Our Novelettes. THE WYCHFIELD HORROR.

Western Star, Issue 1244, 21 April 1888, Page 2 (Supplement)

Our Novelettes. THE WYCHFIELD HORROR.

Chapter I.—( Continued.) I felt nearer to-night to the little, unremembered mother than to the handsome stalwart father who had drifted from his only child by glow but sure degrees, who had given fame and name and honour, and the great heart that I had thought mine only, into an adventuress’s keeping, and who in a few weeks more would throne a woman I disliked and distrusted in my mother's place. I had seen it coming so long, so long—ever since an evil fate sent Clare Meredith into onr Garden of Eden to play the tempter’s part. My father had taken her from pure compassion, moved by the piteous story told him by tne titled-lady-patient at whose house he had professionally attended her. Lady St. Gervayse was unable, or perhaps unwilling, to retain the invalid governess herself ; but, in praising and recommending her to Sir Hercules Tempest, she waxed very eloquent indeed, led on perhaps by the considering attention of the fashionable physician’s face, I do not know exactly what arguments she used, but they were tolerably convincing ones to him, though I found several flaws as he repented them that night to me. “ You see, Eita, my child,” he said, consulting his watch as he spoke, to show bow short a time he could spare me, as Lady St. Gervayse says, you are undoubtedly very young to be at the head of such an establishment as this.” 7

“ But, papa," I cried, in quick dismay, “ I am nineteen, and I hare preiided over this establishment for more than a year. If (his Mies Meredith came, you would not think of placing her over me .?’’ •• My father’s smile was very reassuring in its amused contempt for my suspicions. "My dear Eita, Miss Meredith is perhaps ten years your senior, and, being small and slight, does not look fire. Is it likely then that I should oust my own child, rebellious puss though she is, to put a stranger-child in her piece ? No, no, my dear. Put all those silly fancies out of ,your head. I should not be sorry that you had a companion, for your life, I fear, is rather a lonely one j but the receiving of this forlorn girl for a few weeks will be an set of the purest charity." I could object no longer. Sir Hercules Tempest’s charity was the one thing with which he would not allow even his petted only child to interfere, and in justice to myself I must say I never wished to curtail that. If he had desired to (urn our great barrack of a house into a hospital, I should never hare tried to thwart him, should never have telt the vague foreboding of unpleasantness to come with which I prepared to receive this one companion guest. However, to please papa and to punish myself for my mean jealousy, I resolved to be gracionsness itself while her visit lasted ; and, by way of inaugurating it pleasantly, I went myself in the carriage to fetch her from Lady St.' Gervayse’s. . She was ready to start when I got there ; and, as she sank languidly back on the soft cushions and sniffed delicately at a little smelling-bottle, she turned her lovely eyes on me and thanked me musically for <( all the trouble I had taken." , There was no fault to be found with her words; but I could not help seeing even then that her manner was far more gracious than grateful. I noticed something else too as we drove homeward through the crisp air of that September afternoon, and that was the rare beauty of my companion’s face. I had seen her onoe or twice in the dim aesthetic light of Lady St. Gervayse’a dining.room, and had known of course that she was something more than a merely pretty woman ; but I had not known how perfect were the straight fine features, how lily-puro was the delicate skin, or bow deep and lustrous were the darkfringed violet eyes. In the bright day-light no fault could be found in the fair proud face; but my heart cried out in vehement and passionate protest against its owner; Those were bitter days that followed, the days in which, little by little, step by step, Clare Meredith stole into my father’s hear and drove me from my laet stronghold (here. I wes no match for the cunning with which, when he was present, she forced me into an antagonistic attitude to her sweet and gentle self, stung my quick temper into intolerant and ungracious speech, which was borne with uncomplaining patience, but which brought down on me my father’s stern and just rebuke. I was the merest. puppet in her slender white hands; and, the worst of it all was, I knew the ignominious part I played j but, even to gain the victory, I could not turn and fight her with her own weapons. And so, aided by her own cunning and my stubborn pride, she won the battle. In six weeks’ time she, the friendless, penniless governess, would be Lady Tempest, mistress of the great house in Portland Place and the pretty river-side villa at Twickenham, wife of a man who believed her as pure and good as' she was beautiful. And 1, who had been mistress of all—l, that man’s only and potted .child, was now a homeless fugitive, seeking refuge with my dead mother’s kin. It was hard, very hard to bear. I thought it over with a choking sob, and then I jumped up in my seat, suddenly and startlingly conscious of myself and my surroundinge. The fire was almost out, the room colder than ever. The friendly porter was making efforts to arouse without frightening me, and a little behind him was another figure,- looking groteequely tall and thin in the shadowy background. ; “ Beg pardon, miss," said the porter, while I rubbed my blinking eyes, with a vague idea of having been discovered in some great delinquency. “I hope you’ll excuse the liberty; but you ain’t no wise fit to tramp through the snow—and —and—the fact is, I spoke to this gentleman, wot’s a neighbour, and, having come out by train, has naturally got his trap, and ” As my good friend laboured on through ponderous periods, without apparently coming any nearer to what he had to say, I turned in involuntary appeal to his companion, who, after a moment’s hesitation, came forward stiffly, raising bis hat. “ Pardon me,” he said, in a deep, but not unpleasant voice, “ the porter has told me of your uncomfortable position. Ido not think, as he says, it would be possible for you to walk to Archdale Glen to-night. My carriage is here to meet me, and, if you will accept a a seat —I am a neighbour of the Misses Archdales—and——"

He paused, leaving mo to fill up the blank by refusal or acceptance, apparently quite indifferent as to which I gave. I looked at him with curious attention, and saw a tall, slender—too slender figure, a dark thin face lighted by feverishly bright eyes, and haughtily carried head, crowned by snow-white hair. The voice had sounded so young, I was surprised to see in its owner a man perhaps older than my father, in whose chestnut curls there were but few grey locks to be seen. I was surprised, but not! a little relieved, for there could be no doubt as to the propriety of accepting this kindly patriarch’s offer. “ Thank you so much,” I said, rising with grateful alacrity. “ I cannot hesitate a moment in accepting so welcome and kind an offer.” ,

He bowed gravely, and offered me his arm

The carriage, a dark quiet-looking brougham, which I mentally set down as a doctor's stood at the door, and I took my place it, with a feeling of intense relief. While my new friend stood speaking to his coachman, my old friend, the porter, came to the outer window and thrust in his honest red face.

“ Your luggage will be over in the morning, miss,” he said, confideutally and hurriedly ; “ and don’t you go to be afraid of him; Between you and me, I’d rather it had been: any one else; bub when I see his carriage, I I thinks, well, the old gentleman isn’t as black as he’s painted, and he’s better than the snow anyway. Beg pardon, sir, and thank you." The last words were spoken with a touch of the cap, as my rescuing knight took his place beside me. JThen the rough-shod horses began their slow and toilsome journey. Station and porter were alike swallowed up in the thick mist,_and I lain my head back on the soft cushions, thinking idly of many things, prominent among them being the eccentric explanation I had just, received. ’ “ What did he mean,’’ I wondered, “by saying this nice old gentleman was better than the enow ?■ The most disagreeable of his sex would be almost an improvementupon that." “ I am afraid you are Very cold and tired,", said my companion compassionately, breaking' a long silence. ■“ But we have not much farther to go.” ■ ! “ Ob, thanks to you, I am quite comfortable now!” I answered, with meudaoious politeness, “But it was so cold arid wretched at the station. I have been nearly ’two hours over that miserable apology for a fire." ; ’ “Poor child !” he said, kindly enough; and then we relapsed into silence. “ Here we are at Archdale Glen," he said at last, with a sigh of relief, as the carriage, paused at two, tall gates, wrought ’ apparently in curiously twisted snow. “ And here, with : your permission, I will set you down' and; drive on.” . ( s ; The great clanging bell was sounding with ‘ startling loudness through the quiet of thei night, and the door of the red brick house had opened to let out a stream of ruddyr light as my companion helped me from the carriage. “ Oh, lam so greatly obliged to you!" I said fervently. “ But you will come in and let my aunts (hank you. You are a neighbour,! you will at least let me tell them to whom I am so greatly indebted,’’ I added pleadingly,' as he politely but distinctly negatived the first proposition. . , ; V ’ ■ ■ “ I do not know, and am not‘known to the' Misses Archdale now, = and, beliove me, they would not care to receive me >!’’

He raised hie hat, and stepped into the carriage, which went off quickly. 1 thought there was pain’, as well as pride, in the deep voice that was 1 to strangely young add fresh; but I had no time for fancies, as, ; with wonder, delight, and amazement struggling for mastery; in those dear old faces, aunt Priscilla and aunt Patience, came forward together to welcome the niece who had apparently dropped upon them from the : snow*oharged wintry;skies, i }<> ti.!f rao/i “Bits, my darling, most; welcome!” said aunt patience. ** Bu ’.pay child——” .. -<■ *’ Oh, don’t!” I cried sharply, stopping the question with a fervent kiss; “Say/only ‘ Welcome/ auntie dear, for .. I hare no other home than this.” i-:,.-. ii ■ _ Chahtbb II. s hm:

The room into which my - aunts led me seemed a very dream of comfort, in contrast to the scenes 1 had passed through, and the dear old ladies themselves were -the most delightful of presiding deities. Aunt Patience drew an enormous arm-chair to the.;great glowing Christmas fire, and pushed me into it with affectionate force. Aunt Priscilla violently relieved me of hat and jacket, and then, kneeling on the hearth-rug, proceeded to divest me of my boots. They hovered round me in a tender flutter, as soft-hearted motherly hens might flutter round a forlorn chicken; and, though they faithfully obeyed my injunction to ask no questions, I read a whole catechism in their dear anxious eyes. '’You did not get my telegram then?”! asked, looking with eager interest at the plates and glasses which the staid old manservant was depositing on the'table.

“ No, indeed !” cried both aunts in vehemenfc protest. “Do you think we would not have been at Wychfield to receive you P By-the-way, Rita darling, how did you get a fly to-night ? ’ ' ' In the great wonder of seeing me arrive from London the lesser marvel of how I had made my nay fro-m Wyobfield bad not struck them before. St 11 hungrily watching the table,*l was astonished to see did Stephens pauieiin his duties, and listen with a halfscaied. ' balf-ouriouS ' ‘expression' for iny answer. lUngf* ■

“ I did not have a fly, aunt Patiencethere was not one to be had ; and,. after waiting two hours at the station, I had just resigned myself to tramp through the snow so soon as the porter should be at liberty to escort me.”

“You poor forlorn, child* I 'how dreadful !’* interrupted aunt Priscilla, with tears of sympathy in her kind eyes. ,

“Ab, but wait a bit, ,aunt Prig ! The fairy-prince came to my aid, and sated me from a snowy grave. In other words, a gentleman, of yours, happened to have his carriage at the station, and very kindly offered me a seat.” - ; ;

, “ A gentleman, a neighbour of ours!" my aunts repeated. “ Surely, my dear Bita, you asked his name P” , ; ■ \ r “ I did, and he refused to tell me- what it was,” 1 answered, with a vexed laugh, which 1 think, so gallant, an old gentleman should nob have done.”

“ Refused to tell you big name!’* said aunt Priscilla perplexedly.

“Who could he have been?” said aunt Patience, in a bewildered way that made me laugh. , “At this moment a respectful voice broke in upon our discuurse.

“ If jou please, ma'am," said old Stephens, with a sort of subdued excitement, “it was the Horror ! Beg pardon. I’m sure ma’m ” his rubicund face growing a deeper purple in the extremity of his embarrassment,—“ I mean to say it was Mr O’Hara that brought Miss Tempest home. The words seemed to hare a paralysing effect on my relatives. Aunt Patience grew very pale, and aunt Priscilla dropped heavily into a chair; but neither of them spoke a word until Stephens had left the room.

What is the matter ?” I exclaimed, looking impatiently from one to the other. “ And what did that silly old man say was my escort’s name ?”

“ Mr O’Hara—Martin O’Hara of Wychfield Court.’’

“ He is a neighbour then, and you do know all about him,” I cried, a little reassurred by the thought, foe my aunts’ obv'ous dismay and the servant’s curious expression had rather shaken my faith in my new friend. Perhaps there was some feud between the families, and they were startled by the magnanimity with whicn their foeman had treated their niece ? Well, that ought to be enough to reconcile them; be had spoken more in sadness than in anger, and I could not fancy my two dove-like old aunts very implacable foes.

Martin O’Hara!” I repeated dreamily. “ It’s rather a pretty name, I think. What was it Stephens called him first, though P” “ Well, it was very improper of Stephens, of course/’ said aunt Priscilla apologetically j

‘ but in the agitation of the moment be gave Mr O’Hara his local niok-natue,”

“ And that is •”-' i “ The Wyobffcld Horror—or the Horror, for brevity’s sake.” • '•* - “ What a shame;” I cried indignantly. “ Why should people give that nice, kind, old man such a horrid name P”

" They hare a reason besides that of making a silly pun upon the name; but, my dear he is not old j I doubt if Martin O’Hara has seen bis six*and thirtieth birthday yeti” But that she spoke seriously, almost sadly, I should have suspected innocent aunt Priscilla of a heavy joke. . Six-and-thirty! “ Why aunt Pris, his Hair is as white as snow!” I remonstrated. But she only shook her head, and repeated, with the same thought* ful air—

“ Nevertheless he is, to me at least, quite a young man. And now, child"—her tone changing to one' of hospitable briskness as the tray-laden Stephens re-entered the room and announced that supper was' ready—" come and eat something, for you must have be half starved.” r •-i ■ ■ ' r

“ Much more than’ ; half,” I cried gaily, seating myself at the table. > *‘Gne sugaroorered bun, of the stalest and sourest description, ia all I : have eaten to-day, and y6u know my healthy appetite of old." ? I was so hungry, after my long fast, that, while I ate cariosity was momentarily forgotten. - My aunts, who sat on either side of me, alternately piling my plate and replenishing my cup, were delighted with my rapid and satisfactory progress in the work of demolition ; and, when' I at-last laid down my knife and ‘fork and pushed my plate away, aunt Patience patted ’my arm' as approvingly as though I had I performed ' some highly meritorious action; - • - •n? * “Ah, now you will- feel bitter! Won't you,-darling j usod

i “ Sardlypossible, •untTat,” ! said/giving the kind plump old hand a squeeze, and laughing,- thoughl could hare cried too, with, wry pleuure in the warm atmosphere of love that Surrounded me, that contrasted so sharply with that of my altered home,, in which I had been made to feel a spy, ah intruder, a barrier bet#eeh my father'and happiness. Toil don’t think me wrong, either of you?” I. asked,in a sudden'; impuhe of confidence. “ Home is so changed, to dreadful now—you do hot think me Wrong to coins' to you P ' , .They looked pityingly at W, gravely ; and anxibusly'’at each other. - Then, as generally happened, aunt Priscilla became the spokeswoman of the jtair. ; \ ' ,' tv ,

“ My dear Kits/’ she;said gently, stroking hair, “you Inow/hoirUweloome you are, now Aunt Patience and I rejoice; in a glimpse of oursunbeam; but did you come without Sir Hercules’s: sonsent ?" ,

“ Yes,” Juried,doggedly,' though.there was a lump in my throat, and my eyes were Tory dim “ •md.iyou, my mother's sisters, should’ be the last people to blame me. 1 : came be* cause—because—oh, it is too bad, too bard,tq> bear ’’—l broke down, passionately ;, as .. the tears mastered me at last, and earn# phasing? each, other madly downmy cheeks —‘‘ because 1 would not be Miss Meredith’s bridesmaid- 1 ’ =~7 Rita,..my child,., don’t j don’t,. dearest! You will be ill.” My old maiden aunt draw,.my;head dojirn upon her shoulder with maternal tenderness, soothing and petting, me until I grew, gradually calmer and horribly ashamed of ;my foolish outbreak. ' v i

“ I am.jTery stupid ; pleate forgive me*” I sobbed, rubbing frantically at my red eyes, and trying to compose my unsteady features to a smile. ' “ But. you know, 1 never thought that,'that papa— ’’ ' . . “ No, no, of course not, darlingbut it it really settled —the marriege, 1 mean !" “ Quite; the day is fised, and then—l did not mind her—but when papa‘himself told me that I had ceased" to love him—that Igrudged him hia happiness, and that anything said against her was said against him—oh, Aunt Fris, would you believe that papa—papa of all men, would have been so eruelP” Aunt Priscilla shook her head;

“My dear, all men are much alike when their heads are turned‘by what they r ohooise to call ‘ lore!’ ’' she said, with a little old-madish scorn lor the passion that had played no part in her life. “ But Sir Hercules is too and just a man to wrong you for long-^— ” ■ -S *‘‘ How can be; help it P’M interrupted impatiently; '“When the "thing c is done, it is done, and all; the repentance in > the world won’t undo it. He can’t un-marry her; Aunt Pris.”

“ No, you foolish child; but he may reconcile you to the idea of a stepmother,. and—” Never,never, never!” Icried,shakingmy head Vehemently; too impatient df its text' to let the gentle sermon finish. “ I wonder if my mother knows she is forgotten?” . ... “ My dear, your mother had the kindest of husbands, the happiest of married lives, and she was herself the most unselfish of Women/ r think she could’'endure : 'to see agood'ihd loving woman in her place.*:' t i 5

.. “ But Clare Meredith is not . good, Aunt Fris. She cares nothing for papa.' She will bring him nothing but miaery.’’ v ': “My bhild,” ’ said' Aunt Tatienoe grarely, " you must not be a prophet of ill to your own father. You may wrong thislady.; . You only know of her that she young and beautiful,”., “ Beautiful enough,” I agreed with a sigh, "but hot very young ; she must be at least thirty"’ 1 ' ' -v ’*> -V. ; “ Well, young for Sir Hercules. Wo don’t seem to agree about age to-night, Rita. All that you, as a daughter and a good girl; can do,is to try to accept the change in your life cheerfully, and hope that it may tend to your father’s happiness.” ; ’ ; - I looked at aunt Patience half angrily, for I had thought my mother's sisters were bound to uphold me in my righteous rebellion, and yet with a sort of reluctant admiration, the fair old face was so kind and sweet.

“ Aunt Patience, you hare grown to suit your name. I believe if papa Baba you to the wedding* you will go !” 1 raid this with a sort of playful scorn; but aunt Patience answered quite seriously—- “ Assuredly, my dear, if only to support you. : There, there ” — ; aa I was about passion* ately to repudiate the idea of gracing the ceremony with my presence. “We will not talk of this any more to.night,, and bed is the best place for you, you poor worn out child. What has become of yOur luggage, Rita, for I presume you brought some ?” Oh, yes j' everything I could pack up ! There are about twenty trunks at the station. 1 told the porter to bring them over to* morrow, for of course ■ 1 oould not burden your yery'courtedus Horror with anything more weighty 6r troublesome than myself.” “Of course not,” Aunt Pris acquiesced; and 1 saw thai odd look of discomfort and dislike come into her eyes again. However, she said nothing inore on that, and very little more on any subj ect j and in hilf-an-hour’s time I was safely installed in the great old-fashioned bed-chamber in which my mother had slept before her marriage. “ Poor little mother,” I thought as I looked round upon the shadowy corners, whioh were shadowy still even in the light of the tall candles and the great blazing fire —“ poor little mother! I wonder if it would hurt you to look down upon your old room and see your daughter in it seeking refuge from—a step-mother?” {To be continued), • ;