The Old House at Railes: A heartwarming rags to riches Victorian family saga

by Mary E. Pearce

  But in this she lied, and knew that she lied, for she found, unexpectedly, that she did not want to forget it. Nor, even, to take it for granted. And as the time passed, and her confidence grew, she would sometimes look at him ‒ while he was talking to the children, perhaps, or showing them a new book he had bought ‒ and allow herself the indulgence of thinking: ‘This man loves me. He has loved me for seventeen years’; and although she still felt sad for him, the thought of his love was a comfort to her; a source of strength; Balm Gentle to her woman’s pride, wounded by her husband’s desertion.

  She reproved herself for this indulgence, charging herself with vanity. It was wrong to think of Martin’s love when she was not free to accept it. She knew that perfectly well. But how, how, could she not accept it, when she knew it was there and felt its warmth, just as she felt the sun on her face and was grateful for it when she walked out of doors on these mellow-sweet autumn days? Even if she had left Railes, he would still think of her with love, and whenever she thought of him it would be with this same warm gratitude. She would remember the look in his eyes, that evening when he confessed his love. The way he had spoken. His voice, his tone. And it needed a stronger heart than hers not to be moved by the knowledge that she was the object of such tenderness. Must she pretend it wasn’t there? Or that it meant nothing to her? What virtue was there in such a pretence? Martin loved her and she was glad. No self-reproof would change that.

  For Martin himself, now that he knew Katharine would stay, it was a time of joyous relief. Only one thing could have given him greater happiness and that was if she had returned his love. This, he knew, was impossible. She loved her husband and wanted him back. Therefore, as a man of honour, he must force himself to hope and pray that Charles Yuart would return. Even while he told himself this, however, there was a serpent voice that whispered, ‘Yes, but what if he doesn’t return? What if she should hear he was dead?’ And although he experienced some guilt at this, he did not allow it to burden him, for whatever his own thoughts and feelings were, they would not influence events. Their course was governed by another power and could not be foreseen. Better to live by the hour, the day. And, if providence granted it, the months, the years. It was a philosophy that accorded well with the season. Autumn was beautiful that year and yielded days of such perfection that it was all too easy to hope that their peacefulness might last forever.

  They spent Christmas at Newton Railes and were joined by the Claytons and the Winters, which made a party of thirteen altogether, seven of them children.

  ‘Considering you are a bachelor,’ Nan remarked to her brother, ‘you seem to have a way of collecting a good many children about you.’

  ‘It’s something to do with this house, I think. It likes having young people in it.’

  After a short, easy winter, there came a moist warm spring, followed by a summer which, although fine on the whole, brought a number of heavy thunderstorms, so that the rivers and streams of the Cullen Valley ran brim-full even in June and July. Such a plenitude of water would normally have been welcomed by the woollen mill owners but that was the summer of 1862 and England, along with the rest of Europe, was affected by events in America, where war between the states had worsened and spread. The stringent American tariff had reduced English trade most seriously, including the textile trade, of course, and all along the Cullen Valley, mills were reducing their output. In Chardwell it was said that the Hurnes now regretted buying Hainault Mill and would gladly have sold it again if only a buyer could be found. Needless to say there was no hope of that during the present state of stagnation.

  But although the woollen trade might be in the doldrums, its sufferings were nothing compared with those of the cotton trade in the north. There, as the year progressed, conditions became grave indeed until, by August and September, the plight of the Lancashire cotton mill workers was a matter of concern throughout the country. When a national distress fund was set up, nowhere was the response so great as in the towns of the Cullen Valley. Chardwell, naturally, led the way, and as most of the schemes for raising money involved organized entertainment, the general atmosphere of the town was such as to provide a welcome antidote to the gloom hanging over its own chief industry.

  Throughout the winter, concerts and balls; throughout the following spring and summer, an endless round of fêtes and bazaars. The larger houses of the district competed with one another in inventing new entertainments and one of the most popular was the Robin Hood Pageant held in May at Newton Railes, where young bloods could try their skill in shooting with the longbow; in sword-fighting (with wooden swords); and ‒ a great favourite, this, ‒ in combat by quarterstaff on a plank bridge over a stream.

  In addition to the various social events taking place at Railes, there were more private matters demanding attention, and the most important of these was the subject of Dick’s future career. He would soon be sixteen and he talked of leaving school at the end of term to begin work of some kind. The question was, what kind? He discussed it first with Martin.

  ‘As my father has abandoned us, it is essential that I should begin earning a wage as soon as possible, so that in due course I shall be able to support my mother and sister.’

  ‘With your exceptional skill in drawing, and your interest in architecture, I had thought you would choose that as your career.’

  ‘Yes. It is what I should most like to do. But learning it would take too long.’

  ‘I was hoping,’ Martin said, ‘that out of the friendship existing between us, you would be willing to let me sponsor you during your apprenticeship.’

  ‘That is very good of you, sir, but I really feel ‒’

  ‘Before giving me your answer, I suggest you take time to consider the matter. As a qualified architect you will be much better able to support your mother and sister than you would as a counting-house clerk or a cloth salesman. True, it will take longer to achieve, but meanwhile your mother’s position as housekeeper here ensures security for you all.’

  Dick was much moved by Martin’s offer; he talked it over with his mother.

  ‘What ought I to do, Mama? Would it be wrong for me to accept?’

  ‘I think the decision must be your own.’

  ‘At least tell me what you feel. You are such an independent person yourself, I thought you would say that I must refuse.’

  ‘No, I do not say that. Martin is our very good friend, and the nature of his friendship is such that if you were to accept his help, I know it would please him very much indeed. And, I may say, it would also please me.’

  Within a short time, decisions were taken and arrangements made. On leaving school, Dick, after a holiday away with friends, would enter the office of William Bonnamy, of Wyatt House, Chardwell, there to be trained in the principles and practice of architecture for a term of five years. Martin would pay the premium and would make Dick a monthly allowance to cover all his personal needs until such time as he qualified in the said profession and was able to support himself. Dick’s cup was brim-full. He admired William Bonnamy enormously. And he could not thank Martin enough for securing the interest of such a man and giving him such a good start in life.

  ‘I promise I shall do my best always to be a credit to you. And to my mother and sister as well. Certainly I intend to make sure that no one has cause to be ashamed of me.’

  This conversation took place in June. Dick was to begin his apprenticeship in September. But on a date between these events, without any warning whatever, Charles Yuart returned to the district and presented himself at Newton Railes. He had been gone almost three years, the greater part of which time he had spent in the gold-fields of California.

  It was just after four in the afternoon and Susannah, having finished her lessons, had gone off into the park to meet Dick coming home from school. Martin had gone to Culverstone on business concerning the gravel pits and was not expected back until later. Katharine, therefore, was all alone, sitting on a window-seat in the drawing-room, sm
iling to herself as she read and corrected an essay Susannah had written on the subject of the crinoline, asking ‘how much larger will it become?’ While Katharine sat doing this the maid, Dorrie, came into the room in a state of agitation and said:

  ‘Please, ma’am, the master is here.’

  ‘The master?’ Katharine said, puzzled. ‘Is he back already?’

  ‘Not Mr Cox, ma’am. It’s the master that was. Mr Yuart. ‒ Your husband, ma’am.’

  Katharine stared, feeling her face grow stiff and cold. Numbly, she put Susannah’s essay aside, and rose to her feet. At that moment Charles walked into the room. The maid withdrew, closing the door. Husband and wife faced each other. Katharine drew a difficult breath.

  ‘Charles,’ she said, almost voicelessly, and was lost for a moment in disbelief.

  He came to her and kissed her cheek. His hand rested briefly on her arm. Katharine, trembling, sat down again on the window-seat, but he, ignoring the gesture by which she invited him to join her, stood very stiff and erect before her.

  ‘You look at me as if I were a ghost. But I’m real enough, I assure you.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Charles, but it is a shock, seeing you so suddenly like this after such a long time.’

  It was not only the suddenness: it was the change she saw in him. In three years he had lost flesh, and his body now had a spare, muscular hardness. His face, too, was much thinner, so that jaw and cheekbones were more pronounced. But, most striking of all, his skin was burnt a deep red-brown, against which his blue eyes appeared almost supernaturally bright.

  ‘I too have received a shock, for I went first to Chacelands, expecting to find you living there. Your sister and her husband were not at home and I had to learn of your whereabouts from a rather impertinent servant-girl. I hardly expected this, Katharine, ‒ that you should have come back here to Railes to keep house for Martin Cox. You could have made your home at Chacelands. Your sister spoke of it often enough.’

  ‘I preferred to keep my independence. Coming here enabled me to do so.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, Katharine, but to me it seems you made that choice out of wilful perversity, and without even the slightest regard for the gossip it would cause in the district.’

  ‘I would remind you,’ Katharine said, speaking very quietly, ‘that as a woman whose husband had left her, I was already the subject of gossip in this district, and of pity, too, and that was certainly not from choice, wilful or otherwise. But surely you have not come back after all this time merely to upbraid me and quarrel with me?’

  ‘It was not what I intended, nor what I hoped for, but finding you here in this house ‒’

  ‘Yes, Charles, I know how you feel. And obviously there is much to be said between us before ‒ before we can hope to reach an understanding. But will you not sit down? And will you not let me ring for tea?’

  ‘Thank you, but no tea for me.’

  He did however sit down and, after a short pause, made an effort to speak peaceably.

  ‘I hope you are in good health. Certainly you appear to be.’

  ‘Yes, I am thankful to say that the children and I are very well.’

  ‘Where are the children? Are they here?’

  ‘Susannah has gone to meet Dick coming home from school. They should be back fairly soon, but on a fine day like this, they sometimes linger in the park.’

  ‘What about Cox? When will he be back?’

  ‘Not yet, I think. He had business in Culverstone.’

  The first shock had passed away; Katharine now had command of herself. Nevertheless, as they talked together, she was many times overcome by a sense of unreality. This was her husband; the man she loved; the father of her children. Every day for almost three years she had prayed for his safe return, yet now that he sat before her, it seemed like a dream. So strange was her sense of his presence there that parts of his story went unheard. She gazed at him; she listened to him; yet half her mind remained disengaged.

  On arriving in America, he had travelled first to Perry Springs, in Virginia, where a large consignment of his cloth had been burnt during the disturbances earlier that year. On the strength of the documents he carried with him, the local trading committee had paid him the nominal sum of four hundred pounds in compensation for his loss. With this money he had travelled by sea along the coast to California, then across country to the gold-fields, to a tinpot town called Moses; and there he had purchased a ‘ticket’ allowing him to dig for gold in an area of the Polk Horn Hills.

  He had not made a fortune, he said. No lucky strike of the kind reported sometimes in the English papers. But, by dint of grinding hard work, knee-deep in icy cold water, his back bent under a burning hot sun, he had, day by day, slowly and surely, won a fair share of the precious grains. Sometimes a nugget the size of an acorn; once a ‘scob’ weighing fourteen pounds: always enough to encourage him to work all the hours God gave, while weather and light permitted it. At the end of twenty-eight months he had sold his claim and travelled to San Francisco. There he had banked fifty-two thousand dollars, which, in English money, meant something in excess of ten thousand pounds.

  ‘Not a fortune, as I say, but quite enough for me to set myself up in business and to buy a house. I have not yet decided what my business there shall be, but the opportunities are immense for a man like myself, who is willing to work. It is an incredible country, Katharine, and San Francisco is a town like no other in the world. It is new and it’s growing fast. It’s a place that will take your breath away.’

  ‘You mean you intend,’ Katharine said, ‘that we should come to America with you and settle there for the rest of our lives?’

  ‘Yes. That is why I am here. At first I was going to send for you, but then I decided it would be better if I came and fetched you, so that I can look after you on the voyage out. But why do you look at me like that? Is there something amiss with my plan?’

  ‘Yes, Charles, I’m afraid there is. It makes no allowance whatever for my feelings in the matter.’

  ‘As we are husband and wife I naturally take it for granted that your feelings and wishes will coincide with mine.’

  ‘They ought to, I know. But as we have lived apart for so long, the habit of wifely compliance has fallen somewhat into disuse. I do not wish to go to America, Charles. I cannot think why you should ask it of us. After deserting us for three years, now to demand we should travel half way round the world, to a country totally strange to us … A country which is at war with itself ‒’

  ‘The war is nothing,’ Charles said. ‘It has scarcely touched the west. And I did not desert you. I went because my life here had become insupportable to me. To speak of desertion is absurd.’

  ‘How else should I speak of it when for three years we had no news of your whereabouts? No means of knowing, even, whether you meant to come back to us?’

  ‘Of course I meant to come back to you! But first I had to find a way of regaining my self-respect. That was not done in a day, Katharine, and if you only knew the conditions in which I lived and worked ‒’

  ‘But we didn’t know,’ Katharine said. ‘We were not allowed to know. And what if you had not succeeded in regaining your self-respect? Would you have come back to us then?’

  ‘The question doesn’t arise,’ he said.

  ‘It does for me, because I don’t think you would have come back, and we’d have been left, the children and I, waiting for news that never came. Wondering, year in, year out, whether you were alive or dead.’

  ‘Seeing that I am now here, sitting with you in this room, all this is irrelevant. And it seems to me that after three years I could have expected a welcome somewhat different from the one I’ve received.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Charles, but after three years of silence between us it is difficult to behave quite normally. I am still in some confusion and all this talk of America has come as an extra shock.’

  ‘Are you refusing to come with me?’

  ‘I am asking tha
t you should consider my wishes in the matter. The children’s, too. We need to talk it over with them. We need to consider what it will mean.’

  ‘It is not their business to take part in making decisions over such things. Nor, precisely, is it a wife’s.’

  ‘I would remind you yet again that during the past three years I have been obliged to make decisions myself and as a result ‒’

  ‘I need no reminding of that!’ he exclaimed. ‘I can see the result plainly enough!’ As he spoke, he looked round the room, gesturing angrily with his hand. ‘This is one result of it! Your presence here in this house!’

  He got up and walked about, stood at the window a moment or two, then turned and stood looking down at her.

  ‘Obviously, during that time, you acquired a taste for making decisions. Perhaps that is why my return has inspired you with something less than joy. Perhaps, to put it more bluntly still, you’d be happier if I had never returned at all!’ There was a silence during which his words hung between them like an unresolved chord. Then the door opened and the children came in.

  They knew their father was there, of course; the servants had made sure of that; so they were, in some measure at least, prepared for the strange and difficult meeting. Even so, they were under constraint, and stood awkwardly in the doorway until Katharine, who had risen at once, went and drew them into the room, doing her best, by voice and touch, to give them what assurance she could.

  ‘Well, now, is it not wonderful, that here’s your papa come back to us? You cannot believe your own eyes, which is just how I felt when he first came in. And, like me, you are lost for words.’

  ‘Yes,’ Susannah said, nervously, and curtseyed to him. ‘How do you do, Papa?’

  Charles kissed his daughter’s cheek; shook hands with his son; and observed, in genuine wonder, how much they had grown ‒ and grown up ‒ since he had seen them last.

  ‘I expected to find you changed, of course. Three years is a long time. But I went away leaving two children and I return to find you are almost adults.’