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Mrs. Lancaster’s Rival

Chapter I. On the Banks of the Mora

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Chapter I. On the Banks of the Mora.

There is a broad river in the West, which from its source among the moors flows down between banks of dark granite rock and chestnut wood, with a wide curving bend now and then, where a rushy meadow comes down and pushes itself out into the stream, but keeping throughout its steady stately course to the sea. Other rivers flow into it, and at the salmon weir, where the rocks draw near and hang over it, and the water above the weir lies in dark, still, shadowy pools, that below rises and falls with the tide, so far inland does the strong salt-water make its way. But still for miles the river flows down between varied banks of meadow and rock and wood, with low gray cottages peeping out among the green, and here and there a great house high up above, its long lawns and flights of steps stretching to the riverside. Then the banks draw back, and the river spreads out broad and strong, with a ripple of small waves on its surface, even in the summer weather; fit to carry great ships; a home for the fishing-boats that lie and rock on its bosom, and for the light little pleasure steamers that pass up and down day after day through more than half the year.

And now the river takes the colours of the sea; it is page 2blue and green and gray as the clouds pass over it, and has left all its brown behind; it goes on, itself part of the sea, with currents strong enough to turn the ironclads round as they lie there in harbour. One more river joins it, almost as broad and beautiful, and together they flow down past more woods, past houses large and small, past dockyards and a town, past a crowd of ships and boats, under black batteries that seem strangely out of place in the beautiful mouth of the river; and so on, full of glory and usefulness, to their home in the great fresh blue bay.

There are many rivers in England better known, but none better worth knowing, than the Mora and her sister the Penyr; true rivers of the West, in their grandeur, solemnity, and cheerfulness. They are valued highly enough at Morebay, where they flow together into the sea; but if you wish to know and love them well, St. Denys is the place to learn that lesson.

It is a little stony town, on the opposite bank to Morebay, and three miles inland, standing not far above the rocky point where the Penyr flows into the Mora. From the quays on the river-bank, always alive with fishermen and women and children, who are perhaps more at home on the water than on land, a labyrinth of narrow stone streets or lanes, some of them literally as steep as the roof of a house, go climbing up the side of the hill. They look as if a push given to one of the topmost houses would send them all tumbling and crumbling together down into the water. They are all gray, with here and there a red-tiled roof; but, of course, in that country, a hundred dashes of bright colour are ready to delight one’s eyes and make one quite sure that gray is the best of backgrounds. Walls and roofs are gay with red and yellow stonecrop; any bit of wayside bank is draped with delicate fern; from the window of the most tumbledown house a garland of flowers is hanging out, drooping and trailing over the rugged wall. Fore-street is itself as page 3steep as any street of them all, and has not much more regularity in its shops and houses. Some of the upper ones are modernised, and made as much as possible like those at Morebay or anywhere else; but others have long low dim windows and stone-arched doors, and it needs a little resolution to dive into their dark interiors. The long wagon-roofed church, with its square tower, stands off Fore-street, in a square of its own, with trees and grass. Up above this part of the town there are one or two new-looking roads, with houses standing in their own gardens, all perched crookedly about—for there is scarcely, perhaps, a square yard of level ground in St. Denys. But here, from the brow of the hill, the views are most beautiful, and Miss Northcote could never leave her own door, unless it was pouring with rain, without stopping to look round and be thankful. Yet she had lived at St. Denys all her life. But with some people—and I think one likes them best—familiarity breeds anything but contempt.

That June evening the Mora was gleaming blue, and the distant houses were pink and gold, and the soft deep green of woods and fields seemed to make the picture quite perfect. A little puff of steam on the other side of the river, between her and the soft hazy distance of the hills, told Miss Northcote that the train was coming, and that she must set off at once to the station. For there was a railway at St. Denys, winding into it from More-bay, crossing the great iron bridge and coming at once into the little station, passing above the roofs and chimneys of a great many of the houses, so much older than itself. Thirty years ago the only way of crossing the river had been by boats, and the old inhabitants were quite satisfied. Now they had a railway and a chain-ferry, and they found themselves none the better for it.

Miss Northcote walked along her own stony lane, and turned into the nearest road leading down to the station. Old General Hawke, of Pensand Castle, drove past in his page 4brougham, and recognising her graceful walk before he overtook her, bent forward and bowed to her politely. He had a high opinion of her, and often pointed her out as a specimen of the best and oldest type of west-country lady. And certainly the General was not wrong in that. Miss Northcote may have been five-and-forty, but her figure had lost none of the lithe upright grace of youth; she had the handsome delicate profile, clear skin, good dark gray eyes, and jet black hair of the best-looking of her country-women.

The General having got out of his carriage at the station gate, walked few steps to meet her, and turned back with her to the platform. He was a handsome man still, though near eighty, with a long nose and a long white moustache.

‘It is a long time since we met,’ said he. ‘I ought to have called, but you must forgive me. I seldom go out. I am a prisoner in my house and garden. At my age one is odious to one’s self and everybody else. Don’t you think so?’

‘Not at all,’ said Miss Northcote, laughing. ‘I quite disagree with you.’

‘Thank you: you are very kind, but I feel—ah! I won’t talk about my feelings. A more agreeable subject—I am delighted to see you looking so well. I declare you are younger every year. I can’t believe in time, when I look at you. Now the girls of the present day—but I am boring you.’

‘O, no, I am much obliged to you,’ said Miss Northcote, who had looked away for a moment from her admirer. ‘We lose a great many pretty things, General Hawke, when you shut yourself up at Pensand. I thought the train was coming.’

‘Not yet, is it? But I’m getting terribly deaf, so Randal tells me. I am very nervous, too—and, by the bye, I am glad I met you. You and I are old friends, are page 5 we not? And you will show a little kindness to a young lady I expect by this train. Quite a stranger to you. She was left in my charge by her father, and has been at a school in London; but now it seems that her education is finished, and Randal represented to me that I ought to have her down here. They say her health is not very good; she is lame, poor girl. Something rather odd about her, I think, though not unprepossessing. I hope you will come up to the Castle and see her.’

‘I shall be very glad, indeed,’ said Miss Northcote, with the slightest shade of hesitation. ‘I am expecting somebody, too, by this train. My nephew Dick, from New Zealand.’

‘Dick! Hang the fellow! Back already. That’s rather a bad sign. Why, he only went out the other day. It is the way with all these young fellows; they won’t stick to anything.’

‘Why, he has been gone ten years. Don’t you think he has earned a holiday?’

‘Ten years! is it possible? But what’s that? I was forty years in India, and never dreamed of coming home. Dick ought to be ashamed of himself.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Miss Northcote. ‘I am afraid he will go back again; but he is coming home to see me. It is my wish as much as his. I can tell you he will be very welcome.’

‘No doubt of it,’ said the General, shrugging his shoulders. ‘You will do your best to spoil him; you always did. But here they are.’

The train glided slowly across the last piers of the bridge, and round the curve into the station. Miss Northcote moved a few steps away from the General, and stood looking at it as it stopped, and the doors began to open. Her mouth and eyes were smiling, but there was a little doubt in her manner, and she did not hurry forward to meet any one. She was not quite sure about a page 6 tall strong young man, with a sunburnt face and a brown beard. Could that be the pale, lanky, delicate Dick, who had been sent out with so much anxiety by his grandparents? He did not look at her, but was quite occupied in helping a fellow-passenger out of the carriage; a girl, who seemed more helpless than the usual run of girls, and had to be almost lifted down from the high step. She was followed by a cross-looking middle-aged woman, flushed and tired from her journey; then a maid approached from another part of the train; then General Hawke moved forward and took the whole party into his possession.

The young lady stood in the centre of the group, looking very pale and grave. She was a mere slip of a girl, with a small thin brown face, and features too thin and pinched to be pretty. She seemed to have fine dark eyes, but the large eyelids and long black lashes that drooped over them only added a little melancholy to her whole appearance.

The young man had not quite done with his fellow-travellers. He took off his hat, looking at General Hawke, who had already given him a curious glance or two.

‘Do you remember me, sir?’ he said to the old man.

‘Are you Dick Northcote? Mind your own affairs, sir. Don’t you see your aunt?’

‘Is she here?’

He turned away, and the next moment was grasping his aunt’s hand. She could hardly feel sure about him yet; it was a pleasant puzzle to find out the old Dick in this completely changed face. The bright dark blue eyes which smiled at her were the same, however, and after the first minute she felt quite at home.

General Hawke hurried his ward and her belongings away to the carriage, without stopping to introduce her to Miss Northcote, and very soon she and her nephew were walking away up the hill.