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| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 04:38:56 -0700 |
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| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 04:38:56 -0700 |
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diff --git a/12095-h/12095-h.htm b/12095-h/12095-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0bcd4d0 --- /dev/null +++ b/12095-h/12095-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,5990 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>More Bywords</title> +</head> +<body> +<h2> +<a href="#startoftext">More Bywords, by Charlotte M. Yonge</a> +</h2> +<pre> +The Project Gutenberg eBook, More Bywords, by Charlotte M. Yonge + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: More Bywords + +Author: Charlotte M. Yonge + +Release Date: April 20, 2004 [eBook #12095] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: US-ASCII + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MORE BYWORDS*** +</pre> +<p><a name="startoftext"></a></p> +<p>Transcribed by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<h1>MORE BYWORDS</h1> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<p>Contents:</p> +<p> The Price of Blood<br /> The Cat +of Cat Copse<br /> De Facto and De Jure<br /> Sigbert’s +Guerdon<br /> The Beggar’s Legacy<br /> A +Review of the Nieces<br /> Come to Her Kingdom<br /> Mrs. +Batseyes<br /> Chops</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>THE PRICE OF BLOOD</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Ab irâ et odio, et omni malâ voluntate,<br /> Libera +nos, Domine.<br />A fulgure et tempestate,<br /> Libera +nos, Domine.<br />A morte perpetuâ,<br /> Libera +nos, Domine.</p> +<p>So rang forth the supplication, echoing from rock and fell, as the +people of Claudiodunum streamed forth in the May sunshine to invoke +a blessing on the cornlands, olives, and vineyards that won vantage-ground +on the terraces carefully kept up on the slopes of the wonderful needle-shaped +hills of Auvergne.</p> +<p>Very recently had the Church of Gaul commenced the custom of going +forth, on the days preceding the Ascension feast, to chant Litanies, +calling down the Divine protection on field and fold, corn and wine, +basket and store. It had been begun in a time of deadly peril +from famine and earthquake, wild beast and wilder foes, and it had been +adopted in the neighbouring dioceses as a regular habit, as indeed it +continued throughout the Western Church during the fourteen subsequent +centuries.</p> +<p>One great procession was formed by different bands. The children +were in two troops, a motley collection of all shades; the deep olive +and the rolling black eye betraying Ethiopian or Moorish slave ancestry, +the soft dark complexion and deep brown eye showing the Roman, and the +rufous hair and freckled skin the lower grade of Cymric Kelt, while +a few had the more stately pose, violet eye, and black hair of the Gael. +The boys were marshalled with extreme difficulty by two or three young +monks; their sisters walked far more orderly, under the care of some +consecrated virgin of mature age. The men formed another troop, +the hardy mountaineers still wearing the Gallic trousers and plaid, +though the artisans and mechanics from the town were clad in the tunic +and cloak that were the later Roman dress, and such as could claim the +right folded over them the white, purple-edged scarf to which the toga +had dwindled.</p> +<p>Among the women there was the same scale of decreasing nationality +of costume according to rank, though the culmination was in resemblance +to the graceful classic robe of Rome instead of the last Parisian mode. +The poorer women wore bright, dark crimson, or blue in gown or wrapping +veil; the ladies were mostly in white or black, as were also the clergy, +excepting such as had officiated at the previous Eucharist, and who +wore their brilliant priestly vestments, heavy with gold and embroidery.</p> +<p>Beautiful alike to eye and ear was the procession, above all from +a distance, now filing round a delicate young green wheatfield, now +lost behind a rising hill, now glancing through a vineyard, or contrasting +with the gray tints of the olive, all that was incongruous or disorderly +unseen, and all that was discordant unheard, as only the harmonious +cadence of the united response was wafted fitfully on the breeze to +the two elderly men who, unable to scale the wild mountain paths in +the procession, had, after the previous service in the basilica and +the blessing of the nearer lands, returned to the villa, where they +sat watching its progress.</p> +<p>It was as entirely a Roman villa as the form of the ground and the +need of security would permit. Lying on the slope of a steep hill, +which ran up above into a fantastic column or needle piercing the sky, +the courts of the villa were necessarily a succession of terraces, levelled +and paved with steps of stone or marble leading from one to the other. +A strong stone wall enclosed the whole, cloistered, as a protection +from sun and storm. The lowest court had a gateway strongly protected, +and thence a broad walk with box-trees on either side, trimmed into +fantastic shapes, led through a lawn laid out in regular flower-beds +to the second court, which was paved with polished marble, and had a +fountain in the midst, with vases of flowers, and seats around. +Above was another broad flight of stone steps, leading to a portico +running along the whole front of the house, with the principal chambers +opening into it. Behind lay another court, serving as stables +for the horses and mules, as farmyard, and with the quarters of the +slaves around it, and higher up there stretched a dense pine forest +protecting the whole establishment from avalanches and torrents of stones +from the mountain peak above.</p> +<p>Under the portico, whose pillars were cut from the richly-coloured +native marbles, reposed the two friends on low couches.</p> +<p>One was a fine-looking man, with a grand bald forehead, encircled +with a wreath of oak, showing that in his time he had rescued a Roman’s +life. He also wore a richly-embroidered purple toga, the token +of high civic rank, for he had put on his full insignia as a senator +and of consular rank to do honour to the ceremonial. Indeed he +would not have abstained from accompanying the procession, but that +his guest, though no more aged than himself, was manifestly unequal +to the rugged expedition, begun fasting in the morning chill and concluded, +likewise fasting, in the noonday heat. Still, it would scarcely +have distressed those sturdy limbs, well developed and preserved by +Roman training, never permitted by him to degenerate into effeminacy. +And as his fine countenance and well-knit frame testified, Marcus Æmilius +Victorinus inherited no small share of genuine Roman blood. His +noble name might be derived through clientela, and his lineage had a +Gallic intermixture; but the true Quirite predominated in his character +and temperament. The citizenship of his family dated back beyond +the first establishment of the colony, and rank, property, and personal +qualities alike rendered him the first man in the district, its chief +magistrate, and protector from the Visigoths, who claimed it as part +of their kingdom of Aquitania.</p> +<p>So much of the spirit of Vercingetorix survived among the remnant +of his tribe that Arvernia had never been overrun and conquered, but +had held out until actually ceded by one of the degenerate Augusti at +Ravenna, and then favourable terms had been negotiated, partly by Æmilius +the Senator, as he was commonly called, and partly by the honoured friend +who sat beside him, another relic of the good old times when Southern +Gaul enjoyed perfect peace as a favoured province of the Empire. +This guest was a man of less personal beauty than the Senator, and more +bowed and aged, but with care and ill-health more than years, for the +two had been comrades in school, fellow-soldiers and magistrates, working +simultaneously, and with firm, mutual trust all their days.</p> +<p>The dress of the visitor was shaped like that of the senator, but +of somewhat richer and finer texture. He too wore the <i>toga +prætextata</i>, but he had a large gold cross hanging on his breast +and an episcopal ring on his finger; and instead of the wreath of bay +he might have worn, and which encircled his bust in the Capitol, the +scanty hair on his finely-moulded head showed the marks of the tonsure. +His brow was a grand and expansive one; his gray eyes were full of varied +expression, keen humour, and sagacity; a lofty devotion sometimes changing +his countenance in a wonderful manner, even in the present wreck of +his former self, when the cheeks showed furrows worn by care and suffering, +and the once flexible and resolute mouth had fallen in from loss of +teeth. For this was the scholar, soldier, poet, gentleman, letter-writer, +statesman, Sidonius Apollinaris, who had stood on the steps of the Imperial +throne of the West, had been crowned as an orator in the Capitol, and +then had been called by the exigences of his country to give up his +learned ease and become the protector of the Arvernii as a patriot Bishop, +where he had well and nobly served his God and his country, and had +won the respect, not only of the Catholic Gauls but of the Arian Goths. +Jealousy and evil tongues had, however, prevailed to cause his banishment +from his beloved hills, and when he repaired to the court of King Euric +to solicit permission to return, he was long detained there, and had +only just obtained license to go back to his See. He had arrived +only a day or two previously at the villa, exhausted by his journey, +and though declaring that his dear mountain breezes must needs restore +him, and that it was a joy to inhale them, yet, as he heard of the oppressions +that were coming on his people, the mountain gales could only ‘a +momentary bliss bestow,’ and Æmilius justly feared that +the decay of his health had gone too far for even the breezes and baths +of Arvernia to reinvigorate him.</p> +<p>His own mountain estate, where dwelt his son, was of difficult access +early in the year, and Æmilius hoped to persuade him to rest in +the villa till after Pentecost, and then to bless the nuptials of Columba +Æmilia, the last unwedded daughter of the house, with Titus Julius +Verronax, a young Arvernian chief of the lineage of Vercingetorix, highly +educated in all Latin and Greek culture, and a Roman citizen much as +a Highland chieftain is an Englishman. His home was on an almost +inaccessible peak, or <i>puy</i>, which the Senator pointed out to the +Bishop, saying—</p> +<p>“I would fain secure such a refuge for my family in case the +tyranny of the barbarians should increase.”</p> +<p>“Are there any within the city?” asked the Bishop. +“I rejoice to see that thou art free from the indignity of having +any quartered upon thee.”</p> +<p>“For which I thank Heaven,” responded the Senator. +“The nearest are on the farm of Deodatus, in the valley. +There is a stout old warrior named Meinhard who calls himself of the +King’s Trust; not a bad old fellow in himself to deal with, but +with endless sons, followers, and guests, whom poor Deodatus and Julitta +have to keep supplied with whatever they choose to call for, being forced +to witness their riotous orgies night after night.”</p> +<p>“Even so, we are far better off than our countrymen who have +the heathen Franks for their lords.”</p> +<p>“That Heaven forbid!” said Æmilius. “These +Goths are at least Christians, though heretics, yet I shall be heartily +glad when the circuit of Deodatus’s fields is over. The +good man would not have them left unblest, but the heretical barbarians +make it a point of honour not to hear the Blessed Name invoked without +mockery, such as our youths may hardly brook.”</p> +<p>“They are unarmed,” said the Bishop.</p> +<p>“True; but, as none knows better than thou dost, dear father +and friend, the Arvernian blood has not cooled since the days of Caius +Julius Caesar, and offences are frequent among the young men. +So often has our community had to pay ‘wehrgeld,’ as the +barbarians call the price they lay upon blood, that I swore at last +that I would never pay it again, were my own son the culprit.”</p> +<p>“Such oaths are perilous,” said Sidonius. “Hast +thou never had cause to regret this?”</p> +<p>“My father, thou wouldst have thought it time to take strong +measures to check the swaggering of our young men and the foolish provocations +that cost more than one life. One would stick a peacock’s +feather in his cap and go strutting along with folded arms and swelling +breast, and when the Goths scowled at him and called him by well-deserved +names, a challenge would lead to a deadly combat. Another such +fight was caused by no greater offence than the treading on a dog’s +tail; but in that it was the Roman, or more truly the Gaul, who was +slain, and I must say the ‘wehrgeld’ was honourably paid. +It is time, however, that such groundless conflicts should cease; and, +in truth, only a barbarian could be satisfied to let gold atone for +life.”</p> +<p>“It is certainly neither Divine law nor human equity,” +said the Bishop. “Yet where no distinction can be made between +the deliberate murder and the hasty blow, I have seen cause to be thankful +for the means of escaping the utmost penalty. Has this oath had +the desired effect?”</p> +<p>“There has been only one case since it was taken,” replied +Æmilius. “That was a veritable murder. A vicious, +dissolute lad stabbed a wounded Goth in a lonely place, out of vengeful +spite. I readily delivered him up to the kinsfolk for justice, +and as this proved me to be in earnest, these wanton outrages have become +much more rare. Unfortunately, however, the fellow was son to +one of the widows of the Church—a holy woman, and a favourite +of my little Columba, who daily feeds and tends the poor thing, and +thinks her old father very cruel.”</p> +<p>“Alas! from the beginning the doom of the guilty has struck +the innocent,” said the Bishop.</p> +<p>“In due retribution, as even the heathen knew.” + Perfect familiarity with the great Greek tragedians was still the mark +of a gentleman, and then Sidonius quoted from Sophocles—</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p> Compass’d with dazzling light,<br /> Throned +on Olympus’s height,<br />His front the Eternal God uprears<br />By +toils unwearied, and unaged by years;<br /> Far back, +through ages past,<br /> Far on, +through time to come,<br /> Hath been, and still must +last,<br /> Sin’s never-changing +doom.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Æmilius capped it from Æschylus—</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>But Justice holds her equal scales<br /> With ever-waking +eye;<br />O’er some her vengeful might prevails<br /> When +their life’s sun is high;<br /> On some her vigorous +judgments light<br /> In that dread pause ’twixt +day and night,<br /> Life’s +closing, twilight hour.<br />But soon as once the genial plain<br />Has +drunk the life-blood of the slain,<br />Indelible the spots remain,<br /> And +aye for vengeance call.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“Yea,” said the Bishop, “such was the universal +law given to Noah ere the parting of the nations—blood for blood! +And yet, where should we be did not Mercy rejoice against Justice, and +the Blood of Sprinkling speak better things than the blood of Abel? +Nay, think not that I blame thee, my dear brother. Thou art the +judge of thy people, and well do I know that one act of stern justice +often, as in this instance, prevents innumerable deeds of senseless +violence.”</p> +<p>“Moreover,” returned the Senator, “it was by the +relaxing of the ancient Roman sternness of discipline and resolution +that the horrors of the Triumvirate began, and that, later on, spirit +decayed and brought us to our present fallen state.”</p> +<p>By this time the procession, which had long since passed from their +sight, was beginning to break up and disperse. A flock of little +children first appeared, all of whom went aside to the slaves’ +quarters except one, who came running up the path between the box-trees. +He was the eldest grandson and namesake of the Senator, a dark-eyed, +brown-haired boy of seven, with the golden bulla hanging round his neck. +Up he came to the old man’s knee, proud to tell how he had scaled +every rock, and never needed any help from the pedagogue slave who had +watched over him.</p> +<p>“Sawest thou any barbarians, my Victorinus?” asked his +grandfather.</p> +<p>“They stood thickly about Deodatus’s door, and Publius +said they were going to mock; but we looked so bold and sang so loud +that they durst not. And Verronax is come down, papa, with Celer; +and Celer wanted to sing too, but they would not let him, and he was +so good that he was silent the moment his master showed him the leash.”</p> +<p>“Then is Celer a hound?” asked the Bishop, amused.</p> +<p>“A hound of the old stock that used to fight battles for Bituitus,” +returned the child. “Oh, papa, I am so hungry.”</p> +<p>He really did say ‘papa,’ the fond domestic name which +passed from the patriarch of the household to the Father of the Roman +Church.</p> +<p>“Thy mother is watching for thee. Run to her, and she +will give thee a cake—aye, and a bath before thy dinner. +So Verronax is come. I am glad thou wilt see him, my father. +The youth has grown up with my own children, and is as dear to me as +my own son. Ah, here comes my Columba!”</p> +<p>For the maidens were by this time returning, and Columba, robed in +white, with a black veil, worn mantilla fashion over her raven hair, +so as to shade her soft, liquid, dark eyes, came up the steps, and with +a graceful obeisance to her father and the Bishop, took the seat to +which the former drew her beside them.</p> +<p>“Has all gone well, my little dove?” asked her father.</p> +<p>“Perfectly well so far, my father,” she replied; but +there was anxiety in her eyes until the gate again opened and admitted +the male contingent of the procession. No sooner had she seen +them safely advancing up the box avenue than she murmured something +about preparing for the meal, and, desiring a dismissal from her father, +disappeared into the women’s apartments, while the old man smiled +at her pretty maidenly modesty.</p> +<p>Of the three men who were advancing, one, Marcus Æmilius, about +seven or eight and twenty years of age, was much what the Senator must +have been at his age—sturdy, resolute, with keen eyes, and crisp, +curled, short black hair. His younger brother, Lucius, was taller, +slighter, more delicately made, with the same pensive Italian eyes as +his sister, and a gentle, thoughtful countenance. The tonsure +had not yet touched his soft, dark brown locks; but it was the last +time he would march among the laity, for, both by his own desire and +that of his dead mother, he was destined to the priesthood. Beside +these two brothers came a much taller figure. The Arvernii seem +to have been Gael rather than Cymri, and the mountain chief, Titus Julius +Verronax, as the Romans rendered his name of Fearnagh, was of the purest +descent. He had thick, wavy chestnut hair, not cut so short as +that of the Romans, though kept with the same care. His eyebrows +were dark, his eyes, both in hue and brightness, like a hawk’s, +his features nobly moulded, and his tall form, though large and stately, +was in perfect symmetry, and had the free bearing and light springiness +befitting a mountaineer. He wore the toga as an official scarf, +but was in his national garb of the loose trousers and short coat, and +the gold torq round his neck had come to him from prehistoric ages. +He had the short Roman sword in his belt, and carried in his hand a +long hunting-spear, without which he seldom stirred abroad, as it served +him both as alpenstock and as defence against the wolves and bears of +the mountains. Behind him stalked a magnificent dog, of a kind +approaching the Irish wolfhound, a perfect picture of graceful outline +and of strength, swiftness, and dignity, slightly shaggy, and of tawny +colouring—in all respects curiously like his master.</p> +<p>In language, learning, and manners Verronax the Arvernian was, however, +a highly cultivated Roman, as Sidonius perceived in the first word of +respectful welcome that he spoke when presented to the Bishop.</p> +<p>All had gone off well. Old Meinhard had been on the watch, +and had restrained any insult, if such had been intended, by the other +Goths, who had stood watching in silence the blessing of the fields +and vineyards of Deodatus.</p> +<p>The peril over, the Æmilian household partook cheerfully of +the social meal. Marina, the wife of Marcus, and Columba sat on +carved chairs, the men of the family reclining on the couches constructed +to hold three. The bright wit of Sidonius, an eminent conversationalist, +shone the more brightly for his rejoicing at his return to his beloved +country and flock, and to the friend of his youth. There were +such gleams in the storms that were overwhelming the tottering Empire, +to which indeed these men belonged only in heart and in name.</p> +<p>The meal was for a fast day, and consisted of preparations of eggs, +milk, flour, and fish from the mountain streams, but daintily cooked, +for the traditions of the old Roman gastronomy survived, and Marina, +though half a Gaul, was anxious that her housekeeping should shine in +the eyes of the Bishop, who in his secular days had been known to have +a full appreciation of the refinements of the table.</p> +<p>When the family rose and the benediction had been pronounced, Columba +was seen collecting some of the remnants in a basket.</p> +<p>“Thou surely dost not intend going to that widow of thine to-day,” +exclaimed her sister-in-law, Marina, “after such a walk on the +mountain?”</p> +<p>“Indeed I must, sister,” replied Columba; “she +was in much pain and weakness yesterday, and needs me more than usual.”</p> +<p>“And it is close to the farm of Deodatus,” Marina continued +to object, “where, the slaves tell me, there are I know not how +many fresh barbarian guests!”</p> +<p>“I shall of course take Stentor and Athenais,” said Columba.</p> +<p>“A pair of slaves can be of no use. Marcus, dost thou +hear? Forbid thy sister’s folly.”</p> +<p>“I will guard my sister,” said Lucius, becoming aware +of what was passing.</p> +<p>“Who should escort her save myself?” said the graceful +Verronax, turning at the same moment from replying to some inquiries +from the Bishop.</p> +<p>“I doubt whether his escort be not the most perilous thing +of all,” sighed Marina.</p> +<p>“Come, Marina,” said her husband good-humouredly, “be +not always a boder of ill. Thou deemest a Goth worse than a gorgon +or hydra, whereas, I assure you, they are very good fellows after all, +if you stand up to them like a man, and trust their word. Old +Meinhard is a capital hunting comrade.”</p> +<p>Wherewith the worthy Marcus went off with his little son at his heels +to inspect the doings of the slaves in the farm-court in the rear, having +no taste for the occupation of his father and the Bishop, who composed +themselves to listen to a MS. of the letters of S. Gregory Nazianzen, +which Sidonius had lately acquired, and which was read aloud to them +by a secretary slave.</p> +<p>Some time had thus passed when a confused sound made the Senator +start up. He beheld his daughter and her escort within the lower +court, but the slaves were hastily barring the gates behind them, and +loud cries of “Justice! Vengeance!” in the Gothic +tongue, struck his only too well-accustomed ears.</p> +<p>Columba flung herself before him, crying—</p> +<p>“O father, have pity! It was for our holy faith.”</p> +<p>“He blasphemed,” was all that was uttered by Verronax, +on whose dress there was blood.</p> +<p>“Open the gates,” called out the Senator, as the cry +outside waxed louder. “None shall cry for justice in vain +at the gate of an Æmilius. Go, Marcus, admit such as have +a right to enter and be heard. Rise, my daughter, show thyself +a true Roman and Christian maiden before these barbarians. And +thou, my son, alas, what hast thou done?” he added, turning to +Verronax, and taking his arm while walking towards the tribunal, where +he did justice as chief magistrate of the Roman settlement.</p> +<p>A few words told all. While Columba was engaged with her sick +widow, a young stranger Goth strolled up, one who had stood combing +his long fair hair, and making contemptuous gestures as the Rogation +procession passed in the morning. He and his comrades began offensively +to scoff at the two young men for having taken part in the procession, +uttering the blasphemies which the invocation of our Blessed Lord was +wont to call forth.</p> +<p>Verronax turned wrathfully round, a hasty challenge passed, a rapid +exchange of blows; and while the Arvernian received only a slight scratch, +the Goth fell slain before the hovel. His comrades were unarmed +and intimidated. They rushed back to fetch weapons from the house +of Deodatus, and there had been full time to take Columba safely home, +Verronax and his dog stalking statelily in the rear as her guardians.</p> +<p>“Thou shouldst have sought thine impregnable crag, my son,” +said the Senator sadly.</p> +<p>“To bring the barbarian vengeance upon this house?” responded +Verronax.</p> +<p>“Alas, my son, thou know’st mine oath.”</p> +<p>“I know it, my father.”</p> +<p>“It forbids not thy ransoming thyself.”</p> +<p>Verronax smiled slightly, and touched the collar at his throat.</p> +<p>“This is all the gold that I possess.”</p> +<p>The Senator rapidly appraised it with his eye. There was a +regular tariff on the lives of free Romans, free Goths, guests, and +trusted men of the King; and if the deceased were merely a <i>lite</i>, +or freeman of the lowest rank, it was just possible that the gold collar +might purchase its master’s life, provided he were not too proud +to part with the ancestral badge.</p> +<p>By this time the tribunal had been reached—a special portion +of the peristyle, with a curule chair, inlaid with ivory, placed on +a tesselated pavement, as in the old days of the Republic, and a servant +on each side held the lictor’s axe and bundle of rods, which betokened +stern Roman justice, wellnigh a mockery now. The forum of the +city would have been the regular place, but since an earthquake had +done much damage there, and some tumults had taken place among the citizens, +the seat of judgment had by general consent been placed in the Æmilian +household as the place of chief security, and as he was the accredited +magistrate with their Gothic masters, as Sidonius had been before his +banishment.</p> +<p>As Sidonius looked at the grave face of the Senator, set like a rock, +but deadly pale, he thought it was no unworthy representative of Brutus +or Manlius of old who sat on that seat.</p> +<p>Alas! would he not be bound by his fatal oath to be only too true +a representative of their relentless justice?</p> +<p>On one side of the judgment-seat stood Verronax, towering above all +around; behind him Marina and Columba, clinging together, trembling +and tearful, but their weeping restrained by the looks of the Senator, +and by a certain remnant of hope.</p> +<p>To the other side advanced the Goths, all much larger and taller +men than any one except the young Gaulish chieftain. The foremost +was a rugged-looking veteran, with grizzled locks and beard, and a sunburnt +face. This was Meinhard, the head of the garrison on Deodatus’s +farm, a man well known to Æmilius, and able to speak Latin enough +to hold communication with the Romans. Several younger men pressed +rudely behind him, but they were evidently impressed by the dignity +of the tribunal, though it was with a loud and fierce shout that they +recognised Verronax standing so still and unmoved.</p> +<p>“Silence!” exclaimed the Senator, lifting his ivory staff.</p> +<p>Meinhard likewise made gestures to hush them, and they ceased, while +the Senator, greeting Meinhard and inviting him to share his seat of +authority, demanded what they asked.</p> +<p>“Right!” was their cry. “Right on the slayer +of Odorik, the son of Odo, of the lineage of Odin, our guest, and of +the King’s trust.”</p> +<p>“Right shall ye have, O Goths,” returned Æmilius. +“A Roman never flinches from justice. Who are witnesses +to the deed? Didst thou behold it, O Meinhard, son of Thorulf?”</p> +<p>“No, noble Æmilius. It had not been wrought had +I been present; but here are those who can avouch it. Stand forth, +Egilulf, son of Amalrik.”</p> +<p>“It needs not,” said Verronax. “I acknowledge +the deed. The Goth scoffed at us for invoking a created Man. +I could not stand by to hear my Master insulted, and I smote him, but +in open fight, whereof I bear the token.”</p> +<p>“That is true,” said Meinhard. “I know that +Verronax, the Arvernian, would strike no coward blow. Therefore +did I withhold these comrades of Odorik from rushing on thee in their +fury; but none the less art thou in feud with Odo, the father of Odorik, +who will require of thee either thy blood or the wehrgeld.”</p> +<p>“Wehrgeld I have none to pay,” returned Verronax, in +the same calm voice.</p> +<p>“I have sworn!” said Æmilius in a clear low voice, +steady but full of suppressed anguish. A shriek was heard among +the women, and Sidonius stepped forth and demanded the amount of wehrgeld.</p> +<p>“That must be for King Euric to decide,” returned Meinhard. +“He will fix the amount, and it will be for Odo to choose whether +he will accept it. The mulct will be high, for the youth was of +high Baltic blood, and had but lately arrived with his father from the +north!”</p> +<p>“Enough,” said Verronax. “Listen, Meinhard. +Thou knowest me, and the Arvernian faith. Leave me this night +to make my peace with Heaven and my parting with man. At the hour +of six to-morrow morning, I swear that I will surrender myself into +thine hands to be dealt with as it may please the father of this young +man.”</p> +<p>“So let it be, Meinhard,” said Æmilius, in a stifled +voice.</p> +<p>“I know Æmilius, and I know Verronax,” returned +the Goth.</p> +<p>They grasped hands, and then Meinhard drew off his followers, leaving +two, at the request of Marcus, to act as sentinels at the gate.</p> +<p>The Senator sat with his hands clasped over his face in unutterable +grief, Columba threw herself into the arms of her betrothed, Marina +tore her hair, and shrieked out—</p> +<p>“I will not hold my peace! It is cruel! It is wicked! +It is barbarous!”</p> +<p>“Silence, Marina,” said Verronax. “It is +just! I am no ignorant child. I knew the penalty when I +incurred it! My Columba, remember, though it was a hasty blow, +it was in defence of our Master’s Name.”</p> +<p>The thought might comfort her by and by; as yet it could not.</p> +<p>The Senator rose and took his hand.</p> +<p>“Thou dost forgive me, my son?” he said.</p> +<p>“I should find it hard to forgive one who lessened my respect +for the Æmilian constancy,” returned Verronax.</p> +<p>Then he led Marcus aside to make arrangements with him respecting +his small mountain estate and the remnant of his tribe, since Marina +was his nearest relative, and her little son would, if he were cut off, +be the sole heir to the ancestral glories of Vercingetorix.</p> +<p>“And I cannot stir to save such a youth as that!” cried +the Senator in a tone of agony as he wrung the hand of Sidonius. +“I have bound mine own hands, when I would sell all I have to +save him. O my friend and father, well mightest thou blame my +rashness, and doubt the justice that could be stern where the heart +was not touched.”</p> +<p>“But I am not bound by thine oath, my friend,” said Sidonius. +“True it is that the Master would not be served by the temporal +sword, yet such zeal as that of this youth merits that we should strive +to deliver him. Utmost justice would here be utmost wrong. +May I send one of your slaves as a messenger to my son to see what he +can raise? Though I fear me gold and silver is more scarce than +it was in our younger days.”</p> +<p>This was done, and young Lucius also took a summons from the Bishop +to the deacons of the Church in the town, authorising the use of the +sacred vessels to raise the ransom, but almost all of these had been +already parted with in the time of a terrible famine which had ravaged +Arvernia a few years previously, and had denuded all the wealthy and +charitable families of their plate and jewels. Indeed Verronax +shrank from the treasure of the Church being thus applied. Columba +might indeed weep for him exultingly as a martyr, but, as he well knew, +martyrs do not begin as murderers, and passion, pugnacity, and national +hatred had been uppermost with him. It was the hap of war, and +he was ready to take it patiently, and prepare himself for death as +a brave Christian man, but not a hero or a martyr; and there was little +hope either that a ransom so considerable as the rank of the parties +would require could be raised without the aid of the Æmilii, or +that, even if it were, the fierce old father would accept it. +The more civilised Goths, whose families had ranged Italy, Spain, and +Aquitaine for two or three generations, made murder the matter of bargain +that had shocked Æmilius; but this was an old man from the mountain +cradle of the race, unsophisticated, and but lately converted.</p> +<p>In the dawn of the summer morning Bishop Sidonius celebrated the +Holy Eucharist for the mournful family in the oratory, a vaulted chamber +underground, which had served the same purpose in the days of persecution, +and had the ashes of two tortured martyrs of the Æmilian household, +mistress and slave, enshrined together beneath the altar, which had +since been richly inlaid with coloured marble.</p> +<p>Afterwards a morning meal was served for Verronax and for the elder +Æmilius, who intended to accompany him on his sad journey to Bordigala, +where the King and the father of Odorik were known to be at the time. +Sidonius, who knew himself to have some interest with Euric, would fain +have gone with them, but his broken health rendered a rapid journey +impossible, and he hoped to serve the friends better by remaining to +console the two women, and to endeavour to collect the wehrgeld in case +it should be accepted.</p> +<p>The farewells, owing to the Roman dignity of Æmilius and the +proud self-respect of the Arvernian, were more calm than had been feared. +Even thus, thought Sidonius, must Vercingetorix have looked when he +mounted his horse and rode from his lines at Alesia to save his people, +by swelling Cæsar’s triumph and dying beneath the Capitol. +Oh, <i>absit omen</i>! Columba was borne up by hopes which Verronax +would not dash to the ground, and she received his embrace with steadfast, +though brimming eyes, and an assurance that she would pray without ceasing.</p> +<p>Lucius was not to be found, having no doubt gone forward, intending +to direct his friend on his journey, and there part with him; but the +saddest part of the whole was the passionate wailings and bemoanings +of the remnants of his clan. One of his attendants had carried +the tidings; wild Keltic men and women had come down for one last sight +of their Fearnagh MacFearccadorigh, as they called him by his true Gaulish +name—passionately kissing his hands and the hem of his mantle, +beating their breasts amid howls of lamentation, and throwing themselves +in his path, as, with the high spirit which could not brook to be fetched +as a criminal, he made his way to the gate.</p> +<p>Mounted on two strong mules, the only animals serviceable in the +mountain paths, the Senator and Verronax passed the gate, Marcus walking +beside them.</p> +<p>“We are beforehand with the Goth,” said Verronax, as +he came out.</p> +<p>“Lazy hounds!” said Marcus. “Their sentinels +have vanished. It would serve them right if thou didst speed over +the border to the Burgundians!”</p> +<p>“I shall have a laugh at old Meinhard,” said Verronax. +“Little he knows of discipline.”</p> +<p>“No doubt they have had a great lyke wake, as they barbarously +call their obsequies,” said the Senator, “and are sleeping +off their liquor.”</p> +<p>“We will rouse them,” said the Arvernian; “it will +be better than startling poor Columba.”</p> +<p>So on they moved, the wildly-clad, barefooted Gauls, with locks streaming +in the wind, still keeping in the rear. They reached the long, +low farm-buildings belonging to Deodatus, a half-bred Roman Gaul, with +a large vineyard and numerous herds of cattle. The place was wonderfully +quiet. The Goths seemed to be indulging in very sound slumbers +after their carouse, for nothing was to be seen but the slaves coming +in with bowls of milk from the cattle. Some of them must have +given notice of the approach of the Senator, for Deodatus came to his +door with the salutation, “<i>Ave clarissime</i>!” and then +stood staring at Verronax, apparently petrified with wonder; and as +the young chief demanded where was Meinhard, he broke forth—</p> +<p>“Does his nobility ask me? It is two hours since every +Goth quitted the place, except the dead man in the house of the widow +Dubhina, and we are breathing freely for once in our lives. Up +they went towards the Æmilian villa with clamour and threats enough +to make one’s blood run cold, and they must be far on their way +to Bordigala Gergovia by this time.”</p> +<p>“His nobility must have passed through their midst unseen and +unheard!” cried old Julitta, a hardworking, dried-up woman, clasping +her sinewy, wrinkled hands; “a miracle, and no wonder, since our +holy Bishop has returned.”</p> +<p>The excitable household was on the point of breaking out into acclamation, +but Verronax exclaimed: “Silence, children! Miracles are +not for the bloodguilty. If it be, as I fear, they have met Lucius +and seized him in my stead, we must push on at once to save him.”</p> +<p>“Meinhard could not mistake your persons,” returned Æmilius; +but while he was speaking, a messenger came up and put into his hand +one of the waxen tablets on which notes were written—</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>L. ÆM. VIC. TO M. ÆM. VIC. S. Q.,—Pardon +and bless thy son. Meinhard assures me that I shall be accepted +as equal in birth and accessory to the deed. Remember Columba +and the value of Verronax’s life, and let me save him. Consent +and hold him back. Greet all the dear ones.—<i>Vale.</i></p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>The little tablet could hold no more than this—almost every +word curtailed. The Senator’s firm lip quivered at last +as he exclaimed, “My brave son. Thus does he redeem his +father’s rash oath!”</p> +<p>Verronax, whose Roman breeding had held his impulsive Keltic nature +in check as long as it was only himself that was in danger, now broke +into loud weeping—</p> +<p>“My Lucius! my brother beloved! and didst thou deem Arvernian +honour fallen so low that I could brook such a sacrifice? Let +us hasten on instantly, my father, while yet it is time!”</p> +<p>It would have been impossible to withhold him, and Marcus returned +with the strange tidings, while his father and Verronax set forth with +a few servants, mounted like themselves on mules, to reach the broad +Roman road that led from Gergovia to Bordigala. Three wild, barefooted +Gauls of Verronax’s clan shook their heads at all his attempts +to send them home, and went running along after him with the same fidelity +as poor Celer, whom he had left tied up at the villa as his parting +gift to little Victorinus, but who had broken loose, and came bounding +to his master, caressing him with nose and tongue at their first halt.</p> +<p>There had been, as in all Roman roads, regular posting stations at +intervals along the way, where horses and mules could be hired, but +the troubles of the Empire, invasion, and scarcity had greatly disturbed +the system. Many of the stations were deserted, and at others +either the whole of the animals, or all the fleeter ones, had been taken +up by Meinhard and his convoy. Indeed it almost seemed that not +only Lucius was anxious not to be overtaken, but that Meinhard was forwarding +his endeavours to consummate his sacrifice before the Arvernian could +prevent it.</p> +<p>Hotly did Verronax chafe at each hindrance. He would have dashed +onwards with feverish head-long speed, using his own fleet limbs when +he could not obtain a horse, but Æmilius feared to trust him alone, +lest, coming too late to rescue Lucius, he should bring on himself the +fury of the Goths, strike perhaps in revenge, and not only lose his +own life and render the sacrifice vain, but imperil many more.</p> +<p>So, while making all possible speed, he bound the young Arvernian, +by all the ties of paternal guardianship and authority, to give his +word not to use his lighter weight and youthful vigour to outstrip the +rest of the party.</p> +<p>The Senator himself hardly knew what was his own wish, for if his +fatherly affection yearned over his gentle, dutiful, studious Lucius, +yet Columba’s desolation, and the importance of Verronax as a +protector for his family, so weighed down the other scale, that he could +only take refuge in ‘committing his way unto the Lord.’</p> +<p>The last halting-place was at a villa belonging to a Roman, where +they heard that an assembly was being held in the fields near Bordigala +for judgment on the slaughter of a young Goth of high rank. On +learning how deeply they were concerned, their host lent them two horses, +and rode with them himself, as they hastened on in speechless anxiety.</p> +<p>These early Teutonic nations all had their solemn assemblies in the +open air, and the Goths had not yet abandoned the custom, so that as +the Senator and the chieftain turned the summit of the last low hill +they could see the plain beneath swarming like an ant-hill with people, +and as they pressed onward they could see a glittering tent, woven with +cloth of gold, a throne erected in front, and around it a space cleared +and guarded by a huge circle of warriors (<i>lites</i>), whose shields +joined so as to form a wall.</p> +<p>Near the throne stood the men of higher degree, all alike to join +the King in his judgment, like the Homeric warriors of old, as indeed +Sidonius had often said that there was no better comment on the <i>Iliad</i> +than the meetings of the barbarians.</p> +<p>By the time Æmilius and Verronax had reached the spot, and +gained an entrance in virtue of their rank and concern in the matter, +Euric sat enthroned in the midst of the assembly. He was far removed +from being a savage, though he had won his crown by the murder of his +brother. He and the counts (comrades) around him wore the Roman +garb, and used by preference the Latin speech, learning, arms, and habits, +just as European civilisation is adopted by the Egyptian or Japanese +of the present day. He understood Roman jurisprudence, and was +the author of a code for the Goths, but in a case like this he was obliged +to conform to national customs.</p> +<p>There he sat, a small, light-complexioned man, of slighter make than +those around him, holding in his hand a scroll. It was a letter +from Sidonius, sent beforehand by a swift-footed mountaineer, and containing +a guarantee for 1200 soldi, twice the price for a Goth of ordinary rank. +On the one side stood, unbound and unguarded, the slender form of Lucius; +on the other a gigantic old Visigoth, blind, and with long streaming +snowy hair and beard, his face stern with grief and passion, and both +his knotted hands crossed upon the handle of a mighty battle-axe.</p> +<p>The King had evidently been explaining to him the terms of the Bishop’s +letter, for the first words that met the ear of Æmilius were—</p> +<p>“Nay, I say nay, King Euric. Were I to receive treble +the weight of gold, how should that enable me to face my son in the +halls of Odin, with his blood unavenged?”</p> +<p>There was a murmur, and the King exclaimed—</p> +<p>“Now, now, Odo, we know no more of Odin.”</p> +<p>“Odin knows us no more,” retorted the old man, “since +we have washed ourselves in the Name of another than the mighty Thor, +and taken up the weakly worship of the conquered. So my son would +have it! He talked of a new Valhal of the Christian; but let him +meet me where he will, he shall not reproach me that he only of all +his brethren died unavenged. Where is the slayer? Set him +before me that I may strike him dead with one blow!”</p> +<p>Lucius crossed himself, looked upwards, and was stepping forwards, +when Verronax with a shout of ‘Hold!’ leapt into the midst, +full before the avenger’s uplifted weapon, crying—</p> +<p>“Slay me, old man! It was I who killed thy son, I, Fearnagh +the Arvernian!”</p> +<p>“Ho!” said Odo. “Give me thine hand. +Let me feel thee. Yea, these be sinews! It is well. +I marvelled how my Odorik should have fallen by the soft Roman hand +of yonder stripling; but thou art a worthy foe. What made the +priestling thrust himself between me and my prey?”</p> +<p>“His generous love,” returned Verronax, as Lucius flung +himself on his neck, crying—</p> +<p>“O my Verronax, why hast thou come? The bitterness of +death was past! The gates were opening.”</p> +<p>Meanwhile Æmilius had reached Euric, and had made him understand +the substitution. Old Odo knew no Latin, and it was the King, +an able orator in both tongues, who expounded all in Gothic, showing +how Lucius Æmilius had offered his life in the stead of his friend, +and how Verronax had hurried to prevent the sacrifice, reiterating, +almost in a tone of command, the alternative of the wehrgeld.</p> +<p>The lites all burst into acclamations at the nobility of the two +young men, and some muttered that they had not thought these Romans +had so much spirit.</p> +<p>Euric made no decision. He did full justice to the courage +and friendship of the youths, and likewise to the fact that Odorik had +provoked the quarrel, and had been slain in fair fight; but the choice +lay with the father, and perhaps in his heart the politic Visigoth could +not regret that Arvernia should lose a champion sure to stand up for +Roman or national claims.</p> +<p>Odo listened in silence, leaning on his axe. Then he turned +his face to the bystanders, and demanded of them—</p> +<p>“Which of them is the bolder? Which of them flinched +at my axe?”</p> +<p>The spectators were unanimous that neither had blenched. The +slender lad had presented himself as resolutely as the stately warrior.</p> +<p>“It is well,” said Odo. “Either way my son +will be worthily avenged. I leave the choice to you, young men.”</p> +<p>A brief debate ended in an appeal to the Senator, who, in spite of +all his fortitude, could not restrain himself from groaning aloud, hiding +his face in his hands, and hoarsely saying, “Draw lots.”</p> +<p>“Yes,” said Euric; “commit the judgment to Heaven.”</p> +<p>It was hailed as a relief; but Lucius stipulated that the lots should +be blessed by a Catholic priest, and Verronax muttered impatiently—</p> +<p>“What matters it? Let us make an end as quickly as may +be!”</p> +<p>He had scarcely spoken when shouts were heard, the throng made way, +the circle of lites opened, as, waving an olive branch, a wearied, exhausted +rider and horse appeared, and staggering to the foot of the throne, +there went down entirely spent, the words being just audible, “He +lives! Odorik lives!”</p> +<p>It was Marcus Æmilius, covered with dust, and at first unable +to utter another word, as he sat on the ground, supported by his brother, +while his father made haste to administer the wine handed to him by +an attendant.</p> +<p>“Am I in time?” he asked.</p> +<p>“In time, my son,” replied his father, repeating his +announcement in Gothic. “Odorik lives!”</p> +<p>“He lives, he will live,” repeated Marcus, reviving. +“I came not away till his life was secure.”</p> +<p>“Is it truth?” demanded the old Goth. “Romans +have slippery ways.”</p> +<p>Meinhard was quick to bear testimony that no man in Arvernia doubted +the word of an Æmilius; but Marcus, taking a small dagger from +his belt, held it out, saying—</p> +<p>“His son said that he would know this token.”</p> +<p>Odo felt it. “It is my son’s knife,” he said, +still cautiously; “but it cannot speak to say how it was taken +from him.”</p> +<p>“The old barbarian heathen,” quoth Verronax, under his +breath; “he would rather lose his son than his vengeance.”</p> +<p>Marcus had gathered breath and memory to add, “Tell him Odorik +said he would know the token of the red-breast that nested in the winged +helm of Helgund.”</p> +<p>“I own the token,” said Odo. “My son lives. +He needs no vengeance.” He turned the handle of his axe +downwards, passed it to his left hand, and stretched the right to Verronax, +saying, “Young man, thou art brave. There is no blood feud +between us. Odo, son of Helgund, would swear friendship with you, +though ye be Romans.”</p> +<p>“Compensation is still due according to the amount of the injury,” +said the Senator scrupulously. “Is it not so, O King?”</p> +<p>Euric assented, but Odo exclaimed—</p> +<p>“No gold for me! When Odo, son of Helgund, forgives, +he forgives outright. Where is my son?”</p> +<p>Food had by this time been brought by the King’s order, and +after swallowing a few mouthfuls Marcus could stand and speak.</p> +<p>Odorik, apparently dead, had been dragged by the Goths into the hut +of the widow Dubhina to await his father’s decision as to the +burial, and the poor woman had been sheltered by her neighbour, Julitta, +leaving the hovel deserted.</p> +<p>Columba, not allowing her grief and suspense to interfere with her +visits of mercy to the poor woman, had come down as usual on the evening +of the day on which her father and her betrothed had started on their +sad journey. Groans, not likely to be emitted by her regular patient, +had startled her, and she had found the floor occupied by the huge figure +of a young Goth, his face and hair covered with blood from a deep wound +on his head, insensible, but his moans and the motion of his limbs betraying +life.</p> +<p>Knowing the bitter hatred in Claudiodunum for everything Gothic, +the brave girl would not seek for aid nearer than the villa. Thither +she despatched her male slave, while with her old nurse she did all +in her power for the relief of the wounded man, with no inconsiderable +skill. Marcus had brought the Greek physician of the place, but +he had done nothing but declare the patient a dead man by all the laws +of Galen and Hippocrates. However, the skull and constitution +of a vigorous young Goth, fresh from the mountains, were tougher than +could be imagined by a member of one of the exhausted races of the Levant. +Bishop Sidonius had brought his science and sagacity to the rescue, +and under his treatment Odorik had been restored to his senses, and +was on the fair way to recovery.</p> +<p>On the first gleam of hope, Marcus had sent off a messenger, but +so many of his household and dependents were absent that he had no great +choice; so that as soon as hope had become security, he had set forth +himself; and it was well he had done so, for he had overtaken the messenger +at what was reckoned as three days’ journey from Bordigala. +He had ridden ever since without rest, only dismounting to change his +steed, scarcely snatching even then a morsel of food, and that morning +neither he nor the horse he rode had relaxed for a moment the desperate +speed with which he rode against time; so that he had no cause for the +shame and vexation that he felt at his utter collapse before the barbarians. +King Euric himself declared that he wished he had a Goth who could perform +such a feat of endurance.</p> +<p>While Marcus slept, Æmilius and the two young men offered their +heartfelt thanks in the Catholic church of Bordigala, and then Euric +would not be refused their presence at a great feast of reconciliation +on the following day, two of Verronax’s speedy-footed followers +having been sent off at once to bear home tidings that his intelligence +had been in time.</p> +<p>The feast was served in the old proconsular house, with the Roman +paraphernalia, arranged with the amount of correct imitation that is +to be found at an English dinner-party in the abode of an Indian Rajah. +It began with Roman etiquette, but ended in a Gothic revel, which the +sober and refined Æmilii could hardly endure.</p> +<p>They were to set off on their return early on the morrow, Meinhard +and Odo with them; but when they at length escaped from the barbarian +orgies, they had little expectation that their companions would join +them in the morning.</p> +<p>However, the two Goths and their followers were on the alert as soon +as they, and as cool-headed as if they had touched no drop of wine.</p> +<p>Old Odo disdained a mule, and would let no hand save his own guide +his horse. Verronax and Lucius constituted themselves his guides, +and whenever he permitted the slightest assistance, it was always from +the Arvernian, whom he seemed to regard as a sort of adopted son.</p> +<p>He felt over his weapons, and told him long stories, of which Verronax +understood only a word or two here and there, though the old man seemed +little concerned thereat. Now and then he rode along chanting +to himself an extemporary song, which ran somewhat thus—</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Maids who choose the slain,<br />Disappointed now.<br />The Hawk +of the Mountain,<br />The Wolf of the West,<br />Meet in fierce combat.<br />Sinks +the bold Wolf-cub,<br />Folds his wing the Falcon!<br />Shall the soft +priestling<br />Step before him to Valhal,<br />Cheating Lok’s +daughter<br />Of weak-hearted prey?<br />Lo! the Wolf wakens.<br />Valkyr +relaxes,<br />Waits for a battlefield,<br />Wolf-cub to claim.<br />Friendly +the Falcon,<br />Friendly the Gray-Wolf.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>So it ran on, to the great scandal of Lucius, who longed for better +knowledge of the Gothic tongue to convince the old man of the folly +of his heathen dreams. Meinhard, who was likewise rather shocked, +explained that the father and son had been recent arrivals, who had +been baptized because Euric required his followers to embrace his faith, +but with little real knowledge or acceptance on the part of the father. +Young Odorik had been a far more ardent convert; and, after the fashion +of many a believer, had taken up the distinctions of sect rather than +of religion, and, zealous in the faith he knew, had thought it incumbent +on him to insult the Catholics where they seemed to him idolatrous.</p> +<p>A message on the road informed the travellers that they would find +Odorik at the villa. Thither then they went, and soon saw the +whole household on the steps in eager anticipation. A tall young +figure, with a bandage still round his fair flowing locks, came down +the steps as Verronax helped the blind man to dismount; and Odo, with +a cry of ‘My son!’ with a ring of ecstasy in the sound, +held the youth to his breast and felt him all over.</p> +<p>“Are we friends?” said Odorik, turning to Verronax, when +his father released him.</p> +<p>“That is as thou wiliest,” returned the Arvernian gravely.</p> +<p>“Know then,” said Odorik, “that I know that I erred. +I knew not thy Lord when I mocked thine honour to Him. Father, +we had but half learnt the Christian’s God. I have seen +it now. It was not thy blow, O Arvernian! that taught me; but +the Master who inspired yonder youth to offer his life, and who sent +the maiden there to wait upon her foe. He is more than man. +I own in him the Eternal Creator, Redeemer, and Lord!”</p> +<p>“Yea,” said Sidonius to his friend Æmilius, “a +great work hath been wrought out. Thus hath the parable of actual +life led this zealous but half-taught youth to enter into the higher +truth. Lucius will be none the worse priest for having trodden +in the steps of Him who was High-priest and Victim. Who may abide +strict Divine Justice, had not One stood between the sinner and the +Judge? Thus ‘Mercy and Truth have met together; Righteousness +and Peace have kissed each other.’”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>THE CAT OF CAT COPSE</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>A HAMPSHIRE TRADITION</p> +<p>I</p> +<p>The Dane! the Dane! The heathen Dane<br />Is wasting Hampshire’s +coast again—<br />From ravaged church and plundered farm<br />Flash +the dread beacons of alarm—<br /> Fly, helpless +peasants, fly!<br />Ytene’s green banks and forest shades,<br />Her +heathery slopes and gorse-clad glades<br /> Re-echo +to the cry—<br />Where is the King, whose strong right hand<br />Hath +oft from danger freed the land?<br />Nor fleet nor covenant avails<br />To +drive aloof those pirate sails,<br /> In vain is Alfred’s +sword;<br />Vain seems in every sacred fane<br />The chant—‘From +fury of the Dane,<br /> Deliver us, good Lord.’</p> +<p>II</p> +<p>The long keels have the Needles past,<br />Wight’s fairest +bowers are flaming fast;<br />From Solent’s waves rise many a +mast,<br />With swelling sails of gold and red,<br />Dragon and serpent +at each head,<br />Havoc and slaughter breathing forth,<br />Steer on +these locusts of the north.<br />Each vessel bears a deadly freight;<br />Each +Viking, fired with greed and hate,<br />His axe is whetting for the +strife,<br />And counting how each Christian life<br />Shall win him +fame in Skaldic lays,<br />And in Valhalla endless praise.<br />For +Hamble’s river straight they steer;<br />Prayer is in vain, no +aid is near—<br />Hopeless and helpless all must die.<br />Oh, +fainting heart and failing eye,<br />Look forth upon the foe once more!<br />Why +leap they not upon the shore?<br />Why pause their keels upon the strand,<br />As +checked by some resistless hand?<br />The sail they spread, the oars +they ply,<br />Yet neither may advance nor fly.</p> +<p>III</p> +<p>Who is it holds them helpless there?<br />’Tis He Who hears +the anguished prayer;<br /> ’Tis He Who to the +wave<br />Hath fixed the bound—mud, rock, or sand—<br />To +mark how far upon the strand<br /> Its foaming sweep +may rave.<br />What is it, but the ebbing tide,<br />That leaves them +here, by Hamble’s side,<br />So firm embedded in the mud<br />No +force of stream, nor storm, nor flood,<br />Shall ever these five ships +bear forth<br />To fiords and islets of the north;<br />A thousand years +shall pass away,<br />And leave those keels in Hamble’s bay.</p> +<p>IV</p> +<p>Ill were it in my rhyme to tell<br />The work of slaughter that befell;<br />In +sooth it was a savage time—<br />Crime ever will engender crime.<br />Each +Viking, as he swam to land,<br />Fell by a Saxon’s vengeful hand;<br />Turn +we from all that vengeance wild—<br />Where on the deck there +cowered a child,<br />And, closely to his bosom prest,<br />A snow-white +kitten found a nest.<br />That tender boy, with tresses fair,<br />Was +Edric, Egbert’s cherished heir;<br />The plaything of the homestead +he,<br />Now fondled on his grandame’s knee;<br />Or as beside +the hearth he sat,<br />Oft sporting with his snow-white cat;<br />Now +by the chaplain taught to read,<br />And lisp his Pater and his Creed;<br />Well +nurtured at his mother’s side,<br />And by his father trained +to ride,<br />To speak the truth, to draw the bow,<br />And all an English +Thane should know,<br />His days had been as one bright dream—<br />As +smooth as his own river’s stream!<br />Until, at good King Alfred’s +call,<br />Thane Egbert left his native hall.</p> +<p>V</p> +<p>Then, five days later, shout and yell,<br />And shrieks and howls +of slaughter fell,<br />Upon the peaceful homestead came.<br />’Mid +flashing sword, and axe, and flame,<br />Snatched by a Viking’s +iron grasp,<br />From his slain mother’s dying clasp,<br />Saved +from the household’s flaming grave,<br />Edric was dragged, a +destined slave,<br />Some northern dame to serve, or heed<br />The flocks +that on the Sæter feed.<br />Still, with scarce conscious hold +he clung<br />To the white cat, that closely hung<br />Seeking her refuge +in his arm,<br />Her shelter in the wild alarm—<br />And who can +tell how oft his moan<br />Was soothed by her soft purring tone?<br />Time +keeping with retracted claw,<br />Or patting with her velvet paw;<br />Although +of home and friends bereft,<br />Still this one comforter was left,<br />So +lithe, so swift, so soft, so white,<br />She might have seemed his guardian +sprite.<br /> The rude Danes deemed her such;<br />And +whispered tales of ‘disir’ bound<br />To human lords, as +bird or hound.<br />Nor one ’mid all the fleet was found<br /> To +hurt one tender paw.<br />And when the captive knelt to pray<br />None +would his orisons gainsay;<br />For as they marked him day by day,<br /> Increased +their wondering awe.</p> +<p>VI</p> +<p>Crouched by the mast, the child and cat,<br />Through the dire time +of slaughter sat,<br /> By terror both spellbound;<br />But +when night came, a silence drear<br />Fell on the coast; and far or +near,<br />No voice caught Edric’s wakeful ear,<br /> Save +water’s lapping sound.<br />He wandered from the stern to prow,<br />Ate +of the stores, and marvelled how<br /> He yet might +reach the ground;<br />Till low and lower sank the tide,<br />Dark banks +of mud spread far and wide<br /> Around that fast-bound +wreck.<br />Then the lone boy climbed down the ship,<br />To cross the +mud by bound and skip,<br /> His cat upon his neck.<br />Light +was his weight and swift his leap,<br />Now would he softly tread, now +creep,<br />For treacherous was the mud, and deep<br />From stone to +weed, from weed to plank,<br />Leaving a hole where’er he sank;<br />With +panting breath and sore taxed strength<br />The solid earth he felt +at length.<br />Sheltered within the copse he lay,<br />When dawn had +brightened into day,<br />For when one moment there was seen,<br />His +red cap glancing ’mid the green,<br /> A fearful +cry arose—<br />“Here lurks a Dane!” “The +Dane seek out”<br />With knife and axe, the rabble rout<br />Made +the copse ring with yell and shout<br /> To find their +dreaded foes.<br />And Edric feared to meet a stroke,<br />Before they +knew the tongue he spoke.<br />Hid ’mid the branches of an oak,<br /> He +heard their calls and blows.<br />Of food he had a simple store,<br />And +when the churls the chase gave o’er,<br />And evening sunk upon +the vale,<br />With rubbing head and upright tail,<br />Pacing before +him to and fro,<br />Puss lured him on the way to go—<br />Coaxing +him on, with tender wile,<br />O’er heath and down for many a +mile.<br />Ask me not how her course she knows.<br />He from Whom every +instinct flows<br />Hath breathed into His creatures power,<br />Giving +to each its needful dower;<br />And strive and question as we will,<br />We +cannot trace the inborn skill,<br />Nor fathom how, where’er she +roam,<br />The cat ne’er fails to find her home.</p> +<p>VII</p> +<p>What pen may dare to paint the woe,<br />When Egbert saw his home +laid low?<br />Where, by the desolated hearth,<br />The mother lay who +gave him birth,<br />And, close beside, his fair young wife,<br />And +servants, slain in bootless strife—<br /> Mournful +the King stood near.<br />Alfred, who came to be his guest,<br />And +deeply rued that his behest<br />Had all unguarded left that nest,<br /> To +meet such ruin drear.<br />With hand, and heart, and lip, he gave<br />All +king or friend, both true and brave,<br />Could give, one pang of grief +to save,<br /> To comfort, or to cheer—<br />As +from the blackened walls they drew<br />Each corpse, and laid with reverence +due;<br />And then it was that Egbert knew<br /> All +save the child were here.<br />King Alfred’s noble head was bent,<br />A +monarch’s pain his bosom rent;<br />Kindly he wrung Thane Egbert’s +hand—<br />“Lo! these have won the blissful land,<br />Where +foeman’s shout is heard no more,<br />Nor wild waves beat upon +the shore;<br />Brief was the pang, the strife is o’er—<br /> They +are at peace, my friend!<br />Safe, where the weary are at rest;<br />Safe, +where the banish’d and opprest<br /> Find joys +that never end.”<br />Thane Egbert groaned, and scarce might speak<br />For +tears that ploughed his hardy cheek,<br /> As his dread +task was done.<br />And for the slain, from monk and priest<br />Rose +requiems that never ceased,<br /> While still he sought +his son.<br />“Oh, would to Heaven!” that father said,<br />“There +lay my darling calmly dead,<br />Rather than as a thrall be bred—<br /> His +Christian faith undone.”<br />“Nay, life is hope!” +bespake the King,<br />“God o’er the child can spread His +wing<br />And shield him in the Northman’s power<br />Safe as +in Alswyth’s guarded bower;<br />Treaty and ransom may be found<br />To +win him back to English ground.”</p> +<p>VIII</p> +<p>The funeral obsequies were o’er,<br /> But +lingered still the Thane,<br />Hanging around his home once more,<br /> Feeding +his bitter pain.<br />The King would fain with friendly force<br />Urge +him anew to mount his horse,<br />Turn from the piteous sight away,<br />And +fresh begin life’s saddened day,<br />His loved ones looking yet +to greet,<br />Where ne’er shall part the blest who meet.<br />Just +then a voice that well he knew,<br />A sound that mixed the purr and +mew,<br /> Went to the father’s heart.<br />On +a large stone King Alfred sat<br />Against his buskin rubbed a cat,<br /> Snow-white +in every part,<br />Though drenched and soiled from head to tail.<br />The +poor Thane’s tears poured down like hail—<br />“Poor +puss, in vain thy loving wail,”<br /> Then came +a joyful start!<br />A little hand was on his cloak—<br />“Father!” +a voice beside him spoke,<br /> Emerging from the wood.<br />All +travel-stained, and marked with mire,<br />With trace of blood, and +toil, and fire,<br />Yet safe and sound beside his sire,<br /> Edric +before them stood.<br />And as his father wept for joy,<br />King Alfred +blessed the rescued boy,<br /> And thanked his Maker +good!<br />Who doth the captive’s prayer fulfil,<br />Making His +creatures work His will<br /> By means not understood.</p> +<p>NOTE.—The remains of the five Danish vessels still lie embedded +in the mud of the Hamble River near Southampton, though parts have been +carried off and used as wood for furniture in the farm-houses. +The neighbouring wood is known as Cat Copse, and a tradition has been +handed down that a cat, and a boy in a red cap, escaped from the Danish +ships, took refuge there.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>DE FACTO AND DE JURE</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>I. DE FACTO</p> +<p>The later summer sunbeams lay on an expanse of slightly broken ground +where purple and crimson heather were relieved by the golden blossoms +of the dwarf gorse, interspersed with white stars of stitch-wort. +Here and there, on the slopes, grew stunted oaks and hollies, whose +polished leaves gleamed white with the reflection of the light; but +there was not a trace of human habitation save a track, as if trodden +by horses’ feet, clear of the furze and heath, and bordered by +soft bent grass, beginning to grow brown.</p> +<p>Near this track—for path it could hardly be called—stood +a slender lad waiting and watching, a little round cap covering his +short-cut brown hair, a crimson tunic reaching to his knee, leggings +and shoes of deerhide, and a sword at his side, fastened by a belt of +the like skin, guarded and clasped with silver. His features were +delicate, though sunburnt, and his eyes were riveted on the distance, +where the path had disappeared amid the luxuriant spires of ling.</p> +<p>A hunting-horn sounded, and the youth drew himself together into +an attitude of eager attention; the baying of hounds and trampling of +horses’ hoofs came nearer and nearer, and by and by there came +in view the ends of boar-spears, the tall points of bows, a cluster +of heads of men and horses—strong, sturdy, shaggy, sure-footed +creatures, almost ponies, but the only steeds fit to pursue the chase +on this rough and encumbered ground.</p> +<p>Foremost rode, with ivory and gold hunting-horn slung in a rich Spanish +baldrick, and a slender gilt circlet round his green hunting-cap, a +stout figure, with a face tanned to a fiery colour, keen eyes of a dark +auburn tint, and a shock of hair of the same deep red.</p> +<p>At sight of him, the lad flung himself on his knees on the path, +with the cry, “Haro! Haro! Justice, Sir King!”</p> +<p>“Out of my way, English hound!” cried the King. +“This is no time for thy Haro.”</p> +<p>“Nay, but one word, good fair King! I am French—French +by my father’s side!” cried the lad, as there was a halt, +more from the instinct of the horse than the will of the King. +‘Bertram de Maisonforte! My father married the Lady of Boyatt, +and her inheritance was confirmed to him by your father, brave King +William, my Lord; but now he is dead, and his kinsman, Roger de Maisonforte, +hath ousted her and me, her son and lawful heir, from house and home, +and we pray for justice, Sir King?’</p> +<p>‘Ha, Roger, thou there! What say’st thou to this +bold beggar!’ shouted the Red King.</p> +<p>‘I say,’ returned a black, bronzed hunter, pressing to +the front, ‘that what I hold of thee, King William, on tenure +of homage, and of two good horses and staunch hounds yearly, I yield +to no English mongrel churl, who dares to meddle with me.’</p> +<p>‘Thou hear’st, lad,’ said Rufus, with his accustomed +oath, ‘homage hath been done to us for the land, nor may it be +taken back. Out of our way, or—’</p> +<p>‘Sir! sir!’ entreated the lad, grasping the bridle, ‘if +no more might be, we would be content if Sir Roger would but leave my +mother enough for her maintenance among the nuns of Romsey, and give +me a horse and suit of mail to go on the Holy War with Duke Robert.’</p> +<p>‘Ho! ho! a modest request for a beggarly English clown!’ +cried the King, aiming a blow at the lad with his whip, and pushing +on his horse, so as almost to throw him back on the heath. ‘Ho! +ho! fit him out for a fool’s errand!’</p> +<p>‘We’ll fit him! We’ll teach him to take the +cross at other men’s expense!’ shouted the followers, seizing +on the boy.</p> +<p>‘Nay; we’ll bestow his cross on him for a free gift!’ +exclaimed Roger de Maisonforte.</p> +<p>And Bertram, struggling desperately in vain among the band of ruffians, +found his left arm bared, and two long and painful slashes, in the form +of the Crusader’s cross, inflicted, amid loud laughter, as the +blood sprang forth.</p> +<p>‘There, Sir Crusader,’ said Roger, grinding his teeth +over him. ‘Go on thy way now—as a horse-boy, if so +please thee, and know better than to throw thy mean false English pretension +in the face of a gentle Norman.’</p> +<p>Men, horses, dogs, all seemed to trample and scoff at Bertram as +he fell back on the elastic stems of the heath and gorse, whose prickles +seemed to renew the insults by scratching his face. When the King’s +horn, the calls, the brutal laughter, and the baying of the dogs had +begun to die away in the distance, he gathered himself together, sat +up, and tried to find some means of stanching the blood. Not only +was the wound in a place hard to reach, but it had been ploughed with +the point of a boar-spear, and was grievously torn. He could do +nothing with it, and, as he perceived, he had further been robbed of +his sword, his last possession, his father’s sword.</p> +<p>The large tears of mingled rage, grief, and pain might well spring +from the poor boy’s eyes in his utter loneliness, as he clenched +his hand with powerless wrath, and regained his feet, to retrace, as +best he might, his way to where his widowed mother had found a temporary +shelter in a small religious house.</p> +<p>The sun grew hotter and hotter, Bertram’s wound bled, though +not profusely, the smart grew upon him, his tongue was parched with +thirst, and though he kept resolutely on, his breath came panting, his +head grew dizzy, his eyes dim, his feet faltered, and at last, just +as he attained a wider and more trodden way, he dropped insensible by +the side of the path, his dry lips trying to utter the cry, “Lord, +have mercy on me!”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>II. DE JURE</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>When Bertram de Maisonforte opened his eyes again cold waters were +on his face, wine was moistening his lips, the burning of his wound +was assuaged by cooling oil, while a bandage was being applied, and +he was supported on a breast and in arms, clad indeed in a hauberk, +but as tenderly kind as the full deep voice that spoke in English, “He +comes round. How now, my child?”</p> +<p>“Father,” murmured Bertram, with dreamy senses.</p> +<p>“Better now; another sup from the flask, David,” again +said the kind voice, and looking up, he became aware of the beautiful +benignant face, deep blue eyes, and long light locks of the man in early +middle age who had laid him on his knee, while a priest was binding +his arm, and a fair and graceful boy, a little younger than himself, +was standing by with the flask of wine in his hand, and a face of such +girlish beauty that as he knelt to hold the wine to his lips, Bertram +asked—</p> +<p>“Am I among the Angels?”</p> +<p>“Not yet,” said the elder man. “Art thou +near thine home?”</p> +<p>“Alack! I have no home, kind sir,” said Bertram, +now able to raise himself and to perceive that he was in the midst of +a small hand of armed men, such as every knight or noble necessarily +carried about with him for protection. There was a standard with +a dragon, and their leader himself was armed, all save his head, and, +as Bertram saw, was a man of massive strength, noble stature, and kingly +appearance.</p> +<p>“What shall we do for thee?” he asked. “Who +hath put thee in this evil case?”</p> +<p>Bertram gave his name, and at its Norman sound there was a start +of repulsion from the boy. “French after all!” he +exclaimed.</p> +<p>“Nay, David,” said the leader, “if I mind me rightly, +the Lady Elftrud of Boyatt wedded a brave Norman of that name. +Art thou her son? I see something of her face, and thou hast an +English tongue.”</p> +<p>“I am; I am her only son!” exclaimed Bertram; and as +he told of his wrongs and the usage he had met with, young David cried +out with indignation—</p> +<p>“Uncle, uncle, how canst thou suffer that these things should +be? Here are our faithful cnihts. Let us ride to the forest. +Wherefore should it not be with Red William and his ruffians as with +Scottish Duncan and Donald?”</p> +<p>“Hush thee, David, my nephew. Thou knowest that may not +be. But for thee, young Bertram, we will see what can be done. +Canst sit a horse now?”</p> +<p>“Yea, my lord, full well. I know not what came over me, +even now,” said Bertram, much ashamed of the condition in which +he had been found.</p> +<p>A sumpter horse was found for him, the leader of the party saying +that they would go on to his own home, where the youth’s wound +should be looked to, and they could then decide what could be done for +him.</p> +<p>Bertram was still so far faint, suffering, weak, and weary, that +he was hardly awake to curiosity as to his surroundings, and had quite +enough to do to keep his seat in the saddle, and follow in the wake +of the leader’s tall white horse, above which shone his bright +chain mail and his still brighter golden locks, so that the exhausted +boy began in some measure to feel as if he were following St. Michael +on his way to some better world.</p> +<p>Now and then the tall figure turned to see how it was with him, and +as he drooped more with fatigue and pain, bade one of the retainers +keep beside him and support him.</p> +<p>Thus at length the cavalcade left the heathery expanse and reached +a valley, green with meadow-land and waving corn, with silvery beards +of barley rippling in the evening light, and cows and sheep being gathered +for the night towards a dwelling where the river had been trained to +form a moat round low green ramparts enclosing a number of one-storied +thatched houses and barns, with one round tower, a strong embattled +gateway, and at a little distance a square church tower, and other cottages +standing outside.</p> +<p>A shout of ecstasy broke out from the village as the advancing party +was seen and recognised. Men, women, and children, rudely but +substantially clad, and many wearing the collar of the thrall, ran out +from their houses, baring their heads, bowing low, and each in turn +receiving some kind word or nod of greeting from the lord whom they +welcomed, while one after another of his armed followers turned aside, +and was absorbed into a happy family by wife or parent. A drawbridge +crossed the moat, and there was a throng of joyful servants in the archway—foremost +a priest, stretching out his hands in blessing, and a foreign-looking +old woman, gray-haired and dark-eyed, who gathered young David into +her embrace as he sprang from his horse, calling him her heart’s +darling and her sunshine, and demanding, with a certain alarm, where +were his brothers.</p> +<p>“In Scotland, dear Nurse Agnes—even where they should +be,” was David’s answer. “We are conquerors, +do you see! Edgar is a crowned and anointed King—seated +on the holy stone of Scone, and Alexander is beside him to fight for +him!”</p> +<p>“It is even so, nurse,” said the elder man, turning from +the priest, to whom he had more briefly spoken; “God hath blessed +our arms, and young Edgar has his right. God shield him in it! +And now, nurse, here is a poor youth who needs thy care, after one of +Red William’s rough jests.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>III. KING AT HOME</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Weary, faint, and feverish as Bertram de Maisonforte was, he was +past caring for anything but the relief of rest, cool drink, and the +dressing of his wound; nor did he even ask where he was until he awoke +in broad daylight the next morning, to the sound of church bells, to +the sight of a low but spacious chamber, with stone walls, deerskins +laid on the floor, and the old nurse standing by him with a cup of refreshing +drink, and ready to attend to his wound.</p> +<p>It was then that, feeling greatly refreshed, he ventured upon asking +her in whose house he was, and who was the good lord who had taken pity +on him.</p> +<p>“Who should it be save him who should be the good lord of every +Englishman,” she replied, “mine own dear foster-son, the +princely Atheling—he who takes up the cause of every injured man +save his own?”</p> +<p>Bertram was amazed, for he had only heard Normans speak of Edgar +Atheling, the heir of the ancient race, as a poor, tame-spirited, wretched +creature, unable to assert himself, and therefore left unmolested by +the conquerors out of contempt. He proceeded to ask what the journey +was from which the Atheling was returning, and the nurse, nothing loth, +beguiled the tendance on his arm by explaining how she had long ago +travelled from Hungary with her charges, Edgar, Margaret, and Christina; +how it had come about that the crown, which should have been her darling’s, +had been seized by the fierce duke from beyond the sea; how Edgar, then +a mere child, had been forced to swear oaths of fealty by which he held +himself still bound; how her sweetest pearl of ladies, her jewel Margaret, +had been wedded to the rude wild King of Scots, and how her gentle sweetness +and holiness had tamed and softened him, so that she had been the blessing +of his kingdom till he and his eldest son had fallen at Alnwick while +she lay a-dying; how the fierce savage Scots had risen and driven forth +her young children; and how their uncle the Atheling had ridden forth, +taken them to his home, bred them in all holiness and uprightness and +good and knightly courage, and when Edgar and Alexander, the two eldest, +were full grown, had gone northward with them once more, and had won +back, in fair field, the throne of their father Malcolm.</p> +<p>Truly there might well be rejoicing and triumph on the estate where +the Atheling ruled as a father and had been sorely missed. He +was at his early mass of thanksgiving at present, and Bertram was so +much better that Nurse Agnes did not withstand his desire to rise and +join the household and villagers, who were all collected in the building, +low and massive, but on which Edgar Atheling had lavished the rich ornamental +work introduced by the Normans. The round arched doorway was set +in a succession of elaborate zigzags, birds’ heads, lions’ +faces, twists and knots; and within, the altar-hangings and the priest’s +robes were stiff with the exquisite and elaborate embroidery for which +the English nunneries were famed.</p> +<p>The whole building, with its low-browed roof, circular chancel arch +still more richly adorned, and stout short columns, was filled with +kneeling figures in rough homespun or sheepskin garments, and with shaggy +heads, above which towered the shining golden locks of the Atheling, +which were allowed to grow to a much greater length than was the Norman +fashion, and beside him was the still fairer head of his young nephew, +David of Scotland. It was a thanksgiving service for their victory +and safe return; and Bertram was just in time for the <i>Te Deum</i> +that followed the mass.</p> +<p>The Atheling, after all was over, came forth, exchanging greetings +with one after another of his franklins, cnihts, and thralls, all of +whom seemed to be equally delighted to see him back again, and whom +he bade to a feast in the hall, which would be prepared in the course +of the day. Some, meantime, went to their homes near at hand, +others would amuse themselves with games at ball, archery, singlestick, +and the like, in an open space within the moat—where others fished.</p> +<p>Bertram was not neglected. The Atheling inquired after his +health, heard his story in more detail, and after musing on it, said +that after setting affairs in order at home, he meant to visit his sister +and niece in the Abbey at Romsey, and would then make some arrangement +for the Lady of Maisonforte; also he would endeavour to see the King +on his return to Winchester, and endeavour to plead with him.</p> +<p>“William will at times hearken to an old comrade,” he +said; “but it is an ill time to take him when he is hot upon the +chase. Meantime, thou art scarce yet fit to ride, and needest +more of good Agnes’s leech-craft.”</p> +<p>Bertram was indeed stiff and weary enough to be quite content to +lie on a bearskin in the wide hall of the dwelling, or under the eaves +without, and watch the doings with some amusement.</p> +<p>He had been bred in some contempt of the Saxons. His father’s +marriage had been viewed as a <i>mésalliance</i>, and though +the knight of Maisonforte had been honourable and kindly, and the Lady +Elftrud had fared better than many a Saxon bride, still the French and +the Breton dames of the neighbourhood had looked down on her, and the +retainers had taught her son to look on the English race as swine, boors, +and churls, ignorant of all gentle arts, of skill and grace.</p> +<p>But here was young David among youths of his own age, tilting as +gracefully and well as any young Norman could—making Bertram long +that his arm should cease to be so heavy and burning, so that he might +show his prowess.</p> +<p>Here was a contention with bow and arrow that would not have disgraced +the best men-at-arms of Maisonforte—here again, later in the day, +was minstrelsy of a higher order than his father’s ears had cared +for, but of which his mother had whispered her traditions.</p> +<p>Here, again, was the chaplain showing his brother-priests with the +greatest pride and delight a scroll of Latin, copied from a MS. Psalter +of the holy and Venerable Beda by the hand of his own dear pupil, young +David.</p> +<p>Bertram, who could neither read nor write, and knew no more Latin +than his Paternoster, Credo, and Ave, absolutely did not believe his +eyes and ears till he had asked the question, whether this were indeed +the youth’s work. How could it be possible to wield pen +as well as lance?</p> +<p>But the wonder of all was the Atheling. After an absence of +more than a year, there was much to be adjusted, and his authority on +his own lands was thoroughly judicial even for life or death, since +even under Norman sway he held the power of an earl.</p> +<p>Seated in a high-backed, cross-legged chair—his majestic form +commanding honour and respect—he heard one after another causes +that came before him, reserved for his judgment, questions of heirship, +disputes about cattle, complaints of thievery, encroachments on land; +and Bertram, listening with the interest that judgment never fails to +excite, was deeply impressed with the clear-headedness, the ready thought, +and the justice of the decision, even when the dispute lay between Saxon +and Norman, always with reference to the laws of Alfred and Edward which +he seemed to carry in his head.</p> +<p>Indeed, ere long, two Norman knights, hearing of the Atheling’s +return, came to congratulate him, and lay before him a dispute of boundaries +which they declared they would rather entrust to him than to any other. +And they treated him far more as a prince than as a Saxon churl.</p> +<p>They willingly accepted his invitation to go in to the feast of welcome, +and a noble one it was, with music and minstrelsy, hospitality to all +around, plenty and joy, wassail bowls going round, and the Atheling +presiding over it, and with a strange and quiet influence, breaking +up the entertainment in all good will, by the memory of his sweet sister +Margaret’s grace-cup, ere mirth had become madness, or the English +could incur their reproach of coarse revelry.</p> +<p>“And,” as the Norman knight who had prevailed said to +Bertram, “Sir Edgar the Atheling had thus shown himself truly +an uncrowned King.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>IV. WHO SHALL BE KING?</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>The noble cloisters of Romsey, with the grand church rising in their +midst, had a lodging-place, strictly cut off from the nunnery, for male +visitors.</p> +<p>Into this Edgar Atheling rode with his armed train, and as they entered, +some strange expression in the faces of the porters and guards met them.</p> +<p>“Had my lord heard the news?” demanded a priest, who +hastened forward, bowing low.</p> +<p>“No, Holy Father. No ill of my sister?” anxiously +inquired the Prince.</p> +<p>“The Mother Abbess is well, my Lord Atheling; but the King—William +the Red—is gone to his account. He was found two eves ago +pierced to the heart with an arrow beneath an oak in Malwood Chace.”</p> +<p>“God have mercy on his poor soul!” ejaculated Edgar, +crossing himself. “No moment vouchsafed for penitence! +Alas! Who did the deed, Father Dunstan?”</p> +<p>“That is not known,” returned the priest, “save +that Walter Tyrrel is fled like a hunted felon beyond seas, and my Lord +Henry to Winchester.”</p> +<p>Young David pressed up to his uncle’s side.</p> +<p>“Sir, sir,” he said, “what a time is this! +Duke Robert absent, none know where; our men used to war, all ready +to gather round you. This rule will be ended, the old race restored. +Say but the word, and I will ride back and raise our franklins as one +man. Thou wilt, too, Bertram!”</p> +<p>“With all mine heart!” cried Bertram. “Let +me be the first to do mine homage.”</p> +<p>And as Edgar Atheling stood in the outer court, with lofty head and +noble thoughtful face, pure-complexioned and high-browed, each who beheld +him felt that there stood a king of men. A shout of “King +Edgar! Edgar, King of England,” echoed through the buildings; +and priests, men-at-arms, and peasants began to press forward to do +him homage. But he raised his hand—</p> +<p>“Hold, children,” he said. “I thank you all; +but much must come ere ye imperil yourselves by making oaths to me that +ye might soon have to break! Let me pass on and see my sister.”</p> +<p>Abbeys were not strictly cloistered then, and the Abbess Christina +was at the door, a tall woman, older than her brother, and somewhat +hard-featured, and beside her was a lovely fair girl, with peach-like +cheeks and bright blue eyes, who threw herself into David’s arms, +full of delight.</p> +<p>“Brother,” said Christina, “did I hear aright? +And have they hailed thee King? Are the years of cruel wrong ended +at last? Victor for others, wilt thou be victor for thyself?”</p> +<p>“What is consistent with God’s will, and with mine oaths, +that I hope to do,” was Edgar’s reply.</p> +<p>But even as he stood beside the Abbess in the porch, without having +yet entered, there was a clattering and trampling of horse, and through +the gate came hastily a young man in a hauberk, with a ring of gold +about his helmet, holding out his hands as he saw the Atheling.</p> +<p>“Sire Edgar,” he said, “I knew not I should find +you here, when I came to pay my first <i>devoirs</i> as a King to the +Lady Mother Abbess” (he kissed her unwilling hand) “and +the Lady Edith.”</p> +<p>Edith turned away a blushing face, and the Abbess faltered—</p> +<p>“As a King?”</p> +<p>“Yea, lady. As such have I been owned by all at Winchester. +I should be at Westminster for my Coronation, save that I turned from +my course to win her who shall share my crown.”</p> +<p>“Is it even thus, Henry?” said Edgar. “Hast +not thought of other rights?”</p> +<p>“Of that crazed fellow Robert’s?” demanded Henry. +“Trouble not thine head for him! Even if he came back living +from this Holy War in the East, my father had too much mercy on England +to leave it to the like of him.”</p> +<p>“There be other and older rights, Sir Henry,” said the +Abbess.</p> +<p>Henry looked up for a moment in some consternation. “Ho! +Sir Edgar, thou hast been so long a peaceful man that I had forgotten. +Thou knowest thy day went by with Hereward le Wake. See, fair +Edith and I know one another—she shall be my Queen.”</p> +<p>“Veiled and vowed,” began the Abbess.</p> +<p>“Oh, not yet! Tell her not yet!” whispered Edith +in David’s ear.</p> +<p>“Thou little traitress! Wed thy house’s foe, who +takes thine uncle’s place? Nay! I will none of thee,” +said David, shaking her off roughly; but her uncle threw his arm round +her kindly.</p> +<p>At that moment a Norman knight spurred up to Henry with some communication +that made him look uneasy, and Christina, laying her hand on Edgar’s +arm, said: “Brother, we have vaults. Thy troop outnumbers +his. The people of good old Wessex are with thee! Now is +thy time! Save thy country. Restore the line and laws of +Alfred and Edward.”</p> +<p>“Thou know’st not what thou wouldst have, Christina,” +said Edgar. “One sea of blood wherever a Norman castle rises! +I love my people too well to lead them to a fruitless struggle with +all the might of Normandy unless I saw better hope than lies before +me now! Mind thee, I swore to Duke William that I would withstand +neither him nor any son of his whom the English duly hailed. Yet, +I will see how it is with this young man,” he added, as she fell +back muttering, “Craven! Who ever won throne without blood?”</p> +<p>Henry had an anxious face when he turned from his knight, who, no +doubt, had told him how completely he was in the Atheling’s power.</p> +<p>“Sir Edgar,” he said, “a word with you. Winchester +is not far off—nor Porchester—nor my brother William’s +Free companies, and his treasure. Normans will scarce see Duke +William’s son tampered with, nor bow their heads to the English!”</p> +<p>“Belike, Henry of Normandy,” said Edgar, rising above +him in his grave majesty. “Yet have I a question or two +to put to thee. Thou art a graver, more scholarly man than thy +brother, less like to be led away by furies. Have the people of +England and Normandy sworn to thee willingly as their King?”</p> +<p>“Even so, in the Minster,” Henry began, and would have +said more, but Edgar again made his gesture of authority.</p> +<p>“Wilt thou grant them the charter of Alfred and Edward, with +copies spread throughout the land?”</p> +<p>“I will.”</p> +<p>“Wilt thou do equal justice between English and Norman?”</p> +<p>“To the best of my power.”</p> +<p>“Wilt thou bring home the Archbishop, fill up the dioceses, +do thy part by the Church?”</p> +<p>“So help me God, I will.”</p> +<p>“Then, Henry of Normandy, I, Edgar Atheling, kiss thine hand, +and become thy man; and may God deal with thee, as thou dost with England.”</p> +<p>The noble form of Edgar bent before the slighter younger figure of +Henry, who burst into tears, genuine at the moment, and vowed most earnestly +to be a good King to the entire people. No doubt, he meant it—then.</p> +<p>And now—far more humbly, he made his suit to the Atheling for +the hand of his niece.</p> +<p>Edgar took her apart. “Edith, canst thou brook this man?”</p> +<p>“Uncle, he was good to me when we were children together at +the old King’s Court. I have made no vows, I tore the veil +mine aunt threw over me from mine head. Methinks with me beside +him he would never be hard to our people.”</p> +<p>“So be it then, Edith. If he holds to this purpose when +he hath been crowned at Westminster, he shall have thee, though I fear +thou hast chosen a hard lot, and wilt rue the day when thou didst quit +these peaceful walls.”</p> +<p>And one more stipulation was made by Edgar the Atheling, ere he rode +to own Henry as King in the face of the English people at Westminster—namely, +that Boyatt should be restored to the true heiress the Lady Elftrud. +And to Roger, compensation was secretly made at the Atheling’s +expense, ere departing with Bertram in his train for the Holy War. +For Bertram could not look at the scar without feeling himself a Crusader; +and Edgar judged it better for England to remove himself for awhile, +while he laid all earthly aspirations at the Feet of the King of kings.</p> +<p>The little English troop arrived just in time to share in the capture +of the Holy City, to join in the eager procession of conquerors to the +Holy Sepulchre, and to hear Godfrey de Bouillon elected to defend the +sacred possession, refusing to wear a crown where the King of Saints +and Lord of Heaven and Earth had worn a Crown of Thorns.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>SIGBERT’S GUERDON</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>A feudal castle, of massive stone, with donjon keep and high crenellated +wall, gateway tower, moat and drawbridge, was a strange, incongruous +sight in one of the purple-red stony slopes of Palestine, with Hermon’s +snowy peak rising high above. It was accounted for, however, by +the golden crosses of the kingdom of Jerusalem waving above the watch-tower, +that rose like a pointing finger above the keep, in company with a lesser +ensign bearing a couchant hound, sable.</p> +<p>It was a narrow rocky pass that the Castle of Gebel-Aroun guarded, +overlooking a winding ravine between the spurs of the hills, descending +into the fertile plain of Esdraelon from the heights of Galilee Hills, +noted in many an Israelite battle, and now held by the Crusaders.</p> +<p>Bare, hard, and rocky were the hills around—the slopes and +the valley itself, which in the earlier season had been filled with +rich grass, Calvary clover, blood-red anemones, and pale yellow amaryllis, +only showed their arid brown or gray remnants. The moat had become +a deep waterless cleft; and beneath, on the accessible sides towards +the glen, clustered a collection of black horsehair tents, the foremost +surmounted by the ill-omened crescent.</p> +<p>The burning sun had driven every creature under shelter, and no one +was visible; but well was it known that watch and ward was closely kept +from beneath those dark tents, that to the eyes within had the air of +couching beasts of prey. Yes, couching to devour what could not +fail to be theirs, in spite of the mighty walls of rock and impregnable +keep, for those deadly and insidious foes, hunger and thirst, were within, +gaining the battle for the Saracens without, who had merely to wait +in patience for the result.</p> +<p>Some years previously, Sir William de Hundberg, a Norman knight, +had been expelled from his English castle by the partisans of Stephen, +and with wife and children had followed Count Fulk of Anjou to his kingdom +of Palestine, and had been endowed by him with one of the fortresses +which guarded the passes of Galilee, under that exaggeration of the +feudal system which prevailed in the crusading kingdom of Jerusalem.</p> +<p>Climate speedily did its work with the lady, warfare with two of +her sons, and there only remained of the family a youth of seventeen, +Walter, and his sister Mabel, fourteen, who was already betrothed to +the young Baron of Courtwood, then about to return to England. +The treaty with Stephen and the success of young Henry of Anjou gave +Sir William hopes of restitution; but just as he was about to conduct +her to Jerusalem for the wedding, before going back to England, he fell +sick of one of the recurring fevers of the country; and almost at the +same time the castle was beleaguered by a troop of Arabs, under the +command of a much-dreaded Sheik.</p> +<p>His constitution was already much shaken, and Sir William, after +a few days of alternate torpor and delirium, passed away, without having +been conscious enough to leave any counsel to his children, or any directions +to Father Philip, the chaplain, or Sigbert, his English squire.</p> +<p>At the moment, sorrow was not disturbed by any great alarm, for the +castle was well victualled, and had a good well, supplied by springs +from the mountains; and Father Philip, after performing the funeral +rites for his lord, undertook to make his way to Tiberias, or to Jerusalem, +with tidings of their need; and it was fully anticipated that succour +would arrive long before the stores in the castle had been exhausted.</p> +<p>But time went on, and, though food was not absolutely lacking, the +spring of water which had hitherto supplied the garrison began to fail. +Whether through summer heats, or whether the wily enemy had succeeded +in cutting off the source, where once there had been a clear crystal +pool in the rock, cold as the snow from which it came, there only dribbled +a few scanty drops, caught with difficulty, and only imbibed from utter +necessity, so great was the suspicion of their being poisoned by the +enemy.</p> +<p>The wine was entirely gone, and the salted provision, which alone +remained, made the misery of thirst almost unbearable.</p> +<p>On the cushions, richly embroidered in dainty Eastern colouring, +lay Mabel de Hundberg, with dry lips half opened and panting, too weary +to move, yet listening all intent.</p> +<p>Another moment, and in chamois leather coat, his helmet in hand, +entered her brother from the turret stair, and threw himself down hopelessly, +answering her gesture.</p> +<p>“No, no, of course no. The dust was only from another +swarm of those hateful Saracens. I knew it would be so. +Pah! it has made my tongue more like old boot leather than ever. +Have no more drops been squeezed from the well? It’s time +the cup was filled!”</p> +<p>“It was Roger’s turn. Sigbert said he should have +the next,” said Mabel.</p> +<p>Walter uttered an imprecation upon Roger, and a still stronger one +on Sigbert’s meddling. But instantly the cry was, “Where +is Sigbert?”</p> +<p>Walter even took the trouble to shout up and down the stair for Sigbert, +and to demand hotly of the weary, dejected men-at-arms where Sigbert +was; but no one could tell.</p> +<p>“Gone over to the enemy, the old traitor,” said Walter, +again dropping on the divan.</p> +<p>“Never! Sigbert is no traitor,” returned his sister.</p> +<p>“He is an English churl, and all churls are traitors,” +responded Walter.</p> +<p>The old nurse, who was fitfully fanning Mabel with a dried palm-leaf, +made a growl of utter dissent, and Mabel exclaimed, “None was +ever so faithful as good old Sigbert.”</p> +<p>It was a promising quarrel, but their lips were too dry to keep it +up for more than a snarl or two. Walter cast himself down, and +bade old Tata fan him; why should Mabel have it all to herself?</p> +<p>Then sounds of wrangling were heard below, and Walter roused himself +to go down and interfere. The men were disputing over some miserable +dregs of wine at the bottom of a skin. Walter shouted to call +them to order, but they paid little heed.</p> +<p>“Do not meddle and make, young sir,” said a low-browed, +swarthy fellow. “There’s plenty of cool drink of the +right sort out there.”</p> +<p>“Traitor!” cried Walter; “better die than yield.”</p> +<p>“If one have no mind for dying like an old crab in a rock,” +said the man.</p> +<p>“They would think nought of making an end of us out there,” +said another.</p> +<p>“I’d as lief be choked at once by a cord as by thirst,” +was the answer.</p> +<p>“That you are like to be, if you talk such treason,” +threatened Walter. “Seize him, Richard—Martin.”</p> +<p>Richard and Martin, however, hung back, one muttering that Gil had +done nothing, and the other that he might be in the right of it; and +when Walter burst out in angry threats he was answered in a gruff voice +that he had better take care what he said, “There was no standing +not only wasting with thirst and hunger, but besides being blustered +at by a hot-headed lad, that scarce knew a hauberk from a helmet.”</p> +<p>Walter, in his rage, threw himself with drawn sword on the mutineer, +but was seized and dragged back by half a dozen stalwart arms, such +as he had no power to resist, and he was held fast amid rude laughs +and brutal questions whether he should thus be carried to the Saracens, +and his sister with him.</p> +<p>“The old Sheik would give a round sum for a fair young damsel +like her!” were the words that maddened her brother into a desperate +struggle, baffled with a hoarse laugh by the men-at-arms, who were keeping +him down, hand and foot, when a new voice sounded: “How now, fellows! +What’s this?”</p> +<p>In one moment Walter was released and on his feet, and the men fell +back, ashamed and gloomy, as a sturdy figure, with sun-browned face, +light locks worn away by the helmet, and slightly grizzled, stood among +them, in a much-rubbed and soiled chamois leather garment.</p> +<p>Walter broke out into passionate exclamations; the men, evidently +ashamed, met them with murmurs and growls. “Bad enough, +bad enough!” broke in Sigbert; “but there’s no need +to make it worse. Better to waste with hunger and thirst than +be a nidering fellow—rising against your lord in his distress.”</p> +<p>“We would never have done it if he would have kept a civil +tongue.”</p> +<p>“Civility’s hard to a tongue dried up,” returned +Sigbert. “But look you here, comrades, leave me a word with +my young lord here, and I plight my faith that you shall have enow to +quench your thirst within six hours at the least.”</p> +<p>There was an attempt at a cheer, broken by the murmur, “We +have heard enough of that! It is always six hours and six hours.”</p> +<p>“And the Saracen hounds outside would at least give us a draught +of water ere they made away with us,” said another.</p> +<p>“Saracens, forsooth!” said Sigbert. “You +shall leave the Saracens far behind you. A few words first with +my lord, and you shall hear. Meanwhile, you, John Cook, take all +the beef remaining; make it in small fardels, such as a man may easily +carry.”</p> +<p>“That’s soon done,” muttered the cook. “The +entire weight would scarce bow a lad’s shoulders.”</p> +<p>“The rest of you put together what you would save from the +enemy, and is not too heavy to carry.” One man made some +attempt at growling at a mere lad being consulted, while the stout warriors +were kept in ignorance; but the spirit of discipline and confidence +had returned with Sigbert, and no one heeded the murmur. Meantime, +Sigbert followed the young Lord Walter up the rough winding stairs to +the chamber where Mabel lay on her cushions. “What! what!” +demanded the boy, pausing to enter. Sigbert, by way of answer, +quietly produced from some hidden pouch two figs. Walter snatched +at one with a cry of joy. Mabel held out her hand, then, with +a gasp, drew it back. “Has Roger had one?”</p> +<p>Sigbert signed in the affirmative, and Mabel took a bite of the luscious +fruit with a gasp of pleasure, yet paused once more to hold the remainder +to her nurse.</p> +<p>“The Saints bless you, my sweet lamb!” exclaimed the +old woman; “finish it yourself. I could not.”</p> +<p>“If you don’t want it, give it to me,” put in Walter.</p> +<p>“For shame, my lord,” Sigbert did not scruple to say, +nor could the thirsty girl help finishing the refreshing morsel, while +Walter, with some scanty murmur of excuse, demanded where it came from, +and what Sigbert had meant by promises of safety.</p> +<p>“Sir,” said Sigbert, “you may remember how some +time back your honoured father threw one of the fellaheen into the dungeon +for maiming old Leo.”</p> +<p>“The villain! I remember. I thought he was hanged.”</p> +<p>“No, sir. He escaped. I went to take him food, +and he was gone! I then found an opening in the vault, of which +I spoke to none, save your father, for fear of mischief; but I built +it up with stones. Now, in our extremity, I bethought me of it, +and resolved to try whether the prisoner had truly escaped, for where +he went, we might go. Long and darksome is the way underground, +but it opens at last through one of the old burial-places of the Jews +into the thickets upon the bank of the Jordan.”</p> +<p>“The Jordan! Little short of a league!” exclaimed +Walter.</p> +<p>“A league, underground, and in the dark,” sighed Mabel.</p> +<p>“Better than starving here like a rat in a trap,” returned +her brother.</p> +<p>“Ah yes; oh yes! I will think of the cool river and the +trees at the end.”</p> +<p>“You will find chill enough, lady, long ere you reach the river,” +said Sigbert. “You must wrap yourself well. ’Tis +an ugsome passage; but your heart must not fail you, for it is the only +hope left us.”</p> +<p>The two young people were far too glad to hear of any prospect of +release, to think much of the dangers or discomforts of the mode. +Walter danced for joy up and down the room like a young colt, as he +thought of being in a few hours more in the free open air, with the +sound of water rippling below, and the shade of trees above him. +Mabel threw herself on her knees before her rude crucifix, partly in +thankfulness, partly in dread of the passage that was to come first.</p> +<p>“Like going through the grave to life,” she murmured +to her nurse.</p> +<p>And when the scanty garrison was gathered together, as many as possible +provided with brands that might serve as torches, and Sigbert led them, +lower and lower, down rugged steps hewn in the rock, through vaults +where only a gleam came from above, and then through deeper cavernous +places, intensely dark, there was a shudder perceptible by the clank +and rattle of the armour which each had donned. In the midst, +Walter paused and exclaimed—</p> +<p>“Our banner! How leave it to the Paynim dogs?”</p> +<p>“It’s here, sir,” said Sigbert, showing a bundle +on his back.</p> +<p>“Warning to the foe to break in and seek us,” grumbled +Gilbert.</p> +<p>“Not so,” replied Sigbert. “I borrowed an +old wrapper of nurse’s that will cheat their eyes till we shall +be far beyond their ken.”</p> +<p>In the last dungeon a black opening lay before them, just seen by +the light of the lamp Sigbert carried, but so low that there was no +entrance save on hands and knees.</p> +<p>“That den!” exclaimed Walter. “’Tis +a rat-hole. Never can we go that way.”</p> +<p>“I have tried it, sir,” quoth Sigbert. “Where +I can go, you can go. Your sister quails not.”</p> +<p>“It is fearful,” said Mabel, unable to repress a shiver; +“but, Walter, think what is before us if we stay here! The +Saints will guard us.”</p> +<p>“The worst and lowest part only lasts for a few rods,” +explained Sigbert. “Now, sir, give your orders. Torches +and lanterns, save Hubert’s and nurse’s, to be extinguished. +We cannot waste them too soon, but beware of loosing hold on them.”</p> +<p>Walter repeated the orders thus dictated to him, and Sigbert arranged +the file. It was absolutely needful that Sigbert should go first +to lead the way. Mabel was to follow him for the sake of his help, +then her brother, next nurse, happily the only other female. Between +two stout and trustworthy men the wounded Roger came. Then one +after another the rest of the men-at-arms and servants, five-and-twenty +in number. The last of the file was Hubert, with a lamp; the others +had to move in darkness. There had been no horse of any value +in the castle, for the knight’s charger had been mortally hurt +in his last expedition, and there had been no opportunity of procuring +another. A deerhound, however, pushed and scrambled to the front, +and Sigbert observed that he might be of great use in running before +them. Before entering, however, Sigbert gave the caution that +no word nor cry must be uttered aloud, hap what might, until permission +was given, for they would pass under the Saracen camp, and there was +no knowing whether the sounds would reach the ears above ground.</p> +<p>A strange plunge it was into the utter darkness, crawling on hands +and knees, with the chill cavernous gloom and rock seeming to press +in upon those who slowly crept along, the dim light of Sigbert’s +lamp barely showing as he slowly moved on before. One of the two +in the rear was dropped and extinguished in the dismal passage, a loss +proclaimed by a suppressed groan passing along the line, and a louder +exclamation from Walter, causing Sigbert to utter a sharp ‘Hush!’ +enforced by a thud and tramp above, as if the rock were coming down +on them, but which probably was the trampling of horses in the camp +above.</p> +<p>The smoke of the lamp in front drifted back, and the air was more +and more oppressive. Mabel, with set teeth and compressed lips, +struggled on, clinging tight to the end of the cord which Sigbert had +tied to his body for her to hold by, while in like manner Walter’s +hand was upon her dress. It became more and more difficult to +breathe, or crawl on, till at last, just as there was a sense that it +was unbearable, and that it would be easier to lie still and die than +be dragged an inch farther, the air became freer, the roof seemed to +be farther away, the cavern wider, and the motion freer.</p> +<p>Sigbert helped his young lady to stand upright, and one by one all +the train regained their feet. The lamp was passed along to be +rekindled, speech was permitted, crevices above sometimes admitted air, +sometimes dripped with water. The worst was over—probably +the first part had been excavated, the farther portion was one of the +many natural ‘dens and caves of the earth,’ in which Palestine +abounds. There was still a considerable distance to be traversed, +the lamps burnt out, and had to be succeeded by torches carefully husbanded, +for the way was rough and rocky, and a stumble might end in a fall into +an abyss. In time, however, openings of side galleries were seen, +niches in the wall, and tokens that the outer portion of the cavern +had been once a burial-place of the ancient Israelites—‘the +dog Jews,’ as the Crusaders called them, with a shudder of loathing +and contempt.</p> +<p>And joy infinite—clear daylight and a waving tree were perceptible +beyond. It was daylight, was it? but the sun was low. Five +hours at least had been spent in that dismal transit, before the exhausted, +soiled, and chilled company stepped forth into a green thicket with +the Jordan rushing far below. Five weeks’ siege in a narrow +fortress, then the two miles of subterranean struggle—these might +well make the grass beneath the wild sycamore, the cork-tree, the long +reeds, the willows, above all, the sound of the flowing water, absolute +ecstasy. There was an instant rush for the river, impeded by many +a thorn-bush and creeper; but almost anything green was welcome at the +moment, and the only disappointment was at the height and steepness +of the banks of rock. However, at last one happy man found a place +where it was possible to climb down to the shingly bed of the river, +close to a great mass of the branching headed papyrus reed. Into +the muddy but eminently sweet water most of them waded; helmets became +cups, hands scooped up the water, there were gasps of joy and refreshment +and blessing on the cool wave so long needed.</p> +<p>Sigbert and Walter between them helped down Mabel and her nurse, +and found a secure spot for them, where weary faces, feet, and hands +might be laved in the pool beneath a rock.</p> +<p>Then, taking up a bow and arrows laid down by one of the men, Sigbert +applied himself to the endeavour to shoot some of the water-fowl which +were flying wildly about over the reeds in the unwonted disturbance +caused by the bathers. He brought down two or three of the duck +kind, and another of the party had bethought him of angling with a string +and one of the only too numerous insects, and had caught sundry of the +unsuspecting and excellent fish. He had also carefully preserved +a little fire, and, setting his boy to collect fuel, he produced embers +enough to cook both fish and birds sufficiently to form an appetising +meal for those who had been reduced to scraps of salt food for full +a fortnight.</p> +<p>“All is well so far,” said Walter, with his little lordly +air. “We have arranged our retreat with great skill. +The only regret is that I have been forced to leave the castle to the +enemy! the castle we were bound to defend.”</p> +<p>“Nay, sir, if it be your will,” said Sigbert, “the +tables might yet be turned on the Saracen.”</p> +<p>With great eagerness Walter asked how this could be, and Sigbert +reminded him that many a time it had been observed from the tower that, +though the Saracens kept careful watch on the gates of the besieged +so as to prevent a sally, they left the rear of their camp absolutely +undefended, after the ordinary Eastern fashion, and Sigbert, with some +dim recollection of rhymed chronicles of Gideon and of Jonathan, believed +that these enemies might be surprised after the same fashion as theirs. +Walter leapt up for joy, but Sigbert had to remind him that the sun +was scarcely set, and that time must be given for the Saracens to fall +asleep before the attack; besides that, his own men needed repose.</p> +<p>“There is all the distance to be traversed,” said Walter.</p> +<p>“Barely a league, sir.”</p> +<p>It was hard to believe that the space, so endless underground, was +so short above, and Walter was utterly incredulous, till, climbing the +side of the ravine so high as to be above the trees, Sigbert showed +him the familiar landmarks known in hunting excursions with his father. +He was all eagerness; but Sigbert insisted on waiting till past midnight +before moving, that the men might have time to regain their vigour by +sleep, and also that there might be time for the Saracens to fall into +the deepest of all slumbers in full security.</p> +<p>The moon was low in the West when Sigbert roused the party, having +calculated that it would light them on the way, but would be set by +the time the attack was to be made.</p> +<p>For Mabel’s security it was arranged that a small and most +unwilling guard should remain with her, near enough to be able to perceive +how matters went; and if there appeared to be defeat and danger for +her brother, there would probably be full time to reach Tiberias even +on foot.</p> +<p>However, the men of the party had little fear that flight would be +needed, for, though perhaps no one would have thought of the scheme +for himself, there was a general sense that what Sigbert devised was +prudent, and that he would not imperil his young lord and lady upon +a desperate venture.</p> +<p>Keeping well and compactly together, the little band moved on, along +arid, rocky paths, starting now and then at the howls of the jackals +which gradually gathered into a pack, and began to follow, as if—some +one whispered—they scented prey, “On whom?” was the +question.</p> +<p>On a cliff looking down on the Arab camp, and above it on the dark +mass of the castle, where, in the watch-tower, Sigbert had left a lamp +burning, they halted just as the half-moon was dipping below the heights +towards the Mediterranean. Here the Lady Mabel and her guard were +to wait until they heard the sounds which to their practised ears would +show how the fight went.</p> +<p>The Arab shout of victory they knew only too well, and it was to +be the signal of flight towards Tiberias; but if success was with the +assailants, the war-cry ‘Deus vult,’ and ‘St. Hubert +for Hundberg,’ were to be followed by the hymn of victory as the +token that it was safe to descend.</p> +<p>All was dark, save for the magnificent stars of an Eastern night, +as Mabel, her nurse, and the five men, commanded by the wounded Roger, +stood silently praying while listening intently to the muffled tramp +of their own people, descending on the blacker mass denoting the Saracen +tents.</p> +<p>The sounds of feet died away, only the jackal’s whine and moan, +were heard. Then suddenly came a flash of lights in different +directions, and shouts here, there, everywhere, cries, yells, darkness, +an undistinguishable medley of noise, the shrill shriek of the Moslem, +and the exulting war-cry of the Christian ringing farther and farther +off, in the long valley leading towards the Jordan fords.</p> +<p>Dawn began to break—overthrown tents could be seen. Mabel +had time to wonder whether she was forgotten, when the hymn began to +sound, pealing on her ears up the pass, and she had not had time for +more than an earnest thanksgiving, and a few steps down the rocky pathway, +before a horse’s tread was heard, and a man-at-arms came towards +her leading a slender, beautiful Arab horse. “All well! +the young lord and all. The Saracens, surprised, fled without +ever guessing the number of their foes. The Sheik made prisoner +in his tent. Ay, and a greater still, the Emir Hussein Bey, who +had arrived to take possession of the castle only that very evening. +What a ransom he would pay! Horses and all were taken, the spoil +of the country round, and Master Sigbert had sent this palfrey for Lady +Mabel to ride down.”</p> +<p>Perhaps Sigbert, in all his haste and occupation, had been able to +discern that the gentle little mare was not likely to display the Arab +steed’s perilous attachment to a master, for Mabel was safely +mounted, and ere sunrise was greeted by her joyous and victorious brother. +“Is not this noble, sister? Down went the Pagan dogs before +my good sword! There are a score of them dragged off to the dead +man’s hollow for the jackals and vultures; but I kept one fellow +uppermost to show you the gash I made! Come and see.”</p> +<p>Roger here observed that the horse might grow restive at the carcase, +and Mabel was excused the sight, though Walter continued to relate his +exploits, and demand whether he had not won his spurs by so grand a +ruse and victory.</p> +<p>“Truly I think Sigbert has,” said his sister. “It +was all his doing.”</p> +<p>“Sigbert, an English churl! What are you thinking of, +Mabel?”</p> +<p>“I am thinking to whom the honour is due.”</p> +<p>“You are a mere child, sister, or you would know better. +Sigbert is a very fair squire; but what is a squire’s business +but to put his master in the way of honour? Do not talk such folly.”</p> +<p>Mabel was silenced, and after being conducted across the bare trampled +ground among the tents of the Arabs, she re-entered the castle, where +in the court groups of disarmed Arabs stood, their bournouses pulled +over their brows, their long lances heaped in a corner, grim and disconsolate +at their discomfiture and captivity.</p> +<p>A repast of stewed kid, fruit, and sherbet was prepared for her and +her brother from the spoil, after which both were weary enough to throw +themselves on their cushions for a long sound sleep.</p> +<p>Mabel slept the longer, and when she awoke, she found that the sun +was setting, and that supper was nearly ready.</p> +<p>Walter met her just as she had arranged her dress, to bid nurse make +ready her bales, for they were to start at dawn on the morrow for Tiberias. +It was quite possible that the enemy might return in force to deliver +their Emir. A small garrison, freshly provisioned, could hold +out the castle until relief could be sent; but it would be best to conduct +the two important prisoners direct to the King, to say nothing of Walter’s +desire to present them and to display these testimonies of his prowess +before the Court of Jerusalem.</p> +<p>The Emir was a tall, slim, courteous Arab, with the exquisite manners +of the desert. Both he and the Sheik were invited to the meal. +Both looked startled and shocked at the entrance of the fair-haired +damsel, and the Sheik crouched in a corner, with a savage glare in his +eye like a freshly caught wild beast, though the Emir sat cross-legged +on the couch eating, and talking in the <i>lingua Franca</i>, which +was almost a native tongue, to the son and daughter of the Crusader. +From him Walter learnt that King Fulk was probably at Tiberias, and +this quickened the eagerness of all for a start. It took place +in the earliest morning, so as to avoid the heat of the day. How +different from the departure in the dark underground passage!</p> +<p>Horses enough had been captured to afford the Emir and the Sheik +each his own beautiful steed (the more readily that the creatures could +hardly have been ridden by any one else), and their parole was trusted +not to attempt to escape. Walter, Mabel, Sigbert, and Roger were +also mounted, and asses were found in the camp for the nurse, and the +men who had been hurt in the night’s surprise.</p> +<p>The only mischance on the way was that in the noontide halt, just +as the shimmer of the Lake of Galilee met their eyes, under a huge terebinth-tree, +growing on a rock, when all, except Sigbert, had composed themselves +to a siesta, there was a sudden sound of loud and angry altercation, +and, as the sleepers started up, the Emir was seen grasping the bridle +of the horse on which the Sheik sat downcast and abject under the storm +of fierce indignant words hurled at him for thus degrading his tribe +and all Islam by breaking his plighted word to the Christian.</p> +<p>This was in Arabic, and the Emir further insisted on his prostrating +himself to ask pardon, while he himself in <i>lingua Franca</i> explained +that the man was of a low and savage tribe of Bedouins, who knew not +how to keep faith.</p> +<p>Walter broke out in loud threats, declaring that the traitor dog +ought to be hung up at once on the tree, or dragged along with hands +tied behind him; but Sigbert contented himself with placing a man at +each side of his horse’s head, as they proceeded on their way +to the strongly fortified town of the ancient Herods, perched at the +head of the dark gray Lake of Galilee, shut in by mountain peaks. +The second part of the journey was necessarily begun in glowing heat, +for it was most undesirable to have to spend a night in the open country, +and it was needful to push on to a fortified hospice or monastery of +St. John, which formed a half-way house.</p> +<p>Weary, dusty, athirst, they came in sight of it in the evening; and +Walter and Roger rode forward to request admittance. The porter +begged them to wait when he heard that the party included women and +Saracen prisoners; and Walter began to storm. However, a few moments +more brought a tall old Knight Hospitalier to the gate, and he made +no difficulties as to lodging the Saracens in a building at the end +of the Court, where they could be well guarded; and Mabel and her nurse +were received in a part of the precincts appropriated to female pilgrims.</p> +<p>It was a bare and empty place, a round turret over the gateway, with +a stone floor, and a few mats rolled up in the corner, mats which former +pilgrims had not left in an inviting condition.</p> +<p>However, the notions of comfort of the twelfth century were not exacting. +Water to wash away the dust of travel was brought to the door, and was +followed by a substantial meal on roasted kid and thin cakes of bread. +Sigbert came up with permission for the women to attend compline, though +only strictly veiled; and Mabel knelt in the little cool cryptlike chapel, +almost like the late place of her escape, and returned thanks for the +deliverance from their recent peril.</p> +<p>Then, fresh mats and cushions having been supplied, the damsel and +her nurse slept profoundly, and were only roused by a bell for a mass +in the darkness just before dawn, after which they again set forth, +the commander of the Hospice himself, and three or four knights, accompanying +them, and conversing familiarly with the Emir on the current interests +of Palestine.</p> +<p>About half-way onward, the glint and glitter of spears was seen amid +a cloud of dust on the hill-path opposite. The troop drew together +on their guard, though, as the Hospitalier observed, from the side of +Tiberias an enemy could scarcely come. A scout was sent forward +to reconnoitre; but, even before he came spurring joyously back, the +golden crosses of Jerusalem had been recognised, and confirmed his tidings +that it was the rearguard of the army, commanded by King Fulk himself, +on the way to the relief of the Castle of Gebel-Aroun.</p> +<p>In a brief half-hour more, young Walter de Hundberg, with his sister +by his side, was kneeling before an alert, slender, wiry figure in plain +chamois leather, with a worn sunburnt face and keen blue eyes—Fulk +of Anjou—who had resigned his French county to lead the crusading +cause in Palestine.</p> +<p>“Stand up, fair youth, and tell thy tale, and how thou hast +forestalled our succour.”</p> +<p>Walter told his tale of the blockaded castle, the underground passage, +and the dexterous surprise of the besiegers, ending by presenting, not +ungracefully, his captives to the pleasure of the King.</p> +<p>“Why, this is well done!” exclaimed Fulk. “Thou +art a youth of promise, and wilt well be a prop to our grandson’s +English throne. Thou shalt take knighthood from mine own hand +as thy prowess well deserveth. And thou, fair damsel, here is +one whom we could scarce hold back from rushing with single hand to +deliver his betrothed. Sir Raymond of Courtwood, you are balked +of winning thy lady at the sword’s point, but thou wilt scarce +rejoice the less.”</p> +<p>A dark-eyed, slender young knight, in bright armour, drew towards +Mabel, and she let him take her hand; but she was intent on something +else, and exclaimed—</p> +<p>“Oh, sir, Sir King, let me speak one word! The guerdon +should not be only my brother’s. The device that served +us was—our squire’s.”</p> +<p>The Baron of Courtwood uttered a fierce exclamation. Walter +muttered, “Mabel, do not be such a meddling fool”; but the +King asked, “And who may this same squire be?”</p> +<p>“An old English churl,” said Walter impatiently. +“My father took him as his squire for want of a better.”</p> +<p>“And he has been like a father to us,” added Mabel</p> +<p>“Silence, sister! It is not for you to speak!” +petulantly cried Walter. “Not that the Baron of Courtwood +need be jealous,” added he, laughing somewhat rudely. “Where +is the fellow? Stand forth, Sigbert.”</p> +<p>Travel and heat-soiled, sunburnt, gray, and ragged, armour rusted, +leathern garment stained, the rugged figure came forward, footsore and +lame, for he had given up his horse to an exhausted man-at-arms. +A laugh went round at the bare idea of the young lady’s preferring +such a form to the splendid young knight, her destined bridegroom.</p> +<p>“Is this the esquire who hath done such good service, according +to the young lady?” asked the King.</p> +<p>“Ay, sir,” returned Walter; “he is true and faithful +enough, though nothing to be proud of in looks; and he served us well +in my sally and attack.”</p> +<p>“It was his—” Mabel tried to say, but Sigbert hushed +her.</p> +<p>“Let be, let be, my sweet lady; it was but my bounden duty.”</p> +<p>“What’s that? Speak out what passes there,” +demanded young Courtwood, half-jealously still.</p> +<p>“A mere English villein, little better than a valet of the +camp!” were the exclamations around. “A noble damsel +take note of him! Fie for shame!”</p> +<p>“He has been true and brave,” said the King. “Dost +ask a guerdon for him, young sir?” he added to Walter.</p> +<p>“What wouldst have, old Sigbert?” asked Walter, in a +patronising voice.</p> +<p>“I ask nothing, sir,” returned the old squire. +“To have seen my lord’s children in safety is all I wish. +I have but done my duty.”</p> +<p>King Fulk, who saw through the whole more clearly than some of those +around, yet still had the true Angevin and Norman contempt for a Saxon, +here said: “Old man, thou art trusty and shrewd, and mayst be +useful. Wilt thou take service as one of my men-at-arms?”</p> +<p>“Thou mayst,” said Walter; “thou art not bound +to me. England hath enough of Saxon churls without thee, and I +shall purvey myself an esquire of youthful grace and noble blood.”</p> +<p>Mabel looked at her betrothed and began to speak.</p> +<p>“No, no, sweet lady, I will have none of that rough, old masterful +sort about me.”</p> +<p>“Sir King,” said Sigbert, “I thank thee heartily. +I would still serve the Cross; but my vow has been, when my young lord +and lady should need me no more, to take the Cross of St. John with +the Hospitaliers.”</p> +<p>“As a lay brother? Bethink thee,” said Fulk of +Anjou. “Noble blood is needed for a Knight of the Order.”</p> +<p>Sigbert smiled slightly, in spite of all the sadness of his face, +and the Knight Commander who had ridden with them, a Fleming by birth, +said—</p> +<p>“For that matter, Sir King, we are satisfied. Sigbert, +the son of Sigfrid, hath proved his descent from the old English kings +of the East Saxons, and the Order will rejoice to enrol in the novitiate +so experienced a warrior.”</p> +<p>“Is this indeed so?” asked Fulk. “A good +lineage, even if English!”</p> +<p>“But rebel,” muttered Courtwood.</p> +<p>“It is so, Sir King,” said Sigbert. “My father +was disseised of the lands of Hundberg, and died in the fens fighting +under Hereward le Wake. My mother dwelt under the protection of +the Abbey of Colchester, and, by and by, I served under our Atheling, +and, when King Henry’s wars in Normandy were over, I followed +the Lord of Hundberg’s banner, because the men-at-arms were mine +own neighbours, and his lady my kinswoman. Roger can testify to +my birth and lineage.”</p> +<p>“So, thou art true heir of Hundberg, if that be the name of +thine English castle?”</p> +<p>“Ay, sir, save for the Norman! But I would not, if I +could, meddle with thee, my young lord, though thou dost look at me +askance, spite of having learnt of me to ride and use thy lance. +I am the last of the English line of old Sigfrid the Wormbane, and a +childless man, and I trust the land and the serfs will be well with +thee, who art English born, and son to Wulfrida of Lexden. And +I trust that thou, my sweet Lady Mabel, will be a happy bride and wife. +All I look for is to end my days under the Cross, in the cause of the +Holy Sepulchre, whether as warrior or lay brother. Yes, dear lady, +that is enough for old Sigbert.”</p> +<p>And Mabel had to acquiesce and believe that her old friend found +peace and gladness beneath the eight-pointed Cross, when she and her +brother sailed for England, where she would behold the green fields +and purple heather of which he had told her amid the rocks of Palestine.</p> +<p>Moreover, she thought of him when on her way through France, she +heard the young monk Bernard, then rising into fame, preach on the beleaguered +city, saved by the poor wise man; and tell how, when the city was safe, +none remembered the poor man. True, the preacher gave it a mystic +meaning, and interpreted it as meaning the emphatically Poor Man by +Whom Salvation came, and Whom too few bear in mind. Yet such a +higher meaning did not exclude the thought of one whose deserts surpassed +his honours here on earth.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>THE BEGGAR’S LEGACY</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>An Alderman bold, Henry Smith was enrolled,<br /> Of +the Silversmiths’ Company;<br />Highly praised was his name, his +skill had high fame,<br /> And a prosperous man was +he.</p> +<p>Knights drank to his health, and lauded his wealth;<br /> Sailors +came from the Western Main,<br />Their prizes they sold, of ingots of +gold,<br /> Or plate from the galleys of Spain.</p> +<p>Then beakers full fine, to hold the red wine,<br /> Were +cast in his furnace’s mould,<br />Or tankards rich chased, in +intricate taste,<br /> Gimmal rings of the purest gold.</p> +<p>On each New Year’s morn, no man thought it scorn—<br /> Whether +statesman, or warrior brave—<br />The choicest device, of costliest +price,<br /> For a royal off’ring to crave.</p> +<p>“Bring here such a toy as the most may joy<br /> The +eyes of our gracious Queen,<br />Rows of orient pearls, gold pins for +her curls,<br /> Silver network, all glistening sheen.”</p> +<p>Each buyer who came—lord, squire, or dame—<br /> Behaved +in most courteous guise,<br />Showing honour due, as to one they knew<br /> To +be at once wealthy and wise.</p> +<p>In London Guild Hall, the citizens all,<br /> Esteemed +him their future Lord Mayor;<br />Not one did he meet, in market or +street,<br /> But made him a reverence fair.</p> +<p>“Ho,” said Master Smith, “I will try the pith<br /> Of +this smooth-faced courtesy;<br />Do they prize myself, do they prize +my pelf,<br /> Do they value what’s mine or me?”</p> +<p>His gold chain of pride he hath laid aside,<br /> And +furred gown of the scarlet red;<br />He set on his back a fardel and +pack,<br /> And a hood on his grizzled head.</p> +<p>His ’prentices all he hath left in stall,<br /> But +running right close by his side,<br />In spite of his rags, guarding +well his bags,<br /> His small Messan dog would abide.</p> +<p>So thus, up and down, through village and town,<br /> In +rain or in sunny weather,<br />Through Surrey’s fair land, his +staff in his hand,<br /> Went he and the dog together.</p> +<p>“Good folk, hear my prayer, of your bounty spare,<br /> Help +a wanderer in his need;<br />Better days I have seen, a rich man I have +been,<br /> Esteemed both in word and deed.”</p> +<p>In the first long street, certain forms he did meet,<br /> But +scarce might behold their faces;<br />From matted elf-locks eyes stared +like an ox,<br /> And shambling were their paces!</p> +<p>Not one gave him cheer, nor would one come near,<br /> As +he turned him away to go,<br />Then a heavy stone at the dog was thrown,<br /> To +deal a right cowardly blow.</p> +<p>In Mitcham’s fair vale, the men ’gan to rail,<br /> “Not +a vagabond may come near;”<br />Each mother’s son ran, each +boy and each man,<br /> To summon the constable here.</p> +<p>The cart’s tail behind, the beggar they bind,<br /> They +flogged him full long and full sore;<br />They hunted him out, did that +rabble rout,<br /> And bade him come thither no more!</p> +<p>All weary and bruised, and scurvily used,<br /> He +went trudging along his track;<br />The lesson was stern he had come +to learn,<br /> And yet he disdained to turn back.</p> +<p>Where Walton-on-Thames gleams fair through the stems<br /> Of +its tufted willow palms,<br />There were loitering folk who most vilely +spoke,<br /> Nor would give him one groat in alms.</p> +<p>“Dog Smith,” was the cry, “behold him go by,<br /> The +fool who hath lost all he had!”<br />For only to tease can delight +and can please<br /> The ill-nurtured village lad.</p> +<p>Behold, in Betchworth was a blazing hearth<br /> With +a hospitable door.<br />“Thou art tired and lame,” quoth +a kindly dame,<br /> “Come taste of our humble +store.</p> +<p>“Though scant be our fare, thou art welcome to share;<br /> We +rejoice to give thee our best;<br />Come sit by our fire, thou weary +old sire,<br /> Come in, little doggie, and rest.”</p> +<p>And where Mole the slow doth by Cobham go,<br /> He +beheld a small village maiden;<br />Of loose flocks of wool her lap +was quite full,<br /> With a bundle her arms were laden.</p> +<p>“What seekest thou, child, ’mid the bushes wild,<br /> Thy +face and thine arms that thus tear?”<br />“The wool the +sheep leave, to spin and to weave;<br /> It makes us +our clothes to wear.”</p> +<p>Then she led him in, where her mother did spin,<br /> And +make barley bannocks to eat;<br />They gave him enough, though the food +was rough—<br /> The kindliness made it most +sweet.</p> +<p>Many years had past, report ran at last,<br /> The +rich Alderman Smith was dead.<br />Then each knight and dame, and each +merchant came,<br /> To hear his last testament read.</p> +<p>I, Harry Smith, found of mind clear and sound,<br /> Thus +make and devise my last will:<br />While England shall stand, I bequeath +my land,<br /> My last legacies to fulfil.</p> +<p>“To the muddy spot, where they cleaned them not,<br /> When +amongst their fields I did roam;<br />To every one there with the unkempt +hair<br /> I bequeath a small-toothed comb.</p> +<p>“Next, to Mitcham proud, and the gaping crowd,<br /> Who +for nobody’s sorrows grieve;<br />With a lash double-thong, plaited +firm and strong,<br /> A horsewhip full stout do I +leave.</p> +<p>“To Walton-on-Thames, where, ’mid willow stems,<br /> The +lads and the lasses idle;<br />To restrain their tongues, and breath +of their lungs,<br /> I bequeath a bit and a bridle.</p> +<p>“To Betchworth so fair, and the households there<br /> Who +so well did the stranger cheer,<br />I leave as my doles to the pious +souls,<br /> Full seventy pounds by the year.</p> +<p>“To Cobham the thrifty I leave a good fifty,<br /> To +be laid out in cloth dyed dark;<br />On Sabbath-day to be given away,<br /> And +known by Smith’s badge and mark.</p> +<p>“To Leatherhead too my gratitude’s due,<br /> For +a welcome most freely given;<br />Let my bounty remain, for each village +to gain,<br /> Whence the poor man was never driven.”</p> +<p>So in each sweet dale, and bright sunny vale,<br /> In +the garden of England blest;<br />Those have found a friend, whose gifts +do not end,<br /> Who gave to that stranger a rest!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Henry Smith’s history is literally true. He was a silversmith +of immense wealth in London in the latter part of the sixteenth century, +but in his later years he chose to perambulate the county of Surrey +as a beggar, and was known as ‘Dog Smith.’ He met +with various fortune in different parishes, and at Mitcham was flogged +at the cart’s tail. On his death, apparently in 1627, he +was found to have left bequests to almost every place in Surrey, according +to the manners of the inhabitants—to Mitcham a horsewhip, to Walton-on-Thames +a bridle, to Betchworth, Leatherhead, and many more, endowments which +produce from £50 to £75 a year, and to Cobham a sum to be +spent annually in woollen cloth of a uniform colour, bearing Smith’s +badge, to be given away in church to the poor and impotent, as the following +tablet still records:—</p> +<p>1627</p> +<p><i>Item</i>—That the Gift to the impotent and aged poor people, +shall be bestowed in Apparell of one Coulour, with some Badge or other +Mark, that it may be known to be the Gift of the said Henry Smith, or +else in Bread, flesh, or fish on the Sabbath-day publickly in the Church. +In Witness whereof the said Henry Smith did put to his Hand and seal +the Twenty-first day of January in the Second Year of the Reign of our +most gracious Sovereign Lord King Charles the First.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>A REVIEW OF NIECES</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>GENERAL SIR EDWARD FULFORD, K.G.C., <i>to his sister</i> MISS FULFORD<br />UNITED +SERVICE CLUB, 29<i>th</i> <i>June.</i></p> +<p>My Dear Charlotte,—I find I shall need at least a month to +get through the necessary business; so that I shall only have a week +at last for my dear mother and the party collected at New Cove. +You will have ample time to decide which of the nieces shall be asked +to accompany us, but you had better give no hint of the plan till you +have studied them thoroughly. After all the years that you have +accompanied me on all my stations, you know how much depends on the +young lady of our house being one able to make things pleasant to the +strange varieties who will claim our hospitality in a place like Malta, +yet not likely to flag if left in solitude with you. She must +be used enough to society to do the honours genially and gracefully, +and not have her head turned by being the chief young lady in the place. +She ought to be well bred, if not high bred, enough to give a tone to +the society of her contemporaries, and above all she must not flirt. +If I found flirtation going on with the officers, I should send her +home on the spot. Of course, all this means that she must have +the only real spring of good breeding, and be a thoroughly good, religious, +unselfish, right-minded girl; otherwise we should have to rue our scheme. +In spite of all you would do towards moulding and training a young maiden, +there will be so many distractions and unavoidable counter-influences +that the experiment would be too hazardous, unless there were a character +and manners ready formed. There ought likewise to be cultivation +and intelligence to profit by the opportunities she will have. +I should not like Greece and Italy, to say nothing of Egypt and Palestine, +to be only so much gape seed. You must have an eye likewise to +good temper, equal to cope with the various emergencies of travelling. +<i>N.B</i>. You should have more than one in your eye, for probably +the first choice will be of some one too precious to be attainable.—Your +affectionate brother,</p> +<p>EDWARD FULFORD.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>MISS FULFORD <i>to</i> SIR EDWARD FULFORD<br />1 SHINGLE COTTAGES, +NEW COVE, S. CLEMENTS, 30<i>th</i> <i>June.</i></p> +<p>My Dear Edward,—When Sydney Smith led Perfection to the Pea +because the Pea would not come to Perfection, he could hardly have had +such an ideal as yours. Your intended niece is much like the ‘not +impossible she’ of a youth under twenty. One comfort is +that such is the blindness of your kind that you will imagine all these +charms in whatever good, ladylike, simple-hearted girl I pitch upon, +and such I am sure I shall find all my nieces. The only difficulty +will be in deciding, and that will be fixed by details of style, and +the parents’ willingness to spare their child.</p> +<p>This is an excellent plan of yours for bringing the whole family +together round our dear old mother and her home daughter. This +is the end house of three on a little promontory, and has a charming +view—of the sea in the first place, and then on the one side of +what is called by courtesy the parade, on the top of the sea wall where +there is a broad walk leading to S. Clements, nearly two miles off. +There are not above a dozen houses altogether, and the hotel is taken +for the two families from London and Oxford, while the Druces are to +be in the house but one next to us, the middle one being unluckily let +off to various inhabitants. We have one bedroom free where we +may lodge some of the overflowings, and I believe the whole party are +to take their chief meals together in the large room at the hotel. +The houses are mostly scattered, being such as fortunate skippers build +as an investment, and that their wives may amuse themselves with lodgers +in their absence. The church is the weakest point in this otherwise +charming place. The nearest, and actually the parish church, is +a hideous compo structure, built in the worst of times as a chapel of +ease to S. Clements. I am afraid my mother’s loyalty to +the parochial system will make her secure a pew there, though at the +farther end of the town there is a new church which is all that can +be wished, and about a mile and a half inland there is a village church +called Hollyford, held, I believe, by a former fellow-curate of Horace +Druce. Perhaps they will exchange duties, if Horace can be persuaded +to take a longer holiday than merely for the three weeks he has provided +for at Bourne Parva. They cannot come till Monday week, but our +Oxford professor and his party come on Thursday, and Edith will bring +her girls the next day. Her husband, our Q.C., cannot come till +his circuit is over, but of course you know more about his movements +than I do. I wonder you have never said anything about those girls +of his, but I suppose you class them as unattainable. I have said +nothing to my mother or Emily of our plans, as I wish to be perfectly +unbiased, and as I have seen none of the nieces for five years, and +am prepared to delight in them all, I may be reckoned as a blank sheet +as to their merits.—Your affectionate sister,</p> +<p>CHARLOTTE FULFORD.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p><i>July</i> 4.—By noon to-day arrived Martyn, <a name="citation127"></a><a href="#footnote127">{127}</a> +with Mary his wife, Margaret and Avice their daughters, Uchtred their +second son, and poor Harry Fulford’s orphan, Isabel, who has had +a home with them ever since she left school. Though she is only +a cousin once removed, she seems to fall into the category of eligible +nieces, and indeed she seems the obvious companion for us, as she has +no home, and seems to me rather set aside among the others. I +hope there is no jealousy, for she is much better looking than her cousins, +with gentle, liquid eyes, a pretty complexion, and a wistful expression. +Moreover, she is dressed in a quiet ladylike way, whereas grandmamma +looked out just now in the twilight and said, “My dear Martyn, +have you brought three boys down?” It was a showery, chilly +evening, and they were all out admiring the waves. Ulsters and +sailor hats were appropriate enough then, but the genders were not easy +to distinguish, especially as the elder girl wears her hair short—no +improvement to a keen face which needs softening. She is much +too like a callow undergraduate altogether, and her sister follows suit, +though perhaps with more refinement of feature—indeed she looks +delicate, and was soon called in. They are in slight mourning, +and appear in gray serges. They left a strap of books on the sofa, +of somewhat alarming light literature for the seaside. Bacon’s +<i>Essays and Elements of Logic</i> were the first Emily beheld, and +while she stood regarding them with mingled horror and respect, in ran +Avice to fetch them, as the two sisters are reading up for the Oxford +exam—‘ination’ she added when she saw her two feeble-minded +aunts looking for the rest of the word. However, she says it is +only Pica who is going up for it this time. She herself was not +considered strong enough. Yet there have those two set themselves +down with their books under the rocks, blind to all the glory of sea +and shore, deaf to the dash and ripple of the waves! I long to +go and shout Wordsworth’s warning about ‘growing double’ +to them. I am glad to say that Uchtred has come and fetched Avice +away. I can hardly believe Martyn and Mary parents to this grown-up +family. They look as youthful as ever, and are as active and vigorous, +and full of their jokes with one another and their children. They +are now gone out to the point of the rocks at the end of our promontory, +fishing for microscopical monsters, and comporting themselves boy and +girl fashion.</p> +<p>Isabel has meantime been chatting very pleasantly with grandmamma, +and trying to extricate us from our bewilderment as to names and nicknames. +My poor mother, after strenuously preventing abbreviations in her own +family, has to endure them in her descendants, and as every one names +a daughter after her, there is some excuse! This Oxford Margaret +goes by the name of Pie or Pica, apparently because it is the remotest +portion of Magpie, and her London cousin is universally known as Metelill—the +Danish form, I believe; but in the Bourne Parva family the young Margaret +Druce is nothing worse than Meg, and her elder sister remains Jane. +“Nobody would dare to call her anything else,” says Isa. +Avice cannot but be sometimes translated into the Bird; while my poor +name, in my second London niece, has become the masculine Charley. +“I shall know why when I see her,” says Isa laughing. +This good-natured damsel is coming out walking with us old folks, and +will walk on with me, when grandmamma turns back with Emily. Her +great desire is to find the whereabouts of a convalescent home in which +she and her cousins have subscribed to place a poor young dressmaker +for a six weeks’ rest; but I am afraid it is on the opposite side +of S. Clements, too far for a walk.</p> +<p><i>July</i> 5.—Why did you never tell me how charming Metelill +is? I never supposed the Fulford features capable of so much beauty, +and the whole manner and address are so delightful that I do not wonder +that all her cousins are devoted to her; Uchtred, or Butts, as they +are pleased to name him, has brightened into another creature since +she came, and she seems like sunshine to us all. As to my namesake, +I am sorry to say that I perceive the appropriateness of Charley; but +I suppose it is style, for the masculine dress which in Pica and Avice +has an air of being worn for mere convenience’ sake, and is quite +ladylike, especially on Avice, has in her an appearance of defiance +and coquetry. Her fox-terrier always shares her room, which therefore +is eschewed by her sister, and this has made a change in our arrangements. +We had thought the room in our house, which it seems is an object of +competition, would suit best for Jane Druce and one of her little sisters; +but a hint was given by either Pica or her mother that it would be a +great boon to let Jane and Avice share it, as they are very great friends, +and we had the latter there installed. However, this fox-terrier +made Metelill protest against sleeping at the hotel with her sister, +and her mother begged us to take her in. Thereupon, Emily saw +Isa looking annoyed, and on inquiry she replied sweetly, “Oh, +never mind, aunty dear; I daresay Wasp won’t be so bad as he looks; +and I’ll try not to be silly, and then I daresay Charley will +not tease me! Only I had hoped to be with dear Metelill; but no +doubt she will prefer her Bird—people always do.” +So they were going to make that poor child the victim! For it +seems Pica has a room to herself, and will not give it up or take in +any one. Emily went at once to Avice and asked whether she would +mind going to the hotel, and letting Isa be with Metelill, and this +she agreed to at once. I don’t know why I tell you all these +details, except that they are straws to show the way of the wind, and +you will see how Isabel is always the sacrifice, unless some one stands +up for her. Here comes Martyn to beguile me out to the beach.</p> +<p><i>July</i> 6 (Sunday).—My mother drove to church and took +Edith, who was glad neither to walk nor to have to skirmish for a seat. +Isa walked with Emily and me, and so we made up our five for our seat, +which, to our dismay, is in the gallery, but, happily for my mother, +the stairs are easy. The pews there are not quite so close to +one’s nose as those in the body of the church; they are a little +wider, and are furnished with hassocks instead of traps to prevent kneeling, +so that we think ourselves well off, and we were agreeably surprised +at the service. There is a new incumbent who is striving to modify +things as well as his people and their architecture permit, and who +preached an excellent sermon. So we triumph over the young folk, +who try to persuade us that the gallery is a judgment on us for giving +in to the hired pew system. They may banter me as much as they +like, but I don’t like to see them jest with grandmamma about +it, as if they were on equal terms, and she does not understand it either. +“My dear,” she gravely says, “your grandpapa always +said it was a duty to support the parish church.” “Nothing +will do but the Congregational system in these days; don’t you +think so?” began Pica dogmatically, when her father called her +off. Martyn cannot bear to see his mother teased. He and +his wife, with the young ones, made their way to Hollyford, where they +found a primitive old church and a service to match, but were terribly +late, and had to sit in worm-eaten pews near the door, amid scents of +peppermint and southernwood. On the way back, Martyn fraternised +with a Mr. Methuen, a Cambridge tutor with a reading party, who has, +I am sorry to say, arrived at the house <i>vis-à-vis</i> to ours, +on the other side of the cove. Our Oxford young ladies turn up +their noses at the light blue, and say the men have not the finish of +the dark; but Charley is in wild spirits. I heard her announcing +the arrival thus: “I say, Isa, what a stunning lark! Not +but that I was up to it all the time, or else I should have skedaddled; +for this place was bound to be as dull as ditchwater.” “But +how did you know?” asked Isa. “Why, Bertie Elwood +tipped me a line that he was coming down here with his coach, or else +I should have told the mater I couldn’t stand it and gone to stay +with some one.” This Bertie Elwood is, it seems, one of +the many London acquaintance. He looks inoffensive, and so do +the others, but I wish they had chosen some other spot for their studies, +and so perhaps does their tutor, though he is now smoking very happily +under a rock with Martyn.</p> +<p><i>July</i> 7.—Such a delightful evening walk with Metelill +and Isa as Emily and I had last night, going to evensong in our despised +church! The others said they could stand no more walking and heat, +and yet we met Martyn and Mary out upon the rocks when we were coming +home, after being, I must confess, nearly fried to death by the gas +and bad air. They laughed at us and our exertions, all in the +way of good humour, but it was not wholesome from parents. Mary +tried to make me confess that we were coming home in a self-complacent +fakir state of triumph in our headaches, much inferior to her humble +revelling in cool sea, sky, and moonlight. It was like the difference +between the <i>Benedicite</i> and the <i>Te Deum</i>, I could not help +thinking; while Emily said a few words to Martyn as to how mamma would +be disappointed at his absenting himself from Church, and was answered, +“Ah! Emily, you are still the good home child of the primitive +era,” which she did not understand; but I faced about and asked +if it were not what we all should be. He answered rather sadly, +“If we could’; and his wife shrugged her shoulders. +Alas! I fear the nineteenth century tone has penetrated them, and do +not wonder that this poor Isabel does not seem happy in her home.</p> +<p>9.—What a delightful sight is a large family of young things +together! The party is complete, for the Druces arrived yesterday +evening in full force, torn from their bucolic life, as Martyn tells +them. My poor dear old Margaret! She does indeed look worn +and aged, dragged by cares like a colonist’s wife, and her husband +is quite bald, and as spare as a hermit. It is hard to believe +him younger than Martyn; but then his whole soul is set on Bourne Parva, +and hers on him, on the children, on the work, and on making both ends +meet; and they toil five times more severely in one month than the professor +and his lady in a year, besides having just twice as many children, +all of whom are here except the schoolboys. Margaret declares +that the entire rest, and the talking to something not entirely rural, +will wind her husband up for the year; and it is good to see her sitting +in a basket-chair by my mother, knitting indeed, but they both do that +like breathing, while they purr away to one another in a state of perfect +repose and felicity. Meantime her husband talks Oxford with Martyn +and Mary. Their daughter Jane seems to be a most valuable helper +to both, but she too has a worn, anxious countenance, and I fear she +may be getting less rest than her parents, as they have brought only +one young nursemaid with them, and seem to depend on her and Meg for +keeping the middle-sized children in order. She seems to have +all the cares of the world on her young brow, and is much exercised +about one of the boxes which has gone astray on the railway. What +do you think she did this morning? She started off with Avice +at eight o’clock for the S. Clements station to see if the telegram +was answered, and they went on to the Convalescent Home and saw the +Oxford dressmaker. It seems that Avice had taken Uchtred with +her on Sunday evening, made out the place, and gone to church at S. +Clements close by—a very long walk; but it seems that those foolish +girls thought me too fine a lady to like to be seen with her in her +round hat on a Sunday. I wish they could understand what it is +that I dislike. If I objected to appearances, I am afraid the +poor Druces would fare ill. Margaret’s girls cannot help +being essentially ladies, but they have not much beauty to begin with—and +their dress! It was chiefly made by their own sewing machine, +with the assistance of the Bourne Parva mantua-maker, superintended +by Jane, ‘to prevent her from making it foolish’; and the +effect, I grieve to say, is ill-fitting dowdiness, which becomes grotesque +from their self-complacent belief that it displays the only graceful +and sensible fashion in the place. It was laughable to hear them +criticising every hat or costume they have seen, quite unaware that +they were stared at themselves, till Charley told them people thought +they had come fresh out of Lady Bountiful’s goody-box, which piece +of impertinence they took as a great compliment to their wisdom and +excellence. To be sure, the fashions are distressing enough, but +Metelill shows that they can be treated gracefully and becomingly, and +even Avice makes her serge and hat look fresh and ladylike. Spite +of contrast, Avice and Jane seem to be much devoted to each other. +Pica and Charley are another pair, and Isa and Metelill—though +Metelill is the universal favourite, and there is always competition +for her. In early morning I see the brown heads and blue bathing-dresses, +a-mermaiding, as they call it, in the cove below, and they come in all +glowing, with the floating tresses that make Metelill look so charming, +and full of merry adventures at breakfast. We all meet in the +great room at the hotel for a substantial meal at half-past one, and +again (most of us at least) at eight; but it is a moot point which of +these meals we call dinner. Very merry both of them are; Martyn +and Horace Druce are like boys together, and the girls scream with laughter, +rather too much so sometimes. Charley is very noisy, and so is +Meg Druce, when not overpowered by shyness. She will not exchange +a sentence with any of the elders, but in the general laugh she chuckles +and shrieks like a young Cochin-Chinese chicken learning to crow; and +I hear her squealing like a maniac while she is shrimping with the younger +ones and Charley. I must except those two young ladies from the +unconscious competition, for one has no manners at all, and the other +affects those of a man; but as to the rest, they are all as nice as +possible, and I can only say, “How happy could I be with either.” +Isa, poor girl, seems to need our care most, and would be the most obliging +and attentive. Metelill would be the prettiest and sweetest ornament +of our drawing-room, and would amuse you the most; Pica, with her scholarly +tastes, would be the best and most appreciative fellow-traveller; and +Jane, if she could or would go, would perhaps benefit the most by being +freed from a heavy strain, and having her views enlarged.</p> +<p>10.—A worthy girl is Jane Druce, but I fear the Vicarage is +no school of manners. Her mother is sitting with us, and has been +discoursing to grandmamma on her Jane’s wonderful helpfulness +and activity in house and parish, and how everything hinged on her last +winter when they had whooping-cough everywhere in and out of doors; +indeed she doubts whether the girl has ever quite thrown off the effects +of all her exertions then. Suddenly comes a trampling, a bounce +and a rush, and in dashes Miss Jane, fiercely demanding whether the +children had leave to go to the cove. Poor Margaret meekly responds +that she had consented. “And didn’t you know,” +exclaims the damsel, “that all their everyday boots are in that +unlucky trunk?” There is a humble murmur that Chattie had +promised to be very careful, but it produces a hotter reply. “As +if Chattie’s promises of that kind could be trusted! And +I had <i>told</i> them that they were to keep with baby on the cliff!” +Then came a real apology for interfering with Jane’s plans, to +which we listened aghast, and Margaret was actually getting up to go +and look after her amphibious offspring herself, when her daughter cut +her off short with, “Nonsense, mamma, you know you are not to +do any such thing! I must go, that’s all, or they won’t +have a decent boot or stocking left among them.” Off she +went with another bang, while her mother began blaming herself for having +yielded in haste to the persuasions of the little ones, oblivious of +the boots, thus sacrificing Jane’s happy morning with Avice. +My mother showed herself shocked by the tone in which Margaret had let +herself be hectored, and this brought a torrent of almost tearful apologies +from the poor dear thing, knowing she did not keep up her authority +or make herself respected as would be good for her girl, but if we only +knew how devoted Jane was, and how much there was to grind and try her +temper, we should not wonder that it gave way sometimes. Indeed +it was needful to turn away the subject, as Margaret was the last person +we wished to distress.</p> +<p>Jane could have shown no temper to the children, for at dinner a +roly-poly person of five years old, who seems to absorb all the fat +in the family, made known that he had had a very jolly day, and he loved +cousin Avice very much indeed, and sister Janie very much indeeder, +and he could with difficulty be restrained from an expedition to kiss +them both then and there.</p> +<p>The lost box was announced while we were at dinner, and Jane is gone +with her faithful Avice to unpack it. Her mother would have done +it and sent her boating with the rest, but submitted as usual when commanded +to adhere to the former plan of driving with grandmamma. These +Druce children must be excellent, according to their mother, but they +are terribly brusque and bearish. They are either seen and not +heard, or not seen and heard a great deal too much. Even Jane +and Meg, who ought to know better, keep up a perpetual undercurrent +of chatter and giggle, whatever is going on, with any one who will share +it with them.</p> +<p>10.—I am more and more puzzled about the new reading of the +Fifth Commandment. None seem to understand it as we used to do. +The parents are content to be used as equals, and to be called by all +sorts of absurd names; and though grandmamma is always kindly and attentively +treated, there is no reverence for the relationship. I heard Charley +call her ‘a jolly old party,’ and Metelill respond that +she was ‘a sweet old thing.’ Why, we should have thought +such expressions about our grandmother a sort of sacrilege, but when +I ventured to hint as much Charley flippantly answered, “Gracious +me, we are not going back to buckram”; and Metelill, with her +caressing way, declared that she loved dear granny too much to be so +stiff and formal. I quoted—</p> +<p>“If I be a Father, where is My honour?”</p> +<p>And one of them taking it, I am sorry to say, for a line of secular +poetry, exclaimed at the stiffness and coldness. Pica then put +in her oar, and began to argue that honour must be earned, and that +it was absurd and illogical to claim it for the mere accident of seniority +or relationship. Jane, not at all conscious of being an offender, +howled at her that this was her horrible liberalism and neology, while +Metelill asked what was become of loyalty. “That depends +on what you mean by it,” returned our girl graduate. “<i>Loi-auté</i>, +steadfastness to principle, is noble, but personal loyalty, to some +mere puppet or the bush the crown hangs on, is a pernicious figment.” +Charley shouted that this was the No. 1 letter A point in Pie’s +prize essay, and there the discussion ended, Isa only sighing to herself, +“Ah, if I had any one to be loyal to!”</p> +<p>“How you would jockey them!” cried Charley, turning upon +her so roughly that the tears came into her eyes; and I must have put +on what you call my Government-house look, for Charley subsided instantly.</p> +<p>11.—Here was a test as to this same obedience. The pupils, +who are by this time familiars of the party, had devised a boating and +fishing expedition for all the enterprising, which was satisfactory +to the elders because it was to include both the fathers. Unluckily, +however, this morning’s post brought a summons to Martyn and Mary +to fulfil an engagement they have long made to meet an American professor +at ---, and they had to start off at eleven o’clock; and at the +same time the Hollyford clergyman, an old fellow-curate of Horace Druce, +sent a note imploring him to take a funeral. So the voice of the +seniors was for putting off the expedition, but the voice of the juniors +was quite the other way. The three families took different lines. +The Druces show obedience though not respect; they growled and grumbled +horribly, but submitted, though with ill grace, to the explicit prohibition. +Non-interference is professedly Mary’s principle, but even she +said, with entreaty veiled beneath the playfulness, when it was pleaded +that two of the youths had oars at Cambridge, “Freshwater fish, +my dears. I wish you would wait for us! I don’t want +you to attend the submarine wedding of our old friends Tame and Isis.” +To which Pica rejoined, likewise talking out of Spenser, that Proteus +would provide a nice ancient nymph to tend on them. Her father +then chimed in, saying, “You will spare our nerves by keeping +to dry land unless you can secure the ancient mariner who was with us +yesterday.”</p> +<p>“Come, come, most illustrious,” said Pica good-humouredly, +“I’m not going to encourage you to set up for nerves. +You are much better without them, and I must get some medusæ.”</p> +<p>It ended with, “I beg you will not go without that old man,” +the most authoritative speech I have heard either Martyn or Mary make +to their daughters; but it was so much breath wasted on Pica, who maintains +her right to judge for herself. The ancient mariner had been voted +an encumbrance and exchanged for a jolly young waterman.</p> +<p>Our other mother, Edith, implored, and was laughed down by Charley, +who declared she could swim, and that she did not think Uncle Martyn +would have been so old-womanish. Metelill was so tender and caressing +with her frightened mother that I thought here at last was submission, +and with a good grace. But after a turn on the esplanade among +the pupils, back came Metelill in a hurry to say, “Dear mother, +will you very much <i>mind</i> if I go? They will be so disappointed, +and there will be such a fuss if I don’t; and Charley really ought +to have some one with her besides Pie, who will heed nothing but magnifying +medusæ.” I am afraid it is true, as Isa says, that +it was all owing to the walk with that young Mr Horne.</p> +<p>Poor Edith fell into such a state of nervous anxiety that I could +not leave her, and she confided to me how Charley had caught her foolish +masculine affectations in the family of this very Bertie Elwood, and +told me of the danger of an attachment between Metelill and a young +government clerk who is always on the look-out for her. “And +dear Metelill is so gentle and gracious that she cannot bear to repel +any one,” says the mother, who would, I see, be thankful to part +with either daughter to our keeping in hopes of breaking off perilous +habits. I was saved, however, from committing myself by the coming +in of Isabel. That child follows me about like a tame cat, and +seems so to need mothering that I cannot bear to snub her.</p> +<p>She came to propound to me a notion that has risen among these Oxford +girls, namely, that I should take out their convalescent dressmaker +as my maid instead of poor Amélie. She is quite well now, +and going back next week; but a few years in a warm climate might be +the saving of her health. So I agreed to go with Isa to look at +her, and judge whether the charming account I heard was all youthful +enthusiasm. Edith went out driving with my mother, and we began +our <i>tête-à-tête</i> walk, in which I heard a great +deal of the difficulties of that free-and-easy house at Oxford, and +how often Isa wishes for some one who would be a real guide and helper, +instead of only giving a playful, slap-dash answer, like good-natured +mockery. The treatment may suit Mary’s own daughters, but +‘Just as you please, my dear,’ is not good for sensitive, +anxious spirits. We passed Jane and Avice reading together under +a rock; I was much inclined to ask them to join us, but Isa was sure +they were much happier undisturbed, and she was so unwilling to share +me with any one that I let them alone. I was much pleased with +the dressmaker, Maude Harris, who is a nice, modest, refined girl, and +if the accounts I get from her employers bear out what I hear of her, +I shall engage her; I shall be glad, for the niece’s sake, to +have that sort of young woman about the place. She speaks most +warmly of what the Misses Fulford have done for her.</p> +<p>Jane will be disappointed if I cannot have her rival candidate—a +pet schoolgirl who works under the Bourne Parva dressmaker. “What +a recommendation!” cries Pica, and there is a burst of mirth, +at which Jane looks round and says, “What is there to laugh at? +Miss Dadworthy is a real good woman, and a real old Bourne Parva person, +so that you may be quite sure Martha will have learnt no nonsense to +begin with.”</p> +<p>“No,” says Pica, “from all such pomps and vanities +as style, she will be quite clear.”</p> +<p>While Avice’s friendship goes as far as to say that if Aunt +Charlotte cannot have Maude, perhaps Martha could get a little more +training. Whereupon Jane runs off by the yard explanations of +the admirable training—religious, moral, and intellectual—of +Bourne Parva, illustrated by the best answers of her favourite scholars, +anecdotes of them, and the reports of the inspectors, religious and +secular; and Avice listens with patience, nay, with respectful sympathy.</p> +<p>12.—We miss Mary and Martyn more than I expected. Careless +and easy-going as they seem, they made a difference in the ways of the +young people; they were always about with them, not as dragons, but +for their own pleasure. The presence of a professor must needs +impose upon young men, and Mary, with her brilliant wit and charming +manners, was a check without knowing it. The boating party came +back gay and triumphant, and the young men joined in our late meal; +and oh, what a noise there was! though I must confess that it was not +they who made the most. Metelill was not guilty of the noise, +but she was—I fear I must say it—flirting with all her might +with a youth on each side of her, and teasing a third; I am afraid she +is one of those girls who are charming to all, and doubly charming to +your sex, and that it will never do to have her among the staff. +I don’t think it is old-maidish in us to be scandalised at her +walking up and down the esplanade with young Horne till ten o’clock +last night; Charley was behind with Bertie Elwood, and, I grieve to +say, was smoking. It lasted till Horace Druce went out to tell +them that Metelill must come in at once, as it was time to shut up the +house.</p> +<p>The Oxford girls were safe indoors; Isa working chess problems with +another of the lads, Avice keeping Jane company over the putting the +little ones to sleep—in Mount Lebanon, as they call the Druce +lodging—and Pica preserving microscopic objects. “Isn’t +she awful?” said one of those pupils. “She’s +worse than all the dons in Cambridge. She wants to be at it all +day long, and all through the vacation.”</p> +<p>They perfectly flee from her. They say she is always whipping +out a microscope and lecturing upon protoplasms—and there is some +truth in the accusation. She is almost as bad on the emancipation +of women, on which there is a standing battle, in earnest with Jane—in +joke with Metelill; but it has, by special orders, to be hushed at dinner, +because it almost terrifies grandmamma. I fear Pica tries to despise +her!</p> +<p>This morning the girls are all out on the beach in pairs and threes, +the pupils being all happily shut up with their tutor. I see the +invalid lady creep out with her beach-rest from the intermediate house, +and come down to her usual morning station in the shade of a rock, unaware, +poor thing, that it has been monopolised by Isa and Metelill. +Oh, girls! why don’t you get up and make room for her? No; +she moves on to the next shady place, but there Pica has a perfect fortification +of books spread on her rug, and Charley is sketching on the outskirts, +and the fox-terrier barks loudly. Will she go on to the third +seat? where I can see, though she cannot, Jane and Avice sitting together, +and Freddy shovelling sand at their feet. Ah! at last she is made +welcome. Good girls! They have seated her and her things, +planted a parasol to shelter her from the wind, and lingered long enough +not to make her feel herself turning them out before making another +settlement out of my sight.</p> +<p><i>Three o’clock</i>.—I am sorry to say Charley’s +sketch turned into a caricature of the unprotected female wandering +in vain in search of a bit of shelter, with a torn parasol, a limp dress, +and dragging rug, and altogether unspeakably forlorn. It was exhibited +at the dinner-table, and elicited peals of merriment, so that we elders +begged to see the cause of the young people’s amusement. +My blood was up, and when I saw what it was, I said—</p> +<p>“I wonder you like to record your own discourtesy, to call +it nothing worse.”</p> +<p>“But, Aunt Charlotte,” said Metelill in her pretty pleading +way, “we did not know her.”</p> +<p>“Well, what of that?” I said.</p> +<p>“Oh, you know it is only abroad that people expect that sort +of things from strangers.”</p> +<p>“One of the worst imputations on English manners I ever heard,” +I said.</p> +<p>“But she was such a guy!” cried Charley. “Mother +said she was sure she was not a lady.”</p> +<p>“And therefore you did not show yourself one,” I could +not but return.</p> +<p>There her mother put in a gentle entreaty that Charley would not +distress grandmamma with these loud arguments with her aunt, and I added, +seeing that Horace Druce’s attention was attracted, that I should +like to have added another drawing called ‘Courtesy,’ and +shown that there was <i>some</i> hospitality <i>even</i> to strangers, +and then I asked the two girls about her. They had joined company +again, and carried her beach-rest home for her, finding out by the way +that she was a poor homeless governess who had come down to stay in +cheap lodgings with an old nurse to try to recruit herself till she +could go out again. My mother became immediately interested, and +has sent Emily to call on her, and to try and find out whether she is +properly taken care of.</p> +<p>Isa was very much upset at my displeasure. She came to me afterwards +and said she was greatly grieved; but Metelill would not move, and she +had always supposed it wrong to make acquaintance with strangers in +that chance way. I represented that making room was not picking +up acquaintance, and she owned it, and was really grateful for the reproof; +but, as I told her, no doubt such a rule must be necessary in a place +like Oxford.</p> +<p>How curiously Christian courtesy and polished manners sometimes separate +themselves! and how conceit interferes with both! I acquit Metelill +and Isa of all but thoughtless habit, and Pica was absorbed. She +can be well mannered enough when she is not defending the rights of +woman, or hotly dogmatical on the crude theories she has caught—and +suppose she has thought out, poor child! And Jane, though high-principled, +kind, and self-sacrificing, is too narrow and—not exactly conceited—but +exclusive and Bourne Parvaish, not to be as bad in her way, though it +is the sound one. The wars of the Druces and Maronites, as Martyn +calls them, sometimes rage beyond the bounds of good humour.</p> +<p><i>Ten</i> P.M.—I am vexed too on another score. I must +tell you that this hotel does not shine in puddings and sweets, and +Charley has not been ashamed to grumble beyond the bounds of good manners. +I heard some laughing and joking going on between the girls and the +pupils, Metelill with her “Oh no! You won’t! +Nonsense!” in just that tone which means “I wish, I would, +but I cannot bid you,”—the tone I do not like to hear in +a maiden of any degree.</p> +<p>And behold three of those foolish lads have brought her gilt and +painted boxes of bon-bons, over which there was a prodigious giggling +and semi-refusing and bantering among the young folks, worrying Emily +and me excessively, though we knew it would not do to interfere.</p> +<p>There is a sea-fog this evening unfavourable to the usual promenades, +and we elders, including the tutor, were sitting with my mother, when, +in her whirlwind fashion, in burst Jane, dragging her little sister +Chattie with her, and breathlessly exclaiming, “Father, father, +come and help! They are gambling, and I can’t get Meg away!”</p> +<p>When the nervous ones had been convinced that no one had been caught +by the tide or fallen off the rocks, Jane explained that Metelill had +given one box of bon-bons to the children, who were to be served with +one apiece all round every day. And the others were put up by +Metelill to serve as prizes in the ‘racing game,’ which +some one had routed out, left behind in the lodging, and which was now +spread on the dining-table, with all the young people playing in high +glee, and with immense noise.</p> +<p>“Betting too!” said Jane in horror. “Mr. +Elwood betted three chocolate creams upon Charley, and Pica took it! +Father! Come and call Meg away.”</p> +<p>She spoke exactly as if she were summoning him to snatch her sister +from <i>rouge et noir</i> at Monaco; and her face was indescribable +when her aunt Edith set us all off laughing by saying, “Fearful +depravity, my dear.”</p> +<p>“Won’t you come, father?” continued Jane; “Mr. +Methuen, won’t you come and stop those young men?”</p> +<p>Mr. Methuen smiled a little and looked at Horace, who said—</p> +<p>“Hush, Janie; these are not things in which to interfere.”</p> +<p>“Then,” quoth Jane sententiously, “I am not astonished +at the dissipation of the university.”</p> +<p>And away she flounced in tears of wrath. Her mother went after +her, and we laughed a little, it was impossible to help it, at the bathos +of the chocolate creams; but, as Mr. Methuen said, she was really right, +the amusement was undesirable, as savouring of evil. Edith, to +my vexation, saw no harm in it; but Horace said very decidedly he hoped +it would not happen again; and Margaret presently returned, saying she +hoped that she had pacified Jane, and shown her that to descend as if +there were an uproar in the school would only do much more harm than +was likely to happen in that one evening; and she said to me afterwards, +“I see what has been wanting in our training. We have let +children’s loyalty run into intolerance and rudeness.” +But Meg was quite innocent of there being any harm in it, and only needed +reproof for being too much charmed by the pleasure for once to obey +her dictatorial sister.</p> +<p>13, <i>ten</i> A.M.—Horace has had it out with sundry of the +young ladies, so as to prevent any more betting. Several had regretted +it. “Only they did so want to get rid of the bon-bons! +And Jane did make such an uproar.” After all, nobody did +really bet but Charley and the young Elwood, and Pica only that once. +Jane candidly owns that a little gentleness would have made a difference.</p> +<p>Again I see this obtuseness to courtesy towards strangers. +Our despised church has become popular, and so many of the young folks +choose to accompany us that they overflowed into the free seats in the +aisle, where I had a full view of them from above. These benches +are long, and I was sorry to see the girls planting themselves fast +at the outer end, and making themselves square, so as to hinder any +one else from getting in, till the verger came and spoke to them, when +Charley giggled offensively; and even then they did not make room, but +forced the people to squeeze past. Isa could not help herself, +not being the outermost; but she was much distressed, and does not shelter +herself under Charley’s plea that it was so hot that the verger +should have been indicted for cruelty to animals. Certainly they +all did come home very hot from walking back with the pupils.</p> +<p>Pica and Avice were not among them, having joined the Druces in going +to Hollyford, where Horace preached this morning. Their gray serges +and sailor hats were, as they said, “not adapted to the town congregation.”</p> +<p>“It is the congregation you dress for?” said their uncle +dryly, whereupon Pica upbraided him with inconsistency in telling his +poor people not to use the excuse of ‘no clothes,’ and that +the heart, not the dress, is regarded. He said it was true, but +that he should still advocate the poor man’s coming in his cleanest +and best. “There are manners towards God as well as towards +man,” he said.</p> +<p>I was too much tired by the heat to go to church again this evening, +and am sitting with my mother, who is dozing. Where the young +people are I do not know exactly, but I am afraid I hear Charley’s +shrill laugh on the beach.</p> +<p>14.—Who do you think has found us out? Our dear old Governor-General, +“in all his laurels,” as enthusiastic little Avice was heard +saying, which made Freddy stare hard and vainly in search of them. +He is staying at Hollybridge Park, and seeing our name in the S. Clements’ +list of visitors, he made Lady Hollybridge drive him over to call, and +was much disappointed to find that you could not be here during his +visit. He was as kind and warm-hearted as ever, and paid our dear +mother such compliments on her son, that we tell her the bows on her +cap are starting upright with pride.</p> +<p>Lady Hollybridge already knew Edith. She made herself very +pleasant, and insisted on our coming <i>en masse</i> to a great garden +party which they are giving to-morrow. Hollybridge is the S. Clements’ +lion, with splendid grounds and gardens, and some fine old pictures, +so it is a fine chance for the young people; and we are going to hire +one of the large excursion waggonettes, which will hold all who have +age, dress, and will for gaieties. The pupils, as Mr. Methuen +is a friend of the Hollybridge people, will attend us as outriders on +their bicycles. I am rather delighted at thus catching out the +young ladies who did not think it worth while to bring a Sunday bonnet. +They have all rushed into S. Clements to furbish themselves for the +occasion, and we are left to the company of the small Druces. +Neither Margaret nor Emily chooses to go, and will keep my mother company.</p> +<p>I ventured on administering a sovereign apiece to Isa and Jane Druce. +The first blushed and owned that it was very welcome, as her wardrobe +had never recovered a great thunderstorm at Oxford. Jane’s +awkwardness made her seem as if it were an offence on my part, but her +mother tells me it made her very happy. Her father says that she +tells him he was hard on Avice, a great favourite of his, and that I +must ask Jane to explain, for it is beyond him. It is all right +about the Oxford girl. I have engaged her, and she goes home to-morrow +to prepare herself. This afternoon she is delighted to assist +her young ladies in their preparations. I liked her much in the +private interview. I was rather surprised to find that it was +‘Miss Avice,’ of whom she spoke with the greatest fervour, +as having first made friends with her, and then having constantly lent +her books and read to her in her illness.</p> +<p>15.—S. Swithun is evidently going to be merciful to us +to-day, and the damsels have been indefatigable—all, that is to +say, but the two Londoners, who have lawn tennis dresses, and their +mother’s maid to turn them out complete. Isa brought home +some tulle and white jessamine with which she is deftly freshening the +pretty compromise between a bonnet and a hat which she wears on Sunday; +also a charming parasol, with a china knob and a wreath of roses at +the side. She hopes I shall not think her extravagant, but she +had a little money of her own.</p> +<p>Jane Druce displays two pairs of gloves and two neckties for herself +and her sister; and after all Meg will not go; she is so uncouth that +her mother does not like her to go without her own supervision; and +she with true Bourne Parva self-appreciation and exclusiveness says—</p> +<p>“I’m sure I don’t want to go among a lot of stupid +people, who care for nothing but fine clothes and lawn tennis.”</p> +<p>There was a light till one o’clock last night in the room where +Avice sleeps with Charley and the dog; and I scarcely saw either of +the Oxford sisters or Jane all this morning till dinner-time, when Pica +appeared very appropriately to her name, turned out in an old black +silk dress left behind by her mother, and adorned with white tulle in +all sorts of folds, also a pretty white bonnet made up by Avice’s +clever fingers, and adorned with some soft gray sea-birds’ feathers +and white down. Isa and Metelill were very well got up and nice. +Metelill looks charming, but I am afraid her bouquet is from one of +those foolish pupils. She, as usual, has shared it with Isa, who +has taken half to prevent her cousin being remarkable. And, after +all, poor Avice is to be left behind. There was no time to make +up things for two, and being in mourning, she could not borrow, though +Metelill would have been too happy to lend. She says she shall +be very happy with the children, but I can’t help thinking there +was a tear in her eye when she ran to fetch her dress cloak for Jane, +whom, by the bye, Avice has made wonderfully more like other people. +Here is the waggonette, and I must finish to-morrow.</p> +<p>16.—We have had a successful day. The drive each way +was a treat in itself, and the moon rising over the sea on our way home +was a sight never to be forgotten. Hollybridge is charming in +itself. Those grounds with their sea-board are unique, and I never +saw such Spanish chestnuts in England. Then the gardens and the +turf! One must have lived as long in foreign parts as we have +to appreciate the perfect finish and well-tended look of such places. +Your dear old chief does not quite agree. He says he wants space, +and is oppressed with the sense of hedges and fences, except when he +looks to the sea, and even there the rocks look polished off, and treated +by landscape gardeners! He walked me about to see the show places, +and look at the pictures, saying he had been so well lionised that he +wanted some one to discharge his information upon. It was great +fun to hear him criticising the impossibilities of a battle-piece—Blenheim, +I think—the anachronisms of the firearms and uniforms, and the +want of discipline around Marlborough, who would never have won a battle +at that rate. You know how his hawk’s eye takes note of +everything. He looked at Metelill and said, “Uncommonly +pretty girl that, and knows it,” but when I asked what he thought +of Isabel’s looks, he said, “Pretty, yes; but are you sure +she is quite aboveboard? There’s something I don’t +like about her eyes.” I wish he had not said so. I +know there is a kind of unfriendly feeling towards her among some of +the girls, especially the Druces and Charley. I have heard Charley +openly call her a humbug, but I have thought much of this was dislike +to the softer manners, and perhaps jealousy of my notice, and the expression +that the old lord noticed is often the consequence of living in an uncongenial +home.</p> +<p>Of course my monopoly of the hero soon ended, and as I had no acquaintances +there, and the young ones had been absorbed into games, or had fraternised +with some one, I betook myself to explorations in company with Jane, +who had likewise been left out. After we had wandered along a +dazzling stand of calceolarias, she said, “Aunt Charlotte, papa +says I ought to tell you something; I mean, why Avice could not come +to-day, and why she has nothing to wear but her round hat. It +is because she and Pica spent all they had in paying for that Maude +Harris at the Convalescent Home. They had some kind of flimsy +gauzy bonnets that were faded and utterly done for after Commemoration +week; and as Uncle Martyn is always growling about ladies’ luggage, +they thought it would be a capital plan to go without all the time they +are down here, till another quarter is due. Avice never thought +of its not being right to go to Church such a figure, and now she finds +that papa thinks the command to “have power on her head” +really may apply to that sort of fashion, we are going to contrive something +for Sunday, but it could not be done in time for to-day. Besides, +she had no dress but a serge.”</p> +<p>“She preferred dressing her sister to dressing herself,” +I answered; and Jane began assuring me that no one knew how unselfish +that dear old Bird is. The little money she had, she added to +Pica’s small remnant, and thus enough had been provided to fit +the elder sister out.</p> +<p>“I suppose,” I said, “that Isa manages better, +for she does not seem to be reduced to the same extremities, though +I suppose she has less allowance than her cousins.”</p> +<p>“She has exactly the same. I know it.” And +Jane caught herself up, evidently checking something I might have thought +ill-natured, which made me respond something intended to be moralising, +but which was perhaps foolish, about good habits of economy, and how +this disappointment, taken so good-humouredly, would be a lesson to +Avice. “A lesson? I should think so,” said Jane +bluntly. “A lesson not to lend her money to Isa”; +and then, when I asked what she meant, she blurted out that all Isa’s +so-called share of the subscription for Maude Harris had been advanced +by Avice—Pica had told her so, with comments on her sister’s +folly in lending what she well knew would never be repaid; and Alice +could not deny it, only defending herself by saying, she could not sacrifice +the girl. It was a very uncomfortable revelation, considering +that Isa might have given her cousin my sovereign, but no doubt she +did not think that proper, as I had meant it to be spent for this outing.</p> +<p>I will at least give her the benefit of the doubt, and I would not +encourage Jane to say any more about her. Indeed, the girl herself +did not seem so desirous of dwelling on Isa as of doing justice to Avice, +whom, she told me very truly, I did not know. “She is always +the one to give way and be put aside for Pie and Isa,” said Jane. +And now I think over the time we have had together, I believe it has +often been so. “You are very fond of her,” I said; +and Jane answered, “I should <i>think</i> so! Why, she spent +eight months with us once at Bourne Parva, just after the great row +with Miss Hurlstone. Oh, didn’t you know? They had +a bad governess, who used to meet a lover—a German musician, I +think he was—when they were out walking, and bullied Avice because +she was honest. When it all came to light, Pica came out and Isa +was sent to school, but Avice had got into a low state of health, and +they said Oxford was not good for her, so she came to us. And +papa prepared her for Confirmation, and she did everything with us, +and she really is just like one of ourselves,” said Jane, as the +highest praise imaginable, though any one who contrasted poor Jane’s +stiff <i>piqué</i> (Miss Dadsworth’s turn-out) with the +grace even of the gray serge, might not think it a compliment. +Jane was just beginning to tell me that Avice always wrote to her to +lay before her father the difficulties about right and wrong faith and +practice that their way of life and habits of society bring before the +poor child, when Isa descended upon us with “Oh! Aunt Charlotte, +I could not think what had become of you, when I saw the great man without +you.”</p> +<p>I begin to wonder whether she is really so very fond of me, or whether +she does not like to see me with one of the others.</p> +<p>However, I shall be able to take Jane’s hint, and cultivate +Avice, for, as my mother did not come yesterday, Lady Hollybridge has +most kindly insisted on her going over to-day. The carriage is +taking some one to the station, and is to call for her and me to bring +us to luncheon, the kind people promising likewise to send us back. +So I asked whether I might bring a niece who had not been able to come +yesterday, and as the young people had, as usual, become enamoured of +Metelill, they begged for her likewise. Avice looks very well +in the dress she made up for Pica, and being sisters and in mourning, +the identity will only be natural. She is very much pleased and +very grateful, and declares that she shall see everything she cares +about much more pleasantly than in the larger party, and perhaps ‘really +hear the hero talk.’ And Uncle Horace says, “True, +you Bird, you are not like some young folk, who had rather hear themselves +talk than Socrates and S. Ambrose both at once.” “Oh!” +said saucy Pica, “now we know what Uncle Horace thinks of his +own conversations with father!” By the bye, Martyn and Mary +come home to-morrow, and I am very glad of it, for those evening diversions +on the beach go on in full force, and though there is nothing tangible, +except Charley’s smoke, to object to, and it is the present way +of young people, there is something unsatisfactory in it. Edith +does not seem to mind what her daughters do. Margaret has no occasion +to be uneasy about Jane, who always stays with the little ones while +the maids are at supper, and generally takes with her the devoted Avice, +who has some delicacy of throat forbidding these evening excursions. +Meg gets more boisterous and noisy every day, Uchtred being her chief +companion; but as she is merely a tomboy, I believe her parents think +it inexpedient to give her hints that might only put fancies in her +head. So they have only prohibited learning to smoke, staying +out later than nine o’clock, and shrieking louder than a steam +whistle!</p> +<p>17.—Yesterday was a great success. Avice was silent at +first, but Metelill drew her out, and she had become quite at her ease +before we arrived. You would have been enchanted to see how much +was made of our dear mother. Lord Hollybridge came out himself +to give her his arm up the stone steps and across the slippery hall. +The good old chief talked to her by the hour about you, and Avice’s +eyes shone all the time. After luncheon our kind hostess arranged +that dear mother should have half an hour’s perfect rest, in a +charming little room fitted like a tent, and then had a low chair with +two little fairy ponies in it to drive her about the gardens, while +I walked with the two gentlemen and saw things much better than in the +former hurly-burly, though that was a beautiful spectacle in its way. +Avice, who has seen scores of <i>fêtes</i> in college grounds, +much preferred the scenery, etc., in their natural state to a crowd +of strangers. The young people took possession of the two girls, +and when we all met for the five o’clock tea, before going home, +Lady Georgina eagerly told her father that Miss Fulford had made out +the subject of ‘that picture.’ It was a very beautiful +Pre-Raffaelite, of a lady gathering flowers in a meadow, and another +in contemplation, while a mysterious shape was at the back; the ladies +stiff-limbed but lovely faced, and the flowers—irises, anemones, +violets, and even the grass-blossom, done with botanical accuracy. +A friend of Lord Hollybridge had picked it up for him in some obscure +place in Northern Italy, and had not yet submitted it to an expert. +Avice, it appeared, had recognised it as representing Leah and Rachel, +as Action and Contemplation in the last books of Dante’s <i>Purgatorio</i>, +with the mystic griffin car in the distance. Our hosts were very +much delighted; we all repaired to the picture, where she very quietly +and modestly pointed out the details. A Dante was hunted up, but +Lady Hollybridge and I were the only elders who knew any Italian, and +when the catalogue was brought, Avice knew all the names of the translators, +but as none were to be found, Lord Hollybridge asked if she would make +him understand the passage, which she did, blushing a little, but rendering +it in very good fluent English, so that he thanked her, and complimented +her so much that she was obliged to answer that she had got it up when +they were hearing some lectures on Dante; and besides it was mentioned +by Ruskin; whereupon she was also made to find the reference, and mark +both it and Dante.</p> +<p>“I like that girl,” said the old Governor-General, “she +is intelligent and modest both. There is something fine about +the shape of her head.”</p> +<p>When we went home, Metelill was as proud and delighted as possible +at what she called the Bird’s triumph; but Avice did not seem +at all elated, but to take her knowledge as a mere outcome of her ordinary +Oxford life, where allusions, especially Ruskinese and Dantesque, came +naturally. And then, as grandmamma went to sleep in her corner, +the two girls and I fell into a conversation on that whole question +of Action and Contemplation. At least Metelill asked the explanation, +but I doubt whether she listened much while Avice and I talked out the +matter, and I felt myself a girl again, holding the old interminable +talks with the first dear Avice, before you made her my sister for those +two happy years, and—Well, it is no use paining you and myself +with going back to those days, though there was something in the earnest +thoughtfulness and depth of her young namesake and godchild that carried +me back to the choicest day of companionship before you came on the +scene. And to think what a jewel I have missed all this time!</p> +<p>18.—I am deeply grieved, and am almost ashamed to write what +I have to tell you. I had been out to see my mother with Margaret +and Emily settle in their favourite resort on the beach, and was coming +in to write my letters, when, in the sitting-room, which has open French +windows down to the ground, I heard an angry voice—</p> +<p>“I tell you it was no joke. It’s no use saying +so,” and I beheld Charley and Isa in the midst of a violent quarrel. +“I’ve looked on at plenty of your dodges, sucking up to +Aunt Charlotte to get taken out with her; but when it comes to playing +spiteful tricks on my sister I will speak out.”</p> +<p>By this time I was on the window-step, checking Charley’s very +improper tone, and asking what was the matter. Isa sprang to me, +declaring that it was all Charley’s absurd suspicion and misconstruction. +At last, amid hot words on both sides, I found that Charley had just +found, shut into a small album which Metelill keeps upon the drawing-room +table, a newly taken photograph of young Horne, one of the pupils, with +a foolish devoted inscription upon the envelope, directed to Miss Fulford.</p> +<p>Isa protested that she had only popped it in to keep it safe until +she could return it. Charley broke out. “As if I did +not know better than that! Didn’t you make him give you +that parasol and promise him your photo? Ay, and give it him in +return? You thought he would keep your secret, I suppose, but +he tells everything, like a donkey as he is, to Bertie Elwood, and Bertie +and I have such fun over him. And now, because you are jealous +of poor Metelill, and think Aunt Charlotte may take a fancy to you instead +of her, you are sticking his photo into her book just to do her harm +with the aunts. I’m not strait-laced. I wouldn’t +mind having the photos of a hundred and fifty young men, only they would +be horrid guys and all just alike; but Aunt Charlotte is—is—well—a +regular old maid about it, and you knew she would mind it, and so you +did it on purpose to upset Metelill’s chances.”</p> +<p>Isa clung to me in floods of tears, desiring me not to believe anything +so cruel and false. Every one always was so hard upon her, she +said, and she had only put the thing inadvertently there, to get it +out of sight, into the first book she saw, but unfortunately she did +not know I had heard her trying to pass it off to Charley as a jest. +However, as there was no proof there, I asked about the parasol. +While the shopping was going on, she and young Horne had been in another +street, and this was the consequence! I was perfectly confounded. +Receive presents from young men! It seemed to me quite impossible. +“Oh, Isa thinks nothing of that!” said Charley. “Ask +her where she got those bangles, and that bouquet which she told you +was half Metelill’s. You think me awful, I know, Aunt Charlotte, +but I do draw a line, though I would never have said one word about +it if she had not played this nasty trick on Metelill.” +Isa would have begun some imploring excuse, but our two gentlemen were +seen coming up towards the window, and she fled, gasping out an entreaty +that I would not tell Uncle Martyn.</p> +<p>Nor did I then and there, for I needed to understand the matter and +look into it, so I told Martyn and Horace not to wait for me, and heard +Charley’s story more coolly. I had thought that Mr. Horne +was Metelill’s friend. “So he was at first,” +Charley said, “but he is an uncommon goose, and Isa is no end +of a hand at doing the pathetic poverty-stricken orphan! That’s +the way she gets so many presents!” Then she explained, +in her select slang, that young Horne’s love affairs were the +great amusement of his fellow-pupils, and that she, being sure that +the parasol was no present from me, as Isa had given the cousins to +understand, had set Bertie Elwood to extract the truth by teasing his +friend. “But I never meant to have told,” said Charley, +“if you had not come in upon us, when I was in the midst of such +a wax that I did not know what I was saying”; and on my demanding +what she meant by the elegant expression she had used about Isa and +me, she explained that it was the schoolboy’s word for currying +favour. Every one but we stupid elders perceived the game, nay, +even the Druces, living in full confidence with their children, knew +what was going on. I have never spoken, but somehow people must +read through one’s brains, for there was a general conviction +that I was going to choose a niece to accompany us. I wonder if +you, my wise brother, let out anything to Edith. It is what men +always do, they bind women to silence and then disclose the secret themselves, +and say, “Nothing is safe with these women.”</p> +<p>Any way, these girls have been generous, or else true to their <i>esprit +de corps</i>, I do not know which to call it; for though they looked +on at Isa’s manœuvres and my blindness with indignant contempt, +they never attempted to interfere. Jane Druce was seized with +a fit of passionate wrath and pity for me, but her father withheld her +from disclosures, assuring her that I should probably find out the girl’s +true disposition, and that it would be wrong to deprive Isa of a chance +of coming under a fresh influence.</p> +<p>Poor girl, she must be very clever, for she kept up her constant +wooing of me while she also coquetted with Mr. Horne, being really, +as her contemporaries declare, a much worse flirt than Metelill, but +the temptation of the parasol threw her off her guard, and she was very +jealous of my taking out Metelill and Avice. I see now that it +has been her effort to keep the others away from me. This spiteful +trick, if it be true that she meant it, seems to have been done on Metelill, +as being supposed to be her only real rival. Avice always yields +to her, and besides, is too inoffensive to afford her any such opportunity.</p> +<p>When I talked to Mary, she said, “Oh yes, I always knew she +was a horrid little treacherous puss. Nature began it, and that +governess worked on a ready soil. We sent her to school, and hoped +she was cured, but I have long seen that it has only shown her how to +be more plausible. But what can one do? One could not turn +out an orphan, and I did not see that she was doing our own girls any +harm. I’m sure I gave her every chance of marrying, for +there was nothing I wished for so much, and I never told Martyn of her +little manœuvres, knowing he would not stand them; and now what +he will do, I can’t think, unless you and Edward will take her +off our hands. I believe you might do her good. She is an +unfathomable mixture of sham and earnest, and she really likes you, +and thinks much of you, as having a certain prestige, and being a woman +of the world” (fancy that). “Besides, she is really +religious in a sort of a way; much good you’ll say it does her, +but, as you know, there’s a certain sort of devotion which makes +no difference to people’s conduct.”</p> +<p>It seems to be the general desire of the family that we should take +this unfortunate Isabel off their hands. Shall we? Cruelly +as I have been disappointed in the girl, I can’t help liking her; +she is obliging, pleasant, ladylike in manners, very affectionate, and +I can’t help thinking that with the respect and fear for you she +would feel she might be restrained, and that we could be the saving +of her, though at the same time I know that my having been so egregiously +deceived may be a sign that I am not fit to deal with her. I leave +it to your decision altogether, and will say no more till I hear. +Metelill is a charming girl, and I fancy you prefer her, and that her +mother knows it, and would send her for at least a winter; but she gets +so entirely off her balance whenever a young man of any sort comes near, +that I should not like to take charge of her. It might be good +for the worthy Jane, but as she would take a great deal of toning down +and licking into shape, and as she would despise it all, refer everything +to the Bourne Parva standard, and pine for home and village school, +I don’t think she need be considered, especially as I am sure +she would not go, and could not be spared. Pica would absorb herself +in languages and antiquities, and maintain the rights of women by insisting +on having full time to study her protoplasms, snubbing and deriding +all the officers who did not talk like Oxford dons. Probably the +E. E. would be the only people she would think fit to speak to. +Avice is the one to whom I feel the most drawn. She is thoroughly +thoughtful, and her religion is not of the uninfluential kind Mary describes. +Those distresses and perplexities which poor Isa affected were chiefly +borrowed from her genuine ones; but she has obtained the high cultivation +and intelligence that her Oxford life can give in full measure, and +without conceit or pretension, and it is her unselfish, yielding spirit +that has prevented me from knowing her sooner, though when not suppressed +she can be thoroughly agreeable, and take her part in society with something +of her mother’s brilliancy. I think, too, that she would +be spared, as Oxford does not agree with her, and a southern winter +or two would be very good for her. Besides, the others might come +and see her in vacation time. Could we not take both her and Isabel +at least for the first winter?</p> +<p>19.—A stormy wet day, the first we have had. Poor Isa +has made an attempt at explanation and apology, but lost herself in +a mist of words and tears. I suppose I was severe, for she shrinks +from me, and clings to Avice, who has stood her friend in many a storm +before, and, as Jane indignantly tells me, persists in believing that +she is really sorry and wishes to be good. She is very attentive +and obliging, and my dear mother, who is in happy ignorance of all this +uproar, really likes her the best of all the girls.</p> +<p>21.—We have had a great alarm. Last evening we went to +the parish church; Horace Druce had been asked to preach, and the rain, +which had fallen all the morning, cleared off just in time for the walk. +Emily, Margaret, two of her children, and I sat in the gallery, and +Avice and Isa in the free seats below. Avice had been kept at +home by the rain in the morning, but had begged leave to go later. +Darkness came on just as the first hymn was given out, and the verger +went round with his long wand lighting the gas. In the gallery +we saw plainly how, at the east end, something went wrong with his match, +one which he thought had failed, and threw aside. It fell on a +strip of straw matting in the aisle, which, being very dry, caught fire +and blazed up for a few seconds before it was trampled out. Some +foolish person, however, set the cry of ‘Fire!’ going, and +you know what that is in a crowded church. The vicar, in his high +old-fashioned desk with a back to it, could not see. Horace in +a chair, in the narrow, shallow sanctuary, did see that it was nothing, +but between the cries of ‘Fire!’ and the dying peal of the +organ, could not make his voice heard. All he could do was to +get to the rear of the crowd, together with the other few who had seen +the real state of things, and turn back all those whom they could, getting +them out through the vestry. But the main body were quite out +of their reach, and everybody tried to rush scrambling into the narrow +centre aisle, choking up the door, which was a complicated trap meant +to keep out draughts. We in the gallery tried vainly to assure +them that the only danger was in the crowd, and the clergyman in his +desk, sure that was the chief peril, at any rate, went on waving and +calling to them to wait; but the cries and shrieks drowned everything, +and there was a most terrible time, as some 600 people jammed themselves +in that narrow space, fighting, struggling, fainting.</p> +<p>You may suppose how we watched our girls. They had let themselves +be thrust up to the end of the seat by later comers: Avice the innermost. +We saw them look up to us, with white faces. To our joy, Avice +seemed to understand our signs and to try to withhold Isa, but she was +too wild with fright not to try to push on to the end of the pew. +Avice held her dress, and kept her back. Then, as the crowd swayed, +the two girls stood on the seat, and presently I saw Avice bend down, +and take from some one’s arms a little child, which she seated +on the edge of the pew, holding it in her arms, and soothing it. +I don’t know how long it all lasted, Horace says it was not ten +minutes before he had got men and tools to break down the obstruction +at the door, and pull out the crowded, crushed people, but to us it +seemed hours. They were getting calmer too in the rear, for many +had followed the lead through the vestry door, and others had found +out that there was no fire at all.</p> +<p>Wonderful to tell, no one was killed. There were some broken +arms, three I think, and some bad bruises. Many people were fainting, +and much hurt by the horrible heat and crush, but when at last the way +was free, we saw Horace come into the church, looking about in great +anxiety for the two girls, whom he had failed to find in the trampled +multitude. Then Avice came up to him, with the child in her arms, +and Isa followed, quite safe! How thankful we all were! +Avice says she remembered at once that she had been told of the American +fireman’s orders to his little girl always to keep still in such +an alarm, for the crowd was a worse peril than the fire. By the +time we had come down the stairs and joined them, the child’s +father had come for it in great anxiety, for its sister had been trampled +down fainting, and had just only revived enough to miss it! I +shall never forget what it was to see people sucked down in that surging +mass, and the thankful thrill of seeing our girls standing there quietly +with the child between them, its little fair head on Avice’s breast. +We went home quietly and thankfully. Horace took Avice to the +hotel that he might explain all to her parents, and let them know how +well she had behaved; Isabel was shaken and tearful, and her voice sounded +weak and nervous as she bade her cousin good-night and embraced her +with much agitation. So I went to her room to see whether she +needed any doctoring, but I found Metelill soothing her nicely, so I +only kissed her (as I had not done these two nights). “Ah, +dear aunt, you forgive me!” she said. The tone threw me +back, as if she were making capital of her adventure, and I said, “You +have not offended <i>me</i>.” “Ah! you are still angry, +and yet you <i>do</i> love me still a little,” she said, not letting +me go. “The more love, the more grief for your having done +wrong,” I said; and she returned, “Ah! if I always had you.” +That chilled me, and I went away. She does not know the difference +between pardon and remission of consequences. One must have something +of the spirit of the fifty-first Psalm before that perception comes. +Poor dear child, how one longs for power to breathe into her some such +penitence!</p> +<p>Avice is quite knocked up to-day, and her mother has kept her in +bed, where she is very happy with her Jane. I have been to see +her, and she has been thanking me for having suggested the making way +for fresh comers in a pew. Otherwise, she says, she could not +have withstood the rush.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>SIR EDWARD FULFORD <i>to</i> MISS FULFORD<br /><i>22d July.</i></p> +<p>My Dear Charlotte,—I decidedly object to the company of a young +lady with such a genius for intrigue as Isabel Fulford seems to possess. +If we had only ourselves to consider, no doubt it would be well for +you to take her in hand, but in the sort of house ours will be, there +must be no one we cannot depend upon in our own family.</p> +<p>I suppose I am guilty of having betrayed my thoughts to Edith. +I had certainly wished for Metelill. She is an engaging creature, +and I am sorry you take so adverse a view of her demeanour; but I promised +to abide by your judgment and I will not question it. We will +ask Arthur and Edith to bring her to visit us, and then perhaps you +may be better satisfied with her.</p> +<p>The learned young lady is out of the question, and as Avice is my +dear wife’s godchild as well as mine, I am very glad she has deserved +that your choice should fall upon her. It seems as if you would +find in her just the companionship you wish, and if her health needs +the southern climate, it is well to give her the opportunity. +You had better propose the scheme at once, and provide what she will +need for an outfit. The last touches might be given at Paris. +I hope to get time to run down to New Cove next week, and if you and +the niece can be ready to start by the middle of August, we will take +Switzerland by the way, and arrive at Malta by the end of September.</p> +<p>I shall be curious to hear the result of your throwing the handkerchief.—Your +affectionate brother,</p> +<p>E. F.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>MISS FULFORD <i>to</i> SIR EDWARD FULFORD</p> +<p><i>July</i> 24.—I threw the handkerchief by asking Martyn and +Mary to spare their daughter. Tears came into Mary’s eyes, +the first I ever saw there, and she tried in vain to say something ridiculous. +Martyn walked to the window and said huskily, “Dr. A--- said it +would confirm her health to spend a few winters in the South. +Thank you, Charlotte!” They did not doubt a moment, but +Martyn feels the parting more than I ever thought he would, and Pica +and Uchtred go about howling and bewailing, and declaring that they +never shall know where to find anything again.</p> +<p>Avice herself is much more sorrowful than glad, though she is too +courteous and grateful not to show herself gracious to me. She +did entreat me to take Isa instead, so earnestly that I was obliged +to read her your decided objections. It was a blow to her at first, +but she is rapidly consoling herself over the wonderful commissions +she accepts. She is to observe Mediterranean zoophytes, and send +them home on glass slides for the family benefit. She is to send +her father photographs and drawings to illustrate his lectures, and +Jane has begged for a pebble or rock from S. Paul’s Bay, to show +to her class at school. Indeed, I believe Avice is to write a +special journal, to be published in the <i>Bourne</i> <i>Parva Parish +Magazine</i>; Charley begs for a sea-horse, and Freddy has been instructed +by one of the pupils to bargain for nothing less than the Colossus of +Rhodes; Metelill is quite as cordial in her rejoicing, and Edith owns +that, now it has come to the point, she is very glad to keep her daughter.</p> +<p>And Isa? Well, she is mortified, poor child. I think +she must have cried bitterly over the disappointment, for she looked +very wretched when we met at dinner.</p> +<p>Meanwhile, Martyn had a walk with Emily, who found that he was very +sorry not to be relieved from Isabel, though he knew you were quite +right not to take her. He thought Oxford not a good place for +such a girl, and the absence of the trustworthy Avice would make things +worse. Then Emily proposed to take Isabel back to the Birchwood +with her. Grandmamma really likes the girl, who is kind and attentive. +There are no young people to whom she could do harm, Emily can look +after her, and will be glad of help and companionship. The whole +family council agreed that it will be a really charitable work, and +that if any one can do her good, it will be the mother and Aunt Emily.</p> +<p>Isa has acquiesced with an overflow of gratitude and affection to +them for taking pity on her. It sounds a little fulsome, but I +believe some of it is genuine. She is really glad that some one +wishes for her, and I can quite believe that she will lose in Avice +all that made life congenial to her under Mary’s brisk uncompromising +rule. If she can only learn to be true—true to herself and +to others—she will yet be a woman to love and esteem, and at Birchwood +they will do their best to show that religious sentiment must be connected +with Truth.</p> +<p>And so ends my study of the manners of my nieces, convincing me the +more that as the manners are, so is the man or woman. The heart, +or rather the soul, forms the manners, and they <i>are</i> the man.</p> +<p>C. F.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>COME TO HER KINGDOM</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>‘Take care! Oh, take care!’</p> +<p>Whisk, swish, click, click, through the little crowd at Stokesley +on a fine April afternoon, of jocund children just let loose from school, +and mothers emerging from their meeting, collecting their progeny after +the fashion of old ewes with their lambs; Susan Merrifield in a huge, +carefully preserved brown mushroom hat, with a big basket under one +arm, and a roll of calico under the other; her sister Elizabeth with +a book in one hand, and a packet of ambulance illustrations; the Vicar, +Mr. Doyle, and his sister likewise loaded, talking to them about the +farmer’s wedding of the morning, for which the bells had been +ringing fitfully all day, and had just burst out again. Such was +the scene, through which, like a flash, spun a tricycle, from which +a tiny curly-haired being in knickerbockers was barely saved by his +mother’s seizing him by one arm.</p> +<p>‘A tricycle!’ exclaimed the Vicar.</p> +<p>‘A woman! Oh!’ cried Susan in horror, ‘and +she’s stopping—at the Gap. Oh!’</p> +<p>‘My dear Susie, you must have seen ladies on tricycles before,’ +whispered her sister.</p> +<p>‘No, indeed, I am thankful to say I have not! If it should +be Miss Arthuret!’ said Susan, with inexpressible tones in her +voice.</p> +<p>‘She was bowing right and left,’ said the Vicar, a little +maliciously; ‘depend upon it, she thought this was a welcome from +the rural population.’</p> +<p>‘Hark! here’s something coming.’</p> +<p>The Bonchamp fly came rattling up, loaded with luggage, and with +a quiet lady in black seated in it, which stopped at the same gate.</p> +<p>‘The obedient mother, no doubt,’ said Elizabeth. +‘She looks like a lady.’</p> +<p>There had been a good deal of excitement at Stokesley about the property +known by the pleasing name of the Gap. An old gentleman had lived +there for many years, always in a secluded state, and latterly imbecile, +and on his death in the previous year no one had for some time appeared +as heir; but it became known that the inheritrix was a young lady, a +great-niece, living with a widowed mother in one of the large manufacturing +towns in the north of England. Her father had been a clergyman +and had died when she was an infant. That was all that was known, +and as the house had become almost uninhabitable, the necessary repairs +had prevented the heiress from taking possession all this time. +It was not a very large inheritance, only comprising a small farm, the +substantial village shop, four or five cottages, and a moderate-sized +house and grounds, where the neglected trees had grown to strange irregular +proportions, equally with the income, which, owing to the outgoings +being small, had increased to about £800 or £900 a year, +and of course it was a subject of much anxiety with Admiral Merrifield’s +family to know what sort of people the newcomers would prove.</p> +<p>Of the large family only the two eldest daughters were at home; Susan, +now nearly forty, had never left it, but had been the daughter-of-all-work +at home and lady-of-all-work to the parish ever since she had emerged +from the schoolroom; her apricot complexion showing hardly any change, +and such as there was never perceived by her parents. The Admiral, +still a light, wiry, hale man, as active as ever, with his hands full +of county, parish, and farming business; an invalid for many years, +but getting into that health which is <i>la jeunesse de la vieillesse.</i></p> +<p>Elizabeth had, from twenty-five to thirty-two, been spared from home +by her father to take care of his stepmother in London, where she had +beguiled her time with a certain amount of authorship under a <i>nom +de plume</i>, and had been introduced to some choice society both through +her literary abilities and her family connections.</p> +<p>Four years previous the old lady had died, leaving her a legacy, +which, together with her gains, would have enabled her to keep such +a home in town as to remain in touch with the world to which she had +been introduced; but she had never lost her Stokesley heart enough for +the temptation to outweigh the disappointment she would have caused +at home, and the satisfaction and rest of being among her own people. +So she only went up for an occasional visit, and had become the brightness +of the house, and Susan’s beloved partner in all her works.</p> +<p>Her father, who understood better than did her mother and sister +what she had given up, had insisted on her having a sitting-room to +herself, which she embellished with the personal possessions she had +accumulated, and where she pursued her own avocations in the forenoon, +often indeed interrupted, but never showing, and not often feeling, +that it was to her hindrance, and indeed the family looked on her work +sufficiently as a profession, not only to acquiesce, but to have a certain +complacency in it, though it was a kind of transparent fiction that +MESA was an anagram of her initials and that of Stokesley. Her +mother at any rate believed that none of the neighbours guessed at any +such thing.</p> +<p>Stokesley was a good deal out of the world, five miles from the station +at Bonchamp, over hilly, stony roads, so that the cyclist movement had +barely reached it; the neighbourhood was sparse, and Mrs. Merrifield’s +health had not been conducive to visiting, any more than was her inclination, +so that there was a little agitation about first calls.</p> +<p>The newcomers appeared at church on Sunday at all the services. +A bright-faced girl of one-and-twenty, with little black eyes like coals +of fire, a tight ulster, like a riding habit, and a small billycock +hat, rather dismayed those who still held that bonnets ought to be the +Sunday gear of all beyond childhood; but the mother, in rich black silk, +was unexceptionable.</p> +<p>Refusing to be marshalled up the aisle to the seat which persistent +tradition assigned to the Gap in the aristocratic quarter, daughter +and mother (it was impossible not thus to call them) sat themselves +down on the first vacant place, close to a surviving white smock-frock, +and blind to the bewildered glances of his much-bent friend in velveteen, +who, hobbling in next after, found himself displaced and separated alike +from his well-thumbed prayer and hymn book and the companion who found +the places for him.</p> +<p>‘It ain’t fitty like,’ said the old man confidentially +to Susan, ‘nor the ladies wouldn’t like it when we comes +in with our old coats all of a muck with wet.’</p> +<p>‘The principle is right,’ said Bessie, when this was +repeated to her; ‘but practice ought to wait till native manners +and customs are learnt.’</p> +<p>The two sisters offered to save their mother the first visit—leave +her card, or make her excuses; but Mrs. Merrifield held that a card +thus left savoured of deceit, and that the deed must be womanfully done +in person. But she would not wait till the horses could be spared, +saying that for near village neighbours it was more friendly to go down +in her donkey-chair; and so she did, Bessie driving her, and the Admiral +walking with them.</p> +<p>The Gap had, ever since Bessie could remember, been absolutely shrouded +in trees, its encircling wall hidden in ivy bushes, over which laburnums, +lilacs, pink thorns, and horse chestnuts towered; and the drive from +the seldom-opened gate was almost obstructed by the sweeping arms of +laurels and larches.</p> +<p>It was obstructed now, but by these same limbs lying amputated; and +‘chop, chop!’ was heard in the distance.</p> +<p>‘Oh, the Arbutus!’ sighed Bessie.</p> +<p>‘Clearing was much needed,’ said her father, with a man’s +propensity for the axe.</p> +<p>The donkey, however, thought it uncanny, ‘upon the pivot of +his skull, turned round his long left ear,’ and planted his feet +firmly. Mrs. Merrifield, deprecating the struggle by which her +husband would on such occasions enforce discipline, begged to get out; +and while this was going on, the ulstered young lady, with a small axe +in hand, came, as it were, to the rescue, and, while the donkey was +committed to a small boy, explained hastily, ‘So overgrown, there +is nothing to be done but to let in light and air. My mother is +at home,’ she added; ‘she will be happy to see you,’ +and, conducting them in with complete self-possession—rather, +as it occurred to Bessie, as the Queen might have led the way to the +Duchess of Kent, though there was a perfect simplicity and evident enjoyment +about her that was very prepossessing, and took off the edge of the +sense of conceit. Besides, the palace was, to London eyes at least, +so little to boast of, with the narrow little box of a wooden porch, +the odd, one-sided vestibule, and the tiny anteroom with the worn carpet; +but the drawing-room, in spite of George IV furniture, was really pretty, +with French windows opening on a well-mown lawn, and fresh importations +of knick-knacks, and vases of wild flowers, which made it look inhabited +and pleasant. There was no one there, and the young lady proceeded +to fetch her mother; and the unguarded voice was caught by Bessie’s +quick ears from the window.</p> +<p>‘Here are Admiral and Mrs. Merrifield, and one daughter. +Come along, little mammy! Worthy, homely old folks—just +in your line.’</p> +<p>To Bessie’s relief, she perceived that this was wholly unheard +by her father and mother. And there was no withstanding the eager, +happy, shy looks of the mother, whose whole face betrayed that after +many storms she had come into a haven of peace, and that she was proud +to owe it to her daughter.</p> +<p>A few words showed that mother and daughter were absolutely enchanted +with Stokesley, their own situation, and one another—the young +lady evidently all the more because she perceived so much to be done.</p> +<p>‘Everything wants improving. It is so choked up,’ +she said, ‘one wants to let in the light.’</p> +<p>‘There are a good many trees,’ said the Admiral, while +Bessie suspected that she meant figuratively as well as literally; and +as the damsel was evidently burning to be out at her clearing operations +again, and had never parted with her axe, the Admiral offered to go +with her and tell her about the trees, for, as he observed, she could +hardly judge of those not yet out in leaf.</p> +<p>She accepted him, though Bessie shrewdly suspected that the advice +would be little heeded, and, not fancying the wet grass and branches, +nor the demolition of old friends, she did not follow the pair, but +effaced herself, and listened with much interest to the two mothers, +who sat on the sofa with their heads together. Either Mrs. Merrifield +was wonderful in inspiring confidence, or it was only too delightful +to Mrs. Arthuret to find a listener of her own standing to whom to pour +forth her full heart of thankfulness and delight in her daughter. +‘Oh, it is too much!’ occurred so often in her talk that, +if it had not been said with liquid eyes, choking voice, and hands clasped +in devout gratitude, it would have been tedious; but Mrs. Merrifield +thoroughly went along with it, and was deeply touched.</p> +<p>The whole story, as it became known, partly in these confidences, +partly afterwards, was this. The good lady, who had struck the +family at first as a somewhat elderly mother for so young a daughter, +had been for many years a governess, engaged all the time to a curate, +who only obtained a small district incumbency in a town, after wear +and tear, waiting and anxiety, had so exhausted him that the second +winter brought on bronchitis, and he scarcely lived to see his little +daughter, Arthurine. The mother had struggled on upon a pittance +eked out with such music teaching as she could procure, with her little +girl for her sole care, joy, and pride—a child who, as she declared, +had never given her one moment’s pang or uneasiness.</p> +<p>‘Poor mamma, could she say that of any one of her nine?’ +thought Bessie; and Mrs. Merrifield made no such attempt.</p> +<p>Arthurine had brought home all prizes, all distinctions at the High +School, but—here was the only disappointment of her life—a +low fever had prevented her trying for a scholarship at Girton. +In consideration, however, of her great abilities and high qualities, +as well as out of the great kindness of the committee, she had been +made an assistant to one of the class mistresses, and had worked on +with her own studies, till the wonderful tidings came of the inheritance +that had fallen to her quite unexpectedly; for since her husband’s +death Mrs. Arthuret had known nothing of his family, and while he was +alive there were too many between him and the succession for the chance +to occur to him as possible. The relief and blessing were more +than the good lady could utter. All things are comparative, and +to one whose assured income had been £70 a year, £800 was +unbounded wealth; to one who had spent her life in schoolrooms and lodgings, +the Gap was a lordly demesne.</p> +<p>‘And what do you think was the first thing my sweet child said?’ +added Mrs. Arthuret, with her eyes glittering through tears. ‘Mammy, +you shall never hear the scales again, and you shall have the best Mocha +coffee every day of your life.’</p> +<p>Bessie felt that after this she must like the sweet child, though +sweetness did not seem to her the predominant feature in Arthurine.</p> +<p>After the pathos to which she had listened there was somewhat of +a comedy to come, for the ladies had spent the autumn abroad, and had +seen and enjoyed much. ‘It was a perfect feast to see how +Arthurine entered into it all,’ said the mother. ‘She +was never at a loss, and explained it all to me. Besides, perhaps +you have seen her article?’</p> +<p>‘I beg your pardon.’</p> +<p>‘Her article in the <i>Kensington</i>. It attracted a +great deal of attention, and she has had many compliments.’</p> +<p>‘Oh! the <i>Kensington Magazine</i>,’ said Mrs. Merrifield, +rather uneasily, for she was as anxious that Bessie should not be suspected +of writing in the said periodical as the other mother was that Arthurine +should have the fame of her contributions.</p> +<p>‘Do you take it?’ asked Mrs. Arthuret, ‘for we +should be very glad to lend it to you.’</p> +<p>A whole pile was on the table, and Mrs. Merrifield looked at them +with feeble thanks and an odd sort of conscious dread, though she could +with perfect truth have denied either ‘taking it’ or reading +it.</p> +<p>Bessie came to her relief. ‘Thank you,’ she said; +‘we do; some of us have it. Is your daughter’s article +signed A. A., and doesn’t it describe a boarding-house on the +Italian lakes? I thought it very clever and amusing.’</p> +<p>Mrs. Arthuret’s face lighted up. ‘Oh yes, my dear,’ +slipped out in her delight. ‘And do you know, it all came +of her letter to one of the High School ladies, who is sister to the +sub-editor, such a clever, superior girl! She read it to the headmistress +and all, and they agreed that it was too good to be lost, and Arthurine +copied it out and added to it, and he—Mr. Jarrett—said it +was just what he wanted—so full of information and liveliness—and +she is writing some more for him.’</p> +<p>Mrs. Merrifield was rather shocked, but she felt that she herself +was in a glass house, was, in fact, keeping a literary daughter, so +she only committed herself to, ‘She is very young.’</p> +<p>‘Only one-and-twenty,’ returned Mrs. Arthuret triumphantly; +‘but then she has had such advantages, and made such use of them. +Everything seems to come at once, though, perhaps, it is unthankful +to say so. Of course, it is no object now, but I could not help +thinking what it would have been to us to have discovered this talent +of hers at the time when we could hardly make both ends meet.’</p> +<p>‘She will find plenty of use for it,’ said Mrs. Merrifield, +who, as the wife of a country squire and the mother of nine children, +did not find it too easy to make her ends meet upon a larger income.</p> +<p>‘Oh yes! indeed she will, the generous child. She is +full of plans for the regeneration of the village.’</p> +<p>Poor Mrs. Merrifield! this was quite too much for her. She +thought it irreverent to apply the word in any save an ecclesiastical +sense; nor did she at all desire to have the parish, which was considered +to be admirably worked by the constituted authorities, ‘regenerated,’ +whatever that might mean, by a young lady of one-and-twenty. She +rose up and observed to her daughter that she saw papa out upon the +lawn, and she thought it was time to go home.</p> +<p>Mrs. Arthuret came out with them, and found what Bessie could only +regard as a scene of desolation. Though gentlemen, as a rule, +have no mercy on trees, and ladies are equally inclined to cry, ‘Woodman, +spare that tree,’ the rule was reversed, for Miss Arthuret was +cutting, and ordering cutting all round her ruthlessly with something +of the pleasure of a child in breaking a new toy to prove that it is +his own, scarcely listening when the Admiral told her what the trees +were, and how beautiful in their season; while even as to the evergreens, +she did not know a yew from a cedar, and declared that she must get +rid of this horrid old laurustinus, while she lopped away at a Portugal +laurel. Her one idea seemed to be that it was very unwholesome +to live in a house surrounded with trees; and the united influence of +the Merrifields, working on her mother by representing what would be +the absence of shade in a few months’ time, barely availed to +save the life of the big cedar; while the great rhododendron, wont to +present a mountain of shining leaves and pale purple blossoms every +summer, was hewn down without remorse as an awful old laurel, and left +a desolate brown patch in its stead.</p> +<p>‘Is it an emblem,’ thought Bessie, ‘of what she +would like to do to all of us poor old obstructions?’</p> +<p>After all, Mrs. Merrifield could not help liking the gentle mother, +by force of sympathy; and the Admiral was somewhat fascinated by the +freshness and impetuosity of the damsel, as elderly men are wont to +be with young girls who amuse them with what they are apt to view as +an original form of the silliness common to the whole female world except +their own wives, and perhaps their daughters; and Bessie was extremely +amused, and held her peace, as she had been used to do in London. +Susan was perhaps the most annoyed and indignant. She was presiding +over seams and button-holes the next afternoon at school, when the mother +and daughter walked in; and the whole troop started to their feet and +curtsied.</p> +<p>‘Don’t make them stand! I hate adulation. +Sit down, please. Where’s the master?’</p> +<p>‘In the boys’ school, ma’am,’ said the mistress, +uncomfortably indicating the presence of Miss Merrifield, who felt herself +obliged to come forward and shake hands.</p> +<p>‘Oh! so you have separate schools. Is not that a needless +expense?’</p> +<p>‘It has always been so,’ returned Susan quietly.</p> +<p>‘Board? No? Well, no doubt you are right; but I +suppose it is at a sacrifice of efficiency. Have you cookery classes?’</p> +<p>‘We have not apparatus, and the girls go out too early for +it to be of much use.’</p> +<p>‘Ah, that’s a mistake. Drawing?’</p> +<p>‘The boys draw.’</p> +<p>‘I shall go and see them. Not the girls? They look +orderly enough; but are they intelligent? Well, I shall look in +and examine them on their special subjects, if they have any. +I suppose not.’</p> +<p>‘Only class. Grammar and needlework.’</p> +<p>‘I see, the old routine. Quite the village school.’</p> +<p>‘It is very nice work,’ put in Mrs. Arthuret, who had +been looking at it.</p> +<p>‘Oh yes, it always is when everything is sacrificed to it. +Good-morning, I shall see more of you, Mrs.—ahem.’</p> +<p>‘Please, ma’am, should I tell her that she is not a school +manager?’ inquired the mistress, somewhat indignantly, when the +two ladies had departed.</p> +<p>‘You had better ask the Vicar what to do,’ responded +Susan.</p> +<p>The schoolmaster, on his side, seemed to have had so much advice +and offers of assistance in lessons on history, geography, and physical +science, that he had been obliged to refer her to the managers, and +explain that till the next inspection he was bound to abide by the time-table.</p> +<p>‘Ah, well, I will be one of the managers another year.’</p> +<p>So she told the Vicar, who smiled, and said, ‘We must elect +you.’</p> +<p>‘I am sure much ought to be done. It is mere waste to +have two separate schools, when a master can bring the children on so +much better in the higher subjects.’</p> +<p>‘Mrs. Merrifield and the rest of us are inclined to think that +what stands highest of all with us is endangered by mixed schools,’ +said Mr. Doyle.</p> +<p>‘Oh!’ Arthurine opened her eyes; ‘but education +does all <i>that</i>!’</p> +<p>‘Education does, but knowledge is not wisdom. Susan Merrifield’s +influence has done more for our young women than the best class teaching +could do.’</p> +<p>‘Oh, but the Merrifields are all so <i>bornés</i> and +homely; they stand in the way of all culture.’</p> +<p>‘Indeed,’ said the Vicar, who had in his pocket a very +favourable review of MESA’s new historical essay.</p> +<p>‘Surely an old-fashioned squire and Lady Bountiful and their +very narrow daughters should not be allowed to prevent improvement, +pauperise the place, and keep it in its old grooves.’</p> +<p>‘Well, we shall see what you think by the time you have lived +here long enough to be eligible for—what?’</p> +<p>‘School manager, guardian of the poor!’ cried Arthurine.</p> +<p>‘We shall see,’ repeated the Vicar. ‘Good-morning.’</p> +<p>He asked Bessie’s leave to disclose who MESA was.</p> +<p>‘Oh, don’t!’ she cried, ‘it would spoil the +fun! Besides, mamma would not like it, which is a better reason.’</p> +<p>There were plenty of books, old and new, in Bessie’s room, +magazines and reviews, but they did not come about the house much, unless +any of the Rockstone cousins or the younger generation were staying +there, or her brother David had come for a rest of mind and body. +Between housekeeping, gardening, parish work, and pottering, Mrs. Merrifield +and Susan never had time for reading, except that Susan thought it her +duty to keep something improving in hand, which generally lasted her +six weeks on a moderate average. The Admiral found quite reading +enough in the newspapers, pamphlets, and business publications; and +their neighbours, the Greville family, were chiefly devoted to hunting +and lawn tennis, so that there was some reason in Mrs. Arthuret’s +lamentation to the Vicar that dear Arthurine did so miss intellectual +society, such as she had been used to with the High School mistresses—two +of whom had actually been at Girton!</p> +<p>‘Does she not get on with Bessie Merrifield?’ he asked.</p> +<p>‘Miss Bessie has a very sweet face; Arthurine did say she seemed +well informed and more intelligent than her sister. Perhaps Arthurine +might take her up. It would be such an advantage to the poor girl.’</p> +<p>‘Which?’ was on Mr. Doyle’s tongue, but he restrained +it, and only observed that Bessie had lived for a good many years in +London.</p> +<p>‘So I understood,’ said Arthurine, ‘but with an +old grandmother, and that is quite as bad as if it was in the country; +but I will see about it. I might get up a debating society, or +one for studying German.’</p> +<p>In the meantime Arthurine decided on improving and embellishing the +parish with a drinking fountain, and meeting Bessie one afternoon in +the village, she started the idea.</p> +<p>‘But,’ said Bessie, ‘there is a very good supply. +Papa saw that good water was accessible to all the houses in the village +street ten years ago, and the outlying ones have wells, and there’s +the brook for the cattle.’</p> +<p>‘I am sure every village should have a fountain and a trough, +and I shall have it here instead of this dirty corner.’</p> +<p>‘Can you get the ground?’</p> +<p>‘Oh, any one would give ground for such a purpose! Whose +is it?’</p> +<p>‘Mr. Grice’s, at Butter End.’</p> +<p>The next time Susan and Bessie encountered Arthurine, she began—</p> +<p>‘Can you or Admiral Merrifield do nothing with that horrid +old Grice! Never was any one so pigheaded and stupid.’</p> +<p>‘What? He won’t part with the land you want?’</p> +<p>‘No; I wrote to him and got no answer. Then I wrote again, +and I got a peaked-hand sort of note that his wife wrote, I should think. +“Mr. Grice presented his compliments” (compliments indeed!), +“and had no intention of parting with any part of Spragg’s +portion.” Well, then I called to represent what a benefit +it would be to the parish and his own cattle, and what do you think +the old brute said?—that “there was a great deal too much +done for the parish already, and he wouldn’t have no hand in setting +up the labourers, who were quite impudent enough already.” +Well, I saw it was of no use to talk to an old wretch like that about +social movements and equal rights, so I only put the question whether +having pure water easily accessible would not tend to make them better +behaved and less impudent as he called it, upon which he broke out into +a tirade. “He didn’t hold with cold water and teetotal, +not he. Why, it had come to <i>that</i>—that there was no +such thing as getting a fair day’s work out of a labouring man +with their temperance, and their lectures, and their schools, and their +county councils and what not!” Really I had read of such +people, but I hardly believed they still existed.’</p> +<p>‘Grice is very old, and the regular old sort of farmer,’ +said Bessie.</p> +<p>‘But could not the Admiral persuade him, or Mr. Doyle?’</p> +<p>‘Oh no,’ said Susan, ‘it would be of no use. +He was just as bad about a playground for the boys, though it would +have prevented their being troublesome elsewhere.’</p> +<p>‘Besides,’ added Bessie, ‘I am sure papa would +say that there is no necessity. He had the water analysed, and +it is quite good, and plenty of it.’</p> +<p>‘Well, I shall see what can be done.’</p> +<p>‘She thinks us as bad as old Grice,’ said Susan, as they +saw her walking away in a determined manner.</p> +<p>The next thing that was heard was the Admiral coming in from the +servants’ hall, whither he had been summoned by ‘Please, +sir, James Hodd wishes to speak to you.’</p> +<p>‘What is this friend of yours about, Bessie?’</p> +<p>‘What friend, papa?’</p> +<p>‘Why, this Miss Arthur—what d’ye call her?’ +said the Admiral (who on the whole was much more attracted by her than +were his daughters). ‘Here’s a deputation from her +tenant, James Hodd, with “Please, sir, I wants to know if ’tis +allowed to turn folks out of their houses as they’ve paid rent +for reg’lar with a week’s notice, when they pays by the +year.”’</p> +<p>‘You don’t mean it!’ exclaimed Mrs. Merrifield +and Susan together.</p> +<p>‘Poor old Mrs. West,’ said the mother.</p> +<p>‘And all the Tibbinses!’ exclaimed Susan. ‘She +can’t do it, can she, papa?’</p> +<p>‘Certainly not, without the proper notice, and so I told James, +and that the notice she had sent down to him was so much waste-paper.’</p> +<p>‘So at least she has created a village Hampden,’ said +Bessie, ‘though, depend upon it, she little supposes herself to +be the petty tyrant.’</p> +<p>‘I must go and explain to her, I suppose, to-morrow morning,’ +said the Admiral.</p> +<p>However, he had scarcely reached his own gate before the ulstered +form was seen rushing up to him.</p> +<p>‘Oh! Admiral Merrifield, good-morning; I was coming to +ask you—’</p> +<p>‘And I was coming to you.’</p> +<p>‘Oh! Admiral, is it really so—as that impudent +man told me—that those horrid people can’t be got out of +those awful tumbledown, unhealthy places for all that immense time?’</p> +<p>‘Surely he was not impudent to you? He was only asserting +his right. The cottages were taken by the year, and you have no +choice but to give six months’ notice. I hope he was not +disrespectful.’</p> +<p>‘Well, no—I can’t say that he was, though I don’t +care for those cap-in-hand ways of your people here. But at any +rate, he says he won’t go—no, not any of them, though I +offered to pay them up to the end of the time, and now I must put off +my beautiful plans. I was drawing them all yesterday morning—two +model cottages on each side, and the drinking fountain in the middle. +I brought them up to show you. Could you get the people to move +out? I would promise them to return after the rebuilding.’</p> +<p>‘Very nice drawings. Yes—yes—very kind intentions.’</p> +<p>‘Then can’t you persuade them?’</p> +<p>‘But, my dear young lady, have you thought what is to become +of them in the meantime?’</p> +<p>‘Why, live somewhere else! People in Smokeland were always +shifting about.’</p> +<p>‘Yes—those poor little town tenements are generally let +on short terms and are numerous enough. But here—where are +the vacant cottages for your four families? Hodd with his five +children, Tibbins with eight or nine, Mrs. West and her widow daughter +and three children, and the Porters with a bedridden father?’</p> +<p>‘They are dreadfully overcrowded. Is there really no +place?’</p> +<p>‘Probably not nearer than those trumpery new tenements at Bonchamp. +That would be eight miles to be tramped to the men’s work, and +the Wests would lose the washing and charing that maintains them.’</p> +<p>‘Then do you think it can never be done? See how nice +my plans are!’</p> +<p>‘Oh yes! very pretty drawings, but you don’t allow much +outlet.’</p> +<p>‘I thought you had allotments, and that they would do, and +I mean to get rid of the pig-sties.’</p> +<p>‘A most unpopular proceeding, I warn you.’</p> +<p>‘There’s nothing more unsanitary than a pig-sty.’</p> +<p>‘That depends on how it is kept. And may I ask, do you +mean also to dispense with staircases?’</p> +<p>‘Oh! I forgot. But do you really mean to say that +I can never carry out my improvements, and that these people must live +all herded together till everybody is dead?’</p> +<p>‘Not quite that,’ said the Admiral, laughing; ‘but +most improvements require patience and a little experience of the temper +and habits of the people. There are cottages worse than these. +I think two of them have four rooms, and the Wests and Porters do not +require so much. If you built one or two elsewhere, and moved +the people into them, or waited for a vacant one, you might carry out +some of your plans—gradually.’</p> +<p>‘And my fountain?’</p> +<p>‘I am not quite sure, but I am afraid your cottages are on +that stratum where you could not bring the water without great expense.’</p> +<p>Arthurine controlled herself enough for a civil ‘Good-morning!’ +but she shed tears as she walked home and told her pitying mother that +she was thwarted on every side, and that nobody could comprehend her.</p> +<p>The meetings for German reading were, however, contrived chiefly—little +as Arthurine guessed it—by the influence of Bessie Merrifield. +The two Greville girls and Mr. Doyle’s sister, together with the +doctor’s young wife, two damsels from the next parish, and a friend +or two that the Arthurets had made at Bonchamp, formed an imposing circle—to +begin.</p> +<p>‘Oh, not on <i>Wilhelm Tell</i>!’ cried Arthurine. +‘It might as well be the alphabet at once.’</p> +<p>However, the difficulties in the way of books, and consideration +for general incompetency, reduced her to <i>Wilhelm Tell</i>, and she +began with a lecture first on Schiller, and then upon Switzerland, and +on the legend; but when Bessie Merrifield put in a word of such history +and criticisms as were not in the High School Manual, she was sure everything +else must be wrong—‘Fraülein Blümenbach never +said so, and she was an admirable German scholar.’</p> +<p>Miss Doyle went so far as to declare she should not go again to see +Bessie Merrifield so silenced, sitting by after the first saying nothing, +but only with a little laugh in her eyes.</p> +<p>‘But,’ said Bessie, ‘it is such fun to see any +person having it so entirely her own way—like Macaulay, so cock-sure +of everything—and to see those Bonchamp girls—Mytton is +their name—so entirely adoring her.’</p> +<p>‘I am sorry she has taken up with those Myttons,’ said +Miss Doyle.</p> +<p>‘So am I,’ answered Susan.</p> +<p>‘You too, Susie!’ exclaimed Bessie—‘you, +who never have a word to say against any one!’</p> +<p>‘I daresay they are very good girls,’ said Susan; ‘but +they are—’</p> +<p>‘Underbred,’ put in Miss Doyle in the pause. ‘And +how they flatter!’</p> +<p>‘I think the raptures are genuine gush,’ said Bessie; +‘but that is so much the worse for Arthurine. Is there any +positive harm in the family beyond the second-rate tone?’</p> +<p>‘It was while you were away,’ said Susan; ‘but +their father somehow behaved very ill about old Colonel Mytton’s +will—at least papa thought so, and never wished us to visit them.’</p> +<p>‘He was thought to have used unfair influence on the old gentleman,’ +said Miss Doyle; ‘but the daughters are so young that probably +they had no part in it. Only it gives a general distrust of the +family; and the sons are certainly very undesirable young men.’</p> +<p>‘It is unlucky,’ said Bessie, ‘that we can do nothing +but inflict a course of snubbing, in contrast with a course of admiration.’</p> +<p>‘I am sure I don’t want to snub her,’ said good-natured +Susan. ‘Only when she does want to do such queer things, +how can it be helped?’</p> +<p>It was quite true, Mrs. and Miss Arthuret had been duly called upon +and invited about by the neighbourhood; but it was a scanty one, and +they had not wealth and position enough to compensate for the girl’s +self-assertion and literary pretensions. It was not a superior +or intellectual society, and, as the Rockstone Merrifields laughingly +declared, it was fifty years behindhand, and where Bessie Merrifield, +for the sake of the old stock and her meek bearing of her success—nay, +her total ignoring of her literary honours—would be accepted. +Arthurine, half her age, and a newcomer, was disliked for the pretensions +which her mother innocently pressed on the world. Simplicity and +complacency were taken for arrogance, and the mother and daughter were +kept upon formal terms of civility by all but the Merrifields, who were +driven into discussion and opposition by the young lady’s attempts +at reformations in the parish.</p> +<p>It was the less wonder that they made friends where their intimacy +was sought and appreciated. There was nothing underbred about +themselves; both were ladies ingrain, though Arthurine was abrupt and +sometimes obtrusive, but they had not lived a life such as to render +them sensitive to the lack of fine edges in others, and were quite ready +to be courted by those who gave the meed of appreciation that both regarded +as Arthurine’s just portion.</p> +<p>Mr. Mytton had been in India, and had come back to look after an +old relation; to whom he and his wife had paid assiduous attention, +and had been so rewarded as to excite the suspicion and displeasure +of the rest of the family. The prize had not been a great one, +and the prosperity of the family was further diminished by the continual +failures of the ne’er-do-well sons, so that they had to make the +best of the dull, respectable old house they had inherited, in the dull, +respectable old street of the dull, respectable old town. Daisy +and Pansy Mytton were, however, bright girls, and to them Arthurine +Arthuret was a sort of realised dream of romance, raised suddenly to +the pinnacle of all to which they had ever durst aspire.</p> +<p>After meeting her at a great <i>omnium gatherum</i> garden party, +the acquaintance flourished. Arthurine was delighted to give the +intense pleasure that the freedom of a country visit afforded to the +sisters, and found in them the contemporaries her girl nature had missed.</p> +<p>They were not stupid, though they had been poorly educated, and were +quite willing to be instructed by her and to read all she told them. +In fact, she was their idol, and a very gracious one. Deeply did +they sympathise in all her sufferings from the impediments cast in her +way at Stokesley.</p> +<p>Indeed, the ladies there did not meet her so often on their own ground +for some time, and were principally disturbed by reports of her doings +at Bonchamp, where she played at cricket, and at hockey, gave a course +of lectures on physiology, presided at a fancy-dress bazaar for the +schools as Lady Jane Grey, and was on two or three committees. +She travelled by preference on her tricycle, though she had a carriage, +chiefly for the sake of her mother, who was still in a state of fervent +admiration, even though perhaps a little worried at times by being hurried +past her sober paces.</p> +<p>The next shock that descended on Stokesley was that, in great indignation, +a cousin sent the Merrifields one of those American magazines which +are read and contributed to by a large proportion of English. +It contained an article called ‘The Bide-as-we-bes and parish +of Stick-stodge-cum-Cadgerley,’ and written with the same sort +of clever, flippant irony as the description of the mixed company in +the boarding-house on the Lago Maggiore.</p> +<p>There was the parish embowered, or rather choked, in trees, the orderly +mechanical routine, the perfect self-satisfaction of all parties, and +their imperviousness to progress,—the two squires, one a fox-hunter, +the other a general reposing on his laurels,—the school where +everything was subordinated to learning to behave oneself lowly and +reverently to all one’s betters, and to do one’s duty in +that state of life to which it <i>has</i> pleased Heaven to call one,—the +horror at her tricycle, the impossibility of improvement, the predilection +for farmyard odours, the adherence to tumbledown dwellings, the contempt +of drinking fountains,—all had their meed of exaggeration not +without drollery.</p> +<p>The two ancient spinsters, daughters to the general, with their pudding-baskets, +buttonholes, and catechisms, had their full share—dragooning the +parish into discipline,—the younger having so far marched with +the century as to have indited a few little tracts of the Goody Two-Shoes +order, and therefore being mentioned by her friends with bated breath +as something formidable, ‘who writes,’ although, when brought +to the test, her cultivation was of the vaguest, most discursive order. +Finally, there was a sketch of the heavy dinner party which had welcomed +the strangers, and of the ponderous county magnates and their wives +who had been invited, and the awe that their broad and expansive ladies +expected to impress, and how one set talked of their babies, and the +other of G.F.S. girls, and the gentlemen seemed to be chiefly occupied +in abusing their M.P. and his politics. Altogether, it was given +as a lesson to Americans of the still feudal and stationary state of +country districts in poor old England.</p> +<p>‘What do you think of this, Bessie?’ exclaimed Admiral +Merrifield. ‘We seem to have got a young firebrand in the +midst of us.’</p> +<p>‘Oh, papa! have you got that thing? What a pity!’</p> +<p>‘You don’t mean that you have seen it before?’</p> +<p>‘Yes; one of my acquaintances in London sent it to me.’</p> +<p>‘And you kept it to yourself?’</p> +<p>‘I thought it would only vex you and mamma. Who sent +it to you?’</p> +<p>‘Anne did, with all the passages marked. What a horrid +little treacherous baggage!’</p> +<p>‘I daresay we are very tempting. For once we see ourselves +as others see us! And you see ’tis American.’</p> +<p>‘All the worse, holding us, who have done our best to welcome +her hospitably, up to the derision of the Yankees!’</p> +<p>‘But you won’t take any notice.’</p> +<p>‘Certainly not, ridiculous little puss, except to steer as +clear of her as possible for fear she should be taking her observations. +“Bide as we be”; why, ’tis the best we can do. +She can’t pick a hole in your mother though, Bess. It would +have been hard to have forgiven her that! You’re not such +an aged spinster.’</p> +<p>‘It is very funny, though,’ said Bessie; ‘just +enough exaggeration to give it point! Here is her interview with +James Hodd.’</p> +<p>Whereat the Admiral could not help laughing heartily, and then he +picked himself out as the general, laughed again, and said: ‘Naughty +girl! Bess, I’m glad that is not your line. Little +tracts—Goody Two-Shoes! Why, what did that paper say of +your essay, Miss Bess? That it might stand a comparison with Helps, +wasn’t it?’</p> +<p>‘And I wish I was likely to enjoy such lasting fame as Goody +Two-Shoes,’ laughed Bessie, in a state of secret exultation at +this bit of testimony from her father.</p> +<p>Mrs. Merrifield, though unscathed, was much more hurt and annoyed +than either her husband or her daughter, especially at Susan and Bessie +being termed old maids. She <i>did</i> think it very ungrateful, +and wondered how Mrs. Arthuret could have suffered such a thing to be +done. Only the poor woman was quite foolish about her daughter—could +have had no more authority than a cat. ‘So much for modern +education.’</p> +<p>But it was not pleasant to see the numbers of the magazine on the +counters at Bonchamp, and to know there were extracts in the local papers, +and still less to be indignantly condoled with by neighbours who expressed +their intention of ‘cutting’ the impertinent girl. +They were exactly the ‘old fogies’ Arthurine cared for the +least, yet whose acquaintance was the most creditable, and the home +party at Stokesley were unanimous in entreating others to ignore the +whole and treat the newcomers as if nothing had happened.</p> +<p>They themselves shook hands, and exchanged casual remarks as if nothing +were amiss, nor was the subject mentioned, except that Mrs. Arthuret +contrived to get a private interview with Mrs. Merrifield.</p> +<p>‘Oh! dear Mrs. Merrifield, I am so grieved, and so is Arthurine. +We were told that the Admiral was so excessively angry, and he is so +kind. I could not bear for him to think Arthurine meant anything +personal.’</p> +<p>‘Indeed,’ said Mrs. Merrifield, rather astonished.</p> +<p>‘But is he so very angry?—for it is all a mistake.’</p> +<p>‘He laughs, and so does Bessie,’ said the mother.</p> +<p>‘Laughs! Does he? But I do assure you Arthurine +never meant any place in particular; she only intended to describe the +way things go on in country districts, don’t you understand? +She was talking one day at the Myttons, and they were all so much amused +that they wanted her to write it down. She read it one evening +when they were with us, and they declared it was too good not to be +published—and almost before she knew it, Fred Mytton’s literary +friend got hold of it and took it to the agency of this paper. +But indeed, indeed, she never thought of its being considered personal, +and is as vexed as possible at the way in which it has been taken up. +She has every feeling about your kindness to us, and she was so shocked +when Pansy Mytton told us that the Admiral was furious.’</p> +<p>‘Whoever told Miss Mytton so made a great mistake. The +Admiral only is—is—amused—as you know gentlemen will +be at young girls’ little—little scrapes,’ returned +Mrs. Merrifield, longing to say ‘impertinences,’ but refraining, +and scarcely believing what nevertheless was true, that Arthurine did +not know how personal she had been, although her mother said it all +over again twice. Bessie, however, did believe it, from experience +of resemblances where she had never intended direct portraiture; and +when there was a somewhat earnest invitation to a garden party at the +Gap, the Merrifields not only accepted for themselves, but persuaded +as many of their neighbours as they could to countenance the poor girl. +‘There is something solid at the bottom in spite of all the effervescence,’ +said Bessie.</p> +<p>It was late in the year for a garden party, being on the 2d of October, +but weather and other matters had caused delays, and the Indian summer +had begun with warm sun and exquisite tints. ‘What would +not the maple and the liquid amber have been by this time,’ thought +the sisters, ‘if they had been spared.’ Some of the +<i>petite noblesse</i>, however, repented of their condescension when +they saw how little it was appreciated. Mrs. Arthuret, indeed, +was making herself the best hostess that a lady who had served no apprenticeship +could be to all alike, but Arthurine or ‘Atty,’ as Daisy +and Pansy were heard shouting to her—all in white flannels, a +man all but the petticoats—seemed to be absorbed in a little court +of the second-rate people of Bonchamp, some whom, as Mrs. Greville and +Lady Smithson agreed, they had never expected to meet. She was +laughing and talking eagerly, and by and by ran up to Bessie, exclaiming +in a patronising tone—</p> +<p>‘Oh! my dear Miss Bessie, let me introduce you to Mr. Foxholm—such +a clever literary man. He knows everybody—all about everybody +and everything. It would be such an advantage! And he has +actually made me give him my autograph! Only think of that!’</p> +<p>Bessie thought of her own good luck in being anonymous, but did not +express it, only saying, ‘Autograph-hunters are a great nuisance. +I know several people who find them so.’</p> +<p>‘Yes, he said it was one of the penalties of fame that one +must submit to,’ returned Miss Arthuret, with a delighted laugh +of consciousness.</p> +<p>Bessie rejoiced that none of her own people were near to see the +patronising manner in which Arthurine introduced her to Mr. Foxholm, +a heavily-bearded man, whose eyes she did not at all like, and who began +by telling her that he felt as if he had crossed the Rubicon, and entering +an Arcadia, had found a Parnassus.</p> +<p>Bessie looked to see whether the highly-educated young lady detected +the malaprop for the Helicon, but Arthurine was either too well-bred +or too much exalted to notice either small slips, or even bad taste, +and she stood smiling and blushing complacently. However, just +then Susan hurried up. ‘Bessie, you are wanted. Here’s +a card. The gentleman sent it in, and papa asked me to find you.’</p> +<p>Bessie opened her eyes. The card belonged to the editor of +one of the most noted magazines of the day, but one whose principles +she did not entirely approve. What could be coming?</p> +<p>Her father was waiting for her.</p> +<p>‘Well, Miss Bessie,’ he said, laughing, ‘Jane said +the gentleman was very urgent in wanting to know when you would be in. +An offer, eh?’</p> +<p>‘Perhaps it is an offer, but not of <i>that</i> sort,’ +said Bessie, and she explained what the unliterary Admiral had not understood. +He answered with a whistle.</p> +<p>‘Shall you do it, Bessie?’</p> +<p>‘I think not,’ she said quietly.</p> +<p>The editor was found waiting for her, with many apologies for bringing +her home, and the Admiral was so delighted with his agreeableness as +hardly to be able to tear himself away to bring home his wife.</p> +<p>The offer was, as Bessie expected, of excellent terms for a serial +story—terms that proved to her what was her own value, and in +which she saw education for her sister Anne’s eldest boy.</p> +<p>‘Of course, there would be a certain adaptation to our readers.’</p> +<p>She knew what that meant, and there was that in her face which drew +forth the assurance.</p> +<p>‘Of course nothing you would not wish to say would be required, +but it would be better not to press certain subjects.’</p> +<p>‘I understand,’ said Bessie. ‘I doubt—’</p> +<p>‘Perhaps you will think it over.’</p> +<p>Bessie’s first thought was, ‘If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, +then let my right hand forget her cunning.’ That had been +the inward motto of her life. Her second was, ‘Little Sam! +David’s mission room!’ There was no necessity to answer +at once, and she knew the periodical rather by report than by reading, +so she accepted the two numbers that were left with her, and promised +to reply in a week. It was a question on which to take counsel +with her father, and with her own higher conscience and heavenly Guide.</p> +<p>The Admiral, though not much given to reading for its own sake, and +perhaps inclined to think ephemeral literature the more trifling because +his little daughter was a great light there, was anything but a dull +man, and had an excellent judgment. So Bessie, with all the comfort +of a woman still with a wise father’s head over her, decided to +commit the matter to him. He was somewhat disappointed at finding +her agreeable guest gone, and wished that dinner and bed had been offered.</p> +<p>Mrs. Merrifield and Susan were still a good deal excited about Arthurine’s +complimentary friend, who they said seemed to belong to Fred Mytton, +of whom some of the ladies had been telling most unpleasant reports, +and there was much lamentation over the set into which their young neighbour +had thrown herself.</p> +<p>‘Such a dress too!’ sighed Mrs. Merrifield.</p> +<p>‘And her headmistress has just arrived,’ said Susan, +‘to make her worse than ever!’</p> +<p>‘How comes a headmistress to be running about the country at +this time of year?’ asked Bessie.</p> +<p>‘She has been very ill,’ said Mrs. Merrifield, ‘and +they wrote to her to come down as soon as she could move. There +was a telegram this morning, and she drove up in the midst of the party, +and was taken to her room at once to rest. That was the reason +Miss Arthuret was away so long. I thought it nice in her.’</p> +<p>‘Perhaps she will do good,’ said Bessie.</p> +<p>Dinner was just over, and the Admiral had settled down with his shaded +lamp to read and judge of the article that Bessie had given him as a +specimen, when in came the message, ‘Mrs. Rudden wishes to speak +to you, sir.’</p> +<p>Mrs. Rudden was the prosperous widow who continued the business in +the village shop, conjointly with the little farm belonging to the Gap +property. She was a shrewd woman, had been able to do very well +by her family, and was much esteemed, paying a rent which was a considerable +item in the Gap means. The ladies wondered together at the summons. +Susan hoped ‘that girl’ did not want to evict her, and Bessie +suggested that a co-operative store was a more probable peril. +Presently the Admiral came back. ‘Do any of you know Miss +Arthuret’s writing?’ he said.</p> +<p>‘Bessie knows it best,’ said Susan.</p> +<p>He showed a letter. ‘That is hers—the signature,’ +said Bessie. ‘I are not sure about the rest. Why—what +does it mean?’</p> +<p>For she read—</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>‘The Gap, 2<i>d Oct.</i></p> +<p>‘MRS. RUDDEN,—You are requested to pay over to the bearer, +Mr. Foxholm, fifty pounds of the rent you were about to bring me to-morrow.—I +remain, etc.,</p> +<p>‘ARTHURINE ARTHURET.’</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>‘What does it mean?’ asked Bessie again. ‘That’s +just what Mrs. Rudden has come up to me to ask,’ said the Admiral. +‘This fellow presented it in her shop about a quarter of an hour +ago. The good woman smelt a rat. What do you think she did? +She looked at it and him, asked him to wait a bit, whipped out at her +back door, luckily met the policeman starting on his rounds, bade him +have an eye to the customer in her shop, and came off to show it to +me. That young woman is demented enough for anything, and is quite +capable of doing it—for some absurd scheme. But do you think +it is hers, or a swindle?’</p> +<p>‘Didn’t she say she had given her autograph?’ exclaimed +Susan.</p> +<p>‘And see here,’ said Bessie, ‘her signature is +at the top of the sheet of note-paper—small paper. And as +she always writes very large, it would be easy to fill up the rest, +changing the first side over.’</p> +<p>‘I must take it up to her at once,’ said the Admiral. +‘Even if it be genuine, she may just as well see that it is a +queer thing to have done, and not exactly the way to treat her tenants.’</p> +<p>‘It is strange too that this man should have known anything +about Mrs. Rudden,’ said Mrs. Merrifield.</p> +<p>‘Mrs. Rudden says she had a message this morning, when she +had come up with her rent and accounts, to say that Miss Arthuret was +very much engaged, and would be glad if she would come to-morrow! +Could this fellow have been about then?’</p> +<p>No one knew, but Bessie breathed the word, ‘Was not that young +Mytton there?’</p> +<p>It was not taken up, for no one liked to pronounce the obvious inference. +Besides, the Admiral was in haste, not thinking it well that Mr. Foxholm +should be longer kept under surveillance in the shop, among the bread, +bacon, cheeses, shoes, and tins of potted meat.</p> +<p>He was then called for; and on his loudly exclaiming that he had +been very strangely treated, the Admiral quietly told him that Mrs. +Rudden had been disturbed at so unusual a way of demanding her rent, +and had come for advice on the subject; and to satisfy their minds that +all was right, Mr. Foxholm would, no doubt, consent to wait till the +young lady could be referred to. Mr. Foxholm did very decidedly +object; he said no one had any right to detain him when the lady’s +signature was plain, and Admiral Merrifield had seen him in her society, +and he began an account of the philanthropical purpose for which he +said the money had been intended, but he was cut short.</p> +<p>‘You must be aware,’ said the Admiral, ‘that this +is not an ordinary way of acting, and whatever be your purpose, Mrs. +Rudden must ascertain your authority more fully before paying over so +large a sum. I give you your choice, therefore, either of accompanying +us to the Gap, or of remaining in Mrs. Rudden’s parlour till we +return.’</p> +<p>The furtive eye glanced about, and the parlour was chosen. +Did he know that the policeman stationed himself in the shop outside?</p> +<p>The dinner at the Gap was over, and Miss Elmore, the headmistress, +was established in an arm-chair, listening to the outpouring of her +former pupil and the happy mother about all the felicities and glories +of their present life, the only drawback being the dullness and obstructiveness +of the immediate neighbours. ‘I thought Miss Merrifield +was your neighbour—Mesa?’</p> +<p>‘Oh no—quite impossible! These are Merrifields, +but the daughters are two regular old goodies, wrapped up in Sunday +schools and penny clubs.’</p> +<p>‘Well, that is odd! The editor of the --- came down in +the train with me, and said he was going to see Mesa—Miss Elizabeth +Merrifield.’</p> +<p>‘I do think it is very unfair,’ began Arthurine; but +at that moment the door-bell rang. ‘How strange at this +time!’</p> +<p>‘Oh! perhaps the editor is coming here!’ cried Arthurine. +‘Did you tell him <i>I</i> lived here, Miss Elmore?’</p> +<p>‘Admiral Merrifield,’ announced the parlour-maid.</p> +<p>He had resolved not to summon the young lady in private, as he thought +there was more chance of common-sense in the mother.</p> +<p>‘You are surprised to see me at this time,’ he said; +‘but Mrs. Rudden is perplexed by a communication from you.’</p> +<p>‘Mrs. Rudden!’ exclaimed Arthurine. ‘Why, +I only sent her word that I was too busy to go through her accounts +to-day, and asked her to come to-morrow. That isn’t against +the laws of the Medes and Persians, is it?’</p> +<p>‘Then did you send her this letter?’</p> +<p>‘I?’ said Arthurine, staring at it, with her eyes at +their fullest extent. ‘I! fifty pounds! Mr. Foxholm! +What does it mean?’</p> +<p>‘Then you never wrote that order?’</p> +<p>‘No! no! How should I?’</p> +<p>‘That is not your writing?’</p> +<p>‘No, not that.’</p> +<p>‘Look at the signature.’</p> +<p>‘Oh! oh! oh!’—and she dropped into a chair. +‘The horrible man! That’s the autograph I gave him +this afternoon.’</p> +<p>‘You are sure?’</p> +<p>‘Quite; for my pen spluttered in the slope of the A. +Has she gone and given it to him?’</p> +<p>‘No. She brought it to me, and set the policeman to watch +him.’</p> +<p>‘What a dear, good woman! Shall you send him to prison, +Admiral Merrifield? What can be done to him?’ said Arthurine, +not looking at all as if she would like to abrogate capital punishment.</p> +<p>‘Well, I had been thinking,’ said the Admiral. +‘You see he did not get it, and though I could commit him for +endeavouring to obtain money on false pretences, I very much doubt whether +the prosecution would not be worse for you than for him.’</p> +<p>‘That is very kind of you, Admiral!’ exclaimed the mother. +‘It would be terribly awkward for dear Arthurine to stand up and +say he cajoled her into giving her autograph. It might always +be remembered against her!’</p> +<p>‘Exactly so,’ said the Admiral; ‘and perhaps there +may be another reason for not pushing the matter to extremity. +The man is a stranger here, I believe.’</p> +<p>‘He has been staying at Bonchamp,’ said Mrs. Arthuret. +‘It was young Mr. Mytton who brought him over this afternoon.’</p> +<p>‘Just so. And how did he come to be aware that Mrs. Rudden +owed you any money?’</p> +<p>There was a pause, then Arthurine broke out—</p> +<p>‘Oh, Daisy and Pansy can’t have done anything; but they +were all three there helping me mark the tennis-courts when the message +came.’</p> +<p>‘Including the brother?’</p> +<p>‘Yes.’</p> +<p>‘He is a bad fellow, and I would not wish to shield him in +any way, but that such a plot should be proved against him would be +a grievous disgrace to the family.’</p> +<p>‘I can’t ever feel about them as I have done,’ +said Arthurine, in tears. ‘Daisy and Pansy said so much +about poor dear Fred, and every one being hard on him, and his feeling +my good influence—and all the time he was plotting this against +me, with my chalk in his hand marking my grass,’ and she broke +down in child-like sobs.</p> +<p>The mortification was terrible of finding her pinnacle of fame the +mere delusion of a sharper, and the shock of shame seemed to overwhelm +the poor girl.</p> +<p>‘Oh, Admiral!’ cried her mother, ‘she cannot bear +it. I know you will be good, and manage it so as to distress her +as little as possible, and not have any publicity.’</p> +<p>‘1 will do my best,’ said the Admiral. ‘I +will try and get a confession out of him, and send him off, though it +is a pity that such a fellow should get off scot-free.’</p> +<p>‘Oh, never mind, so that my poor Arthurine’s name is +not brought forward! We can never be grateful enough for your +kindness.’</p> +<p>It was so late that the Admiral did not come back that night, and +the ladies were at breakfast when he appeared again. Foxholm had, +on finding there was no escape, confessed the fraud, but threw most +of the blame on Fred Mytton, who was in debt, not only to him but to +others. Foxholm himself seemed to have been an adventurer, who +preyed on young men at the billiard-table, and had there been in some +collusion with Fred, though the Admiral had little doubt as to which +was the greater villain. He had been introduced to the Mytton +family, who were not particular; indeed, Mr. Mytton had no objection +to increasing his pocket-money by a little wary, profitable betting +and gambling on his own account. However, the associates had no +doubt brought Bonchamp to the point of being too hot to hold them, and +Fred, overhearing the arrangement with Mrs. Rudden, had communicated +it to him—whence the autograph trick. Foxholm was gone, +and in the course of the day it was known that young Mytton was also +gone.</p> +<p>The Admiral promised that none of his family should mention the matter, +and that he would do his best to silence Mrs. Rudden, who for that matter +probably believed the whole letter to have been forged, and would not +enter into the enthusiasm of autographs.</p> +<p>‘Oh, thank you! It is so kind,’ said the mother; +and Arthurine, who looked as if she had not slept all night, and was +ready to burst into tears on the least provocation, murmured something +to the same effect, which the Admiral answered, half hearing—</p> +<p>‘Never mind, my dear, you will be wiser another time; young +people will be inexperienced.’</p> +<p>‘Is that the cruellest cut of all?’ thought Miss Elmore, +as she beheld her former pupil scarcely restraining herself enough for +the farewell civilities, and then breaking down into a flood of tears.</p> +<p>Her mother hovered over her with, ‘What is it? Oh! my +dear child, you need not be afraid; he is so kind!’</p> +<p>‘I hate people to be kind, that is the very thing,’ said +Arthurine,—‘Oh! Miss Elmore, don’t go!—while +he is meaning all the time that I have made such a fool of myself! +And he is glad, I know he is, he and his hateful, stupid, stolid daughters.’</p> +<p>‘My dear! my dear!’ exclaimed her mother.</p> +<p>‘Well, haven’t they done nothing but thwart me, whatever +I wanted to do, and aren’t they triumphing now in this abominable +man’s treachery, and my being taken in? I shall go away, +and sell the place, and never come back again.’</p> +<p>‘I should think that was the most decided way of confessing +a failure,’ said Miss Elmore; and as Mrs. Arthuret was called +away by the imperative summons to the butcher, she spoke more freely. +‘Your mother looks terrified at being so routed up again.’</p> +<p>‘Oh, mother will be happy anywhere; and how can I stay with +these stick-in-the-mud people, just like what I have read about?’</p> +<p>‘And have gibbeted! Really, Arthurine, I should call +them very generous!’</p> +<p>‘It is their thick skins,’ muttered she; ‘at least +so the Myttons said; but, indeed, I did not mean to be so personal as +it was thought.’</p> +<p>‘But tell me. Why did you not get on with Mesa?’</p> +<p>‘That was a regular take-in. Not to tell one! When +I began my German class, she put me out with useless explanations.’</p> +<p>‘What kind of explanations?’</p> +<p>‘Oh, about the Swiss being under the Empire, or something, +and she <i>would</i> go into parallels of Saxon words, and English poetry, +such as our Fraülein never troubled us with. But I showed +her it would not <i>do</i>.’</p> +<p>‘So instead of learning what you had not sense to appreciate, +you wanted to teach your old routine.’</p> +<p>‘But, indeed, she could not pronounce at all well, and she +looked ever so long at difficult bits, and then she even tried to correct +<i>me</i>.’</p> +<p>‘Did she go on coming after you silenced her?’</p> +<p>‘Yes, and never tried to interfere again.’</p> +<p>‘I am afraid she drew her own conclusions about High Schools.’</p> +<p>‘Oh, Miss Elmore, you used to like us to be thorough and not +discursive, and how could anybody brought up in this stultifying place, +ages ago, know what will tell in an exam?’</p> +<p>‘Oh! Arthurine. How often have I told you that examinations +are not education. I never saw so plainly that I have not educated +you.’</p> +<p>‘I wanted to prepare Daisy and Pansy, and they didn’t +care about her prosing when we wanted to get on with the book.’</p> +<p>‘Which would have been the best education for them, poor girls, +an example of courtesy, patience, and humility, or <i>getting on</i>, +as you call it?’</p> +<p>‘Oh! Miss Elmore, you are very hard on me, when I have just +been so cruelly disappointed.’</p> +<p>‘My dear child, it is only because I want you to discover why +you have been so cruelly disappointed.’</p> +<p>It would be wearisome to relate all that Arthurine finally told of +those thwartings by the Merrifields which had thrown her into the arms +of the Mytton family, nor how Miss Elmore brought her to confess that +each scheme was either impracticable, or might have been injurious, +and that a little grain of humility might have made her see things very +differently. Yet it must be owned that the good lady felt rather +like bending a bow that would spring back again.</p> +<p>Bessie Merrifield had, like her family, been inclined to conclude +that all was the fault of High Schools. She did not see Miss Elmore +at first, thinking the Arthurets not likely to wish to be intruded upon, +and having besides a good deal to think over. For she and her +father had talked over the proposal, which pecuniarily was so tempting, +and he, without prejudice, but on principle, had concurred with her +in deciding that it was her duty not to add one touch of attractiveness +to aught which supported a cause contrary to their strongest convictions. +Her father’s approbation was the crowning pleasure, though she +felt the external testimony to her abilities, quite enough to sympathise +with such intoxication of success as to make any compliment seem possible. +Miss Elmore had one long talk with her, beginning by saying—</p> +<p>‘I wish to consult you about my poor, foolish child.’</p> +<p>‘Ah! I am afraid we have not helped her enough!’ +said Bessie. ‘If we had been more sympathetic she might +have trusted us more.’</p> +<p>‘Then you are good enough to believe that it was not all folly +and presumption.’</p> +<p>‘I am sure it was not,’ said Bessie. ‘None +of us ever thought it more than inexperience and a little exaltation, +with immense good intention at the bottom. Of course, our dear +old habits did look dull, coming from life and activity, and we rather +resented her contempt for them; but I am quite sure that after a little +while, every one will forget all about this, or only recollect it as +one does a girlish scrape.’</p> +<p>‘Yes. To suppose all the neighbourhood occupied in laughing +at her is only another phase of self-importance. You see, the +poor child necessarily lived in a very narrow world, where examinations +came, whatever I could do, to seem everything, and she only knew things +beyond by books. She had success enough there to turn her head, +and not going to Cambridge, never had fair measure of her abilities. +Then came prosperity—’</p> +<p>‘Quite enough to upset any one’s balance,’ said +Bessie. ‘In fact, only a very sober, not to say stolid, +nature would have stood it.’</p> +<p>‘Poor things! They were so happy—so open-hearted. +I did long to caution them. “Pull cup, steady hand.”’</p> +<p>‘It will all come right now,’ said Bessie. ‘Mrs +Arthuret spoke of their going away for the winter; I do not think it +will be a bad plan, for then we can start quite fresh with them; and +the intimacy with the Myttons will be broken, though I am sorry for +the poor girls. They have no harm in them, and Arthurine was doing +them good.’</p> +<p>‘A whisper to you, Miss Merrifield—they are going back +with me, to be prepared for governesses at Arthurine’s expense. +It is the only thing for them in the crash that young man has brought +on the family.’</p> +<p>‘Dear, good Arthurine! She only needed to learn how to +carry her cup.’</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>MRS. BATSEYES</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>I. FATHER AND DAUGHTER</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>SCENE.—<i>The drawing-room of Darkglade Vicarage. Mr. +Aveland, an elderly clergyman. Mrs. Moldwarp</i>, <i>widow on +the verge of middle age</i>.</p> +<p><i>Mr. A</i>. So, my dear good child, you will come back to +me, and do what you can for the lonely old man!</p> +<p><i>Mrs. M</i>. I know nothing can really make up—</p> +<p><i>Mr. A</i>. Ah! my dear, you know only too well by your own +experience, but if any one could, it would be you. And at least +you will let nothing drop in the parish work. You and Cicely together +will be able to take that up when Euphrasia is gone too.</p> +<p><i>Mrs. M</i>. It will be delightful to me to come back to +it! You know I was to the manner born. Nothing seems to +be so natural!</p> +<p><i>Mr. A</i>. I am only afraid you are giving up a great deal. +I don’t know that I could accept it—except for the parish +and these poor children.</p> +<p><i>Mrs. M</i>. Now, dear father, you are not to talk so! +Is not this my home, my first home, and though it has lost its very +dearest centre, what can be so dear to me when my own has long been +broken?</p> +<p><i>Mr. A</i>. But the young folks—young Londoners are +apt to feel such a change a great sacrifice.</p> +<p><i>Mrs. M</i>. Lucius always longs to be here whenever he is +on shore, and Cicely. Oh! it will be so good for Cicely to be +with you, dear father. I know some day you will be able to enjoy +her. And I do look forward to having her to myself, as I have +never had before since she was a little creature in the nursery. +It is so fortunate that I had not closed the treaty for the house at +Brompton, so that I can come whenever Phrasie decides on leaving you.</p> +<p><i>Mr. A</i>. And she must not be long delayed. She and +Holland have waited for each other quite long enough. Your dear +mother begged that there should be no delay; and neither you nor I, +Mary, could bear to shorten the time of happiness together that may +be granted them. She will have no scruple about leaving George’s +children now you and Cicely will see to them—poor little things!</p> +<p><i>Mrs. M</i>. Cicely has always longed for a sphere, and between +the children and the parish she will be quite happy. You need +have no fears for her, father!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>II. BROTHER AND SISTER</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>SCENE—<i>The broad walk under the Vicarage garden wall, Lucius +Moldwarp, a lieutenant in the Navy. Cicely Moldwarp</i>.</p> +<p><i>C</i>. Isn’t it disgusting, Lucius?</p> +<p><i>L</i>. What is?</p> +<p><i>C</i>. This proceeding of the mother’s.</p> +<p><i>L</i>. Do you mean coming down here to live?</p> +<p><i>C</i>. Of course I do! Without so much as consulting +me.</p> +<p><i>L</i>. The captain does not ordinarily consult the crew.</p> +<p><i>C</i>. Bosh, Lucius. That habit of discipline makes +you quite stupid. Now, haven’t I the right to be consulted?</p> +<p><i>L</i>. (<i>A whistle</i>)</p> +<p><i>C</i>. (<i>A stamp</i>)</p> +<p><i>L</i>. Pray, what would your sagacity have proposed for +grandpapa and the small children?</p> +<p><i>C</i>. (<i>Hesitation</i>.)</p> +<p><i>L</i>. (<i>A slight laugh</i>.)</p> +<p><i>C</i>. I do think it is quite shocking of Aunt Phrasie to +be in such haste to marry!</p> +<p><i>L</i>. After eleven years—eh? or twelve, is it?</p> +<p><i>C</i>. I mean of course so soon after her mother’s +death.</p> +<p><i>L</i>. You know dear granny herself begged that the wedding +might not be put off on that account.</p> +<p><i>C</i>. Mr. Holland might come and live here.</p> +<p><i>L</i>. Perhaps he thinks he has a right to be consulted.</p> +<p><i>C</i>. Then she might take those children away with her.</p> +<p><i>L</i>. Leaving grandpapa alone.</p> +<p><i>C</i>. The Curate might live in the house.</p> +<p><i>L</i>. Lively and satisfactory to mother. Come now, +Cis, why are you so dead set against this plan? It is only because +your august consent has not been asked?</p> +<p><i>C</i>. I should have minded less if the pros and cons had +been set before me, instead of being treated like a chattel; but I do +not think my education should be sacrificed.</p> +<p><i>L</i>. Not educated! At twenty!</p> +<p><i>C</i>. Don’t be so silly, Lucius. This is the +time when the most important brain work is to be done. There are +the art classes at the Slade, and the lectures I am down for, and the +Senior Cambridge and cookery and nursing. Yes, I see you make +faces! You sailors think women are only meant for you to play +with when you are on shore; but I must work.</p> +<p><i>L</i>. Work enough here!</p> +<p><i>C</i>. Goody-goody! Babies, school-children, and old +women! I’m meant for something beyond that, or what are +intellect and artistic faculty given for?</p> +<p><i>L</i>. You could read for Cambridge exam. all the same. +Here are tons of books, and grandpapa would help you. Why not? +He is not a bit of a dull man. He is up to everything.</p> +<p><i>C</i>. So far as <i>you</i> know. Oh no, he is not +naturally dense. He is a dear old man; but you know clerics of +his date, especially when they have vegetated in the country, never +know anything but the Fathers and church architecture.</p> +<p><i>L</i>. Hum! I should have said the old gentleman had +a pretty good intelligence of his own. I know he set me on my +legs for my exam. as none of the masters at old Coade’s ever did. +What has made you take such a mortal aversion to the place? We +used to think it next door to Paradise when we were small children.</p> +<p><i>C</i>. Of course, when country freedom was everything, and +we knew nothing of rational intercourse; but when all the most intellectual +houses are open to me, it is intolerable to be buried alive here with +nothing to talk of but clerical shop, and nothing to do but read to +old women, and cram the unfortunate children with the catechism. +And mother and Aunt Phrasie expect me to be in raptures!</p> +<p><i>L</i>. Whereas you seem to be meditating a demonstration.</p> +<p><i>C</i>. I shall tell mother that if she must needs come down +to wallow in her native goodiness, it is due to let me board in Kensington +till my courses are completed.</p> +<p><i>L</i>. Since she won’t be an unnatural daughter, she +is to leave the part to you. Well, I suppose it will be for the +general peace.</p> +<p><i>C</i>. Now, Lucius, you speak out of the remains of the +old tyrannical barbarism, when the daughters were nothing but goods +and chattels.</p> +<p><i>L</i>. Goods, yes, indeed, and betters.</p> +<p><i>C</i>. No doubt the men liked it! But won’t +you stand by me, Lucius? You say it would be for the general peace.</p> +<p><i>L</i>. I only said you would be better away than making +yourself obnoxious. I can’t think how you can have the heart, +Cis, such a pet as you always were.</p> +<p><i>C</i>. I would not hurt their feelings for the world, only +my improvement is too important to be sacrificed, and if no one else +will stand up for me, I must stand up for myself.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>III. BRIDE-ELECT AND FATHER</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>SCENE.—<i>Three weeks later. Breakfast table at Darkglade +Vicarage, Mr. Aveland and Euphrasia reading their letters. Three +little children eating bread and milk.</i></p> +<p><i>E</i>. There! Mary has got the house at Brompton off +her hands and can come for good on the 11th. That is the greatest +possible comfort. She wants to bring her piano; it has a better +tone than ours.</p> +<p><i>Mr. A</i>. Certainly! Little Miss Hilda there will +soon be strumming her scales on the old one, and Mary and Cis will send +me to sleep in the evening with hers.</p> +<p><i>E</i>. Oh!</p> +<p><i>Mr. A</i>. Why, Phrasie, what’s the matter?</p> +<p><i>E</i>. This is a blow! Cicely is only coming to be +bridesmaid, and then going back to board at Kensington and go on with +her studies.</p> +<p><i>Mr. A</i>. To board? All alone?</p> +<p><i>E</i>. Oh! that’s the way with young ladies!</p> +<p><i>Mr. A</i>. Mary cannot have consented.</p> +<p><i>E</i>. Have you done, little folks? Then say grace, +Hilda, and run out till the lesson bell rings. Yes, poor Mary, +I am afraid she thinks all that Cecilia decrees is right; or if she +does not naturally believe so, she is made to.</p> +<p><i>Mr. A</i>. Come, come, Phrasie, I always thought Mary a +model mother.</p> +<p><i>E</i>. So did I, and so she was while the children were +small, except that they were more free and easy with her than was the +way in our time. And I think she is all that is to be desired +to her son; but when last I was in London, I cannot say I was satisfied, +I thought Cissy had got beyond her.</p> +<p><i>Mr. A</i>. For want of a father?</p> +<p><i>E</i>. Not entirely. You know I could not think Charles +Moldwarp quite worthy of Mary, though she never saw it.</p> +<p><i>Mr. A</i>. Latterly we saw so little of him! He liked +to spend his holiday in mountain climbing, and Mary made her visits +here alone.</p> +<p><i>E</i>. Exactly so. Sympathy faded out between them, +though she, poor dear, never betrayed it, if she realised it, which +I doubt. And as Cissy took after her father, this may have weakened +her allegiance to her mother. At any rate, as soon as she was +thought to have outgrown her mother’s teaching, those greater +things, mother’s influence and culture, were not thought of, and +she went to school and had her companions and interests apart; while +Mary, good soul, filled up the vacancy with good works, and if once +you get into the swing of that sort of thing in town, there’s +no end to the demands upon your time. I don’t think she +ever let them bore her husband. He was out all day, and didn’t +want her; but I am afraid they do bore her daughter, and absorb attention +and time, so as to hinder full companionship, till Cissy has grown up +an extraneous creature, not formed by her. Mary thinks, in her +humility, dear old thing, that it is a much superior creature; but I +don’t like it as well as the old sort.</p> +<p><i>Mr. A</i>. The old barndoor hen hatched her eggs and bred +up her chicks better than the fine prize fowl. Eh?</p> +<p><i>E</i>. So that incubator-hatched chicks, with a hot-bed +instead of a hovering wing and tender cluck-cluck, are the fashion! +I was in hopes that coming down to the old coop, with no professors +to run after, and you to lead them both, all would right itself, but +it seems my young lady wants more improving.</p> +<p><i>Mr. A</i>. Well, my dear, it must be mortifying to a clever +girl to have her studies cut short.</p> +<p><i>E</i>. Certainly; but in my time we held that studies were +subordinate to duties; and that there were other kinds of improvement +than in model-drawing and all the rest of it.</p> +<p><i>Mr. A</i>. It will not be for long, and Cissy will find +the people, or has found them, and Mary will accept them.</p> +<p><i>E</i>. If her native instinct objects, she will be cajoled +or bullied into seeing with Cissy’s eyes.</p> +<p><i>Mr. A</i>. Well, Euphrasia, my dear, let us trust that people +are the best judges of their own affairs, and remember that the world +has got beyond us. Mary was always a sensible, right-minded girl, +and I cannot believe her as blind as you would make out.</p> +<p><i>E</i>. At any rate, dear papa, you never have to say to +her as to me, ‘Judge not, that ye be not judged.’</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>IV. MOTHER AND DAUGHTER</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>SCENE.—<i>Darkglade Vicarage drawing-room.</i></p> +<p><i>Mrs. M</i>. So, my dear, you think it impossible to be happy +here?</p> +<p><i>C</i>. Little Mamsey, why <i>will</i> you never understand? +It is not a question of happiness, but of duty to myself.</p> +<p><i>Mrs. M</i>. And that is—</p> +<p><i>C</i>. Not to throw away all my chances of self-improvement +by burrowing into this hole.</p> +<p><i>Mrs. M</i>. Oh, my dear, I don’t like to hear you +call it so.</p> +<p><i>C</i>. Yes, I know you care for it. You were bred +up here, and know nothing better, poor old Mamsey, and pottering suits +you exactly; but it is too much to ask me to sacrifice my wider fields +of culture and usefulness.</p> +<p><i>Mrs. M</i>. Grandpapa would enjoy nothing so much as reading +with you. He said so.</p> +<p><i>C</i>. Oxford half a century old and wearing off ever since. +No, I thank you! Besides, it is not only physical science, but +art.</p> +<p><i>Mrs. M</i>. There’s the School of Art at Holbrook.</p> +<p><i>C</i>. My dear mother, I am far past country schools of +art!</p> +<p><i>Mrs. M</i>. It is not as if you intended to take up art +as a profession.</p> +<p><i>C</i>. Mother! will nothing ever make you understand? +Nothing ought to be half-studied, merely to pass away the time as an +<i>accomplishment</i> (<i>uttered with infinite scorn, accentuated on +the second syllable</i>), just to do things to sell at bazaars. +No! Art with me means work worthy of exhibition, with a market-price, +and founded on a thorough knowledge of the secrets of the human frame.</p> +<p><i>Mrs. M</i>. Those classes! I don’t like all +I hear of them, or their attendants.</p> +<p><i>C</i>. If you <i>will</i> listen to all the gossip of all +the old women of both sexes, I can’t help it! Can’t +you trust to innocence and earnestness?</p> +<p><i>Mrs. M</i>. I wish it was the Art College at Wimbledon. +Then I should be quite comfortable about you.</p> +<p><i>C</i>. Have not we gone into all that already? You +know I must go to the fountain-head, and not be put off with mere feminine, +lady-like studies! Pah! Besides, in lodgings I can be useful. +I shall give two evenings in the week to the East End, to the Society +for the Diversion and Civilisation of the Poor.</p> +<p><i>Mrs. M</i>. Surely there is room for usefulness here! +Think of the children! And for diversion and civilisation, how +glad we should be of your fresh life and brightness among poor people!</p> +<p><i>C</i>. Such poor! Why, even if grandpapa would let +me give a lecture on geology, or a reading from Dickens, old Prudence +Blake would go about saying it hadn’t done nothing for her poor +soul.</p> +<p><i>Mrs. M</i>. Grandpapa wanted last winter to have penny readings, +only there was nobody to do it. He would give you full scope for +that, or for lectures.</p> +<p><i>C</i>. Yes; about vaccination and fresh air! or a reading +of John Gilpin or the Pied Piper. Mamsey, you know a model parish +stifles me. I can’t stand your prim school-children, drilled +in the Catechism, and your old women who get out the Bible and the clean +apron when they see you a quarter of a mile off. Free air and +open minds for me! No, I won’t have you sighing, mother. +You have returned to your native element, and you must let me return +to mine.</p> +<p><i>Mrs. M</i>. Very well, my dear. Perhaps a year or +two of study in town may be due to you, though this is a great disappointment +to grandpapa and me. I know Mrs. Payne will make a pleasant and +safe home for you, if you must be boarded.</p> +<p><i>C</i>. Too late for that. I always meant to be with +Betty Thurston at Mrs. Kaye’s. In fact, I have written to +engage my room. So there’s an end of it. Come, come, +don’t look vexed. It is better to make an end of it at once. +There are things that one must decide for oneself.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>V. TWO FRIENDS</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>SCENE—<i>Over the fire in Mrs. Kaye’s boarding-house. +Cecilia Moldwarp and Betty Thurston</i>.</p> +<p><i>C</i>. So I settled the matter at once.</p> +<p><i>B</i>. Quite right, too, Cis.</p> +<p><i>C</i>. The dear woman was torn every way. Grandpapa +and Aunt Phrasie wanted her to pin me down into the native stodge; and +Lucius, like a true man, went in for subjection: so there was nothing +for it but to put my foot down. And though little mother might +moan a little to me, I knew she would stand up stoutly for me to all +the rest, and vindicate my liberty.</p> +<p><i>B</i>. To keep you down there. Such a place is very +well to breathe in occasionally, like a whale; but as to living in them—</p> +<p><i>C</i>. Just hear how they spend the day. First, 7.30, +prayers in church. The dear old man has hammered on at them these +forty years, with a congregation averaging 4 to 2.5.</p> +<p><i>B</i>. You are surely not expected to attend at that primitive +Christian hour! Cruelty to animals!</p> +<p><i>C</i>. If I don’t, the absence of such an important +unit hurts folks’ feelings, and I am driven to the fabrication +of excuses. After breakfast, whatever is available trots off to +din the Catechism and Genesis into the school-children’s heads—the +only things my respected forefather cares about teaching them. +Of course back again to the children’s lessons.</p> +<p><i>B</i>. What children?</p> +<p><i>C</i>. Didn’t I explain? Three Indian orphans +of my uncle’s, turned upon my grandfather—jolly little kids +enough, as long as one hasn’t to teach them.</p> +<p><i>B</i>. Are governesses unknown in those parts?</p> +<p><i>C</i>. Too costly; and besides, my mother was designed by +nature for a nursery-governess. She has taught the two elder ones +to be wonderfully good when she is called off. ‘The butcher, +ma’am’; or, ‘Mrs. Tyler wants to speak to you, ma’am’; +or, ‘Jane Cox is come for a hospital paper, ma’am.’ +Then early dinner, of all things detestable, succeeded by school needlework, +mothers’ meeting, and children’s walk, combined with district +visiting, or reading to old women. Church again, high tea, and +evenings again pleasingly varied by choir practices, night schools, +or silence, while grandpapa concocts his sermon.</p> +<p><i>B</i>. Is this the easy life to which Mrs. Moldwarp has +retired?</p> +<p><i>C</i>. It is her native element. People of her generation +think it their vocation to be ladies-of-all-work to the parish of Stickinthemud +cum-Humdrum.</p> +<p><i>B</i>. All-work indeed!</p> +<p><i>C</i>. I did not include Sundays, which are one rush of +meals, schools, and services, including harmonium.</p> +<p><i>B</i>. No society or rational conversation, of course?</p> +<p><i>C</i>. Adjacent clergy and clergy woman rather less capable +of aught but shop than the natives themselves! You see, even if +I did offer myself as a victim, I couldn’t do the thing! +Fancy my going on about the six Mosaic days, and Jonah’s whale, +and Jael’s nail, and doing their duty in that state of life where +it <i>has</i> pleased Heaven to place them.</p> +<p><i>B</i>. Impossible, my dear! Those things can’t +be taught—if they are to be taught—except by those who accept +them as entirely as ever; and it is absurd to think of keeping you where +you would be totally devoid of all intellectual food!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>SCENE.—<i>Art Student and distinguished Professor a year later. +Soirée in a London drawing-room. Professor Dunlop and Cecilia</i>.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p><i>Prof. D</i>. Miss Moldwarp? Is your mother here?</p> +<p><i>C</i>. No; she is not in town.</p> +<p><i>Prof. D</i>. Not living there?</p> +<p><i>C</i>. She lives with my grandfather at Darkglade.</p> +<p><i>Prof. D</i>. Indeed! I hope Mr. and Mrs. Aveland are +well?</p> +<p><i>C</i>. Thank you, <i>he</i> is well; but my grandmother +is dead.</p> +<p><i>Prof. D</i>. Oh, I am sorry! I had not heard of his +loss. How long ago did it happen?</p> +<p><i>C</i>. Last January twelvemonth. My aunt is married, +and my mother has taken her place at home.</p> +<p><i>Prof. D</i>. Then you are here on a visit. Where are +you staying?</p> +<p><i>C</i>. No, I live here. I am studying in the Slade +schools.</p> +<p><i>Prof. D</i>. This must have greatly changed my dear old +friend’s life!</p> +<p><i>C</i>. I did not know that you were acquainted with my grandfather.</p> +<p><i>Prof. D</i>. I was one of his pupils. I may say that +I owe everything to him. It is long since I have been at Darkglade, +but it always seemed to me an ideal place.</p> +<p><i>C</i>. Rather out of the world.</p> +<p><i>Prof. D</i>. Of one sort of world perhaps; but what a beautiful +combination is to be seen there of the highest powers with the lowliest +work! So entirely has he dedicated himself that he really feels +the guidance of a ploughman’s soul a higher task than the grandest +achievement in science or literature. By the bye, I hope he will +take up his pen again. It is really wanted. Will you give +him a message from me?</p> +<p><i>C</i>. How strange! I never knew that he was an author.</p> +<p><i>Prof. D</i>. Ah! you are a young thing, and these are abstruse +subjects.</p> +<p><i>C</i>. Oh! the Fathers and Ritual, I suppose?</p> +<p><i>Prof. D</i>. No doubt he is a great authority there, as +a man of his ability must be; but I was thinking of a course of scientific +papers he put forth ten years ago, taking up the arguments against materialism +as no one could do who is not as thoroughly at home as he is in the +latest discoveries and hypotheses. He ought to answer that paper +in the <i>Critical World.</i></p> +<p><i>C</i>. I was so much interested in that paper.</p> +<p><i>Prof. D</i>. It has just the speciousness that runs away +with young people. I should like to talk it over with him. +Do you think I should be in the way if I ran down?</p> +<p><i>C</i>. I should think a visit from you would be an immense +pleasure to him; and I am sure it would be good for the place to be +stirred up.</p> +<p><i>Prof. D</i>. You have not learnt to prize that atmosphere +in which things always seem to assume their true proportion, and to +prompt the cry of St. Bernard’s brother—‘All earth +for me, all heaven for you.’</p> +<p><i>C</i>. That was surely an outcome of the time when people +used to sacrifice certainties to uncertainties, and spoil life for the +sake of they knew not what.</p> +<p><i>Prof. D</i>. For eye hath not seen, nor ear heard.</p> +<p><i>Stranger</i>. Mr. Dunlop! This is an unexpected pleasure!</p> +<p><i>C</i>. (<i>alone</i>). Well, wonders will never cease. +The great Professor Dunlop talking to me quite preachy and goody; and +of all people in the world, the old man at Darkglade turning out to +be a great physiologist!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>VII. TWO OLD FRIENDS</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>SCENE.—<i>Darkglade Vicarage study. Mr. Aveland and Professor +Dunlop</i>.</p> +<p><i>Prof. D</i>. Thank you, sir. It has been a great pleasure +to talk over these matters with you; I hope a great benefit.</p> +<p><i>Mr. A</i>. I am sure it is a great benefit to us to have +a breath from the outer world. I hope you will never let so long +a time go by without our meeting. Remember, as iron sharpeneth +iron, so doth a man’s countenance that of his friend.</p> +<p><i>Prof. D</i>. I shall be only too thankful. I rejoice +in the having met your grand-daughter, who encouraged me to offer myself. +Is she permanently in town?</p> +<p><i>Mr. A</i>. She shows no inclination to return. I hoped +she would do so after the last competition; but there is always another +stage to be mounted. I wish she would come back, for her mother +ought not to be left single-handed; but young people seem to require +so much external education in these days, instead of being content to +work on at home, that I sometimes question which is more effectual, +learning or being taught.</p> +<p><i>Prof. D</i>. Being poured-upon versus imbibing?</p> +<p><i>Mr. A</i>. It may depend on what amount there is to imbibe; +and I imagine that the child views this region as an arid waste; as +of course we are considerably out of date.</p> +<p><i>Prof. D</i>. The supply would be a good deal fresher and +purer!</p> +<p><i>Mr. A</i>. Do you know anything of her present surroundings?</p> +<p><i>Prof. D</i>. I confess that I was surprised to meet her +with Mrs. Eyeless, a lady who is active in disseminating Positivism, +and all tending that way. She rather startled me by some of her +remarks; but probably it was only jargon and desire to show off. +Have you seen her lately?</p> +<p><i>Mr. A</i>. At Christmas, but only for a short time, when +it struck me that she treated us with the patronage of precocious youth; +and I thought she made the most of a cold when church or parish was +concerned. I hinted as much; but her mother seemed quite satisfied. +Poor girl! Have I been blind? I did not like her going to +live at one of those boarding-houses for lady students. Do you +know anything of them?</p> +<p><i>Prof. D</i>. Of course all depends on the individual lady +at the head, and the responsibility she undertakes, as well as on the +tone of the inmates. With some, it would be only staying in a +safe and guarded home. In others, there is a great amount of liberty, +the girls going out without inquiry whether, with whom, or when they +return.</p> +<p><i>Mr. A</i>. American fashion! Well, they say young +women are equal to taking care of themselves. I wonder whether +my daughter understands this, or whether it is so at Cecilia’s +abode. Do you know?</p> +<p><i>Prof. D</i>. I am afraid I do. The niece of a friend +of mine was there, and left it, much distressed and confused by the +agnostic opinions that were freely broached there. How did your +grand-daughter come to choose it?</p> +<p><i>Mr. A</i>. For the sake of being with a friend. I +think Thurston is the name.</p> +<p><i>Prof. D</i>. I know something of that family; clever people, +but bred up—on principle, if it can be so called, with their minds +a blank as to religion. I remember seeing one of the daughters +at the party where I met Miss Moldwarp.</p> +<p><i>Mr. A</i>. So this is the society into which we have allowed +our poor child to run! I blame myself exceedingly for not having +made more inquiries. Grief made me selfishly passive, or I should +have opened my eyes and theirs to the danger. My poor Mary, what +a shock it will be to her!</p> +<p><i>Prof. D</i>. Was not she on the spot?</p> +<p><i>Mr. A</i>. True; but, poor dear, she is of a gentle nature, +easily led, and seeing only what her affection lets her perceive. +And now, she is not strong.</p> +<p><i>Prof. D</i>. She is not looking well.</p> +<p><i>Mr. A</i>. You think so! I wonder whether I have been +blind, and let her undertake too much.</p> +<p><i>Prof. D</i>. Suppose you were to bring her to town for a +few days. We should be delighted to have you, and she could see +the doctor to whom she is accustomed. Then you can judge for yourself +about her daughter.</p> +<p><i>Mr. A</i>. Thank you, Dunlop! It will be a great comfort +if it can be managed.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>VIII. AUNT AND NIECE</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>SCENE.—<i>In a hansom cab. Mrs. Holland and Cecilia</i>.</p> +<p><i>Mrs. H</i>. I wanted to speak to you, Cissy.</p> +<p><i>C</i>. I thought so!</p> +<p><i>Mrs. H</i>. What do you think of your mother?</p> +<p><i>C</i>. Poor old darling. They have been worrying her +till she has got hipped and nervous about herself.</p> +<p><i>Mrs. H</i>. Do you know what spasms she has been having?</p> +<p><i>C</i>. Oh! mother has had spasms as long as I can remember; +and the more she thinks of them the worse they are. I have often +heard her say so.</p> +<p><i>Mrs. H</i>. Yes; she has gone on much too long overworking +herself, and not letting your grandfather suspect anything amiss.</p> +<p><i>C</i>. Nerves. That is what it always is.</p> +<p><i>Mrs. H</i>. Dr. Brownlow says there is failure of heart, +not dangerous or advanced at present, but that there is an overstrain +of all the powers, and that unless she keeps fairly quiet, and free +from hurry and worry, there may be very serious, if not fatal attacks.</p> +<p><i>C</i>. I never did think much of Dr. Brownlow. He +told me my palpitations were nothing but indigestion, and I am sure +they were not!</p> +<p><i>Mrs. H</i>. Well, Cissy, something must be done to relieve +your mother of some of her burthens.</p> +<p><i>C</i>. I see what you are driving at, Aunt Phrasie; but +I cannot go back till I have finished these courses. There’s +my picture, there’s the cookery school, the ambulance lectures, +and our sketching tour in August. Ever so many engagements. +I shall be free in the autumn, and then I will go down and see about +it. I told mother so.</p> +<p><i>Mrs. H</i>. All the hot trying months of summer without +help!</p> +<p><i>C</i>. I never can understand why they don’t have +a governess.</p> +<p><i>Mrs. H</i>. Can’t you? Is there not a considerable +outgoing on your behalf?</p> +<p><i>C</i>. That is my own. I am not bound to educate my +uncle’s children at my expense.</p> +<p><i>Mrs. H</i>. No; but if you contributed your share to the +housekeeping, you would make a difference, and surely you cannot leave +your mother to break down her health by overworking herself in this +manner.</p> +<p><i>C</i>. Why does grandpapa let her do so?</p> +<p><i>Mrs. H</i>. Partly he does not see, partly he cannot help +it. He has been so entirely accustomed to have all those family +and parish details taken off his hands, and borne easily as they were +when your dear grandmamma and I were both there at home, that he cannot +understand that they can be over much—especially as they are so +small in themselves. Besides, he is not so young as he was, and +your dear mother cannot bear to trouble him.</p> +<p><i>C</i>. Well, I shall go there in September and see about +it. It is impossible before.</p> +<p><i>Mrs. H</i>. In the hopping holidays, when the stress of +work is over! Cannot you see with your own eyes how fagged and +ill your mother looks, and how much she wants help?</p> +<p><i>C</i>. Oh! she will be all right again after this rest. +I tell you, Aunt Phrasie, it is <i>impossible</i> at present—(<i>cab +stops</i>)<i>.</i></p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>IX. THE TWO SISTERS</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>SCENE.—<i>A room in Professor Dunlop’s house. Mrs. +Moldwarp and Mrs. Holland.</i></p> +<p><i>Mrs. H</i>. I have done my best, but I can’t move +her an inch.</p> +<p><i>Mrs. M</i>. Poor dear girl! Yet it seems hardly fair +to make my health the lever, when really there is nothing serious the +matter.</p> +<p><i>Mrs. H</i>. I can’t understand the infatuation. +Can there be any love affair?</p> +<p><i>Mrs. M</i>. Oh no, Phrasie; it is worse!</p> +<p><i>Mrs. H</i>. Worse! Mary, what can you mean?</p> +<p><i>Mrs. M</i>. Yes, it <i>is</i> worse. I got at the +whole truth yesterday. My poor child’s faith has gone! +Oh, how could I let her go and let her mingle among all those people, +all unguarded!</p> +<p><i>Mrs. H</i>. Do you mean that this is the real reason that +she will not come home?</p> +<p><i>Mrs. M</i>. Yes; she told me plainly at last that she could +not stand our round of services. They seem empty and obsolete +to her, and she could not feign to attend them or vex us, and cause +remarks by staying away, and of course she neither could nor would teach +anything but secular matters. ‘My coming would be nothing +but pain to everybody,’ she said.</p> +<p><i>Mrs H</i>. You did not tell me this before my drive with +her.</p> +<p><i>Mrs. M</i>. No, I never saw you alone; besides, I thought +you would speak more freely without the knowledge. And, to tell +the truth, I did think it possible that consideration for me might bring +my poor Cissy down to us, and that when once under my father’s +influence, all these mists might clear away. But I do not deserve +it. I have been an unfaithful parent, shutting my eyes in feeble +indulgence, and letting her drift into these quicksands.</p> +<p><i>Mrs. H</i>. Fashion and imitation, my dear Mary; it will +pass away. Now, you are not to talk any more.</p> +<p><i>Mrs. M</i>. I can’t— (<i>A spasm comes on</i>.)</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>X. AUNT AND NEPHEW</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>SCENE.—<i>Six months later, Darkglade Vicarage, a darkened +room. Mrs. Holland and Lucius</i>.</p> +<p><i>Mrs. H</i>. Yes, Lucius, we have all much to reproach ourselves +with; even poor grandpapa is heart-broken at having been too much absorbed +to perceive how your dear mother was overtasked.</p> +<p><i>L</i>. You did all you could, aunt; you took home one child, +and caused the other to be sent to school.</p> +<p><i>Mrs. H</i>. Yes, too late to be of any use.</p> +<p><i>L</i>. And after all, I don’t think it was overwork +that broke the poor dear one down, so much as grief at that wretched +sister of mine.</p> +<p><i>Mrs. H</i>. Don’t speak of her in that way, Lucius.</p> +<p><i>L</i>. How can I help it? I could say worse!</p> +<p><i>Mrs. H</i>. She is broken-hearted, poor thing.</p> +<p><i>L</i>. Well she may be.</p> +<p><i>Mrs. H</i>. Ah, the special point of sorrow to your dear +mother was that she blamed herself, for—</p> +<p><i>L</i>. How could she? How can you say so, aunt?</p> +<p><i>Mrs. H</i>. Wait a moment, Lucius. What grieved her +was the giving in to Cissy’s determination, seeing with her eyes, +and not allowing herself to perceive that what she wished might not +be good for her.</p> +<p><i>L</i>. Cissy always did domineer over mother.</p> +<p><i>Mrs. H</i>. Yes; and your mother was so used to thinking +Cissy’s judgment right that she never could or would see when +it was time to make a stand, and prevent her own first impressions from +being talked down as old-fashioned,—letting her eyes be bandaged, +in fact.</p> +<p><i>L</i>. So she vexed herself over Cissy’s fault; but +did not you try to make Cissy see what she was about?</p> +<p><i>Mrs. H</i>. True; but if love had blinded my dear sister, +Cissy was doubly blinded—</p> +<p><i>L</i>. By conceit and self-will.</p> +<p><i>Mrs. H</i>. Poor girl, I am too sorry for her now to use +those hard words, but I am afraid it is true. First she could +or would not see either that her companions might be undesirable guides, +or that her duty lay here, and then nothing would show her that her +mother’s health was failing. Indeed, by that time the sort +of blindness had come upon her which really broke your mother’s +heart.</p> +<p><i>L</i>. You mean her unbelief, agnosticism, or whatever she +chooses to call it. I thought at least women were safe from that +style of thing. It is all fashion and bad company, I suppose?</p> +<p><i>Mrs. H</i>. I hope and pray that it may be so; but I am +afraid that it goes deeper than you imagine. Still, I see hope +in her extreme unhappiness, and in the remembrance of your dear mother’s +last words and prayers.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>XI. GRANDFATHER AND GRAND-DAUGHTER</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p><i>A month later. Mr. Aveland and Cecilia</i>.</p> +<p><i>Mr. A</i>. My dear child, I wish I could do anything for +you.</p> +<p><i>C</i>. You had better let me go back to London, grandpapa.</p> +<p><i>Mr. A</i>. Do you really wish it?</p> +<p><i>C</i>. I don’t know. I hate it all; but if I +were in the midst of everything again, it might stifle the pain a little.</p> +<p><i>Mr. A</i>. I am afraid that is not the right way of curing +it.</p> +<p><i>C</i>. Oh, I suppose it will wear down in time.</p> +<p><i>Mr. A</i>. Is that well?</p> +<p><i>C</i>. I don’t know. It is only unbearable as +it is; and yet when I think of my life in town, the din and the chatter +and the bustle, and the nobody caring, seem doubly intolerable; but +I shall work off that. You had better let me go, grandpapa. +The sight of me can be nothing but a grief and pain to you.</p> +<p><i>Mr. A</i>. No; it gives me hope.</p> +<p><i>C</i>. Hope of what?</p> +<p><i>Mr. A</i>. That away from the whirl you will find your way +to peace.</p> +<p><i>C</i>. I don’t see how. Quiet only makes me +more miserable.</p> +<p><i>Mr. A</i>. My poor child, if you can speak out and tell +me exactly how it is with you, I think it might be comfortable to you. +If it is the missing your mother, and blaming yourself for having allowed +her to overdo herself, I may well share with you in that. I feel +most grievously that I never perceived how much she was undertaking, +nor how she flagged under it. Unselfish people want others to +think for them, and I did not.</p> +<p><i>C</i>. Dear grandpapa, it would not have been too much if +I had come and helped. I know that; but it is not the worst. +You can’t feel as I do—that if my desertion led to her overworking +herself, Aunt Phrasie and Lucius say that what really broke her down +was the opinions I cannot help having. Say it was not, grandpapa.</p> +<p><i>Mr. A</i>. I wish I could, my dear; but I cannot conceal +that unhappiness about you, and regret for having let you expose yourself +to those unfortunate arguments, broke her spirits so that her energies +were unequal to the strain that I allowed to be laid on her.</p> +<p><i>C</i>. Poor dear mother! And you and she can feel +in that way about the importance of what to me seems—pardon me, +grandpapa—utterly unproved.</p> +<p><i>Mr. A</i>. You hold everything unproved that you cannot +work out like a mathematical demonstration.</p> +<p><i>C</i>. I can’t help it, grandpapa. I read and +read, till all the premises become lost in the cloud of myths that belong +to all nations. I don’t want to think such things. +I saw dear mother rest on her belief, and grow peaceful. They +were perfect realities to her; but I cannot unthink. I would give +anything to think that she is in perfect happiness now, and that we +shall meet again; but nothing seems certain to me. All is extinguished.</p> +<p><i>Mr. A</i>. How do you mean?</p> +<p><i>C</i>. They—Betty and her set, I mean—laughed +at and argued one thing after another, till they showed me that there +were no positive grounds to go on.</p> +<p><i>Mr. A</i>. No material grounds.</p> +<p><i>C</i>. And what else is certain?</p> +<p><i>Mr. A</i>. Do you think your mother was not certain?</p> +<p><i>C</i>. I saw she was; I see you are certain. But what +am I to do? I cannot unthink.</p> +<p><i>Mr. A</i>. Poor child, they have loosed you from the shore, +because you could not see it, and left you to flounder in the waves.</p> +<p><i>C</i>. Well, so I feel it sometimes; but if I could only +feel that there was a shore, I would try to get my foothold. Oh, +with all my heart!</p> +<p><i>Mr. A</i>. Will you take my word, dear child—the word +of one who can dare humbly to say he has proved it, so as to be as sure +as of the floor we are standing on, that that Rock exists; and God grant +that you may, in prayer and patience, be brought to rest on it once +more.</p> +<p><i>C</i>. Once more! I don’t think I ever did so +really. I only did not think, and kept away from what was dull +and tiresome. Didn’t you read something about ‘If +thou hadst known—’</p> +<p><i>Mr. A</i>. ‘If thou hadst known, even thou, at least +in this thy day, the things that belong unto thy peace! but now they +are hid from thine eyes.’ But oh, my dear girl, it is my +hope and prayer, not for ever. If you will endure to walk in darkness +for a while, till the light be again revealed to you.</p> +<p><i>C</i>. At any rate, dear grandfather, I will do what mother +entreated, and not leave you alone.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>XII.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p><i>Two years later. St. Thomas</i>’<i>s Day.</i></p> +<p><i>C</i>. Grandpapa, may I come with you on Christmas morning?</p> +<p><i>Mr. A</i>. You make me a truly happy Christmas, dear child.</p> +<p><i>C</i>. I think I feel somewhat as St. Thomas did, in to-day’s +Gospel. It went home to my heart</p> +<p><i>Mr. A</i>. Ah, child, to us that ‘Blessed are they +who have not seen and yet have believed,’ must mean those who +are ready to know by faith instead of material tangible proof.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>CHOPS</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>You ask me why I call that old great-grandmother black cat Chops? +Well, thereby hangs a tale. I don’t mean the black tail +which is standing upright and quivering at your caresses, but a story +that there will be time to tell you before Charlie gets home from market.</p> +<p>Seven years ago, Charlie had just finished his training both at an +agricultural college and under a farmer, and was thinking of going out +to Texas or to Canada, and sending for me when he should have been able +to make a new home for me, when his godfather, Mr. Newton, offered to +let him come down and look after the draining and otherwise reclaiming +of this great piece of waste land. It had come to Mr. Newton through +some mortgages, I believe, and he thought something might be made of +it by an active agent. It was the first time Mr. Newton had shown +the least interest in us, though he was a cousin of our poor mother’s; +and Charlie was very much gratified, more especially as when he had +£150 a year and a house, he thought I might leave the school where +I was working as a teacher, and make a home with him.</p> +<p>Yes, this is the house; but it has grown a good deal since we settled +down, and will grow more before you come to it for good. Then +it was only meant for a superior sort of gamekeeper, and had only six +rooms in it—parlour, kitchen, and back kitchen, and three bedrooms +above them; but this we agreed would be ample for ourselves and Betsey, +an old servant of our mother’s, who could turn her hand to anything, +and on the break-up of our home had begged to join us again whenever +or wherever we should have a house of our own once more.</p> +<p>We have half a dozen cottages near us now; but then it seemed to +us like a lodge in a vast wilderness—three miles away from everything, +shop, house, or church. Betsey fairly sat down and cried when +she heard how far away was the butcher, and it really seemed as if we +were to have the inconveniences of colonisation without the honour of +it. However, contrivances made us merry; we made our rooms pretty +and pleasant, and as a pony and trap were essential to Charlie in his +work, we were able to fetch and carry easily. Moreover, we had +already a fair kitchen garden laid out, and there were outhouses for +pigs and poultry, so that even while draining and fencing were going +on, we raised a good proportion of our own provisions, and very proud +of them we were; our own mustard and cress, which we sowed in our initials, +tasted doubly sweet when we reaped them as our earliest crop.</p> +<p>Mr. Newton had always said that some day he should drop down and +see how Charles was getting on, but as he hardly ever stirred from his +office in London, and only answered letters in the briefest and most +business-like way, we had pretty well left off expecting him.</p> +<p>We had been here about six months, and had killed our first pig—‘a +pretty little porker as ever was seen,’ as Betsey said. +It was hard to understand, after all the petting, admiration, and back-scratching +Betsey had bestowed on him, how ready she was to sentence him, and triumph +in his death; while I, feeble-minded creature, delayed rising in the +morning that I might cower under the bedclothes and stop my ears against +his dying squeals. However, when he was no more, the housekeeping +spirit triumphed in our independence of the butcher, while his fry and +other delicacies lasted, and Betsey was supremely happy over the saltings +of the legs, etc., with a view to the more distant future.</p> +<p>It was a cold day of early spring. I had been down the lanes +and brought in five tiny starved primroses with short stems, for which +Betsey scolded me soundly, telling me that the first brood of chickens +was always the same in number as the first primroses brought into the +house. I eked them out with moss in a saucer, and then, how well +I remember the foolish, weary feeling that I wished something would +happen to break the quiet. We were out of the reach of new books, +and the two magazines we took in would not be due for ten long days. +I did not feel sensible or energetic enough to turn to one of the standard +well-bound volumes that had been Charlie’s school prizes, and +at the moment I hated my needlework, both steady sewing and fancy work. +It was the same with my piano. I had no new fashionable music, +and I was in a mood to disdain what was good and classical. So, +as the twilight came on, I sat drearily by the fire, fondling the cat—yes, +this same black cat—and thinking that my life at the ladies’ +college had been a good deal livelier, and that if I had given it up +for the sake of my brother’s society, I had very little of that.</p> +<p>The hunt had gone by last week—what a treat it would be if +some one would meet with a little accident and be carried in here!</p> +<p>Behold, I heard a step at the back door, and the loud call of ‘Kitty! +Kitty!’ There stood Charlie, as usual covered with clay +nearly up to the top of his gaiters—clay either pale yellow, or +horrid light blue, according to the direction of his walk. He +was beginning frantically to unbutton them, and as he beheld me he cried +out, ‘Kitty! he’s coming!’ and before I could say, +‘Who?’ he went on, ‘Old Newton. His fly is working +through the mud in Draggletail Lane. The driver hailed me to ask +the way, and when I saw who it was, I cut across to give you notice. +He’ll stay the night to a dead certainty.’</p> +<p>What was to be done? A wild hope seized me that, at sight of +the place, he would retain his fly and go off elsewhere for better accommodation.</p> +<p>Only, where would he find it? The nearest town, where the only +railway station then was, was eight miles off, and he was not likely +to plod back thither again, and the village inn, five miles away, was +little more than a pot-house.</p> +<p>No, we must rise to the occasion, Betsey and I, while Charlie was +making himself respectable to receive the guest. Where was he +to sleep? What was he to eat? A daintily fed, rather hypochrondriacal +old bachelor, who seldom stirred out of his comfortable house in London. +What a guest for us!</p> +<p>The council was held while the gaiters were being unbuttoned. +He must have my room, and I would sleep with Betsey. As to food, +it was impossible to send to the butcher; and even if I could have sacrificed +my precious Dorking fowls, there would have been scant time to prepare +them.</p> +<p>There was nothing for it but to give him the pork chops, intended +for our to-morrow’s dinner, and if he did not like them, he might +fall back upon poached eggs and rashers.</p> +<p>‘Mind,’ called Charlie, as I dashed into my room to remove +my properties and light the fire, so that it might get over its first +smoking fit,—‘mind you lock up the cat. He hates them +like poison.’</p> +<p>It was so long before the carriage appeared, that I began half to +hope, half to fear, it was a false alarm; but at last, just as it was +perfectly dark, we heard it stop at the garden gate, and Charlie dashed +out to open the fly door, and bring in the guest, who was panting, nervous—almost +terrified, at a wild drive, so contrary to all his experiences. +When the flyman’s demands had been appeased, and we had got the +poor old gentleman out of his wraps, he turned out to be a neat, little, +prim-looking London lawyer, clean-shaved, and with an indoor complexion. +I daresay Charlie, with his big frame, sunburnt face, curly beard, and +loud hearty voice, seemed to him like a kind of savage, and he thought +he had got among the Aborigines.</p> +<p>After all, he had written to announce his coming. But he had +not calculated on our never getting our letters unless we sent for them. +He was the very pink of politeness to me, and mourned so much over putting +me to inconvenience that we could only profess our delight and desire +to make him comfortable.</p> +<p>On the whole, it went off very well. I gave him a cup of tea +to warm and occupy him while the upstairs’ chimney was coming +to its senses; and then Charles took him upstairs. He reappeared +in precise evening dress, putting us to shame; for Charles had not a +dress-coat big enough for him to get into, and I had forgotten to secure +my black silk before abandoning my room. We could not ask him +to eat in the best kitchen, as was our practice, and he showed himself +rather dismayed at our having only one sitting-room, saying he had not +thought the cottage such a dog-hole, or known that it would be inhabited +by a lady; and then he paid some pretty compliment on the feminine hand +evident in the room. We had laid the table before he came down, +but the waiting was managed by ourselves, or rather, by Charles, for +Mr. Newton’s politeness made him jump up whenever I moved; so +that I had to sit still and do the lady hostess, while my brother changed +plates and brought in relays of the chops from the kitchen. They +were a great success. Mr. Newton eyed them for a moment distrustfully, +but Betsey had turned them out beautifully—all fair and delicate +with transparent fat, and a brown stripe telling of the gridiron. +He refused the egg alternative, and greatly enjoyed them and our Brussels +sprouts, speaking highly of the pleasure of country fare, and apologising +about the good appetising effects of a journey, when Charlie tempted +him with a third chop, the hottest and most perfect of all.</p> +<p>I think we also produced a rhubarb tart, and I know he commended +our prudence in having no wine, and though he refused my brother’s +ale, seemed highly satisfied with a tumbler of brandy and water, when +I quitted the gentlemen to see to the coffee, while they talked over +the scheme for farm-buildings, which Charlie had sent up to him.</p> +<p>When I bade him good-night, a couple of hours later, he was evidently +in a serene state of mind, regarding us as very superior young people.</p> +<p>In the middle of the night, Betsey and I were appalled by a tremendous +knocking on the wall. I threw on a dressing-gown and made for +the door, while Betsey felt for the matches. As I opened a crack +of the door, Charlie’s voice was to be heard, ‘Yes, yes; +I’ll get you some, sir. You’ll be better presently,’ +interspersed with heavy groans; then, seeing me wide awake, he begged +that Betsey would go down and get some hot water—‘and mustard,’ +called out a suffering voice. ‘Oh, those chops!’</p> +<p>Poor Mr. Newton had, it appeared, wakened with a horrible oppression +on his chest, and at once attributing it to his unwonted meal of pork +chops, he had begun, in the dark, knocking and calling with great energy. +Charlie had stumbled in in the dark, not waiting to light a candle, +and indeed ours were chiefly lamps, which took time to light. +Betsey had hers, however, and had bustled into some clothes, tumbling +downstairs to see whether any water were still hot in the copper, Charlie +running down to help her, while I fumbled about for a lamp and listened +with awe to the groans from within, wondering which of us would have +to go for the doctor.</p> +<p>Up came Charlie, in his shirt sleeves, with a steaming jug in one +hand and a lamp in the other. Up came Betsey, in a scarlet petticoat +and plaid shawl, her gray locks in curl-papers, and a tallow-candle +in hand. The door was thrown open, Charlie observing,</p> +<p>‘Now, sir,’ then breaking out into ‘Thunder and +turf’ (his favourite Hibernian ejaculation); ‘Ssssssss!’ +and therewith, her green eyes all one glare, out burst this cat! +She was the nightmare! She had been sitting on the unfortunate +man’s chest, and all her weight had been laid to the score of +the chops!</p> +<p>No doubt she had been attracted by the fire, stolen up in the confusion +of the house, remained hidden whilst Mr. Newton was going to bed, and +when the fire went out, settled herself on his chest, as it seems he +slept on his back, and it was a warm position.</p> +<p>Probably his knockings on the wall dislodged her; but if so, imagination +carried on the sense of oppression, and with feline pertinacity she +had returned as soon as he was still again.</p> +<p>Poor old gentleman! I am afraid he heard some irrepressible +laughter, and it was very sore to him to be ridiculous. His grave +dignity and politeness when he came down very late the next morning +were something awful, and it must have been very dreadful to him that +he could not get away till half the day was over.</p> +<p>So dry and short was he over matters of business that Charles actually +thought we might begin to pack up and make our arrangements for emigrating. +Grave, dry, and civil as ever, he departed, and I never saw him more, +nor do I think he ever entirely forgave me. There did not, however, +come any dismissal, and when Charlie had occasion to go up to his office +and see him, he was just the same as ever, and acceded to the various +arrangements which have made this a civilised, though still rather remote +place.</p> +<p>And when he died, a year ago, to our surprise we found that this +same reclaimed property was left to my brother. The consequence +whereof you well know, my dear little sister that is to be. Poor +old Chops! you had nearly marred our fortunes; and now, will you go +with me to my home at the Rectory, or do you prefer your old abode to +your old mistress?</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Footnotes:</p> +<p><a name="footnote127"></a><a href="#citation127">{127}</a> +[In the book this genealogy is a diagram. It is rendered as text +here.—DP] John Fulford: sons: John Fulford <a name="citation127a"></a><a href="#footnote127a">{127a}</a> +(married Margaret Lacy) and Henry <a name="citation127b"></a><a href="#footnote127b">{127b}</a>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote127a"></a><a href="#citation127a">{127a}</a> +John Fulford and Margaret Lacy: Sir Edward Fulford (married Avice Lee—died +after two years), Arthur, Q.C. (married Edith Ganler) <a name="citation127c"></a><a href="#footnote127c">{127c}</a>, +Martyn (Professor, married Mary Alwyn) <a name="citation127d"></a><a href="#footnote127d">{127d}</a>, +Charlotte, Emily, Margaret (married Rev. H. Druce) <a name="citation127e"></a><a href="#footnote127e">{127e}</a>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote127b"></a><a href="#citation127b">{127b}</a> +Henry had a son called Henry—whose son was also Henry—whose +daughter was Isabel.</p> +<p><a name="footnote127c"></a><a href="#citation127c">{127c}</a> +Arthur, Q.C. and Edith Ganler: Margaret called Metelill, Charlotte called +Charley, Sons not at New Cove.</p> +<p><a name="footnote127d"></a><a href="#citation127d">{127d}</a> +Martyn (Professor) and Mary Alwyn: Margaret called Pica, Avice and Uchtred.</p> +<p><a name="footnote127e"></a><a href="#citation127e">{127e}</a> +Margaret and Rev. H. Druce: Jane and large family.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MORE BYWORDS***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 12095-h.htm or 12095-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +https://www.gutenberg.org/1/2/0/9/12095 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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