III) ***




Produced by Al Haines.




[Illustration: Cover]




                             CLARA VAUGHAN

                               _A NOVEL_


                            IN THREE VOLUMES
                                 VOL I.

                            R. D. Blackmore



                         London and Cambridge:
                           MACMILLAN AND CO.
                                 1864.

        _The Right of Translation and Reproduction is reserved._




                                LONDON:
                  R. CLAY, SON, AND TAYLOR, PRINTERS,
                           BREAD STREET HILL.




                             CLARA VAUGHAN

                                BOOK I.



                               CHAPTER I.


I do not mean to describe myself.  Already I feel that the personal
pronoun will appear too often in these pages.  Knowing the faults of my
character almost as well as my best friends know them, I shall attempt
to hide them no more than would those beloved ones.  Enough of this: the
story I have to tell is strange, and short as my own its preamble.

The day when I was ten years old began my serious life.  It was the 30th
of December, 1842; and proud was the kiss my loving father gave me for
spelling, writing, and pronouncing the date in English, French, and
Italian.  No very wonderful feat, it is true, for a clever child
well-taught; but I was by no means a clever child; and no one except my
father could teach me a single letter.  When, after several years of
wedlock, my parents found new joy in me, their bliss was soon overhung
with care.  They feared, but durst not own the fear, lest the wilful,
passionate, loving creature, on whom their hearts were wholly set,
should be torn from their love to a distance greater than the void of
death; in a word, should prove insane.  At length they could no longer
hide this terror from each other.  One look told it all; and I vaguely
remember my hazy wonder at the scene that followed.  Like a thief, I
came from the corner behind the curtain-loops, and trembled at my
father's knee, for him to say something to me.  Then frightened at his
silence--a thing unknown to me--I pulled his hands from before his eyes,
and found hot tears upon them.  I coaxed him then, and petted him, and
felt his sorrows through me; then made believe to scold him for being so
naughty as to cry.  But I could not get his trouble from him, and he
seemed to watch me through his kisses.

Before I had ceased to ponder dreamily over this great wonder, a vast
event (for a child of seven) diverted me.  Father, mother, and
Tooty--for so I then was called--were drawn a long way by horses with
yellow men upon them: from enlarged experience I infer that we must have
posted to London.  Here, among many marvels, I remember especially a
long and mysterious interview with a kind, white-haired old gentleman,
who wore most remarkable shoes.  He took me upon his lap, which seemed
to me rather a liberty; then he smoothed down my hair, and felt my head
so much that I asked if he wanted to comb it, having made up my mind to
kick if he dared to try such a thing.  Then he put all sorts of baby
questions to me which I was disposed to resent, having long discarded
Cock Robin and Little Red-riding-hood.  Unconsciously too, I was moved
by Nature's strong hate of examination.  But my father came up, and with
tears in his eyes begged me to answer everything.  Meanwhile my mother
sat in a dark corner, as if her best doll was dying.  With its innate
pugnacity, my hazy intellect rose to the situation, and I narrowly
heeded every thing.

"Now go, my dear," the old gentleman said at last; "you are a very good
little girl indeed."

"That's a great lie," I cried; for I had learned bad words from a
flighty girl, taken rashly as under-nurse.

The old gentleman seemed surprised, and my mother was dreadfully
shocked.  My father laughed first, then looked at me sadly; and I did
what he expected, I jumped into his arms.  At one word from him, I ran
to the great physician, and humbly begged his pardon, and offered him my
very dearest toy.  He came up warmly, and shook my father's hand, and
smiled from his heart at my mother.

"Allow me, Mrs. Vaughan--allow me, my dear sir--to congratulate you
cordially.  The head is a noble and honest one.  It is the growth of the
brain that causes these little commotions; but the congestion will not
be permanent.  The fits, that have so alarmed you, are at this age a
good symptom; in fact, they are Nature's remedy.  They may last for
seven years, or even for ten; of course they will not depart at once.
But the attacks will be milder, and the intervals longer, when she has
turned fourteen.  For the intellect you need have no fear whatever.
Only keep her quiet, and never force her to learn.  She must only learn
when it comes as it were with the wind.  She will never forget what she
_does_ learn."

Hereupon, unless I am much mistaken, my father and mother fell to and
kissed and hugged one another, and I heard a sound like sobbing; then
they caught me up, and devoured me, as if I were born anew; and staring
round with great childish eyes, I could not catch the old gentleman's
glance at all.

Henceforth I learned very little, the wind, perhaps, being unfavourable;
and all the little I did learn came from my father's lips.  His patience
with me was wonderful; we spent most of the day together, and when he
was forced to leave me, I took no food until he returned