Page images
PDF
EPUB
[blocks in formation]

into the dark eyes, and met the loving earnest gaze which was fixed on her.

"I will go with thee, darling, to the end of the world-I will follow thee through life, dear one," and the Indian clasped the fair English girl to her breast.

And now Florence was supremely happy; she would have been happier, however, if she could have taken India with her to England; she would have liked to pack up and transport everything, from the great Himalayan chain, to the poor little dooreah who tended her four-footed favourites; but as these wishes were not very practicable, she was fain to content herself with her modicum of available moveables, and her dearly loved ayah.

A few more months, and India was the dream, England the reality. The Colonel's health did not improve; twenty years' residence in the tropics had done their work, his constitution was ruined. He retired on half-pay, and his income not being sufficient to supply his somewhat luxurious tastes in England, he went to Jersey, and pitched his tent in St. Helier's.

The place suited him: wine, spirits, and cigars could all be had cheaply; perhaps the Colonel did not admire the quality of these Jersey adjuncts; but he was very glad, faute de mieux, to avail himself of their cheapness; so after a few weeks, he resigned himself very contentedly to a Jersey life. He furnished the house which he took expensively; his table was the best appointed in the island; he talked of buying horses; in fact, he seemed to forget that he had no longer his Indian income to depend on. He gave dinners, balls, &c., entered fully into the gaiety of the place, forgetting the ruinous effect of that gaiety on his purse-forgetting the irretrievable injury it was doing to his child, who was learning rapidly to care for nothing but that gaiety; and crave for the excitement it afforded.

He liked to see her admired, and sought after; he was justly proud of her, but his pride took the wrong bent. It was only "skin deep pride," he never cultivated or cared to see intrinsic worth in her; never cared to hear her mind or character extolled; her beauty, her grace were the themes which he loved to hear dwelt on, and the Jersey world could and did discourse to him of these. Thus Florence lived in a perfect "whirl;" reflection was destroyed by the petty buzzing of that whirl; thought quenched by the flood of frivolity poured on it.

But a warning came-a check was given to this heedless state of things. The colonel was taken suddenly, seriously ill; and almost before medical aid could be obtained, he had ceased to breathe. His child seemed stunned by this blow; she had never thought of death. Her mother had died when she was very young, so that she had scarcely ever realised the idea of having bad a mother, certainly never had thought about her death; and now for the iron hand to enter into her home, and in the midst of life seize her father!-it was a fearful thought. She threw herself into the

ayah's arms, and sobbed, and sobbed, in her frantic grief.

At last, the morning of the funeral came-the great black hearse stood at the door; friends in the mourning coaches were ready to accompany their lost companion to the grave. The orphan girl crept to the window of her bedroom, and looked at the sad, cold, unfeeling pageant. Two gentlemen in the first carriage were talking in a totally unconcerned manner; one smiled at something the other said, that smile struck to her heart-how could any smile when the atmosphere was so charged with grief. The gloomy procession passed on, and Florence felt that she was indeed alone in the world.

That day wore away, and the next, and the next, and then the clergyman called to see Florence. The doctor followed him.

Now the doctor was a good man, and, moreover, he had a wife as excellent as himself. The doctor was, besides, a practical man. Nearly sixty years of life had rolled over his head, and in those sixty years he had seen a little of life's experience. He had, as the saying is, "lived with his eyes open." He had used those physical orbits, for the common purposes of life, for seeing and ascertaining the state of patients among other things; his mental vision was directed to the less common purpose of scanning the intricacies of human action, and looking beneath the surface of human nature; thus he had learnt to see the cloud behind the sunshine, the tinsel under the gilding. With a microscopic gaze, he examined the stream of society, and discovered the animalcule impurity of the fluid.

In accordance with his usual custom, he had discussed (per se) the career of the colonel and his daughter, as soon as they appeared in the meridian of St. Heliers. When every one else praised them, and expatiated on their liberality and their wealth, a wealth which was argued from their extravagant mode of living, the doctor made no reply, did not even shrug his shoulders—whatever his thoughts were, he kept those thoughts to himself.

Wise doctors will always act as this one did (at least, wise doctors in Jersey will). They must not enjoy the independence of a shrug, or a dissenting opinion, when their patients have flattering things said of them.

But from various observations, the conclusion which Dr. Gage arrived at with regard to Colonel Glennie was, that so far from being a rich man, he was a remarkably poor one; and as for admiring his hospitality, I am very much afraid the pill boxes in his surgery (only the pill boxes, nothing else), one night heard him mutter something about "Worthless old idiot, to bring up that girl in extravagance, and leave her as an inheritancebeggary."

It was singularly ungrateful, really too bad, for the doctor was at that very time making up a dose for the "worthless old idiot." When the colonel

TINSEL.

died, the doctor, as a consequence of the conclusions he had arrived at, could not help wondering what would become of Florence. He did not simply keep on wondering in an unproductive manner, but he wondered until he wanted to help her, and offer her the protection he feared she needed.

Now, instead of going stupidly to work by himself, and making some egregious blunder, he, like a sensible man, consulted his wife on the subject; and she, with her woman's tact, at once decided the problem, which had cost him two sleepless nights and two fidgetty days.

"Go and ask Miss Glennie to come and stay with us, Alexander (the doctor's name was Alex ander; in his youth this had been abbreviated to 'Aleck,' but now his better half, not approving the shorter cognomen, always addressed him by his full title); bring her here, and I will find out what she ought to do; she's as ignorant as a baby of all money matters, and I dare say, fancies she will be able to live as she has done already. Now, go at once Alexander, and bring the poor girl home. Here are your gloves. What! you must stop to make up Jones's pills? nonsense, I can do that. I know the prescription-asafoetida, etc. I'm sure Miss Glennie is of far more consequence than that asthmatic old Jones; so be off, my dear, at once, and don't come back without her."

The doctor's inclinations jumped with his wife's. Florence obtained his care; Jones and his pills were disposed of by the female Esculapius.

Dr. Gage walked up Bath-street, and then diverged to the left, taking a quieter route to Miss Glennie's house. He wanted a little more time for thought than the direct road would have given him; for he was rather afraid of himself, as many other good people are when they meditate the performance of a kind action.

All the divergence in the world would not prevent him arriving at Miss Glennie's house at last. The longest lane has a turning, and so the doctor found, when he turned out of the lane, or rather street, he had been perambulating, and found himself at Miss Glennie's door. His inquiries as to whether she were at home or not, being answered in the affirmative, he walked in. She was sitting on the sofa, looking very sad, but very lovely, and listening attentively to a lady who stood beside her. The introduction-"Lady de Courcy, Dr. Gage,"-proclaimed that lady's

name.

The doctor, for some reason or other, looked annoyed; but the annoyance soon passed away, and he entered into conversation with Lady de Courcy.

“I am glad you are here, doctor," she said, "for you will help me to enforce a petition which I have already presented. I want Miss Glennie to come and take up her abode with me; do persuade her to do so."

The doctor looked grave. He knew Lady de

485

Courcy very well by reputation. He had heard of her balls, her parties, her dinners, her suppers, and he had heard of another little circumstance in connection with these fêtes; this "little circumstance" was, the fact of her borrowing certain little odd sums of ten, fifteen, twenty pounds, or even more, from any one who would lend to her.

Now, the doctor very justly thought that such a woman would not be a very safe or creditable guide for the beautiful Florence Glennie; so he determined, that he would be neither aider nor abettor, in the scheme of their living together.

"I cannot second your ladyship's move," he replied, "for the very reason that I have a rival claim to set up. I came here on the same errand, and my good wife having forbidden me to return alone, I shall be placed in the predicament of the Wandering Jew, if I advance your claim in preference to my claim."

Lady de Courcy laughed, and managed to display a very fine set of teeth. She had studied her laugh before the looking-glass, and knew exactly the amount of risibility she might indulge in, without betraying the horrible fact of one or two grinders being missing.

"I dare not," she replied "run the risk of your undergoing so terrible a penance, my dear doctor, (dear doctor,' mentally soliloquised Dr. Gage, 'she wants to borrow money,')--but I will yield my claim only on one condition-that Miss Glennie comes to me after she has been to you."

"We are disposing of Miss Glennie in a very unceremonious manner, Lady de Courcy," he re plied; "all this time she has not said one word for herself, and we have been tossing her to and fro between us. Let us hear her own opinion on

the subject, at any rate." Florence looked up timidly, first at the doctor, then at Lady de Courcy; she was hesitating when the latter broke in.

66

You had better accept Dr. Gage's invitation for the present, Florence," she said," and come to me at Christmas."

Lady de Courcy belonged to that class of women who, not able to exist without the excitement of gaiety, and no longer attractive themselves, seek to make their houses fascinating through the me dium of the young and lovely faces found there. She knew, that for the next three or four months, Florence neither could nor would mingle with society; so she determined to let the doctor have her for that time, and secure her for herself during the winter.

Dr. Gage's invitation, therefore, was accepted, and Lady de Courcy having taken her leave, Florence prepared to accompany the doctor. She was sad and weary when she reached the doctor's house, and the tears rolled down her cheeks as the good doctor's wife kissed and whispered comfort to her. But in a few days she became domesticated in her new home, and then, when her abode was known, notes and letters, addressed to Miss

[blocks in formation]

Glennie, came in flocks; they seemed to fly like I have been the cause of no nervousness at all, while swallows; one always appeared to be waiting out- the former was a terrible affair. side the hall door, and as soon as that door was opened, flew straight up to the drawing

room.

The greater part of these missives were notes in maturity-that is to say, they had grown into letters, while few retained their infantine size. Now it happened, that the larger ones were just looked at by Florence, and then thrown aside, while the smaller were looked at and put into the pocket. On more than one occasion, it chanced that the rejected epistles came in the doctor's way, and he, instead of neglecting, picked them up, and put them in his writing desk. Indeed, he seemed to watch for them, at last, and as their number increased, sighed deeply as he consigned them to their resting place.

The writing desk was in the surgery; so perhaps the pill-boxes knew what the sighs meant, and wherefore the good doctor so carefully guarded those great awkward-looking letters; but if he had whispered the secret to them, they kept his counsel, and never betrayed it.

At last, one evening the doctor-as he was drinking his glass of Schiedam before the firestartled his wife by suddenly pronouncing her name. Dorothy," he said, "have you ever spoken to that poor child about money matters ?"

"

Mrs. Gage resigned the stocking she was darning, took off her spectacles, wiped them, put them into their case, and prepared to enter into the subject in a methodical and business-like way.

"I began about it," she continued, "soon after she came here, but the poor thing cried so bitterly that I conld not bear to distress her; so I said no more for a day or two. Then I again alluded to her father's money affairs. As I expected, she knew nothing except that he had given her ten pounds the day before his death to buy some finery. The doctor sighed as he sipped his Schiedam. -She has an uncle in England, and I advised her to write to him, and tell him to come here; but she always cries when she begins the letter. I think you had better talk to her."

The doctor sipped the Schiedam again and again, and then, putting down the empty glass, uttered an emphatic "I will." Perhaps the Schiedam had given him courage to pronounce the mighty resolution. It was no use, however, to try to act on that resolution then and there, for the hands of the dial pointed to twelve, and Florence had been in bed and asleep for hours; so, following her example, the good doctor walked up stairs, and went to bed, where very soon, he was snoring away to his own content and his wife's discomfort.

The following morning as soon as his breakfast was over, he made up his mind to speak to his sorrowing guest. He dreaded it. He could have cut off her leg with far less nervousness-but that is saying very little, for the latter operation would

He advanced then, to the place where she was sitting, and placing his hand on her head, said"Come into the surgery with me; I want to say a few words to you, my child."

Florence looked as if she expected him to take her head off; but she rose and followed him, and took the seat which he placed beside him for her. And now came the tug of war for the good doctor. "Miss Glennie-Florence," he began, "it is necessary for me to consult with you as to the arrangements consequent on the death of your poor father. Nay, my child, don't cry; we must all go to our long home some day. Do you know if he ever made a will ?-for none can be found."

Florence looked up in surprise. "I don't think he ever did," she replied. "I remember his speaking to my uncle Edward once on the subject, but I do not know the result of their conversation." "Where does your uncle live ?"

"He is with his regiment in Ireland."

"You must write to him, and ask him to come here. Take this sheet of paper, and do it at once."

the doctor had no intention of letting her do any Florence evidently thought of crying again; but thing of the kind; so she restrained her tears, and wrote her letter. In about ten days an answer arrived. That answer was neither kind nor satisfactory. Captain Glennie informed Dr. Gage in a note which he enclosed in his letter to Florence, that his brother never had made a will. Having always lived up to his income he had little property to leave, and that little would of course, he added, belong to the Colonel's only child Flo

rence.

Then came his note to Florence. Her uncle advised her to consult the doctor in all things as to her future life; he reminded her that she had nothing but her pension to depend on, besides the property her father might have left her, and he concluded by telling her to think of matrimony as a means of maintenance !

And

It was a cruel letter; Captain Glennie was a hard-hearted man, and he had moreover a hardhearted wife, who feared the introduction of the orphan girl into their househould. When the good doctor read these letters, he no longer wondered at the flood of tears which had always preceded Florence's efforts at addressing her uncle. now came another consultation between the doctor and his wife, and then the doctor put on his hat to go and call on the clergyman who had buried Colonel Glennie. This clergymann happened to be what all clergyman are not; a good Christian and a benevolent man. He entered warmly into the case.

"You must collect the Colonel's debts," he said, as soon as he had listened to all Dr. Gage had to say to him, " collect his debts, pay them with the proceeds of the furniture, and then

TINSEL.

invest the balance in some way for Miss Glennie's benefit."

"I can perform the first clause in your bill," answered the doctor, "but the second will annihilate the third. Look here-and he drew a packet of letters from his pocket; they were the identical missives Florence had looked at and thrown aside. The clergyman drew in his breath when he saw them. Tradesmen's bills, to the amount of some two hundred and fifty pounds contracted within a few months! The clergyman and the doctor talked for a long time, and then the clergyman went home to the doctor's house, and they both of them talked for a still longer time to Mrs. Gage, and the result of all this talking was, that Florence had to come and sit down and listen to a long story, which ended in the assurance, that she had nothing but her pension to depend on.

It became now not only necessary to talk but to act. The Colonel's things were advertised and sold. His house was placed in the landlord's hands; for what could the landlord do but take it?-his debts were paid, and his child received five pounds as her inheritance.

Months passed on and Christmas came, and with Christmas came Lady de Courcy. The Colonel had now been dead some time, and Lady de Courcy, who wanted Florence to embellish her house, agreed that she had mourned long enough, and "would be all the better for a little quiet society," and Florence seemed to be of the same opinion; so she packed up her things, or rather the ayah did it for her, and accepted Lady de Courcy's invitation.

The doctor and his wife were sorry to lose her, particularly for such a home, and they determined to keep their eye on her. This, however, was easier said than done. Between Lady de Courcy and Mrs. Gage there could be no sympathy; their habits, the tenour of their lives being different they never met in society; and as the former had no fancy for the plainly dressed and homely looking doctor's wife, any private intercourse was not likely to ensue. Mrs. Gage did make one effort to see Florence. Florence received her kindly, but Lady de Courcy, although perfectly polite, evidently considered her a bore, and could not quite conceal the feeling.

Several weeks passed, and Jersey was very gay. By degrees, Florence was induced to enter into this gaiety. First were small parties, "just two or three friends;" these grew in number and extent; and then came great flaring noisy balls. One of the latter class of entertainments was in contemplation, and Lady de Courcy had made up her mind to take Florence. Of course she could not leave off her mourning garb, but it might be modified; white crape instead of black, white roses, &c., &c., might surely be permissible now, for the Colonel had been dead nearly six months! a very long time!-could a child be expected to remember its parent longer than that? It seemed an antiquated notion.

487

It was the evening, and "two or three friends" had met at Lady de Courcy's, and were discussing this same ball. "You shall positively go with us on the 25th, Florence;" were Lady de Courcy's words; but Florence did not answer. "Come Sir Edward help me," and she looked towards a gentleman who was regarding the beautiful Florence with admiring eyes. "Willingly," he replied, and he advanced every argument which folly, and vice perhaps, could suggest, but Florence would not yield; despite her love of gaiety there was much good feeling in her, and that gained the day, against Sir Edward; but now half-a-dozen other voices were raised, and then poor weak Florence began to waver.

There was one thing however, which kept Florence back, and this one thing was, the silence of one voice in that room. Had he said "go," she would have consented at once, but he was silent, and she knew what his silence meant. She wished he would have spoken and told her what to do; he was the only person she esteemed in the island, the only person who ever spoke a word of advice to her; perhaps the only one who never paid her any compliment, but that of seeking her society whenever he could, and treating her like a sensible woman.

Now as Harry Vane, the gentleman in question, will figure prominently in this tale, he must have a particular notice. In person he was not remarkably good-looking, at least he did not possess the red cheeks, black eyes, and long hair, which ladies generally admire; he was rather fair than otherwise, and his face was intellectual and expressive of deep feeling; it was also truthful; you read in it all that was passing in the good, kind heart. He never attempted to conceal a feeling, his sentiments were all so honest that concealment was unnecessary. With the fairer sex he was, however, an object of especial interest, for he was the rich man of the regiment stationed at Fort Regent, and having obtained his company, bid fair to die a General at least; so Captain Vane was considered a "very good match," and was in consequence very much sought.

This however had nothing to do with Florence's partiality for him; she liked him for himself, and did not care one straw about his money.

Meanwhile, the gay voices called on Florence for her decision.

"Do go, Florence, do go," resounded on all sides; but the one voice was silent still.

Florence raised her eyes, and they involuntarily wandered to the corner were Harry Vane, ostensibly occupied with a book, was sitting. Her eyes met his, which were fixed earnestly on herhe had evidently, although silent, taken great interest in the discussion.

Her look appealed to him for an opinion; but he did not answer the appeal, he went on reading his book just as quietly as if she had never looked at him.

[blocks in formation]

Florence was angry; angry with herself for caring what he would think-angry with him for seeming not to care how she acted; so turning from him, and towards her hostess, after a few gay words and pretences of refusal, she promised to go to the ball.

Perhaps she entered into the scheme with more apparent warmth than she really felt, for she was piqued with Harry, and wished to hide this feeling under an assumed interest in the ball; but, notwithstanding all she said, her thoughts would return to that silent figure sitting so provokingly in the corner. She would have given the world to have gone up to him and said, with the innocence of a child, "My dearest and best of friends, tell me how to act, and I will obey you;" and, perhaps, had she been alone, she might have given him a second look, which would have expressed the same; but with those gay friends round her, it was not to be thought of. So she remained miserable and dissatisfied, and assumed an air of levity which was foreign to her.

The evening came to an end. The ladies put on their bonnets and shawls, for it was a walking Boiree; the gentlemen took their cigar cases from ther pockets, and then put them back again, remembering sorrowfully that they could not smoke, as they had to accompany their fair friends to their homes.

Harry lingered until they had all left; perhaps he could not bear their silly company, for he seemed in rather a miserable mood. He sat down by Lady de Courcy, and talked to her, but he took no notice of Florence. No visible notice, at least, although his eyes (unconsciously, of course) rested on her sweet face; and once or twice he answered "no" for "yes," and "yes" for "no," in his conversation with Lady de Courcy.

"Will you accompany us to the ball, Captain Vane ?" the latter asked.

"You will have to go very early if I do; remember that I, as one of the stewards, must be there in good time; but, if you do not mind that, I am at your service."

Lady de Courcy hesitated. The truth was, for purposes of her own, she was wavering between Harry and Sir Edward Bellinghame; she decided in favour of the latter.

"Thank you," she replied, with a very winning smile, for she wished to keep Harry in a good temper; "thank you; but under the consideration of your being compelled this time to see the candelabra lit, I think we must forego the pleasure of your escort, and enlist Sir Edward in our service."

Harry started, and looked uneasily at Florence. "Sir Edward," he said, "Lady de Courcy, of course you are aware that Sir Edward is a married

[merged small][ocr errors][merged small]

"And that his reputation for gallantry makes him an undesirable companion;" and he looked again at Florence, who was very demurely em

| broidering a slipper. There was something glitter
tering on that same slipper-a tiny drop which
the light of the lamp shone on-it looked very like
a tear; but, of course, it could not be that. No;
what should Florence have to weep about. What-
ever it might be, however, Harry saw it; and going
up to her, took her hand kindly, meaning to wish
her good night.

It was a very strange coincidence that Lady de
Courcy was called out of the room at that mo
ment; still more strange, that as soon as she had
gone, Florence should have risen from her seat and
stood by Harry.

"You think," she said, and her beautiful eyes sought his; "you think," but her voice would tremble; it was very provoking, when she wanted to say so much to him, and she knew Lady de Courcy would soon be back. And Harry seemed to be as great a simpleton as herself, for he grasped her hands until he almost drove the rings into her little taper fingers; and instead of telling her what he thought, asked her in a whisper, as if he was afraid of any one else hearing what he had to say-" At what hour she would be at home and alone on the following day."

Florence answered (unintentionally, of course,)
eleven o'clock; and then she remembered that
she ought to say later, for Lady de Courcy never
to receive him alone; so she mentioned this to
rose until one, and it seemed so odd for Florence
Harry, and proposed an alteration of the time, but
he only laughed, and said, "Eleven o'clock would

suit him much better than a later hour;" and he
added, "that she had better not mention his
coming to Lady de Courcy, lest her ladyship
should inconvenience herself by rising early to
meet him."

Then he took his leave, and left some civil
message about "good night," &c., for Lady de
Courcy, who had not returned to the room.

How nimbly Florence's fingers went over the embroidery now, and how nimbly her thoughts flew over the events of the last quarter of an hour. But one o'clock was chimed by the porcelain construction on the chimney-piece, and she remembered that needlework and thoughts must be put away for the night; so, taking her lamp, she went in search of Lady de Courcy, found her, delivered the message, and then seeking her own room, consigned herself to the disrobing care of the ayah.

Florence could not sleep very well, but she did not remain in bed the following morning; she rose as early, perhaps earlier, than usual. The clock in the drawing-room, she thought, had stopped-the hands did not seem to move, but as it kept on ticking, she supposed that she was mistaken. At last there was a double knock at the door. It could not be Harry, for it still wanted a quarter to eleven. A well-known step, however, and an inquiry for herself, told her that it was Harry. Now, Florence felt very much inclined to run

[ocr errors][ocr errors][ocr errors][merged small]
« PreviousContinue »