Chapter I

‘You are a rank heretic, Mac, neither more nor less,’ remarked the vicar, ‘to say that you don’t care for our lovely Lake scenery.’

‘But listen, my dear friend,’ protested the doctor; ‘I never said anything of the kind. What I did remark was, that your English Lake scenery was not to be compared to our Scotch scenery. It’s pretty—very pretty, but when you have said that, you have said all. If you want grandeur, if you want sublimity, you must go’——

‘To Switzerland and see Mont Blanc,’ broke in Miss Gaisford as she looked up for a moment from her writing.

The doctor shook his head. ‘I have reason to believe that the Swiss scenery has been very much overrated. And then, just consider the expense! I’m told that the innkeepers there are rogues—every man-jack of them. No—no. I’ve been half over the world in my time, and all I can say is, that old Scotia’s mountains and lochs are quite good enough for me.’

The scene was the lawn of the Palatine Hotel, overlooking a lovely stretch of Windermere, with the purple-buttressed hills that guard the head of the lake for an imposing background. The time was about four o’clock on a sunny afternoon. Of the three people who had engaged in the conversation just recorded, one was Dr M‘Murdo, an army surgeon, the greater part of whose life had been spent abroad. He had just retired from the service on a small fortune left him by a relative, but had not yet quite made up his mind where to settle for the remainder of his days. He and the vicar had been great friends when young men, but had not met for a number of years till to-day, the doctor having arrived at the Palatine a few hours ago on a visit to his friend, who in his turn was spending a portion of his holiday with other friends at the hotel.

Dr M‘Murdo was well on towards his fiftieth year. His hair and beard were already grizzled, while his once fair complexion was deeply tanned by many years of torrid sunshine. He was a tall, lean, high-dried man, somewhat formal and old-fashioned in his attire, with an expression of mingled shrewdness and good-humour.

His friend, the Rev. Septimus Gaisford, was about the same age as himself, and had been the vicar of a small country parish in the Midlands for nearly a quarter of a century. He belonged to the homely, unobtrusive type of country parson of which, even in these days of unrest and innovation, specimens happily are still to be found. He looked after the needs of his poorer parishioners both spiritual and temporal, and left the well-to-do pretty much to themselves. He abounded in good works in a quiet unostentatious way, while his Sunday discourses were as homely as himself and such as could always be ‘understanded of the people.’ Like his friend the doctor, he had never ventured on the perilous sea of matrimony.

But the vicar was not without a worthy coadjutor and companion in his parochial labours. His sister, Miss Gaisford, who was ten years younger than himself, not only managed his small household, but looked after such portion of his parish duties as can often be performed better by a woman than a man, while it was even whispered that she occasionally wrote his sermons for him. So that, all things considered, it was no wonder the Rev. Septimus had more than once been heard to remark that ‘Pen’—short for Penelope, if you please—was far more useful to him than any curate he had ever had. For the rest, Miss Pen was a bright-eyed, vivacious little body, not in the least inclined to be sanctimonious, but fond of a joke and a laugh, yet with an innate fund of sympathy about her which by some attraction of its own seemed to draw all who were in trouble or difficulty to her side.

On this sunny afternoon, the doctor and the vicar were seated one at each end of a rustic bench in the shade of a leafy elm. The former had his thumb in the pages of a medical review, to which, however, he was paying but scant attention; while the latter was mending his fishing-tackle, for our worthy parson was a genuine brother of the angle. At a small rustic table a little distance away sat Miss Gaisford, busy with her writing, but not so busy as to preclude her from taking an interest in any topic which the others might introduce.

Presently she looked up, and as if in answer to the doctor’s last remark, she said: ‘I am quite aware that we poor mortals who have the misfortune to live south of the Tweed are very badly off as regards many things. Still, we do now and then manage to produce an article which even you cool-blooded Northerners can’t help admiring, and would find it difficult to excel.’

‘The application, my dear madam, the application. To what particular article do you refer?’

‘At present I refer to Madame De Vigne, the charming widow to whom you paid such very marked attentions at luncheon.’

‘Ah-ha. I noticed something of that myself,’ chuckled the vicar.

‘Everybody noticed it,’ said Miss Pen emphatically.

Dr Mac rubbed the end of his long nose with his review and laughed uneasily. ‘Ha, ha! Very good—very good indeed.’

‘Come now, Mac, you can’t say that you didn’t cast sheep’s-eyes at her,’ put in the vicar blandly.

‘Let the pawky Scot deny it if he dare,’ said Miss Pen with a shake of her little fat curls.

‘Very good, my dear friends; if you choose to make yourselves pleasant at my expense, you are welcome to do so. That I admire Madame De Vigne, I am quite willing to admit. From what little I have seen of her, she seems to me a very agreeable person, and if we could trace back her ancestry, I have no doubt we should find her to be of Scottish extraction.’

‘Oh, come, Mac, give us poor Southerners credit for something.’

‘Well, I don’t mind admitting to you, who are one of my oldest friends, and to Miss Penelope, that I am getting tired of a bachelor’s life. I want a home and I want a wife. I have a little money judiciously invested—and—and I thought, in fact—that—that’——

‘Don’t be bashful, Mac,’ chimed in the vicar softly.

‘You thought, in fact, that the charming widow would make you a charming companion for life,’ put in Miss Pen briskly.

‘Perhaps ay, and perhaps no,’ responded the doctor quietly.

‘All I can say is, that you may think yourself a particularly lucky fellow if you succeed in winning her,’ remarked the vicar.

‘Well, well; I know that both of you are friends of Madame De Vigne, and that she and her sister are parishioners of yours. What I should like you to do is to tell me all you know about her, and then leave me to consider what my future course ought to be.’

‘All that we know about Madame De Vigne is very little,’ remarked the vicar.

‘Very little indeed,’ assented his sister.

‘Still, my dear’—to Miss Pen—‘I am not aware that we should be abusing any confidence in telling our friend all that there is to tell, so far as we know it?’

‘There can be no possible harm in that. Besides, it will only be charitable to take pity on the poor man. And now, please not to interrupt me again for ten minutes at the least.’

‘It is now nearly two years,’ began the vicar, ‘since Madame De Vigne and her sister, Miss Loraine, came down to Oaklands, bringing with them a letter of introduction from my London lawyer, a certain Mr Railton, whom I have known for a dozen years or more. How Madame De Vigne came to be known to Railton, or what he knew with regard to her and her antecedents, I had not the curiosity to ask at the time, and I have never since madef it my business to inquire. It is sufficient to say that Madame De Vigne had seen advertised as being to let a certain furnished cottage which she thought would suit her requirements; hence her visit to Oaklands. The cottage did suit her. She became its tenant, and there she and her sister have lived ever since, shunning rather than courting such society as our neighbourhood affords, but visiting a good deal among the sick and poor. One day about six months ago, while I was out fishing I encountered a young fellow who was similarly engaged. We met again and again, striking up an acquaintance as brother Piscators have a knack of doing, till finally I invited him to dinner at the vicarage, on which occasion Penelope there took quite a fancy to the young man.’

‘Of course I did,’ answered Miss Pen, looking up quickly. ‘Any one else placed as I was at the time would have taken a fancy to him. I was just in want of some one to sit for the hero of my next novel, and Archie came in very handy.’

Dr M‘Murdo started. ‘But, my dear Miss Gaisford, you don’t mean to say that you make a practice of introducing portraits of your friends and acquaintances into the stories you write?’

‘Don’t I though! I shall have your portrait jotted down in my note-book before you are many hours older. I have no doubt it will come in useful one of these days.’

‘Good gracious! I hope you won’t paint me in very dark colours.’

‘Not blacker than you deserve, you may rely upon it.’ Then to herself she said: ‘Where was I?—Yes—yes,’ and so went on with her writing.

‘Well, that first visit of young Ridsdale to the vicarage was but the forerunner of several others,’ resumed the vicar as equably as though he had not been interrupted. ‘It was there that he met Madame De Vigne and her pretty sister, and with the latter he at once fell desperately in love.’

‘And the young lady fell desperately in love with him?’

‘That is exactly what came to pass. But I’m nearly sure the affair might have been nipped in the bud had not Penelope, with true feminine perversity and reckless disregard of consequences, encouraged the two young nincompoops in their folly.’

‘What else could you expect me to do?’ asked Miss Pen, without looking up. ‘When I see a little romance of real life going on under my very nose, do you think I’m the one to try to put a stop to it? No, indeed. Besides, it supplied me with a lot of hints for love-making scenes; it was what the painters call “a study from the life.”’

The vicar shrugged his shoulders, as much as to say: ‘You hear the kind of arguments I am compelled to listen to.’ Then he again took up the thread of his narrative. ‘It was not till after young Ridsdale had become engaged to Clarice Loraine that we discovered he was the son of Sir William Ridsdale, a wealthy baronet of ancient family. The next thing was to obtain the baronet’s consent to the engagement. It would appear that the family estates are not entailed, and, as a consequence, should Master Archie run counter to his father’s wishes, the latter can dispose of his property in any way he may think best. Well, the all-important missive was written and posted to Mentone, where the baronet was at that time residing. The answer was—well, what do you think it was?’

‘A peremptory order by the first post to the young man to break off the engagement.’

‘Nothing of the kind; but a visit one afternoon at the vicarage from a certain Colonel Woodruffe, who had come as plenipotentiary from the baronet. Sir William was an invalid, and could not travel, so he had deputed the colonel to act in his stead. The father had no doubt in his own mind that his son had fallen into the toils of an adventuress, and the colonel’s instructions were to break off the engagement at any cost, and take Master Archie back with him.’

‘A sensible man that Sir William. And how did the affair end?’

‘In a way that you would hardly guess. The gallant colonel, instead of carrying out his instructions, and breaking off the engagement between the young people, ended by falling in love himself with the fascinating widow and proposing marriage.’

‘A change of front with a vengeance! And the answer?’

‘A rejection.’

‘Check for the colonel.’

‘But, old bachelor though you are, Mac, I daresay you know quite enough of the sex to be aware that a woman’s No is not always final. At anyrate, the colonel, who is really a very fine fellow, is evidently a believer in that doctrine, seeing that five days ago on his way to Scotland he stopped here for an hour, had an interview with Madame De Vigne and renewed his offer.’

‘And the answer to his second offer?’ queried the doctor eagerly.

The vicar shook his head. ‘Pen, perhaps, can tell you more about that than I.’

Miss Pen looked up quickly. ‘The answer is to be given him to-day.’

‘To-day!’

‘The colonel will call here this afternoon on his way back from Scotland, when Madame De Vigne has promised that he shall have her final decision—Yes or No.’

‘So that, my dear Mac,’ said the vicar with a smile, ‘all things considered, your chance of winning the widow does not seem a very promising one.’

‘Well, well,’ answered the doctor sturdily.

‘If a better man than Sandy M‘Murdo wins the fair prize, why then I’ll—I’ll be his best-man at the wedding.’

For a minute or two nothing was heard save the busy scratching of Miss Gaisford’s pen.

‘How will this do, Septimus?’ she asked presently, and with that she began to read from her manuscript.

‘“Her eyes of tenderest April blue glance up shyly into his dark volcanic orbs, in which there is a half-smothered fire that causes her heart to flutter like an imprisoned bird. A moment later, and her slender willowy form is swept up in a passionate embrace by those stalwart arms, and Love’s first burning kisses are showered on the sweet rosebud of her lips.”’

‘Rather tropical, is it not, my dear?’ hinted the vicar mildly.

‘Oh, there’s nothing namby-pamby about my readers, I assure you,’ answered Miss Pen with a merry laugh. ‘They like their love-making warm—and plenty of it.’

For ten minutes longer the busy scratching went on; then Miss Gaisford laid down her pen with a sigh of relief. ‘There—not another line to-day,’ she said. ‘Now that I have got my hero and my villain in the midst of a terrific encounter on the verge of a precipice, I can leave them there for a few hours in comfort.’

‘That seems rather cruel to the pair of them,’ remarked Dr Mac.

‘Oh, heroes and villains are used to that sort of treatment.—But I hope you will keep my little secret a secret still, doctor. If it were to reach the ears of any of the goody-goody people at home, that the parson’s sister writes foolish love-stories for young people, what hands would be uplifted in holy horror—what ejaculations over her backslidings would be whispered across half the tea-tables in the parish! Neither the squire’s wife nor Lady Pinchbeck would ever speak to me again, and what, oh! what would existence be worth under such terrible circumstances!’

‘My dear madam, you may rest assured that your secret is perfectly safe with me.’

‘It will be a bad day for the poor of my parish when Penelope gives up writing her love-stories,’ remarked the vicar, who was busy with his tackle book. ‘Every penny she earns goes to buy blankets, and coals, and such-like comforts for those who have no money to buy them for themselves.’

‘My dear Septimus!’ exclaimed Miss Gaisford with a flaming face.

‘My dear Pen!—Now that Mac has been taken into our confidence as regards one side of the question, it is only right that he should be made acquainted with the other.—But here come our two truants,’ added the vicar a moment later, as Mr Archie Ridsdale and Miss Clarice Loraine, looking somewhat conscious, emerged from one of the winding walks, and came towards the hotel, each of them laden with a quantity of wild-flowers, ferns and grasses.

‘The lovers, eh,’ said Dr Mac, half to himself. ‘A very bonnie young lady—very bonnie indeed.’

‘We were just thinking of sending the bellman round,’ said Miss Pen, as the truants came up. ‘Ting-ting-a-ling. Lost since early this morning, a pair of sweethearts. When last seen, he had his arm round the waist of she, and she had her head on the shoulder of he. Whoever will’——

‘Stop, do!’ cried Miss Loraine, as she dropped her ferns and grasses on the table and stuffed her fingers into her ears.

‘We have been botanising,’ observed Mr Ridsdale with the most innocent air imaginable.

‘And a pretty lot of rubbish you seem to have brought back,’ remarked Miss Pen.

‘Rubbish, indeed! And not one among them without a long and beautiful Latin name of its own.—Ask Archie.’

The vicar rose, and addressing the doctor, said: ‘Allow me the pleasure of introducing you to Miss Loraine.—Clarice, my dear, this is Dr M‘Murdo, a very old friend of mine.’

‘I had the pleasure of being introduced to your sister this morning, Miss Loraine, and now the pleasure is doubled,’ said the doctor with a touch of old-fashioned gallantry.

‘I am happy to make the acquaintance of any friend of Mr Gaisford,’ answered Clarice with a smile and a little blush.

‘Mr Archibald Ridsdale—Dr M‘Murdo,’ said the vicar. The two men bowed. ‘A capital fellow to know, so long as you are in good health, Archie, but a fellow to fight shy of the moment you begin to feel yourself out of sorts.’

Suddenly a shrill whistle was heard. ‘Here comes the steamer,’ exclaimed Miss Penelope. ‘I’m going by it as far as Bowness. Any one going my way?’

‘I will walk with you as far as the landing-stage, and see you safely on board,’ answered her brother.

‘That way will suit me as well as another,’ added Dr Mac.

As the two men turned to go, Miss Pen drew Clarice aside. ‘Any news?’ she whispered.

‘None,’ whispered back the girl with a doleful shake of the head. ‘If Archie and I only knew the best or the worst! It is this suspense that’s so hard to bear.’

‘It seems hard to bear at present, but it will be delightful to look back upon, by-and-by.’

‘O Miss Penelope! how can that be?’

‘Just now you are in the middle of the first volume of the romance of your life. Now, I should like to know how a romance can be worth anything without suspense, without mystery, without your being unable to guess what may happen from one hour to another.’

‘Penelope, you will certainly miss the boat,’ called out her brother, who was already some distance away.

‘We will talk more of this anon, my dear,’ said Miss Pen hurriedly. ‘Meanwhile, don’t get downhearted; all will come right at the end of the third volume: it always does.’ And with a nod and a smile, the bright little woman tripped off after her brother and the doctor, and presently the trio were lost to view down the winding path that led to the landing-stage and the lake.