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HURST & BLACKETT, 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET UNTIL THE DAY BREAKS BY EMILY SPENDER AUTHOR OF "restored," "a true marriage,' &c.. &c. ' One equal temper of heroic hearts Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield." Tenntson. IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. L LONDON: HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 1886. All rights reserved. (0 5 s CONTENTS OF THE FIRST VOLUME. CHAPTEB I. A Birthday Gift .... II. Cecilia's Friends and Neighbours III. A Patriot of our own Day . IV. The Convict's Story . V. The Maesdens V I. Father and Son . A Telegram .... Vanity and Vexation of Spirit A Ticket-of-Leave Man Harriet Marsden is Avenged XI. Clandestine and Schismatic "^ XII. A Returned Letter . XIII. Cecilia makes a Discovery 4 ^ VII. "^ VIII. ^ IX ^ X. v!3 V Us PAGE 1 21 42 57 76 96 116 145 162 183 213 239 270 UNTIL THE DAY BREAKS. CHAPTER I. A BIRTHDAY GIFT. A September morning in the West of England, dew sparkling on mossy lawns, a few yellow leaves scattered on the o^arden •/ CD walks, beneath the sycamores and beeches, scarlet geraniums glowing in the sunshine, robins singing everywhere — and over all a sky of cloudless blue, an atmosphere calm and crystal clear. A grey stone, VOL. I. B 2 UKTIL THE DAY BREAKS. squarely-built house of the last century stood in the old garden, and at one of the tall sash windows which opened down to the ground, and which now was thrown up as high as it would go, letting the sunshine and the fresh morning air fill the house — at one of these windows, there presently appeared a lady. She was taller than the average of women, her figure was slight and peculiarly flexible ; it had never known the bondage of steel and whalebone, but had grown ao^ile and healthful as nature had intended it to be. She had wavy brown hair, skin of the clear softness seen to perfection only in the moist west country — a long, straight nose with finely chiselled nostrils, a small, firm, somewhat haughty mouth. Her dark grey eyes were singularly frank and guileless; no glance of coquetry had A BIRTHDAY GIFT. 3 ever shot from their sweet, thoughtful depths, thej had the fearless, straightfor- ward look one may see iu the eyes of a pure-minded boy. To come down to more prosaic details — she wore a gown of cream- coloured cashmere made with the simplicity and the perfect fit of a Frenchwoman's, round her neck was a kerchief of India muslin and old lace, and a necklace of old- fashioned red coral beads. She — Cecilia Tremayne — stood by the open window, and threw crumbs of bread with lavish hands to the crowds of sparrows, intermixed with a few graceful chaffinches, with slate-blue heads and salmon-coloured breasts, and timid brown hedge- warblers — which came to her every morning, summer and winter, for their breakfast. Presently down darted a robin, into the midst of the other birds, with b2 4 UNTIL THE DAT BREAKS. lordly airs scattering the viilojar sparrows to right and left, and then he hopped into the room as if it were his own. Cecilia retreated from the window, smiling, and the robin followed her to the breakfast table, where the antique silver coffee-pot, and a ' dusky loaf which smelt of home,' and yellow clotted cream, and little dishes under silver covers awaited the master of the house. The robin alio^hted on the table, and after reo^ardino^ it with his bright black eyes, and his head very much on one side, he pecked daintily at some butter which Cecilia offered him on a plate; then, as the door opened, he departed by the window with a satisfactory morsel in his beak. There came into the room the Reverend Reginald Tremayne, vicar of the parish of Morwell, on the border of Dartmoor. He A BIRTHDAY GIFT. 5 iiad a look of the most perfect high breed- ing, a tall, spare, upright figure, silver hair, with a keen delicate, rather pallid face, like a carving in ivory. His grey morning suit and coloured necktie were anything but clerical. Mr. Tremayne might value his position as vicar as brinofinof him a little more dignity and authority than he already possessed (if that were possible) ; but in his secret heart he hated his profession and all its works and ways. He had never mar- ried, and the mistress of his household, his sole surviving relative, was his niece Cecilia, the only child of his long deceased youngest brother Gerald. Everything about the room had an old- world stateliness, and seemed to blend into a harmonious background for the two dignified human figures in it. A subdued 6 UNTIL THE DAY BREAKS. richuess of colouring, clai^k polisliecl oak floor, with here and here an Indian rug, dull red and orange brown in hue; walls of olive green, as restful to the eye as the shade of trees ; a gleam of brass from an antique fender or mirror or candlestick ; a dark blue Nankin china jar or two filled with dried rose leaves. On the table, the breakfast service was ol old blue Wor- cester porcelain ; the silver cream-jug was like a quaint little urn; the salt cellars had lion's heads and claws, and dated from the days of George II. The flowers, in bowls of antique, diamond-cut glass — flowers which give a touch of poetry to the prosaic business of eating and drink- ing — were roses mingled with maidenhair ferns. Mr. Tremayne often said that he could not live, unless everything about him was A BTRTHUAY GIFT. 7 beautiful and dainty ; but he, the most fastidious of men, was also one of the most abstemious. He trifled delicately with this dish and that, and left everything in his plate almost untouched. It was a necessity that old and precious wines should repose in his cool, cobwebbed cellars, but he did little more than touch the rim of his wine glass with his dainty lips. This morning Mr. Tremayne looked at his niece with a peculiarly sweet smile — a smile that disclosed a fine set of white teeth, which he owed to nature alone. ' Cecilia, my dear, I have not forgotten what day this is. But I am not quite sure — ' then an odd, mirthful, slightly per- plexed glance shot sidelong out of his eyes. ' I am not quite sure whether the remem- brance will be altogether welcome to you. Perhaps the time has now come — as it must 8 UNTIL THE DAY BREAKS. inevitably come to all ladies — when you would rather your birthday were for- gotten/ Cecilia looked up with her frank, straightforward glance, and smiled. ' I know quite well that I am thirty years old to-day, and I should not mind if the whole world knew it too.' * If you had not such an inveterate prejudice against compliments, I could pay you a very pretty one, which is an honest one, too.' ' I suppose you mean, uncle, that I don't look my age ? May I not return the com- pliment ? But I think there is a conven- tional idea about women's ages, which comes partly from novels. Most of them are written for very young people. And so an unmarried woman is considered middle-aged at five-and-twenty, elderly at A BIRTHDAY GIFT. 9 thirty, and she ought to be dead and buried at forty.' ' Well, you never looked better in your life than you do now ; I can tell you that, my dear. But as you are no lono^er con- ventionally young — however young you may be in reality — I think you may have one of the privileges of age, and wear diamonds.' Mr. Tremayne placed in his niece's hand a leather case which contained a brooch and necklace of diamonds in antique silver setting. Cecilia was as de- lighted w^ith her birthday gift as any young girl could have been ; and her uncle gracefully acknowledged her thanks and exclamation of delight with a kiss on her forehead. ' They were your great-grandmother's, you know,' said the vicar. 'Do you wish 10 UNTIL THE DAY BREAKS. them re-set? They shall be, if you wish it.' ' No indeed, thank you, uncle. Any- body who has the money can go into a shop and buy a modern set of diamonds, but these in their pretty old-fashioned silver — why, everybody will know when I wear them that I am fortunate enough to have a great-grandmother.' * I can always rely on your good taste,' answered Mr. Tremayne, with a gratified look. ' Modern jew^ellery has often a very bourgeois air.' * Talk of living up to a tea-pot ! It will be very much harder to live up to these diamonds,' laughed Cecilia. ' Espe- cially with the original owner of them up there, looking down upon me. There are very few such women now-a-days ;' and Cecilia glanced at the portrait of her A BIRTHDAY GIFT. 1 1 great-grandmother, whicli hung over the mantelpiece. It was the picture of a fair and graceful voune: woman, in the costume of the last century, with a large muslin cap on her powdered hair, and a muslin kerchief round her neck. Her dark grey eyes were very thoughtful, the delicately-moulded lips were at once proud and tender. The chief characteristics of the whole face and figure were refinement and repose. Pride of ancestry was the weakness of both uncle and niece ; but whilst it led Mr. Tremayne to carry his head a little haugh- tily, it made Cecilia only depreciate her- self. * What a falling off is here !' thought she, when she compared her face in the looking-glass with her great-grandmother's portrait. Still she was conscious that in 12 UNTIL THE DAY BREAKS. order to bring back the calm aud gracious dignity of that type of face, one must briuor back also the leisure, the slow movement, the very dulness of life in the last century. On Cecilia's own vivid, mobile face the present day, with all its keen and varied interests, its swift rush of events, its development of human know- ledofe in ever widenino^ circles — on Cecilia's face the present day had set its mark. 'I wish I had a portrait of my own mother,' said Cecilia, suddenly. ' It seems so strange that I should have no. idea what she was like. If you could only tell me something about her ' Cecilia did not look at her uncle as she spoke. She knew by past experience that for some undiscovered reason it annoyed the vicar to hear any mention of her mother's name. A BIRTHDAY GIFT. 13 * As I bavo told you before, Cecilia, I know nothing about your mother.' One would scarcely have recognised Mr. Tre- mayne's voice, so suddenly hard and stern had it become. ' I never saw her before your father married her, and they went out to Ceylon not long afterwards. You are a true Tremayne, my dear ;' and the vicar tried to smile, but the fine wrinkles of vexation were not quite smoothed out from his forehead. ' Ah ! here are the letters,' he said — with a sudden look of relief as if turning away from a distasteful subject — as the servant entered the room with letters on a silver salver. Breakfast being over, Cecilia left the room, locked up the diamonds in her jewel-case, and then went oat into the garden for her usual morning stroll. Her thoughts returned, as they did 14 UNTIL THE DAY BREAKS. sometimes at loDg intervals, to the one mystery of ber life. Why did her uncle Eeginald always seem annoyed if she spoke of her mother? Why did he inva- riably answer Cecilia's inquiries about this unknown parent of hers in a manner which stopped further questioning ? The very obstinacy of the vicar's silence pro- voked suspicion that he was not telling the literal truth when lie said he knew nothing about her. But, whatever the mystery was, Reginald Tremayne alone possessed the clue. Ce- cilia's father and mother were dead, and the secret had died with them. There was not another member of the Tremayne family from whom she could seek enlighten- ment. Cecilia's earliest recollections were of Morwell Vicarage, with faint visions of the blue skies and grey olive-trees of A BIRTHDAY GIFT. " 15 the South of France, where she had spent several winters in her early childhood in company with her grandmother, old Mrs. Tremayne. She could lust remember the stately old lady, who had died when she was six years of age, and all that she had known of motherl}^ love and tenderness was associated rather with Mrs. Evesham, who was her governess and the Vicar of Morvvell's housekeeper. This Mrs. Eve- sham was a woman of gentle birth, oE ideas and opinions in advance of her time, and of a strong, sweet nature. Cecilia owed it to her, in great measure, that her youth was one of almost unclouded happi- ness ; and in after 3^ears CeciUa realised, more and more, the influence which Mrs. Evesham had had over her life. The morning sunshine, which gardeners tell us is the most precious of all light for 16 UNTIL THE DAY BREAKS. the ofrowtli and vio^our of veo^etation, has its counterpart in human life. Happy those upon whom the warmth of love and tenderness has shone in their early years, who have been sheltered from frost and blight — from neglect, worry, and causeless thwarting. They have gained a store of animal spirits, of hopefulness, of sweet and wholesome blood in their veins, which will be a strong antidote to misfortune in all their later days. No afternoon sun of prosperity will ever atone for a childhood full of fear and anxiety, and that * snub- bing ' which robs a sensitive nature of all healthy self-reliance. For the last ten years Cecilia had been mistress of her uncle's household. It was a post which exactly suited her in some respects. She was a born ruler, she had that administrative ability with which a A BIRTHDAY GIFT. 17 very large number of women are endowed ; she had a high ideal of what the beauty and order of every department of house- hold life should be, and enough practical capacity to work out her ideal with fair success. She had common sense, which is merely the bringing of the reasoning power to bear upon little things. She had a passion for justice, and plenty of imaginative sympathy to enable her to put herself in the place of others. So it was that domestic life under her rule at Mor- well Vicarage went on smoothly and silently, like oiled machinery. Her uncle was as fond and as proud of her as if she were his dauo^hter : her servants adored her, and left her only when they married. She often longed for a wider, freer life, and higher and more vivid interests than her home in a country vicarage could give VOL. I. C 1 S UNTIL THE DAY BREAKS. her. Still she felfc very happy this morn- ing as she sauntered round the garden, '^vith the sparrows and chaffinches flying round her, and the robin watching her with his bright, black eyes, and sometimes softly warbling, half -hidden in a laurel- bush. Cecilia was thirty years old to-day, and most of the men she knew, would think she ouofht to be either dead or married. Even her uncle — though he would miss her every hour of the day, if she left his house — even her uncle had a slis^ht sense of dis- comfort, almost of resentment, as at a slight upon himself, when he reflected that Cecilia had never had an offer of marriage. While the village girls, many of whom with their stout clumsy figures, and red, weather-beaten faces, looked ten years older than herself, would ^have called Miss A BIRTHDAY GIFT. 19 Tremayne an old maid, if they had known the date of her birth. But Cecilia went down the garden walks smiling to herself, with the birds about her, and her small white hands full of flowers — creamy Gloire-de-Dijon roses, perfumed mignonette, and fuchsia with little crimson bells and bronze green leaves, which grows like a tree in the west country. She enjoyed life that sunny morning, though she was thirty years old — enjoyed it a great deal too much to wish for either death or marriage. There is a beautiful old legend which Ouida tells ' how in the days of King Clovis, a woman, old and miserable and forsaken of all, strayed into the Merovingian woods, and lingering there, and hearkening to the birds, and loving them, and so learn- ing from them of God, regained her youth ; c2 20 UNTIL THE DAY BREAKS. and lived, always young and alwaj^s beautiful, a hundred years ; through all which time she never failed to seek the forests when the sun rose, and hear the first song of the creatures to whom she owed her joy.' 21 CHAPTER IT. Cecilia's friends and neiuhbours. The Eeverend Reginald Tremayne was sitting in his study that afternoon reading the last number of the World. It is said that the country clergy form the largest proportion of its readers. Cecilia passed the open window, and as the vicar looked up, she said, ' Can I do anything for you in the village ? I am going to see old Mrs. Weston/ ' Ob, don't trouble yourself, my dear,' 22 UNTIL THE DAY BREAKS. replied her uncle, with a slightly fretful look. It was annoying to be interrupted in the reading of a mysterious scandal in high life by the mention of a farm-labourer's widow, and it was almost the only fault he had to find with his niece, that she was much too fond of pottering about amongst these wretched poor people. There were reasons, known only to himself, why this habit of Cecilia's was peculiarly distasteful to him. ^ Don't trouble yourself about Mrs. Weston, she is in Marsden's parish, surely he and all his women folk can look after her. No, thank you, my dear, I want nothing in the village;' and, glad to forget for a time the odious subject of his parish, Mr. Tremayne returned to the fascinating paragraphs of the World. Cecilia went on her way without replj'- ERIENDS AND NEiaHBOURS. 23 ing. She had no intention of allowing anyone to interfere with her visits to such of the people of the neighbourhood as cared to see her, whether they lived in her uncle's parish, or in the next — St. Stephen's. Let the parsons make their professional visits to the poor; let them talk about the church, or about saving souls, according to their High or Low pro- clivities ; let their wives and daughters give them tracts and lecture them on their shortcomings, — all that Cecilia cared about was to go and see these cottagers as tbeir friend and equal. Strict laws of etiquette ruled Miss Tremayne in these visits to the village folk. She never called upon them on a Monday, for that was their washing-day, or on a Saturday, when they scrubbed their floors. And if it was contrary to propriety 2-i UNTIL THE DAY BREAKS. to call before lunch upon the wife of a neighbouring squire or parson — ladies who had their pretty drawing-rooms always ready for the reception of visitors — surely it was more unpardonable to visit a poor woman in the morning, when she was hot and busy over her cooking or ironing, in her shabbiest gown, and her one room a kitchen. She, poor soul, could not say she was ' not at home,' but, however much worried and ' put about ' she might feel, she w^as obliged to seem honoured and delighted at seeing the 'gentry' in her cottage, or they would call her insolent and ungrateful. The large white gates of the vicarage grounds opened upon a lane bordered by walls of slates and earth, with vividlv green ferns luxuriating in every crevice. Oak and ash trees met overhead, and the FRIENDS AND NEIGHBOURS. 25 road was a cool and shady bower of greenery. The lane led out upon a broad and open down, where heather and golden furze, and bracken with short fine grass, were the only vegetation. All around was a wide expanse of country. To the south, the fertile meadows, rich with trees, sloped softly towards the broad river Tamar, and the shining line of the English Channel. ^Northwards rose the lofty hills of Dart- moor, their crests crowned with grey piles of granite rock ; purple shadows, green and golden gleams sweeping over those rugged slopes, which seem eternal in form, and ever-chanojino^ in colour. There is something in a wild and soli- tary land like this, which appeals with a mysterious and irresistible force to certain minds. Nature is here her true self, the same as she has remained from immemorial 26 UNTIL THE DAY BREAKS. times. Untouched by civilizatioD, un- stained by man, she has retained her power to subdue and influence him. These wilds, which cannot be cultivated, which yield nothing for our material wants, are full of vital food for the imagination, are full of sympathy for strong, pure, freedom-loving natures, which hate the falsehoods and the fetters of conventional society. ' I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.' This was the refrain which sometimes sounded in Cecilia's ears, as she left the vicarage woods and gardens, and came out upon the open down, where the range of Dartmoor towered before her in the purple glory of sunset, in the peace unspeakable of a cloudless morninof, or grev and chill in a winter twilight. Her home faced the sunny south ; trees FRIENDS AND NEIGHBOURS. 27 and evergreen shrubs sheltered it from rough winds ; indoors were soft carpets, hot-house flowers, pictures, porcelain, talk of books and art — but sometimes she would feel suffocated, as in a too warm and perfumed atmosphere, sometimes she panted for the freedom, the keen, wild breath, the austere boundlessness of the moors. Cecilia went along the grey high-road, and then turned into a lane which led to the village of St. Stephen's. As she came in sight of the first cluster of white-washed, slate-roofed cottages, she beheld coming towards her Mrs. Marsden, wife of the vicar of that parish. She was a fine specimen of that well-known class — the British matron. A tall and portly woman of fifty-five, upright as a grenadier, with hooked nose and much-developed chin^ 28 UNTIL THE DAY BREAKS. with cold eyes, devoid of all expression except perhaps slight disapproval of things in general — such a woman is truly majestic on her ' native heath ' as w^ife of squire or parson, and pillar of Church and State; but nowhere is she seen to such advantac^e as at the table-cThoie of a foreiofn hotel, where she represents the British constitu- tion, the Protestant religion, and all the other proprieties of life amidst a profligate and benighted people. Mrs. Marsden o^ave Cecilia a frio-id greeting. *And were you going to see Weston, Miss Tremayne ?' (Mrs. Marsden never condescended to give any prefix to the names of the lower classes.) ' Because really you need not trouble yourself about her. Mr. Marsden and I visit her at regular intervals, as of course it is our FRIENDS AND NEIGHBOURS. 29 rluty to do, she being one of our parish- ioners/ All unconsciously she was echoing Mr. Tremayne. ' Oh, yes,' replied Cecilia, with a certain sweet dignity which had gained for her the title of ' Serene Highness ' from the younger members of the Marsden family, 'yes, I am sure you and Mr. Marsden would often visit Mrs. Weston as your parishioner. But, you see, I am merely her friend/ Mrs. Marsden smiled loftily. ' Do you think you are likely to have quite a good influence on the lower classes^ if you treat them as your friends and equals ?' ' Would you not rather have them as friends than as enemies V Cecilia answer- ed, still with the unruffled gentleness 30 UNTIL THE DAY BREAKS. ■which had a most irritating effect upon the elder lady. 'My dear Miss Tremayue, pray, do not misunderstand me. Surely there should be a certain distance and reserve kept up in one's manner to poor people. Mr. Mars- den and myself are strongly of opinion that this sort ol friendliness and — and familiarity are likely to set a bad example and have a pernicious effect on the lower orders. There is quite enough want of re- spect to their betters, and proper sub- ordination amongst them, as it is.' ' If Mrs. Weston wishes me to give up calling upon her, I will do so, at once. I think she is the person to decide whom she will see in her own house. For after all, you know, Mrs. Marsden, she is as much mistress of her cottage as you are of your vicarage.' FRIENDS AND NEIGHBOURS. 31 ' She ouo^lit to be in the workhouse, that is the proper place for her,' said Mrs. Marsden, reddening angrily. ' I wish you good-morning, and am sorry that as you have no mother of your own, you will not listen to a kindly meant word of advice from me ;' and with that the vicar's wife sailed away with an air of outraged pro- priety. * Cecilia Tremayne is a most objection- able young woman,' she thought. ' With all her airs, and her pride, and her ex- travagance — think of her wearing a white cashmere gown and that exquisite old lace round her throat when she is pok- ing about the cottages, I always keep my shabbiest things to put on when I visit the poor — with all her airs and her pride she is nothing but a low radical and little better than a downrii^ht infidel in ^m 32 UNTIL THE DAY BREAKS. her notions, and it is all the more shock- iucr when one considers what an aristocra- tic old family the Tremaynes are. I should just like to find out who Cecilia's mother was. I shall always believe there was a mystery there. ^ Mrs. Weston's little white-washed cottage had a bush of fuchsia beside the door, and a bed of stocks, marigolds, red daisies, and other hardy flowers. Indoors, it was ver}^ picturesque. The large, open fireplace had peat and logs of wood smoulderiug. on the hearth, and a narrow curtain of bright coloured chintz eds^ed the higrh mantel- shelf, ^bove gleamed brass candlesticks and ruddy copper pots and pans. The black oaken dresser, so often met within Dartmoor cottages, had its store of blue delf plates and tea-cups ; the small-paned casement window had white dimity curtains FRIENDS AND NEIGHBOURS. 33 and geraniums on the window-sill. Mrs. Weston herself was a pleasant picture — an old woman with wrinkled rosy face, grey hair, white cap, and scarlet kerchief over her lavender print gown. She was partly paralysed, and unable to move from her chair without assistance. Her face light- ed up as Cecilia entered, and there was no lack of respect in the hearty greeting on either side — Cecilia's respect for a long life of work and struggle, and patient en- durance of illness and poverty and hard- ship ; matched by Mrs. Weston's respect for refinement and cultivation and everj^- thing else which makes a gentlewoman. 'You'll find me a bit put about, Miss Tremayne,' said Mrs. Weston presently. ' That good lady, Mrs. Marsden has just been here, and left some tracts, and had some talk, but I can't hold to what she VOL. I. D 34 UNTIL THE DAY BREAKS. says, no bow. She as good as told me that my poor dear husband had gone to the bad place, because as you know, Miss Tremayne, he wasn't one as was given to go to church ; he liked to take a bit of a stroll Sundays, aad get a bit of fresh air, and look at the green fields, after being down in a copper-mine all the week. She says, Mrs. Marsden does, we shall none of us be saved if we don't believe what the parsons tell us, and it was all wrote down in what she calls the " Thansian creed;' that loDg rambling thing as they reads in church, Easters and Cliristmases, I have heard him scores of times, but I could never make head nor tail to him. Now, do you think, miss, as my husband as never took a drop too much, nor said a bad word, nor did harm to any living creature, do you think he b'aint in heaven ? Be- ERIENDS AND NEIGHBOURS. d-J cause, if be b'aint, I don't care about going there.' Cecilia's grey eyes flashed. ' Has Mrs. Marsden been to heaven, that she can say so confidently who is, and who is not there ? Your husband was a good man if there ever was one, and all goodness is everlasting and shall never die — at least such is mj belief. I do not profess to know as much as Mrs. Marsden does. There are quite enough difficult things to do every day, and quite enough puzzling things going on around us, without our troubling ourselves about what we cannot see or know or prove.' ' That's true, sure enough, miss/ said the old woman, with a sigh. * For instance,' Cecilia went on, speaking more to herself than to Mrs. Weston — * why have you been obliged to work so d2 36 UNTIL THE DAY BREAKS. hard all your life, sometimes when you were so tired and ailing that you could hard- ly stand ? why have you been so short of money that you have always been obliged to go without almost all the pleasures and comforts of life, even now when you are old and helpless ? And all the while there are thousands of idle people, with more money than they know how to spend, wasting and squandering every day what would give their fellow-creatures rest from the frightful struo'o-le which wears them out long before they are old. It's an old story, just as old as Dives and Lazarus, only the horrible injustice of it all weighs more heavily on people's minds than it ever did before. And no amount of alms- giving makes matters any better ; quite the contrary/ ' Well, miss, the world do seem all in a FRIENDS AND NlilGHBOURS. 37 muddle-like ; but there — 'tis well to be con- tent with one's lot.' ' Is it well ? is it the right thing to fold one's hands and be patient and resigned ? It seems to me that all the good that has €ver been done in the world has come through people being discontented, and say- ing, " This or that evil shall not go on ?" I am only tiring you with this sort of talk. But it is such a relief to speak out sometimes all that is in one's mind. All my life I have been trying to make our home pleasant and comfortable and every- thing he likes, to my uncle, who has always been so kind and generous to me, and he little guesses what I really think and feel, for I am obliged to carefully keep it from him. It is like a story I heard once — somebody was admiring the Quaker ladies for being so calm and placid. " Ah !" 38 UKTIL THE DAY BREAKS. said one of them, *' you little know how we boil inwardly." ' ' 'Tis a pity you haven't a home of your own, Miss Tremayne ;' and the old woman smiled significantly. ' 'Tis only in nature you should feel moped sometimes, livin^^ alone with your old uncle.' Cecilia laughed. ' Why, have not I a home of my own already ? ' Do you think if I were married I should be even as free as I am now ? Better be an old man's darlinof than a young man's slave — you know the pro- verb. And I do think my uncle is fond of me, though I daresay I am rather a disap- pointment to him in some ways.' ' To be sure,' said Mrs. Weston, who held those depreciating views of matrimony which are common amongst the experi- enced, even though they urge the single FRIENDS AND NEIGHBOURS. 39 to fetter themselves. * To be sure, miss, you're best off as you are. If girls weren't so ignorant and so foolish, there wouldn't be many of them as 'ud marry at all. The best husbands be but plagues at times ;' and the widow forgot that she had declined heaven without hers. ^ I wish,' gaid Cecilia, musingly, * I knew a little more about my father and mother.- You have lived here all your life, Mis- Weston, cannot you remember hearing anything about them ?' ' No, miss, I don't know as ever I did. I mind your coming to the vicarage with a nursemaid, quite suddent-like, and every- body wondered at a bachelor gentleman like Mr. Tremayne, and an old lady like his mother, caring to trouble themselves with a little girl. I heard tell as how your father, the vicar's brother, had gone 40 UNTIL THE DAY BREAKS. out to the Ingies, but I never beard no word about your mother. Folks thought as how she was dead, and that's why your uncle and your grandmother took to you, and brought you up ; and then, when old Mrs. Tremayne died, that good lady, Mrs. Evesham, went to live at the vicarage, and now she's dead and gone too, and I am sure I don't wonder you feel a bit lonesome, Miss Tremayne.' 'My father died in Ceylon, I know ; but is my mother dead too, do you think ?' ' What does your uncle say ?' Mrs. Weston discreetly parried the question. She had her own ideas on the subject — ideas she had no intention of re- vealing to Miss Tremayne. ' Oh ! my uncle says she is dead,' Cecilia replied, a little hurriedly. An uncomfortable suspicion would cross FRIENDS AND NEIGHBOURS. 41 ber mind that the vicar bad never told her the whole truth about her parents. * Then, miss, I should certainly rest con- tent with that, if I was you.' Mrs. Weston thought to herself : * The old parson can be as artful as a fox when be has a mind to, and, if it suits him to make out her mother is dead, Miss Tremayne is not likely to get the better of he.' Soon afterwards Cecilia rose to go, and the old woman and the young lady parted, each feeling a little refreshed by a breath of different life and surroundings from her own. 42 CHAPTER III. A PATRIOT OF OUR OWN DAY. Miss Tremayne returned to the higb-road^ and pursued it for another quarter of a mile. Facing her there rose a hill, with scattered white cottages and garden patches on its lower slope ; higher up, the cultivated fields gave place to heather and open moorland. One house there was, in this little hamlet, larger and of different aspect to the rest. It stood by itself in a paddock where a black and white cow was grazing ; a slight iron railing separated the A TATRTOT OF OUR OYv^N DAY. 43 paddock from a lawn and flower-borders, wherein bloomed glowing dahlias and geraniums. On one side was a plantation of iirs which had a troubled and wind- swept existence in the winter. The house was of greystone with slated roof, it had a large bow-window and a deep porch with glass door and sides, forming a little con- servatory, and full of flowering plants. Bleak and bare as the place was, it was also so airy and sunny that it gave one a pleasant and healthy sensation to look at it. Just as Cecilia came in sight, a lady walked down the path which led across the paddock to the little iron gate which opened on to the high-road. She was a beautiful woman of forty or thereabouts, who had the grace and distinction of one of Gainsborough's portraits. And Nature 44 UNTIL THE DAY BREAKS. bad bestowed upon her all the picturesque- ness which comes from powdered hair ; for some years ago, when she had fallen ill of malarious fever on the continent, her abundant dark brown hair had turned silver- grey. Her complexion was still brilliant ; her violet blue eyes could belong to only one nationality. But, though she was born in the county of Cork, the name she bore now was not Irish. She w^as the wife of Eccleston Rivers, M.P. for an English borough. Mrs. Rivers came towards Cecilia with both hands extended, smiling with a cer- tain archness. She had the briofhtest manner, the sweetest laugh ; yet a look sometimes crossed her face which reveal- ed that she had passed through the most intense anxiety, grief, and even horror. Possibly the malaria of Italy was not the A PATRIOT OF OUR OWN DAT. 45 sole cause of that deadly illness which had assailed her nearly seven years ago. A vivid look of joy flushed Cecilia's face. * Kathleen !' she exclaimed, ' when did you come ? Ah, why did you not tell me you were here r' All the passionate love and devotion that Cecilia had ever felt in her life were lavished on this, her woman-friend. ' I arrived only last night. It was too bad of me not to write to you, Cecilia, but I have been so busy — Mr. Rivers has gone to America again for a few weeks. I saw him off at Queenstown, then I came down here straight from Holyhead. 1 suppose you had my last letter saying I expected to be here some time this month ?' * Yes, but I had not hoped to see you so soon.' 46 UNTIL THE DAT BREAKS. * Had the letter been opened in the post-office, as usual?' asked Mrs. Rivers, with a slight scornful smile. ' Yes,' replied Cecilia, with a look of disgust, *and clumsily gummed down again, also as usual. The detectives did not get much for their pains.' ' No, I should hardly venture to entrust any important letter to the post-office.' Cecilia looked at her friend with wist- ful, passionate eyes. Mrs. Rivers lived in a world into which she herself was per- mitted only an occasional and tantalizing glimpse. She was not only the wife of a member of Parliament, and knew every- thing that happened the night before it was in the papers, and could feel as much proprietary interest in the House of Com- mons as a bishop's wife does in her catlie- dral. But she lived in a world which had A PATRIOT OF OUR OWN DAY. 47 links with all the patriots of history. Her friends and associates could claim kinship with all who have struggled to free a nation from an alien yoke — with Deborah and Gideon and the Maccabees — with Joan of Arc and William Tell and Kociusko — with the Greeks of 1820, and the Hungarians and Italians of our own time. ' You have been very busy lately/ repeat- ed Cecilia, 'your time is alwaj^s occupied — and here am I, leading a narrow, useless life, unable to do anything for the cause I have most at heart. And it is all the harder for me, because I am English, Kathleen. You can have no idea what it is to be in my position, shut out from sympathy — my mind on fire with thoughts I dare not utter. Whatever you and your friends have to bear, you can uphold and 48 UNTIL THE DAY BREAKS. sympathize with each other — you ha^^e no shame to bear as I have — better be one of the oppressed than one of the oppressors !' For, as Cecilia felt bitterly, ' Italy for the Italians !' was a cry that once stirred English hearts. English eyes have shed tears for the wronofs of Poland. Eno^lish throats have cheered wildly for Kossuth and Garibaldi. But when England itself stands in the place of Austria or Russia — ah, thoi Englishmen regard an ' oppressed national- ity' from a totally different point of view. * Kathleen, tell me, is there nothing T can do?' and Cecilia fixed her eyes on her friend with a look of almost despair. Kathleen met that look with deep tenderness, and yet there was something baffling in it, something which softly put Cecilia by. It was as if Mrs. Rivers took A PATKIOT OF OUR OWN DAT. 49 the imploring haud held out to lier, and clasped it lovingly ; and yet held Cecilia at a little distance from her, and never allowed her to come very near. ' You have given sympathy to our national cause, you have given money to our starving people, do you call that nothing^ ?' ' Nothing,' replied Cecilia, in a heart- broken voice ; her eyes fell and she turned away in silence. Mrs. Eivers was greatly touched, and she took a sudden resolution. ' I will tell her my secret,' she thought. * Why not? It would harm no one but myself if all England knew it.' ' Cecilia mavourneen, don't look so ^' wisht," as your Cornish folk say. You are Cornish, are you not ? a true Celt. I think most of the characteristics one has VOL. I. i-j 50 UNTIL THE DAY BREAK?. ever beard of as belonnrinof to the Celtic race, may be found in you.' * Yes, the Tremaynes are Cornish,' replied Cecilia, absently ; for once she was not interested in her ancestors. ' But there is one trait which our enemies tell us we have, in common with the French — which you certainly have not. You do not love to be ruled by a stroncr hand, do you ? Well, if you will come with rae this afternoon, you will see the English Govern- ment at work.' Then suddenly Mrs. Rivers' face changed from the half-bantering ex- pression it had worn to a severe gravity. ' Cecilia, I am going to drive to Prince- town this afternoon. I want you to come with me. The pony-carriage is at the door.' They drove for miles, at first through a fertile wooded vallev, and then they A PATEIOT OF OUR OWN DAY. 51 gradually left all si^i^n of cultivation behind them, and came upon the wild and open moorland. The road was unfenced, on either side granite boulders had in far off ages been tumbled about the hill-side, and lay like flocks of sheep amidst the short grass, and rushes, and heather. The two friends slowly wended their way up a long hill, and now and then they turned round to behold the fair and shining prospect that lay behind them, which every minute grew vaster in expanse. Below the moorlands there lay meadows of a vivid green, softly rounded hills and woods of oak-trees, a gleam of the broad Tamar, whilst far away, faintly visible in a sunlit haze, rose the rugged outline of the Cornish moors. But now the summit of the hill was gained, a corner of the road was turned, E 2 LIBRARY UNIVcp