Lydia Trent

by Abigail Blanchart

  The refractory farm-cart was passed, the Abbey reached, and Alfred jumped out of the carriage with the intention of handing out the girls, but independent Lydia sprang down without waiting for his assistance. Adeline hesitated a moment before placing her hand in his and descending with a maidenly blush and murmured thanks. Few men could be proof against such a manner, and Alfred unconsciously held on to that fair hand for a moment longer than was strictly necessary, causing yet a deeper blush and a moment's confusion on the part of the damsel.

  Lydia came to the unwitting rescue by suggesting they walk to the furthest part of the walls. On previous sorties to the Abbey, the little party had amused themselves by attempting to trace out the ancient foundations as far as they could, and settling amongst themselves how the abbots, long since crumbled to dust, had lived there. She now proposed they continue their researches, but Alfred instead advanced the notion they refresh themselves with a light luncheon.

  “Why, to tell the truth, driving in this delightful weather does make one a little hungry,” exclaimed Lydia, “but how on Earth do you propose to obtain supplies out here in the wilderness? I spy a farm over yonder, but it is a stiffish walk across the fields, unless you propose to go round two miles by road.”

  “My dear Miss Trent,” returned Alfred with an air of mock pomposity, “how typically feminine of you to assume that a gentleman, a mere male of the species, could not possibly have thought of and prepared for just such a contingency beforehand. Miss Trent, Miss Wade, behold!” and sweeping a low, flourishing bow he produced a neat basket from the carriage. Within a very few moments he had, by the means of carriage rugs, prepared pleasant seats for the party on the remains of a low, broad stone wall, shaded by an immense oak which must have been a seedling long before the Abbey's first stones were laid, and set out a delicate luncheon of cold chicken, cake and fruit.

  “How kind you are, Alf... Mr Denham.” said Adeline with one of her most captivating shy smiles.

  “It is my pleasure,” Alfred replied, “but I do not believe any man living was ever christened by such an oddity of a name as Alfmister.”

  At this, Adeline lapsed once more into that unwonted confusion, which Lydia swiftly covered by pressing her to try a peach, and asking Alfred to kindly fetch her fan, which she believed had left behind in the carriage.

  The three ate with the relish of the young, and then Lydia renewed her scheme of investigating the foundations of the old building. Adeline gently demurred – she would much rather sit here quietly and enjoy the sunshine, she had provided herself with a book for this very purpose, she did not believe they would ever settle the question to their mutual satisfaction, and of all things a mystery, particularly an insoluble mystery, was something to which she was indifferent. At this, Alfred spoke warmly in defence of mysteries -

  “for where would mankind be if, say, had not Sir Isaac solved the mysteries of motion, Harvey the mysteries of the circulation of the blood, or Stevenson and Trevithick the mysteries of steam locomotion?”

  “And even should a mystery prove insoluble,” added Lydia, “then one may still be the gainer by the exercise of one's faculties of reasoning and deduction.”

  Being unable to advance any argument that could sway these two true believers, she begged that they would feel free to dig and delve away, as she was perfectly contented to repose with her book.

  Alfred and Lydia spent a happy two hours poking amongst the ruins, enjoying a lively debate about the significance of the square building whose foundations they believed they had traced. Lydia was convinced of it's having once been the chapterhouse, whilst Alfred stood out equally strongly for it's having been one of the offices – in all likelihood, he declared, the brewery. The dispute was backed up by authorities from the pair's miscellaneous reading, but even as they became conscious of the lateness of the afternoon they still could not agree on the long-fallen building's original use, whether sacred or profane. At the end of all they shook hands and agreed to differ,

  “For, it may just as well have been a stable.” remarked Lydia good-humouredly.

  Adeline, in the meantime, had been ostensibly occupied with her novel, but in truth the open volume on her lap had today failed to engage her attention. What did it matter to her if Lucilla Finch regained her sight, while Adeline Wade was gaining a deeper insight into her own heart? And so she drowsed the afternoon away, lost in her own thoughts, and her eyes frequently wandering from the page to the two figures over yonder. It must have been coincidence, surely, that the upright, manly figure of Alfred should so often fall within her line of sight.

  Alfred was, if no Adonis, well worth looking at. At twenty-five, he still retained some of the air of a schoolboy. He was a little over the average height, and somewhat slightly built – in the days when Adeline had first made his aquaintance he might even have been accused of lankiness. However, he had outgrown the hobbledehoy phase, and his enthusiasm for the more athletic side of University life had filled out his form, which was now manly and well-proportioned. An open, pleasant countenance, intelligent eyes, a schoolboy smile and a good deal of light brown hair completed the picture. In character he was a similar mixture of manly virtues and old-fashioned courtesy, and boyish mischief. He was intelligent, though somewhat inclined to self-gratulation – he had not spent all his time at Oxford rowing and boxing, and had in fact graduated creditably, though not at the head of his class. He had inherited a modest fortune from his mother, which rendered him, though not positively wealthy, to afford all the necessities, and some few of the elegancies, of life. He had some thought of studying the law, or of taking to the pen, but for now his income was ample to his wants, and so the day when he would 'make something of himself' was - always and always – tomorrow.

  Though Lydia and Alfred could not be brought into agreement on the subject of the ruins, they were unanimous in their surprise at the lateness of the hour, and the necessity of departing at once if they were to be home in time for tea.

  “For you know how much Mamma dislikes waiting.” observed Lydia.

  Accordingly, they packed their lunch-things and themselves into the carriage and set off post-haste.

  The drive home was even less eventful than the drive out – Adeline remained somewhat silent and absorbed, Lydia and Alfred discussed the Abbey in particular, and ruins in general, and then ancient architecture in all it's forms. No slower vehicle impeded their progress now, and before they knew it Alred was springing from the carriage to open the gate of the house at Allenham.

  Just at that moment, Adeline's attention was drawn by a strange man of about fifty or sixty, rough in appearance and manner, deeply tanned and dressed in workman's clothes.

  “Excuse me Miss,” inquired the stranger, in gruff tones, “but would I be speaking to Miss Wade and Mrs Parrish?”

  “Why, I am Miss Wade!” involuntarily exclaimed Adeline, “But I know nobody of the name of Parrish.”

  Lydia cried out and Alfred turned to see the uncouth man seize Adeline's wrist and half-drag her from the carriage. He sprang forward as the man clasped the resisting girl in a feverish embrace, whispering hoarsely

  “Adeline, my little Addy, I'm so sorry. See, I found you at last!”

  With a cry of horror, Alfred tore the man's hands from Adeline's now drooping form.

  “Get away from her, you brute!” he cried, “What have you to do with Miss Wade? Go, or it shall be the worse for you!” and he raised his carriage whip threateningly. The man sprang away with unexpected agility, and Alfred made to follow him, but was arrested by a gasp from Lydia.

  “Oh, Mr Denham, Adeline! Let us get her inside quickly.”

  He turned to see Lydia struggling to support Adeline's inert body, as the younger girl swooned in the roadway.

  Chapter the 4th

  The bustle and confusion that followed Alfred's carrying the swooning girl into the house may be imagined. Every servant in the house was Adeline's staunch ally, her sweetness of manner, her kindness and
consideration for all, winning love from all right down to the little scullery maid, whose burned fingers had been dressed many a time by the gentle young mistress. All pressed forward, eager with this or that remedy, all concern and distress. Lydia and the housekeeper agreed, that Adeline ought to be put to bed immediately, for she had sustained a severe shock.

  Once Adeline had been comfortably settled, Lydia felt it her duty to tell Mrs Trent all that had occurred.

  “Yes,” said Adeline, who was now conscious but weak, “you had better tell Mamma. And... is Alfred still here? Please give him my grateful thanks. I will never forget how bravely he rushed to my aid.”

  Lydia engaged to pass on this message, and descended to the entrance-hall, where Alfred was pacing back and forth.

  “She has regained consciousness, and though somewhat shaken I am sure she will be better after a little rest. She begged me to thank you for your help – as do I thank you.”

  “What else could I do? I swear if that brute has harmed a hair of her head he shall be hunted down!”

  “Pray calm yourself, Alfred.” - in her depth of feeling, unconsciously using the christian name that she had forbidden to her sister - “Adeline will be quite well, rest and quiet for a day or two will effect a full cure, I am sure of it. And now I must go and tell Mamma what has happened, so I will bid you goodbye.”

  And shaking Alfred's hand with a warm, grateful pressure, she passed on.

  Mrs Trent took the news of her only daughter's sudden indisposition with admirable calmness, at least until Lydia narrated the distressing encounter with the stranger at the gate. At this she turned quite white, causing Lydia to give her credit for far more motherly feeling than she actually posessed, and became full of questions.

  “A strange man? Who? What kind of man? Describe him to me.” Evelyn demanded.

  “Well, it happened so quickly I cannot be absolutely sure of details, but I know he had dark brown hair with streaks of grey, he wore a beard and was very tanned, as if he had been at sea or used to outdoor life in some hot climate. His dress was not that of a sailor though – more like a working man, and very worn and dirty. Let me see – he was maybe a little shorter than Mr Denham, but heavier set. I would not like to hazard a guess as to his age – he looked to be fifty or more, but if he had indeed been used to much exposure to the sun he may be younger. He seemed absolutely wild – there was something of the hungry animal in the way he spoke, and, of course, in his actions. Oh, and he spoke with an accent that was not quite English.”

  “An accent? What kind of accent? Could it have been an Australian accent?”

  “Why, yes, that may have been it – but what makes you think of such a thing?”

  “I don't exactly know – something in your description brought to mind the image of a returned convict. This is very worrying. I shall pass on your excellent description to the constable. And of course, I trust that neither you nor Adeline shall set foot outside the grounds without an escort until we are quite certain this ruffian has been apprehended or has quite left the neighbourhood. Now, if you will excuse me, this worry has brought on the return of my headache. And, of course, I must write a note to the constable.”

  Lydia bowed and returned to watch by the couch of her sister, who was now sleeping, having been coaxed to drink some chamomile tea.

  What of Alfred, while Lydia was undergoing this explanation? His blood was up and his mind racing as he walked back to the modest residence he shared with his father, for in the stir he had quite forgotten about his carriage, and by the time he bethought himself, the horse, tired with his twelve-mile jaunt, had very sensibly taken himself off in the direction of his own comfortable stable. He cast his eyes about him as he walked, eager to catch a glimpse of the ruffianly blackguard who had dared lay a hand on his Adeline, though to what end, for explanation or revenge, he knew not. And yes, he now thought of her as his Adeline – as if that one moment of horror and distress, superadded to her manner toward him in the earlier part of the day, had awakened all his chivalrous instincts, and bound him to his liege-lady for ever. How could he ever forget the surge of anger in his breast at the sight of that tender creature roughly used, or the pity and indignation he had felt when he looked down on that pathetic white face as he bore her in his arms? It seems natural that the distressed one should feel grateful affection toward her deliverer, but is it not full as natural – if not more so – that the rescuer should be inspired thereafter with a feeling of tender responsibility toward the creature he has saved? Affection he had always felt for the girl, but until today he had felt only the warm interest of an elder brother. The events of today were in a fair way to fan the glowing coals of that affection into the bright flames of a lover's passion.

  The next morning, Alfred betook himself early to the Trent's house, appearing on the doorstep at an hour when the household would have usually barely finished breakfast. Today, however, he found all in alarm and confusion.

  “Lydia, for God's sake tell me, what is the matter? Is it Adeline? Is she worse? Has the doctor been sent for?” were the first words out of Alfred's mouth when Lydia was able to step downstairs to receive him, after a very uncomfortable interval, which in reality was no more than ten minutes, but in Alfred's worried state seemd like an hour. Lydia's face was troubled and pale, and, in the first accession of his passion, his first and only thought was for his beloved.

  “No, thank goodness, Adeline is quite well, though we have been forced to keep the news from her. It is - “ and here Lydia's voice shook a little with supressed emotion - “It is my father. Though he has hidden it from us for fear of causing undue concern, of late it seems he has been subject to spells of dizziness and languor, and this morning he has found himself too weak to rise from his bed. Oh dear, he is very ill, and all my courage seems to desert me.” And with this the brave bright woman, usually so calm and level-headed, burst into a storm of passionate sobs. The shower was a brief one, however, and before Alfred could make the slightest move to comfort her she had regained her composure.

  “Forgive me,” she said, dabbing at her eyes with a clean handkerchief, “the doctor is expected very soon and I must see him. It will not do for me to break down in front of Papa or Adeline – she must not be worried just now, and Papa would be so grieved to see me upset. Would you do me the great kindness of keeping Lydia occupied while the doctor is expected? I do not wish her to know he has been here. It would be a very great service if you could contrive to distract her somehow.”

  And so Alfred was thus requested to do the one thing he most desired, and this was to be his very great service!

  “I do hope the doctor is able to give you encouraging news.” he said, with genuine compassion in his tones.

  “Thank-you, and again thank-you for your kindness to us. Now, I must go and bathe my face before anyone sees me. Lydia is in the drawing room, practising.”

  Alfred bid her a kind farewell and went in search of his old friend and new lady-love.

  Chapter the 5th

  Sadly, the doctor from Allingham was unable to give any encouraging news, and nor was the London physician later called in to be his coadjutor. Though neither could find any distinct traces of organic disease, it was obvious that William Trent was fading daily. At first he could sit up in bed, to read and talk as brightly as ever, though he was easily tired. In the early days of his illness there were days when he would feel better entirely, and defy his doctors by insisting on getting dressed, when he would return to his usual pursuits – for a few hours, at least, until a fresh dizzy spell sent him back to bed. As the weary weeks wore on, however, he slowly lost more and more ground. First the intervals in which he could sit up grew shorter, and he required more rest. Then he could no longer read – his eyes grew blurred if he tried to focus on print, then he could no longer sit up in bed. His once-hale form began to become weak and wasted, his appetite dwindled, his mind began to wander at times. A hired nurse was brought in to aid Lydia – for Adeline co
uld not and Evelyn would not perform the work – Evelyn pleaded ill-health herself, and Adeline was too delicate for much watching and anxiety. She had begged to be allowed to help care for her dear Papa, but Lydia felt that such a task would destroy her health entirely. Therefore, Adeline was only allowed to come in once a day to read to the old gentleman, talk to him and comfort him. She only saw him in his best light, and he was visibly cheered by her presence, and so for a considerable time she remained in ignorance of the true state of the case, but there came a sad day when nothing could hide the stamp of death in his face from her loving eyes. Her grief was too deep for tears. she only clung silently to her sister as Lydia softly admitted the truth.

  Remedy after remedy was tried without success, test after test was applied to try and ascertain the cause of his sickness, but without avail. William Trent was dying.

  During this time Alfred came every day to beguile Adeline's lonely hours, for, excepting that one sad sweet daily pilgrimage to the sickroom, she was either solitary, or left to the uncongenial society of her mother. Bitter-sweet were these hours to Adeline – bitter because of the great sadness that hung over her, sweet because they were spent in the company of the old friend she had long admired and was now swiftly coming to love. At first Alfred tried to soothe and interest her with books and music, but she could play nothing now except the sweet old songs her father loved, and could read nothing now except what she read to him. Instead, she talked of happier days with her dear Papa, the only father she had ever known. Alfred took her out walking or driving every day, and attempted in vain to convince Lydia to join these excursions, lest she sacrifice her own health by constant attendance on the sick man. Adeline did derive some solace in these outings, in the shape of every cottager or villager they passed, who, with concerned face and anxious voice, paused to enquire after the health of the invalid. The desolate girl was in some wise comforted by the daily reminders of how much her step-father was respected and loved in the neighbourhood.