The Stourbridge Observer, Cradley Heath, Halesowen & District Chronicle.
Stourbridge, West Midlands, England, 1886-05-22 00:00:00

ATIIERSTONE GRANGE,

BY TRH AUTHOR OF
"Allan Thornton," "Effie Baird," "Almost a
Criminal," " Leonora's Legacy," 4-c.
CHAPTER XI.

A CRUMB OF COMFORT.
The drying up a single tear has more
Of honest fame than shedding seas of gore.
—BYRoN.
TrrrtztE was no sign of poverty near Leonard Ather-
stone when he died. His lodging was not the very
perfection of luxury perhaps, nor were troops of
servants in waiting to obey. the slightest behest that
came from the sick room, as there might have been
had he breathed his last in the old Grange; but there
was gentle love and tender care, and all the comforts
that love and care, with sufficient means, can give, and
the end was as peaceful as the end of mortal man can
be. _ _ _

Beryl had nothing to reproach herself with in the
midst of her passionate grief. Her energy and devo-
tion had won her husband the comforts that surrounded
his dying bed, and he had gone out of the world
tenderly nurtured to the last by her loving care. She
did not write to Mr. Atherstone, sen., Leonard never
expressed a wish that she should, and unless he
desired it, she told Mr. Masters flatly that she .would
not.

"I will not have him worried and insulted when
he is dying," she said with passionate tears. "He is
a cold, cruel man, and Iwould rather die of starvation
in the street than be indebted to him for a mouthful
of bread to keep me alive."
"Well, well, my dear, you know best," the manager
said kindly, thinking in his heart that Mr. Atherstone
of the Grange, was, indeed, all that his daughter-in-
law declared him to be, for he had seen a Warwick
paper that morning which set forth that the gentleman
in question was entertaining a houseful of guests.
There had been dances, and tableaux vivants, and
numerous festivities in the old house—and all this
while the disowned son lay dying Wthin two hours'
ride of him.
But Mr. Masters did not know quite all ; he was not
aware that the squire was totally unaware of his son's
illness, and would never allow his son's name to be men-
tioned in his house. Had he known he might not
have seemed so heartless.
There was no stint of respect his son's memory
when the members of Mr. Masters's company followed
him to his resting-place in a quiet corner at Key Hill.
He had chosen the place himself. One sunny summer's
day, when Beryl had had leisure for a drive, and he
was well enough for the exertion, they had gone
through the cemetery, then bright with flowers and
sunshine, and had sat down for him to rest in a shady
nook close to the catacombs.
"I should like to be buried here," he had said
suddenly, making Beryl's heart leap with a sudden
pang of pain.
"Where, dear?" she asked. She had long given up
bidding him not to talk of it—it was so near now.
"Not in those dismal vaults, Len, darling. You haven't
a fancy for them, have you?"
"No, no, here; under the sunlight, with the flowers
growing over me. and the sweet a.r full of their scent.
Dust to dust, you know, Beryl, and the mingling
comes soonest when one is laid in a grave in the
mould."
The idea had taken a strong hold of him, and Beryl
could not trust her voice to answer, but she remembered
his wish, and when they laid him down in the earth it
was within a few feet of the place where they had sat
amid the flowers on that July afternoon.
Small time had she to indulge her sorrow for her
loss ; if she and her child were to live they must work,
and in a week she was back in the theatre, doffing her
weeds, and putting aside her sorrow as best she might,
to stand on the stage and smile while her heart was
breaking.
The struggle told on her fearfully. In a Very few
weeks from the time of Leonard's death she was look-
ing as though she was fast following him to the grave,
and shreds of silver were beginning to show them-
selves among her beautiful hair. Mr. Whiffin watched
her alternate looks with much concern.
"This will never do," he thought to himself, and
cast about for a way to mend matters. "If she stays
here she'll mope herself to death. It was an evil day
that we went to Drizzleton, and met that poor fellow
that's gone. My girl might have been a duchess this
minute, but for him."
Leonard had been dead about five weeks when he
went into Beryl's room with an open letter in his hand.
They lived together now. He had been a true protector
and friend to his foster-child in his affliction, and she
had begged him to come and lodge in the same house
with her and Dot.
"Come and be my dear father once more," she
pleaded. "I have no one in the wide world but you
now."

He went., nothing loth.
"And I'll never leave her again in this world, please
Heaven 1" he said, as he proceeded to Edgbaston with
his "traps," as he called them, on the top of a cab.
"She'll want some one to look after her, and she'll
never marry again—l could take my oath of that."
Be might with safety. No thought of any second
union ever crossed Beryl Atherstone's mind while she
lived, and the prospect of death only seemed to her
the prospect of re-union with the man she loved so
dearly.
" l've got news for you, Beryl," Mr. Whiffin said as
she looked to see who he might be. "Great news, my
dear."
" Indeed !"

Her tone was languid and not interested, and she
went on with her work of altering a brilliant scarlet
satin dress, which seemed a strange, incougruous con-
trast. to her sombre costume and widow's cap.
"Yes. What do you think I have been doing for

you?"
"I can't guess."
"Making an engagement."
"For me ?"

"Yes ;and myself and Miss Dot here. Between you
and me, I think the little lady is the principal
feature in it. You and I as old stagers are taken in
with the star in the lump; but it's the child that's
wanted. You'll have to see about packing up and pre-
•)aring to go soon."

"Whereto ?"
"To Australia."

Beryl let fall her work, and stared at him in amaze-
ment. He was a temperate man, but she began to
fear that he had either been drinking or gone suddenly
mad.

" I don't understand," she said. "Do you mean to
say that you have made an engagement for me to go to
Australia ?"
" I do."

-
"Without consulting me ?"

"Just that. Look here, child. You want a change
—you want to be taken away somewhere where you
can't get back from, to go mooning to that cemetery
every day. Don't cry, pet. I speak roughly,
but I have your good at heart. You're killing
yourself by inches with fretting, and it can't
dO any good to poor Len. You'll cry yourself
into the grave, and then who's to take care of
Dot? I knew it was no good proposing the thing tc
you, for I never should get you away from here, but I
looked about for something out of England,. and I
found it. It's all settled, my lass, and you Mustn't
make me break the engagement. It's too good to be
lost."
"I can't go," sobbed Beryl. "I can't leave."
"I know, I know," said Mr. Whiffin soothingly. "It's
hard to feel you are leaving him behind there in the
cold ground; but you must tear yourself away some
time, and you have Dot to live for. You'll come back
with the pain taken out of your heart, my dear. The
change will do that for you."
"But, Mr. Masters?" said Beryl wearily. "How can
I break with him? It will not be treating him well.
signed for twelve months."
:Masters is in the plot, child. He knows all about
it. He sees, as well as I do, how things are with you,
and he's quite willing to give you up. He says you
are to come back and finish your engagement when
the Melbourne people have done with you."
Beryl was too much taken by surprise to re-
cnonstrate, and too languid and '!sroken down to offer
any resistance to the scheme thus suddenly proposed.
She was really ili, and had an innate ccn.viction, like
many who are bowed down with grief, that she should
die, so she felt as though she did not care what be-
3ame of her; but life was strong within her yet. There
is wonderful elasticity in the human heart, and when
the found that the matter was really settled, and a
most advantageous engagement obtained for herself
and Dot in Melbourne, she b?gan to brighten, and to
show some little interest in the preparatior-s for her
departure.
"You will write to Mr. Atherstone now, will you
I, not ?" asked Mr. Whiffin a few days before they mere
1: to leave Birmingham.
"No."

" I think you should, my dear. He is poor Len's
father after all."
"What does that matter?" she said with flashing
eyes. "But for him my darling would not be lying
yonder, nor my child and I going thousands of miles
away over the sea. What is he to me that I should
Write to him ?"
"My dear,don't talk like that; he could not have
kept his son alive."
"Do you know what he died of?" she retorted
Passionately.
"Yes, dear—consumption."
" Ah, so they say ;" and she laughed bitterly as she
spoke, "and it's easy said. He died of want, daddy,
as surely as any starved wretch that is picked dead off
the street to be buried in a pauper coffin."
My dear child !"
" Ah you may stare, but it is true—not of want for
the last few months, when all the luxury on the face
of the earth could not have saved him; but of want
Lefore that—of hunger in the terrible time when he
came out of the hospital, wanting all the nourishment
that could be given him, to starve. A pittance from
the wealth his father squanders would have saved him
then. All his 'wealth will not bring him back to life
Slew!,
"Still I think you should write."
"Why should I? He cares nothing. He has been
11,oney-making and filling his house with idle guests
'while my heart has been breaking here. He knew

where to find me, and he has never sent one word of
forgiveness for him, nor one syllable of comfort or
sympathy for his dead son's child—his heiress Heaven
save the mark !" '

"I don't think he knows what has happened."
"Not know—he, within twenty miles of us, seeing
Dot's name and mine in the newspapers daily and not
know! Nonsense! He does know, daddy, depend
on it."
Mr. Whiffin shook his head.
"You would not have it put in the papers, dear,"
he said. "I think you should write."
"I won't write," said Beryl, opening her desk ; "but
he shan't say I would not let him know. I'll send him
this."

She drew out the certificate of her husband's
death, and put it in an envelope, which she sealed.
"Direct it for me to the lawyer." she said. "It may
come back unopened if it goes straight to the Grange."
He would have begged her again to add something
more, but she cut his remonstrances short.
"Don't say anything more about it," she said, "or
I will not send even that. I will try and forget from
this hour that such a person as my dead husband's
father is in existence, and I devoutly hope that neither
my child nor myself may ever come in contact with
him while we live." _ _ _ _ _ _

Her aspirations on the subject were destined to be
fulfilled. Neither Beryl Atherstone nor her little
daughter were ever destined to meet Leonard's father
face to face. _ _ _

There was a farewell benefit two nights after the
certificate was despatched for the three who were
going to link their fortunes once more together at the
Antipodes. There was a crowded house, and more
than one gift of value in the shape of trinkets of price
fell at the feet of Beryl and her child as hand in hand
they bade their friends farewell.
The enthusiasm was no sham sentiment got up for
the occasion. They were both liked and esteemed by
the Birmingham playgoers; and Mr. Masters supple-
mented their reception by a neat speech, in which he
eulogised Beryl's talent and goodness, and her
daughter's brilliant gifts, and sang his own praises for
having brought two such shining "lights to illumine
the Birmingham horizon," in a way extremely edifying
to hear.

Mr. Atherstone, fuming with rage, read an account
of the proceedings in a Birmingham paper. The
account was meagre and rambling, and told nothing
of Beryl's widowhood or her circumstances. He was
not sufficiently at fait in reporter's slang to under-
stand it was a farewell benefit.
_ _

"Gifted little lady! Bah r he grumbled as he read a
longeulogium upon little Dot's performances. "Grand-
daughter of a well-known county gentleman! How
dare they? I'll bring an action against this newspaper
for daring to mix my name up in their confounded
rubbish. As for the others, they shan't run their de-
graded course without finding some disagreeables in
their way. I'll sign that will this very day, and then
let them parade Squire Atherstone of the Grange as
their relation as much as they like."
He ordered his horse, and rode into Leamington,
where Mr. Carson occupied a handsome house in Bath-
street. It was a handy situation for him, " close to
everywhere," he was wont to boast to his friends,
and the sound of the street noises was cunningly
deadened by double doors and heavy curtains, and
altogether Mr. Carson was comfortably housed.
The client was welcomed as only such clients are,
and made comfortable in an easy arm-chair, and the
clerk ordered to say that Mr. Carson was engaged
should anyone call, and then Mr. Atherstone proceeded
to business.
"Where's that will of mine, Carson ?”

The lawyer indicated a deed box, marked with the
squire's name and arms, which stood open beside
him.

"In here. I was just going over some of those
leases. I think there's a flaw in one of them. Duncan
says not; but I haven't much faith in him, and I had
it in my hand not five minutes since."
"Fetch it out again, I have come to sign it."
"Now ?"
"This minute. Is it ready ?"
"Quite ready; but-"
"But what ?"

"I was in hopes you had forgotten it."
"I am not in the habit of forgetting things, Carson.
I won't put it off any longer. By Heaven! I could
almost burn the old house down, rather than it should
fall in the hands of that woman and her child. Is that
it? Let me see if I can add anything to make it more
stringent."
"That lam sure you cannot. Hsre is the place for
your signature. My clerk and my housekeeper will
do for the witnesses. Ah, pardon me a moment," he
added, as the clerk entered with his hands full. " The
post is here, and I must beg a moment just to sort my
letters."