The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. A Novel

"If I believed," continued the lad, "that it were possible I should ever commit an act which would reflect shame upon the name we bear, I should pray to die to-night. I should not be happy if I went away without giving you this assurance. Believe me, sir, I will be worthy of the trust you repose in me."

Mr. Temple received this assurance with averted head. He was accustomed to boyish outbursts from his son, but this last bore with it, in its more earnest tones, a deeper signification than usual.

"You afford me great pleasure, Arthur," he said slowly; "I am sure I shall not be disappointed in you. Yet you must not forget that, in the practical issues of life, sentiment must occasionally be set aside."

The lad pondered for a few moments, saying then:

"I do not quite understand you, sir."

Mr. Temple briefly explained his meaning.

"Merely, my son, that the circumstances of life frequently call for the exercise of wisdom, and that we must look carefully to the results of our actions."

Arthur Temple was always ready for an argument.

"I do not know how I should act if wisdom and sentiment clashed. I have heard you say I am given to sentiment."

"Yes, Arthur; but you are young."

"I hope never to alter, sir. What I intended fully to say was this: that if a matter were before me in which wisdom and sentiment clashed, I do not know how I should act. But I do know how I should act in a matter where wisdom and justice pulled different ways. I may not always be wise; I should despise myself if I suspected that I should not always be just. Had I to choose between a wise and a just man, I know whose hand I should take. Why, sir, it enters into my love for you" – his arm here stole around his father's shoulder-"that I know you to be a just man, incapable of a base or mean action! I will follow in your footsteps; the example you have set me shall not be thrown away."

The conversation was then continued in another strain, and shortly afterwards Arthur Temple bade his parents farewell, and started for the New World. From the moment the lad placed his foot upon the vessel which conveyed him from his native land, it seemed as though he were animated by a new life. The lassitude and languor which had weighed upon him were blown away by the fresh breezes that swept across the seas; his pulses beat more briskly, his blood flowed through his veins with fuller force. The pale, sickly lad whose feeble health had but yesterday caused his parents so much anxiety, became drunk with animal spirits, and was the life and soul of the ship. He had his quiet hours, when he would sit in happy silent communion with the spirit of beauty which touched every natural effect in air and sea with heavenly colour, which whispered to him in the silence of the night, when the stars shone peacefully on the waters, and in the storm, when fierce winds lashed the seas to fury. There was exhibited in him that combination of forces which is the special attribute of some highly-strung sensitive natures: a wild riot of animal spirits which compelled him to become the noisiest and foremost in every noisy crew, and a calm, spiritual repose which demanded perfect peacefulness of body and soul. In the New World, he passed a happy time. His name and his father's position and reputation in the home-land were sufficient to ensure him a welcome in every circle, and the rare qualities he displayed endeared him to all with whom he came into association. Wherever he travelled he heard his father spoken of with honour and respect, as a just man and a just judge; and this oft-repeated experience caused him intense pleasure. He grew prouder than ever of his father's good name, and stronger than ever in his resolve to emulate him. It was during this temporary absence from home that he met and engaged Ned Chester for his valet.

Ned's career in the Australias had been one of adventure, and it had made him a jack of all trades and master of none. He had been by turns a stone-breaker, an auctioneer, a splitter of wood, a storekeeper, a shepherd, many times a gold-digger, a newspaper runner, and Heaven knows what besides. Had he been ordinarily industrious, he would most certainly have verified his mother's prediction that he would one day achieve sudden fortune-saying nothing of honour; but his love of indolence was incurable. His slips 'twixt cup and lip were numerous. Having in a tipsy fit purchased a piece of land for a song at a government land sale, he found himself, by reason of his disinclination for work, compelled to dispose of it, and he sold it-a day too soon. Twenty-four hours after it passed from his hands, rich deposits of gold were discovered in its vicinity, and the allotment was worth thousands of pounds. He sunk a shaft on a gold-lead, and having obtained fifty ounces of gold, "went on the spree" till every shilling was spent. When he returned to his shaft he found it in possession of a party of miners, each of whom was making ten ounces a day out of it. He had by the mining laws forfeited all claim to it by his desertion. This run of misfortune, as he termed it, followed him all through his career, and he failed to see that he was in any way accountable for it. Truth compels the further admission that he made the acquaintance of the interior of some colonial prisons, and that in the entire record of his experiences there was little that redounded to his credit. Strange, however, to state that in the midst of the lawlessness that prevails in all new communities, tempting to excess those whose passions are difficult to control, Ned Chester's besetting sin of intemperance which threatened to cut short his life in the Old Country lessened instead of gained in strength. And almost as strange is the fact that, with some indefinite idea that he would one day be called upon to play a gentleman's part in life, he endeavoured to fit himself, by reading and in manners, for this shadowy framework; with so much success as to cause him occasionally to be sneered at by his equals as a "stuck-up swell," a species of abuse which afforded him infinite satisfaction. Undoubtedly, the tenderness with which he held in remembrance the beautiful child-Duchess of Rosemary Lane was the leading incentive to this partial reformation. Her face and pretty figure were constantly before him, and constituted the tenderest episode in his past life-the only tender one indeed, for any love he may have felt for his devoted mother was so alloyed with rank selfishness as to be utterly valueless. As the years rolled on, thoughts travelled apace, and with them he saw the child-Duchess growing to womanhood-to beautiful womanhood. Then began to creep upon him a thirst to see her, and to be with her-a thirst which increased in intensity the more he dwelt upon his wish. The circumstance that kept them apart was to his sense monstrous. She was his-by what right, or if by any, mattered not; she was his, and he was hers; they belonged to each other. But by this time fortune seemed to have entirely deserted him, and he had settled into a from-hand-to-mouth vagabond condition of life which was destructive of every chance of crossing the seas with a shilling in his pocket. At this point of his career chance brought him into communication with Arthur Temple. He had taken service, under an assumed name, as a shepherd, an occupation which gave full scope to his indolent habits, and he was lying on the hills on a summer day, while through an adjacent forest of iron and silver bark trees, Arthur Temple was cantering, in high spirits. The subtle invisible links which draw lives into fatal connection with one another are too strange and mysterious for human comprehension. Between these two men, unconscious of each other's existence, stretched the link which was to bind them in one mesh thousands of miles across the seas, wherefrom other links were stretching to draw them homewards. Ned Chester, lying on the hill, in gloomy abstraction hitched from his pocket a common tin whistle, and began to play his sorrows through the keys. This one accomplishment had never deserted him; the cheap and common instrument became in his hands a divine medium for sweetest melody. The music reached the ears of Arthur Temple as he rode through the silent woods, and he reined in his horse, and listened. He was alone, making his way to the home station of the rich squatter who employed Ned Chester, and the music stirred his poetic mind. He wove from it romantic fancies; it peopled the woods with beautiful images; it made the stillness eloquent. He rode on to meet it, prepared for any surprise, in the shape of delicate nymph or sprite, and came upon a shabbily-dressed man, with a fortnight's beard on him, playing with dirty coarse fingers upon the keys of a common tin whistle. Ned Chester ceased, and gazed at the newcomer. He saw that he was a gentleman, and he ground his teeth with envy; but he gave no expression to the sentiment. Arthur Temple opened the ball.

"It is you who were playing?"

"Yes."

"On that?" eyeing the tin whistle with intense interest.

"Yes; on this."

"Will you play again for me?"

"I don't mind."

Ned placed the whistle to his lips, and played a simple Scotch air, improvising on the theme with rare skill; his organ of love of approbation was very large.

"Beautiful!" said Arthur Temple. "You have been taught in a good school."

In the slight laugh with which Ned Chester met this assertion was conveyed a suddenly-born reproach against society for having overlooked such superlative talent as he possessed.

"I was taught in no school." Adding proudly, "What I know, I picked up myself."

Arthur Temple corrected himself, "In the school of nature."

"May be."

"What are you?"

"A shepherd-at present."

"You have not been always a shepherd."

"Oh, no;" with an assumption of having seen considerably better times and of moving in a much better position.

"What makes you a shepherd, then?"

"A man must live."

"I beg your pardon," said Arthur, with a sensitive flush. "Are you in Mr. Fitzherbert's employment?"

Mr. Fitzherbert was the name of the squatter for whose home station he was bound, with letters of introduction.

"Yes," replied Ned Chester.

"I have come on a visit to him. Can you direct me to his place?"

"Over the hill yonder you will see a wagon track. It will take you straight to the house."

"Thank you." Arthur, about to depart, suddenly bethought himself. The musician was poor-was a shepherd from necessity. He took his purse from his pocket; a bank-note fluttered in his fingers. He held it towards Ned. Under ordinary circumstances Ned would have had no hesitation in accepting the gratuity, but as his eyes met the earnest eyes of Arthur Temple, a happy inspiration inspired him to refuse it; it was unaccountable, but it happened so. Ned turned his head from the temptation.

"I beg your pardon," said Arthur Temple, his face flushing again; "I had no intention of hurting your feelings. Good day."

"Good day."

Arthur Temple rode slowly off, with many a backward glance at the recumbent form of the musical shepherd-glances of which Ned Chester was perfectly cognisant, but of which he took no apparent notice. Before he was out of earshot, Arthur heard the tin whistle at work once more.

"A genius," thought he, "and a gentleman by instinct. I am sorry I offered him money."

The impression made upon him by the incident was powerful and durable, and he inwardly resolved to see the man again. This resolve being carried out, Ned Chester was not slow in turning to his own advantage the interest exhibited in him by Arthur Temple. His superior cunning enabled him very soon to obtain the particulars of the personal history of the young gentleman who he determined should become his patron. His patron Arthur Temple certainly did become; he engaged the vagabond man of the world as his valet at a liberal salary, and congratulated himself upon securing as his companion a person whose discovery and undoubted genius formed one of the most romantic episodes of his travels. It was fortunate for Ned that during his association with Arthur Temple in the colonies he met with no friend or acquaintance who might have exposed him to his young master. Nothing in his conduct betrayed him; he behaved in the most exemplary manner, and grew day by day in the goodwill of Arthur. He took pride in his personal appearance, and seizing with avidity the advantages such a connection opened out to him, dressed carefully and well, drank little, and was, to all outward appearance, a most respectable character. He became saving in his habits, also, and at the end of the nine months, which brought the visit of Arthur Temple to the colonies to an end, he was in possession of a sum of money larger than his salary; Ned had not fought with the world for nothing, and his experience was a key which fitted many locks. Arthur Temple was recalled home somewhat earlier than he anticipated.

"If you are well," his father wrote, "and if your health is sufficiently established to come home, do so at once, my dear lad. Your mother and myself long for your society. I never cease to think of you, and I want the world to see and appreciate you as I do, though it can never love you as you are loved by your father,

"Frederick Temple."

Arthur made immediate preparations for his departure; his nature was grateful and loving, and his duty also was here concerned. The news of the home journey troubled Ned Chester; according to the terms of his engagement, connection between him and Arthur ceased when the latter quitted Australia. Ned had saved sufficient money to pay for his passage home, but he would arrive there comparatively penniless, and in no position to obtain a livelihood. His efforts, therefore, were now directed to obtaining a permanent appointment with Arthur; and to his surprise, after much man[oe]uvring, he found that he could have succeeded much more easily by a straight than by a crooked method.

"Certainly," said Arthur; "I shall be glad not to part with you; but I thought you would have no wish to leave Australia."

"It has been my endeavour," said Ned, "for years past, but I have not had the means; and it has been my misfortune until now never to have met with a friend."

"My father," said Arthur, "will scarcely be prepared for my bringing home a valet, but he will not object to anything I do. Have you any family in England?"

"No, sir."

He endeavoured to impart a plaintive tone to this negative, to show how utterly hapless a being he was; but he failed; the joy of returning to England and of meeting the Duchess lighted up his features.

"But there is some one at home," said Arthur, with a smile, "whom you will be pleased to see."

Then Ned, with guarded enthusiasm, poured out his soul into the sympathetic ears of Arthur Temple, and spoke, but not by name, of the Duchess of Rosemary Lane, as one whom he had loved for years, and to see whom would complete the happiness of his life. He extolled her beauty, too, with sufficient fervour to carry conviction with it. He knew that these utterances made his position more secure, and imparted to his service a sentiment which was far from disagreeable to Arthur Temple.

This retrospect brings us to the ship, the Blue Jacket, sailing for England, with Arthur and Ned aboard. Arthur enjoys every hour of the voyage. All is fair before him. With youth, with good health, with a pure mind stirred by noble desires, with a father awaiting him holding a high and honourable position in the land, the book of the lad's life, the first pages only of which are opened, is filled with glowing pictures, and he looks forward with calm delight to his arrival home. Ned is less calm. The ship never goes fast enough, the days are longer than they ought to be; he burns with impatience to present himself to the idol of his dreams. Hour by hour the links that bind these men, so strangely brought into association, to other lives in the old land are drawn closer and closer. At length the good ship arrives in port. Arthur is pressed to his father's breast.

"Thank God!" says the father, "that you are home and in good health."

And he holds Arthur's hand with such warmth as he might have felt in his young days for the woman he loved.

Ned Chester looks around, draws a free full breath, and murmurs:

"At last!"

CHAPTER XXII

Mr. Temple celebrated the return of his son by a great dinner, at which a number of distinguished persons were present; later in the evening his mother held a reception. The evening before the party Arthur was sitting with his parents looking over the list of guests, and he could not help being struck with their quality. Nearly every man invited was a man of mark in the land-politicians, lawyers, a few whose chief merit was their wealth, and some few also of the foremost workers in the ranks of art and literature. Arthur was pleased at the opportunity of becoming personally acquainted with these shining lights.

"You will regard this as your first introduction into society," said Mr. Temple to his son. "I shall be glad to see you form friendships, which will bring you both pleasure and profit."

It was unfortunate that, despite his affection for his son, Mr. Temple could never avoid introducing into their conversations chance words and phrases which grated upon the sensitive mind of the younger man. The word "profit" was one of these. Arthur, however, made no comment upon this, and the rebellious expression which overcast his features for an instant was not observed by his father.

"You have much to speak of," continued Mr. Temple, "that will be new and interesting to many of our friends, and I need not say that as my son you will be heartily welcomed."

"That, of course, sir," said Arthur; "it will not be, I am afraid, for my own deservings."

"That cannot come, Arthur, until you are personally known, and then I trust it will be for your sake as well as for mine that friends will attach themselves to you. But indeed I have no doubt that such will be the case."

"You are more confident than I am, sir," said Arthur seriously. "I have my fears as to whether I shall feel at home in this new and polished atmosphere, after my experiences of the last two years."

"You have no need to fear, Arthur; I am satisfied with you. I think I shall not make you vain when I tell you that your manners are fitted for any circle."

Arthur's mother gazed fondly upon him as he replied, "It is an inheritance, sir, as are honour and truth, which I owe equally to you."

"I must confess that it was not with entire confidence I saw you depart for your travels, but you have returned improved, if anything. Contact with the world has already improved you, and has opened your mind to the value of the requirements of society."

"Whether it be so," said Arthur, with seriousness, "has yet to be proved. In the New World, with its rougher manners, I have seen much to admire-more, indeed, than in these more civilised surroundings. It is not whether they are fitted for me-it is whether I am fitted for them."

"There is plenty of romance to be found in these more sober scenes; it will come to you, Arthur, as it has come to others."

"In what shape, sir? And have you met with yours?"

Mr. Temple coloured slightly, and devoted himself more closely to his paper, which he was perusing in the intervals of the conversation. Mrs. Temple sighed and looked away. Arthur had inadvertently touched a chord which vibrated keenly in the breasts of his parents. He did not know, and had never heard, that his father had married for money and position, had married without love, but it was no less a fact. A fact of which his mother was not aware until after marriage. It was not a sudden discovery on her part; it was a gradual awakening, made more bitter by the womanly suspicion of another face, fairer perhaps than hers, and better loved in the past. In this she invested Mr. Temple with qualities which he did not possess, and fashioned a hero-not hers, but another woman's-out of very common clay. There had never been any bickerings between her and her husband; she had not distressed him with any outburst of jealously; and he gave her no cause for complaint that the world would have recognised and sympathised with. He was an exemplary husband, faithful and attentive, and was held up as a model by other wives. Mrs. Temple, before her marriage, had had her romance in her love for her husband; a romance carefully fed by him at that time, for he played the lover skillfully. But shortly after they became man and wife her dreams faded slowly and surely away. She saw that he had no heart for her, and it was most natural in her to be positive that, with his attractive person and the soft blandishments of speech of which she had had experience when he wooed her, he had bestowed his heart elsewhere. She kept her secret well, and he was ignorant of it. Had she led him to suspect that she believed herself to be betrayed, it would have caused him much amazement. In the early years of her married life she was not regardless of his movements, but she made no discovery to confirm her jealousy. She was in the habit of watching his expressions when he opened his letters, and of listening with agonised attention to the murmurings in his sleep; but she learnt nothing. Had there been anything to discover she would not have discovered it; she was no match for him in subtlety. Slowly she accepted her fate, with no outward repining, and they lived that calm passionless life which to some souls is worse than death, and which with some highly nervous organisations occasionally leads to violent terminations and tragic results.

"You were saying, Arthur," said Mr. Temple, with a direct evasion of Arthur's light question, "that you saw much to admire in the rough manners of the men among whom you travelled."

"Very much, sir. The proper assertion of a proper independence, for instance. The kingliness of manhood has no such exemplification in this city of unrest as it has in the free air of the New World, where men and women are not unhealthfully crowded together in small spaces. I see here, among the lower classes of society, no such free step, no such blithe spirits, as I have been accustomed to see among men in the same position at the other end of the world."

"There are grades even there, Arthur."

"Surely, sir; and human beings, wherever they cluster, must be dependent upon each other; but there, all grades express in their tone and bearing their obligation to each other, as equally from those above to those below, as from those below to those above. It is mutual, and there is no shame in it. Now, such dependence as I see here is ingrained in either real or assumed humiliation. Where it is real, it is pitiable and unnatural; where it is assumed, it is detestable. Either way it is bad and degrading."

"Admitting all this-which I do not-to what do you attribute this worse condition of affairs?"

"If you will pardon me," replied Arthur with modesty, "I have not gone as far as that. I have my thoughts, but I must see more before I should consider myself justified in accusing. I merely record what present themselves as clear pictures to my mind."

"When you see more, and are able from positive experience and observation to form just conclusions, you will admit that we must accept the world as we find it, and that the only wise course is to make use of it to our advantage."

"To turn its foibles to our advantage, sir?"

"Most certainly."

"Its shipwrecks and calamities-you know what I mean, sir-to turn even those to our advantage?"

"It is always a difficult thing to argue with an enthusiast, especially with an enthusiast whom one loves as I love you."

"I know you love me, sir," interrupted Arthur, warmly, "but I do not like the idea you have expressed. I think you would scarcely uphold it in its fulness."

"It is not difficult for a skilful disputant to turn his adversary's words against himself, and so to colour them as to make them bear a stronger and therefore different interpretation. Logic is an excellent weapon, Arthur, but it may be much abused."

"Admitted, sir. But it seems to me that it would be more noble and honourable to turn the experience we gained of the world to the world's advantage instead of to our own."

"The two aims may go together; but it is an absolute necessity that we should never lose sight of ourselves."

"And of our own aggrandisement?" interrupted Arthur.