The Stourbridge Observer, Cradley Heath, Halesowen & District Chronicle.
Stourbridge, West Midlands, England, 1886-03-13 00:00:00

[ALL RIGHTS RESBEVED.]
THE HEIRESS

ATHERSTONE GRANGE.

BY Tin AUTHOR OF
" illiaa Thornton," " Effie Baird," " Almost a
Criminal," " Leonora's Legacy," 4-o.

CHAPTER I.
DRIZZLETON-IN-TRE-WILLOWS.
All the world's a !stage,
And all the men and women merely players,
They hare their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts.
—SHAKESPEARE.
Dutzzt.rrox-rararna-WILLows, Lancashire, is a town
or village rather, not inaptly named. Whoever be-
stowed the cognomen upon the much-soaked and
7damp bedewed little settlement was either intensely
matter-of-fact Or sharply sarcastic. The name fits
the place. Low-lying and willow-begirt, the inhabi-
tants can almost exclaim with the jester, of old, "The
rain it mineth every day."
Not many miles from Manchester, it has, like all the
towns and villages in South Lancashire, its quota of
mills and millworkers. There are four tall chimneyed
factories that poison the air and pollute the sluggish
stream that runs past the place, and gives employment
to the dwellers in the rows of doleful-looking cottages
that stand ameng the willows on the banks thereof.
Literally "in the willows' is Drizzleton, for that
melancholy-looking tree thrives there with wonderful
luxuriance.
On an exceptionally wet day, with the rain pouring
down in streams, and the bubbles leaping up in
triumph from the pools in front of the door, with the
smoke from the mill chimneys beating down, and the
stream from the spongy ground rising up, and every-
thing looking deplorable and miserable to the last
degree, two young men sat in the parlour of the only
inn in the place which possessed such an apartment,
Smoking their cigars, and trying to irile away the
tediousness of the wet afternoon as best they might.
The name of the hostelry was the Cock and Bottle,
and its crqaky signboard displayed a portrait of a
vivid coloured chanticleer gazing intently at a black
bottle; but the establishment was familiarly and better
known as "Purring Bill's," it having been originally
a very modest village tap, kept by a past master in
the Lancashire art of "purring," whose name was
"Purring Bill" had long since been gathered
to his fathers, dogs and all, and his public-house had
become respectable and had a hotel license; but the
name stuck as dirty things will, and the people of
brizzleton ignored the respectability, and stuck to the
old name.
It was a rambling, old-fashioned house, not uncom-
fortable in its way, and the parlour in which the two
young men sat was cheerful enough in warmth and
colour. Various prints (horsey for the most part)
adorned the walls, and a portrait of the Queen, in
a portentous bonnet, and with a sweet, youthful face,
smiled down upon the company from over the fire-
place.
That is to say, her Majesty usually cast the light of
her countenance on her loving subjects. She was
obscured now by a coarse-looking play-bill, through
which the hook on which she hung was stuck, and
which seemed to give a dingy, disreputable look to
the whole room. The paper was coarse and dingy,
and the printing and ink were alike bad, and nearly
every line had one or more notes of admiration after
it, showing pretty plainly that what the company it
advertised lacked in talent they made up in puffing.
It set forth that Mr. George Augustus Whiffin, of the
Theatres Royal, London, and everywhere else, would
introduce to the Drizzleton public his talented com-
pany, culled from the elite of his profession. These
shining lights would perform the "Lady of Lyons,"
and a favourite farce, in the assembly room of the
Cock and Bottle, that evening. None of them had
arrived yet, however, and the assembly room, as the
barn-like apartment was called by courtsey, was in a
state of pristine loneliness and discomfort.
The playbill had afforded infinite amusement to the
two young men, who had read and re-read every word
of it during their sitting.
"There's comfort yet, Bruce," said the younger of
the two. "Our beds are clean and the cooking is not
bad, and here's cheap amusement for the evening. If
you can't stand it, take the train for Manchester, and
revel in the chaste beauty of Celeste and the Green
Bushes,'. at the Royal."
"I've seen Celeste, and I haven't seen Mr. George
Augustus Whiffin, my boy," the other replied, with a
laugh. "I'm not going to desert you. The telegram
is sure to come in the morning, and then hey for the
North! I think the whole thing rather jolly myself.
Such rain, such mud, and such rustic innocence are
curiosities in their way."
"So are we. I heard the worthy successor of
Purring Bill tell someone in the most solemn voice that
we were 'swells,' and the aboriginal immediately flat-
tened his nose against the window, and took a good long
look, thinking no doubt that we were some new kind
of fabulous monster sent here for exhibition. Drizzleton
is an interesting and curious place, Bruce; there's no
doubt of that."
"It ought to be to you; there's money enough out
of it comes your way."
"My dad's, you mean. Yes, I think the old boy
does pretty well out of the place. The mill is not a
gold mine;but it's a thriving affair; only I wish the
pater would come and look after it himself."
"And not burden you when you are en route to
Ambleside, and the sunshine of Flora Bickerstaff's
bright eyes, eh ?"
"Nonsense."
No; it isn't nonsense.

.

The light that lice
In woman's eves
This been my heart's nndoltig,
and all the rest of it. I know.-

"No, you don't, Bruce Carnaby. Flora Bickerstaff
and I have never spoken a word of love to each other.
I don't suppose she ever wastes a thought upon me."
"Oh tell that to— whoever you like, but not to the
friend of your bosom, Leonard Atherstone. I know
better. I would wager the worth of your father's
mill yonder that in six months from this time you
will be, if not the fair Flora's husband, her fiancee."
But Leonard Atherstone only replied with an im-
patient '6 Pshaw !" and puffed away at his cigar as
though he was smoking against time, and had a wager
to get rid of so many Havannas in a given time.
The two young men were fast friends—had been so
from boyhood. The elder, Bruce Carnaby, was an
officer in a cavalry regiment, at present on leave. The
younger, Leonard Atherstone, a bright-faced, im-
pressionable-looking, young fellow, was the son of the
owner of the mill in Drizzleton, and had called there to
transact some business for his father on his way north-
ward. Mr. Atherstone, senior, was a very rich man
indeed, and residing at his country seat, "Atherstone
Grange," in Warwickshire. Leonard was his only re-
maining child out of a large family, and in reality his
father's idol.

Outwardly, Mr. Atherstone was a stern, hard man,
showing no affection for anyone. His wife, a gentle,
Clinging woman, with a heart full 3f love and reverence
for her saturnine lord, had gone to her grave fairly
- chilled to death by the coldness with which lie treated
her, and her sorrow for her lost children. She had
, been dead many a year now. Nothing remained of
her but a fine picture in Mr. Atherstone's study and a
rather faint remembrance of her gentle face in her
son's mind; and no one knew of the passionate grief
'which had whitened her husband's hair, and added
lines to his face, when the vault of Atherstone Church
closed over her.
A marble tablet and a memorial window recorded
her virtues, and a very fine likeness of her cast its
shadow down upon her husband and son, as they sat
in the pew on Sundays, but the memory of Margaret
Atherstone was nothing more than a vague dream in
her boy's mind. Perhaps it would have been better
if it had. Perhaps if Leonard Atherstone had had a
mother's gentle voice to guide and counsel him, he
might have turned aside from the path which, though
he did no wrong, sinned no sin, led him to much misery
and distress.
Bruce Carnaby's railing of his friend anent Miss
Flora Bickerstaff was not wholly without foundation.
The senior Mr. Atherstone fancied that in that young
lady lie had found a suitable wife for his son, and he
looked with much approval upon the intimacy that
was growing up between them.
Miss Bickerstaff was an heiress, and a baronet's
daughter to boot, and being a very pretty girl and
Much sought after, it was very gratifying to the mill
owner to see that she turned to his son with preference.
Leonard had spoken the truth when he said that no
'word of love had passed between them. To do him
justice, he had hardly thought of it. Miss Bickerstaff
was a very nice girl, but there was plenty of time for
years yet for him to think about matrimony; he was
only just twenty-one, and the world was all before
him.
He was out for a holiday now, an erratic sort of
tour, on which his friend accompanied him, and had
taken Drizzleton in his way to bring some important
papers t. the manager there. He had had occasion to
telegraph to his father and wait for a reply, which
necessitated stopping for a night at the Cock and
Bottle, and putting up with the discomfort of a regular
Drizzleton evening.
They were rather glad of the advent of Mr. George ,
Augustus Whiffin and his company, as a relief to ennui
What seemed inevitable.
• "They don't seem to come," said Bruce Carnaby,
to the landlord, who entered to see to the fire, for though
'slimmer, it was chilly, and coals are cheap in Lanca-
shire. "Are they going to disappoint the expectant
Public?"
" Lor', sir, there arn't no public expecting 'ern!"
the landlord replied. "We can do without 'em.
They'll be here fast enough, if they can scrape enough
money to pay their fares; and if they can't they'll
come on the luggage, and trust to luck, and someoni
being fool enough to redeem 'em. • It won't be me."
"You think they won't pay you ?"
"Sure of it. We've had theatricals here before, and
I know 'ern. They don't open their doors to-night
'till I get my rent and gas money."
"Then I am afraid our evening's entertainment
'won't come off," Leonard said laughing.
• " We'll have some fun out of it, I'll wager a box of
cjgars," said his friend. "And I'll wager another
that they come." . •
"Each actor on his ass ?" ehcitufedetlntitil;•gohrg
to the window, as a doleful proteesiow ttf ibilferaggled -
mortals came up to the door.
a " They'd have been thankful for even that convey-
nbce I fancy," Bruce Carnaby remarked, and he was
out right. Cabs are not, or were not four-and-