The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. A Novel

"O Daddy! ask her to tell the Duchess's fortune."

"Nonsense, Sally," said Seth. "She can no more tell fortunes than you or I can. Why, one of your trances is a hundred times better than anything she can tell us. Besides, what is to be is to be."

He spoke in a low tone, and the gipsy lost not a word of his speech.

Sally was not given to dispute with her guardian. She loved and respected him too well, believing that he knew better than anybody else in the world what was good for everybody; but she had to struggle with herself for strength to bear the disappointment. The next few steps brought them to the side of the gipsy, who rose and confronted them.

"Let me tell your fortune, pretty lady."

Sally's heart beat quickly as the gipsy took her hand and held it with light, firm grasp.

"We have no time for fortune-telling," said Seth, adding gently, "and no money."

"Sixpence won't harm you, kind gentleman," said the gipsy, sitting on a hillock, so that her face and Sally's were on a level. "You haven't come all the way from London to spoil the pleasure of these little ladies for sixpence."

"Oh, oh!" cried Sally, palpitating. "She knows we come from London!"

"The gipsy woman knows everything, and sees everything, pretty lady."

The circumstance of being called pretty lady in so winsome a voice was honey to Sally's soul.

Seeing no way but one out of the difficulty, Seth gave the woman a sixpenny-piece, which she, suspicious of the tricks of Londoners of a common grade, placed between her teeth to test. Sally meanwhile, having an arm disengaged, clasped the Duchess's waist, and drew her close to her side. The gipsy cast a rapid glance upon the two children, noting the tenderness expressed in the action, and then fell to examining Sally's hand.

"You see the usual things in it, of course," said Seth, with but small respect in his tone for the woman's art. "What usual things?" asked the gipsy.

"Sickness, sorrow, sweethearts, riches."

"I see no riches; here is trouble."

"Not in the present," said Seth, somewhat repentant of his rashness in angering the woman, as he saw Sally turn pale.

"No, not in the present. Trouble in the past, trouble in the future."

"Easy to predict. Trouble comes to all of us."

"Look here, master. Are you reading the signs or me?"

"You; and you read them in the usual way."

"Is it reading them in the usual way to tell you that you are not this little lady's father?"

"Our faces teach you that."

"Is it reading them in the usual way to tell you that this little lady's trouble in the future will come from love?"

"A dark or fair man?" asked Seth, still bantering, for the purpose of inspiring Sally with courage.

"From no man, dark or fair. From love of a woman."

"Of a woman!" exclaimed Seth, biting his lip.

"Ay, of a woman, when this little lady herself is a woman." A curtsey from the gipsy caused Seth to turn his head, and he saw that other persons had joined the party: a gentleman of middle age and a lady richly dressed.

"Come," said the gentleman, with a careless attempt to draw the lady from the group.

"No," protested the lady, "no, Mr. Temple; I must positively stop. I dote on fortune-telling; I've had mine told a hundred times."

"It's a bright fortune, my lady," said the gipsy, still retaining Sally's hand, "as bright as this summer's day."

"It is evening now," observed the gentleman addressed as Mr. Temple. "Better not stop. The grey shadows are coming."

"There are no grey shadows for my lady," quickly answered the gipsy.

"Rose-coloured shall all your days be," said the gentleman, with an amused glance at his companion, "if-" and paused.

"Yes-if-" prompted the lady.

"If," continued the gentleman, "you cross the poor gipsy's hand with silver. Isn't that so?" addressing the gipsy.

The woman smiled deferentially, and held out her hand to receive the silver which the lady took from her purse.

"And it's enough to provoke even a gentleman's curiosity," said the lady, "to hear that trouble is to come to this sweet girl through the love of a woman instead of that of a man."

"All troubles through love come from love of a woman," observed the gentleman oracularly.

"Does your experience teach you that?" inquired the lady, peering laughingly into his eyes.

"What my experience teaches me," he replied, with a shadow gathering on his face, "I reserve."

"After a lawyer's fashion," said the lady, again taking up his words. "You are self-convicted, Mr. Temple."

"In what way?"

"If you saw your face in a glass, you would receive your answer."

"Psha!" he exclaimed, directing his attention to the gipsy. "You have told this little girl that a woman will bring her trouble. Beyond your skill to say what woman."

"A woman younger than herself; more beautiful than herself; that she loves, and loves dearly. Show yourself, my beauty."

With no unkindly hand, knowing that it would not be tolerated, she raised the Duchess's chin with her fingers, so that the lady and gentleman could see her face. At the same moment Seth Dumbrick plucked the Duchess from the gipsy, and pressed her to his side, with a steady eye upon the gentleman.

"What a lovely child!" cried the lady, stooping, and placing her hand on the Duchess's shoulder. "Look, Mr. Temple. Did you ever in your life see so beautiful a face?"

He paused before he replied, and then the words came slowly from his lips.

"Once I saw a face as beautiful."

"When? Where?" eagerly asked the lady.

"In a dream."

"A dream!" exclaimed the gipsy, tracing a line on Sally's hand. "There are dreams mixed up with this little lady's fortune."

"Oh, yes, yes!" cried Sally. "I have 'em! I have 'em!"

The gipsy turned to Seth.

"Do I read the signs in the usual way?"

"You have hit enough nails on the head," said Seth, "and you have earned your money. It is time for us to go."

"Not yet, oh, not yet," interposed the lady. "We want this lovely child's fortune told." She drew the Duchess from Seth; the child, fascinated by her pretty face and soft silk dress, went willingly enough, and Sally and Seth looked on with jealous, uneasy eyes. "You need not be frightened, my good man. I shall not harm your daughter."

"Bless your ladyship's heart," said the gipsy, "he's not her father."

"How does she know?" inquired the lady. "Is it true?"

For a moment a falsehood rested on Seth's lips, but he refused to utter it. "She's not my child," he said. "I have adopted her."

"Mr. Temple," said the lady excitedly, "does the law permit children to be bought and sold? I should like to buy this child."

Seth looked frowningly at the lady, but all her attention being bestowed on the Duchess, she did not observe this evidence of his displeasure. The frown, however, was met by another and a sterner from the gentleman, who thus stood forward as the lady's champion. Seth did not lower his eyes, and the assumption of superiority in the gentleman's demeanour brought an expression of contempt and defiance into his own. It was not likely, after the fixed gaze with which they regarded each other, that either would forget the other's face. Seth observed more than the face of the man who confronted him. Every detail of dress, bearing, and manner photographed itself upon his mind, and an instinctive dislike for the fine gentleman took possession of him.

"Did you hear what I said?" cried the lady, addressing the gentleman, and smoothing the silky hair of the Duchess. "I should like to buy this child? What has the law to say to the bargain?"

"I am afraid that the law would not support you," said the gentleman.

"I am sure that nature would not," said Seth sternly. "Why, my good man, you have confessed that you are not the child's father."

"Confessed, did I? Well, if you will have it so. But between me and this child there is a bond of love-a strong point. And even if the law did support you, I have nine other strong points in my favour-all expressed in one small word."

"Will it be troubling you too much," asked the gentleman, with irritating insolence, "to ask you to name that word?"

"Not at all. As a lawyer-as I understand from this lady's remarks you are-you will appreciate its worth. Possession."

The discordant chord between these men had been struck very effectually.

"You are acquainted with the law," observed the gentleman, implying what it was impossible to misunderstand-to wit, that Seth Dumbrick was acquainted with the law in a way not creditable to himself.

"I know nothing of it from experience."

"Yet you know something of the machinery."

"From observation and general reading."

"Indeed! You set up for a scholar!"

"I do not."

"Would possession hold good," inquired the lady, with careless condescension, "against a rightful owner?"

"It has," replied Seth, not unwilling to use the arrow placed in his hands, "in many instances-thanks to the law."

The lady looked at the gentleman for information.

"Such things have been," he said, "but not where flesh and blood are concerned."

"And here it is concerned," she exclaimed, with vivacity.

"Nonsense. What whim of yours shall I have to fight against next?"

"Of course, when I say I would like to buy the child, I am aware I am talking nonsense; but perhaps it is not in your legal mind to make allowances. I am singularly curious to learn what I can of the pretty creature's history-if she has one."

"The commonest of us has a history worth reading-but not, I doubt, until the actor begins to play a conscious part in the drama of life."

"Now you are speaking in a way I like. Let me, then, have my way, and ask the gipsy to tell the child's fortune."

"Come," he said to the gipsy, "earn your money. We have already lingered too long."

Seth Dumbrick, who had been listening with impatience to this dialogue, stepped between the gipsy and the Duchess.

"We have had enough fooling," he said sternly. "Let the woman earn her money in some other way than this."

He would have retired with the children at once, had not the gentleman stepped quickly before him, barring his progress.

"You are disposed to be insolent," he said, with a slight quivering of the lips. "Do you not know how to pay respect to a lady?"

"I know what is due to myself," replied Seth quietly. "I simply wish not to be molested."

"You are a stranger about here?"

"I am here by chance; I have no knowledge of the place."

"Nor of me?"

"Nor of you-and," he added, his temper mastering his judgment, "I wish to have none. You are a gentleman, and I-"

"Am not."

"You have answered for me. I see no reason to repine at the difference in our positions."

Seth did not intend his meaning to be mistaken, and his tone added force to his words. The gentleman's manner was so overbearing, that the commoner man's independent spirit was roused.

"I am the master of this place. This is a private road; you have committed a trespass."

"Then the sooner I repair an error unintentionally committed, the better for myself. If I had known this road was private I should not have entered it."

"The notice-board is large, and the words plain. You have been good enough to inform me that you can read."

He pointed to a board at the beginning of the road which had escaped Seth's notice, on which was painted in bold letters, "Trespassers will be prosecuted." Seth bit his lip as he saw the trap into which he had fallen.

"The hedge which protects the road," continued the gentleman, "has been newly broken."

"Not by me," said Seth, somewhat uneasy for the children's sake.

"It is not to be expected that you would admit it. But for your insolence towards the lady and myself, I should be disposed to overlook the trespass; as it is I am in doubt. Where do you come from?"

"From London."

"A London tramp-a vagrant."

"No tramp or vagrant," said Seth indignantly; "an honest man bringing his children into the country in search of health."

"I understand they are not your children."

"They are mine by adoption."

"Are their parents living?"

"This child's mother-don't be frightened, Sally-lives in the country, and is unable to offer her a home. So I take care of her."

"A modern Quixote," said the gentleman, with a sneer. "And this child" – once more he looked at the Duchess, whose eyes were raised to his-"and this child-" The imploring gaze of the Duchess appeared to disconcert him, and the sentence remained unfinished.

A singular silence followed, during which they all looked at the gentleman, whose self-possession had suddenly deserted him. Aroused to the fact that general attention was fixed upon him, he broke the silence, with curious pauses between his words.

"I was asking whether these children are sisters?"

"They are not," replied Seth.

"In any way related?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"Are her parents living?"

For the second time during the interview a falsehood rested on Seth's lips, and for the second time he refused to utter it.

"I do not know," he replied.

"What is it you say?"

"I do not know whether her parents are living."

"A born lady," muttered the gipsy, seeing her chance; "a born lady-fit to be a Duchess-is one, or I can't read the stars."

Seth turned a startled look upon the gipsy, saying, "You are a clever witch, wherever you have got your information." Then to the gentleman, "Have you anything more to ask me?"

"Nothing," was the reply, with a contradiction almost in the same breath: "In what part of London did you say you live?" as though the question had been already asked and answered.

"In the east."

"And you rest to-night?"

"At The World's End, hard by here."

"Very well; I shall call upon you to-morrow early. You can go."

But early the next morning, before ordinary folks were stirring, Seth and the children were again on the road. The wagon started at six o'clock, and Seth experienced a feeling of relief when he caught the last glimpse of Springfield.

"No more ladies and gentlemen for us," he said almost gaily, with the air of a man who has escaped a great danger; "we have had enough of them."

"I like ladies and gentlemen," said the Duchess-a remark which drove Seth into a moody fit for at least an hour.

CHAPTER XVIII

The second day's journey was as delightful as the first. The weather continued fine, and Seth Dumbrick, recovering his spirits, did his best to entertain the children, to whom the ride itself would have been a sufficiently satisfying enjoyment. During the day Seth confided his plans to the good-natured wagoner, and his desire to obtain cheap lodgings for a few days for himself and the children at some modest cottage in the country.

"Would near the seaside suit you?" asked the wagoner.

"Capitally," replied Seth; "but your place lies inland."

"I have time to go a little out of my way, and will take you to a cottage near the sea belonging to a friend of mine, who'll be able to lodge you reasonable."

"Nothing could be better," said Seth, thankfully.

"It's obliging her and you, and won't trouble me much. Come up, Daisy! Now then, Cornflower! Four mile more for you, and plenty of time to do it in."

If Daisy and Cornflower understood that an additional task was imposed upon them they did not take it sadly, but shook their bells briskly and trotted out of their regular track with a willing spirit.

"Round this bend," said the wagoner, "and a fine stretch of the sea'll be before us."

It appeared almost incredible, for the trees and hedges in the path they were riding along were so thick and the path itself so winding as to obscure the view.

"The children have never seen the sea," said Seth.

"You don't say so! Well, I wouldn't be a Londoner, bound to live there all my days, for the best fifty houses you could offer me. And never seen a ship sailing, I'll be bound!"

"Never."

"It will be something for them to remember, then. Now, shut your eyes, my little lasses, and don't open them till I say 'Presto!'"

Sally and the Duchess shut their eyes tight, their hearts throbbing with eager expectation.

"Up then, Daisy! Up, Cornflower! Round the bend we go. Presto!"

The Duchess and Sally opened their eyes and uttered exclamations of delight. The glorious sea lay before them, with large ships in the distance and fishing boats in the foreground. In one part the sun, playing on the water, transformed it into an island of flashing jewels. It was a veritable wonderland to the children-a dream of beauty never to be forgotten.

"Do I see the waves creeping up, Sally?" asked Seth, gaily.

Sally raised her face to his and kissed him.

"It's all through that money that was sent to the Duchess, Daddy."

"All through that, Sally."

"Then I love money, Daddy," said Sally; "and I'd like to be a lady, so that the Duchess and me might live always by the sea. How far does it stretch? More than we can see?"

"Thousands, and thousands, and thousands of miles more. Away into other countries, where it's night at the present moment while it's daylight here."

"I don't understand it," said Sally, with a sigh of ecstasy, "and I don't want to. Oh, we're going away from it!"

"We're going to the cottage I spoke of my little woman," said the wagoner; "it's not three hundred yards off-just down this lane."

Down the lane they drove, and drew up at a small house with a garden before and behind. The front of the cottage was covered with ivy, and the windows in their framework of glossy leaves looked wonderfully pretty.

"This is nice, too," said Sally, disposed to enjoy everything.

"There's beauty everywhere, Sally," said Seth, with a touch of his old philosophy, "if we'll only look out for it."

"This comes without looking out for it," replied Sally; "and that's why I like it. Ain't it better than anything ever was, Duchess?"

The Duchess nodded an assent, and in another moment the whole party were in the little parlour, and Seth and the wagoner were talking to the mistress of the house. The bargain was soon struck, the terms asked for board and lodging being much less than Seth had ventured to hope they would be. They were to have the two rooms on the first floor for sleeping apartments, one looking over the front the other over the back of the house.

"Daddy must have this," said Sally, as they stood in the front room; "it's the best."

"That's the reason why you and the Duchess shall sleep in it. I came into the country for your sakes, children, not for my own."

Everything in the place was sweet and fresh; and the garden at the back of the house contained apple and pear trees and currant-bushes, as well as flowers.

"My good man," said the mistress, "will be glad to have two such pretty children in the house for a little while. We've none of our own. It'll brighten us up a bit."

The woman was sad-looking and spoke in a sad tone; and Sally wondered how it was possible that one who lived in the fairy-house, with flowers and fruit trees and the sea within a stone's throw of them, should need brightening up. She was sure if such a paradise were hers, that there would never be a dull hour in it. While the woman was attending to the children upstairs, assisting them to wash after their long day's ride, and showing them all the wonders of the fairy house, Seth and the wagoner had a conversation in the room below. It was a friendly one, resulting from the wagoner's refusal to accept payment for the ride.

"It'll be a pleasure to me," said the wagoner, "not to take the money. I don't want it, having enough and to spare, as I've already told you. I don't mean to say I do it for your sake-"

"Not likely," said Seth, good-humouredly.

" – But for the sake of the pretty little one you call the Duchess. And that's puzzled me. I'd take it as a favour if you'd tell me, why Duchess?"

"Well, it was a fancy of Sally's," said Seth, "who worships the Duchess-"

"It's plain enough that she thinks a mighty deal more of her than she does of herself."

"That she does. Well, the Duchess came to me in a strange way that'll take too long to explain here. The child was left in our neighbourhood in a most mysterious manner-brought in mysteriously, deserted mysteriously. She and Sally were thrown together, and Sally adopted her, if one helpless mite can be said to adopt another helpless mite. Sally's mother fell into misfortune, and the children happened to drop in my way. Sally had a name-the other one didn't-and one night we had a curious little party of children in my cellar-"

"In your cellar?"

"I live in a cellar in Rosemary Lane-and Sally, quite seriously, put the fancy in my head of calling the child the Duchess of our quarter. All the neighbours take to it kindly, and everyone that knows her loves her. Look there. Who could help being attracted to her?"

The wagoner looked up at the window of the children's room, and saw the Duchess standing within a framework of dark-green ivy leaves. The light was shining full upon her beautiful face, and touched, also, the darker face of Sally, who stood at the back of the Duchess, looking over her shoulder.

"It's a picture one don't often see," said the wagoner, with a thoughtful air; "but if I had my choice of the two girls for a daughter, I reckon I'd choose the dark-skinned one."

It did not displease Seth to hear this, for Sally and the Duchess really occupied an equal place in his heart. If the beauty of the Duchess awoke the tenderness of his nature, the devotion, unselfishness, and many rare qualities displayed by Sally were no less powerful in their effect upon his sympathies. Bearing in mind the scene that had occurred at Springfield on the preceding evening, he asked the wagoner, if any inquiries were made of him, not to divulge where he and the children were rusticating.

"I've brought them into the country," he said, "as much for peace and quietness as for fresh air."

There was to the wagoner's mind something suspicious both in the words and the nervous manner in which Seth made the request. He showed in his countenance the impression he received, and Seth, wishing to stand well with him, gave an account of the incident which had so disturbed him.

"When I heard the lady say she would like to buy my child," he said, in conclusion, "it seemed to me that she had so much faith in the power of money, and so little in the power of love, that I could not keep my temper. I spoke hotly, and with reason, I think."

"It would have roused my blood," responded the wagoner; "you never saw any of the gentlefolk before?"

"Never, and I never wish to see them again. I said as much to the master of Springfield, if I'm not mistaken."

"From what I've heard of him, he's not a man either to forget or forgive."

"You'll promise me, then, for the sake of the children, not to set any one on our track?"

He spoke anxiously, his fears exaggerating a danger which, in all likelihood was wholly imaginary.

"Yes," replied the wagoner, "there's no harm in promising. They've no right to worry you, as far as I can see, and they sha'n't get me to put them in the way of it. How long are you going to stop here?"

"We can live here so cheaply," said Seth, with a lightened heart, "that my purse will hold out for two or three weeks; we'll stay that time, I dare say."

"I'll be going up to London about then, mayhap," said the wagoner; "if so, I'll be glad to give the little lasses a lift; and mayhap I may be passing this way in a few days with the wagon. A ride through the lanes will do them no harm."

Seth expressed his thanks to the kind-hearted old fellow, and they shook hands and parted, the wagoner smiling goodbye to the children, who stood at the window watching him until he was out of sight.

Then commenced a happy time. The children were in a new world, and the little cottage, with its bit of garden back and front, was a very heaven to them. Everything was so new and bright, the air was so sweet, the trees and flowers so beautiful, that Sally could scarcely believe it was all real. On the first night, when they were abed, listening to the strange sound of the waves beating on the shore, Sally whispered to the Duchess: