THE WELLFIELDS.

THE WELLFIELDS.

PRELUDE.

In very early days, in the beginnings of Saxon Christianity, a certain Saxon potentate erected a church at Wellfield, now a village in the north-east corner of a great and wealthy English county. This church he called, as many churches in those times were called, the White Church; and since it stood in a peculiar situation, in close proximity to the foot of a lovely wooded rise, he added the further distinguishing title of ‘under the Hill,’ and for hundreds of years it was known as the ‘White Church under [2] the Hill.’ Generations came and went, and worshipped there, and led lives pious or otherwise: it was a wild race of people that dwelt in that well-watered valley, and the White Church under the Hill was known far and wide, long before such things as monasteries and cloisters, with their attendant good and evil, were thought of. It was a wild and lovely region, watered by three fair streams well stocked with fish, while venison and game abounded in the woods and on the moors around. Gradually a village clustered around the White Church. Wealthy and

pious persons made gifts to it, and built houses in the vicinity of it, until the Normans came, and soon after that changes took place. Monasteries and abbeys and nunneries sprang up, here and there, throughout the land; and it so chanced that a certain pious baron presented to a company of Cistercian monks a very fair site by the river, and not far from the White Church. There they began to build themselves an abbey, the fame of which soon spread far and wide in the land. Its [3] farms were fat, its lands productive, its abbots proud, its hospitality unbounded; for three centuries they built at it and lavished upon it all manner of beauty, in the shape of rare carvings of oak and stone. Its church was as large as many a cathedral; it stood on an exquisite site beside the river, and the size of the abbey-grounds soon exceeded that of the whole village and the White Church counted into the bargain. Then, while it was still in its glory and still unfinished, while the proudest and most domineering of its abbots was ruling the land around with a rod of iron,

and hunting out witches and chasing them over Penhull, the great hill hard by, and burning them when he caught them, and was rioting in power—then, under the ferocious auspices of the Eighth Harry of glorious memory, a reform was effected—a reform which took the shape of a sack of the glorious abbey. Its church was demolished, the friars disbanded, the proud abbot was gibbeted in full view of his birthplace over the water, on a wooded mound called to this [4] day ‘The Abbot’s Knoll.’ All the church plate and jewellery was confiscated by the royal robber; while the abbey and the lands thereof were magnanimously presented by him—what was left of them—to two of the neighbouring gentry, one John de Wellfield and one Ralph de Burnshire, which gentlemen had gallantly espoused the cause of the king, and had assisted in driving forth the monks from the abbey at the end of the pike. The families of Wellfield and Burnshire presently were united by the marriage of the sole heiress of the Burnshires with the sole heir of the Wellfields, and it was

at this juncture that another great property called Brentwood, some three miles away, lapsed, through lack of direct heirs male, from the Burnshire family to a collateral branch of the same, named Waddington, which Waddingtons continued to be devout Roman Catholics, while the Wellfields turned heretics, to the great distress of the reverend fathers, the Jesuits, who about this period in the family history were beginning to make a [5] great noise in the world, and to exert their power and make it felt. Wellfield Abbey, then, got into heretic hands, and the heretics continued to be men of mark; while the pious and devout Waddingtons had the ill luck (or the ill grace) to die out, and their representatives, in the year of grace 1794, let their ancient abode on the hill-side at a nominal rent to those Jesuit fathers who were driven from their French college at L—— by the Revolution. They were thrifty, these Jesuit fathers, and eventually bought the whole estate, and their representatives possess it to this day, and have made of it the first Roman Catholic seminary in the

north at any rate, if not in the whole of England. Indeed, that corner of this favoured land is a Catholic stronghold.

Meanwhile, the heretic Wellfields of Wellfield continued to flourish, seemingly, like a green bay-tree; though, taking the royalist side in the Stuart troubles, they are said to have suffered heavy losses therefrom. The most perfect entente cordiale always existed [6] between them and the neighbouring Catholic gentry, and the reverend fathers at Brentwood; and they were always classed amongst the first families of the neighbourhood when they were at home. Of late years they had lived much abroad. At the time now referred to, 18—, there were only two representatives of the line: John Felix Wellfield, and a son; the said John Felix had been an only child, as had his father before him, and his own wife was recently dead.

Meantime, while the gorgeous abbey church, which had been centuries a-building, had been so razed to the ground as that hardly a vestige of it remained, save a green space in the shape of a cross to show where it had once stood, and while the two great entrances of the abbey—Monk’s-gate and Abbot’s-gate—were like great ruined caverns, grown over with ivy; while the cloisters were a line of hoary ruins, and nought of the abbey remained save enough to make a quaint old dwelling-house—all this time the [7] White Church under the Hill stood intact—added to a little here and there; enriched by the spoils of the abbey—they rescued the exquisite carved black oak stalls and a magnificent rood-screen, and set them up in the humbler building. Now it was a Protestant place of worship; in the midst of the old oak pews some evangeliser had set up a ‘three-decker,’ in which the service was performed, and there is no record of this piece of vandalism having met with the condign punishment it deserved. It—the ‘three-decker’—stared down upon an ancient pew of black

carved oak which glittered like a mirror, which pew was said—along with many others—to be the oldest in England. Built by one Roger of Wellfield, it had been left by him as a legacy for ‘the proud dames of Wellfield’ to sit in every Sunday, which ‘proud dames’ are at this date represented by three decrepit old women, who enjoy the best view in the church of—the pulpit. The old church is sturdy yet, having survived so many changes, including a visit from George Fox, [8] in the days when he went about denouncing ‘steeple-houses,’ and who stood in the aisle and stigmatised the then priest of Wellfield as ‘a light, scornful, chaffy fellow.’ It shows no signs of decay. May it be long before such symptoms appear in it!

A party of visitors, thirty years ago and more, were strolling round this old church one summer afternoon, escorted by a young woman who had the keys, and who had told them all she knew about the place and its history.

‘Then does the present Mr. Wellfield not live at the abbey?’ inquired a young lady who was of the party.

‘No, ma’am. They say he lives a deal in Italy, and the lady he married came from those parts. Young Mr. Wellfield is staying at the abbey now, and his tutor says it’s because of his health; but they do say that Mr. Wellfield is going to be married again, and wants him away.’

The visitors exchanged glances, and the young woman continued:

[9]

‘See, there’s the young gentleman looking in now, and his playfellow, old Mr. Leyburn’s lad.’

Indeed, at this moment two boys, whose ages might be ten and eleven, or eleven and twelve years, came strolling into the church by the chancel door, which stood open, their arms about one another’s shoulders, and their faces rubbing together now and then after the fashion of a couple of friendly ponies. One was tall and slender, and was of an extraordinary beauty of face and figure, with solemn, liquid dark eyes, and a very un-English look. The other was not quite so tall, was sturdy, square and strong, but clumsily built—‘a little pleb,’ thought the young lady, who was watching them with interest. The rest of her party had strolled on with the young woman to look at proud Abbot ——’s tombstone, which, said tradition, if a Wellfield walked over it, he should not live out the year. But the girl—she was no more—remained where she was until the boys came up to her, and they were [10] all standing at the foot of the chancel steps, just outside the rood-screen.

‘Have you come to see the church?’ she asked, smiling.

‘We saw the door open, signorina, and came in,’ said the beautiful boy; ‘but we can see it as often as we want—twice every Sunday.’

His voice was sweet; his accent more than half Italian.

‘Do you live here then? What is your name?’ she asked, wishing to draw him out.

‘No; I do not live here. I am only staying a few months here. I am called Jerome Wellfield, and the abbey belongs to my father.’

‘Indeed! Would you not like to live in such a beautiful home?’

‘If it were not so cold in England I would; but I like Italy: it is warm there.’

‘Yes. And you—what are you called?’ she asked, turning to the other lad.

‘John Leyburn,’ he made answer, looking [ at her with clear, considerate, rather light-brown eyes, which looked very ineffective beside the velvet softness and darkness of young Wellfield’s.

‘You live here, I am sure.’

‘Yes; I live at Abbot’s Knoll with my father and mother.’

‘And are you great friends? Have you known one another long?’

‘Oh! we have known one another a long time—two months,’ replied young Wellfield; ‘and we are great friends, aren’t we, Jack?’

‘Yes,’ replied ‘Jack,’ with much deliberation.

Indeed all he did and said was deliberate.

‘And can you tell me what each of you likes better than anything else?’ she asked, loth to break off the conversation, and charmed with Master Jerome’s grace and beauty. ‘You, Jerome Wellfield, what do you like best?’

‘I like so many things that are nice,’ said the boy, with a pensive smile; and glancing downwards, the long lashes swept his pale [12] cheek. ‘I like music; and I liked mamma. I liked her drawing-room at Frascati, where the beautiful ladies used to come when I was a little boy. I like—oh! I like everything that is not ugly,’ he concluded, looking rather bored.

‘And you, my boy?’ she turned to the other.

‘I like birds’-nesting,’ was the reply, deliberate, but prompt.

‘What, better than anything? Oh, horrible!’

‘He does not mean birds’-nesting, exactly,’ Jerome explained for him. ‘He means all sorts of things—going into the woods, and learning about birds and watching them, and plants, and butterflies, and all that sort of thing.’

‘Oh, natural history!’

‘Yes; natural history,’ replied the sturdy-looking boy.

‘I don’t care for the birds in the woods here,’ said Jerome, carelessly; ‘ugly little brown things! I liked the golden pheasants, [13] and the scarlet humming-birds, and the big white macaw, and the papagei—parrot, you know—in Countess Necromi’s aviary.’

‘Laura, my dear, we must go. We have to do Brentwood yet, you know, and then to drive to the Lathebys.’

‘Yes; I suppose we have. Well, boys, good afternoon. Will you shake hands with me?’

‘Yes, signorina. À rivederci,’ said young Wellfield, looking so enchantingly amiable that Miss Laura stooped and kissed him.

‘Since you say à rivederci, I suppose you do not count me as an ugly thing?’ she said, laughing.

‘Oh no, the very opposite!’ he smiled, and she tapped his cheek, and said he was a precocious boy. She felt no interest in poor John Leyburn, but being of a kind disposition held out her hand to him too. He flushed all over his plain young face, and asked:

‘Will you—would you tell me what you are called?’

[14]

With a rapid flash of intuition ‘Laura’ realised that with all Jerome’s pretty words and liquid glances, he had not troubled himself on this point. She put her hand on the plain boy’s shoulder, and kissed him too, saying:

‘My name is Laura Dewhirst. By the time you are grown up you will have forgotten it, and I shall be such an old woman that you would not know me if you met me.’

All three laughed, and with another nod to the boys Miss Dewhirst ran after her papa and mamma. The two boys left the church, and the young woman locked the door and contemplated the gratuity she had received with great satisfaction.

‘Where shall we go?’ asked Jerome.

‘To Mr. Philips, to do our Latin.’

‘Oh, Latin!’ sighed the boy. ‘I never used to do any Latin when mamma was alive—before I came to England.’

‘Would you like to go back to Italy?’

‘Not much, because papa always makes [15] me feel such a very little boy. Mr. Philips doesn’t.’

‘Well, come along then! Was not that a beautiful lady?’

‘Very pretty. She liked talking to us.’

‘I liked talking to her,’ said John Leyburn, sedately, as they turned in at the abbey gate, and went up the river walk.

[16]

CHAPTER I. EMS.

It was half-past nine in the evening. The concert in the great Saal of the Kurhaus at Ems was just over, and the audience streamed out, with a clatter of conversation, and a sudden restoration of animation, into the fresher and yet deliciously warm air of the gardens. It was the end of July, the height of the season at Ems; and that small, enervating, fashionable watering-place was thronged with visitors of every age, nation, and rank, from the royal and imperial, as represented in the [17] persons of Germany and Russia, down to the English family of Robinson, who had never felt so genteel before, or been in (whether of or not) such aristocratic company in their lives, and the German family of Braun, who were wealthy, and who revelled luxuriously each day at a different table d’hôte of a different hotel, and who sat in a row in the Kurgarten, morning and afternoon, listening devotedly to the music, and occasionally murmuring ‘Schön!’ if it pleased them. Or, oh joy! standing in rapt respect and attention, as an old white-headed, white-moustached man in a grey summer-suit came

walking along, very erect, one hand behind his back, in friendly converse with, now one, now another, bare-headed gentleman who kept just a pace behind him.

‘There’s the emperor! dear old thing!’ whisper all the Miss Robinsons, standing up too, as the grey old gentleman comes past.

‘Unser Kaiser!’ murmur the Brauns with beaming smiles of satisfaction, and gazing at him with broad-faced loyalty.

[18]

This ‘watching for the emperors,’ and the thrills of emotion which ran through every loyal heart when they were visible, was the chief pastime of the day; and if one failed to see the emperors, there were always those who had lived near them—princesses, countesses, baronesses, and their consorts; highnesses of every degree of transparency and serenity, half the vons in the Almanach de Gotha; together with unpronounceable Russians, fascinating Poles, well-known diplomatists, representing both the suaviter in modo and the fortiter in re—to wit, the ‘blood and iron’ policies of their respective courts. All these were there, besides the shoals of nobodies who bought up the Kurlisten in order to read their own names in close proximity to those of somebodies, and who, it is to be hoped, felt rewarded by these and similar privileges for the crowding and pushing and swindling to which they were in other matters subjected.

On the night in question the concert-room had been thronged, for the two emperors and [19] their suites had condescended to look in for a few moments, and the orchestra had performed the Russian national hymn with great spirit and much applause. The distinguished guests were felt to be still lingering somewhere about the gardens; and moreover the river was illuminated, and was dazzling with lines of fairy lights, from the bridge opposite the Darmstädter Hof to the other bridge at the extreme end of the Kurgarten—and of civilisation, of course, in Ems—and beyond the house called the Vier Thürme, at which the Russian monarch was lodging.

Two barges, brightly illuminated with the imperial crowns and lovingly-entwined initials of Russia and Germany, were floating about the river, while ‘the music’ on board alternately played Die Wacht am Rhein and the Russian national anthem—a spectacle most thrilling and edifying for all loyal souls; if somewhat less enchanting to the musicians and boatmen who perspired in the glare and smell and heat of the lamps, and industriously paddled up and down the little Lahn, [20] below the walls of the broad walk of the Kurgarten.

Down that broad walk, from the concert-room, came a crowd of the notabilities and otherwise, who had composed the audience; all chattering, laughing, flirting, and intriguing in almost every European tongue.

About the middle of the throng came a group of some four or five ladies and gentlemen, and walking a little in advance of the others with one of the men beside her, a tall girl whose accent was English, though she spoke German. Some dark thick trees overhung that part of the walk, making it dark on the side next the river wall; but the lamps cast a bright light upon the girl’s face, and showed its every feature and the play of its expression clearly and distinctly to one who sat on a bench in one of the little recesses in the wall which almost overhung the river; and who from this position had for some time been indifferently watching the brilliant throng as they trooped past.

As the girl came on, now looking straight [21] before her, now turning her head to speak to the man, who from the thickness of the crowd was compelled to go just half a pace behind her, the hidden watcher observed her closely and intently. She was tall, well-formed, and well-developed. There was much grace and a great deal of pride in her carriage; her head was habitually carried high, as might easily be seen; her face was very handsome indeed, even splendid, with a brow like Chaucer’s nun:

A large, well-cut mouth, in the sweep of whose lips there was both thought and grandeur; bright, glossy, chestnut hair, rich in hue and crisply waving; fine dark-grey eyes, with level brows, the eyes deep-set and critical in expression; her whole aspect was dignified, and yet there was assuredly a gleam of humour in her eyes, as she stepped composedly on, in her light, softly falling dress and broad plumed black hat.

[22]

‘Tell me, Herr von Lemde—you have made a study of the nobility, I know——’

‘It is true, mein Fräulein. What ought a man to study, if not his own order?’

‘And that such an order! Indeed, you are right. I want to know who that lovely woman near us was, in a dress like a cloud of creamy muslin and lace. I thought she must be a Pole, from her gracefulness and from the spirited way in which she spoke.’

‘You were right,’ he said earnestly. ‘It was the Princess ——.’

‘Thank you very much. I feel happier now. Suppose it had turned out to be some Mrs. Smith, or Frau Müller!’

‘I fear, mein Fräulein, that you are a little tinged with——’

‘But, liebe Sara,’ cried a lady behind, ‘it is getting late, and we have such a long drive.’

‘Oh, Carla, don’t go yet!’ expostulated, not Sara, but a German girl, dark, handsome, and defiant-looking. ‘It is so fine; and we have not seen the emperor, and, after all, it is not so late.’

[23]

‘Oh, it is quite early!’ said an English girl who was of the party.