Sir Harry: A Love Story

By Archibald Marshall

Sir Harry, A Love Story is a tragic yet fulfilling story about Sir Harry and Viola by Archibald Marshall. Multiple factors like delightful style of writing, incredibly realistic characters and an engrossing storyline make this book a remarkable work of fiction. The writer has made an outstanding effort in evoking every reader's emotion and has also successfully managed to do so.

Arthur Hammond Marshall (1866–1934), popularly known by his pen name Archibald Marshall, was an English author, publisher, and journalist whose novels were prevalent in the United States. He published over 50 books and was acknowledged as a realist in his writing style.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Good Press
• Release date: May 20, 2021
• ISBN: 4064066093709

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Archibald Marshall

Sir Harry

A Love Story

Published by Good Press, 2022

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EAN 4064066093709

Table of Contents

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Titlepage

Text

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CHAPTER I

ROYD CASTLE

The Reverend David Grant, Vicar-elect of Royd, was a novelist as well as a priest. So when he paid his preliminary visit to Royd Castle, and sat himself down to write to his wife about it he did so with the idea of making his letter a piece of literature; or at least of making her see. For that was literature—making people see. He would take as much trouble over his letter as he would over a chapter of a novel; and when she had read it she would have a clear picture in her mind of the place she was coming to and the people she would meet there. She had not been able to come herself because she was close to her confinement. Poor girl! It was rather hard luck that she should have to miss all this excitement. They had been married thirteen years and had always looked forward to settling into the ideal country parsonage. But either he would have to settle in himself, or else wait a couple of months or so until the baby was born and Ethel was well enough to take a hand in the blissful arrangements. Longing to get to work at it as he was, with money saved from his royalties to be spent in making their home what they wanted it to be, he yet thought that he would prefer to wait until she was strong again. After thirteen years of married life, in circumstances not of the easiest, this couple still liked doings things together.

The time and the place invited to literary composition. The time was shortly after ten o'clock of a warm spring night, for the Castle retired early. The place was a room which David Grant had sometimes imagined for himself as the background for a scene in a novel, but never yet had the satisfaction of occupying. It was a great state Tudor bedroom, with carved and panelled walls, a stone fireplace with a fire of logs burning in it, Flemish tapestry above, a polished oak floor with old carpets in front of the hearth, by the heavy pillared canopied bed and in the deep embrasure of the window. There were heavy oak chairs and tables and presses. The washing arrangements, necessarily more modern, since in Tudor days they washed very little, were in a closet apart. The writing-table alone showed modernity, with everything on it in the way of apparatus that could please a person who loved writing for its own sake, and could appreciate its accessories. It stood in the windowed recess, which was as large as a fair-sized room, and contained another table for books, with a cushioned chair by its side, and still left space for moving about from one window to the other. Wax candles in heavy silver candle-sticks stood invitingly on the writing-table, and elsewhere about the room. There were six of these lit when David Grant came up, but it was so large that the effect was still one of rich dimness, warmed into life by the glowing fire on the hearth.

David Grant's soul was full of content as he came into the room and shut the heavy door behind him. If he couldn't write a letter in this atmosphere that would eventually read well in his biography, he wasn't worth his salt. He was not without occasional qualms as to whether he actually was worth his salt as a novelist, but none of them troubled him to-night. He was wakeful and alert; he had half a mind to sit down at that inviting silver-laden table and write a chapter of A Love Apart. But no. Ethel, poor girl, must come first. He felt tender towards her; they were going to be so happy together at Royd. And, after all, this was a chapter in the story of their own lives, and more interesting to both of them than a chapter in the lives of fictitious characters.

He took off his coat and put on the flannel jacket in which he was accustomed to write. Then he went to the windows and drew back all the heavy curtains, and opened one of the casements. His facile emotions, always ready to be stirred by beauty, and to turn it immediately into words, were stirred for a moment into something that he could not have put into words as he stood there, though they came to him the moment afterwards as he recognized how it all fitted in with the impression encouraged in his mind by the old rich room in the old castle—the moonlight outside, silvering the fairy glades of the park into mysterious beauty, the silence and the sweet scents of the slumbering earth.

The grass of the park grew right up to the stones of the castle wall on this side. Just above him were some great beeches, which seemed to be climbing the hill that rose behind. Below there were more trees, and between them stretched a glade which led the eye to further undulations of moonlit grass, and the bare trunks and branches of the trees that bordered them. He had been rather disappointed, in coming first into his room, to find that it did not look out on to the gardens; but under the moon this romantic glimpse of silvered trees and fairy glades seemed to him more beautiful than any tamed or ordered garden.

Anything might happen out there, on such a night. Oberon and Titania suggested themselves to him; the least that could be expected to happen was that a herd of deer led by a many-antlered stag should wander across a moonlit glade, and give just that touch of life that was wanted to enhance the lovely scene.

What actually did happen was that his eye was caught by a moving figure in the shadow of the trees, and, before he had had time to wonder, or even to be startled by it, came out into the bright stretch of grass in front of his window, and stood looking up at him.

It was young Sir Harry, owner of Royd Castle and all the magic beauty connected with it that was making such an impression upon the clerico-novelist's susceptible mind, but though in that fortunate position not yet of an age to be out under the trees of his park at this time of night. At nine o'clock he had said good-night to his grandmother's guest downstairs. Grant had thought it full early for a boy of his age to be sent up to bed, as Lady Brent had actually sent him, though without insistence, and with no protest on his part. He was no more than sixteen, but a well-grown boy, in the evening garb of a man; and he had sat opposite to his grandmother at the head of the table and taken a bright part in the conversation, so that, with his title to give him still further dignity, he had seemed altogether beyond the stage of being sent early to bed.

However, it appeared that bed had not been the aim of his departure, after all. He stood looking up at the window, not far above the ground, with a smile upon his handsome young face, and asked his grandmother's guest not to give him away. I come out sometimes like this, when everybody is asleep, he said. There's no harm in it, but Granny would try to stop me if she knew—lock me in, perhaps. He laughed freely. So please don't tell her, he said, and melted away into the shadows without waiting for a promise of secrecy.

Grant rather liked that in him. He had been much attracted by young Sir Harry, who had shown himself charmingly friendly to him in a frank and boyish way that had yet seemed to contain something of the dignity of a grand seigneur. There was something pleasing in the thought of this handsome boy, master of the old rich beautiful house, even if he was as yet only nominal master. It was not unpleasing either to think of him roaming about his lovely demesne under the moonlight which made it still more fair. Certainly there was nothing wrong in it. If he was up to some mischief, it would only be of a kind that the women who held him in check might call such. He was too young and too frank for the sort of nocturnal mischief that a man might take notice of. At his age a sense of adventure would be satisfied by being abroad in the night while he was thought to be asleep. David Grant smiled to himself as he shut the window. He would like to make friends with this charming boy. He was rather pleased to have this little secret in common with him.

Now he walked about the great room, composing the lines of his letter, as he was accustomed to walk about composing the lines of a chapter in one of his novels. Its main idea was to be the pleasure he and his wife and the children were to have in Royd Vicarage. But that must be led up to. He must begin at the beginning, make her see the place, and the people among whom they would lead their lives. The people especially; there was room here for the neat little touches of description upon which he prided himself. The Vicarage must come last, and he would end on a tender note, which would please the dear girl, and make her feel that she was part of it all, as indeed she was.

And now he was ready to begin, and sat down at the table, all on fire with his subject. He wrote on and on until late into the night. Sometimes he rose to put another log on to the fire, to enjoy the crackle it made, and to sense the grateful atmosphere of the old room. Once or twice he went to the window and looked out, never failing to be charmed by the beauty of the scene. At these times he thought of the boy, out there under the moon or in the dim shadows of the trees, and wondered what he was doing, and if he would come and call up at his window again as he returned from his wandering. He rather hoped that he might, and left the casement open the second time he went to the window. But by the time he had finished his letter no sound had broken the stillness, except now and then the soft hooting of owls, and with a last look at the moonlit glades he blew out the candles and climbed into the great bed, very well satisfied with himself and with life in general.

Oh, the tiresome old dear, he's trying to be literary, said Mrs. Grant, as she embarked eagerly upon the voluminous pages. She turned them over until she came to the description of the Vicarage towards the end:

"Lady Brent said very kindly, 'I expect you would like to go over the house by yourself, Mr. Grant. Harry shall go with you and show you the cottage where the key is kept. The church, I believe, is open. We shall expect you back to tea at half-past four, and if you have not finished you can go back again afterwards.'

This was just what I wanted—to moon about the house which is to be our happy home, dearest, alone, and to build castles in the air about it. So we started off, the boy and I. We went down the avenue——

H'm. H'm. Mrs. Grant skipped a page.

It was the Vicarage of our dreams, a low stone house, facing south, embowered in massy trees, its walls covered with creepers, the sun glinting on its small-paned windows.

Mrs. Grant skipped a little more. She wanted to know the number of rooms, and if possible the size of the principal ones, what the kitchen and the back premises were like, whether the kitchen garden was large enough to supply the house, and if it could all be managed by one man, who would also look after the pony, and perhaps clean the boots and knives.

She gained a hint or two as she turned over the pages quickly, and then read them more carefully. Well, he doesn't tell me much, she said, but I expect it will be all right and I'm sure I shall love it. The drawing-room opening into the garden and the best bedroom with a view of the sea in the distance sound jolly, and I'm glad the old darling will have a nice room to write his nonsense in. If he is pleased with his surroundings he always does more work, and that means more money. Oh, I do hope his sales will go up and we shall have enough to live comfortably on there. She went on to the end of the letter, which gave her pleasure, as had been intended. Dear old thing, he does lean on me, she said. And well he may. Well, I shall bustle about and make things happy and comfortable for him directly I'm strong enough. Oh, my little love, why didn't you put off your arrival for a few months longer? But I shall adore you when you do come, and it will be lovely to bring you up in that beautiful place. Now let's see what these Brent people are like, if he's clever enough to give me any idea of them.

She turned back to the beginning of the letter, and read it through in the same way as she read his novels. She knew by intuition when it was worth while to read every word, and—well, when it wasn't.

"Young Sir Harry met me at the station. He is a handsome boy, very bright and friendly. My heart warmed to him, and especially when he showed a lively interest in our Jane and Pobbles. I told him that Jane was only eleven and Pobbles nine, but he said that he wasn't so very much older himself, and laughed as he said it, like a young wood-god, with all the youth of the world in him. I remember once walking in an olive wood in Italy, and suddenly meeting...

I was rather surprised at the carriage sent to meet us. It was a stately affair, but with the varnish dull and cracked, and the horses fat and slow. In spite of the liveried coachman and footman on the box, the equipage was not what one might have expected from such a house as Royd Castle. I was inclined at first to think that it meant poverty, which is not always unallied to state; but there are all the signs of very ample means in this house, and I incline now to the opinion that in a woman's house, as Royd Castle is at present, stable arrangements are not much bothered about. Lady Brent goes about very little. In fact there are no other houses near for her to visit. Poldaven Castle, I am told, one of the seats of the Marquis of Avalon, lies about seven miles off, but the family is hardly ever there. We ourselves, my dearest, shall be very much to ourselves in this out-of-the-way corner of the world. We shall have the people at the Castle, and our own more humble parishioners, and—ourselves. But how happy we shall be! The beauty of our surroundings alone would give us...

Mrs. Grant skimmed lightly over a description of the seven-mile drive from the little town by the sea, through rocky hilly country, bare of trees, but golden with gorse under a soft April sky flecked with fleecy clouds, and accepted without enthusiasm the statement that all nature, including the young lambs and the rabbits, seemed to be laughing with glee. She was anxious to get to Royd, which was to be her home, perhaps for the rest of her life.

Trees had made their appearance in the landscape by the time it was reached, and she gained an impression of a kinder richer country than that of the coast. As they neared Royd there were picturesque stone-built farm-houses, and then a steep village street lined with stone-roofed cottages, their gardens bright with coloured primroses, daffodils, ribes, berberi, aubretia and arabis, and here and there a gay splash of cydonia japonica against a white-washed wall. Her husband was always particular about the names of plants. No mere early spring flowers for him! His descriptions were apt to read rather like a nurseryman's catalogue, but as they both of them knew their way about nurserymen's catalogues, she gained her picture of spring-garden colour and was pleased with it. It would be lovely to have a real big garden to play with, instead of the narrow oblong behind their semi-detached villa. But she did want to get to Lady Brent, and the rest of the household at the Castle.

The old church was at one end of the village, with a squat stone spire on a squat tower. Description of its interior was reserved until later. The Vicarage was beyond it, round the corner. The principal lodge gates were opposite,—handsome iron gates between heavy stone pillars surmounted by the Brent armorial leopards, collared and chained. A little Tudor lodge stood on either side of the gate-pillars, and a high stone wall ran off on either side. Young Sir Harry had told him that it ran right round the park, which was three miles in circumference.

The description of the drive broke off here for an account of some other things that young Sir Harry had told him. Expectation was to be maintained a little longer. She wanted to get to the Castle, but did not skip this part because it was rather interesting.

The boy has never been to school. In fact, he has never slept a night away from the Castle in all his sixteen years. He has a tutor—a Mr. Wilbraham, who seems to have grounded him well in his classics. More of him anon. The boy reads poetry too, and of a good kind. Altogether rather a remarkable boy, and very good to look upon, with his crisp fair hair, white teeth and friendly open look—a worthy head of the old family from which he is descended. His father was killed in the South African War, before Harry was born. He was born at the Castle and he and his mother have lived here ever since. So much I learnt as we drove together, and formed some picture in my mind of the people I was about to meet.

Here followed the mental portraits of Lady Brent, Mrs. Brent and Mr. Wilbraham, but as they bore small likeness to the originals, as afterwards appeared, they may be omitted.

"We entered by the lodge gates, and drove through the beautiful park, I should say for the best part of a mile. With the trees not yet in leaf, and the great stretches of fern showing nothing but the russet of last year's fronds, it was yet very beautiful. Herds of fallow deer were feeding quietly on the green lawns, and a noble stag lifted his head to look at us as we drove past, but made no attempt to escape, though he can have been distant from us only a long mashie shot. Wood-pigeons flew from tree-top to tree-top across the glades. I heard the tap-tap of a woodpecker as we began to mount a rise where the trees grew thicker, and the harsh screech of a jay, of which I caught a glimpse of garish colour. There was a sense of peace and seclusion about this beautiful enclosed space, as if nothing ugly from the world outside could penetrate behind those high stone walls, and nature here rejoiced in freedom and beauty.

The hill became steeper, and the horses walked up it until we came to the open ground at the top. There at last, as we drew out from under the trees, I saw the ancient mass of the Castle with the flag flying proudly above it, perhaps a quarter of a mile away. The ground sloped down towards it. There was a wide open space of grass with the road winding through, and here and there a noble beech, with which this part of the park is chiefly planted. The ground rose again behind the massive pile, and was once more thick with trees, so that it appeared backed by a mass of delicate purple, which will soon take on that delicious delicate green of young beech leaves, than which there is none more beautiful in all nature, unless it be the emerald green of waves in a blue sea.

I shall look out for that in the next novel, said Mrs. Grant, at this point. I know that green, but he has always called it translucent before.

"The castle is low and spreading, nowhere more than two stories in height, except for the row of dormers in the roof, and in the middle of the mass, where there is a great gateway leading into an inner court, exactly like the gateway of a college. In fact the building resembles an ancient college in many particulars. The garden is enclosed within a stone wall, which continues the front of the building. It is on one side only, and is very beautiful, though I have not yet explored it, and can speak only of a lawn bounded by an arcading of yew, to which access is gained from the long drawing-room where I was received. The stables are in an inner courtyard behind the first. On the side opposite to the garden, in which the room where I am now writing is situated, one looks out straight into the park.

"Young Sir Harry took me straight into the room where the ladies of the house were sitting at their needlework. It was a long low room, beautifully furnished with what I should judge to be French furniture chiefly, but with deep chintz-covered easy chairs and sofas which took away from any formal effect it might otherwise have had. Lady Brent and Mrs. Brent were sitting by one of the windows, of which there are a line opening on to a sort of stone built veranda facing the garden that I have mentioned. They rose at once to meet me. Lady Brent, whom I had pictured as rather a dominating old lady, walking possibly with a stick, I was surprised to find not old at all in appearance. She must have married young, and her son, Harry's father, must have married young, as indeed I afterwards found to have been the case. Wilbraham says that she is still a few years short of sixty, and she does not look much over fifty. She is not tall, but holds herself erect and moves in a stately manner. She is not exactly handsome, but her features are pleasant to the eye, and she has an agreeable smile. She made me welcome in a few words, and I felt that I was welcome, and immediately at home with her.

"Of Mrs. Brent, Sir Harry's mother, it is more difficult to speak. In the light of what I afterwards heard about her, whatever surprised me on my first introduction to her is explained; but I am trying to give you my first impressions. She is good-looking, but it struck me at once in rather a common way. She would be, I suppose, about five and thirty. She was quietly dressed and quiet-spoken; but there was a something. She did not look of Lady Brent's class, and it was something of a surprise to me to see in her the mother of Sir Harry, though in her colouring and facial conformation she undoubtedly resembled him."

At this point Mrs. Grant was aroused by the sounds of violent quarrelling in the little garden below the window at which she was sitting, and looked out to see her son and daughter locked in a close but hostile embrace. She threw up the window and called to them, but they took no notice, and she had to go down to separate them. They were the most charming children, and inseparable companions, but apt to express themselves occasionally in these desperate struggles. When peace had been restored, and they were left amicably planting mustard and cress, she returned to her letter, longing to know more about Mrs. Brent, and especially the reason for her appearance of commonness.

CHAPTER II

LADY BRENT

The explanation came after a description of luncheon in the great hall, which had greatly impressed the writer, with its high timbered roof, oriel window, and carved gallery. Mr. Wilbraham, the tutor, had been added to the company, and was presented as a middle-aged figure, with a somewhat discontented expression of face, but a gift of ready speech which made the meal lively and interesting. He and the two ladies seemed to be on the most excellent terms, and the way in which Lady Brent deferred to the tutor, not treating him in the least as a dependent, but as a valued member of the family circle, had struck the Vicar-elect of Royd most agreeably. This is a woman, he wrote, "with brains above the ordinary, who takes pleasure in exercising them. Though living a retired life, far from the centres of human intercourse, she takes a lively interest in what is going on in the world. Politics were discussed over the luncheon-table, and I found her views coincided remarkably with my own, and together we gave, I think, a very good account of ourselves in argument with Wilbraham, who professes to be something of a Radical, though I noticed that he ate a very good lunch, and is evidently not averse to sharing in the good things of the class he affects to deride. It was all, however, very good-humoured, and when the talk veered round to books, I found that these good people knew really more about the latest publications than I did myself. Wilbraham is a great reader. He acts as librarian, as well as tutor to Harry, and seems to have carte blanche to order anything down from London that he likes. I imagine that he recommends books to Lady Brent, and she reads a great deal too—not only fiction, but biographies, books of travel, and even stiff works on such subjects as Philosophy.

"Of course I kept very quiet about my own humble productions, as I have never professed to be a scholar, and aim rather at touching the universal human mind, with stories that shall entertain but never degrade, and should not expect to be considered very highly, or perhaps even have been heard of by people of this calibre, though there are many of equal intelligence among my readers. I must confess, however, that I was gratified when Mrs. Brent, who had not taken much part in the conversation, said: 'I have read all your books, Mr. Grant, and think they are lovely. So touching!'

"This is the sort of compliment that I value. It is to the simple mind that I make my appeal, and Mrs. Brent is quite evidently of a lower class of intelligence than those about her. I think I detected some deprecation in the glance that she threw at her mother-in-law immediately after she had expressed herself with this simple, and evidently felt enthusiasm. Perhaps her opinions on literary subjects are not considered very highly, but Lady Brent would be far too well-bred and courteous to snub her. She said at once, very kindly: 'The Bishop told us that you were a novelist, Mr. Grant. Mr. Wilbraham was about to send for your books, but we found that my daughter-in-law had them already. I have not had time more than to dip into one of them, but I promise myself much pleasure from them when I have a little more time.' Wilbraham saved me from the necessity of finding an answer by breaking in at once: 'I don't intend to read a single one of them, either now or hereafter. Let that be plainly understood.' Everybody laughed at this, and it was said in such a way that I felt no offence. This man is evidently something of a character, and I should say had made himself felt in this household of women. The boy likes him too. I could see that by the way they addressed one another. They are more like friends than master and pupil.

"Well, I felt that I had sized up Lady Brent, Wilbraham and young Harry pretty well by the end of the meal, and the conversation that went with it. I have a knack of doing so with people I meet, and find that upon closer acquaintance I have seldom been wrong in my first impressions. Mrs. Brent puzzled me a little more. Was she entirely happy? I thought not, though there was nothing very definite to go upon. If not, it could not be the fault of any of the three other members of the household. She evidently adores her boy, for her face lights up whenever she looks at him, and he treats her with an affection and consideration that are very pleasant to see. Lady Brent treats her in much the same way, and is evidently a woman of much kindness of heart, for Mrs. Brent, as I have already said, is not up to her level, and living in constant companionship with her might be expected to grate a little on the nerves of a lady of her sort. Wilbraham would not be likely to hide any contempt that he might feel for some one of less intelligence than himself. He might not show it openly to the mother of his pupil, but I should certainly have noticed it if it had been there. But he behaved beautifully to her, and smiled when he spoke to her as if he really liked