



Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




Friends I have made
By George Manville Fenn
Published by Cassell, Petter, Galpin & Co, London, Paris, New York.
This edition dated 1883.

Friends I have made, by George Manville Fenn.

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This version was made from a set of scans that were actually defective.
Two sets of sixteen pages were missing, resulting in the absence of
chapters 10, 11 and 16.  In addition some text is missing from chapters
15 and 18.  Since the book consists of a collection of almost unrelated
anecdotes it was felt worth our while to make available as much as we
can, as it is certain that a better set of scans of this book may become
available, for instance from the microfilmed set held by Cambridge
University.  There are 21 chapters, of which we present 16 in full,
and two with a few paragraphs missing.
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FRIENDS I HAVE MADE, BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN.



CHAPTER ONE.

MY LIFE.

May I ask your patience while I introduce myself--the writer of the
following chapters?  I am sitting before the looking-glass at the end of
my room as I write, I not from any vanity, you will readily perceive
that as you read on--but so that I may try and reflect with my ink the
picture that I wish to present to you of a rather sad--I only say
_rather_, for, upon the whole, I am very cheerful,--thin, pale,
careworn-looking woman, with hair that has long been scant and grey--
whiter, perhaps, than that of many people at eight-and-forty.

Eight-and-forty!  What a great age that seems to the young; and yet how
few the years, save in one period of my life, have appeared to me!  At
times I can hardly realise that I am decidedly elderly, so busy has been
my life, so swiftly has it glided away, thinking so much as I have of
other people and their lives as well as of my own.

I never knew how it was, but, somehow, those with whom I came in contact
always seemed to look upon me, because I had had trouble, as one in whom
they could confide.  I never sought their confidence, but when some
weary wayfarer in life's journey has held out a hand to me, asking help
or advice, it has grown into my pleasure to try and aid or counsel as
far as in me lay.  And it is strange how relieved some have been, what a
quiet solace it has seemed, to pour out into my sympathetic ear the
salient passages of their troubled lives.  "You have suffered, so you
can feel," has always seemed to be the thought, expressed or
unexpressed, of their hearts, and hence, without being inquisitive, I
have been made the storehouse, so to speak, of that which I without any
breach of confidence propose to tell.

I should first, though, tell you of myself, for why should I lay bare
the sorrows of others without prefacing them with my own?

A strangely quiet, uneventful life mine has been; its incidents simple,
its troubles many, and its pleasures--I was about to say few, but that
would be false, for its pleasures have been great.  They have not been
the boisterous joys that fall to the lot of some; but, feeling, as I do
most thoroughly now, that the greatest delights, the purest and most
unalloyed are those which are unselfish, I can think and believe that my
pleasures have been many.

I will, then, tell you my own little history first, slight as it is, and
you may, in reading, find that it is the key-note to the simple chords
that I afterwards strike in passing, and perhaps it will explain why
others have come to me to tell me what they knew.

It is a tale of early sorrow, but you shall hear, and you will bear with
me when I tell you that the wound has never healed, and if I put my hand
above it, the place still throbs, even as it will beat and ache till
kindly nature says to me, "Sleep, poor weary one, and rest."  And then
peacefully, trustingly, and with a simple hope of forgiveness, may I
sleep that long sleep which they say so flippantly has no end; but which
has a waking, as every lesson which we learn in life persists in
teaching.

You will smile, perhaps, when I tell you that I was once what people
call pretty--that this pale, lined face was once plump and rosy, these
sad eyes bright, and this grey scant hair golden-brown, long, and
flowing.  But why should I think you would smile?  Do I not know that
you must have seen the gay young plant putting out its tender leaves in
spring, growing green and luxuriant of foliage in summer, ripe and ruddy
in autumn, and grey, bent, and withered in age?  And should I be pitied
because I have but followed in the way of nature?  Surely not.  It is
not for that I ask your sympathy, but for the blight that fell upon the
young plant, and seared and scathed it so that it seemed for months as
if it would die; but it lived, as I have lived to tell you this.

Do you know that wondrous feeling which comes in the early year, and
that strange sense of keen delight, that elasticity of spirit, when,
full of youth and hope, the very tears of joyous sensibility start to
the eyes as you wander amidst the trees and flowers in spring?  I
remember how I felt, oh! so well, even though it is now thirty years
ago, and I was but eighteen.

Jack and I were engaged.  It was all such a simple, homely affair.  We
had known one another for years--the children of neighbouring farmers.
Jack--I still call him by the simple old pet name of those days--Jack
had been away at a good school, and being bright, and shrewd, and
clever, he had won his way on, taking to engineering instead of his
father's farm life; and now it had come to this, that he had been
staying at home for a month, previous to going out to a good appointment
in Melbourne.

That month in spring, how it passed!  We had met again and again, and in
his honest, manly way he had asked me to be his wife.

"You know, Grace, that I have always loved you," he said; "and now I
have hopes and prospects, it cannot be wrong to ask you for your
promise."

We were walking by the river-side as he said this, and how well I can
picture it all--the soft gliding water mirroring the trees on the
opposite bank, the young green buds just breaking from their cases, and,
above all, the soft tender blue of the spring sky--the blue, he had told
me, that was like my eyes.

"Do you want me to promise, Jack?"  I said, simply, as I looked up in
his face.

"No, darling; I am satisfied," he cried, as his strong arms held me to
his broad breast, and that was all.  No oaths could have bound me more
tightly to him.  I felt that I was his wife when he should come to claim
me some day--when?

We were late that evening, and entered the house shyly, for there had
been so much to talk of and plan.  In a month's time Jack was to sail
for Melbourne; then he was to work very hard for three years, and come
and fetch me to be his wife.

That month glided by, and the last day had come.  It was, as I told you,
spring-time--joyous spring-time, with the hawthorn's snowy blossoms, the
apple-trees pink; and the pear-trees pearly with their pyramids of
flowers.  Every meadow I passed was starred with golden buttercups, and
from every spray the birds trilled or jerked forth their merry songs of
hope and love.

I could not feel sad, even though I was going to meet Jack for the last
walk before he went away; but mingled with the feeling of ecstasy there
was a strange tearfulness of eye, and my breath would come at times with
a sob.

He was by the stile, waiting for me--the stile down by the long mead,
half-way between the two farms--and as he took my hand in his, we
neither of us spoke, but stood gazing away over woodland and meadow, all
clad in their wondrous beauty, and listened to the birds.  Now it was
the soft tender coo of the stock-dove from the wood, now the jerked-out
twittering song of the linnets; then, soft and mellow, from the thick
hedgerows floated towards us the fluty notes of the blackbird, while far
on high trilled away the larks, singing one against the other to their
mates, sitting in the tall grass of the golden meads.

We could not talk, our hearts were too full, for Jack was to be off at
daybreak the next morning.  But there was no need for words.  We loved
each other in the simple nature-taught way that has been since the world
began, and we knew that every joyous song around that thrilled upon our
ears meant love, and even in our sorrow we were happy.

"Only three years, darling," Jack whispered to me, "and then--"

The tears rose to my eyes as I tried to answer him, but I could not
speak a word.

"And you will let me find a long letter when I get there?" he said
tenderly.

"Yes, Jack, I promise," I said, and then it was time to return, for the
hours had glided by, how we could not tell.

Jack spent the evening with us at home, and then he left us hurriedly,
for our farewells had been said in the wood, and it was one hearty kiss,
given and taken before the old people, and then good-bye.

But I saw him pass soon after daybreak, and he saw me, and waved his
hand, for I had sat by the window all night, lest I might let him go by,
and I asleep.

And then time glided on sadly, but pleasantly as well.  Mine was a busy
life, for soon my father took to his bed, ill--a bed he never left
again, for he gradually bank and died, leaving my poor mother in very
indifferent circumstances.

It was a hard blow for us both, for he had been one of the kindest and
truest of men; but while poor mother pined and waited, I had my hopeful
days in view, and from time to time letters from dear Jack, all so frank
and honest, and full of trust in the future, that I felt as if I could
not repine, even when greater troubles fell upon me.

For at the end of two years I was standing by the bedside where lay poor
mother sinking fast.  She had had no particular ailment, but had
literally pined and wasted away.  The bird had lost its mate of many
years, and when at last she kissed me, and said, "Good-bye," it seemed
to me to be in a quiet rest-seeking spirit, and she spoke like one
looking hopefully forward to the meeting with him who had gone before.

But she could think of me even then, and almost the last whispered words
were--

"Only eleven months, Grace, and then he will be back to fetch you."

Poor mother! she would not have passed so peacefully away if she had
known that which I withheld--namely, the news that had come to me from
our lawyer.  For