the village the house was not seen, as it was built on a great cliff which here rose from the sea to a considerable height, and the house was about halfway up the cliff, and on a level with the road.

S. Canice Castle had been uninhabited for a long time, as the owner had a fine property in Ireland and lived there. But the Irish property melted away by degrees, as Irish property has a perfect genius for doing, and the last Irish Mr. Vandeleur found himself completely ruined. He was no longer a young man, and with the small remnant of his fortune which had been saved in the general wreck, he retired to S. Canice, where two hundred a year was considered riches. But then those who thought so did not reckon on his marrying pretty Anne Elliott, the daughter of the clergyman of the village. And seven little girls were born to him. And when the eldest was about ten years old, Charles Vandeleur died of a lingering decline, and his wife, very soon afterwards, of a broken heart. And—perhaps fortunately—the baby died soon after its mother.

Mrs. Vandeleur's father was dead, but Mr. Wilkinson, the rector at that time, exerted himself to provide for the six orphans. One was adopted by a Mrs. Cooke, who had been a Miss Vandeleur, her husband being a solicitor in Dublin. She asked Mr. Wilkinson to send her a pretty child. And he gladly packed off the third girl, Frances, who had a very odd temper, and gave him and Stasy Ridd, the much-tried servant at the castle, more trouble than all the rest put together.

Another Vandeleur cousin, the widow of Sir Simon Barker, in his day a distinguished officer in the Navy, wrote from Dinar, a town in the south of France, where she lived, to say that Mr. Wilkinson had interested her greatly in the poor children, and that she would take one of them and educate her well, for which she had great facilities at Dinar. She would prefer one not less than six years old, and Mr. Wilkinson decided on sending Honora, the fourth girl, who was exactly six. So little Honora, wailing loudly, was delivered over to a respectable Englishman, sent by Lady Barker, and carried off to France.

Violet and Daisy, the youngest two, were admitted to an orphan asylum in Leeds. Marian, the eldest, was sent to Exeter, to a distant relation of her mother, who had a home for sick or crippled children which she maintained at her own expense, and who offered to take this poor child at a very small charge, as she had in some way been injured by perpetually carrying babies when not much more than a baby herself.

So there was only one left. And Mr. Wilkinson said that as he had only sons, and a girl would be useful, he would take her home himself.

And so the six little Vandeleurs were scattered east, west, north, and south, and for fifteen years they never met.

Marian wrote regularly, though not frequently, to all of them. And some of them wrote once in a way to her, Honora more frequently than either Annie or Frances.

A brief sketch of their fortunes during those fifteen years will make my story easy to follow.

The Wilkinsons had left Cornwall very soon, Mr. Wilkinson having been offered a small living in Yorkshire. Here his wife died, and Annie Vandeleur did her best to fill the empty place. The boys grew up and left home one by one, and Mr. Wilkinson married again. Annie easily got a situation as housekeeper in a ladies' school, as in spite of her youth, she was a clever manager. She had a small salary and very hard work, and was not very happy.

Frances, the damsel with the temper, still remained in Ireland, and was generally with the Cookes. She sometimes quarrelled with them, and insisted on leaving them to "do for herself," but she as often came back again. She had tried governessing, typewriting, millinery, and nursing, and the end of the fifteen years found her in one of the Dublin hospitals training as a nurse.

The elder of the two who had been admitted to an orphanage was now nursery governess in a family in Leeds, and the younger was still in the orphanage.

Honora had been in some respects the most fortunate of the family; for Lady Barker was a sensible, good woman, and gave her a really good education. Not being rich, she could hardly have done this but for the girl's own good sense and cleverness. From her sixteenth year, her education cost nothing, as she taught English and German to the junior classes in Madame André's "pension," and received lessons in other branches in return. Lady Barker, had died about a year before this time, and Honora lived in the great school, Madame André being very fond of her. Lady Barker left her all her possessions, and about thirty pounds a year, which she had husbanded carefully for her.

Honora was not unhappy with Madame André. Lady Barker had many friends among the English colony at Dinar, and the girl was of a very contented nature—a girl who found a keen interest in her life, though quiet, and enjoyed her work.

"I shall stay with Madame André till I have saved enough to begin life in that line myself; then perhaps some of my sisters will join me. If nothing happens, that is my plan."

This is what she wrote to an old schoolfellow now married in Germany. Who can say what girlish dreams lay under the words, "If nothing happens"?

Just as her twenty-first birthday arrived came a letter from Marian.

"She did not forget my birthday, then. It is long since I had a letter from her."

And in her very tiny bedroom, in the great big house, she opened her letter.

"MY DEAR HONORA, "I fear I am selfish in telling you of my trouble, but you always write so kindly, and I do really want kindness. Annie would be kind, but I think you can advise me better. "For a long time now my back has been getting worse, and now I can only walk a little with help. And I am ill in other ways, and shall not long be a burthen to any one, but I am a burthen here to Miss Drury. "Mrs. Elliott has failed very much, and Miss Drury is her cousin, and came here to help her when I got too ill for my work. Now, Mrs. Elliott's mind is quite weak, and Miss Drury says I ought to leave the home; she would be able to do the work if I were gone. What I am to do, I know not. Mr. Wilkinson tells me he can only send me thirty pounds a year, which he has paid for me ever since I came here. He cannot give any of us the principal until the youngest is of age. Annie says she does not know what to advise; Frances did not answer me. I am so frightened and so unhappy. Do write, Honora dear. I could wish to hear the waves against the big rock at S. Canice, and just shut my eyes

and die, but I may live some time yet. I must go to the poor-house, I suppose. "Your affectionate sister, "MARIAN VANDELEUR."

That evening Honora left Dinar in that most wretched of vehicles, a diligence.

Madame André was horrified, but said, "Those English—ah, but those English!" and saw her off with tears and good wishes. She would have been even more unhappy had she not jumped to the conclusion that "my eldest sister" was a "person of mature age."

Honora, between diligence, train, and packet-boat, reached Folkestone safely without having stopped anywhere.

Of what did the girl think as she was carried along? Of the scenery, she would have said with truth, but also at times of a memory, a little wonder, round which shy thoughts hovered, never put in words even mentally. They concerned a tall, pleasant-looking young English doctor, who had come to Dinar to see his mother, an old friend of Lady Barker. Would Madame André remember to tell Mrs. Egerton where and why she had gone? Would he be there when she returned? She would be sorry not to see him again.

From Folkestone to Exeter, still without a pause in her journey. And she reached Exeter so utterly tired and sleepy that she fell an easy victim to a brisk young man, who popped her into an omnibus which conveyed her to a small inn, fortunately kept by a very good-natured and honest woman.

"D'ye mean to tell me this baby is travelling alone? And a foreigner, too, poor thing!"

Honora, looking a mere child in her half-asleep condition, was conveyed to a room and put to bed, and never moved a finger till ten o'clock the next day, when she found herself exceedingly hungry.

The landlady opened the door presently and peeped in.

"So you're awake at last, mam'selle?" she began.

"Yes, I am awake; and I am English," replied Honora, rather hurt at being taken for a foreigner.

"Well, now, my dear young lady, you was so dead asleep, walking in on your feet with your eyes open, but yet asleep, that I could get nothing out of you, and so I just put you in here, next to my own room. But you'll get lodgings, dear, if you're going to stay in Exeter; for you're not the sort of young lady to stay at an inn like mine, which commercial gents are more in my line."

Of this speech Honora only understood that she must get lodgings. So when she had eaten a very hearty breakfast, she asked the good landlady where she would be likely to find them.

"A cousin of mine has very nice rooms, miss, and her parlours are empty. I'll show you the way, and my man shall carry your box there if you like them."

"You are very kind, madame."

The woman laughed. "Most people will be kind to you, honey," said she, as she left the room.

Honora privately thought the "parlours" dark and dismal, but it would be for only a few days, so she engaged them. She asked that a second bed should be provided, and this was arranged, but only after a further payment had been promised. Then, having got directions for finding her way, Honora set out in search of Mrs. Elliott's "Home for Suffering Children."

She had some way to go, and as she walked along, her blue eyes, which looked so short-sighted and were so very much the reverse, took note of everything within their ken in this the first English town she had seen. And she used her ears, too, but did not understand one word in six.

At last, she reached Bishopsgate Green, a curious three-cornered patch of grass with good, old-fashioned houses, each standing in a garden, modestly retiring behind tall iron railings badly in want of paint. Looking along the line of houses, she easily found Mrs. Elliott's, as "Home for Suffering Children" was engraven on a brass plate on the gate. But the gate was locked. However, there was a bell. She rang, and the gate opened as if of itself. Honora entered, and went up to the house. Here she met a servant.

"Can I see Miss Vandeleur?"

"Be you her sister? Yes, you are, for you favour her. Poor Miss Marian! She was crying only this morning because there was no letter, but now—This way, miss. Shall I tell her you're come?"

"I will go in, if you permit." And passing in, she shut the door.

Marian, a tall, painfully thin creature, with hollow cheeks and great, over-bright eyes of the same pure azure as Honora's own, was lying on a narrow couch with some needlework before her, but she was not working. Hastily drying her eyes, she said—

"Miss Drury is out. Can I—Oh dear, who are you? You're like mother; you're one of my sisters."

"Yes. Oh, Marian!" And the new-comer was on her knees beside the couch, and the pair were clasped tightly in each other's arms.

"Which are you?" Marian gasped at length. "And oh! But it's good to be hugged and kissed. I'd forgotten how good. Which are you, dear?"

"Honora. When I had your letter, I came at the moment. The holidays were about to begin, and you seemed so sad, Marian."

"Sit on that stool, close to me, that I may see your face. Yes, you are like mother; you have her eyes and hair just like hers. Yet there's a difference. It is the mouth; yet it's a dear, pretty mouth, too. Do you remember, Honora, the day they took you away—how we all roared, and you set up a piteous cry?"

"I do not remember quite well. I thought you had dark hair, Marian."

"That is Frances; mine is more like yours, or used to be. And do you remember—"

They talked away, Marian reminding Honora of this and that in their old home—of father and mother and the other sisters, and Stasy, the faithful servant, who had nursed them all.

"I do not remember much," Honora said, "but I remember that you were always caring for us all, and defending us from—was it Frances?"

"Ah, poor Frances! But you remember Annie, surely, and—"

"No; I only remember you."

And Honora got up to kiss the poor pale face again; and was thus engaged when a lady, in a severely plain dress and bonnet, walked in.

"Oh, Honora! Miss Drury," said Marian, nervously.

Honora raised herself, turned round, and curtsied, as she had been taught to do for Madame André's benefit. For some unknown reason, this annoyed Miss Drury, who looked sourly at the slight, graceful girl, and nodded her head somewhat fiercely.

"Well, Marian," she said sharply, "I hear your sister's been with you an hour or more, so I suppose you've settled between you what you're going to do."

Marian flushed painfully, and said, "It did not seem an hour, and we were so glad to meet."

Honora drew from her pocket a great big watch which had been Lady Barker's, and said—

"It is not quite half-an-hour, mademoiselle, and we had not met for fifteen years."

"What has that to do with it, child? I am afraid you are as unpractical as Marian. You left the gate open, and I found two dogs in the garden."

"I am sorry." And turning to Marian, she said, "What do you wish to do, dear?"

Marian began to cry. Miss Drury said crossly—

"There, child, don't begin at that work again or I shall begin to think you're getting silly. You—" pointing at Honora—"listen to me, and I'll make it plain to you if you've any sense. My good old cousin is quite laid aside, and needs an attendant day and night. As long as your sister could see after her, I could manage the six poor children under treatment, and the two hopeless cases she kept, because she must have sent them to the poor-house. But Marian has ceased to be able to give any help, and requires attendance; and as she has friends and a small income, I think she ought to turn out."

"Mrs. Elliott always said—" began Marian.

But Miss Drury stopped her. "It's with me you have to do—neither with Mrs. Elliott nor Dr. Elliott."

"Oh, if Dr. Elliott were at home!"

"Well, he is not at home."

"Oh, what am I to do?" cried poor Marian.

"The first thing to do," said Honora, her voice sounding sweet and low after Miss Drury's strident tones, "is to get away from this house. I have taken a lodging in Bath Street. Will you come, Marian?"

"Honora, to be a burthen on you?"

"But we are sisters. Between us we have enough. And—do not cry, Marian—but it seems to me that we have no choice."

"You haven't, Marian, not a scrap of a choice, unless you prefer the poor-house," said Miss Drury.

Honora rose from her seat at the side of the couch and faced the speaker, her eyes, usually so sweet and shady, all ablaze with wrath.

"It is unnecessary to insult us, mademoiselle. Pray remember that. How can we get to Bath Street? I fear she cannot walk."

Miss Drury looked with real admiration at the indignant girl.

"You've some spirit in you," she said; "and when you come to think, you'll see the justice of what I say."

"It may be so. But for the manner of it—'Va!' It would be 'convenable' for a Hottentot. How can we get to Bath Street?"

"Go and get a fly, and I'll pack her things before you return."

"Not so. Do you get your fly—a carriage, I suppose—and I will pack. I do not leave Marian with you."

"Oh, get along with your airs, child. Hard words break no bones."

"They make hearts ache instead. Come, Marian. Show me where your clothes are, and I will pack up for you."

Marian, who was crying sadly, rose with evident pain and difficulty, and the sisters left the room together. Miss Drury stood for a moment gazing after them.

"I've got my orders, if I never did before," said she, with a snort, probably meant for a laugh; and she went out.

Marian had few belongings, and no trunk. Honora made a tidy bundle, and pinned it up in an old shawl.

Then Marian said—

"Honora, will you help me to go to Mrs. Elliott's room? She is asleep, and I will not wake her, for she would not understand, and she might fret. But I must see her just once more. She has been everything to me."

Honora helped her, and waited at the door for her. She heard Marian say—

"This is good-bye till we meet in Heaven, but it was you that taught me the way, and I will not forget it. We shall be glad to meet."

The girls were in the sitting-room when Miss Drury came back.

"Well, you pretty vixen, I've done your bidding—the fly's at the gate."

"Thank you, Miss Drury. What is this?"

"Marian's money. The quarterly payment came yesterday."

"Pray keep it," said Honora, gravely.

"Not I. Here, Marian; now I've put it in your pocket. Miss Honora, remember this—my bark is worse than my bite."

"But why bark?" said Honora.

"Well, shake hands. We part friends, don't we?"

Marian took the offered hand, but Honora took up the bundle in both hers, and only curtsied.

"Hoity-toity!" remarked Miss Drury. "Well, never mind, I bear no malice."

It was very hard to get poor Marian into the fly, and she plainly suffered terribly during the drive. Even when she was safely laid on one of the beds in the little lodging, she seemed spent with pain.

Between agitation and severe pain, Marian was really ill before night. She even wandered, and then her talk was all about S. Canice, and she took Honora for her mother.

"It's been long, long, mother, but let me hear the sound of the sea, and then I shall sleep."

Towards morning she slept, and was quite herself when she awoke.

Honora brought the breakfast-tray to the bedside, and they had their first meal together, for Marian had been so ill the day before that Honora had taken no regular meal.

"Why, Marian, a robin would eat more than that."

"I never care about breakfast. Honora dear, what are we to do?"

"Eat more at dinner," replied Honora.

"Ah, you know what I mean. What was your plan when you came to me?"

"To take you with me to Dinar. I know a dear old French lady who will let us have a room for you—quite near Madame André's school. I shall be with you every day. It will be so happy to have a sister to visit. Do you feel able to go, Marian? Not to-day—you must rest all to-day—but soon."

Marian was silent.

Honora tried again. "Dinar is a beautiful old town. Your room will look over the country, for it is in a house built on the old town wall. There are vineyards, and always lots of fruit and flowers, and the sun and air will make you strong and well."

Still no reply.