The White Gipsy

By J. Monk Foster

"The White Gipsy" by J. Monk Foster. Published by Good Press. Good Press publishes a wide range of titles that encompasses every genre. From well-known classics & literary fiction and non-fiction to forgotten−or yet undiscovered gems−of world literature, we issue the books that need to be read. Each Good Press edition has been meticulously edited and formatted to boost readability for all e-readers and devices. Our goal is to produce eBooks that are user-friendly and accessible to everyone in a high-quality digital format.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Good Press
• Release date: Nov 9, 2021
• ISBN: 4066338080615

Book preview

J. Monk Foster

The White Gipsy

Published by Good Press, 2022

[e-mail]

EAN 4066338080615

Table of Contents

PROLOGUE.

CHAPTER I.—SIR NICHOLAS CARSLAND.

CHAPTER II.—THE PRODIGAL SON.

CHAPTER III.—THE RETURN OF THE SCAPEGRACE.

CHAPTER IV.—IN THE WOOD OF HOUGH.

CHAPTER V.—SLEEPING OUT.

SHOCKING CARRIAGE ACCIDENT.

A BARONET AND HIS SON KILLED.

CHAPTER VI.—AFTER THE NEWS.

CHAPTER VII.—THE NEW BARONET.

THE STORY.

CHAPTER I.—THE WHITE GIPSY.

CHAPTER II.—A ROMANTIC ENCOUNTER.

CHAPTER III.—AFTER TWENTY YEARS.

CHAPTER IV.—SALOME'S LOVER.

CHAPTER V.—SALOME SPEAKS OUT.

CHAPTER VI.—HUGH EASTWOOD SPEAKS.

CHAPTER VII.—BEFORE THE FOOTLIGHTS.

CHAPTER VIII.—AFTER THE PLAY.

CHAPTER IX.—EXPLANATIONS.

CHAPTER X.—THE OLD PIT BOTTOM.

CHAPTER XI.—SIR SYDNEY DISSEMBLES.

CHAPTER XII.—EASTWOOD WOOS AGAIN.

CHAPTER XIII.—SALOME'S HISTORY.

CHAPTER XIV.—THE JEWELLED BROOCH.

CHAPTER XV.—LADY CARSLAND'S SCHEME.

CHAPTER XVI.—THE BOLT FROM THE BLUE.

CHAPTER XVII.—SALOME REFUSES TO SPEAK.

CHAPTER XVIII.—THE BIRD FLIES AWAY.

CHAPTER XlX.—ALONE IN LONDON.

Mrs. Pedley, 25, Nelson-road East. Comfortable Apartments For Professionals.

CHAPTER XX.—NEWS FROM ABROAD.

CHAPTER XXI.—PAUL HEARS THE NEWS.

CHAPTER XXII.—AT THE BABYLONIAN.

CHAPTER XXIII.—A CHANCE MEETING.

CHAPTER XXIV.—WHAT PAUL DISCOVERED.

CHAPTER XXV.—THE TUG OF WAR.

CHAPTER XXVI.—HUGH EASTWOOD'S STORY.

CHAPTER XXVII.—IN THE STAGE BOX.

CHAPTER XXVIII.—JOY BELLS.

THE END

PROLOGUE.

Table of Contents

---

CHAPTER I.—SIR NICHOLAS CARSLAND.

Table of Contents

The sun was setting behind the high uplands of Thorrell Moor, and the level rays of crimson and yellow light were flooding the wide spreading valley beneath. Upon the rich meadows and brown cornfields—upon white-washed farms and the straggling, picturesque village—on the innumerable trees which dotted the vale, and on the green lanes that intersected it, the falling summer sun shone warmly and pleasantly, lending an additional and fictitious beauty to the scene.

The numberless windows of Carsland Hall, which looked westward, were ablaze in the sunset's radiance like mirrors of polished gold, and all the rooms on that side the Hall were flooded with the mellow beams.

The home of Sir Nicholas Carsland stood midway between the villages of Thorrell and Thorrell Moor. Behind the house the view was bounded by the swelling uplands, whereon, in olden days, beacon fires had flared out; in front, the country was laid bare to the gaze for over a dozen miles.

Standing on the roof of the Hall one could, apparently, have cast a stone into the village of Thorrell; beyond the hamlet the valley opened out, and was dotted by fields and farms for a mile or two. Then, further on, evidences of industrial enterprise shewed themselves in the shape of lines of railway covered with coal wagons, colliery head-gear, and tall chimneys. Next came another village, named Marsh Green, where the miners mainly resided, and away beyond that again a populous town, noted as being the centre of the South-west Lancashire coalfield.

Such was the landscape presented to the eye from the upper windows of Carsland Hall, and Sir Nicholas Carsland was viewing the picture with a melancholy face. He was seated at the deep-bayed window of a room on the second floor which was called his study, his countenance and bearing betraying a mind diseased.

The character of the baronet may be drawn in a very few words. He was a self-made man of the type so common in Lancashire. He had started life at the bottom of the ladder, and in the course of fifty years had amassed a fortune.

At twenty-five he had married an old lady for the sake of the few thousands she possessed. That money had proved the corner-stone of his success; with it one pit had been sunk, with the most gratifying results; other pits had followed until half-a-dozen collieries dotted the fields between Thorrell village and the mining hamlet of Marsh Green.

The elderly woman Nicholas Carsland had married died before his star arose. She was nearly twenty years her husband's senior, and she ceased to live when her first child saw the light, a year after the marriage.

Five years later Nicholas Carsland had married again. On the second occasion it was a union of hearts as well as of hands. The woman he had fallen in love with was a fine handsome girl who earned her livelihood on the pit top he owned.

For ten years, or thereabouts, Carsland and his wife lived happily together. They loved each other, fortune was smiling upon them, the one mine had already developed into three, hence the Carsland household had nothing to disturb its serenity.

By his second wife Carsland had another child, and this was also a boy, who, when his mother shuffled off this mortal coil, was a bonny lad of five.

When the only woman he ever loved died, Carsland was still in the prime of life, being scarcely over forty, but his thoughts never turned again to matrimony. By this time his success had filled his brain with great ambitions.

From a pit lad, working for a shilling a day, he had risen to be a capitalist worth, at least, a hundred thousand pounds, and having done so much he was resolved to do much more.

He began to take an active interest in the affairs of the adjacent town, Earlsford. He got himself elected as a member of the Town Council, sat as a Councillor for several years, and, in due course, was chosen as Mayor. Then a General Election took place, and he was brought out as a candidate; he spent some thousands of pounds on the contest, bribing right and left, giving free ale and free breakfasts to all and sundry who cared to imbibe and eat at his expense, as was the custom in those days—and the free and independent burgesses of Earlsford voted for his opponent.

The defeat was a bitter pill to swallow, after all his former victories, but he gulped it down quickly, and became Mayor for a second year, feasting the Councillors and Aldermen in a royal fashion, and earning the plaudits of all on account of his generosity.

But Nicholas was playing a game, and he won it. During his second year of office a local infirmary was opened by the Prince of Wales. For one day and night His Royal Highness stayed in the neighbourhood as Mayor Carsland's guest, and was entertained on a princely scale of magnificence at Carsland Hall.

His reward came, and quickly. The party for which he had fought a losing battle had possessed itself of the reins of office, and ere long the plucky and generous coal prince of Thorrell Moor was gazetted Sir Nicholas Carsland, Bart.

Sitting at the window of the palatial house of stone he had reared for himself, the baronet looked back upon his busy past with a melancholy countenance which was but the reflex of a discontented mind.

His rise had been hardly won, the stumbling stones in his path had been big and numerous, and as he sate there he was asking himself in all seriousness if those things for which he had fought so desperately were worth the stress and struggle he had undergone.

But for my son.

Those words were articulated lowly, almost unconsciously by the old man, and his eyes were bent towards the small gipsy table upon which an open letter lay. He adjusted his eyeglasses and re-read the missive. The communication ran in this fashion:—

"Dear Father,

In spite of the silence, and the contempt and pitilessness which your silence imply—I make one more appeal to you. Give me one more chance to redeem myself. For the love of God and my poor dear dead mother, do! I have been wild, extravagant, sinful—everything that a man ought not to be—but my wild oats are sown now and I mean to redeem myself if possible.

"I will do whatever you desire—will adopt either medicine or law as a profession. If you do not wish me to become either a doctor or a lawyer, send me abroad. Perhaps that would be best. In the wilds of Australia or America I could settle down, and not only recover my good name, but win a competency some day.

"Heaven knows that I am in earnest now. Will you give me one more chance?

"Faithfully yours,

SYDNEY B. CARSLAND.

As the old man perused his erring son's passionately written letter his heart was stirred within him and he was inclined to give his erring lad another chance. Despite all his faults and frailties, Sydney Carsland was very dear to his father's heart. The child of love—the wild and handsome lad his second wife had borne him—had always been nearer and dearer than the elder son, although the latter had lived an irreproachable life, and was in every respect a model son.

While Sir Nicholas was weighing the matter in his mind, the door of the room was pushed noiselessly open, and Frederic Carsland, his first born, entered, walking across the thick carpet in a quiet way, and reaching his father's side ere the other was aware of his presence.

Is that you, Frederic? Sir Nicholas said, as he perceived his son. How you surprised me. I did not hear you.

I wanted to speak to you about Sydney, father, the younger man returned in a hard, and emotionless voice. I had a letter from him this morning.

So had I! the old man burst forth, in a surprised way. That is it on the table. I was just considering whether I ought to tell you about it.

And I have only just made up my mind to tell you about his communication. I was not aware that he had written to you. What does he say?

The old story of repentance and——but there is the letter; read it for yourself.

Frederic read it without a sign of eagerness or interest, making no comment until every word was read.

Well? Sir Nicholas interrogated, almost impatiently.

It is almost identical with the letter I received.

But what are we to do? What would you suggest?

I have no advice to offer, father. This is a matter which you ought to settle.

Do you really believe that Sydney intends to reform?

Do you wish me to speak as a brother, or as an impartial judge?

As both, Frederic.

That is impossible. The natural impulse of a brother would be to let considerations of charity outweigh all facts, and give him another chance, and another, and so on till the end of the story.

You do not believe, then, that he means what he has written?

How can either of us believe that? How often already has he made strenuous declarations of his repentance and of his resolves to be a different member of society? And the result has ever been the same. I have no ill feelings against Sydney, father, but I think we ought to look the plain facts in the face like men.

Just so, the baronet responded sadly, his grey head moving to and fro in a plaintive way. I do not believe he will ever become a better man.

Don't say that! Frederic Carsland cried earnestly. He may reform—will do, some day, I feel sure.

Then that is a strong plea for giving him another chance.

No.

What do you mean?

This. All along Sydney has thought that whatever scrapes he got into you would help him out of them, and it is quite possible that his escapades would have been less numerous had his father not been a rich, as well as an over fond and forgiving one. You have forgiven him so often that he thinks he is always certain of talking you over. It is time now that you practised a little cruelty towards him if you wish to be really kind. Refuse all help for the present. Let him fight with the world for a while. Make him shoulder his own troubles. He has ability, I hear, and could earn a decent living on the Press if he would only bend himself resolutely to hard work. Force him to do it by declining to give him more money, and when he has given you indubitable proof of his long talked of reformation, treat him as generously as you desire.

I believe you are right, Frederic, Sir Nicholas murmured.

I am right! the younger man asseverated with emphasis. To save Sydney from total ruin you must be firm now and apparently cruel. Write to him and tell him in the most definite and unmistakable way that he has finished altogether with you until his reformation is a plain fact.

I will do it, Frederic. After all, I have been too easy going—much too easy going—with Sydney. I will write to him on the lines you suggest.

When will you write?

To-night—now.

And I will do so also.

---

CHAPTER II.—THE PRODIGAL SON.

Table of Contents

One bright summer morning, when Mr. Sydney Carsland came down to breakfast about an hour before noonday, he found two letters lying on the table beside his toast and chop. He was living in a quiet and an unfashionable street in the south-west of London, and he and his landlady had been on rather unfriendly terms for some weeks, owing to the unpleasant fact that the young gentleman had been unable to pay during that period for either his board or lodging.

Before pouring out his tea his gaze fell on the couple of envelopes, and seizing them eagerly he glanced first at the handwriting and next at the postmarks. The letters were from Thorrell Moor—his correspondents were his father and brother.

What had they to say? Both had answered him promptly. Was the news they sent good or bad? He broke open his parent's missive first, and the short note he found ran thus:

"Carsland Hall, Thorrell Moor,

July 25th, 1867.

"MY DEAR SYDNEY,

"Your letter to hand. I am just sick and weary of your never-ending talks about reforming, and have no intention of throwing any more money away upon you until your reformation has at least begun. One thing I want you to understand once and for all. Never another penny will you handle of mine till you have shown me and the world that you are not utterly worthless. You have done your best to impoverish me, and it is quite time now that you began to depend on your own hands and brains for a livelihood. At your age I was working night and day, was slaving for gold that you have since thrown to the dogs. When you can shew me that all traces of manliness and honesty are not dead in your breast, then, and never before, will I think of you as a son.

NICHOLAS CARSLAND.

A muttered curse escaped his hot lips, and he threw the letter on the table with a gesture of disgust. Than he took up the other missive, tore it open with violent fingers, and hurriedly ran his eyes over the few lines it contained.

Dear Sydney,—the letter ran—

"I am sorry to hear that you are on your beam ends again, as you put it. I have spoken to Father, but he swears that he will do nothing further. Really, you have gone too far. Why not settle down, and become a respectable member of society? Of course, I am very sorry, but can do nothing.

"Your affectionate brother,

FREDERIC CARSLAND.

Throwing both communications into the grate with a curse, he turned to the table, and tried to eat. But he had no appetite. The night before he had reeled home the worse for liquor, and felt seedy enough at that moment. He was thirsty, however, and drained teapot and milk jug of their contents.

His thoughts still ran on the unpleasant missives he had received from home, and presently he went to the fireplace, took up the crumpled sheets, and re-read them carefully, without, however, being enabled to extract a gleam of comfort from one or other of the letters. A second reading only brought out more clearly the unpleasant and plainly made statements they contained, and caused Sydney B. Carsland to curse, not between his teeth now, but openly and loudly.

That infernal cur is to blame for all this, and not the old man! he ejaculated. But I'll be even with him some day!

He tore the letters into fragments, and scattered them passionately about the floor, afterwards dropping upon the chair, his teeth chafing his under lip, his brow contracted, and his forehead wrinkled in all the fury of impotent rage.

What was he to do? Was this to be the end of his folly? Was he to go under at last, as so many of his friends had been kind enough to predict. No! He would make one more effort before he gave up the struggle.

He would go to Thorrell Moor, even if he had to walk all the distance. But he had no intention of trudging it from London to Lancashire if it were possible for him to raise the money by either hook or crook.

He considered for some moments, but could call to mind no friends who would be willing to lend him the necessary coins of the realm; he had nothing to pawn: what was he to do? Just at this point his landlady—a pleasant-faced and respectable-looking woman of middle age—tapped at the door, pushed it open, and stood in the doorway.

You got your two letters. Mr. Carsland? she began, a trifle awkwardly.

I did, he replied, sullenly and without turning his face towards her.

You received good news, I hope, sir?

Bad news—infernally bad, curse it. I'm at the end of my tether now!

You said you thought you might be able to let me have a little of my account to-day, Mr. Carsland.

So I did, and I meant it! he cried, twisting round on his seat. I expected money this morning, and well, I didn't get any. I have no money—not a shilling, and I mean to be in Lancashire to-morrow. I must go. Can't you lend me a pound or thirty shillings? I'll pay you every penny I owe you, Mrs. Edwards. I am a gentleman and would scorn to cheat a hard-working woman like you.

They all say that, sir.

But you know that my father is a baronet—Sir Nicholas Carsland, of Carsland Hall, Thorrell Moor, Lancashire, an owner of coal mines.

So you said, she remarked, drily.

Do you doubt my word? If you do, pick up those pieces of paper and read them. You will see then that I am not a liar.

It's no business of mine, Mr. Carsland. I only want my money. I'm a poor woman.

You shall be paid. But to obtain money I shall have to go home, and Lancashire is a long way. Lend me the money if you can.

I have none to lend, sir, I'm sorry to say.

Can't you borrow it from some of your neighbours?

I might, but——

You can't trust me! he ejaculated, bitterly. God knows that I have fallen very low indeed when you believe that I would rob you like a common adventurer or thief!

I will try to get you a pound or so, she cried, impulsively, touched by his despair, and she turned to leave the room.

Do, there's a good soul, and you shall never regret it. If I do not repay you with ample interest may I be——

She had gone, and he ceased to make assertions. Seeing he was alone, five minutes later Mrs. Edwards returned, and placed a sovereign and ten shillings on the table without a word.

Thank you very much! he said, earnestly as he pocketed the money. And now I'm off to Thorrell Moor, Lancashire. You will hear from me in a few days. You will find my address on those scraps of paper.

---

CHAPTER III.—THE RETURN OF THE SCAPEGRACE.

Table of Contents

It was the evening following that described in the opening pages of this story. After dining with Frederic, Sir Nicholas Carsland had been minded to stroll through his carefully kept grounds in order to smoke, and think, and help his digestion, as he himself put it to his son. As the evening was fine and warm and his reflections were absorbing, he went right along the drive, smoking his second pipeful of mild weed, and presently the entrance gates and lodge hove in sight through the gloaming.

As Sir Nicholas gazed with an indifferent glance in the direction of the tall dark arch and the great gates of iron underneath, he saw the figure of a man approaching at a fair pace. A visitor to the hall he thought, and loitered. The next minute he and his younger son stood face to face.

You—Sydney? the baronet managed to exclaim after an instant's breathless silence which the son seemed unwilling to break.

Yes, it is I, father, the prodigal replied, his keen eyes fixed on his parent's face as if he desired to divine his thoughts. You are surprised to see me here, he added, but I hope you are not sorry.

I can't say that I am very well pleased to see you, Sir Nicholas answered in a dry, matter of fact voice.

I was starving in London in a common lodging-house! said Sydney.

That was your own fault and exactly what you deserved. The man who chooses to spend his life as you have spent yours must be prepared to take the consequences. The man who cannot keep himself has very small excuse, in my opinion, for existing at all.

I know what an ass I have been, Sydney responded in a contrite way, but I have seen the error of my ways and honestly mean to mend them.

If you hadn't said the same thing so many times before I might be inclined to believe you, Sydney.

But I do mean it now!

We shall see, was the cutting rejoinder.

You will permit me to stay here awhile until I find something to do?

Oh, of course. But you need expect no monetary help from me. I have squandered enough of thousands on your promises. You had better begin work at once. Do something—anything. Rather than be dependent on anyone as you have been all your days I'd go down into the pit again and be a dataller.

It is all very well, father, for you to talk like that, for you were accustomed to work—hard work from your boyhood. But with me it was very different. My bringing up didn't fit me for anything of the sort, and I don't think I am at all to blame after all.

Perhaps not. I was too soft with you because I liked you. But I mean to be hard now for your sake and my own.

I daresay you are wise, father. But I mean to be a better man.

When you quite satisfy me of that I shall do something for you—not before. I suppose we may as well walk towards the hall.

Hitherto they had carried on their conversation on the spot where they had met so unexpectedly; now they turned and strolled in silence towards the house, the lights of which could be discerned through the trees and the fast falling shadows of the night.

Do you honestly mean, Sydney,