<h2><SPAN name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III.</SPAN></h2>
<h3>THE VERNONRY.</h3>
<p>These things all happened a great number of
years before the beginning of this history. Catherine
Vernon had become an old woman—at least she was
sixty-five; you can call that an old woman if you
please. Sometimes it may mean the extreme of
age, decrepitude and exhaustion: but sometimes
also it means a softer and more composed middle
age—a lovely autumnal season in which all the
faculties retain their force without any of their
harshness, and toleration and Christian charity replace
all sharpness of criticism or sternness of
opinion. Sometimes this beautiful age will fall to
the lot of those who have experienced a large share
of the miseries of life and learnt its bitterest
lessons, but often—and this seems most natural—it
is the peaceful souls who have suffered little to whom
this crown of continuance is given. Catherine
Vernon belonged to the last class. If her youth
had not been altogether happy, there had been fewer<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</SPAN></span>
sorrows and still fewer struggles in her life. She
had gone along peacefully, her own mistress, nobody
making her afraid, no one to be anxious about, no
one dear enough to rend her heart. Most people
who have gone through the natural experiences of
life are of opinion with the Laureate, that it is</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">"Better to have loved and lost<br/></div>
<div class="verse">Than never to have loved at all."<br/></div>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>But then we do not allow the other people to
speak who know the other side of the question. If
love brings great happiness it brings many woes.
Catherine Vernon was like Queen Elizabeth, a dry
tree—while other women had sons and daughters.
But when the hearts of the mothers were torn with
anxiety, she went free. She had the good of other
people's children in a wonderful degree, but it was
impossible she could have the harm of them—for
those whom she took to were the good children, as
was natural, the elect of this world. Her life had
been full of exertion and occupation since that night
when Rule called upon her at the Grange and set
all the world of her being in movement. What
flagging and loneliness might have been hers—what
weariness and longing had ended at that time.
Since then how much she had found to do! The
work of a successful man of business increased, yet
softened by all the countless nothings that make
business for a woman, had filled her days. She was
an old maid, to be sure, but an old maid who never
was alone. Her house had been gay with young<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</SPAN></span>
friends and tender friendship. She had been the
first love of more girls than she could count. By
the time she was sixty-five she was a sort of amateur
grandmother in numbers of young households. A
woman with plenty of money, with a handsome,
cheerful house, and a happy disposition, she had—at
least since her youth was over—never had occasion
to remember the want of those absorbing
affections which bind a married woman within her
own circle. The children of the barren in her case
were more than those of any wife. If ever in her
heart she said to herself, like Matthew in the
poem—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">"Many love me, yet by none<br/></div>
<div class="verse">Am I enough beloved,"<br/></div>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>the sentiment never showed, and must have
occurred only as Matthew's did, in moods as evanescent
as the clouds. Her face was not without lines,
for that would be to say that it was without expression;
nor did she look too young for her age:
but her eye was not dim, nor her natural force
abated. She had a finer colour than in her girlhood,
though the red was not so smooth, but a little broken
in her soft cheek. Her hair was white and beautiful,
her figure ample, but graceful still. At sixty she
had given up work, entering upon, she said, the
Sabbatical period of her life. For the rest of her
days she meant to keep Sunday, resting from her
labours—and indeed, with perhaps too close a
following of the divine example for any human
creature to venture upon, finding them very good.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>It follows as a matter of course that she had
found somebody to replace her in the bank. There
were so many Vernons, that this was not very
difficult to do. At least it was not difficult to find
candidates for so important a post. Descendants
of the brothers and sisters of the great John
Vernon, who had first made the bank what it was,
were plentiful, and from among them Catherine
Vernon selected two hopeful young men to carry on
her work. One of them, Harry Vernon, was descended
from the daughter of the great John, who
had married a relation and continued to bear the
family name. The other went further back and
traced his descent from a brother of that great John.
The parents of these fortunate young men acquiesced
with delight in the proposals she made to them. It
was a certain fortune—an established living at once—far
better than the chances of the Bar, or the
Indian Civil Examinations, or Colorado, which had
begun to be the alternative for young men. Indeed
it was only Edward Vernon who had parents to be
consulted. Harry had but a sister, who had come
to live with him in the fine house which the last
John, the one who had put the bank in such deadly
peril, had built. Edward lived with Miss Vernon
herself. Five years had passed since their inauguration
as partners and managers, with very little
change in their feelings towards the old cousin, who
had done so much for them, and whom they called
Aunt Catherine. She was Aunt Catherine to a
great many people, but these three, who were the<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</SPAN></span>
nearest to her in blood, were disposed to give themselves
airs, and to punish intruders who presumed
upon a fictitious relationship. They were to all
appearance quite satisfactory young people, if perhaps
not brilliant; and pious persons said that Miss
Vernon had got her reward for her kindness to the
poor, and her more than kindness to her poor relations.
She was surrounded by those who were to
her like children of her own. No mother could
have had sons more respectful and devoted. Good
and virtuous and kind children—what could a
woman have more?</p>
<p>Perhaps this was rather a flattering and ideal
statement of the case; but at all events one of the
young men satisfied all Miss Vernon's requirements,
and they were both steady-going, fine young fellows,
paying every attention to business, keeping everything
going. Ellen perhaps was not quite so satisfactory.
She was young and headstrong, and not
sure that Catherine Vernon was all that people
made her out to be. There was nothing wonderful
in this. To hear one person for ever applauded is
more likely than anything else to set an impatient
mind against that person—and Ellen kept her old
cousin at arm's length, and showed her little affection.
Nobody could doubt that this must have
vexed Miss Vernon, but she took it with wonderful
calm.</p>
<p>"Your sister does not like me," she said to Harry;
"never mind, she is young, and she will know better
one day."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>"You must not think so," Harry said. "Ellen
is foolish and headstrong, but she has a very good
heart."</p>
<p>Catherine Vernon nodded a little and shook her
head.</p>
<p>"It is not a heart," she said, "that is disposed
towards me. But never mind; she will think better
of it one day."</p>
<p>Thus you will see that Miss Vernon escaped from
the worst, and had the best, of motherhood. What
a bitterness to her heart would this alienation have
been, had Ellen been her child! but as the troublesome
girl was not her child in reality, the unkindness
vexed her in a very much less degree. She was able
to think of the boys, who were so good, without
being disturbed by the image of the girl, who was
not so good. And so all things went on serenely,
and the years went by, gentle, unremarkable,
tranquil years.</p>
<p>Several years before this, before indeed the young
people had entered into her life, the old house, called
the Heronry, came into Miss Vernon's hands. It was
at some distance on the same side of the Common,
but a little further out towards the country than the
Grange—a large old red-brick house, in the midst of
a thin but lofty group of trees. Though it was so
near the town, there was something forlorn in it,
standing out against the west, the tall trees dark
against the light, the irregular outline of the old
house flush against the sky, for it was a flat country,
no hills or undulations, but everything that was tall<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</SPAN></span>
enough showing direct against the horizon in a way
that was sometimes very impressive. This great old
house Miss Vernon made a curious use of. It contained
a multitude of rooms, not any very large
except that which occupied the centre of the area,
a sort of hall, with a great staircase going out of it.
From the moment it came into her hands, she made,
everybody thought, a toy of the Heronry. She
divided it into about half a dozen compartments,
each with a separate entrance. It was very cleverly
done, so as not to interfere in any way with the
appearance of the place. The doors were not new
and unsightly, but adapted with great care, some of
them being windows a little enlarged. What was it
for? All kinds of rumours ran about the town. It
was some sort of a convent which she was going to
institute, a community of an apostolical kind, a
sisterhood, a hospital, a set of almshouses. Some
went so far as to call it Catherine Vernon's Folly.
She spent a great deal of money upon it, elaborating
her whim, whatever it might be. It was fitted up
with apparatus for warming, which would make the
dwellers in it independent of fires, people said, and
this looked like a hospital everybody allowed. There
was no end to the conveniences, the comforts of the
place. The old-fashioned gardens were put in order,
and the greatest trouble taken to make the old pool—which
had got the place its name, and where it
was said that herons had actually been seen in the
lifetime of some old inhabitants—wholesome and
without prejudice to the health of the house. The<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</SPAN></span>
pool itself was very weird, and strange to be so near
the dwelling of ordinary life. It lay in the centre of
the clump of trees which had once been a wood, and
which round it had grown tall and bare, with clumps
of foliage on the top, and straight, long stems
mounting to the sky, and shining in long lines of
reflection in the still, dark water. Several gaunt
and ghostly old firs were among them, which in the
sunset were full of colour, but in twilight stood up
black and wild against the clear, pale sky. This
pool was about as far from the Grange as Miss
Vernon could walk with comfort, and it was a walk
she was very fond of taking on summer nights. The
Common lay between the house and the town;
beyond it spread the long levels of the flat country.
In the summer all was golden about, with gorse and
patches of purple heather, and the abundant growth
of wild, uncultivated nature. What did Catherine
Vernon mean to do with this house? That was
what all Redborough wanted to know.</p>
<p>By the time at which this story properly begins,
Redborough had been acquainted for years with Miss
Vernon's intentions; they were indeed no longer intentions,
but had been carried out. The Heronry
had changed its name, if not formally, yet in familiar
parlance, throughout all the neighbourhood, and was
called the Vernonry even by people who did not
know why. The six dwellings which had been contrived
so cleverly were all occupied by relations and
dependents of the family, members of the house of
Vernon, or connections of the same. They made a<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</SPAN></span>
little community among themselves, but not the
community of a sisterhood or a hospital. It was
said that they had their little internal feuds and
squabbles, as people living so close together are
always supposed to have, but they were sufficiently
well bred, or sufficiently in awe of their cousin and
patroness, to keep these quarrels decorously to themselves.
How far they were indebted to her for their
living, as well as their lodging, nobody knew, which
was not for want of many a strenuous investigation
on the part of the neighbourhood; but the inmates
of the Vernonry were clever enough to keep their
own counsel on a matter which involved their own
consequence and credit. Disagreeable things were
indeed said about "genteel almshouses," and "poor
relations," when it first became a question in
Redborough about calling on the new residents.
But, as it turned out, they were all persons of pretensions,
expecting to be called upon by the county,
and contemptuous of the townspeople. Five of the
six apartments into which the old house had been
divided were occupied, when Redborough was startled
by the extraordinary intelligence that the last and
best had been reserved for no less interesting an
inmate than Mrs. John Vernon, she who had left the
town in circumstances so painful. John Vernon, the
unfortunate or the culpable, who had all but ruined
the bank, and left it to its ruin, had died abroad.
His wife's marriage settlement had secured their
income, but he had spent as much as it was possible
to spend of that, and forestalled every penny that he<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</SPAN></span>
could manage to forestall. His debts were such that
his widow's income was sadly crippled by the necessity
of paying them, which it was said she would not
herself have seen so clearly but for the determined
way in which it was taken up by her child, a very
young girl, born long after the catastrophe, but one
who was apparently of the old stock, with a head for
business, and a decision of character quite unusual in
a child. Mrs. John's return caused a great sensation
in Redborough. She was very well connected, and
there could be no question on anybody's mind as to
the propriety of calling on a woman who was aunt
to Sir John Southwood, and first cousin to Lady
Hartingale. How she could like to come back there,
to live within sight of her own beautiful house, and
to be indebted for shelter to Catherine Vernon, was
a much more difficult matter to understand. But
as everybody said, that of course was Mrs. John's
own concern. If she could make up her mind to it,
certainly nobody else had any call to interfere.</p>
<p>But what a change it was from the fatal day when
poor Mr. Rule, all anxious and miserable, was shown
in by the curious servant to the costly drawing-room
in which John Vernon's wife, in her spotted muslin,
sat ignorant of business, but confident and satisfied
in her good fortune and in the certainty that all
would go well with her! Poor lady! she had learned
some few things since that day, but never had
grasped the mystery of her downfall, nor known
how it was that everything had collapsed in a moment,
tumbling down like a house of cards. She<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</SPAN></span>
had not, indeed, tried to understand at that terrible
time when it all burst upon her—when the fact that
she had to leave her house, and that her furniture
was going to be sold in spite of all her indignant
protestations, compelled her understanding, such as
it was, into the knowledge that her husband was
ruined. She had too much to do then, in crying,
in packing, in appealing to heaven and earth to
know what she had done to be so cruelly used, and
in trying to make out how she was to travel, to be
able to face the problem how it had all come about.
And after she went away the strangeness and novelty
of everything swept thought out of her mind, if,
indeed, it ever entered there at all. Perhaps it was
only after that life was over, and when widowed and
growing old she came back to the strange little house
which Catherine Vernon had written to offer her,
that she remembered once more to ask herself the
question. Or, perhaps, even then it was not she who
asked it, but Hester, who, greatly excited, with eyes
large with curiosity and interest, clinging to her
mother's arm in a way she had, which looked like
dependence, and was control, went all over the new-old
place with her, drinking in information. Hester
led her mother wherever she pleased, holding her
arm embraced in her own two clasped hands. It
was her way of holding the helm. She was a tall
girl of fourteen when she came to the Heronry, outgrowing
all her frocks, and all her previous knowledge,
and thirsting to understand everything. She
had never been in England before, though she prided<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</SPAN></span>
herself on being an English girl. She knew scarcely
anything about her family, why it was they lived
abroad, what was their history, or by what means
they were so severed from all relationships and
friendships. The letter of Catherine Vernon offering
them a house to live in had roused her, with all
the double charm of novelty and mysterious, unknown
relationship. "Who is she? Cousin Catherine?
Papa's cousin! Why is she so kind? Oh
yes, of course she must be kind—very kind, or she
would not offer us a house. And that is where you
used to live? Redborough. I should think in a
week—say a week—we might be ready to go." It
was thus that she carried her mother along, who at
the first did not at all intend to go. Hester arrived
at the curious old house, which was unlike anything
she had ever seen before, with eyes like two notes of
interrogation, brilliant, flaming, inquiring into everything;
and as soon as her mother had rested, and
had taken that cup of tea which is an Englishwoman's
comfort, the girl had her out to see what was to be
seen, and led her about, turning the helm now one
way, now another. The Grange was visible as soon
as they got beyond their gate, and on the other side
of the red roofs of Wilton Street, standing on the
only height that exists in the neighbourhood, there
was the white and splendid "elevation" of the White
House, still splendid, though a little the worse for
wear. Mrs. John stood still, resisting the action of
the helm unconsciously, and all at once began to cry.
"That is where we used to live," she said, with little<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</SPAN></span>
sobs breaking in, "that—that is where we lived when
we married. It was built for me; and now to think
I have nothing to do with it—nothing!"</p>
<p>It was then that the question arose, large, embracing
the entire past, and so many things that were
beyond the mother's knowledge—"Why did papa go
away?" Mrs. John cried, she could not help it,
feeling in a moment all the difference, the wonderful
change, the downfall and reversal of everything
that in those days she had expected and hoped. She
dried her eyes half a dozen times, and then burst out
again. "Oh, what have I done that so much should
happen to me! and Catherine Vernon always the
same," she said. After a while Hester ceased to ask
any questions, ceased to impel her mother this way
or that by her arm, but led her home quietly to the
strange house, with its dark wainscot, which was so
unfamiliar, and made her lie down upon the sofa.
Mrs. John was not a person of original impulses.
What she did to-day she had done a great many
times before. Her daughter knew all her little
ways by heart. She knew about how long she
would cry, and when she would cheer up again;
and in the meantime she did her best to put two
and two together and make out for herself the outline
of the history. Of course she was all wrong.
She had heard that her father was the victim of a
conspiracy, and she had never seen him on any but
his best side. Her idea was he had been wronged;
perhaps he was too clever, perhaps too good, for the
designing people round him, and they had laid their<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</SPAN></span>
heads together and procured his ruin. The only
thing that puzzled Hester was the share that the
unknown Cousin Catherine had in it. Had she been
against him too? But, if so, why was she kind to
his wife and child? Perhaps out of remorse and
compunction? Perhaps because she was an old
woman, and wanted to make up a little for what she
had done? But this was all vague, and Hester was
prudent enough not to make up her mind about it
until further inquiries. She put her mother to bed
in the meantime, and did all the little things for her
which were part of Mrs. John's system. She brushed
her hair, still so pretty; she tied nicely, as if it were
an article of full dress, the strings of her nightcap;
she put all her little things by her on the table by
her bedside—her Bible and prayer-book, the novel
she had been reading on the journey, a biscuit in case
she should wake up feeling faint in the night. There
was quite an array of small matters. And then
Hester kissed her mother and bid her go to sleep.
"You will not be long of coming to bed, dear?" Mrs.
John said; and the girl promised. But she went
away, carrying her candle into one wainscoted room
after another, asking herself if she liked them. She
had been used to big white rooms in France. She
saw gleams of her own face, and reflections of her
light in the deep brown of these walls with a
pleasant little thrill of alarm. It was all very
strange, she had never seen anything like it before;
but what was the reason why papa left? What had
he done? What had been done to him? One of<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</SPAN></span>
the down stairs rooms opened upon a pretty verandah,
into which she was just about stepping, notwithstanding
her dread that the wind would blow her
candle out, when suddenly she was met by a large
and stately figure which made the heart jump in
Hester's breast. Miss Catherine had come out, as
she did so often at night, with a white shawl thrown
over her cap. The road was so quiet—and if it had
been ever so noisy Catherine Vernon could surely
dress as she pleased, and go as she pleased, from one
place to another in Redborough and its neighbourhood.
She saw coming out upon her in the light of a candle
a pair of brown eyes, large and wide open, full of
eager curiosity, with a tall girl behind them, somewhat
high-shouldered, with clustering curly short
hair. Catherine Vernon was not without prejudices,
and she did not like Mrs. John, nor did she expect
(or perhaps intend) to like her daughter. There was
something in the girl's face which disarmed her suspicion;
but she was not a person to give in, and give
up her foregone conclusion on any such trifling
occasion as that.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</SPAN></span></p>
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