The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. A Novel

"Isn't it lovely, Duchess?"

"Yes, oh, yes," sighed the Duchess; and this precise form of words was used at least a dozen times, each time with the belief that it embodied an observation of an especially original nature. Once Sally, creeping out of bed, drew aside the snowy white curtains from the window and looked out.

"Oh, come, Duchess, come!" she cried, and the Duchess scrambled after her. It was full moon, and the glorious light shining on the trees and hedges was a vision of beauty to them.

"That's a different moon from the one we've got in Rosemary Lane," said Sally; "I wish we could take it back with us."

"Are we going back?" asked the Duchess regretfully.

Sally did not reply. The prospect was too distressing. But she was happily so constituted as to be grateful for present joys and pleasures, and she dismissed Rosemary Lane from her thoughts. Her one fear was that she would wake up.

"Do you like the noise the sea makes?" she inquires of her idol, when they were in bed again.

"It's beautiful," said the Duchess. "Are the ships there?"

Sally never hesitated to impart information on subjects of which she was ignorant.

"They're there," she said, "but they don't move till daylight comes."

"I'm sleepy," said the Duchess, with a yawn.

"I'm frightened to go to sleep," said Sally, battling with fatigue; "I want to be like this always. I hope it ain't a dream-oh, I hope it ain't a dream!"

Before she had finished, the Duchess was asleep.

"I'll pinch myself hard," thought Sally, "as hard as I can, and if there's a black-and-blue mark on my arm to-morrow morning, I shall know it's real."

Sally did pinch herself-so hard that she could not help crying out with the pain, but she obtained her reward on the following morning, when she saw the black-and-blue marks. The joy of the day, however, was so great that as she sat on the pebbly beach, watching the waves creep up and the ships and fishing-boats floating away into wonderland, she found it hard to convince herself that she was not dreaming. At the end of the week she said to Seth:

"Daddy, every night I go to bed, I am frightened that I shall wake up and find myself in Rosemary Lane."

Thereupon he read her and the Duchess a lecture on contentment and gratitude, not so much needed by Sally as by the Duchess.

"I know you're right," said Sally; "it will always be a pleasure to think of, but I shall be awful sorry too, that it didn't last for ever. It can't, Daddy, can it?"

"No, my dear, it can't."

"I wish I was rich," sighed Sally.

"Supposing you had lived a hundred years ago," suggested Seth, with grave humour; and paused.

"Well, Daddy. Supposing I did?"

"It would be all the same to you whether you had a hundred boxes full of gold or whether you had twopence-halfpenny."

Sally was shrewd enough to understand this without having to ask for an explanation.

"What do you say to it all?" asked Sally of the Duchess.

"I don't care for a hundred years ago," said the Duchess; "I don't know what it means. I care for Now." And she echoed Sally's words, "I wish I was rich."

This set Seth pondering, and in his endeavour to extract honey out of unpromising material and to improve the occasion, it is to be feared that he soared above the understanding of his children. In this way:

"Did I ever tell you, Sally" – he always appealed to Sally at such times, although he addressed both her and the Duchess-"of a man I once knew called Billy Spike?"

"No, Daddy."

"He was a friend of mine a good many years ago. Older than me by thirty years was Billy Spike-and he was always Billy, never William, to the day of his death. Nearly everybody who knew him thought he was crazy."

"Why?"

"Because of one thing he was never tired of saying, 'What I don't get is profit.' That's what sweetened the world for Billy Spike. 'What I don't get is profit,' was always on his lips."

"Was he a rich man, Daddy?"

"I doubt if Billy Spike ever had twenty shillings in his pocket at one time. I doubt if ever he had a new suit of clothes to his back. I doubt if he ever had quite as much to eat as he could have taken in. He was as poor as a church-mouse."

"Why is a church-mouse poor?" asked practical Sally.

"It's no use my trying to explain that, Sally. It's a saying, and a true one I dare say. But about Billy Spike. He was the poorest and the happiest man in the world, and all the philosophy of life was contained in his saying, 'What I don't get is profit.' 'Billy,' I said to him, 'what do you mean by it?' He looked at me with his eyes twinkling. 'Seth Dumbrick,' said he, 'you're a man of sense. Look at me. Here I am.' And he stood up straight before me, showing large holes in his coat, under his arms, and being generally a picture of rags. 'If,' said I, 'all the profit you make comes from what you've got, and not from what you haven't got, your returns must be small.' 'I've got a pair of arms, Seth Dumbrick,' said Billy. 'Thank you for nothing,' said I. 'You call that nothing!' cried Billy. 'Wait a bit. My limbs are all sound, my eyesight's good. I never had a headache or a toothache in my life, and I sleep like a top. Now, tell me who's that crossing the road?' It was a sailor we knew who hopped through life on a wooden leg. Me and Billy and the wooden-legged sailor went and had a glass together, and Billy drew the sailor out to tell us all about the miseries of having only one leg-what shootings he had in the one that was chopped off-yes, he said that, Sally, though it does sound funny-and how he couldn't walk where he wanted to walk, and couldn't do what he wanted to do, all through having a wooden leg. It was plain enough that his wooden leg made him real unhappy and miserable. When he was gone Billy Spike said to me, with a wink, 'What I don't get is profit: I don't get wooden legs.' Just then we saw a woman that we knew; her face was twice its proper size, and she had a bandage round it. 'What's the matter, mother?' asked Billy Spike. 'I'm almost dead with the pain, Billy,' she said. 'I've been and had two of my teeth out at the hospital and the doctor's almost broke my jaw. It's enough to drive a poor woman mad.' 'The toothache is,' said Billy. 'Yes, the toothache,' said she; 'I've had it on and off for the last twenty years, and I'm pretty well crazed with it.' Billy Spike winked at me again. 'What I don't get is profit. I don't get toothaches.' Then we came across a blind man, and Billy drew him out, and a pretty bad case it was. 'I'd sooner be dead than alive,' said he. He couldn't see the wink that Billy gave. What I don't get is profit,' said Billy. 'I don't get blind.' And so Billy would have gone on all the day, I don't doubt, if I hadn't already caught his meaning."

In which respect Seth had the advantage of those to whom he was relating, as a possibly useful lesson, this story of Billy Spike's philosophy. Sally's face denoted that she did not see the application, and the Duchess said again, "I wish I was rich." So Seth resolved to throw aside philosophy as not suitable for the occasion, and to devote himself entirely to pleasure. It was none the less sweet because it was taken in a modest humble way, and because it cost but little money. Country walks, rides in carts and wagons, generally given for nothing-for the beauty of the Duchess soon attracted admirers even in this out-of-the-way spot-frolics in hayfields, rambles by the seaside, fully occupied their hours, and did not afford opportunity for a moment's weariness. And one day a travelling photographer passed their road and offered to "take" the Duchess for a song, as the saying is. Being an artist he saw the value of Seth's suggestion that she should be taken standing in a framework of ivy leaves, and the prettiest of pictures was produced. The photographer, falling in love with his work, and seeing future profit in it, took negatives of the Duchess in various attitudes, she falling into them so naturally as to excite his wonder and admiration. In truth it was a task which pleased and delighted her. Seth, shrewd as he always was, and careful of his pocket as he was compelled to be, made a good bargain with the artist, and for a very small sum obtained copies of all their portraits: the Duchess in three different positions, Sally in one, Sally and the Duchess together, and lastly, himself with the children on either side of him. The day following this excitement another pleasure came. The old wagoner who had driven them from London arrived early in the morning with Daisy and Cornflower, and after giving them the most beautiful ride in their holiday, took them to his own cottage where he had lived from boyhood. There his old wife awaited them, and feasted the party to their hearts' content, and a peaceful ride back in the peaceful night was the fitting ending to the happy day. So the time passed on until one morning Seth said to Sally.

"Home to-morrow, Sally."

She sighed with grateful regret.

"Our little girl is better than ever she was," he continued, with a fond look at the Duchess, "and we'll endeavour to keep her so. Such roses as these" – caressing the Duchess's cheek-"will be something for the Rosemary Lane folk to stare at. They've never seen such bright ones before. We've had a happy time, haven't we?"

"Yes, yes," they both replied, nestling to him.

"Let us be thankful, then-"

"For what we haven't had?" asked Sally, with a sly look.

"No," he said with a laugh, "for what we have enjoyed;" adding in a graver tone, "I never thought the world was so good as it is."

On the second evening from this they returned to Rosemary Lane, and were received with smiles and hearty welcome by all.

CHAPTER XIX

Sally, brimming over with delightful memories of the happy days passed in the cottage by the sea, was not slow to communicate her experiences to her young friends and playmates in Rosemary Lane. The wonderful stories she had to tell, and the wonderful way in which she related them, caused the children's eyes to dilate and their breasts to throb. Sally was an artist, and, in a more effective manner than would have been adopted by a more polished narrator, she painted her pictures in exactly those colours which made them alluring to an audience not over-gifted with learning and intelligence. In all these pictures, the Duchess was the central figure. She was the princess for whom the flowers bloomed and the sea whispered musically. The happy rides, the pleasant meals, the delicious idling, the soft murmurs of woodland life, were all for the Duchess, and, but for her, would not have been. Sally's tongue was never idle when there was an opportunity to glorify her idol, and the devoted child had never been so rich in opportunity as at the present time. Among other stories related by her, was, of course, the story of the Duchess's portrait being taken surrounded by flowers, which Sally declared was "out and out the most beautiful thing as ever was seen;" and public curiosity being excited, Seth Dumbrick was besieged by applicants eager to see the pictures. These visits were the means of his ingratiating himself into the more favourable opinion of his neighbours, who said to one another that Seth Dumbrick was becoming quite an agreeable man. Even to Mrs. Preedy he was gracious, and for fully three weeks that inveterate gossip had not a word to say to his disparagement.

So, being once more settled down quietly in his stall, with sufficient work for the hours, Seth hammered and patched away from morning till night, and but for certain fears connected with the Duchess, would have been a perfectly happy man. One of these fears related to the fortune-telling incident; he was unreasonably apprehensive that by some means or other the Duchess would be tracked and spirited away by the gentleman with whom he had had high words at Springfield; he did not stop to reason upon the motive which would lead to such an act. His other fear related to the bank-note, so strangely forwarded to the Duchess, which had paid for their holiday. If he had known where to seek for a clue to the discovery of the sender of the money, it is doubtful whether he would have availed himself of it; his earnest wish was that the matter should rest where it was, and that he and the Duchess and Sally should be allowed to live their quiet, uneventful life unmolested. If he saw the postman coming along the street, he watched his progress nervously, dreading that another letter for the Duchess might arrive, and when the man passed without look or word, the cheerful hammering upon the leather, or the more vigorous plying of the awl, denoted how greatly he was relieved.

Weeks and months passing in this way brought repose to his mind, and he sometimes smiled at himself for the uneasy fancies, born of love and fear, which had so tormented him. His love for the Duchess increased with time; she was for ever in his thoughts; over his bed, in a frame and protected by a glass, hung her picture, which was to him as beautiful as the most beautiful Madonna in the eyes of a devout woman; there was not speck or flaw on her, materially or spiritually; she was the queen of his life and household. Would the Duchess like this? Would the Duchess like that? What can we do for her? How can we serve her? – everything was done by Seth and Sally that could contribute to the easy and pleasant passing of her days. Their old clothes were darned and patched, and darned and patched again and again, so that the Duchess might have pretty things to wear. They were continually buying flowers and bits of ribbons for her, and casting about for ways and means to bring new pleasures into her days. In this twelve months passed, and the summer came round again. Sitting at their midday meal, Sally remarked that this time last year they were going into the country. Seth referred to a small memorandum book, the recipient of a singular medley of notes and observations.

"To-morrow morning's exactly a year," he said, "since we started."

Sally sighed, and Seth saw with pain a look of regret in the Duchess's eyes. It was not a calm regret; there was nothing of resignation in it. It expressed a struggle to be free from the thraldom of poverty, a rebellious repining at the hardship of Fate. As Seth was considering whether any ingenious twisting of Billy Spike's philosophy would afford consolation, a double knock at the stall above was heard. He mounted the steps, and confronted the postman.

"A letter for the Duchess of Rosemary Lane."

Seth received it with a sinking heart, and putting it hastily into his pocket, descended to the living-room.

"Who was it, Daddy?" asked Sally.

"Mrs. Simpson sent for the child's boot," replied Seth, with a guilty palpitation; "it ain't done yet."

He finished his dinner in silence, listening to reminiscences of last year's delightful holiday, called up by Sally and the Duchess. He did not take the letter from his pocket until late in the night, when he was alone. He gazed at it for a few moments, believing it contained a realization of his fears, and that it might be the means of parting him and the Duchess. If he had not been a just man, he would have destroyed the letter, but he was restrained by the reflection that it might be of importance to the future of the child he loved. With reluctant fingers he unfastened the envelope, and found in it a bank-note for five pounds. As with the letter received last year, it did not contain a single word that would furnish a clue. He had carefully preserved the first envelope, and comparing the writing on the two, he judged it to be from one hand.

"Who is it that sends the money?" he mused. "A man or a woman? That's the first point. There's a difference in handwriting, I've heard. I must find a way to make sure of that. I suppose the note's as good as the one sent last year."

Before the afternoon of the following day, he had thought over a lame little scheme, which he put into execution without delay. He walked to the shop of a tradesman, of whom he was in the habit of buying tools and leather, and having made some small purchases, he offered the note in payment. It was taken, and change given, without remark. "Is your wife at home?" then asked Seth.

"Yes," replied the tradesman.

"I'd like to see her," said Seth; "I want to ask her about something that a woman knows better than a man."

The tradesman called his wife, and Seth had a quiet talk with her. He commenced in a roundabout way.

"It's about a friend of mine," he said, "an unmarried man like myself, but more likely to marry, being younger. He's received a letter without a signature, and he's mighty anxious to find out whether it comes from a man or a woman. It's a delicate matter you see."

The tradesman's wife did not see, but she waited patiently for further light.

"The fact is," continued Seth, "there's a girl he knows and has a fancy for, that another man knows and has a fancy for."

"It's a love letter, then," interrupted the tradesman's wife, with a smile.

"Yes," said Seth, gladly accepting the suggestion, "and he naturally wishes to know who wrote it."

"Yes."

"Now the first thing to discover is whether it's a man's or a woman's writing."

"How can I help you to discover that?"

"If you will be good enough to write just a couple of words-say, Rosemary Lane-on a bit of paper, it might assist us."

The woman wrote down the words, and wrote them without a curve; every letter had in it as many angles as it could conveniently accommodate. After this, Seth asked the woman if her daughters would write the same words on separate pieces of paper, and then he obtained a specimen of writing from the tradesman himself. He paid visits to many places that afternoon, with the same purpose in view, and by the evening he had in his pocket between twenty and thirty different specimens of calligraphy. When the children were asleep he continued his examination, and discovered that, without an exception, all the women wrote in angles and all the men in curves. Comparing the writing with that on the envelopes, he came to the conclusion that the addresses were written and the money sent by a woman.

He derived an odd kind of satisfaction from this result There was less danger to be feared from a woman than from a man, and, without difficulty, Seth invented a dozen different sets of circumstances to fit the case, in all of which the woman who was in this way kind to the Duchess was never to make herself known. The money clearly belonged to the Duchess, and the conscientious man decided that it must be spent on the Duchess, and on the Duchess alone. The child had had her ears pierced, and wore in them a pair of rough glass earrings bought by Sally for a few pence on the anniversary of her idol's birthday.

No one knew how old the Duchess exactly was, or on what day she was born; but a birthday was such a happy occasion for love-gifts, and the Duchess so fit a person to give them to, that a natal day was fixed for her. Of course a suitable one. "March winds and April showers bring forth May flowers." Sally knew the rhyme, and settled that the Duchess was born when the flowers were born, on the 1st of May. On the Duchess's last birthday Sally had presented the glass earrings, and the pleasure derived from the giving and the receiving was as great as if the bits of glass had been diamonds. The Duchess never tired of admiring herself in the little tin-framed mirror fixed by the side of the bed, and shook her head to make the crystals sparkle, and played at hide and peep with them, hiding them in her hair and shaking them free again. A fair meed of admiration was also passed upon them by her playmates, and the Duchess thought them the loveliest things in the world until one unhappy day she heard an ill-natured woman call them "bits of trumpery glass." From that moment they became less precious in the Duchess's eyes, and a secret longing crept into her mind for something more valuable to show off her pretty ears. About this time Mrs. Preedy, having occasion to go westward, invited the Duchess to accompany her, to see the carriages and fine folks in the Park. Without asking for permission from her guardian, the Duchess accepted the invitation joyfully, and as she walked along by the side of Mrs. Preedy, her quick eye took in everything of note that passed her; but most of all did she notice the gold ornaments worn by the ladies, and yearned for them in her heart of hearts.

"Such heaps of rich people, Duchess," observed Mrs. Preedy. "It's like a show."

"There's nothing in the world like being rich," observed the Duchess.

"No, that there's not," replied the woman heartily. "Why," presently continued the Duchess, "are some people rich and other people poor?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Mrs. Preedy peevishly; "it's all in the way we're born. Ladies and gentlemen ain't born in Rosemary Lane."

"I wasn't born in Rosemary Lane," mused the Duchess, in a tone which was in itself an assertion of superiority over her companion.

"Do you know where you was born?" asked Mrs. Preedy.

"No," was the reply, "but not in Rosemary Lane."

"What do you remember before you came to Rosemary Lane?" continued Mrs. Preedy, growing interested in the conversation.

"I don't remember coming to Rosemary Lane," said the Duchess; "I had a mamma once."

"Where?"

"I don't know; in a garden, I think."

"Like anybody you see?"

"Like her," said the Duchess, pointing to a lady who was stepping from a carriage. In the lady's face dwelt an expression of much sadness and sweetness, which seemed to be the natural outcome of a sad and sweet nature. The Duchess's observance of the lady drew her attention to the child, and she stopped and spoke, and asked Mrs. Preedy if the pretty creature was her daughter.

"No, indeed, ma'am," said Mrs. Preedy, with a curtsey; "she has no mother, poor dear, and she was just saying that you were like her mamma."

"Her mamma!" exclaimed the lady, with a look of surprise; "where do you come from, then?"

"From Rosemary Lane, if you please," said the obsequious Mrs. Preedy, who was always deferential to those above her.

"And where may that be?"

"In the east, if you please," with another curtsey.

The lady, with languid humour, suggested "Jerusalem?" and then asked the Duchess if she would like a cake. They were standing in front of a confectioner's shop, and the child, with as much self-possession (as Mrs. Preedy afterwards remarked when she related the adventure) as if she had been a born lady, withdrew her hand from Mrs. Preedy, and held it out to the lady, who smilingly led her into the shop, and feasted her and Mrs. Preedy to their heart's content. They had cakes and jellies, and strawberries and cream, and the lady chatted with the Duchess, and praised her beauty, in the most gracious and affable manner. Altogether, it was a very pleasant time, and formed quite an event in Mrs. Preedy's life, who for months and months gave most vivid descriptions of the entertainment, never forgetting to add that when they went into the Park later in the day they met the lady driving in her carriage there, and that she nodded and smiled in recognition of them.

Seth Dumbrick also went westwards in search of a present for the Duchess, to be paid for out of the money which was hers, and staring in the shop-windows, was greatly bewildered by the attractive articles there displayed. Silk sashes and neckerchiefs, natty kid boots and fascinating hats, distracted him with their claims. Had he been a well-to-do man, there is no knowing what extravagance he might have committed. At length he stationed himself before a jeweller's window, and gazed upon the beautiful articles exhibited in it, now deciding upon this, now upon that; and, in the end, upon a pair of gold earrings, tastefully designed to represent shells. He had no idea of the value of such articles, and it was with something of trepidation he entered the shop, where his appearance was viewed with suspicion by the salesman, who saw no fitness between the unshaven chin and grimy fingers of the workman and the graceful devices in gold and silver displayed for sale. A bargain, however, was soon concluded, and Seth became possessor of the earrings on payment of half the money he held in trust for the Duchess. Then he went to a milliner's shop, where he seemed even more out of place than in the jeweller's, and for twenty shillings bought one of the prettiest hats in all the stock. Enjoying in anticipation the delight of the Duchess, he walked home very contentedly, and artfully turned the conversation upon last year's holiday, saying in a melancholy tone: