Up in Ardmuirland Part 16

Neither Stephen nor any of his household ever set foot in the church for the purposes of worship; for, strange as it may seem, the Dales, surrounded by English country yokels, whose sole notion of religion lay in a perfunctory attendance at church once on a Sunday--afternoon for preference--to listen uncomprehending to the service, and slumber through the sermon, came of a Catholic stock. Both Stephen and his wife hailed from Lancashire; they had spent many years in service together in a Catholic household about fifty miles distant from Lanedon before they had married and set up housekeeping at the "British Lion." Nor were they so utterly deprived of the consolations of religion as at first sight might appear; four miles away were the military barracks of Melliford, and a Catholic chapel which had been built there--princ.i.p.ally on account of the soldiers--was served every Sunday and holiday from a larger center, and thither the Dales regularly drove to worship.

Seven children had been born to the worthy couple, but death had s.n.a.t.c.hed all in turn except the last; this was Penelope (our Penny), who, needless to say, was the idol of both parents. The result of their devotion was a rather strict surveillance, to which she was subjected, not only during childhood's years, but with even greater insistence when she had reached maidenhood. For it became necessary then to guard their treasure from any adventurer who might seek to win her in marriage for the sake of the goodly dowry which every one knew must fall to her lot. Her father would often remark with no little show of determination: "Penny shall never throw herself away on any whipper-snapper of a fellow! She'll not be a pauper, and she can afford to wait a bit till she meets her match!"

It is not to be surprised, therefore, that Penny should hold her pretty head rather high. No mere plowman would dare to aspire to the hand of a landlord's only daughter, and no marriageable farmer to whom Penny might aspire was to be found in the neighborhood. As to the military--Penny would have scouted the idea of wedding a common soldier, and was sensible enough to turn a cold shoulder upon the undisguised glances of admiration of youthful and impressionable officers. Thus it came about that she had blossomed into a graceful girl of twenty--small in stature, yet not without good looks--and yet remained heart-whole.

Among their few intimate acquaintances the Dales had a particular attraction for one of the married sergeants of the barracks and his wife--both Catholics. Sergeant Pike and his better-half would not infrequently, especially during the summer months, stroll over to the inn of an evening--sure of a hearty welcome to a cup of tea and a chat. Pike had seen service in India, and his adventures would thrill his rustic audience in the inn, as they listened over pipe and mug to his stirring narratives. His wife was equally entertaining toward Sarah Dale and her daughter, in the little gla.s.s-part.i.tioned bar in the corner of the "house-place"; she had been maid to many an officer's lady, and had traveled as far abroad as her husband. Thus while "the tented field" and its dangers held enthralled the larger company of men, present fashions and past adventures--though less exciting than those of the sergeant--were entertaining enough to the smaller audience in the bar.

Even 'Melia, the maid-servant of tender years, would share in the social enjoyment, as knitting in hand she stole furtively in from the kitchen and listened unreproved to the interesting discourse. Sometimes it might happen that the Pikes had been able to drive over in a borrowed conveyance on a winter afternoon; in such case a cosy supper in the snug little bar, after the ordinary company had departed, would take the place of tea. The Pikes, in their turn, were always hospitably inclined whenever Stephen Dale, his wife, or daughter, or all of them together, might look in upon them of a Sunday after Ma.s.s.

The acquaintance, thus ripened, was destined to influence Penny's future beyond any antic.i.p.ation on the part of either family. It fell out on one occasion that Mrs. Pike was unable to accompany the sergeant on a visit to the Dales, and to serve as a companion on the walk he brought with him a fellow-sergeant, much younger, whom he introduced to the Dales as "my particular chum--Sergeant Spence." The newcomer was a decidedly handsome, strapping young soldier, with a merry dark eye, rendered still more striking by his fair hair and tawny moustache. His skin would have been fair, too, had it not undergone a process of bronzing under tropical suns. He could not have been thirty, and looked even younger. He proved also to be unmarried; a fact playfully made known by his companion.

"Arthur's never met with a missus to suit him since he got his stripes,"

he said laughing, as they sat at supper; "he's like me--a bit particular in that respect." Spence merely greeted the remark with a quiet smile.

He seemed a silent young fellow, with a manner superior to his companion's.

Perhaps it was a want of circ.u.mspection on the part of Stephen Dale that he should welcome a stranger, and a soldier, too, as a guest at his family meal. But it was his favorite axiom that a sergeant might not be looked down upon "like as if he was a common Tom, d.i.c.k, or Harry in the ranks"; so that his hospitality was to be expected in the present instance. Had either anxious parent had the slightest fear of the attractive sergeant's pleasing qualities proving too strong for Penny's "proper pride," their welcome would have been less genuine; but they were altogether without suspicion. Yet, as to Penny herself, it must have been evident from the first that the dark eyes often strayed in her direction, and that with unmistakable interest, even on so short an acquaintance.

After that first visit the handsome young sergeant became a frequent partaker of the hospitality of the "British Lion." He never omitted to accompany the Pikes, and not seldom walked over on a summer's evening to smoke a pipe with Stephen and feast his eyes surrept.i.tiously upon Stephen's attractive daughter. He proved, on acquaintance, to be an intelligent, well-spoken young fellow, evidently superior to most of his cla.s.s; this was owing to the fact that he was a farmer's son, left, through a combination of circ.u.mstances, orphaned and almost dest.i.tute, who had found in the army a welcome means of livelihood.

It was not long before Spence was on as familiar a footing at the "British Lion" as his fellow-sergeant. It was strange that both Stephen Dale and his wife were altogether blind to the real reason for his frequent visits. Penny, on the other hand, had early discerned the state of the young man's feelings toward her; but instinctively she guarded her secret from all. Even when Spence had spoken, and had learned her strong affection for him, she insisted that all knowledge of their mutual understanding should be kept from her parents until she could gauge their feelings in the matter. She was not without uneasiness; for it seemed extremely doubtful whether her father--much as he liked her lover--would consider him suitable as a son-in-law. For her mother's opinion she felt no anxiety; since Sarah Dale was thoroughly under her husband's thumb.

Penny's own strong will had come to her from her father alone.

The course of events was much like that of other instances of the kind.

Clandestine letters, less frequent meetings--as opportunity offered--ran the usual risk; in due time, as might have been expected by any but ardent lovers, the secret oozed out. Some busybody or other lost no time in conveying the startling news to Stephen Dale, who had hitherto had no suspicion of the state of things.

To say that Penny's father was disappointed would be an altogether inadequate description of his state of mind; he was thoroughly enraged.

Never in her life had his daughter seen him give way to such unrestrained pa.s.sion; for never before had his hopes and aspirations been so entirely thrown over. He had set his heart upon establishing his darling in a position in life as far above his own as might be possible; now, by her own initiative, she had paved the way to an evident descent in the social scale. Not content with choosing one far beneath her, she had even chosen a Protestant! Yet Stephen had too strong a will to be easily contravened. He was determined to prevent, at all costs, such a disaster. His first impulse was to relieve his mind by telling Spence in no measured language what he thought of his conduct; the latter had perforce to keep silent, however exaggerated the abuse heaped upon him, for his conscience told him that he was in fault. Penny was the next to listen to some very candid truths as to the uprightness of her part in the proceedings. Then when he had given full play to his indignation, Stephen began to make plans for the future which might effectually defeat any attempts on the part of the young people to renew their intimacy.

Spence, of course, was absolutely forbidden to set foot again over the threshold of the inn. Penny was kept under strict surveillance until her father was able to carry her off to a sister of his own in distant Lancashire, who could be depended upon to prevent any communication between the lovers. The Pikes--poor people--though absolutely innocent of any complicity, since they knew no more of what was going on than Stephen himself, were made to share in Spence's interdict. No a.s.surances of their total ignorance of the affair would avail; the fact that Pike had been the unfortunate instrument in introducing his comrade to the Dale family was in itself sufficient to kindle Stephen's wrath against him. To add to the sergeant's discomfiture, he could not forget that in his admiration for his "chum" he had been unstinting in his praises; for he had a genuine affectionate regard for Spence, as a thoroughly upright young fellow, and a striking contrast to the majority of the Protestants with whom he was daily brought into contact.

The unhappy Penny, placed under her aunt's vigilant guardianship, was inconsolable. She languished and drooped, during the first week or two of her exile, as though her usually firm will had died within her. So utterly broken did she seem that her aunt began to lose all hope of rousing her to any interest in life; apparently she was submitting in a spirit of blank despair to a fate which she regarded as inevitable. But soon a change came over her. Though still quiet and seemingly docile, she gained by degrees some vestiges of her old cheerfulness and gaiety.

Her guardian's watchfulness inadvertently relaxed, for it appeared no longer necessary.

But the unfortunate woman had a sad awakening. One morning the girl went out alone--ostensibly to Ma.s.s; the day wore on, and to her aunt's consternation no Penny put in an appearance. An explanation arrived next morning by letter. Penny's lover had contrived to communicate with her and to arrange a meeting in Liverpool, where they had been married; by the time the letter arrived at its destination the couple were on the way to Ireland, whither Spence's regiment had been just transferred.

The two years that followed were, for the most part, years of happiness for the sergeant and his bride. Penny's conscience had been at first greatly troubled by her sacrilegious marriage before a registrar, on account of the inevitable haste with which it had to be carried through.

She bitterly deplored her weakness for many a long day, even after she had done all that was possible to atone for her sin by a sincere Confession. Her husband could not be expected to realize as she did the gravity of her offense against religion; but he sympathized with her distress, and did all that lay in his power, by unceasing care and devotion, to comfort her. By degrees his lavish affection tended to deaden for the time the keenness of her remorse.

Their happiness was increased by the birth of a little daughter. The child was the idol of her father, and Penny's life was brightened by the joys of motherhood, in spite of the persistent refusal of Stephen Dale to hold any communication with her or allow his wife to do so.

But all too soon that happiness was to be rudely shattered, and that in a way entirely unforeseen.

Like many another family on the strength of the regiment, the Spences, for lack of accommodation in barracks, were lodged in apartments in the city. One dreary winter evening, when little Annie was about a year old, Penny sat at her knitting by the fireside, the baby in her cot close by, fast asleep. Spence had been taking part in a concert, and was later than usual in coming in, for it was past ten o'clock. In the silence Penny heard the sound of footsteps ascending the stairs outside; they halted at her door, and there was a gentle rapping. She rose and opened the door in response.

On the landing without stood a woman, whom she had never before seen--a shabby-looking woman, dressed in soiled and worn garments, which had once been bright and stylish. Her appearance, apart from her dress, was far from attractive; her lean face had dull red blotches upon it, her eyes looked wild and shining, and her gray hair straggled out from her tawdry bonnet. It scarcely needed the evidence of a strong smell of spirits to prove that she had been taking drink.

Penny instinctively shrank back from the threshold, but still held the door in her hand. The woman made no attempt to enter. Fixing her too bright eyes upon Penny's face with a scrutinizing glance, she said in a raucous whisper:

"I was told that Sergeant Spence was likely to be here; but it seems I've come to the wrong rooms."

Penny was silent for a moment, dreading she knew not what.

"Sergeant Spence may be here any moment," she answered, rousing herself.

She was praying that he might come quickly.

"Oh, indeed! So he may be here any moment," said the woman in louder tones. "I suppose my fine fellow is courting you now," she went on, staring boldly into Penny's frightened face. "Well, I've no fault to find with his taste. He used to have an eye for a pretty face, and you're a good-looking girl, though you're but a little one."

"What do you want with Sergeant Spence?" asked Penny, as her courage began to return. Why should she fear this coa.r.s.e, black-eyed woman. She could have nothing in common with Arthur. But why should she seek him thus openly in his own dwelling? Her fears began to return.

The strange visitor advanced across the threshold; Penny retreated before her. The color deepened in her already florid face as the woman cried fiercely:

"What do I want with him? I mean to force him to take me back to my rightful place, that's what I want with him!"

Her voice, raised angrily, awoke the child, who gave a shrill cry of fright. The woman stared at the cot in astonishment. Penny stooped and lifted the little one, and faced the stranger once more as she pressed the child to her bosom.

"Is that your baby?" the woman almost whispered, as she caught the gleam of Penny's wedding ring. Then she cried wrathfully:

"What! Has he dared to marry you? Oh, the treacherous villain! Surely you're not Arthur Spence's wife!"

In spite of the fear that fell upon her, Penny grew at once strangely calm. This must be some disreputable relative of her husband's--though she had thought him alone in the world. He was an orphan. This could not be Arthur's mother! He could have nothing in common with a woman so low as this! It was some bold, bad creature trying to frighten her.

Thus spoke her trembling heart, but her voice was quiet and restrained as she said in reply:

"I do not see how it affects you that Arthur Spence is my husband, and this is our child."

The simple dignity with which she spoke and her apparent calmness seemed to soften the woman and still her anger somewhat. Drawing nearer, she laid her hand with something of gentleness upon Penny's arm, and tears started to her eyes as she exclaimed:

"My dear, the man's a scoundrel! You are no wife of his. He married me when he was a stripling of eighteen, and he cast me off in less than a year. He ruined me, and now he's ruined you--poor dear!"

"It's false, it's false!" cried Penny with fierce eyes and glowing color.

"You certainly know nothing of my husband. You'll never turn me against him with your wicked lies! He's good and true--I'm sure of it, say what you like!"

"I only wish you were right, my dear," replied the other, evidently softened by Penny's unshaken fidelity. "But G.o.d knows I'm speaking the truth; for here is the proof."

She drew from her pocket a folded paper and held it open before Penny's eyes.

It was a marriage certificate. It described Arthur Spence as wedded to Clara Millar, and the date was twelve years ago. The shock, though intense, was merely momentary. So strong was Penny's trust in her husband that not even this manifest evidence, as it seemed, could shake it. Another man might bear the same name--Arthur might have some disreputable cousin or other relative. She would believe nothing against the uprightness of her Arthur.

"I do not believe," she said firmly, looking steadfastly at the other woman, "that my husband could wrong any woman."

"I declare to you before G.o.d," cried the stranger excitedly, "that Sergeant Arthur Spence, whom you call your husband, married me on the day set down here!" And she rapped with one hand on the paper she held in the other. "But I have a stronger proof. Read that!"

She had taken an envelope from her pocket as she spoke, and drawing from it a paper she held it before Penny.

With shaking hands the poor little wife took it. It was a letter--the handwriting familiar to her. She turned to the signature; it was her husband's own.

"Read it through," persisted the woman. "See whether I am telling the truth or lies."

Penny's knees were shaking under her. She sank into a chair, and clasping her baby more closely to her breast she read the letter. It was dated a few days before she and Arthur were married.

"Dear Clara," it ran. "This is the last time I shall write to you.

Unless you stick to the agreement we made, I shall stop sending you money. Do not try to meet me, and do not mention again our unhappy marriage--even to me--or I shall shake you off entirely. So use your common-sense, and keep quiet. You will find that I shall do something desperate if you keep on annoying me as you have done lately. I tell you plainly: I will never see you again."