diff options
Diffstat (limited to '2524-h')
| -rw-r--r-- | 2524-h/2524-h.htm | 8776 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 2524-h/images/cover.jpg | bin | 0 -> 231199 bytes |
2 files changed, 8776 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/2524-h/2524-h.htm b/2524-h/2524-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b7988eb --- /dev/null +++ b/2524-h/2524-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,8776 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of My Lady Ludlow, by Elizabeth Gaskell</title> +<link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> +<style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%;} + +.no-break {page-break-before: avoid;} /* for epubs */ + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +p.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: 90%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +p.right {text-align: right; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + + </style> +</head> +<body> + +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of My Lady Ludlow, by Elizabeth Gaskell</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world 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 <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: My Lady Ludlow</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Elizabeth Gaskell</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: May 17, 2005 [eBook #2524]<br /> +[Most recently updated: December 22, 2021]</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: David Price and Richard Tonsing</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY LADY LUDLOW ***</div> + +<h1>MY LADY LUDLOW</h1> + +<h2 class="no-break">by Elizabeth Gaskell</h2> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>CHAPTER I.</h2> + +<p> +I am an old woman now, and things are very different to what they were in my +youth. Then we, who travelled, travelled in coaches, carrying six inside, and +making a two days’ journey out of what people now go over in a couple of +hours with a whizz and a flash, and a screaming whistle, enough to deafen one. +Then letters came in but three times a week: indeed, in some places in Scotland +where I have stayed when I was a girl, the post came in but once a +month;—but letters were letters then; and we made great prizes of them, +and read them and studied them like books. Now the post comes rattling in twice +a day, bringing short jerky notes, some without beginning or end, but just a +little sharp sentence, which well-bred folks would think too abrupt to be +spoken. Well, well! they may all be improvements,—I dare say they are; +but you will never meet with a Lady Ludlow in these days. +</p> + +<p> +I will try and tell you about her. It is no story: it has, as I said, neither +beginning, middle, nor end. +</p> + +<p> +My father was a poor clergyman with a large family. My mother was always said +to have good blood in her veins; and when she wanted to maintain her position +with the people she was thrown among,—principally rich democratic +manufacturers, all for liberty and the French Revolution,—she would put +on a pair of ruffles, trimmed with real old English point, very much darned to +be sure,—but which could not be bought new for love or money, as the art +of making it was lost years before. These ruffles showed, as she said, that her +ancestors had been Somebodies, when the grandfathers of the rich folk, who now +looked down upon her, had been Nobodies,—if, indeed, they had any +grandfathers at all. I don’t know whether any one out of our own family +ever noticed these ruffles,—but we were all taught as children to feel +rather proud when my mother put them on, and to hold up our heads as became the +descendants of the lady who had first possessed the lace. Not but what my dear +father often told us that pride was a great sin; we were never allowed to be +proud of anything but my mother’s ruffles: and she was so innocently +happy when she put them on,—often, poor dear creature, to a very worn and +threadbare gown,—that I still think, even after all my experience of +life, they were a blessing to the family. You will think that I am wandering +away from my Lady Ludlow. Not at all. The Lady who had owned the lace, Ursula +Hanbury, was a common ancestress of both my mother and my Lady Ludlow. And so +it fell out, that when my poor father died, and my mother was sorely pressed to +know what to do with her nine children, and looked far and wide for signs of +willingness to help, Lady Ludlow sent her a letter, proffering aid and +assistance. I see that letter now: a large sheet of thick yellow paper, with a +straight broad margin left on the left-hand side of the delicate Italian +writing,—writing which contained far more in the same space of paper than +all the sloping, or masculine hand-writings of the present day. It was sealed +with a coat-of-arms,—a lozenge,—for Lady Ludlow was a widow. My +mother made us notice the motto, “Foy et Loy,” and told us where to +look for the quarterings of the Hanbury arms before she opened the letter. +Indeed, I think she was rather afraid of what the contents might be; for, as I +have said, in her anxious love for her fatherless children, she had written to +many people upon whom, to tell truly, she had but little claim; and their cold, +hard answers had many a time made her cry, when she thought none of us were +looking. I do not even know if she had ever seen Lady Ludlow: all I knew of her +was that she was a very grand lady, whose grandmother had been half-sister to +my mother’s great-grandmother; but of her character and circumstances I +had heard nothing, and I doubt if my mother was acquainted with them. +</p> + +<p> +I looked over my mother’s shoulder to read the letter; it began, +“Dear Cousin Margaret Dawson,” and I think I felt hopeful from the +moment I saw those words. She went on to say,—stay, I think I can +remember the very words: +</p> + +<p> +‘DEAR COUSIN MARGARET DAWSON,—I have been much grieved to hear of +the loss you have sustained in the death of so good a husband, and so excellent +a clergyman as I have always heard that my late cousin Richard was esteemed to +be.’ +</p> + +<p> +“There!” said my mother, laying her finger on the passage, +“read that aloud to the little ones. Let them hear how their +father’s good report travelled far and wide, and how well he is spoken of +by one whom he never saw. COUSIN Richard, how prettily her ladyship writes! Go +on, Margaret!” She wiped her eyes as she spoke: and laid her fingers on +her lips, to still my little sister, Cecily, who, not understanding anything +about the important letter, was beginning to talk and make a noise. +</p> + +<p> +‘You say you are left with nine children. I too should have had nine, if +mine had all lived. I have none left but Rudolph, the present Lord Ludlow. He +is married, and lives, for the most part, in London. But I entertain six young +gentlewomen at my house at Connington, who are to me as daughters—save +that, perhaps, I restrict them in certain indulgences in dress and diet that +might be befitting in young ladies of a higher rank, and of more probable +wealth. These young persons—all of condition, though out of +means—are my constant companions, and I strive to do my duty as a +Christian lady towards them. One of these young gentlewomen died (at her own +home, whither she had gone upon a visit) last May. Will you do me the favour to +allow your eldest daughter to supply her place in my household? She is, as I +make out, about sixteen years of age. She will find companions here who are but +a little older than herself. I dress my young friends myself, and make each of +them a small allowance for pocket-money. They have but few opportunities for +matrimony, as Connington is far removed from any town. The clergyman is a deaf +old widower; my agent is married; and as for the neighbouring farmers, they +are, of course, below the notice of the young gentlewomen under my protection. +Still, if any young woman wishes to marry, and has conducted herself to my +satisfaction, I give her a wedding dinner, her clothes, and her house-linen. +And such as remain with me to my death, will find a small competency provided +for them in my will. I reserve to myself the option of paying their travelling +expenses,—disliking gadding women, on the one hand; on the other, not +wishing by too long absence from the family home to weaken natural ties. +</p> + +<p> +‘If my proposal pleases you and your daughter—or rather, if it +pleases you, for I trust your daughter has been too well brought up to have a +will in opposition to yours—let me know, dear cousin Margaret Dawson, and +I will make arrangements for meeting the young gentlewoman at Cavistock, which +is the nearest point to which the coach will bring her.’ +</p> + +<p> +My mother dropped the letter, and sat silent. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall not know what to do without you, Margaret.” +</p> + +<p> +A moment before, like a young untried girl as I was, I had been pleased at the +notion of seeing a new place, and leading a new life. But now,—my +mother’s look of sorrow, and the children’s cry of remonstrance: +“Mother; I won’t go,” I said. +</p> + +<p> +“Nay! but you had better,” replied she, shaking her head. +“Lady Ludlow has much power. She can help your brothers. It will not do +to slight her offer.” +</p> + +<p> +So we accepted it, after much consultation. We were rewarded,—or so we +thought,—for, afterwards, when I came to know Lady Ludlow, I saw that she +would have done her duty by us, as helpless relations, however we might have +rejected her kindness,—by a presentation to Christ’s Hospital for +one of my brothers. +</p> + +<p> +And this was how I came to know my Lady Ludlow. +</p> + +<p> +I remember well the afternoon of my arrival at Hanbury Court. Her ladyship had +sent to meet me at the nearest post-town at which the mail-coach stopped. There +was an old groom inquiring for me, the ostler said, if my name was +Dawson—from Hanbury Court, he believed. I felt it rather formidable; and +first began to understand what was meant by going among strangers, when I lost +sight of the guard to whom my mother had intrusted me. I was perched up in a +high gig with a hood to it, such as in those days was called a chair, and my +companion was driving deliberately through the most pastoral country I had ever +yet seen. By-and-by we ascended a long hill, and the man got out and walked at +the horse’s head. I should have liked to walk, too, very much indeed; but +I did not know how far I might do it; and, in fact, I dared not speak to ask to +be helped down the deep steps of the gig. We were at last at the top,—on +a long, breezy, sweeping, unenclosed piece of ground, called, as I afterwards +learnt, a Chase. The groom stopped, breathed, patted his horse, and then +mounted again to my side. +</p> + +<p> +“Are we near Hanbury Court?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Near! Why, Miss! we’ve a matter of ten mile yet to go.” +</p> + +<p> +Once launched into conversation, we went on pretty glibly. I fancy he had been +afraid of beginning to speak to me, just as I was to him; but he got over his +shyness with me sooner than I did mine with him. I let him choose the subjects +of conversation, although very often I could not understand the points of +interest in them: for instance, he talked for more than a quarter of an hour of +a famous race which a certain dog-fox had given him, above thirty years before; +and spoke of all the covers and turns just as if I knew them as well as he did; +and all the time I was wondering what kind of an animal a dog-fox might be. +</p> + +<p> +After we left the Chase, the road grew worse. No one in these days, who has not +seen the byroads of fifty years ago, can imagine what they were. We had to +quarter, as Randal called it, nearly all the way along the deep-rutted, miry +lanes; and the tremendous jolts I occasionally met with made my seat in the gig +so unsteady that I could not look about me at all, I was so much occupied in +holding on. The road was too muddy for me to walk without dirtying myself more +than I liked to do, just before my first sight of my Lady Ludlow. But +by-and-by, when we came to the fields in which the lane ended, I begged Randal +to help me down, as I saw that I could pick my steps among the pasture grass +without making myself unfit to be seen; and Randal, out of pity for his +steaming horse, wearied with the hard struggle through the mud, thanked me +kindly, and helped me down with a springing jump. +</p> + +<p> +The pastures fell gradually down to the lower land, shut in on either side by +rows of high elms, as if there had been a wide grand avenue here in former +times. Down the grassy gorge we went, seeing the sunset sky at the end of the +shadowed descent. Suddenly we came to a long flight of steps. +</p> + +<p> +“If you’ll run down there, Miss, I’ll go round and meet you, +and then you’d better mount again, for my lady will like to see you drive +up to the house.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are we near the house?” said I, suddenly checked by the idea. +</p> + +<p> +“Down there, Miss,” replied he, pointing with his whip to certain +stacks of twisted chimneys rising out of a group of trees, in deep shadow +against the crimson light, and which lay just beyond a great square lawn at the +base of the steep slope of a hundred yards, on the edge of which we stood. +</p> + +<p> +I went down the steps quietly enough. I met Randal and the gig at the bottom; +and, falling into a side road to the left, we drove sedately round, through the +gateway, and into the great court in front of the house. +</p> + +<p> +The road by which we had come lay right at the back. +</p> + +<p> +Hanbury Court is a vast red-brick house—at least, it is cased in part +with red bricks; and the gate-house and walls about the place are of +brick,—with stone facings at every corner, and door, and window, such as +you see at Hampton Court. At the back are the gables, and arched doorways, and +stone mullions, which show (so Lady Ludlow used to tell us) that it was once a +priory. There was a prior’s parlour, I know—only we called it Mrs. +Medlicott’s room; and there was a tithe-barn as big as a church, and rows +of fish-ponds, all got ready for the monks’ fasting-days in old time. But +all this I did not see till afterwards. I hardly noticed, this first night, the +great Virginian Creeper (said to have been the first planted in England by one +of my lady’s ancestors) that half covered the front of the house. As I +had been unwilling to leave the guard of the coach, so did I now feel unwilling +to leave Randal, a known friend of three hours. But there was no help for it; +in I must go; past the grand-looking old gentleman holding the door open for +me, on into the great hall on the right hand, into which the sun’s last +rays were sending in glorious red light,—the gentleman was now walking +before me,—up a step on to the dais, as I afterwards learned that it was +called,—then again to the left, through a series of sitting-rooms, +opening one out of another, and all of them looking into a stately garden, +glowing, even in the twilight, with the bloom of flowers. We went up four steps +out of the last of these rooms, and then my guide lifted up a heavy silk +curtain and I was in the presence of my Lady Ludlow. +</p> + +<p> +She was very small of stature, and very upright. She wore a great lace cap, +nearly half her own height, I should think, that went round her head (caps +which tied under the chin, and which we called “mobs,” came in +later, and my lady held them in great contempt, saying people might as well +come down in their nightcaps). In front of my lady’s cap was a great bow +of white satin ribbon; and a broad band of the same ribbon was tied tight round +her head, and served to keep the cap straight. She had a fine Indian muslin +shawl folded over her shoulders and across her chest, and an apron of the same; +a black silk mode gown, made with short sleeves and ruffles, and with the tail +thereof pulled through the pocket-hole, so as to shorten it to a useful length: +beneath it she wore, as I could plainly see, a quilted lavender satin +petticoat. Her hair was snowy white, but I hardly saw it, it was so covered +with her cap: her skin, even at her age, was waxen in texture and tint; her +eyes were large and dark blue, and must have been her great beauty when she was +young, for there was nothing particular, as far as I can remember, either in +mouth or nose. She had a great gold-headed stick by her chair; but I think it +was more as a mark of state and dignity than for use; for she had as light and +brisk a step when she chose as any girl of fifteen, and, in her private early +walk of meditation in the mornings, would go as swiftly from garden alley to +garden alley as any one of us. +</p> + +<p> +She was standing up when I went in. I dropped my curtsey at the door, which my +mother had always taught me as a part of good manners, and went up +instinctively to my lady. She did not put out her hand, but raised herself a +little on tiptoe, and kissed me on both cheeks. +</p> + +<p> +“You are cold, my child. You shall have a dish of tea with me.” She +rang a little hand-bell on the table by her, and her waiting-maid came in from +a small anteroom; and, as if all had been prepared, and was awaiting my +arrival, brought with her a small china service with tea ready made, and a +plate of delicately-cut bread and butter, every morsel of which I could have +eaten, and been none the better for it, so hungry was I after my long ride. The +waiting-maid took off my cloak, and I sat down, sorely alarmed at the silence, +the hushed foot-falls of the subdued maiden over the thick carpet, and the soft +voice and clear pronunciation of my Lady Ludlow. My teaspoon fell against my +cup with a sharp noise, that seemed so out of place and season that I blushed +deeply. My lady caught my eye with hers,—both keen and sweet were those +dark-blue eyes of her ladyship’s:— +</p> + +<p> +“Your hands are very cold, my dear; take off those gloves” (I wore +thick serviceable doeskin, and had been too shy to take them off unbidden), +“and let me try and warm them—the evenings are very chilly.” +And she held my great red hands in hers,—soft, warm, white, ring-laden. +Looking at last a little wistfully into my face, she said—“Poor +child! And you’re the eldest of nine! I had a daughter who would have +been just your age; but I cannot fancy her the eldest of nine.” Then came +a pause of silence; and then she rang her bell, and desired her waiting-maid, +Adams, to show me to my room. +</p> + +<p> +It was so small that I think it must have been a cell. The walls were +whitewashed stone; the bed was of white dimity. There was a small piece of red +staircarpet on each side of the bed, and two chairs. In a closet adjoining were +my washstand and toilet-table. There was a text of Scripture painted on the +wall right opposite to my bed; and below hung a print, common enough in those +days, of King George and Queen Charlotte, with all their numerous children, +down to the little Princess Amelia in a go-cart. On each side hung a small +portrait, also engraved: on the left, it was Louis the Sixteenth; on the other, +Marie-Antoinette. On the chimney-piece there was a tinder-box and a +Prayer-book. I do not remember anything else in the room. Indeed, in those days +people did not dream of writing-tables, and inkstands, and portfolios, and easy +chairs, and what not. We were taught to go into our bed-rooms for the purposes +of dressing, and sleeping, and praying. +</p> + +<p> +Presently I was summoned to supper. I followed the young lady who had been sent +to call me, down the wide shallow stairs, into the great hall, through which I +had first passed on my way to my Lady Ludlow’s room. There were four +other young gentlewomen, all standing, and all silent, who curtsied to me when +I first came in. They were dressed in a kind of uniform: muslin caps bound +round their heads with blue ribbons, plain muslin handkerchiefs, lawn aprons, +and drab-coloured stuff gowns. They were all gathered together at a little +distance from the table, on which were placed a couple of cold chickens, a +salad, and a fruit tart. On the dais there was a smaller round table, on which +stood a silver jug filled with milk, and a small roll. Near that was set a +carved chair, with a countess’s coronet surmounting the back of it. I +thought that some one might have spoken to me; but they were shy, and I was +shy; or else there was some other reason; but, indeed, almost the minute after +I had come into the hall by the door at the lower hand, her ladyship entered by +the door opening upon the dais; whereupon we all curtsied very low; I because I +saw the others do it. She stood, and looked at us for a moment. +</p> + +<p> +“Young gentlewomen,” said she, “make Margaret Dawson welcome +among you;” and they treated me with the kind politeness due to a +stranger, but still without any talking beyond what was required for the +purposes of the meal. After it was over, and grace was said by one of our +party, my lady rang her hand-bell, and the servants came in and cleared away +the supper things: then they brought in a portable reading-desk, which was +placed on the dais, and, the whole household trooping in, my lady called to one +of my companions to come up and read the Psalms and Lessons for the day. I +remember thinking how afraid I should have been had I been in her place. There +were no prayers. My lady thought it schismatic to have any prayers excepting +those in the Prayer-book; and would as soon have preached a sermon herself in +the parish church, as have allowed any one not a deacon at the least to read +prayers in a private dwelling-house. I am not sure that even then she would +have approved of his reading them in an unconsecrated place. +</p> + +<p> +She had been maid-of-honour to Queen Charlotte: a Hanbury of that old stock +that flourished in the days of the Plantagenets, and heiress of all the land +that remained to the family, of the great estates which had once stretched into +four separate counties. Hanbury Court was hers by right. She had married Lord +Ludlow, and had lived for many years at his various seats, and away from her +ancestral home. She had lost all her children but one, and most of them had +died at these houses of Lord Ludlow’s; and, I dare say, that gave my lady +a distaste to the places, and a longing to come back to Hanbury Court, where +she had been so happy as a girl. I imagine her girlhood had been the happiest +time of her life; for, now I think of it, most of her opinions, when I knew her +in later life, were singular enough then, but had been universally prevalent +fifty years before. For instance, while I lived at Hanbury Court, the cry for +education was beginning to come up: Mr. Raikes had set up his Sunday Schools; +and some clergymen were all for teaching writing and arithmetic, as well as +reading. My lady would have none of this; it was levelling and revolutionary, +she said. When a young woman came to be hired, my lady would have her in, and +see if she liked her looks and her dress, and question her about her family. +Her ladyship laid great stress upon this latter point, saying that a girl who +did not warm up when any interest or curiosity was expressed about her mother, +or the “baby” (if there was one), was not likely to make a good +servant. Then she would make her put out her feet, to see if they were well and +neatly shod. Then she would bid her say the Lord’s Prayer and the Creed. +Then she inquired if she could write. If she could, and she had liked all that +had gone before, her face sank—it was a great disappointment, for it was +an all but inviolable rule with her never to engage a servant who could write. +But I have known her ladyship break through it, although in both cases in which +she did so she put the girl’s principles to a further and unusual test in +asking her to repeat the Ten Commandments. One pert young woman—and yet I +was sorry for her too, only she afterwards married a rich draper in +Shrewsbury—who had got through her trials pretty tolerably, considering +she could write, spoilt all, by saying glibly, at the end of the last +Commandment, “An’t please your ladyship, I can cast +accounts.” +</p> + +<p> +“Go away, wench,” said my lady in a hurry, “you’re only +fit for trade; you will not suit me for a servant.” The girl went away +crestfallen: in a minute, however, my lady sent me after her to see that she +had something to eat before leaving the house; and, indeed, she sent for her +once again, but it was only to give her a Bible, and to bid her beware of +French principles, which had led the French to cut off their king’s and +queen’s heads. +</p> + +<p> +The poor, blubbering girl said, “Indeed, my lady, I wouldn’t hurt a +fly, much less a king, and I cannot abide the French, nor frogs neither, for +that matter.” +</p> + +<p> +But my lady was inexorable, and took a girl who could neither read nor write, +to make up for her alarm about the progress of education towards addition and +subtraction; and afterwards, when the clergyman who was at Hanbury parish when +I came there, had died, and the bishop had appointed another, and a younger +man, in his stead, this was one of the points on which he and my lady did not +agree. While good old deaf Mr. Mountford lived, it was my lady’s custom, +when indisposed for a sermon, to stand up at the door of her large square +pew,—just opposite to the reading-desk,—and to say (at that part of +the morning service where it is decreed that, in quires and places where they +sing, here followeth the anthem): “Mr. Mountford, I will not trouble you +for a discourse this morning.” And we all knelt down to the Litany with +great satisfaction; for Mr. Mountford, though he could not hear, had always his +eyes open about this part of the service, for any of my lady’s movements. +But the new clergyman, Mr. Gray, was of a different stamp. He was very zealous +in all his parish work; and my lady, who was just as good as she could be to +the poor, was often crying him up as a godsend to the parish, and he never +could send amiss to the Court when he wanted broth, or wine, or jelly, or sago +for a sick person. But he needs must take up the new hobby of education; and I +could see that this put my lady sadly about one Sunday, when she suspected, I +know not how, that there was something to be said in his sermon about a +Sunday-school which he was planning. She stood up, as she had not done since +Mr. Mountford’s death, two years and better before this time, and +said— +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Gray, I will not trouble you for a discourse this morning.” +</p> + +<p> +But her voice was not well-assured and steady; and we knelt down with more of +curiosity than satisfaction in our minds. Mr. Gray preached a very rousing +sermon, on the necessity of establishing a Sabbath-school in the village. My +lady shut her eyes, and seemed to go to sleep; but I don’t believe she +lost a word of it, though she said nothing about it that I heard until the next +Saturday, when two of us, as was the custom, were riding out with her in her +carriage, and we went to see a poor bedridden woman, who lived some miles away +at the other end of the estate and of the parish: and as we came out of the +cottage we met Mr. Gray walking up to it, in a great heat, and looking very +tired. My lady beckoned him to her, and told him she should wait and take him +home with her, adding that she wondered to see him there, so far from his home, +for that it was beyond a Sabbath-day’s journey, and, from what she had +gathered from his sermon the last Sunday, he was all for Judaism against +Christianity. He looked as if he did not understand what she meant; but the +truth was that, besides the way in which he had spoken up for schools and +schooling, he had kept calling Sunday the Sabbath: and, as her ladyship said, +“The Sabbath is the Sabbath, and that’s one thing—it is +Saturday; and if I keep it, I’m a Jew, which I’m not. And Sunday is +Sunday; and that’s another thing; and if I keep it, I’m a +Christian, which I humbly trust I am.” +</p> + +<p> +But when Mr. Gray got an inkling of her meaning in talking about a +Sabbath-day’s journey, he only took notice of a part of it: he smiled and +bowed, and said no one knew better than her ladyship what were the duties that +abrogated all inferior laws regarding the Sabbath; and that he must go in and +read to old Betty Brown, so that he would not detain her ladyship. +</p> + +<p> +“But I shall wait for you, Mr. Gray,” said she. “Or I will +take a drive round by Oakfield, and be back in an hour’s time.” +For, you see, she would not have him feel hurried or troubled with a thought +that he was keeping her waiting, while he ought to be comforting and praying +with old Betty. +</p> + +<p> +“A very pretty young man, my dears,” said she, as we drove away. +“But I shall have my pew glazed all the same.” +</p> + +<p> +We did not know what she meant at the time; but the next Sunday but one we did. +She had the curtains all round the grand old Hanbury family seat taken down, +and, instead of them, there was glass up to the height of six or seven feet. We +entered by a door, with a window in it that drew up or down just like what you +see in carriages. This window was generally down, and then we could hear +perfectly; but if Mr. Gray used the word “Sabbath,” or spoke in +favour of schooling and education, my lady stepped out of her corner, and drew +up the window with a decided clang and clash. +</p> + +<p> +I must tell you something more about Mr. Gray. The presentation to the living +of Hanbury was vested in two trustees, of whom Lady Ludlow was one: Lord Ludlow +had exercised this right in the appointment of Mr. Mountford, who had won his +lordship’s favour by his excellent horsemanship. Nor was Mr. Mountford a +bad clergyman, as clergymen went in those days. He did not drink, though he +liked good eating as much as any one. And if any poor person was ill, and he +heard of it, he would send them plates from his own dinner of what he himself +liked best; sometimes of dishes which were almost as bad as poison to sick +people. He meant kindly to everybody except dissenters, whom Lady Ludlow and he +united in trying to drive out of the parish; and among dissenters he +particularly abhorred Methodists—some one said, because John Wesley had +objected to his hunting. But that must have been long ago for when I knew him +he was far too stout and too heavy to hunt; besides, the bishop of the diocese +disapproved of hunting, and had intimated his disapprobation to the clergy. For +my own part, I think a good run would not have come amiss, even in a moral +point of view, to Mr. Mountford. He ate so much, and took so little exercise, +that we young women often heard of his being in terrible passions with his +servants, and the sexton and clerk. But they none of them minded him much, for +he soon came to himself, and was sure to make them some present or +other—some said in proportion to his anger; so that the sexton, who was a +bit of a wag (as all sextons are, I think), said that the vicar’s saying, +“The Devil take you,” was worth a shilling any day, whereas +“The Deuce” was a shabby sixpenny speech, only fit for a curate. +</p> + +<p> +There was a great deal of good in Mr. Mountford, too. He could not bear to see +pain, or sorrow, or misery of any kind; and, if it came under his notice, he +was never easy till he had relieved it, for the time, at any rate. But he was +afraid of being made uncomfortable; so, if he possibly could, he would avoid +seeing any one who was ill or unhappy; and he did not thank any one for telling +him about them. +</p> + +<p> +“What would your ladyship have me to do?” he once said to my Lady +Ludlow, when she wished him to go and see a poor man who had broken his leg. +“I cannot piece the leg as the doctor can; I cannot nurse him as well as +his wife does; I may talk to him, but he no more understands me than I do the +language of the alchemists. My coming puts him out; he stiffens himself into an +uncomfortable posture, out of respect to the cloth, and dare not take the +comfort of kicking, and swearing, and scolding his wife, while I am there. I +hear him, with my figurative ears, my lady, heave a sigh of relief when my back +is turned, and the sermon that he thinks I ought to have kept for the pulpit, +and have delivered to his neighbours (whose case, as he fancies, it would just +have fitted, as it seemed to him to be addressed to the sinful), is all ended, +and done, for the day. I judge others as myself; I do to them as I would be +done to. That’s Christianity, at any rate. I should hate—saving +your ladyship’s presence—to have my Lord Ludlow coming and seeing +me, if I were ill. ’Twould be a great honour, no doubt; but I should have +to put on a clean nightcap for the occasion; and sham patience, in order to be +polite, and not weary his lordship with my complaints. I should be twice as +thankful to him if he would send me game, or a good fat haunch, to bring me up +to that pitch of health and strength one ought to be in, to appreciate the +honour of a visit from a nobleman. So I shall send Jerry Butler a good dinner +every day till he is strong again; and spare the poor old fellow my presence +and advice.” +</p> + +<p> +My lady would be puzzled by this, and by many other of Mr. Mountford’s +speeches. But he had been appointed by my lord, and she could not question her +dead husband’s wisdom; and she knew that the dinners were always sent, +and often a guinea or two to help to pay the doctor’s bills; and Mr. +Mountford was true blue, as we call it, to the back-bone; hated the dissenters +and the French; and could hardly drink a dish of tea without giving out the +toast of “Church and King, and down with the Rump.” Moreover, he +had once had the honour of preaching before the King and Queen, and two of the +Princesses, at Weymouth; and the King had applauded his sermon audibly +with,—“Very good; very good;” and that was a seal put upon +his merit in my lady’s eyes. +</p> + +<p> +Besides, in the long winter Sunday evenings, he would come up to the Court, and +read a sermon to us girls, and play a game of picquet with my lady afterwards; +which served to shorten the tedium of the time. My lady would, on those +occasions, invite him to sup with her on the dais; but as her meal was +invariably bread and milk only, Mr. Mountford preferred sitting down amongst +us, and made a joke about its being wicked and heterodox to eat meagre on +Sunday, a festival of the Church. We smiled at this joke just as much the +twentieth time we heard it as we did at the first; for we knew it was coming, +because he always coughed a little nervously before he made a joke, for fear my +lady should not approve: and neither she nor he seemed to remember that he had +ever hit upon the idea before. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Mountford died quite suddenly at last. We were all very sorry to lose him. +He left some of his property (for he had a private estate) to the poor of the +parish, to furnish them with an annual Christmas dinner of roast beef and plum +pudding, for which he wrote out a very good receipt in the codicil to his will. +</p> + +<p> +Moreover, he desired his executors to see that the vault, in which the vicars +of Hanbury were interred, was well aired, before his coffin was taken in; for, +all his life long, he had had a dread of damp, and latterly he kept his rooms +to such a pitch of warmth that some thought it hastened his end. +</p> + +<p> +Then the other trustee, as I have said, presented the living to Mr. Gray, +Fellow of Lincoln College, Oxford. It was quite natural for us all, as +belonging in some sort to the Hanbury family, to disapprove of the other +trustee’s choice. But when some ill-natured person circulated the report +that Mr. Gray was a Moravian Methodist, I remember my lady said, “She +could not believe anything so bad, without a great deal of evidence.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>CHAPTER II.</h2> + +<p> +Before I tell you about Mr. Gray, I think I ought to make you understand +something more of what we did all day long at Hanbury Court. There were five of +us at the time of which I am speaking, all young women of good descent, and +allied (however distantly) to people of rank. When we were not with my lady, +Mrs. Medlicott looked after us; a gentle little woman, who had been companion +to my lady for many years, and was indeed, I have been told, some kind of +relation to her. Mrs. Medlicott’s parents had lived in Germany, and the +consequence was, she spoke English with a very foreign accent. Another +consequence was, that she excelled in all manner of needlework, such as is not +known even by name in these days. She could darn either lace, table-linen, +India muslin, or stockings, so that no one could tell where the hole or rent +had been. Though a good Protestant, and never missing Guy Faux day at church, +she was as skilful at fine work as any nun in a Papist convent. She would take +a piece of French cambric, and by drawing out some threads, and working in +others, it became delicate lace in a very few hours. She did the same by +Hollands cloth, and made coarse strong lace, with which all my lady’s +napkins and table-linen were trimmed. We worked under her during a great part +of the day, either in the still-room, or at our sewing in a chamber that opened +out of the great hall. My lady despised every kind of work that would now be +called Fancy-work. She considered that the use of coloured threads or worsted +was only fit to amuse children; but that grown women ought not to be taken with +mere blues and reds, but to restrict their pleasure in sewing to making small +and delicate stitches. She would speak of the old tapestry in the hall as the +work of her ancestresses, who lived before the Reformation, and were +consequently unacquainted with pure and simple tastes in work, as well as in +religion. Nor would my lady sanction the fashion of the day, which, at the +beginning of this century, made all the fine ladies take to making shoes. She +said that such work was a consequence of the French Revolution, which had done +much to annihilate all distinctions of rank and class, and hence it was, that +she saw young ladies of birth and breeding handling lasts, and awls, and dirty +cobblers’-wax, like shoe’-makers’ daughters. +</p> + +<p> +Very frequently one of us would be summoned to my lady to read aloud to her, as +she sat in her small withdrawing-room, some improving book. It was generally +Mr. Addison’s “Spectator;” but one year, I remember, we had +to read “Sturm’s Reflections” translated from a German book +Mrs. Medlicott recommended. Mr. Sturm told us what to think about for every day +in the year; and very dull it was; but I believe Queen Charlotte had liked the +book very much, and the thought of her royal approbation kept my lady awake +during the reading. “Mrs. Chapone’s Letters” and “Dr. +Gregory’s Advice to Young Ladies” composed the rest of our library +for week-day reading. I, for one, was glad to leave my fine sewing, and even my +reading aloud (though this last did keep me with my dear lady) to go to the +still-room and potter about among the preserves and the medicated waters. There +was no doctor for many miles round, and with Mrs. Medlicott to direct us, and +Dr. Buchan to go by for recipes, we sent out many a bottle of physic, which, I +dare say, was as good as what comes out of the druggist’s shop. At any +rate, I do not think we did much harm; for if any of our physics tasted +stronger than usual, Mrs. Medlicott would bid us let it down with cochineal and +water, to make all safe, as she said. So our bottles of medicine had very +little real physic in them at last; but we were careful in putting labels on +them, which looked very mysterious to those who could not read, and helped the +medicine to do its work. I have sent off many a bottle of salt and water +coloured red; and whenever we had nothing else to do in the still-room, Mrs. +Medlicott would set us to making bread-pills, by way of practice; and, as far +as I can say, they were very efficacious, as before we gave out a box Mrs. +Medlicott always told the patient what symptoms to expect; and I hardly ever +inquired without hearing that they had produced their effect. There was one old +man, who took six pills a-night, of any kind we liked to give him, to make him +sleep; and if, by any chance, his daughter had forgotten to let us know that he +was out of his medicine, he was so restless and miserable that, as he said, he +thought he was like to die. I think ours was what would be called homoeopathic +practice now-a-days. Then we learnt to make all the cakes and dishes of the +season in the still-room. We had plum-porridge and mince-pies at Christmas, +fritters and pancakes on Shrove Tuesday, furmenty on Mothering Sunday, +violet-cakes in Passion Week, tansy-pudding on Easter Sunday, three-cornered +cakes on Trinity Sunday, and so on through the year: all made from good old +Church receipts, handed down from one of my lady’s earliest Protestant +ancestresses. Every one of us passed a portion of the day with Lady Ludlow; and +now and then we rode out with her in her coach and four. She did not like to go +out with a pair of horses, considering this rather beneath her rank; and, +indeed, four horses were very often needed to pull her heavy coach through the +stiff mud. But it was rather a cumbersome equipage through the narrow +Warwickshire lanes; and I used often to think it was well that countesses were +not plentiful, or else we might have met another lady of quality in another +coach and four, where there would have been no possibility of turning, or +passing each other, and very little chance of backing. Once when the idea of +this danger of meeting another countess in a narrow, deep-rutted lane was very +prominent in my mind I ventured to ask Mrs. Medlicott what would have to be +done on such an occasion; and she told me that “de latest creation must +back, for sure,” which puzzled me a good deal at the time, although I +understand it now. I began to find out the use of the “Peerage,” a +book which had seemed to me rather dull before; but, as I was always a coward +in a coach, I made myself well acquainted with the dates of creation of our +three Warwickshire earls, and was happy to find that Earl Ludlow ranked second, +the oldest earl being a hunting widower, and not likely to drive out in a +carriage. +</p> + +<p> +All this time I have wandered from Mr. Gray. Of course, we first saw him in +church when he read himself in. He was very red-faced, the kind of redness +which goes with light hair and a blushing complexion; he looked slight and +short, and his bright light frizzy hair had hardly a dash of powder in it. I +remember my lady making this observation, and sighing over it; for, though +since the famine in seventeen hundred and ninety-nine and eighteen hundred +there had been a tax on hair-powder, yet it was reckoned very revolutionary and +Jacobin not to wear a good deal of it. My lady hardly liked the opinions of any +man who wore his own hair; but this she would say was rather a prejudice: only +in her youth none but the mob had gone wigless, and she could not get over the +association of wigs with birth and breeding; a man’s own hair with that +class of people who had formed the rioters in seventeen hundred and eighty, +when Lord George Gordon had been one of the bugbears of my lady’s life. +Her husband and his brothers, she told us, had been put into breeches, and had +their heads shaved on their seventh birthday, each of them; a handsome little +wig of the newest fashion forming the old Lady Ludlow’s invariable +birthday present to her sons as they each arrived at that age; and afterwards, +to the day of their death, they never saw their own hair. To be without powder, +as some underbred people were talking of being now, was in fact to insult the +proprieties of life, by being undressed. It was English sans-culottism. But Mr. +Gray did wear a little powder, enough to save him in my lady’s good +opinion; but not enough to make her approve of him decidedly. +</p> + +<p> +The next time I saw him was in the great hall. Mary Mason and I were going to +drive out with my lady in her coach, and when we went down stairs with our best +hats and cloaks on, we found Mr. Gray awaiting my lady’s coming. I +believe he had paid his respects to her before, but we had never seen him; and +he had declined her invitation to spend Sunday evening at the Court (as Mr. +Mountford used to do pretty regularly—and play a game at picquet +too—), which, Mrs. Medlicott told us, had caused my lady to be not over +well pleased with him. +</p> + +<p> +He blushed redder than ever at the sight of us, as we entered the hall and +dropped him our curtsies. He coughed two or three times, as if he would have +liked to speak to us, if he could but have found something to say; and every +time he coughed he became hotter-looking than ever. I am ashamed to say, we +were nearly laughing at him; half because we, too, were so shy that we +understood what his awkwardness meant. +</p> + +<p> +My lady came in, with her quick active step—she always walked quickly +when she did not bethink herself of her cane—as if she was sorry to have +us kept waiting—and, as she entered, she gave us all round one of those +graceful sweeping curtsies, of which I think the art must have died out with +her,—it implied so much courtesy;—this time it said, as well as +words could do, “I am sorry to have kept you all waiting,—forgive +me.” +</p> + +<p> +She went up to the mantelpiece, near which Mr. Gray had been standing until her +entrance, and curtseying afresh to him, and pretty deeply this time, because of +his cloth, and her being hostess, and he, a new guest. She asked him if he +would not prefer speaking to her in her own private parlour, and looked as +though she would have conducted him there. But he burst out with his errand, of +which he was full even to choking, and which sent the glistening tears into his +large blue eyes, which stood farther and farther out with his excitement. +</p> + +<p> +“My lady, I want to speak to you, and to persuade you to exert your kind +interest with Mr. Lathom—Justice Lathom, of Hathaway Manor—” +</p> + +<p> +“Harry Lathom?” inquired my lady,—as Mr. Gray stopped to take +the breath he had lost in his hurry,—“I did not know he was in the +commission.” +</p> + +<p> +“He is only just appointed; he took the oaths not a month +ago,—more’s the pity!” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not understand why you should regret it. The Lathoms have held +Hathaway since Edward the First, and Mr. Lathom bears a good character, +although his temper is hasty—” +</p> + +<p> +“My lady! he has committed Job Gregson for stealing—a fault of +which he is as innocent as I—and all the evidence goes to prove it, now +that the case is brought before the Bench; only the Squires hang so together +that they can’t be brought to see justice, and are all for sending Job to +gaol, out of compliment to Mr. Lathom, saying it his first committal, and it +won’t be civil to tell him there is no evidence against his man. For +God’s sake, my lady, speak to the gentlemen; they will attend to you, +while they only tell me to mind my own business.” +</p> + +<p> +Now my lady was always inclined to stand by her order, and the Lathoms of +Hathaway Court were cousins to the Hanbury’s. Besides, it was rather a +point of honour in those days to encourage a young magistrate, by passing a +pretty sharp sentence on his first committals; and Job Gregson was the father +of a girl who had been lately turned away from her place as scullery-maid for +sauciness to Mrs. Adams, her ladyship’s own maid; and Mr. Gray had not +said a word of the reasons why he believed the man innocent,—for he was +in such a hurry, I believe he would have had my lady drive off to the Henley +Court-house then and there;—so there seemed a good deal against the man, +and nothing but Mr. Gray’s bare word for him; and my lady drew herself a +little up, and said— +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Gray! I do not see what reason either you or I have to interfere. +Mr. Harry Lathom is a sensible kind of young man, well capable of ascertaining +the truth without our help—” +</p> + +<p> +“But more evidence has come out since,” broke in Mr. Gray. My lady +went a little stiffer, and spoke a little more coldly:— +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose this additional evidence is before the justices: men of good +family, and of honour and credit, well known in the county. They naturally feel +that the opinion of one of themselves must have more weight than the words of a +man like Job Gregson, who bears a very indifferent character,—has been +strongly suspected of poaching, coming from no one knows where, squatting on +Hareman’s Common—which, by the way, is extra-parochial, I believe; +consequently you, as a clergyman, are not responsible for what goes on there; +and, although impolitic, there might be some truth in what the magistrates +said, in advising you to mind your own business,”—said her +ladyship, smiling,—“and they might be tempted to bid me mind mine, +if I interfered, Mr. Gray: might they not?” +</p> + +<p> +He looked extremely uncomfortable; half angry. Once or twice he began to speak, +but checked himself, as if his words would not have been wise or prudent. At +last he said—“It may seem presumptuous in me,—a stranger of +only a few weeks’ standing—to set up my judgment as to men’s +character against that of residents—” Lady Ludlow gave a little bow +of acquiescence, which was, I think, involuntary on her part, and which I +don’t think he perceived,—“but I am convinced that the man is +innocent of this offence,—and besides, the justices themselves allege +this ridiculous custom of paying a compliment to a newly-appointed magistrate +as their only reason.” +</p> + +<p> +That unlucky word “ridiculous!” It undid all the good his modest +beginning had done him with my lady. I knew as well as words could have told +me, that she was affronted at the expression being used by a man inferior in +rank to those whose actions he applied it to,—and truly, it was a great +want of tact, considering to whom he was speaking. +</p> + +<p> +Lady Ludlow spoke very gently and slowly; she always did so when she was +annoyed; it was a certain sign, the meaning of which we had all learnt. +</p> + +<p> +“I think, Mr. Gray, we will drop the subject. It is one on which we are +not likely to agree.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Gray’s ruddy colour grew purple and then faded away, and his face +became pale. I think both my lady and he had forgotten our presence; and we +were beginning to feel too awkward to wish to remind them of it. And yet we +could not help watching and listening with the greatest interest. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Gray drew himself up to his full height, with an unconscious feeling of +dignity. Little as was his stature, and awkward and embarrassed as he had been +only a few minutes before, I remember thinking he looked almost as grand as my +lady when he spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“Your ladyship must remember that it may be my duty to speak to my +parishioners on many subjects on which they do not agree with me. I am not at +liberty to be silent, because they differ in opinion from me.” +</p> + +<p> +Lady Ludlow’s great blue eyes dilated with surprise, and—I do +think—anger, at being thus spoken to. I am not sure whether it was very +wise in Mr. Gray. He himself looked afraid of the consequences but as if he was +determined to bear them without flinching. For a minute there was silence. Then +my lady replied—“Mr. Gray, I respect your plain-speaking, although +I may wonder whether a young man of your age and position has any right to +assume that he is a better judge than one with the experience which I have +naturally gained at my time of life, and in the station I hold.” +</p> + +<p> +“If I, madam, as the clergyman of this parish, am not to shrink from +telling what I believe to be the truth to the poor and lowly, no more am I to +hold my peace in the presence of the rich and titled.” Mr. Gray’s +face showed that he was in that state of excitement which in a child would have +ended in a good fit of crying. He looked as if he had nerved himself up to +doing and saying things, which he disliked above everything, and which nothing +short of serious duty could have compelled him to do and say. And at such times +every minute circumstance which could add to pain comes vividly before one. I +saw that he became aware of our presence, and that it added to his +discomfiture. +</p> + +<p> +My lady flushed up. “Are you aware, sir,” asked she, “that +you have gone far astray from the original subject of conversation? But as you +talk of your parish, allow me to remind you that Hareman’s Common is +beyond the bounds, and that you are really not responsible for the characters +and lives of the squatters on that unlucky piece of ground.” +</p> + +<p> +“Madam, I see I have only done harm in speaking to you about the affair +at all. I beg your pardon and take my leave.” +</p> + +<p> +He bowed, and looked very sad. Lady Ludlow caught the expression of his face. +</p> + +<p> +“Good morning!” she cried, in rather a louder and quicker way than +that in which she had been speaking. “Remember, Job Gregson is a +notorious poacher and evildoer, and you really are not responsible for what +goes on at Hareman’s Common.” +</p> + +<p> +He was near the hall door, and said something—half to himself, which we +heard (being nearer to him), but my lady did not; although she saw that he +spoke. “What did he say?” she asked in a somewhat hurried manner, +as soon as the door was closed—“I did not hear.” We looked at +each other, and then I spoke: +</p> + +<p> +“He said, my lady, that ‘God help him! he was responsible for all +the evil he did not strive to overcome.’” +</p> + +<p> +My lady turned sharp round away from us, and Mary Mason said afterwards she +thought her ladyship was much vexed with both of us, for having been present, +and with me for having repeated what Mr. Gray had said. But it was not our +fault that we were in the hall, and when my lady asked what Mr. Gray had said, +I thought it right to tell her. +</p> + +<p> +In a few minutes she bade us accompany her in her ride in the coach. +</p> + +<p> +Lady Ludlow always sat forwards by herself, and we girls backwards. Somehow +this was a rule, which we never thought of questioning. It was true that riding +backwards made some of us feel very uncomfortable and faint; and to remedy this +my lady always drove with both windows open, which occasionally gave her the +rheumatism; but we always went on in the old way. This day she did not pay any +great attention to the road by which we were going, and Coachman took his own +way. We were very silent, as my lady did not speak, and looked very serious. Or +else, in general, she made these rides very pleasant (to those who were not +qualmish with riding backwards), by talking to us in a very agreeable manner, +and telling us of the different things which had happened to her at various +places,—at Paris and Versailles, where she had been in her +youth,—at Windsor and Kew and Weymouth, where she had been with the +Queen, when maid-of-honour—and so on. But this day she did not talk at +all. All at once she put her head out of the window. +</p> + +<p> +“John Footman,” said she, “where are we? Surely this is +Hareman’s Common.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, an’t please my lady,” said John Footman, and waited for +further speech or orders. My lady thought a while, and then said she would have +the steps put down and get out. +</p> + +<p> +As soon as she was gone, we looked at each other, and then without a word began +to gaze after her. We saw her pick her dainty way in the little high-heeled +shoes she always wore (because they had been in fashion in her youth), among +the yellow pools of stagnant water that had gathered in the clayey soil. John +Footman followed, stately, after; afraid too, for all his stateliness, of +splashing his pure white stockings. Suddenly my lady turned round and said +something to him, and he returned to the carriage with a half-pleased, +half-puzzled air. +</p> + +<p> +My lady went on to a cluster of rude mud houses at the higher end of the +Common; cottages built, as they were occasionally at that day, of wattles and +clay, and thatched with sods. As far as we could make out from dumb show, Lady +Ludlow saw enough of the interiors of these places to make her hesitate before +entering, or even speaking to any of the children who were playing about in the +puddles. After a pause, she disappeared into one of the cottages. It seemed to +us a long time before she came out; but I dare say it was not more than eight +or ten minutes. She came back with her head hanging down, as if to choose her +way,—but we saw it was more in thought and bewilderment than for any such +purpose. +</p> + +<p> +She had not made up her mind where we should drive to when she got into the +carriage again. John Footman stood, bare-headed, waiting for orders. +</p> + +<p> +“To Hathaway. My dears, if you are tired, or if you have anything to do +for Mrs. Medlicott, I can drop you at Barford Corner, and it is but a quarter +of an hour’s brisk walk home.” +</p> + +<p> +But luckily we could safely say that Mrs. Medlicott did not want us; and as we +had whispered to each other, as we sat alone in the coach, that surely my lady +must have gone to Job Gregson’s, we were far too anxious to know the end +of it all to say that we were tired. So we all set off to Hathaway. Mr. Harry +Lathom was a bachelor squire, thirty or thirty-five years of age, more at home +in the field than in the drawing-room, and with sporting men than with ladies. +</p> + +<p> +My lady did not alight, of course; it was Mr. Lathom’s place to wait upon +her, and she bade the butler,—who had a smack of the gamekeeper in him, +very unlike our own powdered venerable fine gentleman at Hanbury,—tell +his master, with her compliments, that she wished to speak to him. You may +think how pleased we were to find that we should hear all that was said; +though, I think, afterwards we were half sorry when we saw how our presence +confused the squire, who would have found it bad enough to answer my +lady’s questions, even without two eager girls for audience. +</p> + +<p> +“Pray, Mr. Lathom,” began my lady, something abruptly for +her,—but she was very full of her subject,—“what is this I +hear about Job Gregson?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Lathom looked annoyed and vexed, but dared not show it in his words. +</p> + +<p> +“I gave out a warrant against him, my lady, for theft,—that is all. +You are doubtless aware of his character; a man who sets nets and springes in +long cover, and fishes wherever he takes a fancy. It is but a short step from +poaching to thieving.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is quite true,” replied Lady Ludlow (who had a horror of +poaching for this very reason): “but I imagine you do not send a man to +gaol on account of his bad character.” +</p> + +<p> +“Rogues and vagabonds,” said Mr. Lathom. “A man may be sent +to prison for being a vagabond; for no specific act, but for his general mode +of life.” +</p> + +<p> +He had the better of her ladyship for one moment; but then she answered— +</p> + +<p> +“But in this case, the charge on which you committed him is for theft; +now his wife tells me he can prove he was some miles distant from Holmwood, +where the robbery took place, all that afternoon; she says you had the evidence +before you.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Lathom here interrupted my lady, by saying, in a somewhat sulky +manner—“No such evidence was brought before me when I gave the +warrant. I am not answerable for the other magistrates’ decision, when +they had more evidence before them. It was they who committed him to gaol. I am +not responsible for that.” +</p> + +<p> +My lady did not often show signs of impatience; but we knew she was feeling +irritated, by the little perpetual tapping of her high-heeled shoe against the +bottom of the carriage. About the same time we, sitting backwards, caught a +glimpse of Mr. Gray through the open door, standing in the shadow of the hall. +Doubtless Lady Ludlow’s arrival had interrupted a conversation between +Mr. Lathom and Mr. Gray. The latter must have heard every word of what she was +saying; but of this she was not aware, and caught at Mr. Lathom’s +disclaimer of responsibility with pretty much the same argument which she had +heard (through our repetition) that Mr. Gray had used not two hours before. +</p> + +<p> +“And do you mean to say, Mr. Lathom, that you don’t consider +yourself responsible for all injustice or wrong-doing that you might have +prevented, and have not? Nay, in this case the first germ of injustice was your +own mistake. I wish you had been with me a little while ago, and seen the +misery in that poor fellow’s cottage.” She spoke lower, and Mr. +Gray drew near, in a sort of involuntary manner; as if to hear all she was +saying. We saw him, and doubtless Mr. Lathom heard his footstep, and knew who +it was that was listening behind him, and approving of every word that was +said. He grew yet more sullen in manner; but still my lady was my lady, and he +dared not speak out before her, as he would have done to Mr. Gray. Lady Ludlow, +however, caught the look of stubborness in his face, and it roused her as I had +never seen her roused. +</p> + +<p> +“I am sure you will not refuse, sir, to accept my bail. I offer to bail +the fellow out, and to be responsible for his appearance at the sessions. What +say you to that, Mr. Lathom?” +</p> + +<p> +“The offence of theft is not bailable, my lady.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not in ordinary cases, I dare say. But I imagine this is an +extraordinary case. The man is sent to prison out of compliment to you, and +against all evidence, as far as I can learn. He will have to rot in gaol for +two months, and his wife and children to starve. I, Lady Ludlow, offer to bail +him out, and pledge myself for his appearance at next quarter-sessions.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is against the law, my lady.” +</p> + +<p> +“Bah! Bah! Bah! Who makes laws? Such as I, in the House of +Lords—such as you, in the House of Commons. We, who make the laws in St. +Stephen’s, may break the mere forms of them, when we have right on our +sides, on our own land, and amongst our own people.” +</p> + +<p> +“The lord-lieutenant may take away my commission, if he heard of +it.” +</p> + +<p> +“And a very good thing for the county, Harry Lathom; and for you too, if +he did,—if you don’t go on more wisely than you have begun. A +pretty set you and your brother magistrates are to administer justice through +the land! I always said a good despotism was the best form of government; and I +am twice as much in favour of it now I see what a quorum is! My dears!” +suddenly turning round to us, “if it would not tire you to walk home, I +would beg Mr. Lathom to take a seat in my coach, and we would drive to Henley +Gaol, and have the poor man out at once.” +</p> + +<p> +“A walk over the fields at this time of day is hardly fitting for young +ladies to take alone,” said Mr. Lathom, anxious no doubt to escape from +his tête-à-tête drive with my lady, and possibly not quite +prepared to go to the illegal length of prompt measures, which she had in +contemplation. +</p> + +<p> +But Mr. Gray now stepped forward, too anxious for the release of the prisoner +to allow any obstacle to intervene which he could do away with. To see Lady +Ludlow’s face when she first perceived whom she had had for auditor and +spectator of her interview with Mr. Lathom, was as good as a play. She had been +doing and saying the very things she had been so much annoyed at Mr. +Gray’s saying and proposing only an hour or two ago. She had been setting +down Mr. Lathom pretty smartly, in the presence of the very man to whom she had +spoken of that gentleman as so sensible, and of such a standing in the county, +that it was presumption to question his doings. But before Mr. Gray had +finished his offer of escorting us back to Hanbury Court, my lady had recovered +herself. There was neither surprise nor displeasure in her manner, as she +answered—“I thank you, Mr. Gray. I was not aware that you were +here, but I think I can understand on what errand you came. And seeing you +here, recalls me to a duty I owe Mr. Lathom. Mr. Lathom, I have spoken to you +pretty plainly,—forgetting, until I saw Mr. Gray, that only this very +afternoon I differed from him on this very question; taking completely, at that +time, the same view of the whole subject which you have done; thinking that the +county would be well rid of such a man as Job Gregson, whether he had committed +this theft or not. Mr. Gray and I did not part quite friends,” she +continued, bowing towards him; “but it so happened that I saw Job +Gregson’s wife and home,—I felt that Mr. Gray had been right and I +had been wrong, so, with the famous inconsistency of my sex, I came hither to +scold you,” smiling towards Mr. Lathom, who looked half-sulky yet, and +did not relax a bit of his gravity at her smile, “for holding the same +opinions that I had done an hour before. Mr. Gray,” (again bowing towards +him) “these young ladies will be very much obliged to you for your +escort, and so shall I. Mr. Lathom, may I beg of you to accompany me to +Henley?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Gray bowed very low, and went very red; Mr. Lathom said something which we +none of us heard, but which was, I think, some remonstrance against the course +he was, as it were, compelled to take. Lady Ludlow, however, took no notice of +his murmur, but sat in an attitude of polite expectancy; and as we turned off +on our walk, I saw Mr. Lathom getting into the coach with the air of a whipped +hound. I must say, considering my lady’s feeling, I did not envy him his +ride—though, I believe, he was quite in the right as to the object of the +ride being illegal. +</p> + +<p> +Our walk home was very dull. We had no fears; and would far rather have been +without the awkward, blushing young man, into which Mr. Gray had sunk. At every +stile he hesitated,—sometimes he half got over it, thinking that he could +assist us better in that way; then he would turn back unwilling to go before +ladies. He had no ease of manner, as my lady once said of him, though on any +occasion of duty, he had an immense deal of dignity. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>CHAPTER III.</h2> + +<p> +As far as I can remember, it was very soon after this that I first began to +have the pain in my hip, which has ended in making me a cripple for life. I +hardly recollect more than one walk after our return under Mr. Gray’s +escort from Mr. Lathom’s. Indeed, at the time, I was not without +suspicions (which I never named) that the beginning of all the mischief was a +great jump I had taken from the top of one of the stiles on that very occasion. +</p> + +<p> +Well, it is a long while ago, and God disposes of us all, and I am not going to +tire you out with telling you how I thought and felt, and how, when I saw what +my life was to be, I could hardly bring myself to be patient, but rather wished +to die at once. You can every one of you think for yourselves what becoming all +at once useless and unable to move, and by-and-by growing hopeless of cure, and +feeling that one must be a burden to some one all one’s life long, would +be to an active, wilful, strong girl of seventeen, anxious to get on in the +world, so as, if possible, to help her brothers and sisters. So I shall only +say, that one among the blessings which arose out of what seemed at the time a +great, black sorrow was, that Lady Ludlow for many years took me, as it were, +into her own especial charge; and now, as I lie still and alone in my old age, +it is such a pleasure to think of her! +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Medlicott was great as a nurse, and I am sure I can never be grateful +enough to her memory for all her kindness. But she was puzzled to know how to +manage me in other ways. I used to have long, hard fits of crying; and, +thinking that I ought to go home—and yet what could they do with me +there?—and a hundred and fifty other anxious thoughts, some of which I +could tell to Mrs. Medlicott, and others I could not. Her way of comforting me +was hurrying away for some kind of tempting or strengthening food—a basin +of melted calves-foot jelly was, I am sure she thought, a cure for every woe. +</p> + +<p> +“There take it, dear, take it!” she would say; “and +don’t go on fretting for what can’t be helped.” +</p> + +<p> +But, I think, she got puzzled at length at the non-efficacy of good things to +eat; and one day, after I had limped down to see the doctor, in Mrs. +Medlicott’s sitting-room—a room lined with cupboards, containing +preserves and dainties of all kinds, which she perpetually made, and never +touched herself—when I was returning to my bed-room to cry away the +afternoon, under pretence of arranging my clothes, John Footman brought me a +message from my lady (with whom the doctor had been having a conversation) to +bid me go to her in that private sitting-room at the end of the suite of +apartments, about which I spoke in describing the day of my first arrival at +Hanbury. I had hardly been in it since; as, when we read to my lady, she +generally sat in the small withdrawing-room out of which this private room of +hers opened. I suppose great people do not require what we smaller people value +so much,—I mean privacy. I do not think that there was a room which my +lady occupied that had not two doors, and some of them had three or four. Then +my lady had always Adams waiting upon her in her bed-chamber; and it was Mrs. +Medlicott’s duty to sit within call, as it were, in a sort of anteroom +that led out of my lady’s own sitting-room, on the opposite side to the +drawing-room door. To fancy the house, you must take a great square and halve +it by a line: at one end of this line was the hall door, or public entrance; at +the opposite the private entrance from a terrace, which was terminated at one +end by a sort of postern door in an old gray stone wall, beyond which lay the +farm buildings and offices; so that people could come in this way to my lady on +business, while, if she were going into the garden from her own room, she had +nothing to do but to pass through Mrs. Medlicott’s apartment, out into +the lesser hall, and then turning to the right as she passed on to the terrace, +she could go down the flight of broad, shallow steps at the corner of the house +into the lovely garden, with stretching, sweeping lawns, and gay flower-beds, +and beautiful, bossy laurels, and other blooming or massy shrubs, with +full-grown beeches, or larches feathering down to the ground a little farther +off. The whole was set in a frame, as it were, by the more distant woodlands. +The house had been modernized in the days of Queen Anne, I think; but the money +had fallen short that was requisite to carry out all the improvements, so it +was only the suite of withdrawing-rooms and the terrace-rooms, as far as the +private entrance, that had the new, long, high windows put in, and these were +old enough by this time to be draped with roses, and honeysuckles, and +pyracanthus, winter and summer long. +</p> + +<p> +Well, to go back to that day when I limped into my lady’s sitting-room, +trying hard to look as if I had not been crying, and not to walk as if I was in +much pain. I do not know whether my lady saw how near my tears were to my eyes, +but she told me she had sent for me, because she wanted some help in arranging +the drawers of her bureau, and asked me—just as if it was a favour I was +to do her—if I could sit down in the easy-chair near the +window—(all quietly arranged before I came in, with a footstool, and a +table quite near)—and assist her. You will wonder, perhaps, why I was not +bidden to sit or lie on the sofa; but (although I found one there a morning or +two afterwards, when I came down) the fact was, that there was none in the room +at this time. I have even fancied that the easy-chair was brought in on purpose +for me; for it was not the chair in which I remembered my lady sitting the +first time I saw her. That chair was very much carved and gilded, with a +countess’ coronet at the top. I tried it one day, some time afterwards, +when my lady was out of the room, and I had a fancy for seeing how I could move +about, and very uncomfortable it was. Now my chair (as I learnt to call it, and +to think it) was soft and luxurious, and seemed somehow to give one’s +body rest just in that part where one most needed it. +</p> + +<p> +I was not at my ease that first day, nor indeed for many days afterwards, +notwithstanding my chair was so comfortable. Yet I forgot my sad pain in +silently wondering over the meaning of many of the things we turned out of +those curious old drawers. I was puzzled to know why some were kept at all; a +scrap of writing maybe, with only half a dozen common-place words written on +it, or a bit of broken riding-whip, and here and there a stone, of which I +thought I could have picked up twenty just as good in the first walk I took. +But it seems that was just my ignorance; for my lady told me they were pieces +of valuable marble, used to make the floors of the great Roman emperors palaces +long ago; and that when she had been a girl, and made the grand tour long ago, +her cousin Sir Horace Mann, the Ambassador or Envoy at Florence, had told her +to be sure to go into the fields inside the walls of ancient Rome, when the +farmers were preparing the ground for the onion-sowing, and had to make the +soil fine, and pick up what bits of marble she could find. She had done so, and +meant to have had them made into a table; but somehow that plan fell through, +and there they were with all the dirt out of the onion-field upon them; but +once when I thought of cleaning them with soap and water, at any rate, she bade +me not to do so, for it was Roman dirt—earth, I think, she called +it—but it was dirt all the same. +</p> + +<p> +Then, in this bureau, were many other things, the value of which I could +understand—locks of hair carefully ticketed, which my lady looked at very +sadly; and lockets and bracelets with miniatures in them,—very small +pictures to what they make now-a-days, and called miniatures: some of them had +even to be looked at through a microscope before you could see the individual +expression of the faces, or how beautifully they were painted. I don’t +think that looking at these made may lady seem so melancholy, as the seeing and +touching of the hair did. But, to be sure, the hair was, as it were, a part of +some beloved body which she might never touch and caress again, but which lay +beneath the turf, all faded and disfigured, except perhaps the very hair, from +which the lock she held had been dissevered; whereas the pictures were but +pictures after all—likenesses, but not the very things themselves. This +is only my own conjecture, mind. My lady rarely spoke out her feelings. For, to +begin with, she was of rank: and I have heard her say that people of rank do +not talk about their feelings except to their equals, and even to them they +conceal them, except upon rare occasions. Secondly,—and this is my own +reflection,—she was an only child and an heiress; and as such was more +apt to think than to talk, as all well-brought-up heiresses must be. I think. +Thirdly, she had long been a widow, without any companion of her own age with +whom it would have been natural for her to refer to old associations, past +pleasures, or mutual sorrows. Mrs. Medlicott came nearest to her as a companion +of this sort; and her ladyship talked more to Mrs. Medlicott, in a kind of +familiar way, than she did to all the rest of the household put together. But +Mrs. Medlicott was silent by nature, and did not reply at any great length. +Adams, indeed, was the only one who spoke much to Lady Ludlow. +</p> + +<p> +After we had worked away about an hour at the bureau, her ladyship said we had +done enough for one day; and as the time was come for her afternoon ride, she +left me, with a volume of engravings from Mr. Hogarth’s pictures on one +side of me (I don’t like to write down the names of them, though my lady +thought nothing of it, I am sure), and upon a stand her great prayer-book open +at the evening psalms for the day, on the other. But as soon as she was gone, I +troubled myself little with either, but amused myself with looking round the +room at my leisure. The side on which the fire-place stood was all +panelled,—part of the old ornaments of the house, for there was an Indian +paper with birds and beasts and insects on it, on all the other sides. There +were coats of arms, of the various families with whom the Hanburys had +intermarried, all over these panels, and up and down the ceiling as well. There +was very little looking-glass in the room, though one of the great +drawing-rooms was called the “Mirror Room,” because it was lined +with glass, which my lady’s great-grandfather had brought from Venice +when he was ambassador there. There were china jars of all shapes and sizes +round and about the room, and some china monsters, or idols, of which I could +never bear the sight, they were so ugly, though I think my lady valued them +more than all. There was a thick carpet on the middle of the floor, which was +made of small pieces of rare wood fitted into a pattern; the doors were +opposite to each other, and were composed of two heavy tall wings, and opened +in the middle, moving on brass grooves inserted into the floor—they would +not have opened over a carpet. There were two windows reaching up nearly to the +ceiling, but very narrow and with deep window-seats in the thickness of the +wall. The room was full of scent, partly from the flowers outside, and partly +from the great jars of pot-pourri inside. The choice of odours was what my lady +piqued herself upon, saying nothing showed birth like a keen susceptibility of +smell. We never named musk in her presence, her antipathy to it was so well +understood through the household: her opinion on the subject was believed to +be, that no scent derived from an animal could ever be of a sufficiently pure +nature to give pleasure to any person of good family, where, of course, the +delicate perception of the senses had been cultivated for generations. She +would instance the way in which sportsmen preserve the breed of dogs who have +shown keen scent; and how such gifts descend for generations amongst animals, +who cannot be supposed to have anything of ancestral pride, or hereditary +fancies about them. Musk, then, was never mentioned at Hanbury Court. No more +were bergamot or southern-wood, although vegetable in their nature. She +considered these two latter as betraying a vulgar taste in the person who chose +to gather or wear them. She was sorry to notice sprigs of them in the +button-hole of any young man in whom she took an interest, either because he +was engaged to a servant of hers or otherwise, as he came out of church on a +Sunday afternoon. She was afraid that he liked coarse pleasures; and I am not +sure if she did not think that his preference for these coarse sweetnesses did +not imply a probability that he would take to drinking. But she distinguished +between vulgar and common. Violets, pinks, and sweetbriar were common enough; +roses and mignionette, for those who had gardens, honeysuckle for those who +walked along the bowery lanes; but wearing them betrayed no vulgarity of taste: +the queen upon her throne might be glad to smell at a nosegay of the flowers. A +beau-pot (as we called it) of pinks and roses freshly gathered was placed every +morning that they were in bloom on my lady’s own particular table. For +lasting vegetable odours she preferred lavender and sweet woodroof to any +extract whatever. Lavender reminded her of old customs, she said, and of homely +cottage-gardens, and many a cottager made his offering to her of a bundle of +lavender. Sweet woodroof, again, grew in wild, woodland places where the soil +was fine and the air delicate: the poor children used to go and gather it for +her up in the woods on the higher lands; and for this service she always +rewarded them with bright new pennies, of which my lord, her son, used to send +her down a bagful fresh from the Mint in London every February. +</p> + +<p> +Attar of roses, again, she disliked. She said it reminded her of the city and +of merchants’ wives, over-rich, over-heavy in its perfume. And +lilies-of-the-valley somehow fell under the same condemnation. They were most +graceful and elegant to look at (my lady was quite candid about this), flower, +leaf, colour—everything was refined about them but the smell. That was +too strong. But the great hereditary faculty on which my lady piqued herself, +and with reason, for I never met with any person who possessed it, was the +power she had of perceiving the delicious odour arising from a bed of +strawberries in the late autumn, when the leaves were all fading and dying. +“Bacon’s Essays” was one of the few books that lay about in +my lady’s room; and if you took it up and opened it carelessly, it was +sure to fall apart at his “Essay on Gardens.” “Listen,” +her ladyship would say, “to what that great philosopher and statesman +says. ‘Next to that,’—he is speaking of violets, my +dear,—‘is the musk-rose,’—of which you remember the +great bush, at the corner of the south wall just by the Blue Drawing-room +windows; that is the old musk-rose, Shakespeare’s musk-rose, which is +dying out through the kingdom now. But to return to my Lord Bacon: ‘Then +the strawberry leaves, dying with a most excellent cordial smell.’ Now +the Hanburys can always smell this excellent cordial odour, and very delicious +and refreshing it is. You see, in Lord Bacon’s time, there had not been +so many intermarriages between the court and the city as there have been since +the needy days of his Majesty Charles the Second; and altogether in the time of +Queen Elizabeth, the great, old families of England were a distinct race, just +as a cart-horse is one creature, and very useful in its place, and Childers or +Eclipse is another creature, though both are of the same species. So the old +families have gifts and powers of a different and higher class to what the +other orders have. My dear, remember that you try if you can smell the scent of +dying strawberry-leaves in this next autumn. You have some of Ursula +Hanbury’s blood in you, and that gives you a chance.” +</p> + +<p> +But when October came, I sniffed and sniffed, and all to no purpose; and my +lady—who had watched the little experiment rather anxiously—had to +give me up as a hybrid. I was mortified, I confess, and thought that it was in +some ostentation of her own powers that she ordered the gardener to plant a +border of strawberries on that side of the terrace that lay under her windows. +</p> + +<p> +I have wandered away from time and place. I tell you all the remembrances I +have of those years just as they come up, and I hope that, in my old age, I am +not getting too like a certain Mrs. Nickleby, whose speeches were once read out +aloud to me. +</p> + +<p> +I came by degrees to be all day long in this room which I have been describing; +sometimes sitting in the easy-chair, doing some little piece of dainty work for +my lady, or sometimes arranging flowers, or sorting letters according to their +handwriting, so that she could arrange them afterwards, and destroy or keep, as +she planned, looking ever onward to her death. Then, after the sofa was brought +in, she would watch my face, and if she saw my colour change, she would bid me +lie down and rest. And I used to try to walk upon the terrace every day for a +short time: it hurt me very much, it is true, but the doctor had ordered it, +and I knew her ladyship wished me to obey. +</p> + +<p> +Before I had seen the background of a great lady’s life, I had thought it +all play and fine doings. But whatever other grand people are, my lady was +never idle. For one thing, she had to superintend the agent for the large +Hanbury estate. I believe it was mortgaged for a sum of money which had gone to +improve the late lord’s Scotch lands; but she was anxious to pay off this +before her death, and so to leave her own inheritance free of incumbrance to +her son, the present Earl; whom, I secretly think, she considered a greater +person, as being the heir of the Hanburys (though through a female line), than +as being my Lord Ludlow with half a dozen other minor titles. +</p> + +<p> +With this wish of releasing her property from the mortgage, skilful care was +much needed in the management of it; and as far as my lady could go, she took +every pains. She had a great book, in which every page was ruled into three +divisions; on the first column was written the date and the name of the tenant +who addressed any letter on business to her; on the second was briefly stated +the subject of the letter, which generally contained a request of some kind. +This request would be surrounded and enveloped in so many words, and often +inserted amidst so many odd reasons and excuses, that Mr. Horner (the steward) +would sometimes say it was like hunting through a bushel of chaff to find a +grain of wheat. Now, in the second column of this book, the grain of meaning +was placed, clean and dry, before her ladyship every morning. She sometimes +would ask to see the original letter; sometimes she simply answered the request +by a “Yes,” or a “No;” and often she would send for +lenses and papers, and examine them well, with Mr. Horner at her elbow, to see +if such petitions, as to be allowed to plough up pasture fields, were provided +for in the terms of the original agreement. On every Thursday she made herself +at liberty to see her tenants, from four to six in the afternoon. Mornings +would have suited my lady better, as far as convenience went, and I believe the +old custom had been to have these levées (as her ladyship used to call them) +held before twelve. But, as she said to Mr. Horner, when he urged returning to +the former hours, it spoilt a whole day for a farmer, if he had to dress +himself in his best and leave his work in the forenoon (and my lady liked to +see her tenants come in their Sunday clothes; she would not say a word, maybe, +but she would take her spectacles slowly out, and put them on with silent +gravity, and look at a dirty or raggedly-dressed man so solemnly and earnestly, +that his nerves must have been pretty strong if he did not wince, and resolve +that, however poor he might be, soap and water, and needle and thread, should +be used before he again appeared in her ladyship’s anteroom). The +outlying tenants had always a supper provided for them in the +servants’-hall on Thursdays, to which, indeed all comers were welcome to +sit down. For my lady said, though there were not many hours left of a working +man’s day when their business with her was ended, yet that they needed +food and rest, and that she should be ashamed if they sought either at the +Fighting Lion (called at this day the Hanbury Arms). They had as much beer as +they could drink while they were eating; and when the food was cleared away, +they had a cup a piece of good ale, in which the oldest tenant present, +standing up, gave Madam’s health; and after that was drunk, they were +expected to set off homewards; at any rate, no more liquor was given them. The +tenants one and all called her “Madam;” for they recognized in her +the married heiress of the Hanburys, not the widow of a Lord Ludlow, of whom +they and their forefathers knew nothing; and against whose memory, indeed, +there rankled a dim unspoken grudge, the cause of which was accurately known to +the very few who understood the nature of a mortgage, and were therefore aware +that Madam’s money had been taken to enrich my lord’s poor land in +Scotland. I am sure—for you can understand I was behind the scenes, as it +were, and had many an opportunity of seeing and hearing, as I lay or sat +motionless in my lady’s room with the double doors open between it and +the anteroom beyond, where Lady Ludlow saw her steward, and gave audience to +her tenants,—I am certain, I say, that Mr. Horner was silently as much +annoyed at the money that was swallowed up by this mortgage as any one; and, +some time or other, he had probably spoken his mind out to my lady; for there +was a sort of offended reference on her part, and respectful submission to +blame on his, while every now and then there was an implied +protest—whenever the payments of the interest became due, or whenever my +lady stinted herself of any personal expense, such as Mr. Horner thought was +only decorous and becoming in the heiress of the Hanburys. Her carriages were +old and cumbrous, wanting all the improvements which had been adopted by those +of her rank throughout the county. Mr. Horner would fain have had the ordering +of a new coach. The carriage-horses, too, were getting past their work; yet all +the promising colts bred on the estate were sold for ready money; and so on. My +lord, her son, was ambassador at some foreign place; and very proud we all were +of his glory and dignity; but I fancy it cost money, and my lady would have +lived on bread and water sooner than have called upon him to help her in paying +off the mortgage, although he was the one who was to benefit by it in the end. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Horner was a very faithful steward, and very respectful to my lady; +although sometimes, I thought she was sharper to him than to any one else; +perhaps because she knew that, although he never said anything, he disapproved +of the Hanburys being made to pay for the Earl Ludlow’s estates and +state. +</p> + +<p> +The late lord had been a sailor, and had been as extravagant in his habits as +most sailors are, I am told,—for I never saw the sea; and yet he had a +long sight to his own interests; but whatever he was, my lady loved him and his +memory, with about as fond and proud a love as ever wife gave husband, I should +think. +</p> + +<p> +For a part of his life Mr. Horner, who was born on the Hanbury property, had +been a clerk to an attorney in Birmingham; and these few years had given him a +kind of worldly wisdom, which, though always exerted for her benefit, was +antipathetic to her ladyship, who thought that some of her steward’s +maxims savoured of trade and commerce. I fancy that if it had been possible, +she would have preferred a return to the primitive system, of living on the +produce of the land, and exchanging the surplus for such articles as were +needed, without the intervention of money. +</p> + +<p> +But Mr. Horner was bitten with new-fangled notions, as she would say, though +his new-fangled notions were what folk at the present day would think sadly +behindhand; and some of Mr. Gray’s ideas fell on Mr. Horner’s mind +like sparks on tow, though they started from two different points. Mr. Horner +wanted to make every man useful and active in this world, and to direct as much +activity and usefulness as possible to the improvement of the Hanbury estates, +and the aggrandisement of the Hanbury family, and therefore he fell into the +new cry for education. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Gray did not care much,—Mr. Horner thought not enough,—for this +world, and where any man or family stood in their earthly position; but he +would have every one prepared for the world to come, and capable of +understanding and receiving certain doctrines, for which latter purpose, it +stands to reason, he must have heard of these doctrines; and therefore Mr. Gray +wanted education. The answer in the Catechism that Mr. Horner was most fond of +calling upon a child to repeat, was that to, “What is thy duty towards +thy neighbour?” The answer Mr. Gray liked best to hear repeated with +unction, was that to the question, “What is the inward and spiritual +grace?” The reply to which Lady Ludlow bent her head the lowest, as we +said our Catechism to her on Sundays, was to, “What is thy duty towards +God?” But neither Mr. Horner nor Mr. Gray had heard many answers to the +Catechism as yet. +</p> + +<p> +Up to this time there was no Sunday-school in Hanbury. Mr. Gray’s desires +were bounded by that object. Mr. Horner looked farther on: he hoped for a +day-school at some future time, to train up intelligent labourers for working +on the estate. My lady would hear of neither one nor the other: indeed, not the +boldest man whom she ever saw would have dared to name the project of a +day-school within her hearing. +</p> + +<p> +So Mr. Horner contented himself with quietly teaching a sharp, clever lad to +read and write, with a view to making use of him as a kind of foreman in +process of time. He had his pick of the farm-lads for this purpose; and, as the +brightest and sharpest, although by far the raggedest and dirtiest, singled out +Job Gregson’s son. But all this—as my lady never listened to +gossip, or indeed, was spoken to unless she spoke first—was quite unknown +to her, until the unlucky incident took place which I am going to relate. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>CHAPTER IV.</h2> + +<p> +I think my lady was not aware of Mr. Horner’s views on education (as +making men into more useful members of society), or the practice to which he +was putting his precepts in taking Harry Gregson as pupil and protégé; if, +indeed, she were aware of Harry’s distinct existence at all, until the +following unfortunate occasion. The anteroom, which was a kind of +business-place for my lady to receive her steward and tenants in, was +surrounded by shelves. I cannot call them book-shelves, though there were many +books on them; but the contents of the volumes were principally manuscript, and +relating to details connected with the Hanbury property. There were also one or +two dictionaries, gazetteers, works of reference on the management of property; +all of a very old date (the dictionary was Bailey’s, I remember; we had a +great Johnson in my lady’s room, but where lexicographers differed, she +generally preferred Bailey). +</p> + +<p> +In this antechamber a footman generally sat, awaiting orders from my lady; for +she clung to the grand old customs, and despised any bells, except her own +little hand-bell, as modern inventions; she would have her people always within +summons of this silvery bell, or her scarce less silvery voice. This man had +not the sinecure you might imagine. He had to reply to the private entrance; +what we should call the back door in a smaller house. As none came to the front +door but my lady, and those of the county whom she honoured by visiting, and +her nearest acquaintance of this kind lived eight miles (of bad road) off, the +majority of comers knocked at the nail-studded terrace-door; not to have it +opened (for open it stood, by my lady’s orders, winter and summer, so +that the snow often drifted into the back hall, and lay there in heaps when the +weather was severe), but to summon some one to receive their message, or carry +their request to be allowed to speak to my lady. I remember it was long before +Mr. Gray could be made to understand that the great door was only open on state +occasions, and even to the last he would as soon come in by that as the terrace +entrance. I had been received there on my first setting foot over my +lady’s threshold; every stranger was led in by that way the first time +they came; but after that (with the exceptions I have named) they went round by +the terrace, as it were by instinct. It was an assistance to this instinct to +be aware that from time immemorial, the magnificent and fierce Hanbury +wolf-hounds, which were extinct in every other part of the island, had been and +still were kept chained in the front quadrangle, where they bayed through a +great part of the day and night and were always ready with their deep, savage +growl at the sight of every person and thing, excepting the man who fed them, +my lady’s carriage and four, and my lady herself. It was pretty to see +her small figure go up to the great, crouching brutes thumping the flags with +their heavy, wagging tails, and slobbering in an ecstacy of delight, at her +light approach and soft caress. She had no fear of them; but she was a Hanbury +born, and the tale went, that they and their kind knew all Hanburys instantly, +and acknowledged their supremacy, ever since the ancestors of the breed had +been brought from the East by the great Sir Urian Hanbury, who lay with his +legs crossed on the altar-tomb in the church. Moreover, it was reported that, +not fifty years before, one of these dogs had eaten up a child, which had +inadvertently strayed within reach of its chain. So you may imagine how most +people preferred the terrace-door. Mr. Gray did not seem to care for the dogs. +It might be absence of mind, for I have heard of his starting away from their +sudden spring when he had unwittingly walked within reach of their chains: but +it could hardly have been absence of mind, when one day he went right up to one +of them, and patted him in the most friendly manner, the dog meanwhile looking +pleased, and affably wagging his tail, just as if Mr. Gray had been a Hanbury. +We were all very much puzzled by this, and to this day I have not been able to +account for it. +</p> + +<p> +But now let us go back to the terrace-door, and the footman sitting in the +antechamber. +</p> + +<p> +One morning we heard a parleying, which rose to such a vehemence, and lasted +for so long, that my lady had to ring her hand-bell twice before the footman +heard it. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the matter, John?” asked she, when he entered, +</p> + +<p> +“A little boy, my lady, who says he comes from Mr. Horner, and must see +your ladyship. Impudent little lad!” (This last to himself.) +</p> + +<p> +“What does he want?” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s just what I have asked him, my lady, but he won’t +tell me, please your ladyship.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is, probably, some message from Mr. Horner,” said Lady Ludlow, +with just a shade of annoyance in her manner; for it was against all etiquette +to send a message to her, and by such a messenger too! +</p> + +<p> +“No! please your ladyship, I asked him if he had any message, and he said +no, he had none; but he must see your ladyship for all that.” +</p> + +<p> +“You had better show him in then, without more words,” said her +ladyship, quietly, but still, as I have said, rather annoyed. +</p> + +<p> +As if in mockery of the humble visitor, the footman threw open both battants of +the door, and in the opening there stood a lithe, wiry lad, with a thick head +of hair, standing out in every direction, as if stirred by some electrical +current, a short, brown face, red now from affright and excitement, wide, +resolute mouth, and bright, deep-set eyes, which glanced keenly and rapidly +round the room, as if taking in everything (and all was new and strange), to be +thought and puzzled over at some future time. He knew enough of manners not to +speak first to one above him in rank, or else he was afraid. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you want with me?” asked my lady; in so gentle a tone that +it seemed to surprise and stun him. +</p> + +<p> +“An’t please your ladyship?” said he, as if he had been deaf. +</p> + +<p> +“You come from Mr. Horner’s: why do you want to see me?” +again asked she, a little more loudly. +</p> + +<p> +“An’t please your ladyship, Mr. Horner was sent for all on a sudden +to Warwick this morning.” +</p> + +<p> +His face began to work; but he felt it, and closed his lips into a resolute +form. +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” +</p> + +<p> +“And he went off all on a sudden like.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” +</p> + +<p> +“And he left a note for your ladyship with me, your ladyship.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is that all? You might have given it to the footman.” +</p> + +<p> +“Please your ladyship, I’ve clean gone and lost it.” +</p> + +<p> +He never took his eyes off her face. If he had not kept his look fixed, he +would have burst out crying. +</p> + +<p> +“That was very careless,” said my lady gently. “But I am sure +you are very sorry for it. You had better try and find it; it may have been of +consequence. +</p> + +<p> +“Please, mum—please your ladyship—I can say it off by +heart.” +</p> + +<p> +“You! What do you mean?” I was really afraid now. My lady’s +blue eyes absolutely gave out light, she was so much displeased, and, moreover, +perplexed. The more reason he had for affright, the more his courage rose. He +must have seen,—so sharp a lad must have perceived her displeasure; but +he went on quickly and steadily. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Horner, my lady, has taught me to read, write, and cast accounts, my +lady. And he was in a hurry, and he folded his paper up, but he did not seal +it; and I read it, my lady; and now, my lady, it seems like as if I had got it +off by heart;” and he went on with a high pitched voice, saying out very +loud what, I have no doubt, were the identical words of the letter, date, +signature and all: it was merely something about a deed, which required my +lady’s signature. +</p> + +<p> +When he had done, he stood almost as if he expected commendation for his +accurate memory. +</p> + +<p> +My lady’s eyes contracted till the pupils were as needle-points; it was a +way she had when much disturbed. She looked at me and said— +</p> + +<p> +“Margaret Dawson, what will this world come to?” And then she was +silent. +</p> + +<p> +The lad, beginning to perceive he had given deep offence, stood stock +still—as if his brave will had brought him into this presence, and +impelled him to confession, and the best amends he could make, but had now +deserted him, or was extinct, and left his body motionless, until some one else +with word or deed made him quit the room. My lady looked again at him, and saw +the frowning, dumb-foundering terror at his misdeed, and the manner in which +his confession had been received. +</p> + +<p> +“My poor lad!” said she, the angry look leaving her face, +“into whose hands have you fallen?” +</p> + +<p> +The boy’s lips began to quiver. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you know what tree we read of in Genesis?—No! I hope +you have not got to read so easily as that.” A pause. “Who has +taught you to read and write?” +</p> + +<p> +“Please, my lady, I meant no harm, my lady.” He was fairly +blubbering, overcome by her evident feeling of dismay and regret, the soft +repression of which was more frightening to him than any strong or violent +words would have been. +</p> + +<p> +“Who taught you, I ask?” +</p> + +<p> +“It were Mr. Horner’s clerk who learned me, my lady.” +</p> + +<p> +“And did Mr. Horner know of it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, my lady. And I am sure I thought for to please him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well! perhaps you were not to blame for that. But I wonder at Mr. +Horner. However, my boy, as you have got possession of edge-tools, you must +have some rules how to use them. Did you never hear that you were not to open +letters?” +</p> + +<p> +“Please, my lady, it were open. Mr. Horner forgot for to seal it, in his +hurry to be off.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you must not read letters that are not intended for you. You must +never try to read any letters that are not directed to you, even if they be +open before you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Please, may lady, I thought it were good for practice, all as one as a +book.” +</p> + +<p> +My lady looked bewildered as to what way she could farther explain to him the +laws of honour as regarded letters. +</p> + +<p> +“You would not listen, I am sure,” said she, “to anything you +were not intended to hear?” +</p> + +<p> +He hesitated for a moment, partly because he did not fully comprehend the +question. My lady repeated it. The light of intelligence came into his eager +eyes, and I could see that he was not certain if he could tell the truth. +</p> + +<p> +“Please, my lady, I always hearken when I hear folk talking secrets; but +I mean no harm.” +</p> + +<p> +My poor lady sighed: she was not prepared to begin a long way off in morals. +Honour was, to her, second nature, and she had never tried to find out on what +principle its laws were based. So, telling the lad that she wished to see Mr. +Horner when he returned from Warwick, she dismissed him with a despondent look; +he, meanwhile, right glad to be out of the awful gentleness of her presence. +</p> + +<p> +“What is to be done?” said she, half to herself and half to me. I +could not answer, for I was puzzled myself. +</p> + +<p> +“It was a right word,” she continued, “that I used, when I +called reading and writing ‘edge-tools.’ If our lower orders have +these edge-tools given to them, we shall have the terrible scenes of the French +Revolution acted over again in England. When I was a girl, one never heard of +the rights of men, one only heard of the duties. Now, here was Mr. Gray, only +last night, talking of the right every child had to instruction. I could hardly +keep my patience with him, and at length we fairly came to words; and I told +him I would have no such thing as a Sunday-school (or a Sabbath-school, as he +calls it, just like a Jew) in my village.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what did he say, my lady?” I asked; for the struggle that +seemed now to have come to a crisis, had been going on for some time in a quiet +way. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, he gave way to temper, and said he was bound to remember, he was +under the bishop’s authority, not under mine; and implied that he should +persevere in his designs, notwithstanding my expressed opinion.” +</p> + +<p> +“And your ladyship—” I half inquired. +</p> + +<p> +“I could only rise and curtsey, and civilly dismiss him. When two persons +have arrived at a certain point of expression on a subject, about which they +differ as materially as I do from Mr. Gray, the wisest course, if they wish to +remain friends, is to drop the conversation entirely and suddenly. It is one of +the few cases where abruptness is desirable.” +</p> + +<p> +I was sorry for Mr. Gray. He had been to see me several times, and had helped +me to bear my illness in a better spirit than I should have done without his +good advice and prayers. And I had gathered from little things he said, how +much his heart was set upon this new scheme. I liked him so much, and I loved +and respected my lady so well, that I could not bear them to be on the cool +terms to which they were constantly getting. Yet I could do nothing but keep +silence. +</p> + +<p> +I suppose my lady understood something of what was passing in my mind; for, +after a minute or two, she went on:— +</p> + +<p> +“If Mr. Gray knew all I know,—if he had my experience, he would not +be so ready to speak of setting up his new plans in opposition to my judgment. +Indeed,” she continued, lashing herself up with her own recollections, +“times are changed when the parson of a village comes to beard the liege +lady in her own house. Why, in my grandfather’s days, the parson was +family chaplain too, and dined at the Hall every Sunday. He was helped last, +and expected to have done first. I remember seeing him take up his plate and +knife and fork, and say with his mouth full all the time he was speaking: +‘If you please, Sir Urian, and my lady, I’ll follow the beef into +the housekeeper’s room;’ for you see, unless he did so, he stood no +chance of a second helping. A greedy man, that parson was, to be sure! I +recollect his once eating up the whole of some little bird at dinner, and by +way of diverting attention from his greediness, he told how he had heard that a +rook soaked in vinegar and then dressed in a particular way, could not be +distinguished from the bird he was then eating. I saw by the grim look of my +grandfather’s face that the parson’s doing and saying displeased +him; and, child as I was, I had some notion of what was coming, when, as I was +riding out on my little, white pony, by my grandfather’s side, the next +Friday, he stopped one of the gamekeepers, and bade him shoot one of the oldest +rooks he could find. I knew no more about it till Sunday, when a dish was set +right before the parson, and Sir Urian said: ‘Now, Parson Hemming, I have +had a rook shot, and soaked in vinegar, and dressed as you described last +Sunday. Fall to, man, and eat it with as good an appetite as you had last +Sunday. Pick the bones clean, or by—, no more Sunday dinners shall you +eat at my table!’ I gave one look at poor Mr. Hemming’s face, as he +tried to swallow the first morsel, and make believe as though he thought it +very good; but I could not look again, for shame, although my grandfather +laughed, and kept asking us all round if we knew what could have become of the +parson’s appetite.” +</p> + +<p> +“And did he finish it?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“O yes, my dear. What my grandfather said was to be done, was done +always. He was a terrible man in his anger! But to think of the difference +between Parson Hemming and Mr. Gray! or even of poor dear Mr. Mountford and Mr. +Gray. Mr. Mountford would never have withstood me as Mr. Gray did!” +</p> + +<p> +“And your ladyship really thinks that it would not be right to have a +Sunday-school?” I asked, feeling very timid as I put time question. +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly not. As I told Mr. Gray. I consider a knowledge of the Creed, +and of the Lord’s Prayer, as essential to salvation; and that any child +may have, whose parents bring it regularly to church. Then there are the Ten +Commandments, which teach simple duties in the plainest language. Of course, if +a lad is taught to read and write (as that unfortunate boy has been who was +here this morning) his duties become complicated, and his temptations much +greater, while, at the same time, he has no hereditary principles and +honourable training to serve as safeguards. I might take up my old simile of +the race-horse and cart-horse. I am distressed,” continued she, with a +break in her ideas, “about that boy. The whole thing reminds me so much +of a story of what happened to a friend of mine—Clément de Créquy. Did I +ever tell you about him?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, your ladyship,” I replied. +</p> + +<p> +“Poor Clément! More than twenty years ago, Lord Ludlow and I spent a +winter in Paris. He had many friends there; perhaps not very good or very wise +men, but he was so kind that he liked every one, and every one liked him. We +had an apartment, as they call it there, in the Rue de Lille; we had the +first-floor of a grand hôtel, with the basement for our servants. On the +floor above us the owner of the house lived, a Marquise de Créquy, a widow. +They tell me that the Créquy coat-of-arms is still emblazoned, after all these +terrible years, on a shield above the arched porte-cochère, just as it was +then, though the family is quite extinct. Madame de Créquy had only one son, +Clément, who was just the same age as my Urian—you may see his portrait +in the great hall—Urian’s, I mean.” I knew that Master Urian +had been drowned at sea; and often had I looked at the presentment of his bonny +hopeful face, in his sailor’s dress, with right hand outstretched to a +ship on the sea in the distance, as if he had just said, “Look at her! +all her sails are set, and I’m just off.” Poor Master Urian! he +went down in this very ship not a year after the picture was taken! But now I +will go back to my lady’s story. “I can see those two boys playing +now,” continued she, softly, shutting her eyes, as if the better to call +up the vision, “as they used to do five-and-twenty years ago in those +old-fashioned French gardens behind our hôtel. Many a time have I watched +them from my windows. It was, perhaps, a better play-place than an English +garden would have been, for there were but few flower-beds, and no lawn at all +to speak about; but, instead, terraces and balustrades and vases and flights of +stone steps more in the Italian style; and there were jets-d’eau, and +little fountains that could be set playing by turning water-cocks that were +hidden here and there. How Clément delighted in turning the water on to +surprise Urian, and how gracefully he did the honours, as it were, to my dear, +rough, sailor lad! Urian was as dark as a gipsy boy, and cared little for his +appearance, and resisted all my efforts at setting off his black eyes and +tangled curls; but Clément, without ever showing that he thought about himself +and his dress, was always dainty and elegant, even though his clothes were +sometimes but threadbare. He used to be dressed in a kind of hunter’s +green suit, open at the neck and half-way down the chest to beautiful old lace +frills; his long golden curls fell behind just like a girl’s, and his +hair in front was cut over his straight dark eyebrows in a line almost as +straight. Urian learnt more of a gentleman’s carefulness and propriety of +appearance from that lad in two months than he had done in years from all my +lectures. I recollect one day, when the two boys were in full romp—and, +my window being open, I could hear them perfectly—and Urian was daring +Clément to some scrambling or climbing, which Clément refused to undertake, but +in a hesitating way, as though he longed to do it if some reason had not stood +in the way; and at times, Urian, who was hasty and thoughtless, poor fellow, +told Clément that he was afraid. ‘Fear!’ said the French boy, +drawing himself up; ‘you do not know what you say. If you will be here at +six to-morrow morning, when it is only just light, I will take that +starling’s nest on the top of yonder chimney.’ ‘But why not +now, Clément?’ said Urian, putting his arm round Clément’s neck. +‘Why then, and not now, just when we are in the humour for it?’ +‘Because we De Créquys are poor, and my mother cannot afford me another +suit of clothes this year, and yonder stone carving is all jagged, and would +tear my coat and breeches. Now, to-morrow morning I could go up with nothing on +but an old shirt.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘But you would tear your legs.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘My race do not care for pain,’ said the boy, drawing +himself from Urian’s arm, and walking a few steps away, with a becoming +pride and reserve; for he was hurt at being spoken to as if he were afraid, and +annoyed at having to confess the true reason for declining the feat. But Urian +was not to be thus baffled. He went up to Clément, and put his arm once more +about his neck, and I could see the two lads as they walked down the terrace +away from the hotel windows: first Urian spoke eagerly, looking with imploring +fondness into Clément’s face, which sought the ground, till at last the +French boy spoke, and by-and-by his arm was round Urian too, and they paced +backwards and forwards in deep talk, but gravely, as became men, rather than +boys. +</p> + +<p> +“All at once, from the little chapel at the corner of the large garden +belonging to the Missions Etrangères, I heard the tinkle of the little bell, +announcing the elevation of the host. Down on his knees went Clément, hands +crossed, eyes bent down: while Urian stood looking on in respectful thought. +</p> + +<p> +“What a friendship that might have been! I never dream of Urian without +seeing Clément too—Urian speaks to me, or does something,—but +Clément only flits round Urian, and never seems to see any one else!” +</p> + +<p> +“But I must not forget to tell you, that the next morning, before he was +out of his room, a footman of Madame de Créquy’s brought Urian the +starling’s nest.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well! we came back to England, and the boys were to correspond; and +Madame de Créquy and I exchanged civilities; and Urian went to sea.” +</p> + +<p> +“After that, all seemed to drop away. I cannot tell you all. However, to +confine myself to the De Créquys. I had a letter from Clément; I knew he felt +his friend’s death deeply; but I should never have learnt it from the +letter he sent. It was formal, and seemed like chaff to my hungering heart. +Poor fellow! I dare say he had found it hard to write. What could he—or +any one—say to a mother who has lost her child? The world does not think +so, and, in general, one must conform to the customs of the world; but, judging +from my own experience, I should say that reverent silence at such times is the +tenderest balm. Madame de Créquy wrote too. But I knew she could not feel my +loss so much as Clément, and therefore her letter was not such a +disappointment. She and I went on being civil and polite in the way of +commissions, and occasionally introducing friends to each other, for a year or +two, and then we ceased to have any intercourse. Then the terrible Revolution +came. No one who did not live at those times can imagine the daily expectation +of news—the hourly terror of rumours affecting the fortunes and lives of +those whom most of us had known as pleasant hosts, receiving us with peaceful +welcome in their magnificent houses. Of course, there was sin enough and +suffering enough behind the scenes; but we English visitors to Paris had seen +little or nothing of that,—and I had sometimes thought, indeed, how even +death seemed loth to choose his victims out of that brilliant throng whom I had +known. Madame de Créquy’s one boy lived; while three out of my six were +gone since we had met! I do not think all lots are equal, even now that I know +the end of her hopes; but I do say that whatever our individual lot is, it is +our duty to accept it, without comparing it with that of others. +</p> + +<p> +“The times were thick with gloom and terror. ‘What next?’ was +the question we asked of every one who brought us news from Paris. Where were +these demons hidden when, so few years ago, we danced and feasted, and enjoyed +the brilliant salons and the charming friendships of Paris? +</p> + +<p> +“One evening, I was sitting alone in Saint James’s Square; my lord +off at the club with Mr. Fox and others: he had left me, thinking that I should +go to one of the many places to which I had been invited for that evening; but +I had no heart to go anywhere, for it was poor Urian’s birthday, and I +had not even rung for lights, though the day was fast closing in, but was +thinking over all his pretty ways, and on his warm affectionate nature, and how +often I had been too hasty in speaking to him, for all I loved him so dearly; +and how I seemed to have neglected and dropped his dear friend Clément, who +might even now be in need of help in that cruel, bloody Paris. I say I was +thinking reproachfully of all this, and particularly of Clément de Créquy in +connection with Urian, when Fenwick brought me a note, sealed with a +coat-of-arms I knew well, though I could not remember at the moment where I had +seen it. I puzzled over it, as one does sometimes, for a minute or more, before +I opened the letter. In a moment I saw it was from Clément de Créquy. ‘My +mother is here,’ he said: ‘she is very ill, and I am bewildered in +this strange country. May I entreat you to receive me for a few minutes?’ +The bearer of the note was the woman of the house where they lodged. I had her +brought up into the anteroom, and questioned her myself, while my carriage was +being brought round. They had arrived in London a fortnight or so before: she +had not known their quality, judging them (according to her kind) by their +dress and their luggage; poor enough, no doubt. The lady had never left her +bed-room since her arrival; the young man waited upon her, did everything for +her, never left her, in fact; only she (the messenger) had promised to stay +within call, as soon as she returned, while he went out somewhere. She could +hardly understand him, he spoke English so badly. He had never spoken it, I +dare say, since he had talked to my Urian.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>CHAPTER V.</h2> + +<p> +“In the hurry of the moment I scarce knew what I did. I bade the +housekeeper put up every delicacy she had, in order to tempt the invalid, whom +yet I hoped to bring back with me to our house. When the carriage was ready I +took the good woman with me to show us the exact way, which my coachman +professed not to know; for, indeed, they were staying at but a poor kind of +place at the back of Leicester Square, of which they had heard, as Clément told +me afterwards, from one of the fishermen who had carried them across from the +Dutch coast in their disguises as a Friesland peasant and his mother. They had +some jewels of value concealed round their persons; but their ready money was +all spent before I saw them, and Clément had been unwilling to leave his +mother, even for the time necessary to ascertain the best mode of disposing of +the diamonds. For, overcome with distress of mind and bodily fatigue, she had +reached London only to take to her bed in a sort of low, nervous fever, in +which her chief and only idea seemed to be that Clément was about to be taken +from her to some prison or other; and if he were out of her sight, though but +for a minute, she cried like a child, and could not be pacified or comforted. +The landlady was a kind, good woman, and though she but half understood the +case, she was truly sorry for them, as foreigners, and the mother sick in a +strange land. +</p> + +<p> +“I sent her forwards to request permission for my entrance. In a moment I +saw Clément—a tall, elegant young man, in a curious dress of coarse +cloth, standing at the open door of a room, and evidently—even before he +accosted me—striving to soothe the terrors of his mother inside. I went +towards him, and would have taken his hand, but he bent down and kissed mine. +</p> + +<p> +“‘May I come in, madame?’ I asked, looking at the poor sick +lady, lying in the dark, dingy bed, her head propped up on coarse and dirty +pillows, and gazing with affrighted eyes at all that was going on. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Clément! Clément! come to me!’ she cried; and when he went +to the bedside she turned on one side, and took his hand in both of hers, and +began stroking it, and looking up in his face. I could scarce keep back my +tears. +</p> + +<p> +“He stood there quite still, except that from time to time he spoke to +her in a low tone. At last I advanced into the room, so that I could talk to +him, without renewing her alarm. I asked for the doctor’s address; for I +had heard that they had called in some one, at their landlady’s +recommendation: but I could hardly understand Clément’s broken English, +and mispronunciation of our proper names, and was obliged to apply to the woman +herself. I could not say much to Clément, for his attention was perpetually +needed by his mother, who never seemed to perceive that I was there. But I told +him not to fear, however long I might be away, for that I would return before +night; and, bidding the woman take charge of all the heterogeneous things the +housekeeper had put up, and leaving one of my men in the house, who could +understand a few words of French, with directions that he was to hold himself +at Madame de Créquy’s orders until I sent or gave him fresh commands, I +drove off to the doctor’s. What I wanted was his permission to remove +Madame de Créquy to my own house, and to learn how it best could be done; for I +saw that every movement in the room, every sound except Clément’s voice, +brought on a fresh access of trembling and nervous agitation. +</p> + +<p> +“The doctor was, I should think, a clever man; but he had that kind of +abrupt manner which people get who have much to do with the lower orders. +</p> + +<p> +“I told him the story of his patient, the interest I had in her, and the +wish I entertained of removing her to my own house. +</p> + +<p> +“‘It can’t be done,’ said he. ‘Any change will +kill her.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘But it must be done,’ I replied. ‘And it shall not +kill her.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Then I have nothing more to say,’ said he, turning away +from the carriage door, and making as though he would go back into the house. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Stop a moment. You must help me; and, if you do, you shall have +reason to be glad, for I will give you fifty pounds down with pleasure. If you +won’t do it, another shall.’ +</p> + +<p> +“He looked at me, then (furtively) at the carriage, hesitated, and then +said: ‘You do not mind expense, apparently. I suppose you are a rich lady +of quality. Such folks will not stick at such trifles as the life or death of a +sick woman to get their own way. I suppose I must e’en help you, for if I +don’t, another will.’ +</p> + +<p> +“I did not mind what he said, so that he would assist me. I was pretty +sure that she was in a state to require opiates; and I had not forgotten +Christopher Sly, you may be sure, so I told him what I had in my head. That in +the dead of night—the quiet time in the streets,—she should be +carried in a hospital litter, softly and warmly covered over, from the +Leicester Square lodging-house to rooms that I would have in perfect readiness +for her. As I planned, so it was done. I let Clément know, by a note, of my +design. I had all prepared at home, and we walked about my house as though shod +with velvet, while the porter watched at the open door. At last, through the +darkness, I saw the lanterns carried by my men, who were leading the little +procession. The litter looked like a hearse; on one side walked the doctor, on +the other Clément; they came softly and swiftly along. I could not try any +farther experiment; we dared not change her clothes; she was laid in the bed in +the landlady’s coarse night-gear, and covered over warmly, and left in +the shaded, scented room, with a nurse and the doctor watching by her, while I +led Clément to the dressing-room adjoining, in which I had had a bed placed for +him. Farther than that he would not go; and there I had refreshments brought. +Meanwhile, he had shown his gratitude by every possible action (for we none of +us dared to speak): he had kneeled at my feet, and kissed my hand, and left it +wet with his tears. He had thrown up his arms to Heaven, and prayed earnestly, +as I could see by the movement of his lips. I allowed him to relieve himself by +these dumb expressions, if I may so call them,—and then I left him, and +went to my own rooms to sit up for my lord, and tell him what I had done. +</p> + +<p> +“Of course, it was all right; and neither my lord nor I could sleep for +wondering how Madame de Créquy would bear her awakening. I had engaged the +doctor, to whose face and voice she was accustomed, to remain with her all +night: the nurse was experienced, and Clément was within call. But it was with +the greatest relief that I heard from my own woman, when she brought me my +chocolate, that Madame de Créquy (Monsieur had said) had awakened more tranquil +than she had been for many days. To be sure, the whole aspect of the +bed-chamber must have been more familiar to her than the miserable place where +I had found her, and she must have intuitively felt herself among friends. +</p> + +<p> +“My lord was scandalized at Clément’s dress, which, after the first +moment of seeing him I had forgotten, in thinking of other things, and for +which I had not prepared Lord Ludlow. He sent for his own tailor, and bade him +bring patterns of stuffs, and engage his men to work night and day till Clément +could appear as became his rank. In short, in a few days so much of the traces +of their flight were removed, that we had almost forgotten the terrible causes +of it, and rather felt as if they had come on a visit to us than that they had +been compelled to fly their country. Their diamonds, too, were sold well by my +lord’s agents, though the London shops were stocked with jewellery, and +such portable valuables, some of rare and curious fashion, which were sold for +half their real value by emigrants who could not afford to wait. Madame de +Créquy was recovering her health, although her strength was sadly gone, and she +would never be equal to such another flight, as the perilous one which she had +gone through, and to which she could not bear the slightest reference. For some +time things continued in this state—the De Créquys still our honoured +visitors,—many houses besides our own, even among our own friends, open +to receive the poor flying nobility of France, driven from their country by the +brutal republicans, and every freshly-arrived emigrant bringing new tales of +horror, as if these revolutionists were drunk with blood, and mad to devise new +atrocities. One day Clément—I should tell you he had been presented to +our good King George and the sweet Queen, and they had accosted him most +graciously, and his beauty and elegance, and some of the circumstances +attendant on his flight, made him be received in the world quite like a hero of +romance; he might have been on intimate terms in many a distinguished house, +had he cared to visit much; but he accompanied my lord and me with an air of +indifference and languor, which I sometimes fancied made him be all the more +sought after: Monkshaven (that was the title my eldest son bore) tried in vain +to interest him in all young men’s sports. But no! it was the same +through all. His mother took far more interest in the on-dits of the London +world, into which she was far too great an invalid to venture, than he did in +the absolute events themselves, in which he might have been an actor. One day, +as I was saying, an old Frenchman of a humble class presented himself to our +servants, several of them, understood French; and through Medlicott, I learnt +that he was in some way connected with the De Créquys; not with their +Paris-life; but I fancy he had been intendant of their estates in the country; +estates which were more useful as hunting-grounds than as adding to their +income. However, there was the old man and with him, wrapped round his person, +he had brought the long parchment rolls, and deeds relating to their property. +These he would deliver up to none but Monsieur de Créquy, the rightful owner; +and Clément was out with Monkshaven, so the old man waited; and when Clément +came in, I told him of the steward’s arrival, and how he had been cared +for by my people. Clément went directly to see him. He was a long time away, +and I was waiting for him to drive out with me, for some purpose or another, I +scarce know what, but I remember I was tired of waiting, and was just in the +act of ringing the bell to desire that he might be reminded of his engagement +with me, when he came in, his face as white as the powder in his hair, his +beautiful eyes dilated with horror. I saw that he had heard something that +touched him even more closely than the usual tales which every fresh emigrant +brought. +</p> + +<p> +“‘What is it, Clément?’ I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“He clasped his hands, and looked as though he tried to speak, but could +not bring out the words. +</p> + +<p> +“‘They have guillotined my uncle!’ said he at last. Now, I +knew that there was a Count de Créquy; but I had always understood that the +elder branch held very little communication with him; in fact, that he was a +vaurien of some kind, and rather a disgrace than otherwise to the family. So, +perhaps, I was hard-hearted but I was a little surprised at this excess of +emotion, till I saw that peculiar look in his eyes that many people have when +there is more terror in their hearts than they dare put into words. He wanted +me to understand something without his saying it; but how could I? I had never +heard of a Mademoiselle de Créquy. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Virginie!’ at last he uttered. In an instant I understood +it all, and remembered that, if Urian had lived, he too might have been in +love. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Your uncle’s daughter?’ I inquired. +</p> + +<p> +“‘My cousin,’ he replied. +</p> + +<p> +“I did not say, ‘your betrothed,’ but I had no doubt of it. I +was mistaken, however. +</p> + +<p> +“‘O madame!’ he continued, ‘her mother died long +ago—her father now—and she is in daily fear,—alone, +deserted—’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Is she in the Abbaye?’ asked I. +</p> + +<p> +“‘No! she is in hiding with the widow of her father’s old +concierge. Any day they may search the house for aristocrats. They are seeking +them everywhere. Then, not her life alone, but that of the old woman, her +hostess, is sacrificed. The old woman knows this, and trembles with fear. Even +if she is brave enough to be faithful, her fears would betray her, should the +house be searched. Yet, there is no one to help Virginie to escape. She is +alone in Paris.’ +</p> + +<p> +“I saw what was in his mind. He was fretting and chafing to go to his +cousin’s assistance; but the thought of his mother restrained him. I +would not have kept back Urian from such on errand at such a time. How should I +restrain him? And yet, perhaps, I did wrong in not urging the chances of danger +more. Still, if it was danger to him, was it not the same or even greater +danger to her?—for the French spared neither age nor sex in those wicked +days of terror. So I rather fell in with his wish, and encouraged him to think +how best and most prudently it might be fulfilled; never doubting, as I have +said, that he and his cousin were troth-plighted. +</p> + +<p> +“But when I went to Madame de Créquy—after he had imparted his, or +rather our plan to her—I found out my mistake. She, who was in general +too feeble to walk across the room save slowly, and with a stick, was going +from end to end with quick, tottering steps; and, if now and then she sank upon +a chair, it seemed as if she could not rest, for she was up again in a moment, +pacing along, wringing her hands, and speaking rapidly to herself. When she saw +me, she stopped: ‘Madame,’ she said, ‘you have lost your own +boy. You might have left me mine.’ +</p> + +<p> +“I was so astonished—I hardly knew what to say. I had spoken to +Clément as if his mother’s consent were secure (as I had felt my own +would have been if Urian had been alive to ask it). Of coarse, both he and I +knew that his mother’s consent must be asked and obtained, before he +could leave her to go on such an undertaking; but, somehow, my blood always +rose at the sight or sound of danger; perhaps, because my life had been so +peaceful. Poor Madame de Créquy! it was otherwise with her; she despaired while +I hoped, and Clément trusted. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Dear Madame de Créquy,’ said I, ‘he will return +safely to us; every precaution shall be taken, that either he or you, or my +lord, or Monkshaven can think of; but he cannot leave a girl—his nearest +relation save you—his betrothed, is she not?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘His betrothed!’ cried she, now at the utmost pitch of her +excitement. ‘Virginie betrothed to Clément?—no! thank heaven, not +so bad as that! Yet it might have been. But mademoiselle scorned my son! She +would have nothing to do with him. Now is the time for him to have nothing to +do with her!” +</p> + +<p> +“Clément had entered at the door behind his mother as she thus spoke. His +face was set and pale, till it looked as gray and immovable as if it had been +carved in stone. He came forward and stood before his mother. She stopped her +walk, threw back her haughty head, and the two looked each other steadily in +the face. After a minute or two in this attitude, her proud and resolute gaze +never flinching or wavering, he went down upon one knee, and, taking her +hand—her hard, stony hand, which never closed on his, but remained +straight and stiff: +</p> + +<p> +“‘Mother,’ he pleaded, ‘withdraw your prohibition. Let +me go!’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘What were her words?’ Madame de Créquy replied, slowly, as +if forcing her memory to the extreme of accuracy. ‘My cousin,’ she +said, ‘when I marry, I marry a man, not a petit-maître. I marry a +man who, whatever his rank may be will add dignity to the human race by his +virtues, and not be content to live in an effeminate court on the traditions of +past grandeur.’ She borrowed her words from the infamous Jean-Jacques +Rousseau, the friend of her scarce less infamous father—nay! I will say +it,—if not her words, she borrowed her principles. And my son to request +her to marry him!’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘It was my father’s written wish,’ said Clément. +</p> + +<p> +“‘But did you not love her? You plead your father’s +words,—words written twelve years before,—and as if that were your +reason for being indifferent to my dislike to the alliance. But you requested +her to marry you,—and she refused you with insolent contempt; and now you +are ready to leave me,—leave me desolate in a foreign land—’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Desolate! my mother! and the Countess Ludlow stands there!’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Pardon, madame! But all the earth, though it were full of kind +hearts, is but a desolation and a desert place to a mother when her only child +is absent. And you, Clément, would leave me for this Virginie,—this +degenerate De Créquy, tainted with the atheism of the Encyclopédistes! She is +only reaping some of the fruit of the harvest whereof her friends have sown the +seed. Let her alone! Doubtless she has friends—it may be +lovers—among these demons, who, under the cry of liberty, commit every +licence. Let her alone, Clément! She refused you with scorn: be too proud to +notice her now.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Mother, I cannot think of myself; only of her.’ +</p> + +<p> +“’Think of me, then! I, your mother, forbid you to go.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Clément bowed low, and went out of the room instantly, as one blinded. +She saw his groping movement, and, for an instant, I think her heart was +touched. But she turned to me, and tried to exculpate her past violence by +dilating upon her wrongs, and they certainly were many. The Count, her +husband’s younger brother, had invariably tried to make mischief between +husband and wife. He had been the cleverer man of the two, and had possessed +extraordinary influence over her husband. She suspected him of having +instigated that clause in her husband’s will, by which the Marquis +expressed his wish for the marriage of the cousins. The Count had had some +interest in the management of the De Créquy property during her son’s +minority. Indeed, I remembered then, that it was through Count de Créquy that +Lord Ludlow had first heard of the apartment which we afterwards took in the +Hôtel de Créquy; and then the recollection of a past feeling came +distinctly out of the mist, as it were; and I called to mind how, when we first +took up our abode in the Hôtel de Créquy, both Lord Ludlow and I imagined +that the arrangement was displeasing to our hostess; and how it had taken us a +considerable time before we had been able to establish relations of friendship +with her. Years after our visit, she began to suspect that Clément (whom she +could not forbid to visit at his uncle’s house, considering the terms on +which his father had been with his brother; though she herself never set foot +over the Count de Créquy’s threshold) was attaching himself to +mademoiselle, his cousin; and she made cautious inquiries as to the appearance, +character, and disposition of the young lady. Mademoiselle was not handsome, +they said; but of a fine figure, and generally considered as having a very +noble and attractive presence. In character she was daring and wilful (said one +set); original and independent (said another). She was much indulged by her +father, who had given her something of a man’s education, and selected +for her intimate friend a young lady below her in rank, one of the +Bureaucracie, a Mademoiselle Necker, daughter of the Minister of Finance. +Mademoiselle de Créquy was thus introduced into all the free-thinking salons of +Paris; among people who were always full of plans for subverting society. +‘And did Clément affect such people?’ Madame de Créquy had asked +with some anxiety. No! Monsieur de Créquy had neither eyes nor ears, nor +thought for anything but his cousin, while she was by. And she? She hardly took +notice of his devotion, so evident to every one else. The proud creature! But +perhaps that was her haughty way of concealing what she felt. And so Madame de +Créquy listened, and questioned, and learnt nothing decided, until one day she +surprised Clément with the note in his hand, of which she remembered the +stinging words so well, in which Virginie had said, in reply to a proposal +Clément had sent her through her father, that ‘When she married she +married a man, not a petit-maître.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Clément was justly indignant at the insulting nature of the answer +Virginie had sent to a proposal, respectful in its tone, and which was, after +all, but the cool, hardened lava over a burning heart. He acquiesced in his +mother’s desire, that he should not again present himself in his +uncle’s salons; but he did not forget Virginie, though he never mentioned +her name. +</p> + +<p> +“Madame de Créquy and her son were among the earliest proscrits, as they +were of the strongest possible royalists, and aristocrats, as it was the custom +of the horrid Sansculottes to term those who adhered to the habits of +expression and action in which it was their pride to have been educated. They +had left Paris some weeks before they had arrived in England, and +Clément’s belief at the time of quitting the Hôtel de Créquy had +certainly been, that his uncle was not merely safe, but rather a popular man +with the party in power. And, as all communication having relation to private +individuals of a reliable kind was intercepted, Monsieur de Créquy had felt but +little anxiety for his uncle and cousin, in comparison with what he did for +many other friends of very different opinions in politics, until the day when +he was stunned by the fatal information that even his progressive uncle was +guillotined, and learnt that his cousin was imprisoned by the licence of the +mob, whose rights (as she called them) she was always advocating. +</p> + +<p> +“When I had heard all this story, I confess I lost in sympathy for +Clément what I gained for his mother. Virginie’s life did not seem to me +worth the risk that Clément’s would run. But when I saw him—sad, +depressed, nay, hopeless—going about like one oppressed by a heavy dream +which he cannot shake off; caring neither to eat, drink, nor sleep, yet bearing +all with silent dignity, and even trying to force a poor, faint smile when he +caught my anxious eyes; I turned round again, and wondered how Madame de Créquy +could resist this mute pleading of her son’s altered appearance. As for +my Lord Ludlow and Monkshaven, as soon as they understood the case, they were +indignant that any mother should attempt to keep a son out of honourable +danger; and it was honourable, and a clear duty (according to them) to try to +save the life of a helpless orphan girl, his next of kin. None but a Frenchman, +said my lord, would hold himself bound by an old woman’s whimsies and +fears, even though she were his mother. As it was, he was chafing himself to +death under the restraint. If he went, to be sure, the wretches might make an +end of him, as they had done of many a fine fellow: but my lord would take +heavy odds, that, instead of being guillotined, he would save the girl, and +bring her safe to England, just desperately in love with her preserver, and +then we would have a jolly wedding down at Monkshaven. My lord repeated his +opinion so often that it became a certain prophecy in his mind of what was to +take place; and, one day seeing Clément look even paler and thinner than he had +ever done before, he sent a message to Madame de Créquy, requesting permission +to speak to her in private. +</p> + +<p> +“‘For, by George!’ said he, ‘she shall hear my opinion, +and not let that lad of hers kill himself by fretting. He’s too good for +that, if he had been an English lad, he would have been off to his sweetheart +long before this, without saying with your leave or by your leave; but being a +Frenchman, he is all for Æneas and filial piety,—filial +fiddle-sticks!’ (My lord had run away to sea, when a boy, against his +father’s consent, I am sorry to say; and, as all had ended well, and he +had come back to find both his parents alive, I do not think he was ever as +much aware of his fault as he might have been under other circumstances.) +‘No, my lady,’ he went on, ‘don’t come with me. A woman +can manage a man best when he has a fit of obstinacy, and a man can persuade a +woman out of her tantrums, when all her own sex, the whole army of them, would +fail. Allow me to go alone to my tête-à-tête with +madame.” +</p> + +<p> +“What he said, what passed, he never could repeat; but he came back +graver than he went. However, the point was gained; Madame de Créquy withdrew +her prohibition, and had given him leave to tell Clément as much. +</p> + +<p> +“‘But she is an old Cassandra,’ said he. ‘Don’t +let the lad be much with her; her talk would destroy the courage of the bravest +man; she is so given over to superstition.’ Something that she had said +had touched a chord in my lord’s nature which he inherited from his +Scotch ancestors. Long afterwards, I heard what this was. Medlicott told me. +</p> + +<p> +“However, my lord shook off all fancies that told against the fulfilment +of Clément’s wishes. All that afternoon we three sat together, planning; +and Monkshaven passed in and out, executing our commissions, and preparing +everything. Towards nightfall all was ready for Clément’s start on his +journey towards the coast. +</p> + +<p> +“Madame had declined seeing any of us since my lord’s stormy +interview with her. She sent word that she was fatigued, and desired repose. +But, of course, before Clément set off, he was bound to wish her farewell, and +to ask for her blessing. In order to avoid an agitating conversation between +mother and son, my lord and I resolved to be present at the interview. Clément +was already in his travelling-dress, that of a Norman fisherman, which +Monkshaven had, with infinite trouble, discovered in the possession of one of +the emigrés who thronged London, and who had made his escape from the shores of +France in this disguise. Clément’s plan was, to go down to the coast of +Sussex, and get some of the fishing or smuggling boats to take him across to +the French coast near Dieppe. There again he would have to change his dress. +Oh, it was so well planned! His mother was startled by his disguise (of which +we had not thought to forewarn her) as he entered her apartment. And either +that, or the being suddenly roused from the heavy slumber into which she was +apt to fall when she was left alone, gave her manner an air of wildness that +was almost like insanity. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Go, go!’ she said to him, almost pushing him away as he +knelt to kiss her hand. ‘Virginie is beckoning to you, but you +don’t see what kind of a bed it is—’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Clément, make haste!’ said my lord, in a hurried manner, as +if to interrupt madame. ‘The time is later than I thought, and you must +not miss the morning’s tide. Bid your mother good-bye at once, and let us +be off.’ For my lord and Monkshaven were to ride with him to an inn near +the shore, from whence he was to walk to his destination. My lord almost took +him by the arm to pull him away; and they were gone, and I was left alone with +Madame de Créquy. When she heard the horses’ feet, she seemed to find out +the truth, as if for the first time. She set her teeth together. ‘He has +left me for her!’ she almost screamed. ‘Left me for her!’ she +kept muttering; and then, as the wild look came back into her eyes, she said, +almost with exultation, ‘But I did not give him my +blessing!’” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>CHAPTER VI.</h2> + +<p> +“All night Madame de Créquy raved in delirium. If I could I would have +sent for Clément back again. I did send off one man, but I suppose my +directions were confused, or they were wrong, for he came back after my +lord’s return, on the following afternoon. By this time Madame de Créquy +was quieter: she was, indeed, asleep from exhaustion when Lord Ludlow and +Monkshaven came in. They were in high spirits, and their hopefulness brought me +round to a less dispirited state. All had gone well: they had accompanied +Clément on foot along the shore, until they had met with a lugger, which my +lord had hailed in good nautical language. The captain had responded to these +freemason terms by sending a boat to pick up his passenger, and by an +invitation to breakfast sent through a speaking-trumpet. Monkshaven did not +approve of either the meal or the company, and had returned to the inn, but my +lord had gone with Clément and breakfasted on board, upon grog, biscuit, +fresh-caught fish—‘the best breakfast he ever ate,’ he said, +but that was probably owing to the appetite his night’s ride had given +him. However, his good fellowship had evidently won the captain’s heart, +and Clément had set sail under the best auspices. It was agreed that I should +tell all this to Madame de Créquy, if she inquired; otherwise, it would be +wiser not to renew her agitation by alluding to her son’s journey. +</p> + +<p> +“I sat with her constantly for many days; but she never spoke of Clément. +She forced herself to talk of the little occurrences of Parisian society in +former days: she tried to be conversational and agreeable, and to betray no +anxiety or even interest in the object of Clément’s journey; and, as far +as unremitting efforts could go, she succeeded. But the tones of her voice were +sharp and yet piteous, as if she were in constant pain; and the glance of her +eye hurried and fearful, as if she dared not let it rest on any object. +</p> + +<p> +“In a week we heard of Clément’s safe arrival on the French coast. +He sent a letter to this effect by the captain of the smuggler, when the latter +returned. We hoped to hear again; but week after week elapsed, and there was no +news of Clément. I had told Lord Ludlow, in Madame de Créquy’s presence, +as he and I had arranged, of the note I had received from her son, informing us +of his landing in France. She heard, but she took no notice, and evidently +began to wonder that we did not mention any further intelligence of him in the +same manner before her; and daily I began to fear that her pride would give +way, and that she would supplicate for news before I had any to give her. +</p> + +<p> +“One morning, on my awakening, my maid told me that Madame de Créquy had +passed a wretched night, and had bidden Medlicott (whom, as understanding +French, and speaking it pretty well, though with that horrid German accent, I +had put about her) request that I would go to madame’s room as soon as I +was dressed. +</p> + +<p> +“I knew what was coming, and I trembled all the time they were doing my +hair, and otherwise arranging me. I was not encouraged by my lord’s +speeches. He had heard the message, and kept declaring that he would rather be +shot than have to tell her that there was no news of her son; and yet he said, +every now and then, when I was at the lowest pitch of uneasiness, that he never +expected to hear again: that some day soon we should see him walking in and +introducing Mademoiselle de Créquy to us. +</p> + +<p> +“However at last I was ready, and go I must. +</p> + +<p> +“Her eyes were fixed on the door by which I entered. I went up to the +bedside. She was not rouged,—she had left it off now for several +days,—she no longer attempted to keep up the vain show of not feeling, +and loving, and fearing. +</p> + +<p> +“For a moment or two she did not speak, and I was glad of the respite. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Clément?’ she said at length, covering her mouth with a +handkerchief the minute she had spoken, that I might not see it quiver. +</p> + +<p> +“‘There has been no news since the first letter, saying how well +the voyage was performed, and how safely he had landed—near Dieppe, you +know,’ I replied as cheerfully as possible. ‘My lord does not +expect that we shall have another letter; he thinks that we shall see him +soon.’ +</p> + +<p> +“There was no answer. As I looked, uncertain whether to do or say more, +she slowly turned herself in bed, and lay with her face to the wall; and, as if +that did not shut out the light of day and the busy, happy world enough, she +put out her trembling hands, and covered her face with her handkerchief. There +was no violence: hardly any sound. +</p> + +<p> +“I told her what my lord had said about Clément’s coming in some +day, and taking us all by surprise. I did not believe it myself, but it was +just possible,—and I had nothing else to say. Pity, to one who was +striving so hard to conceal her feelings, would have been impertinent. She let +me talk; but she did not reply. She knew that my words were vain and idle, and +had no root in my belief; as well as I did myself. +</p> + +<p> +“I was very thankful when Medlicott came in with Madame’s +breakfast, and gave me an excuse for leaving. +</p> + +<p> +“But I think that conversation made me feel more anxious and impatient +than ever. I felt almost pledged to Madame de Créquy for the fulfilment of the +vision I had held out. She had taken entirely to her bed by this time: not from +illness, but because she had no hope within her to stir her up to the effort of +dressing. In the same way she hardly cared for food. She had no +appetite,—why eat to prolong a life of despair? But she let Medlicott +feed her, sooner than take the trouble of resisting. +</p> + +<p> +“And so it went on,—for weeks, months—I could hardly count +the time, it seemed so long. Medlicott told me she noticed a preternatural +sensitiveness of ear in Madame de Créquy, induced by the habit of listening +silently for the slightest unusual sound in the house. Medlicott was always a +minute watcher of any one whom she cared about; and, one day, she made me +notice by a sign madame’s acuteness of hearing, although the quick +expectation was but evinced for a moment in the turn of the eye, the hushed +breath—and then, when the unusual footstep turned into my lord’s +apartments, the soft quivering sigh, and the closed eyelids. +</p> + +<p> +“At length the intendant of the De Créquy estates—the old man, you +will remember, whose information respecting Virginie de Créquy first gave +Clément the desire to return to Paris,—came to St. James’s Square, +and begged to speak to me. I made haste to go down to him in the +housekeeper’s room, sooner than that he should be ushered into mine, for +fear of madame hearing any sound. +</p> + +<p> +“The old man stood—I see him now—with his hat held before him +in both his hands; he slowly bowed till his face touched it when I came in. +Such long excess of courtesy augured ill. He waited for me to speak. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Have you any intelligence?’ I inquired. He had been often +to the house before, to ask if we had received any news; and once or twice I +had seen him, but this was the first time he had begged to see me. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Yes, madame,’ he replied, still standing with his head bent +down, like a child in disgrace. +</p> + +<p> +“‘And it is bad!’ I exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +“‘It is bad.’ For a moment I was angry at the cold tone in +which my words were echoed; but directly afterwards I saw the large, slow, +heavy tears of age falling down the old man’s cheeks, and on to the +sleeves of his poor, threadbare coat. +</p> + +<p> +“I asked him how he had heard it: it seemed as though I could not all at +once bear to hear what it was. He told me that the night before, in crossing +Long Acre, he had stumbled upon an old acquaintance of his; one who, like +himself had been a dependent upon the De Créquy family, but had managed their +Paris affairs, while Fléchier had taken charge of their estates in the country. +Both were now emigrants, and living on the proceeds of such small available +talents as they possessed. Fléchier, as I knew, earned a very fair livelihood +by going about to dress salads for dinner parties. His compatriot, Le Fèbvre, +had begun to give a few lessons as a dancing-master. One of them took the other +home to his lodgings; and there, when their most immediate personal adventures +had been hastily talked over, came the inquiry from Fléchier as to Monsieur de +Créquy +</p> + +<p> +“‘Clément was dead—guillotined. Virginie was +dead—guillotined.’ +</p> + +<p> +“When Fléchier had told me thus much, he could not speak for sobbing; and +I, myself, could hardly tell how to restrain my tears sufficiently, until I +could go to my own room and be at liberty to give way. He asked my leave to +bring in his friend Le Fèbvre, who was walking in the square, awaiting a +possible summons to tell his story. I heard afterwards a good many details, +which filled up the account, and made me feel—which brings me back to the +point I started from—how unfit the lower orders are for being trusted +indiscriminately with the dangerous powers of education. I have made a long +preamble, but now I am coming to the moral of my story.” +</p> + +<p> +My lady was trying to shake off the emotion which she evidently felt in +recurring to this sad history of Monsieur de Créquy’s death. She came +behind me, and arranged my pillows, and then, seeing I had been +crying—for, indeed, I was weak-spirited at the time, and a little served +to unloose my tears—she stooped down, and kissed my forehead, and said +“Poor child!” almost as if she thanked me for feeling that old +grief of hers. +</p> + +<p> +“Being once in France, it was no difficult thing for Clément to get into +Paris. The difficulty in those days was to leave, not to enter. He came in +dressed as a Norman peasant, in charge of a load of fruit and vegetables, with +which one of the Seine barges was freighted. He worked hard with his companions +in landing and arranging their produce on the quays; and then, when they +dispersed to get their breakfasts at some of the estaminets near the old Marché +aux Fleurs, he sauntered up a street which conducted him, by many an odd turn, +through the Quartier Latin to a horrid back alley, leading out of the Rue +l’Ecole de Médécine; some atrocious place, as I have heard, not far from +the shadow of that terrible Abbaye, where so many of the best blood of France +awaited their deaths. But here some old man lived, on whose fidelity Clément +thought that he might rely. I am not sure if he had not been gardener in those +very gardens behind the Hôtel Créquy where Clément and Urian used to play +together years before. But whatever the old man’s dwelling might be, +Clément was only too glad to reach it, you may be sure, he had been kept in +Normandy, in all sorts of disguises, for many days after landing in Dieppe, +through the difficulty of entering Paris unsuspected by the many ruffians who +were always on the look-out for aristocrats. +</p> + +<p> +“The old gardener was, I believe, both faithful and tried, and sheltered +Clément in his garret as well as might be. Before he could stir out, it was +necessary to procure a fresh disguise, and one more in character with an +inhabitant of Paris than that of a Norman carter was procured; and after +waiting indoors for one or two days, to see if any suspicion was excited, +Clément set off to discover Virginie. +</p> + +<p> +“He found her at the old concièrge’s dwelling. Madame Babette was +the name of this woman, who must have been a less faithful—or rather, +perhaps, I should say, a more interested—friend to her guest than the old +gardener Jaques was to Clément. +</p> + +<p> +“I have seen a miniature of Virginie, which a French lady of quality +happened to have in her possession at the time of her flight from Paris, and +which she brought with her to England unwittingly; for it belonged to the Count +de Créquy, with whom she was slightly acquainted. I should fancy from it, that +Virginie was taller and of a more powerful figure for a woman than her cousin +Clément was for a man. Her dark-brown hair was arranged in short +curls—the way of dressing the hair announced the politics of the +individual, in those days, just as patches did in my grandmother’s time; +and Virginie’s hair was not to my taste, or according to my principles: +it was too classical. Her large, black eyes looked out at you steadily. One +cannot judge of the shape of a nose from a full-face miniature, but the +nostrils were clearly cut and largely opened. I do not fancy her nose could +have been pretty; but her mouth had a character all its own, and which would, I +think, have redeemed a plainer face. It was wide, and deep set into the cheeks +at the corners; the upper lip was very much arched, and hardly closed over the +teeth; so that the whole face looked (from the serious, intent look in the +eyes, and the sweet intelligence of the mouth) as if she were listening eagerly +to something to which her answer was quite ready, and would come out of those +red, opening lips as soon as ever you had done speaking, and you longed to know +what she would say. +</p> + +<p> +“Well: this Virginie de Créquy was living with Madame Babette in the +concièrgerie of an old French inn, somewhere to the north of Paris, so, far +enough from Clément’s refuge. The inn had been frequented by farmers from +Brittany and such kind of people, in the days when that sort of intercourse +went on between Paris and the provinces which had nearly stopped now. Few +Bretons came near it now, and the inn had fallen into the hands of Madame +Babette’s brother, as payment for a bad wine debt of the last proprietor. +He put his sister and her child in, to keep it open, as it were, and sent all +the people he could to occupy the half-furnished rooms of the house. They paid +Babette for their lodging every morning as they went out to breakfast, and +returned or not as they chose, at night. Every three days, the wine-merchant or +his son came to Madame Babette, and she accounted to them for the money she had +received. She and her child occupied the porter’s office (in which the +lad slept at nights) and a little miserable bed-room which opened out of it, +and received all the light and air that was admitted through the door of +communication, which was half glass. Madame Babette must have had a kind of +attachment for the De Créquys—her De Créquys, you +understand—Virginie’s father, the Count; for, at some risk to +herself, she had warned both him and his daughter of the danger impending over +them. But he, infatuated, would not believe that his dear Human Race could ever +do him harm; and, as long as he did not fear, Virginie was not afraid. It was +by some ruse, the nature of which I never heard, that Madame Babette induced +Virginie to come to her abode at the very hour in which the Count had been +recognized in the streets, and hurried off to the Lanterne. It was after +Babette had got her there, safe shut up in the little back den, that she told +her what had befallen her father. From that day, Virginie had never stirred out +of the gates, or crossed the threshold of the porter’s lodge. I do not +say that Madame Babette was tired of her continual presence, or regretted the +impulse which made her rush to the De Créquy’s well-known +house—after being compelled to form one of the mad crowds that saw the +Count de Créquy seized and hung—and hurry his daughter out, through +alleys and backways, until at length she had the orphan safe in her own dark +sleeping-room, and could tell her tale of horror: but Madame Babette was poorly +paid for her porter’s work by her avaricious brother; and it was hard +enough to find food for herself and her growing boy; and, though the poor girl +ate little enough, I dare say, yet there seemed no end to the burthen that +Madame Babette had imposed upon herself: the De Créquys were plundered, ruined, +had become an extinct race, all but a lonely friendless girl, in broken health +and spirits; and, though she lent no positive encouragement to his suit, yet, +at the time, when Clément reappeared in Paris, Madame Babette was beginning to +think that Virginie might do worse than encourage the attentions of Monsieur +Morin Fils, her nephew, and the wine merchant’s son. Of course, he and +his father had the entrée into the concièrgerie of the hotel that belonged to +them, in right of being both proprietors and relations. The son, Morin, had +seen Virginie in this manner. He was fully aware that she was far above him in +rank, and guessed from her whole aspect that she had lost her natural +protectors by the terrible guillotine; but he did not know her exact name or +station, nor could he persuade his aunt to tell him. However, he fell head over +ears in love with her, whether she were princess or peasant; and though at +first there was something about her which made his passionate love conceal +itself with shy, awkward reserve, and then made it only appear in the guise of +deep, respectful devotion; yet, by-and-by,—by the same process of +reasoning, I suppose, that his aunt had gone through even before him—Jean +Morin began to let Hope oust Despair from his heart. Sometimes he +thought—perhaps years hence—that solitary, friendless lady, pent up +in squalor, might turn to him as to a friend and comforter—and +then—and then—. Meanwhile Jean Morin was most attentive to his +aunt, whom he had rather slighted before. He would linger over the accounts; +would bring her little presents; and, above all, he made a pet and favourite of +Pierre, the little cousin, who could tell him about all the ways of going on of +Mam’selle Cannes, as Virginie was called. Pierre was thoroughly aware of +the drift and cause of his cousin’s inquiries; and was his ardent +partisan, as I have heard, even before Jean Morin had exactly acknowledged his +wishes to himself. +</p> + +<p> +“It must have required some patience and much diplomacy, before Clément +de Créquy found out the exact place where his cousin was hidden. The old +gardener took the cause very much to heart; as, judging from my recollections, +I imagine he would have forwarded any fancy, however wild, of Monsieur +Clément’s. (I will tell you afterwards how I came to know all these +particulars so well.) +</p> + +<p> +“After Clément’s return, on two succeeding days, from his dangerous +search, without meeting with any good result, Jacques entreated Monsieur de +Créquy to let him take it in hand. He represented that he, as gardener for the +space of twenty years and more at the Hôtel de Créquy, had a right to be +acquainted with all the successive concièrges at the Count’s house; that +he should not go among them as a stranger, but as an old friend, anxious to +renew pleasant intercourse; and that if the Intendant’s story, which he +had told Monsieur de Créquy in England, was true, that mademoiselle was in +hiding at the house of a former concièrge, why, something relating to her would +surely drop out in the course of conversation. So he persuaded Clément to +remain indoors, while he set off on his round, with no apparent object but to +gossip. +</p> + +<p> +“At night he came home,—having seen mademoiselle. He told Clément +much of the story relating to Madame Babette that I have told to you. Of +course, he had heard nothing of the ambitious hopes of Morin Fils,—hardly +of his existence, I should think. Madame Babette had received him kindly; +although, for some time, she had kept him standing in the carriage gateway +outside her door. But, on his complaining of the draught and his rheumatism, +she had asked him in: first looking round with some anxiety, to see who was in +the room behind her. No one was there when he entered and sat down. But, in a +minute or two, a tall, thin young lady, with great, sad eyes, and pale cheeks, +came from the inner room, and, seeing him, retired. ‘It is Mademoiselle +Cannes,’ said Madame Babette, rather unnecessarily; for, if he had not +been on the watch for some sign of Mademoiselle de Créquy, he would hardly have +noticed the entrance and withdrawal. +</p> + +<p> +“Clément and the good old gardener were always rather perplexed by Madame +Babette’s evident avoidance of all mention of the De Créquy family. If +she were so much interested in one member as to be willing to undergo the pains +and penalties of a domiciliary visit, it was strange that she never inquired +after the existence of her charge’s friends and relations from one who +might very probably have heard something of them. They settled that Madame +Babette must believe that the Marquise and Clément were dead; and admired her +for her reticence in never speaking of Virginie. The truth was, I suspect, that +she was so desirous of her nephews success by this time, that she did not like +letting any one into the secret of Virginie’s whereabouts who might +interfere with their plan. However, it was arranged between Clément and his +humble friend, that the former, dressed in the peasant’s clothes in which +he had entered Paris, but smartened up in one or two particulars, as if, +although a countryman, he had money to spare, should go and engage a +sleeping-room in the old Bréton Inn; where, as I told you, accommodation for +the night was to be had. This was accordingly done, without exciting Madame +Babette’s suspicions, for she was unacquainted with the Normandy accent, +and consequently did not perceive the exaggeration of it which Monsieur de +Créquy adopted in order to disguise his pure Parisian. But after he had for two +nights slept in a queer dark closet, at the end of one of the numerous short +galleries in the Hôtel Duguesclin, and paid his money for such +accommodation each morning at the little bureau under the window of the +concièrgerie, he found himself no nearer to his object. He stood outside in the +gateway: Madame Babette opened a pane in her window, counted out the change, +gave polite thanks, and shut to the pane with a clack, before he could ever +find out what to say that might be the means of opening a conversation. Once in +the streets, he was in danger from the bloodthirsty mob, who were ready in +those days to hunt to death every one who looked like a gentleman, as an +aristocrat: and Clément, depend upon it, looked a gentleman, whatever dress he +wore. Yet it was unwise to traverse Paris to his old friend the +gardener’s grénier, so he had to loiter about, where I hardly know. Only +he did leave the Hôtel Duguesclin, and he did not go to old Jacques, and +there was not another house in Paris open to him. At the end of two days, he +had made out Pierre’s existence; and he began to try to make friends with +the lad. Pierre was too sharp and shrewd not to suspect something from the +confused attempts at friendliness. It was not for nothing that the Norman +farmer lounged in the court and doorway, and brought home presents of galette. +Pierre accepted the galette, reciprocated the civil speeches, but kept his eyes +open. Once, returning home pretty late at night, he surprised the Norman +studying the shadows on the blind, which was drawn down when Madame +Babette’s lamp was lighted. On going in, he found Mademoiselle Cannes +with his mother, sitting by the table, and helping in the family mending. +</p> + +<p> +“Pierre was afraid that the Norman had some view upon the money which his +mother, as concièrge, collected for her brother. But the money was all safe +next evening, when his cousin, Monsieur Morin Fils, came to collect it. Madame +Babette asked her nephew to sit down, and skilfully barred the passage to the +inner door, so that Virginie, had she been ever so much disposed, could not +have retreated. She sat silently sewing. All at once the little party were +startled by a very sweet tenor voice, just close to the street window, singing +one of the airs out of Beaumarchais’ operas, which, a few years before, +had been popular all over Paris. But after a few moments of silence, and one or +two remarks, the talking went on again. Pierre, however, noticed an increased +air of abstraction in Virginie, who, I suppose, was recurring to the last time +that she had heard the song, and did not consider, as her cousin had hoped she +would have done, what were the words set to the air, which he imagined she +would remember, and which would have told her so much. For, only a few years +before, Adam’s opera of Richard le Roi had made the story of the minstrel +Blondel and our English Coeur de Lion familiar to all the opera-going part of +the Parisian public, and Clément had bethought him of establishing a +communication with Virginie by some such means. +</p> + +<p> +“The next night, about the same hour, the same voice was singing outside +the window again. Pierre, who had been irritated by the proceeding the evening +before, as it had diverted Virginie’s attention from his cousin, who had +been doing his utmost to make himself agreeable, rushed out to the door, just +as the Norman was ringing the bell to be admitted for the night. Pierre looked +up and down the street; no one else was to be seen. The next day, the Norman +mollified him somewhat by knocking at the door of the concièrgerie, and begging +Monsieur Pierre’s acceptance of some knee-buckles, which had taken the +country farmer’s fancy the day before, as he had been gazing into the +shops, but which, being too small for his purpose, he took the liberty of +offering to Monsieur Pierre. Pierre, a French boy, inclined to foppery, was +charmed, ravished by the beauty of the present and with monsieur’s +goodness, and he began to adjust them to his breeches immediately, as well as +he could, at least, in his mother’s absence. The Norman, whom Pierre kept +carefully on the outside of the threshold, stood by, as if amused at the +boy’s eagerness. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Take care,’ said he, clearly and distinctly; ‘take +care, my little friend, lest you become a fop; and, in that case, some day, +years hence, when your heart is devoted to some young lady, she may be inclined +to say to you’—here he raised his voice—‘No, thank you; +when I marry, I marry a man, not a petit-maître; I marry a man, who, +whatever his position may be, will add dignity to the human race by his +virtues.’ Farther than that in his quotation Clément dared not go. His +sentiments (so much above the apparent occasion) met with applause from Pierre, +who liked to contemplate himself in the light of a lover, even though it should +be a rejected one, and who hailed the mention of the words +‘virtues’ and ‘dignity of the human race’ as belonging +to the cant of a good citizen. +</p> + +<p> +“But Clément was more anxious to know how the invisible Lady took his +speech. There was no sign at the time. But when he returned at night, he heard +a voice, low singing, behind Madame Babette, as she handed him his candle, the +very air he had sung without effect for two nights past. As if he had caught it +up from her murmuring voice, he sang it loudly and clearly as he crossed the +court. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Here is our opera-singer!’ exclaimed Madame Babette. +‘Why, the Norman grazier sings like Boupré,’ naming a favourite +singer at the neighbouring theatre. +</p> + +<p> +“Pierre was struck by the remark, and quietly resolved to look after the +Norman; but again, I believe, it was more because of his mother’s deposit +of money than with any thought of Virginie. +</p> + +<p> +“However, the next morning, to the wonder of both mother and son, +Mademoiselle Cannes proposed, with much hesitation, to go out and make some +little purchase for herself. A month or two ago, this was what Madame Babette +had been never weary of urging. But now she was as much surprised as if she had +expected Virginie to remain a prisoner in her rooms all the rest of her life. I +suppose she had hoped that her first time of quitting it would be when she left +it for Monsieur Morin’s house as his wife. +</p> + +<p> +“A quick look from Madame Babette towards Pierre was all that was needed +to encourage the boy to follow her. He went out cautiously. She was at the end +of the street. She looked up and down, as if waiting for some one. No one was +there. Back she came, so swiftly that she nearly caught Pierre before he could +retreat through the porte-cochère. There he looked out again. The neighbourhood +was low and wild, and strange; and some one spoke to Virginie,—nay, laid +his hand upon her arm,—whose dress and aspect (he had emerged out of a +side-street) Pierre did not know; but, after a start, and (Pierre could fancy) +a little scream, Virginie recognised the stranger, and the two turned up the +side street whence the man had come. Pierre stole swiftly to the corner of this +street; no one was there: they had disappeared up some of the alleys. Pierre +returned home to excite his mother’s infinite surprise. But they had +hardly done talking, when Virginie returned, with a colour and a radiance in +her face, which they had never seen there since her father’s +death.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>CHAPTER VII.</h2> + +<p> +“I have told you that I heard much of this story from a friend of the +Intendant of the De Créquys, whom he met with in London. Some years +afterwards—the summer before my lord’s death—I was travelling +with him in Devonshire, and we went to see the French prisoners of war on +Dartmoor. We fell into conversation with one of them, whom I found out to be +the very Pierre of whom I had heard before, as having been involved in the +fatal story of Clément and Virginie, and by him I was told much of their last +days, and thus I learnt how to have some sympathy with all those who were +concerned in those terrible events; yes, even with the younger Morin himself, +on whose behalf Pierre spoke warmly, even after so long a time had elapsed. +</p> + +<p> +“For when the younger Morin called at the porter’s lodge, on the +evening of the day when Virginie had gone out for the first time after so many +months’ confinement to the concièrgerie, he was struck with the +improvement in her appearance. It seems to have hardly been that he thought her +beauty greater: for, in addition to the fact that she was not beautiful, Morin +had arrived at that point of being enamoured when it does not signify whether +the beloved one is plain or handsome—she has enchanted one pair of eyes, +which henceforward see her through their own medium. But Morin noticed the +faint increase of colour and light in her countenance. It was as though she had +broken through her thick cloud of hopeless sorrow, and was dawning forth into a +happier life. And so, whereas during her grief, he had revered and respected it +even to a point of silent sympathy, now that she was gladdened, his heart rose +on the wings of strengthened hopes. Even in the dreary monotony of this +existence in his Aunt Babette’s concièrgerie, Time had not failed in his +work, and now, perhaps, soon he might humbly strive to help Time. The very next +day he returned—on some pretence of business—to the Hôtel +Duguesclin, and made his aunt’s room, rather than his aunt herself, a +present of roses and geraniums tied up in a bouquet with a tricolor ribbon. +Virginie was in the room, sitting at the coarse sewing she liked to do for +Madame Babette. He saw her eyes brighten at the sight of the flowers: she asked +his aunt to let her arrange them; he saw her untie the ribbon, and with a +gesture of dislike, throw it on the ground, and give it a kick with her little +foot, and even in this girlish manner of insulting his dearest prejudices, he +found something to admire. +</p> + +<p> +“As he was coming out, Pierre stopped him. The lad had been trying to +arrest his cousin’s attention by futile grimaces and signs played off +behind Virginie’s back: but Monsieur Morin saw nothing but Mademoiselle +Cannes. However, Pierre was not to be baffled, and Monsieur Morin found him in +waiting just outside the threshold. With his finger on his lips, Pierre walked +on tiptoe by his companion’s side till they would have been long past +sight or hearing of the concièrgerie, even had the inhabitants devoted +themselves to the purposes of spying or listening. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Chut!’ said Pierre, at last. ‘She goes out +walking.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Well?’ said Monsieur Morin, half curious, half annoyed at +being disturbed in the delicious reverie of the future into which he longed to +fall. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Well! It is not well. It is bad.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Why? I do not ask who she is, but I have my ideas. She is an +aristocrat. Do the people about here begin to suspect her?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘No, no!’ said Pierre. ‘But she goes out walking. She +has gone these two mornings. I have watched her. She meets a man—she is +friends with him, for she talks to him as eagerly as he does to her—mamma +cannot tell who he is.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Has my aunt seen him?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘No, not so much as a fly’s wing of him. I myself have only +seen his back. It strikes me like a familiar back, and yet I cannot think who +it is. But they separate with sudden darts, like two birds who have been +together to feed their young ones. One moment they are in close talk, their +heads together chuchotting; the next he has turned up some bye-street, and +Mademoiselle Cannes is close upon me—has almost caught me.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘But she did not see you?’ inquired Monsieur Morin, in so +altered a voice that Pierre gave him one of his quick penetrating looks. He was +struck by the way in which his cousin’s features—always coarse and +common-place—had become contracted and pinched; struck, too, by the livid +look on his sallow complexion. But as if Morin was conscious of the manner in +which his face belied his feelings, he made an effort, and smiled, and patted +Pierre’s head, and thanked him for his intelligence, and gave him a +five-franc piece, and bade him go on with his observations of Mademoiselle +Cannes’ movements, and report all to him. +</p> + +<p> +“Pierre returned home with a light heart, tossing up his five-franc piece +as he ran. Just as he was at the concièrgerie door, a great tall man bustled +past him, and snatched his money away from him, looking back with a laugh, +which added insult to injury. Pierre had no redress; no one had witnessed the +impudent theft, and if they had, no one to be seen in the street was strong +enough to give him redress. Besides, Pierre had seen enough of the state of the +streets of Paris at that time to know that friends, not enemies, were required, +and the man had a bad air about him. But all these considerations did not keep +Pierre from bursting out into a fit of crying when he was once more under his +mother’s roof; and Virginie, who was alone there (Madame Babette having +gone out to make her daily purchases), might have imagined him pommeled to +death by the loudness of his sobs. +</p> + +<p> +“‘What is the matter?’ asked she. ‘Speak, my child. +What hast thou done?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘He has robbed me! he has robbed me!’ was all Pierre could +gulp out. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Robbed thee! and of what, my poor boy?’ said Virginie, +stroking his hair gently. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Of my five-franc piece—of a five-franc piece,’ said +Pierre, correcting himself, and leaving out the word my, half fearful lest +Virginie should inquire how he became possessed of such a sum, and for what +services it had been given him. But, of course, no such idea came into her +head, for it would have been impertinent, and she was gentle-born. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Wait a moment, my lad,’ and going to the one small drawer +in the inner apartment, which held all her few possessions, she brought back a +little ring—a ring just with one ruby in it—which she had worn in +the days when she cared to wear jewels. ‘Take this,’ said she, +‘and run with it to a jeweller’s. It is but a poor, valueless +thing, but it will bring you in your five francs, at any rate. Go! I desire +you.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘But I cannot,’ said the boy, hesitating; some dim sense of +honour flitting through his misty morals. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Yes, you must!’ she continued, urging him with her hand to +the door. ‘Run! if it brings in more than five francs, you shall return +the surplus to me.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Thus tempted by her urgency, and, I suppose, reasoning with himself to +the effect that he might as well have the money, and then see whether he +thought it right to act as a spy upon her or not—the one action did not +pledge him to the other, nor yet did she make any conditions with her +gift—Pierre went off with her ring; and, after repaying himself his five +francs, he was enabled to bring Virginie back two more, so well had he managed +his affairs. But, although the whole transaction did not leave him bound, in +any way, to discover or forward Virginie’s wishes, it did leave him +pledged, according to his code, to act according to her advantage, and he +considered himself the judge of the best course to be pursued to this end. And, +moreover, this little kindness attached him to her personally. He began to +think how pleasant it would be to have so kind and generous a person for a +relation; how easily his troubles might be borne if he had always such a ready +helper at hand; how much he should like to make her like him, and come to him +for the protection of his masculine power! First of all his duties, as her +self-appointed squire, came the necessity of finding out who her strange new +acquaintance was. Thus, you see, he arrived at the same end, via supposed duty, +that he was previously pledged to via interest. I fancy a good number of us, +when any line of action will promote our own interest, can make ourselves +believe that reasons exist which compel us to it as a duty. +</p> + +<p> +“In the course of a very few days, Pierre had so circumvented Virginie as +to have discovered that her new friend was no other than the Norman farmer in a +different dress. This was a great piece of knowledge to impart to Morin. But +Pierre was not prepared for the immediate physical effect it had on his cousin. +Morin sat suddenly down on one of the seats in the Boulevards—it was +there Pierre had met with him accidentally—when he heard who it was that +Virginie met. I do not suppose the man had the faintest idea of any +relationship or even previous acquaintanceship between Clément and Virginie. If +he thought of anything beyond the mere fact presented to him, that his idol was +in communication with another, younger, handsomer man than himself, it must +have been that the Norman farmer had seen her at the concièrgerie, and had been +attracted by her, and, as was but natural, had tried to make her acquaintance, +and had succeeded. But, from what Pierre told me, I should not think that even +this much thought passed through Morin’s mind. He seems to have been a +man of rare and concentrated attachments; violent, though restrained and +undemonstrative passions; and, above all, a capability of jealousy, of which +his dark oriental complexion must have been a type. I could fancy that if he +had married Virginie, he would have coined his life-blood for luxuries to make +her happy; would have watched over and petted her, at every sacrifice to +himself, as long as she would have been content to live with him alone. But, as +Pierre expressed it to me: ‘When I saw what my cousin was, when I learned +his nature too late, I perceived that he would have strangled a bird if she +whom he loved was attracted by it from him.’ +</p> + +<p> +“When Pierre had told Morin of his discovery, Morin sat down, as I said, +quite suddenly, as if he had been shot. He found out that the first meeting +between the Norman and Virginie was no accidental, isolated circumstance. +Pierre was torturing him with his accounts of daily rendezvous: if but for a +moment, they were seeing each other every day, sometimes twice a day. And +Virginie could speak to this man, though to himself she was coy and reserved as +hardly to utter a sentence. Pierre caught these broken words while his +cousin’s complexion grew more and more livid, and then purple, as if some +great effect were produced on his circulation by the news he had just heard. +Pierre was so startled by his cousin’s wandering, senseless eyes, and +otherwise disordered looks, that he rushed into a neighbouring cabaret for a +glass of absinthe, which he paid for, as he recollected afterwards, with a +portion of Virginie’s five francs. By-and-by Morin recovered his natural +appearance; but he was gloomy and silent; and all that Pierre could get out of +him was, that the Norman farmer should not sleep another night at the +Hôtel Duguesclin, giving him such opportunities of passing and repassing +by the concièrgerie door. He was too much absorbed in his own thoughts to repay +Pierre the half franc he had spent on the absinthe, which Pierre perceived, and +seems to have noted down in the ledger of his mind as on Virginie’s +balance of favour. +</p> + +<p> +“Altogether, he was much disappointed at his cousin’s mode of +receiving intelligence, which the lad thought worth another five-franc piece at +least; or, if not paid for in money, to be paid for in open-mouthed confidence +and expression of feeling, that he was, for a time, so far a partisan of +Virginie’s—unconscious Virginie—against his cousin, as to +feel regret when the Norman returned no more to his night’s lodging, and +when Virginie’s eager watch at the crevice of the closely-drawn blind +ended only with a sigh of disappointment. If it had not been for his +mother’s presence at the time, Pierre thought he should have told her +all. But how far was his mother in his cousin’s confidence as regarded +the dismissal of the Norman? +</p> + +<p> +“In a few days, however, Pierre felt almost sure that they had +established some new means of communication. Virginie went out for a short time +every day; but though Pierre followed her as closely as he could without +exciting her observation, he was unable to discover what kind of intercourse +she held with the Norman. She went, in general, the same short round among the +little shops in the neighbourhood; not entering any, but stopping at two or +three. Pierre afterwards remembered that she had invariably paused at the +nosegays displayed in a certain window, and studied them long: but, then, she +stopped and looked at caps, hats, fashions, confectionery (all of the humble +kind common in that quarter), so how should he have known that any particular +attraction existed among the flowers? Morin came more regularly than ever to +his aunt’s; but Virginie was apparently unconscious that she was the +attraction. She looked healthier and more hopeful than she had done for months, +and her manners to all were gentler and not so reserved. Almost as if she +wished to manifest her gratitude to Madame Babette for her long continuance of +kindness, the necessity for which was nearly ended, Virginie showed an unusual +alacrity in rendering the old woman any little service in her power, and +evidently tried to respond to Monsieur Morin’s civilities, he being +Madame Babette’s nephew, with a soft graciousness which must have made +one of her principal charms; for all who knew her speak of the fascination of +her manners, so winning and attentive to others, while yet her opinions, and +often her actions, were of so decided a character. For, as I have said, her +beauty was by no means great; yet every man who came near her seems to have +fallen into the sphere of her influence. Monsieur Morin was deeper than ever in +love with her during these last few days: he was worked up into a state capable +of any sacrifice, either of himself or others, so that he might obtain her at +last. He sat ‘devouring her with his eyes’ (to use Pierre’s +expression) whenever she could not see him; but, if she looked towards him, he +looked to the ground—anywhere—away from her and almost stammered in +his replies if she addressed any question to him.’ +</p> + +<p> +“He had been, I should think, ashamed of his extreme agitation on the +Boulevards, for Pierre thought that he absolutely shunned him for these few +succeeding days. He must have believed that he had driven the Norman (my poor +Clément!) off the field, by banishing him from his inn; and thought that the +intercourse between him and Virginie, which he had thus interrupted, was of so +slight and transient a character as to be quenched by a little difficulty. +</p> + +<p> +“But he appears to have felt that he had made but little way, and he +awkwardly turned to Pierre for help—not yet confessing his love, though; +he only tried to make friends again with the lad after their silent +estrangement. And Pierre for some time did not choose to perceive his +cousin’s advances. He would reply to all the roundabout questions Morin +put to him respecting household conversations when he was not present, or +household occupations and tone of thought, without mentioning Virginie’s +name any more than his questioner did. The lad would seem to suppose, that his +cousin’s strong interest in their domestic ways of going on was all on +account of Madame Babette. At last he worked his cousin up to the point of +making him a confidant: and then the boy was half frightened at the torrent of +vehement words he had unloosed. The lava came down with a greater rush for +having been pent up so long. Morin cried out his words in a hoarse, passionate +voice, clenched his teeth, his fingers, and seemed almost convulsed, as he +spoke out his terrible love for Virginie, which would lead him to kill her +sooner than see her another’s; and if another stepped in between him and +her!—and then he smiled a fierce, triumphant smile, but did not say any +more. +</p> + +<p> +“Pierre was, as I said, half frightened; but also half-admiring. This was +really love—a ‘grande passion,’—a really fine dramatic +thing,—like the plays they acted at the little theatre yonder. He had a +dozen times the sympathy with his cousin now that he had had before, and +readily swore by the infernal gods, for they were far too enlightened to +believe in one God, or Christianity, or anything of the kind,—that he +would devote himself, body and soul, to forwarding his cousin’s views. +Then his cousin took him to a shop, and bought him a smart second-hand watch, +on which they scratched the word Fidélité, and thus was the compact sealed. +Pierre settled in his own mind, that if he were a woman, he should like to be +beloved as Virginie was, by his cousin, and that it would be an extremely good +thing for her to be the wife of so rich a citizen as Morin Fils,—and for +Pierre himself, too, for doubtless their gratitude would lead them to give him +rings and watches ad infinitum. +</p> + +<p> +“A day or two afterwards, Virginie was taken ill. Madame Babette said it +was because she had persevered in going out in all weathers, after confining +herself to two warm rooms for so long; and very probably this was really the +cause, for, from Pierre’s account, she must have been suffering from a +feverish cold, aggravated, no doubt, by her impatience at Madame +Babette’s familiar prohibitions of any more walks until she was better. +Every day, in spite of her trembling, aching limbs, she would fain have +arranged her dress for her walk at the usual time; but Madame Babette was fully +prepared to put physical obstacles in her way, if she was not obedient in +remaining tranquil on the little sofa by the side of the fire. The third day, +she called Pierre to her, when his mother was not attending (having, in fact, +locked up Mademoiselle Cannes’ out-of-door things). +</p> + +<p> +“‘See, my child,’ said Virginie. ‘Thou must do me a +great favour. Go to the gardener’s shop in the Rue des Bons-Enfans, and +look at the nosegays in the window. I long for pinks; they are my favourite +flower. Here are two francs. If thou seest a nosegay of pinks displayed in the +window, if it be ever so faded—nay, if thou seest two or three nosegays +of pinks, remember, buy them all, and bring them to me, I have so great a +desire for the smell.’ She fell back weak and exhausted. Pierre hurried +out. Now was the time; here was the clue to the long inspection of the nosegay +in this very shop. +</p> + +<p> +“Sure enough, there was a drooping nosegay of pinks in the window. Pierre +went in, and, with all his impatience, he made as good a bargain as he could, +urging that the flowers were faded, and good for nothing. At last he purchased +them at a very moderate price. And now you will learn the bad consequences of +teaching the lower orders anything beyond what is immediately necessary to +enable them to earn their daily bread! The silly Count de Créquy,—he who +had been sent to his bloody rest, by the very canaille of whom he thought so +much,—he who had made Virginie (indirectly, it is true) reject such a man +as her cousin Clément, by inflating her mind with his bubbles of +theories,—this Count de Créquy had long ago taken a fancy to Pierre, as +he saw the bright sharp child playing about his court—Monsieur de Créquy +had even begun to educate the boy himself to try work out certain opinions of +his into practice,—but the drudgery of the affair wearied him, and, +beside, Babette had left his employment. Still the Count took a kind of +interest in his former pupil; and made some sort of arrangement by which Pierre +was to be taught reading and writing, and accounts, and Heaven knows what +besides,—Latin, I dare say. So Pierre, instead of being an innocent +messenger, as he ought to have been—(as Mr. Horner’s little lad +Gregson ought to have been this morning)—could read writing as well as +either you or I. So what does he do, on obtaining the nosegay, but examine it +well. The stalks of the flowers were tied up with slips of matting in wet moss. +Pierre undid the strings, unwrapped the moss, and out fell a piece of wet +paper, with the writing all blurred with moisture. It was but a torn piece of +writing-paper, apparently, but Pierre’s wicked mischievous eyes read what +was written on it,—written so as to look like a +fragment,—‘Ready, every and any night at nine. All is prepared. +Have no fright. Trust one who, whatever hopes he might once have had, is +content now to serve you as a faithful cousin;’ and a place was named, +which I forget, but which Pierre did not, as it was evidently the rendezvous. +After the lad had studied every word, till he could say it off by heart, he +placed the paper where he had found it, enveloped it in moss, and tied the +whole up again carefully. Virginie’s face coloured scarlet as she +received it. She kept smelling at it, and trembling: but she did not untie it, +although Pierre suggested how much fresher it would be if the stalks were +immediately put into water. But once, after his back had been turned for a +minute, he saw it untied when he looked round again, and Virginie was blushing, +and hiding something in her bosom. +</p> + +<p> +“Pierre was now all impatience to set off and find his cousin, But his +mother seemed to want him for small domestic purposes even more than usual; and +he had chafed over a multitude of errands connected with the Hôtel before +he could set off and search for his cousin at his usual haunts. At last the two +met and Pierre related all the events of the morning to Morin. He said the note +off word by word. (That lad this morning had something of the magpie look of +Pierre—it made me shudder to see him, and hear him repeat the note by +heart.) Then Morin asked him to tell him all over again. Pierre was struck by +Morin’s heavy sighs as he repeated the story. When he came the second +time to the note, Morin tried to write the words down; but either he was not a +good, ready scholar, or his fingers trembled too much. Pierre hardly +remembered, but, at any rate, the lad had to do it, with his wicked reading and +writing. When this was done, Morin sat heavily silent. Pierre would have +preferred the expected outburst, for this impenetrable gloom perplexed and +baffled him. He had even to speak to his cousin to rouse him; and when he +replied, what he said had so little apparent connection with the subject which +Pierre had expected to find uppermost in his mind, that he was half afraid that +his cousin had lost his wits. +</p> + +<p> +“‘My Aunt Babette is out of coffee.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘I am sure I do not know,’ said Pierre. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Yes, she is. I heard her say so. Tell her that a friend of mine +has just opened a shop in the Rue Saint Antoine, and that if she will join me +there in an hour, I will supply her with a good stock of coffee, just to give +my friend encouragement. His name is Antoine Meyer, Number One hundred and +Fifty at the sign of the Cap of Liberty.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘I could go with you now. I can carry a few pounds of coffee +better than my mother,’ said Pierre, all in good faith. He told me he +should never forget the look on his cousin’s face, as he turned round, +and bade him begone, and give his mother the message without another word. It +had evidently sent him home promptly to obey his cousins command. Morin’s +message perplexed Madame Babette. +</p> + +<p> +“‘How could he know I was out of coffee?’ said she. ‘I +am; but I only used the last up this morning. How could Victor know about +it?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘I am sure I can’t tell,’ said Pierre, who by this +time had recovered his usual self-possession. ‘All I know is, that +monsieur is in a pretty temper, and that if you are not sharp to your time at +this Antoine Meyer’s you are likely to come in for some of his black +looks.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Well, it is very kind of him to offer to give me some coffee, to +be sure! But how could he know I was out?’ +</p> + +<p> +“Pierre hurried his mother off impatiently, for he was certain that the +offer of the coffee was only a blind to some hidden purpose on his +cousin’s part; and he made no doubt that when his mother had been +informed of what his cousin’s real intention was, he, Pierre, could +extract it from her by coaxing or bullying. But he was mistaken. Madame Babette +returned home, grave, depressed, silent, and loaded with the best coffee. Some +time afterwards he learnt why his cousin had sought for this interview. It was +to extract from her, by promises and threats, the real name of Mam’selle +Cannes, which would give him a clue to the true appellation of The Faithful +Cousin. He concealed the second purpose from his aunt, who had been quite +unaware of his jealousy of the Norman farmer, or of his identification of him +with any relation of Virginie’s. But Madame Babette instinctively shrank +from giving him any information: she must have felt that, in the lowering mood +in which she found him, his desire for greater knowledge of Virginie’s +antecedents boded her no good. And yet he made his aunt his +confidante—told her what she had only suspected before—that he was +deeply enamoured of Mam’selle Cannes, and would gladly marry her. He +spoke to Madame Babette of his father’s hoarded riches; and of the share +which he, as partner, had in them at the present time; and of the prospect of +the succession to the whole, which he had, as only child. He told his aunt of +the provision for her (Madame Babette’s) life, which he would make on the +day when he married Mam’selle Cannes. And yet—and yet—Babette +saw that in his eye and look which made her more and more reluctant to confide +in him. By-and-by he tried threats. She should leave the concièrgerie, and find +employment where she liked. Still silence. Then he grew angry, and swore that +he would inform against her at the bureau of the Directory, for harbouring an +aristocrat; an aristocrat he knew Mademoiselle was, whatever her real name +might be. His aunt should have a domiciliary visit, and see how she liked that. +The officers of the Government were the people for finding out secrets. In vain +she reminded him that, by so doing, he would expose to imminent danger the lady +whom he had professed to love. He told her, with a sullen relapse into silence +after his vehement outpouring of passion, never to trouble herself about that. +At last he wearied out the old woman, and, frightened alike of herself and of +him, she told him all,—that Mam’selle Cannes was Mademoiselle +Virginie de Créquy, daughter of the Count of that name. Who was the Count? +Younger brother of the Marquis. Where was the Marquis? Dead long ago, leaving a +widow and child. A son? (eagerly). Yes, a son. Where was he? Parbleu! how +should she know?—for her courage returned a little as the talk went away +from the only person of the De Créquy family that she cared about. But, by dint +of some small glasses out of a bottle of Antoine Meyer’s, she told him +more about the De Créquys than she liked afterwards to remember. For the +exhilaration of the brandy lasted but a very short time, and she came home, as +I have said, depressed, with a presentiment of coming evil. She would not +answer Pierre, but cuffed him about in a manner to which the spoilt boy was +quite unaccustomed. His cousin’s short, angry words, and sudden +withdrawal of confidence,—his mother’s unwonted crossness and +fault-finding, all made Virginie’s kind, gentle treatment, more than ever +charming to the lad. He half resolved to tell her how he had been acting as a +spy upon her actions, and at whose desire he had done it. But he was afraid of +Morin, and of the vengeance which he was sure would fall upon him for any +breach of confidence. Towards half-past eight that evening—Pierre, +watching, saw Virginie arrange several little things—she was in the inner +room, but he sat where he could see her through the glazed partition. His +mother sat—apparently sleeping—in the great easy-chair; Virginie +moved about softly, for fear of disturbing her. She made up one or two little +parcels of the few things she could call her own: one packet she concealed +about herself—the others she directed, and left on the shelf. ‘She +is going,’ thought Pierre, and (as he said in giving me the account) his +heart gave a spring, to think that he should never see her again. If either his +mother or his cousin had been more kind to him, he might have endeavoured to +intercept her; but as it was, he held his breath, and when she came out he +pretended to read, scarcely knowing whether he wished her to succeed in the +purpose which he was almost sure she entertained, or not. She stopped by him, +and passed her hand over his hair. He told me that his eyes filled with tears +at this caress. Then she stood for a moment looking at the sleeping Madame +Babette, and stooped down and softly kissed her on the forehead. Pierre dreaded +lest his mother should awake (for by this time the wayward, vacillating boy +must have been quite on Virginie’s side), but the brandy she had drunk +made her slumber heavily. Virginie went. Pierre’s heart beat fast. He was +sure his cousin would try to intercept her; but how, he could not imagine. He +longed to run out and see the catastrophe,—but he had let the moment +slip; he was also afraid of reawakening his mother to her unusual state of +anger and violence.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>CHAPTER VIII.</h2> + +<p> +“Pierre went on pretending to read, but in reality listening with acute +tension of ear to every little sound. His perceptions became so sensitive in +this respect that he was incapable of measuring time, every moment had seemed +so full of noises, from the beating of his heart up to the roll of the heavy +carts in the distance. He wondered whether Virginie would have reached the +place of rendezvous, and yet he was unable to compute the passage of minutes. +His mother slept soundly: that was well. By this time Virginie must have met +the ‘faithful cousin:’ if, indeed, Morin had not made his +appearance. +</p> + +<p> +“At length, he felt as if he could no longer sit still, awaiting the +issue, but must run out and see what course events had taken. In vain his +mother, half-rousing herself, called after him to ask whither he was going: he +was already out of hearing before she had ended her sentence, and he ran on +until, stopped by the sight of Mademoiselle Cannes walking along at so swift a +pace that it was almost a run; while at her side, resolutely keeping by her, +Morin was striding abreast. Pierre had just turned the corner of the street, +when he came upon them. Virginie would have passed him without recognizing him, +she was in such passionate agitation, but for Morin’s gesture, by which +he would fain have kept Pierre from interrupting them. Then, when Virginie saw +the lad, she caught at his arm, and thanked God, as if in that boy of twelve or +fourteen she held a protector. Pierre felt her tremble from head to foot, and +was afraid lest she would fall, there where she stood, in the hard rough +street. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Begone, Pierre!’ said Morin. +</p> + +<p> +“‘I cannot,’ replied Pierre, who indeed was held firmly by +Virginie. ‘Besides, I won’t,’ he added. ‘Who has been +frightening mademoiselle in this way?’ asked he, very much inclined to +brave his cousin at all hazards. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Mademoiselle is not accustomed to walk in the streets +alone,’ said Morin, sulkily. ‘She came upon a crowd attracted by +the arrest of an aristocrat, and their cries alarmed her. I offered to take +charge of her home. Mademoiselle should not walk in these streets alone. We are +not like the cold-blooded people of the Faubourg Saint Germain.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Virginie did not speak. Pierre doubted if she heard a word of what they +were saying. She leant upon him more and more heavily. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Will mademoiselle condescend to take my arm?’ said Morin, +with sulky, and yet humble, uncouthness. I dare say he would have given worlds +if he might have had that little hand within his arm; but, though she still +kept silence, she shuddered up away from him, as you shrink from touching a +toad. He had said something to her during that walk, you may be sure, which had +made her loathe him. He marked and understood the gesture. He held himself +aloof while Pierre gave her all the assistance he could in their slow progress +homewards. But Morin accompanied her all the same. He had played too desperate +a game to be baulked now. He had given information against the ci-devant +Marquis de Créquy, as a returned emigré, to be met with at such a time, in such +a place. Morin had hoped that all sign of the arrest would have been cleared +away before Virginie reached the spot—so swiftly were terrible deeds done +in those days. But Clément defended himself desperately: Virginie was punctual +to a second; and, though the wounded man was borne off to the Abbaye, amid a +crowd of the unsympathising jeerers who mingled with the armed officials of the +Directory, Morin feared lest Virginie had recognized him; and he would have +preferred that she should have thought that the ‘faithful cousin’ +was faithless, than that she should have seen him in bloody danger on her +account. I suppose he fancied that, if Virginie never saw or heard more of him, +her imagination would not dwell on his simple disappearance, as it would do if +she knew what he was suffering for her sake. +</p> + +<p> +“At any rate, Pierre saw that his cousin was deeply mortified by the +whole tenor of his behaviour during their walk home. When they arrived at +Madame Babette’s, Virginie fell fainting on the floor; her strength had +but just sufficed for this exertion of reaching the shelter of the house. Her +first sign of restoring consciousness consisted in avoidance of Morin. He had +been most assiduous in his efforts to bring her round; quite tender in his way, +Pierre said; and this marked, instinctive repugnance to him evidently gave him +extreme pain. I suppose Frenchmen are more demonstrative than we are; for +Pierre declared that he saw his cousin’s eyes fill with tears, as she +shrank away from his touch, if he tried to arrange the shawl they had laid +under her head like a pillow, or as she shut her eyes when he passed before +her. Madame Babette was urgent with her to go and lie down on the bed in the +inner room; but it was some time before she was strong enough to rise and do +this. +</p> + +<p> +“When Madame Babette returned from arranging the girl comfortably, the +three relations sat down in silence; a silence which Pierre thought would never +be broken. He wanted his mother to ask his cousin what had happened. But Madame +Babette was afraid of her nephew, and thought it more discreet to wait for such +crumbs of intelligence as he might think fit to throw to her. But, after she +had twice reported Virginie to be asleep, without a word being uttered in reply +to her whispers by either of her companions, Morin’s powers of +self-containment gave way. +</p> + +<p> +“‘It is hard!’ he said. +</p> + +<p> +“‘What is hard?’ asked Madame Babette, after she had paused +for a time, to enable him to add to, or to finish, his sentence, if he pleased. +</p> + +<p> +“‘It is hard for a man to love a woman as I do,’ he went +on—‘I did not seek to love her, it came upon me before I was +aware—before I had ever thought about it at all, I loved her better than +all the world beside. All my life, before I knew her, seems a dull blank. I +neither know nor care for what I did before then. And now there are just two +lives before me. Either I have her, or I have not. That is all: but that is +everything. And what can I do to make her have me? Tell me, aunt,’ and he +caught at Madame Babette’s arm, and gave it so sharp a shake, that she +half screamed out, Pierre said, and evidently grew alarmed at her +nephew’s excitement. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Hush, Victor!’ said she. ‘There are other women in +the world, if this one will not have you.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘None other for me,’ he said, sinking back as if hopeless. +‘I am plain and coarse, not one of the scented darlings of the +aristocrats. Say that I am ugly, brutish; I did not make myself so, any more +than I made myself love her. It is my fate. But am I to submit to the +consequences of my fate without a struggle? Not I. As strong as my love is, so +strong is my will. It can be no stronger,’ continued he, gloomily. +‘Aunt Babette, you must help me—you must make her love me.’ +He was so fierce here, that Pierre said he did not wonder that his mother was +frightened. +</p> + +<p> +“‘I, Victor!’ she exclaimed. ‘I make her love you? How +can I? Ask me to speak for you to Mademoiselle Didot, or to Mademoiselle +Cauchois even, or to such as they, and I’ll do it, and welcome. But to +Mademoiselle de Créquy, why you don’t know the difference! Those +people—the old nobility I mean—why they don’t know a man from +a dog, out of their own rank! And no wonder, for the young gentlemen of quality +are treated differently to us from their very birth. If she had you to-morrow, +you would be miserable. Let me alone for knowing the aristocracy. I have not +been a concièrge to a duke and three counts for nothing. I tell you, all your +ways are different to her ways.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘I would change my “ways,” as you call them.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Be reasonable, Victor.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘No, I will not be reasonable, if by that you mean giving her up. +I tell you two lives are before me; one with her, one without her. But the +latter will be but a short career for both of us. You said, aunt, that the talk +went in the concièrgerie of her father’s hotel, that she would have +nothing to do with this cousin whom I put out of the way to-day?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘So the servants said. How could I know? All I know is, that he +left off coming to our hotel, and that at one time before then he had never +been two days absent.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘So much the better for him. He suffers now for having come +between me and my object—in trying to snatch her away out of my sight. +Take you warning, Pierre! I did not like your meddling to-night.’ And so +he went off, leaving Madam Babette rocking herself backwards and forwards, in +all the depression of spirits consequent upon the reaction after the brandy, +and upon her knowledge of her nephew’s threatened purpose combined. +</p> + +<p> +“In telling you most of this, I have simply repeated Pierre’s +account, which I wrote down at the time. But here what he had to say came to a +sudden break; for, the next morning, when Madame Babette rose, Virginie was +missing, and it was some time before either she, or Pierre, or Morin, could get +the slightest clue to the missing girl. +</p> + +<p> +“And now I must take up the story as it was told to the Intendant +Fléchier by the old gardener Jacques, with whom Clément had been lodging on his +first arrival in Paris. The old man could not, I dare say, remember half as +much of what had happened as Pierre did; the former had the dulled memory of +age, while Pierre had evidently thought over the whole series of events as a +story—as a play, if one may call it so—during the solitary hours in +his after-life, wherever they were passed, whether in lonely camp watches, or +in the foreign prison, where he had to drag out many years. Clément had, as I +said, returned to the gardener’s garret after he had been dismissed from +the Hôtel Duguesclin. There were several reasons for his thus doubling +back. One was, that he put nearly the whole breadth of Paris between him and an +enemy; though why Morin was an enemy, and to what extent he carried his dislike +or hatred, Clément could not tell, of course. The next reason for returning to +Jacques was, no doubt, the conviction that, in multiplying his residences, he +multiplied the chances against his being suspected and recognized. And then, +again, the old man was in his secret, and his ally, although perhaps but a +feeble kind of one. It was through Jacques that the plan of communication, by +means of a nosegay of pinks, had been devised; and it was Jacques who procured +him the last disguise that Clément was to use in Paris—as he hoped and +trusted. It was that of a respectable shopkeeper of no particular class; a +dress that would have seemed perfectly suitable to the young man who would +naturally have worn it; and yet, as Clément put it on, and adjusted +it—giving it a sort of finish and elegance which I always noticed about +his appearance and which I believed was innate in the wearer—I have no +doubt it seemed like the usual apparel of a gentleman. No coarseness of +texture, nor clumsiness of cut could disguise the nobleman of thirty descents, +it appeared; for immediately on arriving at the place of rendezvous, he was +recognized by the men placed there on Morin’s information to seize him. +Jacques, following at a little distance, with a bundle under his arm containing +articles of feminine disguise for Virginie, saw four men attempt +Clément’s arrest—saw him, quick as lightning, draw a sword hitherto +concealed in a clumsy stick—saw his agile figure spring to his +guard,—and saw him defend himself with the rapidity and art of a man +skilled in arms. But what good did it do? as Jacques piteously used to ask, +Monsieur Fléchier told me. A great blow from a heavy club on the sword-arm of +Monsieur de Créquy laid it helpless and immovable by his side. Jacques always +thought that that blow came from one of the spectators, who by this time had +collected round the scene of the affray. The next instant, his master—his +little marquis—was down among the feet of the crowd, and though he was up +again before he had received much damage—so active and light was my poor +Clément—it was not before the old gardener had hobbled forwards, and, +with many an old-fashioned oath and curse, proclaimed himself a partisan of the +losing side—a follower of a ci-devant aristocrat. It was quite enough. He +received one or two good blows, which were, in fact, aimed at his master; and +then, almost before he was aware, he found his arms pinioned behind him with a +woman’s garter, which one of the viragos in the crowd had made no scruple +of pulling off in public, as soon as she heard for what purpose it was wanted. +Poor Jacques was stunned and unhappy,—his master was out of sight, on +before; and the old gardener scarce knew whither they were taking him. His head +ached from the blows which had fallen upon it; it was growing dark—June +day though it was,—and when first he seems to have become exactly aware +of what had happened to him, it was when he was turned into one of the larger +rooms of the Abbaye, in which all were put who had no other allotted place +wherein to sleep. One or two iron lamps hung from the ceiling by chains, giving +a dim light for a little circle. Jacques stumbled forwards over a sleeping body +lying on the ground. The sleeper wakened up enough to complain; and the apology +of the old man in reply caught the ear of his master, who, until this time, +could hardly have been aware of the straits and difficulties of his faithful +Jacques. And there they sat,—against a pillar, the live-long night, +holding one another’s hands, and each restraining expressions of pain, +for fear of adding to the other’s distress. That night made them intimate +friends, in spite of the difference of age and rank. The disappointed hopes, +the acute suffering of the present, the apprehensions of the future, made them +seek solace in talking of the past. Monsieur de Créquy and the gardener found +themselves disputing with interest in which chimney of the stack the starling +used to build,—the starling whose nest Clément sent to Urian, you +remember, and discussing the merits of different espalier-pears which grew, and +may grow still, in the old garden of the Hôtel de Créquy. Towards morning +both fell asleep. The old man wakened first. His frame was deadened to +suffering, I suppose, for he felt relieved of his pain; but Clément moaned and +cried in feverish slumber. His broken arm was beginning to inflame his blood. +He was, besides, much injured by some kicks from the crowd as he fell. As the +old man looked sadly on the white, baked lips, and the flushed cheeks, +contorted with suffering even in his sleep, Clément gave a sharp cry which +disturbed his miserable neighbours, all slumbering around in uneasy attitudes. +They bade him with curses be silent; and then turning round, tried again to +forget their own misery in sleep. For you see, the bloodthirsty canaille had +not been sated with guillotining and hanging all the nobility they could find, +but were now informing, right and left, even against each other; and when +Clément and Jacques were in the prison, there were few of gentle blood in the +place, and fewer still of gentle manners. At the sound of the angry words and +threats, Jacques thought it best to awaken his master from his feverish +uncomfortable sleep, lest he should provoke more enmity; and, tenderly lifting +him up, he tried to adjust his own body, so that it should serve as a rest and +a pillow for the younger man. The motion aroused Clément, and he began to talk +in a strange, feverish way, of Virginie, too,—whose name he would not +have breathed in such a place had he been quite himself. But Jacques had as +much delicacy of feeling as any lady in the land, although, mind you, he knew +neither how to read nor write,—and bent his head low down, so that his +master might tell him in a whisper what messages he was to take to Mademoiselle +de Créquy, in case—Poor Clément, he knew it must come to that! No escape +for him now, in Norman disguise or otherwise! Either by gathering fever or +guillotine, death was sure of his prey. Well! when that happened, Jacques was +to go and find Mademoiselle de Créquy, and tell her that her cousin loved her +at the last as he had loved her at the first; but that she should never have +heard another word of his attachment from his living lips; that he knew he was +not good enough for her, his queen; and that no thought of earning her love by +his devotion had prompted his return to France, only that, if possible, he +might have the great privilege of serving her whom he loved. And then he went +off into rambling talk about petit-maîtres, and such kind of expressions, +said Jacques to Fléchier, the intendant, little knowing what a clue that one +word gave to much of the poor lad’s suffering. +</p> + +<p> +“The summer morning came slowly on in that dark prison, and when Jacques +could look round—his master was now sleeping on his shoulder, still the +uneasy, starting sleep of fever—he saw that there were many women among +the prisoners. (I have heard some of those who have escaped from the prisons +say, that the look of despair and agony that came into the faces of the +prisoners on first wakening, as the sense of their situation grew upon them, +was what lasted the longest in the memory of the survivors. This look, they +said, passed away from the women’s faces sooner than it did from those of +the men.) +</p> + +<p> +“Poor old Jacques kept falling asleep, and plucking himself up again for +fear lest, if he did not attend to his master, some harm might come to the +swollen, helpless arm. Yet his weariness grew upon him in spite of all his +efforts, and at last he felt as if he must give way to the irresistible desire, +if only for five minutes. But just then there was a bustle at the door. Jacques +opened his eyes wide to look. +</p> + +<p> +“‘The gaoler is early with breakfast,’ said some one, lazily. +</p> + +<p> +“‘It is the darkness of this accursed place that makes us think it +early,’ said another. +</p> + +<p> +“All this time a parley was going on at the door. Some one came in; not +the gaoler—a woman. The door was shut to and locked behind her. She only +advanced a step or two, for it was too sudden a change, out of the light into +that dark shadow, for any one to see clearly for the first few minutes. Jacques +had his eyes fairly open now, and was wide awake. It was Mademoiselle de +Créquy, looking bright, clear, and resolute. The faithful heart of the old man +read that look like an open page. Her cousin should not die there on her +behalf, without at least the comfort of her sweet presence. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Here he is,’ he whispered as her gown would have touched +him in passing, without her perceiving him, in the heavy obscurity of the +place. +</p> + +<p> +“‘The good God bless you, my friend!’ she murmured, as she +saw the attitude of the old man, propped against a pillar, and holding Clément +in his arms, as if the young man had been a helpless baby, while one of the +poor gardener’s hands supported the broken limb in the easiest position. +Virginie sat down by the old man, and held out her arms. Softly she moved +Clément’s head to her own shoulder; softly she transferred the task of +holding the arm to herself. Clément lay on the floor, but she supported him, +and Jacques was at liberty to arise and stretch and shake his stiff, weary old +body. He then sat down at a little distance, and watched the pair until he fell +asleep. Clément had muttered ‘Virginie,’ as they half-roused him by +their movements out of his stupor; but Jacques thought he was only dreaming; +nor did he seem fully awake when once his eyes opened, and he looked full at +Virginie’s face bending over him, and growing crimson under his gaze, +though she never stirred, for fear of hurting him if she moved. Clément looked +in silence, until his heavy eyelids came slowly down, and he fell into his +oppressive slumber again. Either he did not recognize her, or she came in too +completely as a part of his sleeping visions for him to be disturbed by her +appearance there. +</p> + +<p> +“When Jacques awoke it was full daylight—at least as full as it +would ever be in that place. His breakfast—the gaol-allowance of bread +and vin ordinaire—was by his side. He must have slept soundly. He looked +for his master. He and Virginie had recognized each other now,—hearts, as +well as appearance. They were smiling into each other’s faces, as if that +dull, vaulted room in the grim Abbaye were the sunny gardens of Versailles, +with music and festivity all abroad. Apparently they had much to say to each +other; for whispered questions and answers never ceased. +</p> + +<p> +“Virginie had made a sling for the poor broken arm; nay, she had obtained +two splinters of wood in some way, and one of their +fellow-prisoners—having, it appeared, some knowledge of surgery—had +set it. Jacques felt more desponding by far than they did, for he was suffering +from the night he had passed, which told upon his aged frame; while they must +have heard some good news, as it seemed to him, so bright and happy did they +look. Yet Clément was still in bodily pain and suffering, and Virginie, by her +own act and deed, was a prisoner in that dreadful Abbaye, whence the only issue +was the guillotine. But they were together: they loved: they understood each +other at length. +</p> + +<p> +“When Virginie saw that Jacques was awake, and languidly munching his +breakfast, she rose from the wooden stool on which she was sitting, and went to +him, holding out both hands, and refusing to allow him to rise, while she +thanked him with pretty eagerness for all his kindness to Monsieur. Monsieur +himself came towards him, following Virginie, but with tottering steps, as if +his head was weak and dizzy, to thank the poor old man, who now on his feet, +stood between them, ready to cry while they gave him credit for faithful +actions which he felt to have been almost involuntary on his part,—for +loyalty was like an instinct in the good old days, before your educational cant +had come up. And so two days went on. The only event was the morning call for +the victims, a certain number of whom were summoned to trial every day. And to +be tried was to be condemned. Every one of the prisoners became grave, as the +hour for their summons approached. Most of the victims went to their doom with +uncomplaining resignation, and for a while after their departure there was +comparative silence in the prison. But, by-and-by—so said +Jacques—the conversation or amusements began again. Human nature cannot +stand the perpetual pressure of such keen anxiety, without an effort to relieve +itself by thinking of something else. Jacques said that Monsieur and +Mademoiselle were for ever talking together of the past days,—it was +‘Do you remember this?’ or, ‘Do you remember that?’ +perpetually. He sometimes thought they forgot where they were, and what was +before them. But Jacques did not, and every day he trembled more and more as +the list was called over. +</p> + +<p> +“The third morning of their incarceration, the gaoler brought in a man +whom Jacques did not recognize, and therefore did not at once observe; for he +was waiting, as in duty bound, upon his master and his sweet young lady (as he +always called her in repeating the story). He thought that the new introduction +was some friend of the gaoler, as the two seemed well acquainted, and the +latter stayed a few minutes talking with his visitor before leaving him in +prison. So Jacques was surprised when, after a short time had elapsed, he +looked round, and saw the fierce stare with which the stranger was regarding +Monsieur and Mademoiselle de Créquy, as the pair sat at breakfast,—the +said breakfast being laid as well as Jacques knew how, on a bench fastened into +the prison wall,—Virginie sitting on her low stool, and Clément half +lying on the ground by her side, and submitting gladly to be fed by her pretty +white fingers; for it was one of her fancies, Jacques said, to do all she could +for him, in consideration of his broken arm. And, indeed, Clément was wasting +away daily; for he had received other injuries, internal and more serious than +that to his arm, during the mêlée which had ended in his capture. The +stranger made Jacques conscious of his presence by a sigh, which was almost a +groan. All three prisoners looked round at the sound. Clément’s face +expressed little but scornful indifference; but Virginie’s face froze +into stony hate. Jacques said he never saw such a look, and hoped that he never +should again. Yet after that first revelation of feeling, her look was steady +and fixed in another direction to that in which the stranger stood,—still +motionless—still watching. He came a step nearer at last. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Mademoiselle,’ he said. Not the quivering of an eyelash +showed that she heard him. ‘Mademoiselle!’ he said again, with an +intensity of beseeching that made Jacques—not knowing who he +was—almost pity him, when he saw his young lady’s obdurate face. +</p> + +<p> +“There was perfect silence for a space of time which Jacques could not +measure. Then again the voice, hesitatingly, saying, ‘Monsieur!’ +Clément could not hold the same icy countenance as Virginie; he turned his head +with an impatient gesture of disgust; but even that emboldened the man. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Monsieur, do ask mademoiselle to listen to me,—just two +words.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Mademoiselle de Créquy only listens to whom she chooses.’ +Very haughtily my Clément would say that, I am sure. +</p> + +<p> +“‘But, mademoiselle,’—lowering his voice, and coming a +step or two nearer. Virginie must have felt his approach, though she did not +see it; for she drew herself a little on one side, so as to put as much space +as possible between him and her.—‘Mademoiselle, it is not too late. +I can save you: but to-morrow your name is down on the list. I can save you, if +you will listen.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Still no word or sign. Jacques did not understand the affair. Why was +she so obdurate to one who might be ready to include Clément in the proposal, +as far as Jacques knew? +</p> + +<p> +“The man withdrew a little, but did not offer to leave the prison. He +never took his eyes off Virginie; he seemed to be suffering from some acute and +terrible pain as he watched her. +</p> + +<p> +“Jacques cleared away the breakfast-things as well as he could. +Purposely, as I suspect, he passed near the man. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Hist!’ said the stranger. ‘You are Jacques, the +gardener, arrested for assisting an aristocrat. I know the gaoler. You shall +escape, if you will. Only take this message from me to mademoiselle. You heard. +She will not listen to me: I did not want her to come here. I never knew she +was here, and she will die to-morrow. They will put her beautiful round throat +under the guillotine. Tell her, good old man, tell her how sweet life is; and +how I can save her; and how I will not ask for more than just to see her from +time to time. She is so young; and death is annihilation, you know. Why does +she hate me so? I want to save her; I have done her no harm. Good old man, tell +her how terrible death is; and that she will die to-morrow, unless she listens +to me.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Jacques saw no harm in repeating this message. Clément listened in +silence, watching Virginie with an air of infinite tenderness. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Will you not try him, my cherished one?’ he said. +‘Towards you he may mean well’ (which makes me think that Virginie +had never repeated to Clément the conversation which she had overheard that +last night at Madame Babette’s); ‘you would be in no worse a +situation than you were before!’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘No worse, Clément! and I should have known what you were, and +have lost you. My Clément!’ said she, reproachfully. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Ask him,’ said she, turning to Jacques, suddenly, ‘if +he can save Monsieur de Créquy as well,—if he can?—O Clément, we +might escape to England; we are but young.’ And she hid her face on his +shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“Jacques returned to the stranger, and asked him Virginie’s +question. His eyes were fixed on the cousins; he was very pale, and the +twitchings or contortions, which must have been involuntary whenever he was +agitated, convulsed his whole body. +</p> + +<p> +“He made a long pause. ‘I will save mademoiselle and monsieur, if +she will go straight from prison to the mairie, and be my wife.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Your wife!’ Jacques could not help exclaiming, ‘That +she will never be—never!’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Ask her!’ said Morin, hoarsely. +</p> + +<p> +“But almost before Jacques thought he could have fairly uttered the +words, Clément caught their meaning. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Begone!’ said he; ‘not one word more.’ Virginie +touched the old man as he was moving away. ‘Tell him he does not know how +he makes me welcome death.’ And smiling, as if triumphant, she turned +again to Clément. +</p> + +<p> +“The stranger did not speak as Jacques gave him the meaning, not the +words, of their replies. He was going away, but stopped. A minute or two +afterwards, he beckoned to Jacques. The old gardener seems to have thought it +undesirable to throw away even the chance of assistance from such a man as +this, for he went forward to speak to him. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Listen! I have influence with the gaoler. He shall let thee pass +out with the victims to-morrow. No one will notice it, or miss thee—. +They will be led to trial,—even at the last moment, I will save her, if +she sends me word she relents. Speak to her, as the time draws on. Life is very +sweet,—tell her how sweet. Speak to him; he will do more with her than +thou canst. Let him urge her to live. Even at the last, I will be at the Palais +de Justice,—at the Grève. I have followers,—I have interest. Come +among the crowd that follow the victims,—I shall see thee. It will be no +worse for him, if she escapes’— +</p> + +<p> +“‘Save my master, and I will do all,’ said Jacques. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Only on my one condition,’ said Morin, doggedly; and +Jacques was hopeless of that condition ever being fulfilled. But he did not see +why his own life might not be saved. By remaining in prison until the next day, +he should have rendered every service in his power to his master and the young +lady. He, poor fellow, shrank from death; and he agreed with Morin to escape, +if he could, by the means Morin had suggested, and to bring him word if +Mademoiselle de Créquy relented. (Jacques had no expectation that she would; +but I fancy he did not think it necessary to tell Morin of this conviction of +his.) This bargaining with so base a man for so slight a thing as life, was the +only flaw that I heard of in the old gardener’s behaviour. Of course, the +mere reopening of the subject was enough to stir Virginie to displeasure. +Clément urged her, it is true; but the light he had gained upon Morin’s +motions, made him rather try to set the case before her in as fair a manner as +possible than use any persuasive arguments. And, even as it was, what he said +on the subject made Virginie shed tears—the first that had fallen from +her since she entered the prison. So, they were summoned and went together, at +the fatal call of the muster-roll of victims the next morning. He, feeble from +his wounds and his injured health; she, calm and serene, only petitioning to be +allowed to walk next to him, in order that she might hold him up when he turned +faint and giddy from his extreme suffering. +</p> + +<p> +“Together they stood at the bar; together they were condemned. As the +words of judgment were pronounced, Virginie tuned to Clément, and embraced him +with passionate fondness. Then, making him lean on her, they marched out +towards the Place de la Grève. +</p> + +<p> +“Jacques was free now. He had told Morin how fruitless his efforts at +persuasion had been; and scarcely caring to note the effect of his information +upon the man, he had devoted himself to watching Monsieur and Mademoiselle de +Créquy. And now he followed them to the Place de la Grève. He saw them mount +the platform; saw them kneel down together till plucked up by the impatient +officials; could see that she was urging some request to the executioner; the +end of which seemed to be, that Clément advanced first to the guillotine, was +executed (and just at this moment there was a stir among the crowd, as of a man +pressing forward towards the scaffold). Then she, standing with her face to the +guillotine, slowly made the sign of the cross, and knelt down. +</p> + +<p> +“Jacques covered his eyes, blinded with tears. The report of a pistol +made him look up. She was gone—another victim in her place—and +where there had been a little stir in the crowd not five minutes before, some +men were carrying off a dead body. A man had shot himself, they said. Pierre +told me who that man was.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>CHAPTER IX.</h2> + +<p> +After a pause, I ventured to ask what became of Madame de Créquy, +Clément’s mother. +</p> + +<p> +“She never made any inquiry about him,” said my lady. “She +must have known that he was dead; though how, we never could tell. Medlicott +remembered afterwards that it was about, if not on—Medlicott to this day +declares that it was on the very Monday, June the nineteenth, when her son was +executed, that Madame de Créquy left off her rouge and took to her bed, as one +bereaved and hopeless. It certainly was about that time; and +Medlicott—who was deeply impressed by that dream of Madame de +Créquy’s (the relation of which I told you had had such an effect on my +lord), in which she had seen the figure of Virginie—as the only light +object amid much surrounding darkness as of night, smiling and beckoning +Clément on—on—till at length the bright phantom stopped, +motionless, and Madame de Créquy’s eyes began to penetrate the murky +darkness, and to see closing around her the gloomy dripping walls which she had +once seen and never forgotten—the walls of the vault of the chapel of the +De Créquys in Saint Germain l’Auxerrois; and there the two last of the +Créquys laid them down among their forefathers, and Madame de Créquy had +wakened to the sound of the great door, which led to the open air, being locked +upon her—I say Medlicott, who was predisposed by this dream to look out +for the supernatural, always declared that Madame de Créquy was made conscious +in some mysterious way, of her son’s death, on the very day and hour when +it occurred, and that after that she had no more anxiety, but was only +conscious of a kind of stupefying despair.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what became of her, my lady?” I again asked. +</p> + +<p> +“What could become of her?” replied Lady Ludlow. “She never +could be induced to rise again, though she lived more than a year after her +son’s departure. She kept her bed; her room darkened, her face turned +towards the wall, whenever any one besides Medlicott was in the room. She +hardly ever spoke, and would have died of starvation but for Medlicott’s +tender care, in putting a morsel to her lips every now and then, feeding her, +in fact, just as an old bird feeds her young ones. In the height of summer my +lord and I left London. We would fain have taken her with us into Scotland, but +the doctor (we had the old doctor from Leicester Square) forbade her removal; +and this time he gave such good reasons against it that I acquiesced. Medlicott +and a maid were left with her. Every care was taken of her. She survived till +our return. Indeed, I thought she was in much the same state as I had left her +in, when I came back to London. But Medlicott spoke of her as much weaker; and +one morning on awakening, they told me she was dead. I sent for Medlicott, who +was in sad distress, she had become so fond of her charge. She said that, about +two o’clock, she had been awakened by unusual restlessness on Madame de +Créquy’s part; that she had gone to her bedside, and found the poor lady +feebly but perpetually moving her wasted arm up and down—and saying to +herself in a wailing voice: ‘I did not bless him when he left me—I +did not bless him when he left me!’ Medlicott gave her a spoonful or two +of jelly, and sat by her, stroking her hand, and soothing her till she seemed +to fall asleep. But in the morning she was dead.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is a sad story, your ladyship,” said I, after a while. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes it is. People seldom arrive at my age without having watched the +beginning, middle, and end of many lives and many fortunes. We do not talk +about them, perhaps; for they are often so sacred to us, from having touched +into the very quick of our own hearts, as it were, or into those of others who +are dead and gone, and veiled over from human sight, that we cannot tell the +tale as if it was a mere story. But young people should remember that we have +had this solemn experience of life, on which to base our opinions and form our +judgments, so that they are not mere untried theories. I am not alluding to Mr. +Horner just now, for he is nearly as old as I am—within ten years, I dare +say—but I am thinking of Mr. Gray, with his endless plans for some new +thing—schools, education, Sabbaths, and what not. Now he has not seen +what all this leads to.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is a pity he has not heard your ladyship tell the story of poor +Monsieur de Créquy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all a pity, my dear. A young man like him, who, both by position +and age, must have had his experience confined to a very narrow circle, ought +not to set up his opinion against mine; he ought not to require reasons from +me, nor to need such explanation of my arguments (if I condescend to argue), as +going into relation of the circumstances on which my arguments are based in my +own mind, would be.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, my lady, it might convince him,” I said, with perhaps +injudicious perseverance. +</p> + +<p> +“And why should he be convinced?” she asked, with gentle inquiry in +her tone. “He has only to acquiesce. Though he is appointed by Mr. +Croxton, I am the lady of the manor, as he must know. But it is with Mr. Horner +that I must have to do about this unfortunate lad Gregson. I am afraid there +will be no method of making him forget his unlucky knowledge. His poor brains +will be intoxicated with the sense of his powers, without any counterbalancing +principles to guide him. Poor fellow! I am quite afraid it will end in his +being hanged!” +</p> + +<p> +The next day Mr. Horner came to apologize and explain. He was +evidently—as I could tell from his voice, as he spoke to my lady in the +next room—extremely annoyed at her ladyship’s discovery of the +education he had been giving to this boy. My lady spoke with great authority, +and with reasonable grounds of complaint. Mr. Horner was well acquainted with +her thoughts on the subject, and had acted in defiance of her wishes. He +acknowledged as much, and should on no account have done it, in any other +instance, without her leave. +</p> + +<p> +“Which I could never have granted you,” said my lady. +</p> + +<p> +But this boy had extraordinary capabilities; would, in fact, have taught +himself much that was bad, if he had not been rescued, and another direction +given to his powers. And in all Mr. Horner had done, he had had her +ladyship’s service in view. The business was getting almost beyond his +power, so many letters and so much account-keeping was required by the +complicated state in which things were. +</p> + +<p> +Lady Ludlow felt what was coming—a reference to the mortgage for the +benefit of my lord’s Scottish estates, which, she was perfectly aware, +Mr. Horner considered as having been a most unwise proceeding—and she +hastened to observe—“All this may be very true, Mr. Horner, and I +am sure I should be the last person to wish you to overwork or distress +yourself; but of that we will talk another time. What I am now anxious to +remedy is, if possible, the state of this poor little Gregson’s mind. +Would not hard work in the fields be a wholesome and excellent way of enabling +him to forget?” +</p> + +<p> +“I was in hopes, my lady, that you would have permitted me to bring him +up to act as a kind of clerk,” said Mr. Horner, jerking out his project +abruptly. +</p> + +<p> +“A what?” asked my lady, in infinite surprise. +</p> + +<p> +“A kind of—of assistant, in the way of copying letters and doing up +accounts. He is already an excellent penman and very quick at figures.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Horner,” said my lady, with dignity, “the son of a +poacher and vagabond ought never to have been able to copy letters relating to +the Hanbury estates; and, at any rate, he shall not. I wonder how it is that, +knowing the use he has made of his power of reading a letter, you should +venture to propose such an employment for him as would require his being in +your confidence, and you the trusted agent of this family. Why, every secret +(and every ancient and honourable family has its secrets, as you know, Mr. +Horner) would be learnt off by heart, and repeated to the first comer!” +</p> + +<p> +“I should have hoped to have trained him, my lady, to understand the +rules of discretion.” +</p> + +<p> +“Trained! Train a barn-door fowl to be a pheasant, Mr. Horner! That would +be the easier task. But you did right to speak of discretion rather than +honour. Discretion looks to the consequences of actions—honour looks to +the action itself, and is an instinct rather than a virtue. After all, it is +possible you might have trained him to be discreet.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Horner was silent. My lady was softened by his not replying, and began as +she always did in such cases, to fear lest she had been too harsh. I could tell +that by her voice and by her next speech, as well as if I had seen her face. +</p> + +<p> +“But I am sorry you are feeling the pressure of the affairs: I am quite +aware that I have entailed much additional trouble upon you by some of my +measures: I must try and provide you with some suitable assistance. Copying +letters and doing up accounts, I think you said?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Horner had certainly had a distant idea of turning the little boy, in +process of time, into a clerk; but he had rather urged this possibility of +future usefulness beyond what he had at first intended, in speaking of it to my +lady as a palliation of his offence, and he certainly was very much inclined to +retract his statement that the letter-writing, or any other business, had +increased, or that he was in the slightest want of help of any kind, when my +lady after a pause of consideration, suddenly said— +</p> + +<p> +“I have it. Miss Galindo will, I am sure, be glad to assist you. I will +speak to her myself. The payment we should make to a clerk would be of real +service to her!” +</p> + +<p> +I could hardly help echoing Mr. Horner’s tone of surprise as he +said— +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Galindo!” +</p> + +<p> +For, you must be told who Miss Galindo was; at least, told as much as I know. +Miss Galindo had lived in the village for many years, keeping house on the +smallest possible means, yet always managing to maintain a servant. And this +servant was invariably chosen because she had some infirmity that made her +undesirable to every one else. I believe Miss Galindo had had lame and blind +and hump-backed maids. She had even at one time taken in a girl hopelessly gone +in consumption, because if not she would have had to go to the workhouse, and +not have had enough to eat. Of course the poor creature could not perform a +single duty usually required of a servant, and Miss Galindo herself was both +servant and nurse. +</p> + +<p> +Her present maid was scarcely four feet high, and bore a terrible character for +ill-temper. Nobody but Miss Galindo would have kept her; but, as it was, +mistress and servant squabbled perpetually, and were, at heart, the best of +friends. For it was one of Miss Galindo’s peculiarities to do all manner +of kind and self-denying actions, and to say all manner of provoking things. +Lame, blind, deformed, and dwarf, all came in for scoldings without number: it +was only the consumptive girl that never had heard a sharp word. I don’t +think any of her servants liked her the worse for her peppery temper, and +passionate odd ways, for they knew her real and beautiful kindness of heart: +and, besides, she had so great a turn for humour that very often her speeches +amused as much or more than they irritated; and on the other side, a piece of +witty impudence from her servant would occasionally tickle her so much and so +suddenly, that she would burst out laughing in the middle of her passion. +</p> + +<p> +But the talk about Miss Galindo’s choice and management of her servants +was confined to village gossip, and had never reached my Lady Ludlow’s +ears, though doubtless Mr. Horner was well acquainted with it. What my lady +knew of her amounted to this. It was the custom in those days for the wealthy +ladies of the county to set on foot a repository, as it was called, in the +assize-town. The ostensible manager of this repository was generally a decayed +gentlewoman, a clergyman’s widow, or so forth. She was, however, +controlled by a committee of ladies; and paid by them in proportion to the +amount of goods she sold; and these goods were the small manufactures of ladies +of little or no fortune, whose names, if they chose it, were only signified by +initials. +</p> + +<p> +Poor water-colour drawings, indigo and Indian ink; screens, ornamented with +moss and dried leaves; paintings on velvet, and such faintly ornamental works +were displayed on one side of the shop. It was always reckoned a mark of +characteristic gentility in the repository, to have only common heavy-framed +sash-windows, which admitted very little light, so I never was quite certain of +the merit of these Works of Art as they were entitled. But, on the other side, +where the Useful Work placard was put up, there was a great variety of +articles, of whose unusual excellence every one might judge. Such fine sewing, +and stitching, and button-holing! Such bundles of soft delicate knitted +stockings and socks; and, above all, in Lady Ludlow’s eyes, such hanks of +the finest spun flaxen thread! +</p> + +<p> +And the most delicate dainty work of all was done by Miss Galindo, as Lady +Ludlow very well knew. Yet, for all their fine sewing, it sometimes happened +that Miss Galindo’s patterns were of an old-fashioned kind; and the dozen +nightcaps, maybe, on the materials for which she had expended bonâ-fide +money, and on the making-up, no little time and eyesight, would lie for months +in a yellow neglected heap; and at such times, it was said, Miss Galindo was +more amusing than usual, more full of dry drollery and humour; just as at the +times when an order came in to X. (the initial she had chosen) for a stock of +well-paying things, she sat and stormed at her servant as she stitched away. +She herself explained her practice in this way:— +</p> + +<p> +“When everything goes wrong, one would give up breathing if one could not +lighten ones heart by a joke. But when I’ve to sit still from morning +till night, I must have something to stir my blood, or I should go off into an +apoplexy; so I set to, and quarrel with Sally.” +</p> + +<p> +Such were Miss Galindo’s means and manner of living in her own house. Out +of doors, and in the village, she was not popular, although she would have been +sorely missed had she left the place. But she asked too many home questions +(not to say impertinent) respecting the domestic economies (for even the very +poor liked to spend their bit of money their own way), and would open cupboards +to find out hidden extravagances, and question closely respecting the weekly +amount of butter, till one day she met with what would have been a rebuff to +any other person, but which she rather enjoyed than otherwise. +</p> + +<p> +She was going into a cottage, and in the doorway met the good woman chasing out +a duck, and apparently unconscious of her visitor. +</p> + +<p> +“Get out, Miss Galindo!” she cried, addressing the duck. “Get +out! O, I ask your pardon,” she continued, as if seeing the lady for the +first time. “It’s only that weary duck will come in. Get out Miss +Gal—-” (to the duck). +</p> + +<p> +“And so you call it after me, do you?” inquired her visitor. +</p> + +<p> +“O, yes, ma’am; my master would have it so, for he said, sure +enough the unlucky bird was always poking herself where she was not +wanted.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ha, ha! very good! And so your master is a wit, is he? Well! tell him to +come up and speak to me to-night about my parlour chimney, for there is no one +like him for chimney doctoring.” +</p> + +<p> +And the master went up, and was so won over by Miss Galindo’s merry ways, +and sharp insight into the mysteries of his various kinds of business (he was a +mason, chimney-sweeper, and ratcatcher), that he came home and abused his wife +the next time she called the duck the name by which he himself had christened +her. +</p> + +<p> +But odd as Miss Galindo was in general, she could be as well-bred a lady as any +one when she chose. And choose she always did when my Lady Ludlow was by. +Indeed, I don’t know the man, woman, or child, that did not instinctively +turn out its best side to her ladyship. So she had no notion of the qualities +which, I am sure, made Mr. Horner think that Miss Galindo would be most +unmanageable as a clerk, and heartily wish that the idea had never come into my +lady’s head. But there it was; and he had annoyed her ladyship already +more than he liked to-day, so he could not directly contradict her, but only +urge difficulties which he hoped might prove insuperable. But every one of them +Lady Ludlow knocked down. Letters to copy? Doubtless. Miss Galindo could come +up to the Hall; she should have a room to herself; she wrote a beautiful hand; +and writing would save her eyesight. “Capability with regard to +accounts?” My lady would answer for that too; and for more than Mr. +Horner seemed to think it necessary to inquire about. Miss Galindo was by birth +and breeding a lady of the strictest honour, and would, if possible, forget the +substance of any letters that passed through her hands; at any rate, no one +would ever hear of them again from her. “Remuneration?” Oh! as for +that, Lady Ludlow would herself take care that it was managed in the most +delicate manner possible. She would send to invite Miss Galindo to tea at the +Hall that very afternoon, if Mr. Horner would only give her ladyship the +slightest idea of the average length of time that my lady was to request Miss +Galindo to sacrifice to her daily. “Three hours! Very well.” Mr. +Horner looked very grave as he passed the windows of the room where I lay. I +don’t think he liked the idea of Miss Galindo as a clerk. +</p> + +<p> +Lady Ludlow’s invitations were like royal commands. Indeed, the village +was too quiet to allow the inhabitants to have many evening engagements of any +kind. Now and then, Mr. and Mrs. Horner gave a tea and supper to the principal +tenants and their wives, to which the clergyman was invited, and Miss Galindo, +Mrs. Medlicott, and one or two other spinsters and widows. The glory of the +supper-table on these occasions was invariably furnished by her ladyship: it +was a cold roasted peacock, with his tail stuck out as if in life. Mrs. +Medlicott would take up the whole morning arranging the feathers in the proper +semicircle, and was always pleased with the wonder and admiration it excited. +It was considered a due reward and fitting compliment to her exertions that Mr. +Horner always took her in to supper, and placed her opposite to the magnificent +dish, at which she sweetly smiled all the time they were at table. But since +Mrs. Horner had had the paralytic stroke these parties had been given up; and +Miss Galindo wrote a note to Lady Ludlow in reply to her invitation, saying +that she was entirely disengaged, and would have great pleasure in doing +herself the honour of waiting upon her ladyship. +</p> + +<p> +Whoever visited my lady took their meals with her, sitting on the dais, in the +presence of all my former companions. So I did not see Miss Galindo until some +time after tea; as the young gentlewomen had had to bring her their sewing and +spinning, to hear the remarks of so competent a judge. At length her ladyship +brought her visitor into the room where I lay,—it was one of my bad days, +I remember,—in order to have her little bit of private conversation. Miss +Galindo was dressed in her best gown, I am sure, but I had never seen anything +like it except in a picture, it was so old-fashioned. She wore a white muslin +apron, delicately embroidered, and put on a little crookedly, in order, as she +told us, even Lady Ludlow, before the evening was over, to conceal a spot +whence the colour had been discharged by a lemon-stain. This crookedness had an +odd effect, especially when I saw that it was intentional; indeed, she was so +anxious about her apron’s right adjustment in the wrong place, that she +told us straight out why she wore it so, and asked her ladyship if the spot was +properly hidden, at the same time lifting up her apron and showing her how +large it was. +</p> + +<p> +“When my father was alive, I always took his right arm, so, and used to +remove any spotted or discoloured breadths to the left side, if it was a +walking-dress. That’s the convenience of a gentleman. But widows and +spinsters must do what they can. Ah, my dear (to me)! when you are reckoning up +the blessings in your lot,—though you may think it a hard one in some +respects,—don’t forget how little your stockings want darning, as +you are obliged to lie down so much! I would rather knit two pairs of stockings +than darn one, any day.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you been doing any of your beautiful knitting lately?” asked +my lady, who had now arranged Miss Galindo in the pleasantest chair, and taken +her own little wicker-work one, and, having her work in her hands, was ready to +try and open the subject. +</p> + +<p> +“No, and alas! your ladyship. It is partly the hot weather’s fault, +for people seem to forget that winter must come; and partly, I suppose, that +every one is stocked who has the money to pay four-and-sixpence a pair for +stockings.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then may I ask if you have any time in your active days at +liberty?” said my lady, drawing a little nearer to her proposal, which I +fancy she found it a little awkward to make. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, the village keeps me busy, your ladyship, when I have neither +knitting or sewing to do. You know I took X. for my letter at the repository, +because it stands for Xantippe, who was a great scold in old times, as I have +learnt. But I’m sure I don’t know how the world would get on +without scolding, your ladyship. It would go to sleep, and the sun would stand +still.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think I could bear to scold, Miss Galindo,” said her +ladyship, smiling. +</p> + +<p> +“No! because your ladyship has people to do it for you. Begging your +pardon, my lady, it seems to me the generality of people may be divided into +saints, scolds, and sinners. Now, your ladyship is a saint, because you have a +sweet and holy nature, in the first place; and have people to do your anger and +vexation for you, in the second place. And Jonathan Walker is a sinner, because +he is sent to prison. But here am I, half way, having but a poor kind of +disposition at best, and yet hating sin, and all that leads to it, such as +wasting, and extravagance, and gossiping,—and yet all this lies right +under my nose in the village, and I am not saint enough to be vexed at it; and +so I scold. And though I had rather be a saint, yet I think I do good in my +way.” +</p> + +<p> +“No doubt you do, dear Miss Galindo,” said Lady Ludlow. “But +I am sorry to hear that there is so much that is bad going on in the +village,—very sorry.” +</p> + +<p> +“O, your ladyship! then I am sorry I brought it out. It was only by way +of saying, that when I have no particular work to do at home, I take a turn +abroad, and set my neighbours to rights, just by way of steering clear of +Satan. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +For Satan finds some mischief still<br /> +For idle hands to do, +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +you know, my lady.” +</p> + +<p> +There was no leading into the subject by delicate degrees, for Miss Galindo was +evidently so fond of talking, that, if asked a question, she made her answer so +long, that before she came to an end of it, she had wandered far away from the +original starting point. So Lady Ludlow plunged at once into what she had to +say. +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Galindo, I have a great favour to ask of you.” +</p> + +<p> +“My lady, I wish I could tell you what a pleasure it is to hear you say +so,” replied Miss Galindo, almost with tears in her eyes; so glad were we +all to do anything for her ladyship, which could be called a free service and +not merely a duty. +</p> + +<p> +“It is this. Mr. Horner tells me that the business-letters, relating to +the estate, are multiplying so much that he finds it impossible to copy them +all himself, and I therefore require the services of some confidential and +discreet person to copy these letters, and occasionally to go through certain +accounts. Now, there is a very pleasant little sitting-room very near to Mr. +Horner’s office (you know Mr. Horner’s office—on the other +side of the stone hall?), and if I could prevail upon you to come here to +breakfast and afterwards sit there for three hours every morning, Mr. Horner +should bring or send you the papers—” +</p> + +<p> +Lady Ludlow stopped. Miss Galindo’s countenance had fallen. There was +some great obstacle in her mind to her wish for obliging Lady Ludlow. +</p> + +<p> +“What would Sally do?” she asked at length. Lady Ludlow had not a +notion who Sally was. Nor if she had had a notion, would she have had a +conception of the perplexities that poured into Miss Galindo’s mind, at +the idea of leaving her rough forgetful dwarf without the perpetual monitorship +of her mistress. Lady Ludlow, accustomed to a household where everything went +on noiselessly, perfectly, and by clockwork, conducted by a number of +highly-paid, well-chosen, and accomplished servants, had not a conception of +the nature of the rough material from which her servants came. Besides, in her +establishment, so that the result was good, no one inquired if the small +economies had been observed in the production. Whereas every penny—every +halfpenny, was of consequence to Miss Galindo; and visions of squandered drops +of milk and wasted crusts of bread filled her mind with dismay. But she +swallowed all her apprehensions down, out of her regard for Lady Ludlow, and +desire to be of service to her. No one knows how great a trial it was to her +when she thought of Sally, unchecked and unscolded for three hours every +morning. But all she said was— +</p> + +<p> +“‘Sally, go to the Deuce.’ I beg your pardon, my lady, if I +was talking to myself; it’s a habit I have got into of keeping my tongue +in practice, and I am not quite aware when I do it. Three hours every morning! +I shall be only too proud to do what I can for your ladyship; and I hope Mr. +Horner will not be too impatient with me at first. You know, perhaps, that I +was nearly being an authoress once, and that seems as if I was destined to +‘employ my time in writing.’” +</p> + +<p> +“No, indeed; we must return to the subject of the clerkship afterwards, +if you please. An authoress, Miss Galindo! You surprise me!” +</p> + +<p> +“But, indeed, I was. All was quite ready. Doctor Burney used to teach me +music: not that I ever could learn, but it was a fancy of my poor +father’s. And his daughter wrote a book, and they said she was but a very +young lady, and nothing but a music-master’s daughter; so why should not +I try?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well! I got paper and half-a-hundred good pens, a bottle of ink, all +ready—” +</p> + +<p> +“And then—” +</p> + +<p> +“O, it ended in my having nothing to say, when I sat down to write. But +sometimes, when I get hold of a book, I wonder why I let such a poor reason +stop me. It does not others.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I think it was very well it did, Miss Galindo,” said her +ladyship. “I am extremely against women usurping men’s employments, +as they are very apt to do. But perhaps, after all, the notion of writing a +book improved your hand. It is one of the most legible I ever saw.” +</p> + +<p> +“I despise z’s without tails,” said Miss Galindo, with a good +deal of gratified pride at my lady’s praise. Presently, my lady took her +to look at a curious old cabinet, which Lord Ludlow had picked up at the Hague; +and while they were out of the room on this errand, I suppose the question of +remuneration was settled, for I heard no more of it. +</p> + +<p> +When they came back, they were talking of Mr. Gray. Miss Galindo was unsparing +in her expressions of opinion about him: going much farther than my +lady—in her language, at least. +</p> + +<p> +“A little blushing man like him, who can’t say bo to a goose +without hesitating and colouring, to come to this village—which is as +good a village as ever lived—and cry us down for a set of sinners, as if +we had all committed murder and that other thing!—I have no patience with +him, my lady. And then, how is he to help us to heaven, by teaching us our, a +b, ab—b a, ba? And yet, by all accounts, that’s to save poor +children’s souls. O, I knew your ladyship would agree with me. I am sure +my mother was as good a creature as ever breathed the blessed air; and if +she’s not gone to heaven I don’t want to go there; and she could +not spell a letter decently. And does Mr. Gray think God took note of +that?” +</p> + +<p> +“I was sure you would agree with me, Miss Galindo,” said my lady. +“You and I can remember how this talk about education—Rousseau, and +his writings—stirred up the French people to their Reign of Terror, and +all those bloody scenes.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m afraid that Rousseau and Mr. Gray are birds of a +feather,” replied Miss Galindo, shaking her head. “And yet there is +some good in the young man too. He sat up all night with Billy Davis, when his +wife was fairly worn out with nursing him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did he, indeed!” said my lady, her face lighting up, as it always +did when she heard of any kind or generous action, no matter who performed it. +“What a pity he is bitten with these new revolutionary ideas, and is so +much for disturbing the established order of society!” +</p> + +<p> +When Miss Galindo went, she left so favourable an impression of her visit on my +lady, that she said to me with a pleased smile— +</p> + +<p> +“I think I have provided Mr. Horner with a far better clerk than he would +have made of that lad Gregson in twenty years. And I will send the lad to my +lord’s grieve, in Scotland, that he may be kept out of harm’s +way.” +</p> + +<p> +But something happened to the lad before this purpose could be accomplished. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>CHAPTER X.</h2> + +<p> +The next morning, Miss Galindo made her appearance, and, by some mistake, +unusual to my lady’s well-trained servants, was shown into the room where +I was trying to walk; for a certain amount of exercise was prescribed for me, +painful although the exertion had become. +</p> + +<p> +She brought a little basket along with her and while the footman was gone to +inquire my lady’s wishes (for I don’t think that Lady Ludlow +expected Miss Galindo so soon to assume her clerkship; nor, indeed, had Mr. +Horner any work of any kind ready for his new assistant to do), she launched +out into conversation with me. +</p> + +<p> +“It was a sudden summons, my dear! However, as I have often said to +myself, ever since an occasion long ago, if Lady Ludlow ever honours me by +asking for my right hand, I’ll cut it off, and wrap the stump up so +tidily she shall never find out it bleeds. But, if I had had a little more +time, I could have mended my pens better. You see, I have had to sit up pretty +late to get these sleeves made”—and she took out of her basket a +pail of brown-holland over-sleeves, very much such as a grocer’s +apprentice wears—“and I had only time to make seven or eight pens, +out of some quills Farmer Thomson gave me last autumn. As for ink, I’m +thankful to say, that’s always ready; an ounce of steel filings, an ounce +of nut-gall, and a pint of water (tea, if you’re extravagant, which, +thank Heaven! I’m not), put all in a bottle, and hang it up behind the +house door, so that the whole gets a good shaking every time you slam it +to—and even if you are in a passion and bang it, as Sally and I often do, +it is all the better for it—and there’s my ink ready for use; ready +to write my lady’s will with, if need be.” +</p> + +<p> +“O, Miss Galindo!” said I, “don’t talk so my +lady’s will! and she not dead yet.” +</p> + +<p> +“And if she were, what would be the use of talking of making her will? +Now, if you were Sally, I should say, ‘Answer me that, you goose!’ +But, as you’re a relation of my lady’s, I must be civil, and only +say, ‘I can’t think how you can talk so like a fool!’ To be +sure, poor thing, you’re lame!” +</p> + +<p> +I do not know how long she would have gone on; but my lady came in, and I, +released from my duty of entertaining Miss Galindo, made my limping way into +the next room. To tell the truth, I was rather afraid of Miss Galindo’s +tongue, for I never knew what she would say next. +</p> + +<p> +After a while my lady came, and began to look in the bureau for something: and +as she looked she said—“I think Mr. Horner must have made some +mistake, when he said he had so much work that he almost required a clerk, for +this morning he cannot find anything for Miss Galindo to do; and there she is, +sitting with her pen behind her ear, waiting for something to write. I am come +to find her my mother’s letters, for I should like to have a fair copy +made of them. O, here they are: don’t trouble yourself, my dear +child.” +</p> + +<p> +When my lady returned again, she sat down and began to talk of Mr. Gray. +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Galindo says she saw him going to hold a prayer-meeting in a +cottage. Now that really makes me unhappy, it is so like what Mr. Wesley used +to do in my younger days; and since then we have had rebellion in the American +colonies and the French Revolution. You may depend upon it, my dear, making +religion and education common—vulgarising them, as it were—is a bad +thing for a nation. A man who hears prayers read in the cottage where he has +just supped on bread and bacon, forgets the respect due to a church: he begins +to think that one place is as good as another, and, by-and-by, that one person +is as good as another; and after that, I always find that people begin to talk +of their rights, instead of thinking of their duties. I wish Mr. Gray had been +more tractable, and had left well alone. What do you think I heard this +morning? Why that the Home Hill estate, which niches into the Hanbury property, +was bought by a Baptist baker from Birmingham!” +</p> + +<p> +“A Baptist baker!” I exclaimed. I had never seen a Dissenter, to my +knowledge; but, having always heard them spoken of with horror, I looked upon +them almost as if they were rhinoceroses. I wanted to see a live Dissenter, I +believe, and yet I wished it were over. I was almost surprised when I heard +that any of them were engaged in such peaceful occupations as baking. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes! so Mr. Horner tells me. A Mr. Lambe, I believe. But, at any rate, +he is a Baptist, and has been in trade. What with his schismatism and Mr. +Gray’s methodism, I am afraid all the primitive character of this place +will vanish.” +</p> + +<p> +From what I could hear, Mr. Gray seemed to be taking his own way; at any rate, +more than he had done when he first came to the village, when his natural +timidity had made him defer to my lady, and seek her consent and sanction +before embarking in any new plan. But newness was a quality Lady Ludlow +especially disliked. Even in the fashions of dress and furniture, she clung to +the old, to the modes which had prevailed when she was young; and though she +had a deep personal regard for Queen Charlotte (to whom, as I have already +said, she had been maid-of-honour), yet there was a tinge of Jacobitism about +her, such as made her extremely dislike to hear Prince Charles Edward called +the young Pretender, as many loyal people did in those days, and made her fond +of telling of the thorn-tree in my lord’s park in Scotland, which had +been planted by bonny Queen Mary herself, and before which every guest in the +Castle of Monkshaven was expected to stand bare-headed, out of respect to the +memory and misfortunes of the royal planter. +</p> + +<p> +We might play at cards, if we so chose, on a Sunday; at least, I suppose we +might, for my lady and Mr. Mountford used to do so often when I first went. But +we must neither play cards, nor read, nor sew on the fifth of November and on +the thirtieth of January, but must go to church, and meditate all the rest of +the day—and very hard work meditating was. I would far rather have +scoured a room. That was the reason, I suppose, why a passive life was seen to +be better discipline for me than an active one. +</p> + +<p> +But I am wandering away from my lady, and her dislike to all innovation. Now, +it seemed to me, as far as I heard, that Mr. Gray was full of nothing but new +things, and that what he first did was to attack all our established +institutions, both in the village and the parish, and also in the nation. To be +sure, I heard of his ways of going on principally from Miss Galindo, who was +apt to speak more strongly than accurately. +</p> + +<p> +“There he goes,” she said, “clucking up the children just +like an old hen, and trying to teach them about their salvation and their +souls, and I don’t know what—things that it is just blasphemy to +speak about out of church. And he potters old people about reading their +Bibles. I am sure I don’t want to speak disrespectfully about the Holy +Scriptures, but I found old Job Horton busy reading his Bible yesterday. Says +I, ‘What are you reading, and where did you get it, and who gave it +you?’ So he made answer, ‘That he was reading Susannah and the +Elders, for that he had read Bel and the Dragon till he could pretty near say +it off by heart, and they were two as pretty stories as ever he had read, and +that it was a caution to him what bad old chaps there were in the world.’ +Now, as Job is bedridden, I don’t think he is likely to meet with the +Elders, and I say that I think repeating his Creed, the Commandments, and the +Lord’s Prayer, and, maybe, throwing in a verse of the Psalms, if he +wanted a bit of a change, would have done him far more good than his pretty +stories, as he called them. And what’s the next thing our young parson +does? Why he tries to make us all feel pitiful for the black slaves, and leaves +little pictures of negroes about, with the question printed below, ‘Am I +not a man and a brother?’ just as if I was to be hail-fellow-well-met +with every negro footman. They do say he takes no sugar in his tea, because he +thinks he sees spots of blood in it. Now I call that superstition.” +</p> + +<p> +The next day it was a still worse story. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, my dear! and how are you? My lady sent me in to sit a bit with +you, while Mr. Horner looks out some papers for me to copy. Between ourselves, +Mr. Steward Horner does not like having me for a clerk. It is all very well he +does not; for, if he were decently civil to me, I might want a chaperone, you +know, now poor Mrs. Horner is dead.” This was one of Miss Galindo’s +grim jokes. “As it is, I try to make him forget I’m a woman, I do +everything as ship-shape as a masculine man-clerk. I see he can’t find a +fault—writing good, spelling correct, sums all right. And then he squints +up at me with the tail of his eye, and looks glummer than ever, just because +I’m a woman—as if I could help that. I have gone good lengths to +set his mind at ease. I have stuck my pen behind my ear, I have made him a bow +instead of a curtsey, I have whistled—not a tune I can’t pipe up +that—nay, if you won’t tell my lady, I don’t mind telling you +that I have said ‘Confound it!’ and ‘Zounds!’ I +can’t get any farther. For all that, Mr. Horner won’t forget I am a +lady, and so I am not half the use I might be, and if it were not to please my +Lady Ludlow, Mr. Horner and his books might go hang (see how natural that came +out!). And there is an order for a dozen nightcaps for a bride, and I am so +afraid I shan’t have time to do them. Worst of all, there’s Mr. +Gray taking advantage of my absence to seduce Sally!” +</p> + +<p> +“To seduce Sally! Mr. Gray!” +</p> + +<p> +“Pooh, pooh, child! There’s many a kind of seduction. Mr. Gray is +seducing Sally to want to go to church. There has he been twice at my house, +while I have been away in the mornings, talking to Sally about the state of her +soul and that sort of thing. But when I found the meat all roasted to a cinder, +I said, ‘Come, Sally, let’s have no more praying when beef is down +at the fire. Pray at six o’clock in the morning and nine at night, and I +won’t hinder you.’ So she sauced me, and said something about +Martha and Mary, implying that, because she had let the beef get so overdone +that I declare I could hardly find a bit for Nancy Pole’s sick +grandchild, she had chosen the better part. I was very much put about, I own, +and perhaps you’ll be shocked at what I said—indeed, I don’t +know if it was right myself—but I told her I had a soul as well as she, +and if it was to be saved by my sitting still and thinking about salvation and +never doing my duty, I thought I had as good a right as she had to be Mary, and +save my soul. So, that afternoon I sat quite still, and it was really a +comfort, for I am often too busy, I know, to pray as I ought. There is first +one person wanting me, and then another, and the house and the food and the +neighbours to see after. So, when tea-time comes, there enters my maid with her +hump on her back, and her soul to be saved. ‘Please, ma’am, did you +order the pound of butter?’—‘No, Sally,’ I said, +shaking my head, ‘this morning I did not go round by Hale’s farm, +and this afternoon I have been employed in spiritual things.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Now, our Sally likes tea and bread-and-butter above everything, and dry +bread was not to her taste. +</p> + +<p> +“‘I’m thankful,’ said the impudent hussy, ‘that +you have taken a turn towards godliness. It will be my prayers, I trust, +that’s given it you.’ +</p> + +<p> +“I was determined not to give her an opening towards the carnal subject +of butter, so she lingered still, longing to ask leave to run for it. But I +gave her none, and munched my dry bread myself, thinking what a famous cake I +could make for little Ben Pole with the bit of butter we were saving; and when +Sally had had her butterless tea, and was in none of the best of tempers +because Martha had not bethought herself of the butter, I just quietly +said— +</p> + +<p> +“‘Now, Sally, to-morrow we’ll try to hash that beef well, and +to remember the butter, and to work out our salvation all at the same time, for +I don’t see why it can’t all be done, as God has set us to do it +all.’ But I heard her at it again about Mary and Martha, and I have no +doubt that Mr. Gray will teach her to consider me a lost sheep.” +</p> + +<p> +I had heard so many little speeches about Mr. Gray from one person or another, +all speaking against him, as a mischief-maker, a setter-up of new doctrines, +and of a fanciful standard of life (and you may be sure that, where Lady Ludlow +led, Mrs. Medlicott and Adams were certain to follow, each in their different +ways showing the influence my lady had over them), that I believe I had grown +to consider him as a very instrument of evil, and to expect to perceive in his +face marks of his presumption, and arrogance, and impertinent interference. It +was now many weeks since I had seen him, and when he was one morning shown into +the blue drawing-room (into which I had been removed for a change), I was quite +surprised to see how innocent and awkward a young man he appeared, confused +even more than I was at our unexpected tête-à-tête. He +looked thinner, his eyes more eager, his expression more anxious, and his +colour came and went more than it had done when I had seen him last. I tried to +make a little conversation, as I was, to my own surprise, more at my ease than +he was; but his thoughts were evidently too much preoccupied for him to do more +than answer me with monosyllables. +</p> + +<p> +Presently my lady came in. Mr. Gray twitched and coloured more than ever; but +plunged into the middle of his subject at once. +</p> + +<p> +“My lady, I cannot answer it to my conscience, if I allow the children of +this village to go on any longer the little heathens that they are. I must do +something to alter their condition. I am quite aware that your ladyship +disapproves of many of the plans which have suggested themselves to me; but +nevertheless I must do something, and I am come now to your ladyship to ask +respectfully, but firmly, what you would advise me to do.” +</p> + +<p> +His eyes were dilated, and I could almost have said they were full of tears +with his eagerness. But I am sure it is a bad plan to remind people of decided +opinions which they have once expressed, if you wish them to modify those +opinions. Now, Mr. Gray had done this with my lady; and though I do not mean to +say she was obstinate, yet she was not one to retract. +</p> + +<p> +She was silent for a moment or two before she replied. +</p> + +<p> +“You ask me to suggest a remedy for an evil of the existence of which I +am not conscious,” was her answer—very coldly, very gently given. +“In Mr. Mountford’s time I heard no such complaints: whenever I see +the village children (and they are not unfrequent visitors at this house, on +one pretext or another), they are well and decently behaved.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, madam, you cannot judge,” he broke in. “They are trained +to respect you in word and deed; you are the highest they ever look up to; they +have no notion of a higher.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, Mr. Gray,” said my lady, smiling, “they are as loyally +disposed as any children can be. They come up here every fourth of June, and +drink his Majesty’s health, and have buns, and (as Margaret Dawson can +testify) they take a great and respectful interest in all the pictures I can +show them of the royal family.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, madam, I think of something higher than any earthly +dignities.” +</p> + +<p> +My lady coloured at the mistake she had made; for she herself was truly pious. +Yet when she resumed the subject, it seemed to me as if her tone was a little +sharper than before. +</p> + +<p> +“Such want of reverence is, I should say, the clergyman’s fault. +You must excuse me, Mr. Gray, if I speak plainly.” +</p> + +<p> +“My Lady, I want plain-speaking. I myself am not accustomed to those +ceremonies and forms which are, I suppose, the etiquette in your +ladyship’s rank of life, and which seem to hedge you in from any power of +mine to touch you. Among those with whom I have passed my life hitherto, it has +been the custom to speak plainly out what we have felt earnestly. So, instead +of needing any apology from your ladyship for straightforward speaking, I will +meet what you say at once, and admit that it is the clergyman’s fault, in +a great measure, when the children of his parish swear, and curse, and are +brutal, and ignorant of all saving grace; nay, some of them of the very name of +God. And because this guilt of mine, as the clergyman of this parish, lies +heavy on my soul, and every day leads but from bad to worse, till I am utterly +bewildered how to do good to children who escape from me as if I were a +monster, and who are growing up to be men fit for and capable of any crime, but +those requiring wit or sense, I come to you, who seem to me all-powerful, as +far as material power goes—for your ladyship only knows the surface of +things, and barely that, that pass in your village—to help me with +advice, and such outward help as you can give.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Gray had stood up and sat down once or twice while he had been speaking, in +an agitated, nervous kind of way, and now he was interrupted by a violent fit +of coughing, after which he trembled all over. +</p> + +<p> +My lady rang for a glass of water, and looked much distressed. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Gray,” said she, “I am sure you are not well; and that +makes you exaggerate childish faults into positive evils. It is always the case +with us when we are not strong in health. I hear of your exerting yourself in +every direction: you overwork yourself, and the consequence is, that you +imagine us all worse people than we are.” +</p> + +<p> +And my lady smiled very kindly and pleasantly at him, as he sat, a little +panting, a little flushed, trying to recover his breath. I am sure that now +they were brought face to face, she had quite forgotten all the offence she had +taken at his doings when she heard of them from others; and, indeed, it was +enough to soften any one’s heart to see that young, almost boyish face, +looking in such anxiety and distress. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, my lady, what shall I do?” he asked, as soon as he could +recover breath, and with such an air of humility, that I am sure no one who had +seen it could have ever thought him conceited again. “The evil of this +world is too strong for me. I can do so little. It is all in vain. It was only +to-day—” and again the cough and agitation returned. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Mr. Gray,” said my lady (the day before I could never have +believed she could have called him My dear), “you must take the advice of +an old woman about yourself. You are not fit to do anything just now but attend +to your own health: rest, and see a doctor (but, indeed, I will take care of +that), and when you are pretty strong again, you will find that you have been +magnifying evils to yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, my lady, I cannot rest. The evils do exist, and the burden of their +continuance lies on my shoulders. I have no place to gather the children +together in, that I may teach them the things necessary to salvation. The rooms +in my own house are too small; but I have tried them. I have money of my own; +and, as your ladyship knows, I tried to get a piece of leasehold property, on +which to build a school-house at my own expense. Your ladyship’s lawyer +comes forward, at your instructions, to enforce some old feudal right, by which +no building is allowed on leasehold property without the sanction of the lady +of the manor. It may be all very true; but it was a cruel thing to +do,—that is, if your ladyship had known (which I am sure you do not) the +real moral and spiritual state of my poor parishioners. And now I come to you +to know what I am to do. Rest! I cannot rest, while children whom I could +possibly save are being left in their ignorance, their blasphemy, their +uncleanness, their cruelty. It is known through the village that your ladyship +disapproves of my efforts, and opposes all my plans. If you think them wrong, +foolish, ill-digested (I have been a student, living in a college, and +eschewing all society but that of pious men, until now: I may not judge for the +best, in my ignorance of this sinful human nature), tell me of better plans and +wiser projects for accomplishing my end; but do not bid me rest, with Satan +compassing me round, and stealing souls away.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Gray,” said my lady, “there may be some truth in what +you have said. I do not deny it, though I think, in your present state of +indisposition and excitement, you exaggerate it much. I believe—nay, the +experience of a pretty long life has convinced me—that education is a bad +thing, if given indiscriminately. It unfits the lower orders for their duties, +the duties to which they are called by God; of submission to those placed in +authority over them; of contentment with that state of life to which it has +pleased God to call them, and of ordering themselves lowly and reverently to +all their betters. I have made this conviction of mine tolerably evident to +you; and I have expressed distinctly my disapprobation of some of your ideas. +You may imagine, then, that I was not well pleased when I found that you had +taken a rood or more of Farmer Hale’s land, and were laying the +foundations of a school-house. You had done this without asking for my +permission, which, as Farmer Hale’s liege lady, ought to have been +obtained legally, as well as asked for out of courtesy. I put a stop to what I +believed to be calculated to do harm to a village, to a population in which, to +say the least of it, I may be disposed to take as much interest as you can do. +How can reading, and writing, and the multiplication-table (if you choose to go +so far) prevent blasphemy, and uncleanness, and cruelty? Really, Mr. Gray, I +hardly like to express myself so strongly on the subject in your present state +of health, as I should do at any other time. It seems to me that books do +little; character much; and character is not formed from books.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not think of character: I think of souls. I must get some hold upon +these children, or what will become of them in the next world? I must be found +to have some power beyond what they have, and which they are rendered capable +of appreciating, before they will listen to me. At present physical force is +all they look up to; and I have none.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, Mr. Gray, by your own admission, they look up to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“They would not do anything your ladyship disliked if it was likely to +come to your knowledge; but if they could conceal it from you, the knowledge of +your dislike to a particular line of conduct would never make them cease from +pursuing it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Gray”—surprise in her air, and some little +indignation—“they and their fathers have lived on the Hanbury lands +for generations!” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot help it, madam. I am telling you the truth, whether you believe +me or not.” There was a pause; my lady looked perplexed, and somewhat +ruffled; Mr. Gray as though hopeless and wearied out. “Then, my +lady,” said he, at last, rising as he spoke, “you can suggest +nothing to ameliorate the state of things which, I do assure you, does exist on +your lands, and among your tenants. Surely, you will not object to my using +Farmer Hale’s great barn every Sabbath? He will allow me the use of it, +if your ladyship will grant your permission.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are not fit for any extra work at present,” (and indeed he had +been coughing very much all through the conversation). “Give me time to +consider of it. Tell me what you wish to teach. You will be able to take care +of your health, and grow stronger while I consider. It shall not be the worse +for you, if you leave it in my hands for a time.” +</p> + +<p> +My lady spoke very kindly; but he was in too excited a state to recognize the +kindness, while the idea of delay was evidently a sore irritation. I heard him +say: “And I have so little time in which to do my work. Lord! lay not +this sin to my charge.” +</p> + +<p> +But my lady was speaking to the old butler, for whom, at her sign, I had rung +the bell some little time before. Now she turned round. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Gray, I find I have some bottles of Malmsey, of the vintage of +seventeen hundred and seventy-eight, yet left. Malmsey, as perhaps you know, +used to be considered a specific for coughs arising from weakness. You must +permit me to send you half a dozen bottles, and, depend upon it, you will take +a more cheerful view of life and its duties before you have finished them, +especially if you will be so kind as to see Dr. Trevor, who is coming to see me +in the course of the week. By the time you are strong enough to work, I will +try and find some means of preventing the children from using such bad +language, and otherwise annoying you.” +</p> + +<p> +“My lady, it is the sin, and not the annoyance. I wish I could make you +understand.” He spoke with some impatience; Poor fellow! he was too weak, +exhausted, and nervous. “I am perfectly well; I can set to work +to-morrow; I will do anything not to be oppressed with the thought of how +little I am doing. I do not want your wine. Liberty to act in the manner I +think right, will do me far more good. But it is of no use. It is preordained +that I am to be nothing but a cumberer of the ground. I beg your +ladyship’s pardon for this call.” +</p> + +<p> +He stood up, and then turned dizzy. My lady looked on, deeply hurt, and not a +little offended, he held out his hand to her, and I could see that she had a +little hesitation before she took it. He then saw me, I almost think, for the +first time; and put out his hand once more, drew it back, as if undecided, put +it out again, and finally took hold of mine for an instant in his damp, +listless hand, and was gone. +</p> + +<p> +Lady Ludlow was dissatisfied with both him and herself, I was sure. Indeed, I +was dissatisfied with the result of the interview myself. But my lady was not +one to speak out her feelings on the subject; nor was I one to forget myself, +and begin on a topic which she did not begin. She came to me, and was very +tender with me; so tender, that that, and the thoughts of Mr. Gray’s +sick, hopeless, disappointed look, nearly made me cry. +</p> + +<p> +“You are tired, little one,” said my lady. “Go and lie down +in my room, and hear what Medlicott and I can decide upon in the way of +strengthening dainties for that poor young man, who is killing himself with his +over-sensitive conscientiousness.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, my lady!” said I, and then I stopped. +</p> + +<p> +“Well. What?” asked she. +</p> + +<p> +“If you would but let him have Farmer Hale’s barn at once, it would +do him more good than all.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pooh, pooh, child!” though I don’t think she was displeased, +“he is not fit for more work just now. I shall go and write for Dr. +Trevor.” +</p> + +<p> +And for the next half-hour, we did nothing but arrange physical comforts and +cures for poor Mr. Gray. At the end of the time, Mrs. Medlicott said— +</p> + +<p> +“Has your ladyship heard that Harry Gregson has fallen from a tree, and +broken his thigh-bone, and is like to be a cripple for life?” +</p> + +<p> +“Harry Gregson! That black-eyed lad who read my letter? It all comes from +over-education!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>CHAPTER XI.</h2> + +<p> +But I don’t see how my lady could think it was over-education that made +Harry Gregson break his thigh, for the manner in which he met with the accident +was this:— +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Horner, who had fallen sadly out of health since his wife’s death, +had attached himself greatly to Harry Gregson. Now, Mr. Horner had a cold +manner to every one, and never spoke more than was necessary, at the best of +times. And, latterly, it had not been the best of times with him. I dare say, +he had had some causes for anxiety (of which I knew nothing) about my +lady’s affairs; and he was evidently annoyed by my lady’s whim (as +he once inadvertently called it) of placing Miss Galindo under him in the +position of a clerk. Yet he had always been friends, in his quiet way, with +Miss Galindo, and she devoted herself to her new occupation with diligence and +punctuality, although more than once she had moaned to me over the orders for +needlework which had been sent to her, and which, owing to her occupation in +the service of Lady Ludlow, she had been unable to fulfil. +</p> + +<p> +The only living creature to whom the staid Mr. Horner could be said to be +attached, was Harry Gregson. To my lady he was a faithful and devoted servant, +looking keenly after her interests, and anxious to forward them at any cost of +trouble to himself. But the more shrewd Mr. Horner was, the more probability +was there of his being annoyed at certain peculiarities of opinion which my +lady held with a quiet, gentle pertinacity; against which no arguments, based +on mere worldly and business calculations, made any way. This frequent +opposition to views which Mr. Horner entertained, although it did not interfere +with the sincere respect which the lady and the steward felt for each other, +yet prevented any warmer feeling of affection from coming in. It seems strange +to say it, but I must repeat it—the only person for whom, since his +wife’s death, Mr. Horner seemed to feel any love, was the little imp +Harry Gregson, with his bright, watchful eyes, his tangled hair hanging right +down to his eyebrows, for all the world like a Skye terrier. This lad, half +gipsy and whole poacher, as many people esteemed him, hung about the silent, +respectable, staid Mr. Horner, and followed his steps with something of the +affectionate fidelity of the dog which he resembled. I suspect, this +demonstration of attachment to his person on Harry Gregson’s part was +what won Mr. Horner’s regard. In the first instance, the steward had only +chosen the lad out as the cleverest instrument he could find for his purpose; +and I don’t mean to say that, if Harry had not been almost as shrewd as +Mr. Horner himself was, both by original disposition and subsequent experience, +the steward would have taken to him as he did, let the lad have shown ever so +much affection for him. +</p> + +<p> +But even to Harry Mr. Horner was silent. Still, it was pleasant to find himself +in many ways so readily understood; to perceive that the crumbs of knowledge he +let fall were picked up by his little follower, and hoarded like gold that here +was one to hate the persons and things whom Mr. Horner coldly disliked, and to +reverence and admire all those for whom he had any regard. Mr. Horner had never +had a child, and unconsciously, I suppose, something of the paternal feeling +had begun to develop itself in him towards Harry Gregson. I heard one or two +things from different people, which have always made me fancy that Mr. Horner +secretly and almost unconsciously hoped that Harry Gregson might be trained so +as to be first his clerk, and next his assistant, and finally his successor in +his stewardship to the Hanbury estates. +</p> + +<p> +Harry’s disgrace with my lady, in consequence of his reading the letter, +was a deeper blow to Mr. Horner than his quiet manner would ever have led any +one to suppose, or than Lady Ludlow ever dreamed of inflicting, I am sure. +</p> + +<p> +Probably Harry had a short, stern rebuke from Mr. Horner at the time, for his +manner was always hard even to those he cared for the most. But Harry’s +love was not to be daunted or quelled by a few sharp words. I dare say, from +what I heard of them afterwards, that Harry accompanied Mr. Horner in his walk +over the farm the very day of the rebuke; his presence apparently unnoticed by +the agent, by whom his absence would have been painfully felt nevertheless. +That was the way of it, as I have been told. Mr. Horner never bade Harry go +with him; never thanked him for going, or being at his heels ready to run on +any errands, straight as the crow flies to his point, and back to heel in as +short a time as possible. Yet, if Harry were away, Mr. Horner never inquired +the reason from any of the men who might be supposed to know whether he was +detained by his father, or otherwise engaged; he never asked Harry himself +where he had been. But Miss Galindo said that those labourers who knew Mr. +Horner well, told her that he was always more quick-eyed to shortcomings, more +savage-like in fault-finding, on those days when the lad was absent. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Galindo, indeed, was my great authority for most of the village news which +I heard. She it was who gave me the particulars of poor Harry’s accident. +</p> + +<p> +“You see, my dear,” she said, “the little poacher has taken +some unaccountable fancy to my master.” (This was the name by which Miss +Galindo always spoke of Mr. Horner to me, ever since she had been, as she +called it, appointed his clerk.) +</p> + +<p> +“Now if I had twenty hearts to lose, I never could spare a bit of one of +them for that good, gray, square, severe man. But different people have +different tastes, and here is that little imp of a gipsy-tinker ready to turn +slave for my master; and, odd enough, my master,—who, I should have said +beforehand, would have made short work of imp, and imp’s family, and have +sent Hall, the Bang-beggar, after them in no time—my master, as they tell +me, is in his way quite fond of the lad, and if he could, without vexing my +lady too much, he would have made him what the folks here call a Latiner. +However, last night, it seems that there was a letter of some importance +forgotten (I can’t tell you what it was about, my dear, though I know +perfectly well, but ‘<i>service oblige</i>,’ as well as +‘noblesse,’ and you must take my word for it that it was important, +and one that I am surprised my master could forget), till too late for the +post. (The poor, good, orderly man is not what he was before his wife’s +death.) Well, it seems that he was sore annoyed by his forgetfulness, and well +he might be. And it was all the more vexatious, as he had no one to blame but +himself. As for that matter, I always scold somebody else when I’m in +fault; but I suppose my master would never think of doing that, else it’s +a mighty relief. However, he could eat no tea, and was altogether put out and +gloomy. And the little faithful imp-lad, perceiving all this, I suppose, got up +like a page in an old ballad, and said he would run for his life across country +to Comberford, and see if he could not get there before the bags were made up. +So my master gave him the letter, and nothing more was heard of the poor fellow +till this morning, for the father thought his son was sleeping in Mr. +Horner’s barn, as he does occasionally, it seems, and my master, as was +very natural, that he had gone to his father’s.” +</p> + +<p> +“And he had fallen down the old stone quarry, had he not?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sure enough. Mr. Gray had been up here fretting my lady with some +of his new-fangled schemes, and because the young man could not have it all his +own way, from what I understand, he was put out, and thought he would go home +by the back lane, instead of through the village, where the folks would notice +if the parson looked glum. But, however, it was a mercy, and I don’t mind +saying so, ay, and meaning it too, though it may be like methodism; for, as Mr. +Gray walked by the quarry, he heard a groan, and at first he thought it was a +lamb fallen down; and he stood still, and then he heard it again; and then I +suppose, he looked down and saw Harry. So he let himself down by the boughs of +the trees to the ledge where Harry lay half-dead, and with his poor thigh +broken. There he had lain ever since the night before: he had been returning to +tell the master that he had safely posted the letter, and the first words he +said, when they recovered him from the exhausted state he was in, were” +(Miss Galindo tried hard not to whimper, as she said it), “‘It was +in time, sir. I see’d it put in the bag with my own eyes.’” +</p> + +<p> +“But where is he?” asked I. “How did Mr. Gray get him +out?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay! there it is, you see. Why the old gentleman (I daren’t say +Devil in Lady Ludlow’s house) is not so black as he is painted; and Mr. +Gray must have a deal of good in him, as I say at times; and then at others, +when he has gone against me, I can’t bear him, and think hanging too good +for him. But he lifted the poor lad, as if he had been a baby, I suppose, and +carried him up the great ledges that were formerly used for steps; and laid him +soft and easy on the wayside grass, and ran home and got help and a door, and +had him carried to his house, and laid on his bed; and then somehow, for the +first time either he or any one else perceived it, he himself was all over +blood—his own blood—he had broken a blood-vessel; and there he lies +in the little dressing-room, as white and as still as if he were dead; and the +little imp in Mr. Gray’s own bed, sound asleep, now his leg is set, just +as if linen sheets and a feather bed were his native element, as one may say. +Really, now he is doing so well, I’ve no patience with him, lying there +where Mr. Gray ought to be. It is just what my lady always prophesied would +come to pass, if there was any confusion of ranks.” +</p> + +<p> +“Poor Mr. Gray!” said I, thinking of his flushed face, and his +feverish, restless ways, when he had been calling on my lady not an hour before +his exertions on Harry’s behalf. And I told Miss Galindo how ill I had +thought him. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said she. “And that was the reason my lady had sent +for Doctor Trevor. Well, it has fallen out admirably, for he looked well after +that old donkey of a Prince, and saw that he made no blunders.” +</p> + +<p> +Now “that old donkey of a Prince” meant the village surgeon, Mr. +Prince, between whom and Miss Galindo there was war to the knife, as they often +met in the cottages, when there was illness, and she had her queer, odd +recipes, which he, with his grand pharmacopoeia, held in infinite contempt, and +the consequence of their squabbling had been, not long before this very time, +that he had established a kind of rule, that into whatever sick-room Miss +Galindo was admitted, there he refused to visit. But Miss Galindo’s +prescriptions and visits cost nothing and were often backed by kitchen-physic; +so, though it was true that she never came but she scolded about something or +other, she was generally preferred as medical attendant to Mr. Prince. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, the old donkey is obliged to tolerate me, and be civil to me; for, +you see, I got there first, and had possession, as it were, and yet my lord the +donkey likes the credit of attending the parson, and being in consultation with +so grand a county-town doctor as Doctor Trevor. And Doctor Trevor is an old +friend of mine” (she sighed a little, some time I may tell you why), +“and treats me with infinite bowing and respect; so the donkey, not to be +out of medical fashion, bows too, though it is sadly against the grain; and he +pulled a face as if he had heard a slate-pencil gritting against a slate, when +I told Doctor Trevor I meant to sit up with the two lads, for I call Mr. Gray +little more than a lad, and a pretty conceited one, too, at times.” +</p> + +<p> +“But why should you sit up, Miss Galindo? It will tire you sadly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not it. You see, there is Gregson’s mother to keep quiet for she +sits by her lad, fretting and sobbing, so that I’m afraid of her +disturbing Mr. Gray; and there’s Mr. Gray to keep quiet, for Doctor +Trevor says his life depends on it; and there is medicine to be given to the +one, and bandages to be attended to for the other; and the wild horde of gipsy +brothers and sisters to be turned out, and the father to be held in from +showing too much gratitude to Mr. Gray, who can’t hear it,—and who +is to do it all but me? The only servant is old lame Betty, who once lived with +me, and <i>would</i> leave me because she said I was always +bothering—(there was a good deal of truth in what she said, I grant, but +she need not have said it; a good deal of truth is best let alone at the bottom +of the well), and what can she do,—deaf as ever she can be, too?” +</p> + +<p> +So Miss Galindo went her ways; but not the less was she at her post in the +morning; a little crosser and more silent than usual; but the first was not to +be wondered at, and the last was rather a blessing. +</p> + +<p> +Lady Ludlow had been extremely anxious both about Mr. Gray and Harry Gregson. +Kind and thoughtful in any case of illness and accident, she always was; but +somehow, in this, the feeling that she was not quite—what shall I call +it?—“friends” seems hardly the right word to use, as to the +possible feeling between the Countess Ludlow and the little vagabond messenger, +who had only once been in her presence,—that she had hardly parted from +either as she could have wished to do, had death been near, made her more than +usually anxious. Doctor Trevor was not to spare obtaining the best medical +advice the county could afford: whatever he ordered in the way of diet, was to +be prepared under Mrs. Medlicott’s own eye, and sent down from the Hall +to the Parsonage. As Mr. Horner had given somewhat similar directions, in the +case of Harry Gregson at least, there was rather a multiplicity of counsellors +and dainties, than any lack of them. And, the second night, Mr. Horner insisted +on taking the superintendence of the nursing himself, and sat and snored by +Harry’s bedside, while the poor, exhausted mother lay by her +child,—thinking that she watched him, but in reality fast asleep, as Miss +Galindo told us; for, distrusting any one’s powers of watching and +nursing but her own, she had stolen across the quiet village street in cloak +and dressing-gown, and found Mr. Gray in vain trying to reach the cup of +barley-water which Mr. Horner had placed just beyond his reach. +</p> + +<p> +In consequence of Mr. Gray’s illness, we had to have a strange curate to +do duty; a man who dropped his h’s, and hurried through the service, and +yet had time enough to stand in my Lady’s way, bowing to her as she came +out of church, and so subservient in manner, that I believe that sooner than +remain unnoticed by a countess, he would have preferred being scolded, or even +cuffed. Now I found out, that great as was my lady’s liking and approval +of respect, nay, even reverence, being paid to her as a person of +quality,—a sort of tribute to her Order, which she had no individual +right to remit, or, indeed, not to exact,—yet she, being personally +simple, sincere, and holding herself in low esteem, could not endure anything +like the servility of Mr. Crosse, the temporary curate. She grew absolutely to +loathe his perpetual smiling and bowing; his instant agreement with the +slightest opinion she uttered; his veering round as she blew the wind. I have +often said that my lady did not talk much, as she might have done had she lived +among her equals. But we all loved her so much, that we had learnt to interpret +all her little ways pretty truly; and I knew what particular turns of her head, +and contractions of her delicate fingers meant, as well as if she had expressed +herself in words. I began to suspect that my lady would be very thankful to +have Mr. Gray about again, and doing his duty even with a conscientiousness +that might amount to worrying himself, and fidgeting others; and although Mr. +Gray might hold her opinions in as little esteem as those of any simple +gentlewoman, she was too sensible not to feel how much flavour there was in his +conversation, compared to that of Mr. Crosse, who was only her tasteless echo. +</p> + +<p> +As for Miss Galindo, she was utterly and entirely a partisan of Mr. +Gray’s, almost ever since she had begun to nurse him during his illness. +</p> + +<p> +“You know, I never set up for reasonableness, my lady. So I don’t +pretend to say, as I might do if I were a sensible woman and all +that,—that I am convinced by Mr. Gray’s arguments of this thing or +t’other. For one thing, you see, poor fellow! he has never been able to +argue, or hardly indeed to speak, for Doctor Trevor has been very peremptory. +So there’s been no scope for arguing! But what I mean is this:—When +I see a sick man thinking always of others, and never of himself; patient, +humble—a trifle too much at times, for I’ve caught him praying to +be forgiven for having neglected his work as a parish priest,” (Miss +Galindo was making horrible faces, to keep back tears, squeezing up her eyes in +a way which would have amused me at any other time, but when she was speaking +of Mr. Gray); “when I see a downright good, religious man, I’m apt +to think he’s got hold of the right clue, and that I can do no better +than hold on by the tails of his coat and shut my eyes, if we’ve got to +go over doubtful places on our road to Heaven. So, my lady, you must excuse me +if, when he gets about again, he is all agog about a Sunday-school, for if he +is, I shall be agog too, and perhaps twice as bad as him, for, you see, +I’ve a strong constitution compared to his, and strong ways of speaking +and acting. And I tell your ladyship this now, because I think from your +rank—and still more, if I may say so, for all your kindness to me long +ago, down to this very day—you’ve a right to be first told of +anything about me. Change of opinion I can’t exactly call it, for I +don’t see the good of schools and teaching A B C, any more than I did +before, only Mr. Gray does, so I’m to shut my eyes, and leap over the +ditch to the side of education. I’ve told Sally already, that if she does +not mind her work, but stands gossiping with Nelly Mather, I’ll teach her +her lessons; and I’ve never caught her with old Nelly since.” +</p> + +<p> +I think Miss Galindo’s desertion to Mr. Gray’s opinions in this +matter hurt my lady just a little bit; but she only said— +</p> + +<p> +“Of course, if the parishoners wish for it, Mr. Gray must have his +Sunday-school. I shall, in that case, withdraw my opposition. I am sorry I +cannot alter my opinions as easily as you.” +</p> + +<p> +My lady made herself smile as she said this. Miss Galindo saw it was an effort +to do so. She thought a minute before she spoke again. +</p> + +<p> +“Your ladyship has not seen Mr. Gray as intimately as I have done. +That’s one thing. But, as for the parishioners, they will follow your +ladyship’s lead in everything; so there is no chance of their wishing for +a Sunday-school.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have never done anything to make them follow my lead, as you call it, +Miss Galindo,” said my lady, gravely. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, you have,” replied Miss Galindo, bluntly. And then, +correcting herself, she said, “Begging your ladyship’s pardon, you +have. Your ancestors have lived here time out of mind, and have owned the land +on which their forefathers have lived ever since there were forefathers. You +yourself were born amongst them, and have been like a little queen to them ever +since, I might say, and they’ve never known your ladyship do anything but +what was kind and gentle; but I’ll leave fine speeches about your +ladyship to Mr. Crosse. Only you, my lady, lead the thoughts of the parish; and +save some of them a world of trouble, for they could never tell what was right +if they had to think for themselves. It’s all quite right that they +should be guided by you, my lady,—if only you would agree with Mr. +Gray.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said my lady, “I told him only the last day that he +was here, that I would think about it. I do believe I could make up my mind on +certain subjects better if I were left alone, than while being constantly +talked to about them.” +</p> + +<p> +My lady said this in her usual soft tones; but the words had a tinge of +impatience about them; indeed, she was more ruffled than I had often seen her; +but, checking herself in an instant she said— +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t know how Mr. Horner drags in this subject of education +apropos of everything. Not that he says much about it at any time: it is not +his way. But he cannot let the thing alone.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know why, my lady,” said Miss Galindo. “That poor lad, +Harry Gregson, will never be able to earn his livelihood in any active way, but +will be lame for life. Now, Mr. Horner thinks more of Harry than of any one +else in the world,—except, perhaps, your ladyship.” Was it not a +pretty companionship for my lady? “And he has schemes of his own for +teaching Harry; and if Mr. Gray could but have his school, Mr. Horner and he +think Harry might be schoolmaster, as your ladyship would not like to have him +coming to you as steward’s clerk. I wish your ladyship would fall into +this plan; Mr. Gray has it so at heart.” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Galindo looked wistfully at my lady, as she said this. But my lady only +said, drily, and rising at the same time, as if to end the conversation— +</p> + +<p> +“So Mr. Horner and Mr. Gray seem to have gone a long way in advance of my +consent to their plans.” +</p> + +<p> +“There!” exclaimed Miss Galindo, as my lady left the room, with an +apology for going away; “I have gone and done mischief with my long, +stupid tongue. To be sure, people plan a long way ahead of to-day; more +especially when one is a sick man, lying all through the weary day on a +sofa.” +</p> + +<p> +“My lady will soon get over her annoyance,” said I, as it were +apologetically. I only stopped Miss Galindo’s self-reproaches to draw +down her wrath upon myself. +</p> + +<p> +“And has not she a right to be annoyed with me, if she likes, and to keep +annoyed as long as she likes? Am I complaining of her, that you need tell me +that? Let me tell you, I have known my lady these thirty years; and if she were +to take me by the shoulders, and turn me out of the house, I should only love +her the more. So don’t you think to come between us with any little +mincing, peace-making speeches. I have been a mischief-making parrot, and I +like her the better for being vexed with me. So good-bye to you, Miss; and wait +till you know Lady Ludlow as well as I do, before you next think of telling me +she will soon get over her annoyance!” And off Miss Galindo went. +</p> + +<p> +I could not exactly tell what I had done wrong; but I took care never again to +come in between my lady and her by any remark about the one to the other; for I +saw that some most powerful bond of grateful affection made Miss Galindo almost +worship my lady. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, Harry Gregson was limping a little about in the village, still +finding his home in Mr. Gray’s house; for there he could most +conveniently be kept under the doctor’s eye, and receive the requisite +care, and enjoy the requisite nourishment. As soon as he was a little better, +he was to go to Mr. Horner’s house; but, as the steward lived some +distance out of the way, and was much from home, he had agreed to leave Harry +at the house; to which he had first been taken, until he was quite strong +again; and the more willingly, I suspect, from what I heard afterwards, because +Mr. Gray gave up all the little strength of speaking which he had, to teaching +Harry in the very manner which Mr. Horner most desired. +</p> + +<p> +As for Gregson the father—he—wild man of the woods, poacher, +tinker, jack-of-all trades—was getting tamed by this kindness to his +child. Hitherto his hand had been against every man, as every man’s had +been against him. That affair before the justice, which I told you about, when +Mr. Gray and even my lady had interested themselves to get him released from +unjust imprisonment, was the first bit of justice he had ever met with; it +attracted him to the people, and attached him to the spot on which he had but +squatted for a time. I am not sure if any of the villagers were grateful to him +for remaining in their neighbourhood, instead of decamping as he had often done +before, for good reasons, doubtless, of personal safety. Harry was only one out +of a brood of ten or twelve children, some of whom had earned for themselves no +good character in service: one, indeed, had been actually transported, for a +robbery committed in a distant part of the county; and the tale was yet told in +the village of how Gregson the father came back from the trial in a state of +wild rage, striding through the place, and uttering oaths of vengeance to +himself, his great black eyes gleaming out of his matted hair, and his arms +working by his side, and now and then tossed up in his impotent despair. As I +heard the account, his wife followed him, child-laden and weeping. After this, +they had vanished from the country for a time, leaving their mud hovel locked +up, and the door-key, as the neighbours said, buried in a hedge bank. The +Gregsons had reappeared much about the same time that Mr. Gray came to Hanbury. +He had either never heard of their evil character, or considered that it gave +them all the more claims upon his Christian care; and the end of it was, that +this rough, untamed, strong giant of a heathen was loyal slave to the weak, +hectic, nervous, self-distrustful parson. Gregson had also a kind of grumbling +respect for Mr. Horner: he did not quite like the steward’s monopoly of +his Harry: the mother submitted to that with a better grace, swallowing down +her maternal jealousy in the prospect of her child’s advancement to a +better and more respectable position than that in which his parents had +struggled through life. But Mr. Horner, the steward, and Gregson, the poacher +and squatter, had come into disagreeable contact too often in former days for +them to be perfectly cordial at any future time. Even now, when there was no +immediate cause for anything but gratitude for his child’s sake on +Gregson’s part, he would skulk out of Mr. Horner’s way, if he saw +him coming; and it took all Mr. Horner’s natural reserve and acquired +self-restraint to keep him from occasionally holding up his father’s life +as a warning to Harry. Now Gregson had nothing of this desire for avoidance +with regard to Mr. Gray. The poacher had a feeling of physical protection +towards the parson; while the latter had shown the moral courage, without which +Gregson would never have respected him, in coming right down upon him more than +once in the exercise of unlawful pursuits, and simply and boldly telling him he +was doing wrong, with such a quiet reliance upon Gregson’s better +feeling, at the same time, that the strong poacher could not have lifted a +finger against Mr. Gray, though it had been to save himself from being +apprehended and taken to the lock-ups the very next hour. He had rather +listened to the parson’s bold words with an approving smile, much as Mr. +Gulliver might have hearkened to a lecture from a Lilliputian. But when brave +words passed into kind deeds, Gregson’s heart mutely acknowledged its +master and keeper. And the beauty of it all was, that Mr. Gray knew nothing of +the good work he had done, or recognized himself as the instrument which God +had employed. He thanked God, it is true, fervently and often, that the work +was done; and loved the wild man for his rough gratitude; but it never occurred +to the poor young clergyman, lying on his sick-bed, and praying, as Miss +Galindo had told us he did, to be forgiven for his unprofitable life, to think +of Gregson’s reclaimed soul as anything with which he had had to do. It +was now more than three months since Mr. Gray had been at Hanbury Court. During +all that time he had been confined to his house, if not to his sick-bed, and he +and my lady had never met since their last discussion and difference about +Farmer Hale’s barn. +</p> + +<p> +This was not my dear lady’s fault; no one could have been more attentive +in every way to the slightest possible want of either of the invalids, +especially of Mr. Gray. And she would have gone to see him at his own house, as +she sent him word, but that her foot had slipped upon the polished oak +staircase, and her ankle had been sprained. +</p> + +<p> +So we had never seen Mr. Gray since his illness, when one November day he was +announced as wishing to speak to my lady. She was sitting in her room—the +room in which I lay now pretty constantly—and I remember she looked +startled, when word was brought to her of Mr. Gray’s being at the Hall. +</p> + +<p> +She could not go to him, she was too lame for that, so she bade him be shown +into where she sat. +</p> + +<p> +“Such a day for him to go out!” she exclaimed, looking at the fog +which had crept up to the windows, and was sapping the little remaining life in +the brilliant Virginian creeper leaves that draperied the house on the terrace +side. +</p> + +<p> +He came in white, trembling, his large eyes wild and dilated. He hastened up to +Lady Ludlow’s chair, and, to my surprise, took one of her hands and +kissed it, without speaking, yet shaking all over. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Gray!” said she, quickly, with sharp, tremulous apprehension +of some unknown evil. “What is it? There is something unusual about +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Something unusual has occurred,” replied he, forcing his words to +be calm, as with a great effort. “A gentleman came to my house, not half +an hour ago—a Mr. Howard. He came straight from Vienna.” +</p> + +<p> +“My son!” said my dear lady, stretching out her arms in dumb +questioning attitude. +</p> + +<p> +“The Lord gave and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the +Lord.” +</p> + +<p> +But my poor lady could not echo the words. He was the last remaining child. And +once she had been the joyful mother of nine. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>CHAPTER XII.</h2> + +<p> +I am ashamed to say what feeling became strongest in my mind about this time; +next to the sympathy we all of us felt for my dear lady in her deep sorrow, I +mean; for that was greater and stronger than anything else, however +contradictory you may think it, when you hear all. +</p> + +<p> +It might arise from my being so far from well at the time, which produced a +diseased mind in a diseased body; but I was absolutely jealous for my +father’s memory, when I saw how many signs of grief there were for my +lord’s death, he having done next to nothing for the village and parish, +which now changed, as it were, its daily course of life, because his lordship +died in a far-off city. My father had spent the best years of his manhood in +labouring hard, body and soul, for the people amongst whom he lived. His +family, of course, claimed the first place in his heart; he would have been +good for little, even in the way of benevolence, if they had not. But close +after them he cared for his parishioners, and neighbours. And yet, when he +died, though the church bells tolled, and smote upon our hearts with hard, +fresh pain at every beat, the sounds of every-day life still went on, close +pressing around us,—carts and carriages, street-cries, distant +barrel-organs (the kindly neighbours kept them out of our street): life, +active, noisy life, pressed on our acute consciousness of Death, and jarred +upon it as on a quick nerve. +</p> + +<p> +And when we went to church,—my father’s own church,—though +the pulpit cushions were black, and many of the congregation had put on some +humble sign of mourning, yet it did not alter the whole material aspect of the +place. And yet what was Lord Ludlow’s relation to Hanbury, compared to my +father’s work and place in—? +</p> + +<p> +O! it was very wicked in me! I think if I had seen my lady,—if I had +dared to ask to go to her, I should not have felt so miserable, so +discontented. But she sat in her own room, hung with black, all, even over the +shutters. She saw no light but that which was artificial—candles, lamps, +and the like—for more than a month. Only Adams went near her. Mr. Gray +was not admitted, though he called daily. Even Mrs. Medlicott did not see her +for near a fortnight. The sight of my lady’s griefs, or rather the +recollection of it, made Mrs. Medlicott talk far more than was her wont. She +told us, with many tears, and much gesticulation, even speaking German at +times, when her English would not flow, that my lady sat there, a white figure +in the middle of the darkened room; a shaded lamp near her, the light of which +fell on an open Bible,—the great family Bible. It was not open at any +chapter or consoling verse; but at the page whereon were registered the births +of her nine children. Five had died in infancy,—sacrificed to the cruel +system which forbade the mother to suckle her babies. Four had lived longer; +Urian had been the first to die, Ughtred-Mortimar, Earl Ludlow, the last. +</p> + +<p> +My lady did not cry, Mrs. Medlicott said. She was quite composed; very still, +very silent. She put aside everything that savoured of mere business: sent +people to Mr. Horner for that. But she was proudly alive to every possible form +which might do honour to the last of her race. +</p> + +<p> +In those days, expresses were slow things, and forms still slower. Before my +lady’s directions could reach Vienna, my lord was buried. There was some +talk (so Mrs. Medlicott said) about taking the body up, and bringing him to +Hanbury. But his executors,—connections on the Ludlow +side,—demurred to this. If he were removed to England, he must be carried +on to Scotland, and interred with his Monkshaven forefathers. My lady, deeply +hurt, withdrew from the discussion, before it degenerated to an unseemly +contest. But all the more, for this understood mortification of my +lady’s, did the whole village and estate of Hanbury assume every outward +sign of mourning. The church bells tolled morning and evening. The church +itself was draped in black inside. Hatchments were placed everywhere, where +hatchments could be put. All the tenantry spoke in hushed voices for more than +a week, scarcely daring to observe that all flesh, even that of an Earl Ludlow, +and the last of the Hanburys, was but grass after all. The very Fighting Lion +closed its front door, front shutters it had none, and those who needed drink +stole in at the back, and were silent and maudlin over their cups, instead of +riotous and noisy. Miss Galindo’s eyes were swollen up with crying, and +she told me, with a fresh burst of tears, that even hump-backed Sally had been +found sobbing over her Bible, and using a pocket-handkerchief for the first +time in her life; her aprons having hitherto stood her in the necessary stead, +but not being sufficiently in accordance with etiquette to be used when +mourning over an earl’s premature decease. +</p> + +<p> +If it was this way out of the Hall, “you might work it by the rule of +three,” as Miss Galindo used to say, and judge what it was in the Hall. +We none of us spoke but in a whisper: we tried not to eat; and indeed the shock +had been so really great, and we did really care so much for my lady, that for +some days we had but little appetite. But after that, I fear our sympathy grew +weaker, while our flesh grew stronger. But we still spoke low, and our hearts +ached whenever we thought of my lady sitting there alone in the darkened room, +with the light ever falling on that one solemn page. +</p> + +<p> +We wished, O how I wished that she would see Mr. Gray! But Adams said, she +thought my lady ought to have a bishop come to see her. Still no one had +authority enough to send for one. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Horner all this time was suffering as much as any one. He was too faithful +a servant of the great Hanbury family, though now the family had dwindled down +to a fragile old lady, not to mourn acutely over its probable extinction. He +had, besides, a deeper sympathy and reverence with, and for, my lady, in all +things, than probably he ever cared to show, for his manners were always +measured and cold. He suffered from sorrow. He also suffered from wrong. My +lord’s executors kept writing to him continually. My lady refused to +listen to mere business, saying she intrusted all to him. But the +“all” was more complicated than I ever thoroughly understood. As +far as I comprehended the case, it was something of this kind:—There had +been a mortgage raised on my lady’s property of Hanbury, to enable my +lord, her husband, to spend money in cultivating his Scotch estates, after some +new fashion that required capital. As long as my lord, her son, lived, who was +to succeed to both the estates after her death, this did not signify; so she +had said and felt; and she had refused to take any steps to secure the +repayment of capital, or even the payment of the interest of the mortgage from +the possible representatives and possessors of the Scotch estates, to the +possible owner of the Hanbury property; saying it ill became her to calculate +on the contingency of her son’s death. +</p> + +<p> +But he had died childless, unmarried. The heir of the Monkshaven property was +an Edinburgh advocate, a far-away kinsman of my lord’s: the Hanbury +property, at my lady’s death, would go to the descendants of a third son +of the Squire Hanbury in the days of Queen Anne. +</p> + +<p> +This complication of affairs was most grievous to Mr. Horner. He had always +been opposed to the mortgage; had hated the payment of the interest, as +obliging my lady to practise certain economies which, though she took care to +make them as personal as possible, he disliked as derogatory to the family. +Poor Mr. Horner! He was so cold and hard in his manner, so curt and decisive in +his speech, that I don’t think we any of us did him justice. Miss Galindo +was almost the first, at this time, to speak a kind word of him, or to take +thought of him at all, any farther than to get out of his way when we saw him +approaching. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think Mr. Horner is well,” she said one day; about +three weeks after we had heard of my lord’s death. “He sits resting +his head on his hand, and hardly hears me when I speak to him.” +</p> + +<p> +But I thought no more of it, as Miss Galindo did not name it again. My lady +came amongst us once more. From elderly she had become old; a little, frail, +old lady, in heavy black drapery, never speaking about nor alluding to her +great sorrow; quieter, gentler, paler than ever before; and her eyes dim with +much weeping, never witnessed by mortal. +</p> + +<p> +She had seen Mr. Gray at the expiration of the month of deep retirement. But I +do not think that even to him she had said one word of her own particular +individual sorrow. All mention of it seemed buried deep for evermore. One day, +Mr. Horner sent word that he was too much indisposed to attend to his usual +business at the Hall; but he wrote down some directions and requests to Miss +Galindo, saying that he would be at his office early the next morning. The next +morning he was dead. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Galindo told my lady. Miss Galindo herself cried plentifully, but my lady, +although very much distressed, could not cry. It seemed a physical +impossibility, as if she had shed all the tears in her power. Moreover, I +almost think her wonder was far greater that she herself lived than that Mr. +Horner died. It was almost natural that so faithful a servant should break his +heart, when the family he belonged to lost their stay, their heir, and their +last hope. +</p> + +<p> +Yes! Mr. Horner was a faithful servant. I do not think there are many so +faithful now; but perhaps that is an old woman’s fancy of mine. When his +will came to be examined, it was discovered that, soon after Harry +Gregson’s accident, Mr. Horner had left the few thousands (three, I +think,) of which he was possessed, in trust for Harry’s benefit, desiring +his executors to see that the lad was well educated in certain things, for +which Mr. Horner had thought that he had shown especial aptitude; and there was +a kind of implied apology to my lady in one sentence where he stated that +Harry’s lameness would prevent his being ever able to gain his living by +the exercise of any mere bodily faculties, “as had been wished by a lady +whose wishes” he, the testator, “was bound to regard.” +</p> + +<p> +But there was a codicil in the will, dated since Lord Ludlow’s +death—feebly written by Mr. Horner himself, as if in preparation only for +some more formal manner of bequest: or, perhaps, only as a mere temporary +arrangement till he could see a lawyer, and have a fresh will made. In this he +revoked his previous bequest to Harry Gregson. He only left two hundred pounds +to Mr. Gray to be used, as that gentleman thought best, for Henry +Gregson’s benefit. With this one exception, he bequeathed all the rest of +his savings to my lady, with a hope that they might form a nest-egg, as it +were, towards the paying off of the mortgage which had been such a grief to him +during his life. I may not repeat all this in lawyer’s phrase; I heard it +through Miss Galindo, and she might make mistakes. Though, indeed, she was very +clear-headed, and soon earned the respect of Mr. Smithson, my lady’s +lawyer from Warwick. Mr. Smithson knew Miss Galindo a little before, both +personally and by reputation; but I don’t think he was prepared to find +her installed as steward’s clerk, and, at first, he was inclined to treat +her, in this capacity, with polite contempt. But Miss Galindo was both a lady +and a spirited, sensible woman, and she could put aside her self-indulgence in +eccentricity of speech and manner whenever she chose. Nay more; she was usually +so talkative, that if she had not been amusing and warm-hearted, one might have +thought her wearisome occasionally. But to meet Mr. Smithson she came out daily +in her Sunday gown; she said no more than was required in answer to his +questions; her books and papers were in thorough order, and methodically kept; +her statements of matters-of-fact accurate, and to be relied on. She was +amusingly conscious of her victory over his contempt of a woman-clerk and his +preconceived opinion of her unpractical eccentricity. +</p> + +<p> +“Let me alone,” said she, one day when she came in to sit awhile +with me. “That man is a good man—a sensible man—and I have no +doubt he is a good lawyer; but he can’t fathom women yet. I make no doubt +he’ll go back to Warwick, and never give credit again to those people who +made him think me half-cracked to begin with. O, my dear, he did! He showed it +twenty times worse than my poor dear master ever did. It was a form to be gone +through to please my lady, and, for her sake, he would hear my statements and +see my books. It was keeping a woman out of harm’s way, at any rate, to +let her fancy herself useful. I read the man. And, I am thankful to say, he +cannot read me. At least, only one side of me. When I see an end to be gained, +I can behave myself accordingly. Here was a man who thought that a woman in a +black silk gown was a respectable, orderly kind of person; and I was a woman in +a black silk gown. He believed that a woman could not write straight lines, and +required a man to tell her that two and two made four. I was not above ruling +my books, and had Cocker a little more at my fingers’ ends than he had. +But my greatest triumph has been holding my tongue. He would have thought +nothing of my books, or my sums, or my black silk gown, if I had spoken +unasked. So I have buried more sense in my bosom these ten days than ever I +have uttered in the whole course of my life before. I have been so curt, so +abrupt, so abominably dull, that I’ll answer for it he thinks me worthy +to be a man. But I must go back to him, my dear, so good-bye to conversation +and you.” +</p> + +<p> +But though Mr. Smithson might be satisfied with Miss Galindo, I am afraid she +was the only part of the affair with which he was content. Everything else went +wrong. I could not say who told me so—but the conviction of this seemed +to pervade the house. I never knew how much we had all looked up to the silent, +gruff Mr. Horner for decisions, until he was gone. My lady herself was a pretty +good woman of business, as women of business go. Her father, seeing that she +would be the heiress of the Hanbury property, had given her a training which +was thought unusual in those days, and she liked to feel herself queen regnant, +and to have to decide in all cases between herself and her tenantry. But, +perhaps, Mr. Horner would have done it more wisely; not but what she always +attended to him at last. She would begin by saying, pretty clearly and +promptly, what she would have done, and what she would not have done. If Mr. +Horner approved of it, he bowed, and set about obeying her directly; if he +disapproved of it, he bowed, and lingered so long before he obeyed her, that +she forced his opinion out of him with her “Well, Mr. Horner! and what +have you to say against it?” For she always understood his silence as +well as if he had spoken. But the estate was pressed for ready money, and Mr. +Horner had grown gloomy and languid since the death of his wife, and even his +own personal affairs were not in the order in which they had been a year or two +before, for his old clerk had gradually become superannuated, or, at any rate, +unable by the superfluity of his own energy and wit to supply the spirit that +was wanting in Mr. Horner. +</p> + +<p> +Day after day Mr. Smithson seemed to grow more fidgety, more annoyed at the +state of affairs. Like every one else employed by Lady Ludlow, as far as I +could learn, he had an hereditary tie to the Hanbury family. As long as the +Smithsons had been lawyers, they had been lawyers to the Hanburys; always +coming in on all great family occasions, and better able to understand the +characters, and connect the links of what had once been a large and scattered +family, than any individual thereof had ever been. +</p> + +<p> +As long as a man was at the head of the Hanburys, the lawyers had simply acted +as servants, and had only given their advice when it was required. But they had +assumed a different position on the memorable occasion of the mortgage: they +had remonstrated against it. My lady had resented this remonstrance, and a +slight, unspoken coolness had existed between her and the father of this Mr. +Smithson ever since. +</p> + +<p> +I was very sorry for my lady. Mr. Smithson was inclined to blame Mr. Horner for +the disorderly state in which he found some of the outlying farms, and for the +deficiencies in the annual payment of rents. Mr. Smithson had too much good +feeling to put this blame into words; but my lady’s quick instinct led +her to reply to a thought, the existence of which she perceived; and she +quietly told the truth, and explained how she had interfered repeatedly to +prevent Mr. Horner from taking certain desirable steps, which were discordant +to her hereditary sense of right and wrong between landlord and tenant. She +also spoke of the want of ready money as a misfortune that could be remedied, +by more economical personal expenditure on her own part; by which individual +saving, it was possible that a reduction of fifty pounds a year might have been +accomplished. But as soon as Mr. Smithson touched on larger economies, such as +either affected the welfare of others, or the honour and standing of the great +House of Hanbury, she was inflexible. Her establishment consisted of somewhere +about forty servants, of whom nearly as many as twenty were unable to perform +their work properly, and yet would have been hurt if they had been dismissed; +so they had the credit of fulfilling duties, while my lady paid and kept their +substitutes. Mr. Smithson made a calculation, and would have saved some +hundreds a year by pensioning off these old servants. But my lady would not +hear of it. Then, again, I know privately that he urged her to allow some of us +to return to our homes. Bitterly we should have regretted the separation from +Lady Ludlow; but we would have gone back gladly, had we known at the time that +her circumstances required it: but she would not listen to the proposal for a +moment. +</p> + +<p> +“If I cannot act justly towards every one, I will give up a plan which +has been a source of much satisfaction; at least, I will not carry it out to +such an extent in future. But to these young ladies, who do me the favour to +live with me at present, I stand pledged. I cannot go back from my word, Mr. +Smithson. We had better talk no more of this.” +</p> + +<p> +As she spoke, she entered the room where I lay. She and Mr. Smithson were +coming for some papers contained in the bureau. They did not know I was there, +and Mr. Smithson started a little when he saw me, as he must have been aware +that I had overheard something. But my lady did not change a muscle of her +face. All the world might overhear her kind, just, pure sayings, and she had no +fear of their misconstruction. She came up to me, and kissed me on the +forehead, and then went to search for the required papers. +</p> + +<p> +“I rode over the Connington farms yesterday, my lady. I must say I was +quite grieved to see the condition they are in; all the land that is not waste +is utterly exhausted with working successive white crops. Not a pinch of manure +laid on the ground for years. I must say that a greater contrast could never +have been presented than that between Harding’s farm and the next +fields—fences in perfect order, rotation crops, sheep eating down the +turnips on the waste lands—everything that could be desired.” +</p> + +<p> +“Whose farm is that?” asked my lady. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, I am sorry to say, it was on none of your ladyship’s that I +saw such good methods adopted. I hoped it was, I stopped my horse to inquire. A +queer-looking man, sitting on his horse like a tailor, watching his men with a +couple of the sharpest eyes I ever saw, and dropping his h’s at every +word, answered my question, and told me it was his. I could not go on asking +him who he was; but I fell into conversation with him, and I gathered that he +had earned some money in trade in Birmingham, and had bought the estate (five +hundred acres, I think he said,) on which he was born, and now was setting +himself to cultivate it in downright earnest, going to Holkham and Woburn, and +half the country over, to get himself up on the subject.” +</p> + +<p> +“It would be Brooke, that dissenting baker from Birmingham,” said +my lady in her most icy tone. “Mr. Smithson, I am sorry I have been +detaining you so long, but I think these are the letters you wished to +see.” +</p> + +<p> +If her ladyship thought by this speech to quench Mr. Smithson she was mistaken. +Mr. Smithson just looked at the letters, and went on with the old subject. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, my lady, it struck me that if you had such a man to take poor +Horner’s place, he would work the rents and the land round most +satisfactorily. I should not despair of inducing this very man to undertake the +work. I should not mind speaking to him myself on the subject, for we got +capital friends over a snack of luncheon that he asked me to share with +him.” +</p> + +<p> +Lady Ludlow fixed her eyes on Mr. Smithson as he spoke, and never took them off +his face until he had ended. She was silent a minute before she answered. +</p> + +<p> +“You are very good, Mr. Smithson, but I need not trouble you with any +such arrangements. I am going to write this afternoon to Captain James, a +friend of one of my sons, who has, I hear, been severely wounded at Trafalgar, +to request him to honour me by accepting Mr. Horner’s situation.” +</p> + +<p> +“A Captain James! A captain in the navy! going to manage your +ladyship’s estate!” +</p> + +<p> +“If he will be so kind. I shall esteem it a condescension on his part; +but I hear that he will have to resign his profession, his state of health is +so bad, and a country life is especially prescribed for him. I am in some hopes +of tempting him here, as I learn he has but little to depend on if he gives up +his profession.” +</p> + +<p> +“A Captain James! an invalid captain!” +</p> + +<p> +“You think I am asking too great a favour,” continued my lady. (I +never could tell how far it was simplicity, or how far a kind of innocent +malice, that made her misinterpret Mr. Smithson’s words and looks as she +did.) “But he is not a post-captain, only a commander, and his pension +will be but small. I may be able, by offering him country air and a healthy +occupation, to restore him to health.” +</p> + +<p> +“Occupation! My lady, may I ask how a sailor is to manage land? Why, your +tenants will laugh him to scorn.” +</p> + +<p> +“My tenants, I trust, will not behave so ill as to laugh at any one I +choose to set over them. Captain James has had experience in managing men. He +has remarkable practical talents, and great common-sense, as I hear from every +one. But, whatever he may be, the affair rests between him and myself. I can +only say I shall esteem myself fortunate if he comes.” +</p> + +<p> +There was no more to be said, after my lady spoke in this manner. I had heard +her mention Captain James before, as a middy who had been very kind to her son +Urian. I thought I remembered then, that she had mentioned that his family +circumstances were not very prosperous. But, I confess, that little as I knew +of the management of land, I quite sided with Mr. Smithson. He, silently +prohibited from again speaking to my lady on the subject, opened his mind to +Miss Galindo, from whom I was pretty sure to hear all the opinions and news of +the household and village. She had taken a great fancy to me, because she said +I talked so agreeably. I believe it was because I listened so well. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, have you heard the news,” she began, “about this +Captain James? A sailor,—with a wooden leg, I have no doubt. What would +the poor, dear, deceased master have said to it, if he had known who was to be +his successor! My dear, I have often thought of the postman’s bringing me +a letter as one of the pleasures I shall miss in heaven. But, really, I think +Mr. Horner may be thankful he has got out of the reach of news; or else he +would hear of Mr. Smithson’s having made up to the Birmingham baker, and +of his one-legged captain, coming to dot-and-go-one over the estate. I suppose +he will look after the labourers through a spy-glass. I only hope he +won’t stick in the mud with his wooden leg; for I, for one, won’t +help him out. Yes, I would,” said she, correcting herself; “I +would, for my lady’s sake.” +</p> + +<p> +“But are you sure he has a wooden leg?” asked I. “I heard +Lady Ludlow tell Mr. Smithson about him, and she only spoke of him as +wounded.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sailors are almost always wounded in the leg. Look at Greenwich +Hospital! I should say there were twenty one-legged pensioners to one without +an arm there. But say he has got half a dozen legs: what has he to do with +managing land? I shall think him very impudent if he comes, taking advantage of +my lady’s kind heart.” +</p> + +<p> +However, come he did. In a month from that time, the carriage was sent to meet +Captain James; just as three years before it had been sent to meet me. His +coming had been so much talked about that we were all as curious as possible to +see him, and to know how so unusual an experiment, as it seemed to us, would +answer. But, before I tell you anything about our new agent, I must speak of +something quite as interesting, and I really think quite as important. And this +was my lady’s making friends with Harry Gregson. I do believe she did it +for Mr. Horner’s sake; but, of course, I can only conjecture why my lady +did anything. But I heard one day, from Mary Legard, that my lady had sent for +Harry to come and see her, if he was well enough to walk so far; and the next +day he was shown into the room he had been in once before under such unlucky +circumstances. +</p> + +<p> +The lad looked pale enough, as he stood propping himself up on his crutch, and +the instant my lady saw him, she bade John Footman place a stool for him to sit +down upon while she spoke to him. It might be his paleness that gave his whole +face a more refined and gentle look; but I suspect it was that the boy was apt +to take impressions, and that Mr. Horner’s grave, dignified ways, and Mr. +Gray’s tender and quiet manners, had altered him; and then the thoughts +of illness and death seem to turn many of us into gentlemen, and gentlewomen, +as long as such thoughts are in our minds. We cannot speak loudly or angrily at +such times; we are not apt to be eager about mere worldly things, for our very +awe at our quickened sense of the nearness of the invisible world, makes us +calm and serene about the petty trifles of to-day. At least, I know that was +the explanation Mr. Gray once gave me of what we all thought the great +improvement in Harry Gregson’s way of behaving. +</p> + +<p> +My lady hesitated so long about what she had best say, that Harry grew a little +frightened at her silence. A few months ago it would have surprised me more +than it did now; but since my lord her son’s death, she had seemed +altered in many ways,—more uncertain and distrustful of herself, as it +were. +</p> + +<p> +At last she said, and I think the tears were in her eyes: “My poor little +fellow, you have had a narrow escape with your life since I saw you +last.” +</p> + +<p> +To this there was nothing to be said but “Yes;” and again there was +silence. +</p> + +<p> +“And you have lost a good, kind friend, in Mr. Horner.” +</p> + +<p> +The boy’s lips worked, and I think he said, “Please, +don’t.” But I can’t be sure; at any rate, my lady went on: +</p> + +<p> +“And so have I,—a good, kind friend, he was to both of us; and to +you he wished to show his kindness in even a more generous way than he has +done. Mr. Gray has told you about his legacy to you, has he not?” +</p> + +<p> +There was no sign of eager joy on the lad’s face, as if he realised the +power and pleasure of having what to him must have seemed like a fortune. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Gray said as how he had left me a matter of money.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, he has left you two hundred pounds.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I would rather have had him alive, my lady,” he burst out, +sobbing as if his heart would break. +</p> + +<p> +“My lad, I believe you. We would rather have had our dead alive, would we +not? and there is nothing in money that can comfort us for their loss. But you +know—Mr. Gray has told you—who has appointed all our times to die. +Mr. Horner was a good, just man; and has done well and kindly, both by me and +you. You perhaps do not know” (and now I understood what my lady had been +making up her mind to say to Harry, all the time she was hesitating how to +begin) “that Mr. Horner, at one time, meant to leave you a great deal +more; probably all he had, with the exception of a legacy to his old clerk, +Morrison. But he knew that this estate—on which my forefathers had lived +for six hundred years—was in debt, and that I had no immediate chance of +paying off this debt; and yet he felt that it was a very sad thing for an old +property like this to belong in part to those other men, who had lent the +money. You understand me, I think, my little man?” said she, questioning +Harry’s face. +</p> + +<p> +He had left off crying, and was trying to understand, with all his might and +main; and I think he had got a pretty good general idea of the state of +affairs; though probably he was puzzled by the term “the estate being in +debt.” But he was sufficiently interested to want my lady to go on; and +he nodded his head at her, to signify this to her. +</p> + +<p> +“So Mr. Horner took the money which he once meant to be yours, and has +left the greater part of it to me, with the intention of helping me to pay off +this debt I have told you about. It will go a long way, and I shall try hard to +save the rest, and then I shall die happy in leaving the land free from +debt.” She paused. “But I shall not die happy in thinking of you. I +do not know if having money, or even having a great estate and much honour, is +a good thing for any of us. But God sees fit that some of us should be called +to this condition, and it is our duty then to stand by our posts, like brave +soldiers. Now, Mr. Horner intended you to have this money first. I shall only +call it borrowing from you, Harry Gregson, if I take it and use it to pay off +the debt. I shall pay Mr. Gray interest on this money, because he is to stand +as your guardian, as it were, till you come of age; and he must fix what ought +to be done with it, so as to fit you for spending the principal rightly when +the estate can repay it you. I suppose, now, it will be right for you to be +educated. That will be another snare that will come with your money. But have +courage, Harry. Both education and money may be used rightly, if we only pray +against the temptations they bring with them.” +</p> + +<p> +Harry could make no answer, though I am sure he understood it all. My lady +wanted to get him to talk to her a little, by way of becoming acquainted with +what was passing in his mind; and she asked him what he would like to have done +with his money, if he could have part of it now? To such a simple question, +involving no talk about feelings, his answer came readily enough. +</p> + +<p> +“Build a cottage for father, with stairs in it, and give Mr. Gray a +school-house. O, father does so want Mr. Gray for to have his wish! Father saw +all the stones lying quarried and hewn on Farmer Hale’s land; Mr. Gray +had paid for them all himself. And father said he would work night and day, and +little Tommy should carry mortar, if the parson would let him, sooner than that +he should be fretted and frabbed as he was, with no one giving him a helping +hand or a kind word.” +</p> + +<p> +Harry knew nothing of my lady’s part in the affair; that was very clear. +My lady kept silence. +</p> + +<p> +“If I might have a piece of my money, I would buy land from Mr. Brooks; +he has got a bit to sell just at the corner of Hendon Lane, and I would give it +to Mr. Gray; and, perhaps, if your ladyship thinks I may be learned again, I +might grow up into the schoolmaster.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are a good boy,” said my lady. “But there are more +things to be thought of, in carrying out such a plan, than you are aware of. +However, it shall be tried.” +</p> + +<p> +“The school, my lady?” I exclaimed, almost thinking she did not +know what she was saying. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, the school. For Mr. Horner’s sake, for Mr. Gray’s sake, +and last, not least, for this lad’s sake, I will give the new plan a +trial. Ask Mr. Gray to come up to me this afternoon about the land he wants. He +need not go to a Dissenter for it. And tell your father he shall have a good +share in the building of it, and Tommy shall carry the mortar.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I may be schoolmaster?” asked Harry, eagerly. +</p> + +<p> +“We’ll see about that,” said my lady, amused. “It will +be some time before that plan comes to pass, my little fellow.” +</p> + +<p> +And now to return to Captain James. My first account of him was from Miss +Galindo. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s not above thirty; and I must just pack up my pens and my +paper, and be off; for it would be the height of impropriety for me to be +staying here as his clerk. It was all very well in the old master’s days. +But here am I, not fifty till next May, and this young, unmarried man, who is +not even a widower! O, there would be no end of gossip. Besides he looks as +askance at me as I do at him. My black silk gown had no effect. He’s +afraid I shall marry him. But I won’t; he may feel himself quite safe +from that. And Mr. Smithson has been recommending a clerk to my lady. She would +far rather keep me on; but I can’t stop. I really could not think it +proper.” +</p> + +<p> +“What sort of a looking man is he?” +</p> + +<p> +“O, nothing particular. Short, and brown, and sunburnt. I did not think +it became me to look at him. Well, now for the nightcaps. I should have grudged +any one else doing them, for I have got such a pretty pattern!” +</p> + +<p> +But when it came to Miss Galindo’s leaving, there was a great +misunderstanding between her and my lady. Miss Galindo had imagined that my +lady had asked her as a favour to copy the letters, and enter the accounts, and +had agreed to do the work without the notion of being paid for so doing. She +had, now and then, grieved over a very profitable order for needlework passing +out of her hands on account of her not having time to do it, because of her +occupation at the Hall; but she had never hinted this to my lady, but gone on +cheerfully at her writing as long as her clerkship was required. My lady was +annoyed that she had not made her intention of paying Miss Galindo more clear, +in the first conversation she had had with her; but I suppose that she had been +too delicate to be very explicit with regard to money matters; and now Miss +Galindo was quite hurt at my lady’s wanting to pay her for what she had +done in such right-down good-will. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” Miss Galindo said; “my own dear lady, you may be as +angry with me as you like, but don’t offer me money. Think of +six-and-twenty years ago, and poor Arthur, and as you were to me then! Besides, +I wanted money—I don’t disguise it—for a particular purpose; +and when I found that (God bless you for asking me!) I could do you a service, +I turned it over in my mind, and I gave up one plan and took up another, and +it’s all settled now. Bessy is to leave school and come and live with me. +Don’t, please, offer me money again. You don’t know how glad I have +been to do anything for you. Have not I, Margaret Dawson? Did you not hear me +say, one day, I would cut off my hand for my lady; for am I a stick or a stone, +that I should forget kindness? O, I have been so glad to work for you. And now +Bessy is coming here; and no one knows anything about her—as if she had +done anything wrong, poor child!” +</p> + +<p> +“Dear Miss Galindo,” replied my lady, “I will never ask you +to take money again. Only I thought it was quite understood between us. And you +know you have taken money for a set of morning wrappers, before now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, my lady; but that was not confidential. Now I was so proud to have +something to do for you confidentially.” +</p> + +<p> +“But who is Bessy?” asked my lady. “I do not understand who +she is, or why she is to come and live with you. Dear Miss Galindo, you must +honour me by being confidential with me in your turn!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>CHAPTER XIII.</h2> + +<p> +I had always understood that Miss Galindo had once been in much better +circumstances, but I had never liked to ask any questions respecting her. But +about this time many things came out respecting her former life, which I will +try and arrange: not however, in the order in which I heard them, but rather as +they occurred. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Galindo was the daughter of a clergyman in Westmoreland. Her father was +the younger brother of a baronet, his ancestor having been one of those of +James the First’s creation. This baronet-uncle of Miss Galindo was one of +the queer, out-of-the-way people who were bred at that time, and in that +northern district of England. I never heard much of him from any one, besides +this one great fact: that he had early disappeared from his family, which +indeed only consisted of a brother and sister who died unmarried, and lived no +one knew where,—somewhere on the Continent, it was supposed, for he had +never returned from the grand tour which he had been sent to make, according to +the general fashion of the day, as soon as he had left Oxford. He corresponded +occasionally with his brother the clergyman; but the letters passed through a +banker’s hands; the banker being pledged to secrecy, and, as he told Mr. +Galindo, having the penalty, if he broke his pledge, of losing the whole +profitable business, and of having the management of the baronet’s +affairs taken out of his hands, without any advantage accruing to the inquirer, +for Sir Lawrence had told Messrs. Graham that, in case his place of residence +was revealed by them, not only would he cease to bank with them, but instantly +take measures to baffle any future inquiries as to his whereabouts, by removing +to some distant country. +</p> + +<p> +Sir Lawrence paid a certain sum of money to his brother’s account every +year; but the time of this payment varied, and it was sometimes eighteen or +nineteen months between the deposits; then, again, it would not be above a +quarter of the time, showing that he intended it to be annual, but, as this +intention was never expressed in words, it was impossible to rely upon it, and +a great deal of this money was swallowed up by the necessity Mr. Galindo felt +himself under of living in the large, old, rambling family mansion, which had +been one of Sir Lawrence’s rarely expressed desires. Mr. and Mrs. Galindo +often planned to live upon their own small fortune and the income derived from +the living (a vicarage, of which the great tithes went to Sir Lawrence as lay +impropriator), so as to put-by the payments made by the baronet, for the +benefit of Laurentia—our Miss Galindo. But I suppose they found it +difficult to live economically in a large house, even though they had it rent +free. They had to keep up with hereditary neighbours and friends, and could +hardly help doing it in the hereditary manner. +</p> + +<p> +One of these neighbours, a Mr. Gibson, had a son a few years older than +Laurentia. The families were sufficiently intimate for the young people to see +a good deal of each other: and I was told that this young Mr. Mark Gibson was +an unusually prepossessing man (he seemed to have impressed every one who spoke +of him to me as being a handsome, manly, kind-hearted fellow), just what a girl +would be sure to find most agreeable. The parents either forgot that their +children were growing up to man’s and woman’s estate, or thought +that the intimacy and probable attachment would be no bad thing, even if it did +lead to a marriage. Still, nothing was ever said by young Gibson till later on, +when it was too late, as it turned out. He went to and from Oxford; he shot and +fished with Mr. Galindo, or came to the Mere to skate in winter-time; was asked +to accompany Mr. Galindo to the Hall, as the latter returned to the quiet +dinner with his wife and daughter; and so, and so, it went on, nobody much knew +how, until one day, when Mr. Galindo received a formal letter from his +brother’s bankers, announcing Sir Lawrence’s death, of malaria +fever, at Albano, and congratulating Sir Hubert on his accession to the estates +and the baronetcy. The king is dead—“Long live the king!” as +I have since heard that the French express it. +</p> + +<p> +Sir Hubert and his wife were greatly surprised. Sir Lawrence was but two years +older than his brother; and they had never heard of any illness till they heard +of his death. They were sorry; very much shocked; but still a little elated at +the succession to the baronetcy and estates. The London bankers had managed +everything well. There was a large sum of ready money in their hands, at Sir +Hubert’s service, until he should touch his rents, the rent-roll being +eight thousand a-year. And only Laurentia to inherit it all! Her mother, a poor +clergyman’s daughter, began to plan all sorts of fine marriages for her; +nor was her father much behind his wife in his ambition. They took her up to +London, when they went to buy new carriages, and dresses, and furniture. And it +was then and there she made my lady’s acquaintance. How it was that they +came to take a fancy to each other, I cannot say. My lady was of the old +nobility,—grand, compose, gentle, and stately in her ways. Miss Galindo +must always have been hurried in her manner, and her energy must have shown +itself in inquisitiveness and oddness even in her youth. But I don’t +pretend to account for things: I only narrate them. And the fact was +this:—that the elegant, fastidious countess was attracted to the country +girl, who on her part almost worshipped my lady. My lady’s notice of +their daughter made her parents think, I suppose, that there was no match that +she might not command; she, the heiress of eight thousand a-year, and visiting +about among earls and dukes. So when they came back to their old Westmoreland +Hall, and Mark Gibson rode over to offer his hand and his heart, and +prospective estate of nine hundred a-year, to his old companion and playfellow, +Laurentia, Sir Hubert and Lady Galindo made very short work of it. They refused +him plumply themselves; and when he begged to be allowed to speak to Laurentia, +they found some excuse for refusing him the opportunity of so doing, until they +had talked to her themselves, and brought up every argument and fact in their +power to convince her—a plain girl, and conscious of her +plainness—that Mr. Mark Gibson had never thought of her in the way of +marriage till after her father’s accession to his fortune; and that it +was the estate—not the young lady—that he was in love with. I +suppose it will never be known in this world how far this supposition of theirs +was true. My Lady Ludlow had always spoken as if it was; but perhaps events, +which came to her knowledge about this time, altered her opinion. At any rate, +the end of it was, Laurentia refused Mark, and almost broke her heart in doing +so. He discovered the suspicions of Sir Hubert and Lady Galindo, and that they +had persuaded their daughter to share in them. So he flung off with high words, +saying that they did not know a true heart when they met with one; and that +although he had never offered till after Sir Lawrence’s death, yet that +his father knew all along that he had been attached to Laurentia, only that he, +being the eldest of five children, and having as yet no profession, had had to +conceal, rather than to express, an attachment, which, in those days, he had +believed was reciprocated. He had always meant to study for the bar, and the +end of all he had hoped for had been to earn a moderate income, which he might +ask Laurentia to share. This, or something like it, was what he said. But his +reference to his father cut two ways. Old Mr. Gibson was known to be very keen +about money. It was just as likely that he would urge Mark to make love to the +heiress, now she was an heiress, as that he would have restrained him +previously, as Mark said he had done. When this was repeated to Mark, he became +proudly reserved, or sullen, and said that Laurentia, at any rate, might have +known him better. He left the country, and went up to London to study law soon +afterwards; and Sir Hubert and Lady Galindo thought they were well rid of him. +But Laurentia never ceased reproaching herself, and never did to her dying day, +as I believe. The words, “She might have known me better,” told to +her by some kind friend or other, rankled in her mind, and were never +forgotten. Her father and mother took her up to London the next year; but she +did not care to visit—dreaded going out even for a drive, lest she should +see Mark Gibson’s reproachful eyes—pined and lost her health. Lady +Ludlow saw this change with regret, and was told the cause by Lady Galindo, who +of course, gave her own version of Mark’s conduct and motives. My lady +never spoke to Miss Galindo about it, but tried constantly to interest and +please her. It was at this time that my lady told Miss Galindo so much about +her own early life, and about Hanbury, that Miss Galindo resolved, if ever she +could, she would go and see the old place which her friend loved so well. The +end of it all was, that she came to live there, as we know. +</p> + +<p> +But a great change was to come first. Before Sir Hubert and Lady Galindo had +left London on this, their second visit, they had a letter from the lawyer, +whom they employed, saying that Sir Lawrence had left an heir, his legitimate +child by an Italian woman of low rank; at least, legal claims to the title and +property had been sent into him on the boy’s behalf. Sir Lawrence had +always been a man of adventurous and artistic, rather than of luxurious tastes; +and it was supposed, when all came to be proved at the trial, that he was +captivated by the free, beautiful life they lead in Italy, and had married this +Neapolitan fisherman’s daughter, who had people about her shrewd enough +to see that the ceremony was legally performed. She and her husband had +wandered about the shores of the Mediterranean for years, leading a happy, +careless, irresponsible life, unencumbered by any duties except those connected +with a rather numerous family. It was enough for her that they never wanted +money, and that her husband’s love was always continued to her. She hated +the name of England—wicked, cold, heretic England—and avoided the +mention of any subjects connected with her husband’s early life. So that, +when he died at Albano, she was almost roused out of her vehement grief to +anger with the Italian doctor, who declared that he must write to a certain +address to announce the death of Lawrence Galindo. For some time, she feared +lest English barbarians might come down upon her, making a claim to the +children. She hid herself and them in the Abruzzi, living upon the sale of what +furniture and jewels Sir Lawrence had died possessed of. When these failed, she +returned to Naples, which she had not visited since her marriage. Her father +was dead; but her brother inherited some of his keenness. He interested the +priests, who made inquiries and found that the Galindo succession was worth +securing to an heir of the true faith. They stirred about it, obtained advice +at the English Embassy; and hence that letter to the lawyers, calling upon Sir +Hubert to relinquish title and property, and to refund what money he had +expended. He was vehement in his opposition to this claim. He could not bear to +think of his brother having married a foreigner—a papist, a +fisherman’s daughter; nay, of his having become a papist himself. He was +in despair at the thought of his ancestral property going to the issue of such +a marriage. He fought tooth and nail, making enemies of his relations, and +losing almost all his own private property; for he would go on against the +lawyer’s advice, long after every one was convinced except himself and +his wife. At last he was conquered. He gave up his living in gloomy despair. He +would have changed his name if he could, so desirous was he to obliterate all +tie between himself and the mongrel papist baronet and his Italian mother, and +all the succession of children and nurses who came to take possession of the +Hall soon after Mr. Hubert Galindo’s departure, stayed there one winter, +and then flitted back to Naples with gladness and delight. Mr. and Mrs. Hubert +Galindo lived in London. He had obtained a curacy somewhere in the city. They +would have been thankful now if Mr. Mark Gibson had renewed his offer. No one +could accuse him of mercenary motives if he had done so. Because he did not +come forward, as they wished, they brought his silence up as a justification of +what they had previously attributed to him. I don’t know what Miss +Galindo thought herself; but Lady Ludlow has told me how she shrank from +hearing her parents abuse him. Lady Ludlow supposed that he was aware that they +were living in London. His father must have known the fact, and it was curious +if he had never named it to his son. Besides, the name was very uncommon; and +it was unlikely that it should never come across him, in the advertisements of +charity sermons which the new and rather eloquent curate of Saint Mark’s +East was asked to preach. All this time Lady Ludlow never lost sight of them, +for Miss Galindo’s sake. And when the father and mother died, it was my +lady who upheld Miss Galindo in her determination not to apply for any +provision to her cousin, the Italian baronet, but rather to live upon the +hundred a-year which had been settled on her mother and the children of his son +Hubert’s marriage by the old grandfather, Sir Lawrence. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Mark Gibson had risen to some eminence as a barrister on the Northern +Circuit, but had died unmarried in the lifetime of his father, a victim (so +people said) to intemperance. Doctor Trevor, the physician who had been called +in to Mr. Gray and Harry Gregson, had married a sister of his. And that was all +my lady knew about the Gibson family. But who was Bessy? +</p> + +<p> +That mystery and secret came out, too, in process of time. Miss Galindo had +been to Warwick, some years before I arrived at Hanbury, on some kind of +business or shopping, which can only be transacted in a county town. There was +an old Westmoreland connection between her and Mrs. Trevor, though I believe +the latter was too young to have been made aware of her brother’s offer +to Miss Galindo at the time when it took place; and such affairs, if they are +unsuccessful, are seldom spoken about in the gentleman’s family +afterwards. But the Gibsons and Galindos had been county neighbours too long +for the connection not to be kept up between two members settled far away from +their early homes. Miss Galindo always desired her parcels to be sent to Dr. +Trevor’s, when she went to Warwick for shopping purchases. If she were +going any journey, and the coach did not come through Warwick as soon as she +arrived (in my lady’s coach or otherwise) from Hanbury, she went to +Doctor Trevor’s to wait. She was as much expected to sit down to the +household meals as if she had been one of the family: and in after-years it was +Mrs. Trevor who managed her repository business for her. +</p> + +<p> +So, on the day I spoke of, she had gone to Doctor Trevor’s to rest, and +possibly to dine. The post in those times, came in at all hours of the morning: +and Doctor Trevor’s letters had not arrived until after his departure on +his morning round. Miss Galindo was sitting down to dinner with Mrs. Trevor and +her seven children, when the Doctor came in. He was flurried and uncomfortable, +and hurried the children away as soon as he decently could. Then (rather +feeling Miss Galindo’s presence an advantage, both as a present restraint +on the violence of his wife’s grief, and as a consoler when he was absent +on his afternoon round), he told Mrs. Trevor of her brother’s death. He +had been taken ill on circuit, and had hurried back to his chambers in London +only to die. She cried terribly; but Doctor Trevor said afterwards, he never +noticed that Miss Galindo cared much about it one way or another. She helped +him to soothe his wife, promised to stay with her all the afternoon instead of +returning to Hanbury, and afterwards offered to remain with her while the +Doctor went to attend the funeral. When they heard of the old love-story +between the dead man and Miss Galindo,—brought up by mutual friends in +Westmoreland, in the review which we are all inclined to take of the events of +a man’s life when he comes to die,—they tried to remember Miss +Galindo’s speeches and ways of going on during this visit. She was a +little pale, a little silent; her eyes were sometimes swollen, and her nose +red; but she was at an age when such appearances are generally attributed to a +bad cold in the head, rather than to any more sentimental reason. They felt +towards her as towards an old friend, a kindly, useful, eccentric old maid. She +did not expect more, or wish them to remember that she might once have had +other hopes, and more youthful feelings. Doctor Trevor thanked her very warmly +for staying with his wife, when he returned home from London (where the funeral +had taken place). He begged Miss Galindo to stay with them, when the children +were gone to bed, and she was preparing to leave the husband and wife by +themselves. He told her and his wife many particulars—then +paused—then went on—“And Mark has left a child—a little +girl— +</p> + +<p> +“But he never was married!” exclaimed Mrs. Trevor. +</p> + +<p> +“A little girl,” continued her husband, “whose mother, I +conclude, is dead. At any rate, the child was in possession of his chambers; +she and an old nurse, who seemed to have the charge of everything, and has +cheated poor Mark, I should fancy, not a little.” +</p> + +<p> +“But the child!” asked Mrs. Trevor, still almost breathless with +astonishment. “How do you know it is his?” +</p> + +<p> +“The nurse told me it was, with great appearance of indignation at my +doubting it. I asked the little thing her name, and all I could get was +‘Bessy!’ and a cry of ‘Me wants papa!’ The nurse said +the mother was dead, and she knew no more about it than that Mr. Gibson had +engaged her to take care of the little girl, calling it his child. One or two +of his lawyer friends, whom I met with at the funeral, told me they were aware +of the existence of the child.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is to be done with her?” asked Mrs. Gibson. +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, I don’t know,” replied he. “Mark has hardly left +assets enough to pay his debts, and your father is not inclined to come +forward.” +</p> + +<p> +That night, as Doctor Trevor sat in his study, after his wife had gone to bed, +Miss Galindo knocked at his door. She and he had a long conversation. The +result was that he accompanied Miss Galindo up to town the next day; that they +took possession of the little Bessy, and she was brought down, and placed at +nurse at a farm in the country near Warwick, Miss Galindo undertaking to pay +one-half of the expense, and to furnish her with clothes, and Dr. Trevor +undertaking that the remaining half should be furnished by the Gibson family, +or by himself in their default. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Galindo was not fond of children; and I dare say she dreaded taking this +child to live with her for more reasons than one. My Lady Ludlow could not +endure any mention of illegitimate children. It was a principle of hers that +society ought to ignore them. And I believe Miss Galindo had always agreed with +her until now, when the thing came home to her womanly heart. Still she shrank +from having this child of some strange woman under her roof. She went over to +see it from time to time; she worked at its clothes long after every one +thought she was in bed; and, when the time came for Bessy to be sent to school, +Miss Galindo laboured away more diligently than ever, in order to pay the +increased expense. For the Gibson family had, at first, paid their part of the +compact, but with unwillingness and grudging hearts; then they had left it off +altogether, and it fell hard on Dr. Trevor with his twelve children; and, +latterly, Miss Galindo had taken upon herself almost all the burden. One can +hardly live and labour, and plan and make sacrifices, for any human creature, +without learning to love it. And Bessy loved Miss Galindo, too, for all the +poor girl’s scanty pleasures came from her, and Miss Galindo had always a +kind word, and, latterly, many a kind caress, for Mark Gibson’s child; +whereas, if she went to Dr. Trevor’s for her holiday, she was overlooked +and neglected in that bustling family, who seemed to think that if she had +comfortable board and lodging under their roof, it was enough. +</p> + +<p> +I am sure, now, that Miss Galindo had often longed to have Bessy to live with +her; but, as long as she could pay for her being at school, she did not like to +take so bold a step as bringing her home, knowing what the effect of the +consequent explanation would be on my lady. And as the girl was now more than +seventeen, and past the age when young ladies are usually kept at school, and +as there was no great demand for governesses in those days, and as Bessy had +never been taught any trade by which to earn her own living, why I don’t +exactly see what could have been done but for Miss Galindo to bring her to her +own home in Hanbury. For, although the child had grown up lately, in a kind of +unexpected manner, into a young woman, Miss Galindo might have kept her at +school for a year longer, if she could have afforded it; but this was +impossible when she became Mr. Horner’s clerk, and relinquished all the +payment of her repository work; and perhaps, after all, she was not sorry to be +compelled to take the step she was longing for. At any rate, Bessy came to live +with Miss Galindo, in a very few weeks from the time when Captain James set +Miss Galindo free to superintend her own domestic economy again. +</p> + +<p> +For a long time, I knew nothing about this new inhabitant of Hanbury. My lady +never mentioned her in any way. This was in accordance with Lady Ludlow’s +well-known principles. She neither saw nor heard, nor was in any way cognisant +of the existence of those who had no legal right to exist at all. If Miss +Galindo had hoped to have an exception made in Bessy’s favour, she was +mistaken. My lady sent a note inviting Miss Galindo herself to tea one evening, +about a month after Bessy came; but Miss Galindo “had a cold and could +not come.” The next time she was invited, she “had an engagement at +home”—a step nearer to the absolute truth. And the third time, she +“had a young friend staying with her whom she was unable to leave.” +My lady accepted every excuse as bonâ fide, and took no further notice. I +missed Miss Galindo very much; we all did; for, in the days when she was clerk, +she was sure to come in and find the opportunity of saying something amusing to +some of us before she went away. And I, as an invalid, or perhaps from natural +tendency, was particularly fond of little bits of village gossip. There was no +Mr. Horner—he even had come in, now and then, with formal, stately pieces +of intelligence—and there was no Miss Galindo in these days. I missed her +much. And so did my lady, I am sure. Behind all her quiet, sedate manner, I am +certain her heart ached sometimes for a few words from Miss Galindo, who seemed +to have absented herself altogether from the Hall now Bessy was come. +</p> + +<p> +Captain James might be very sensible, and all that; but not even my lady could +call him a substitute for the old familiar friends. He was a thorough sailor, +as sailors were in those days—swore a good deal, drank a good deal +(without its ever affecting him in the least), and was very prompt and +kind-hearted in all his actions; but he was not accustomed to women, as my lady +once said, and would judge in all things for himself. My lady had expected, I +think, to find some one who would take his notions on the management of her +estate from her ladyship’s own self; but he spoke as if he were +responsible for the good management of the whole, and must, consequently, be +allowed full liberty of action. He had been too long in command over men at sea +to like to be directed by a woman in anything he undertook, even though that +woman was my lady. I suppose this was the common-sense my lady spoke of; but +when common-sense goes against us, I don’t think we value it quite so +much as we ought to do. +</p> + +<p> +Lady Ludlow was proud of her personal superintendence of her own estate. She +liked to tell us how her father used to take her with him in his rides, and bid +her observe this and that, and on no account to allow such and such things to +be done. But I have heard that the first time she told all this to Captain +James, he told her point-blank that he had heard from Mr. Smithson that the +farms were much neglected and the rents sadly behindhand, and that he meant to +set to in good earnest and study agriculture, and see how he could remedy the +state of things. My lady would, I am sure, be greatly surprised, but what could +she do? Here was the very man she had chosen herself, setting to with all his +energy to conquer the defect of ignorance, which was all that those who had +presumed to offer her ladyship advice had ever had to say against him. Captain +James read Arthur Young’s “Tours” in all his spare time, as +long as he was an invalid; and shook his head at my lady’s accounts as to +how the land had been cropped or left fallow from time immemorial. Then he set +to, and tried too many new experiments at once. My lady looked on in dignified +silence; but all the farmers and tenants were in an uproar, and prophesied a +hundred failures. Perhaps fifty did occur; they were only half as many as Lady +Ludlow had feared; but they were twice as many, four, eight times as many as +the captain had anticipated. His openly-expressed disappointment made him +popular again. The rough country people could not have understood silent and +dignified regret at the failure of his plans, but they sympathized with a man +who swore at his ill success—sympathized, even while they chuckled over +his discomfiture. Mr. Brooke, the retired tradesman, did not cease blaming him +for not succeeding, and for swearing. “But what could you expect from a +sailor?” Mr. Brooke asked, even in my lady’s hearing; though he +might have known Captain James was my lady’s own personal choice, from +the old friendship Mr. Urian had always shown for him. I think it was this +speech of the Birmingham baker’s that made my lady determine to stand by +Captain James, and encourage him to try again. For she would not allow that her +choice had been an unwise one, at the bidding (as it were) of a dissenting +tradesman; the only person in the neighbourhood, too, who had flaunted about in +coloured clothes, when all the world was in mourning for my lady’s only +son. +</p> + +<p> +Captain James would have thrown the agency up at once, if my lady had not felt +herself bound to justify the wisdom of her choice, by urging him to stay. He +was much touched by her confidence in him, and swore a great oath, that the +next year he would make the land such as it had never been before for produce. +It was not my lady’s way to repeat anything she had heard, especially to +another person’s disadvantage. So I don’t think she ever told +Captain James of Mr. Brooke’s speech about a sailor’s being likely +to mismanage the property; and the captain was too anxious to succeed in this, +the second year of his trial, to be above going to the flourishing, shrewd Mr. +Brooke, and asking for his advice as to the best method of working the estate. +I dare say, if Miss Galindo had been as intimate as formerly at the Hall, we +should all of us have heard of this new acquaintance of the agent’s long +before we did. As it was, I am sure my lady never dreamed that the captain, who +held opinions that were even more Church and King than her own, could ever have +made friends with a Baptist baker from Birmingham, even to serve her +ladyship’s own interests in the most loyal manner. +</p> + +<p> +We heard of it first from Mr. Gray, who came now often to see my lady, for +neither he nor she could forget the solemn tie which the fact of his being the +person to acquaint her with my lord’s death had created between them. For +true and holy words spoken at that time, though having no reference to aught +below the solemn subjects of life and death, had made her withdraw her +opposition to Mr. Gray’s wish about establishing a village school. She +had sighed a little, it is true, and was even yet more apprehensive than +hopeful as to the result; but almost as if as a memorial to my lord, she had +allowed a kind of rough school-house to be built on the green, just by the +church; and had gently used the power she undoubtedly had, in expressing her +strong wish that the boys might only be taught to read and write, and the first +four rules of arithmetic; while the girls were only to learn to read, and to +add up in their heads, and the rest of the time to work at mending their own +clothes, knitting stockings and spinning. My lady presented the school with +more spinning-wheels than there were girls, and requested that there might be a +rule that they should have spun so many hanks of flax, and knitted so many +pairs of stockings, before they ever were taught to read at all. After all, it +was but making the best of a bad job with my poor lady—but life was not +what it had been to her. I remember well the day that Mr. Gray pulled some +delicately fine yarn (and I was a good judge of those things) out of his +pocket, and laid it and a capital pair of knitted stockings before my lady, as +the first-fruits, so to say, of his school. I recollect seeing her put on her +spectacles, and carefully examine both productions. Then she passed them to me. +</p> + +<p> +“This is well, Mr. Gray. I am much pleased. You are fortunate in your +schoolmistress. She has had both proper knowledge of womanly things and much +patience. Who is she? One out of our village?” +</p> + +<p> +“My lady,” said Mr. Gray, stammering and colouring in his old +fashion, “Miss Bessy is so very kind as to teach all those sorts of +things—Miss Bessy, and Miss Galindo, sometimes.” +</p> + +<p> +My lady looked at him over her spectacles: but she only repeated the words +“Miss Bessy,” and paused, as if trying to remember who such a +person could be; and he, if he had then intended to say more, was quelled by +her manner, and dropped the subject. He went on to say, that he had thought it +his duty to decline the subscription to his school offered by Mr. Brooke, +because he was a Dissenter; that he (Mr. Gray) feared that Captain James, +through whom Mr. Brooke’s offer of money had been made, was offended at +his refusing to accept it from a man who held heterodox opinions; nay, whom Mr. +Gray suspected of being infected by Dodwell’s heresy. +</p> + +<p> +“I think there must be some mistake,” said my lady, “or I +have misunderstood you. Captain James would never be sufficiently with a +schismatic to be employed by that man Brooke in distributing his charities. I +should have doubted, until now, if Captain James knew him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, my lady, he not only knows him, but is intimate with him, I +regret to say. I have repeatedly seen the captain and Mr. Brooke walking +together; going through the fields together; and people do say—” +</p> + +<p> +My lady looked up in interrogation at Mr. Gray’s pause. +</p> + +<p> +“I disapprove of gossip, and it may be untrue; but people do say that +Captain James is very attentive to Miss Brooke.” +</p> + +<p> +“Impossible!” said my lady, indignantly. “Captain James is a +loyal and religious man. I beg your pardon Mr. Gray, but it is +impossible.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>CHAPTER XIV.</h2> + +<p> +Like many other things which have been declared to be impossible, this report +of Captain James being attentive to Miss Brooke turned out to be very true. +</p> + +<p> +The mere idea of her agent being on the slightest possible terms of +acquaintance with the Dissenter, the tradesman, the Birmingham democrat, who +had come to settle in our good, orthodox, aristocratic, and agricultural +Hanbury, made my lady very uneasy. Miss Galindo’s misdemeanour in having +taken Miss Bessy to live with her, faded into a mistake, a mere error of +judgment, in comparison with Captain James’s intimacy at Yeast House, as +the Brookes called their ugly square-built farm. My lady talked herself quite +into complacency with Miss Galindo, and even Miss Bessy was named by her, the +first time I had ever been aware that my lady recognized her existence; +but—I recollect it was a long rainy afternoon, and I sat with her +ladyship, and we had time and opportunity for a long uninterrupted +talk—whenever we had been silent for a little while she began again, with +something like a wonder how it was that Captain James could ever have commenced +an acquaintance with “that man Brooke.” My lady recapitulated all +the times she could remember, that anything had occurred, or been said by +Captain James which she could now understand as throwing light upon the +subject. +</p> + +<p> +“He said once that he was anxious to bring in the Norfolk system of +cropping, and spoke a good deal about Mr. Coke of Holkham (who, by the way, was +no more a Coke than I am—collateral in the female line—which counts +for little or nothing among the great old commoners’ families of pure +blood), and his new ways of cultivation; of course new men bring in new ways, +but it does not follow that either are better than the old ways. However, +Captain James has been very anxious to try turnips and bone manure, and he +really is a man of such good sense and energy, and was so sorry last year about +the failure, that I consented; and now I begin to see my error. I have always +heard that town bakers adulterate their flour with bone-dust; and, of course, +Captain James would be aware of this, and go to Brooke to inquire where the +article was to be purchased.” +</p> + +<p> +My lady always ignored the fact which had sometimes, I suspect, been brought +under her very eyes during her drives, that Mr. Brooke’s few fields were +in a state of far higher cultivation than her own; so she could not, of course, +perceive that there was any wisdom to be gained from asking the advice of the +tradesman turned farmer. +</p> + +<p> +But by-and-by this fact of her agent’s intimacy with the person whom in +the whole world she most disliked (with that sort of dislike in which a large +amount of uncomfortableness is combined—the dislike which conscientious +people sometimes feel to another without knowing why, and yet which they cannot +indulge in with comfort to themselves without having a moral reason why), came +before my lady in many shapes. For, indeed I am sure that Captain James was not +a man to conceal or be ashamed of one of his actions. I cannot fancy his ever +lowering his strong loud clear voice, or having a confidental conversation with +any one. When his crops had failed, all the village had known it. He +complained, he regretted, he was angry, or owned himself a —- fool, all +down the village street; and the consequence was that, although he was a far +more passionate man than Mr. Horner, all the tenants liked him far better. +People, in general, take a kindlier interest in any one, the workings of whose +mind and heart they can watch and understand, than in a man who only lets you +know what he has been thinking about and feeling, by what he does. But Harry +Gregson was faithful to the memory of Mr. Horner. Miss Galindo has told me that +she used to watch him hobble out of the way of Captain James, as if to accept +his notice, however good-naturedly given, would have been a kind of treachery +to his former benefactor. But Gregson (the father) and the new agent rather +took to each other; and one day, much to my surprise, I heard that the +“poaching, tinkering vagabond,” as the people used to call Gregson +when I first had come to live at Hanbury, had been appointed gamekeeper; Mr. +Gray standing godfather, as it were, to his trustworthiness, if he were trusted +with anything; which I thought at the time was rather an experiment, only it +answered, as many of Mr. Gray’s deeds of daring did. It was curious how +he was growing to be a kind of autocrat in the village; and how unconscious he +was of it. He was as shy and awkward and nervous as ever in any affair that was +not of some moral consequence to him. But as soon as he was convinced that a +thing was right, he “shut his eyes and ran and butted at it like a +ram,” as Captain James once expressed it, in talking over something Mr. +Gray had done. People in the village said, “they never knew what the +parson would be at next;” or they might have said, “where his +reverence would next turn up.” For I have heard of his marching right +into the middle of a set of poachers, gathered together for some desperate +midnight enterprise, or walking into a public-house that lay just beyond the +bounds of my lady’s estate, and in that extra-parochial piece of ground I +named long ago, and which was considered the rendezvous of all the +ne’er-do-weel characters for miles round, and where a parson and a +constable were held in much the same kind of esteem as unwelcome visitors. And +yet Mr. Gray had his long fits of depression, in which he felt as if he were +doing nothing, making no way in his work, useless and unprofitable, and better +out of the world than in it. In comparison with the work he had set himself to +do, what he did seemed to be nothing. I suppose it was constitutional, those +attacks of lowness of spirits which he had about this time; perhaps a part of +the nervousness which made him always so awkward when he came to the Hall. Even +Mrs. Medlicott, who almost worshipped the ground he trod on, as the saying is, +owned that Mr. Gray never entered one of my lady’s rooms without knocking +down something, and too often breaking it. He would much sooner have faced a +desperate poacher than a young lady any day. At least so we thought. +</p> + +<p> +I do not know how it was that it came to pass that my lady became reconciled to +Miss Galindo about this time. Whether it was that her ladyship was weary of the +unspoken coolness with her old friend; or that the specimens of delicate sewing +and fine spinning at the school had mollified her towards Miss Bessy; but I was +surprised to learn one day that Miss Galindo and her young friend were coming +that very evening to tea at the Hall. This information was given me by Mrs. +Medlicott, as a message from my lady, who further went on to desire that +certain little preparations should be made in her own private sitting-room, in +which the greater part of my days were spent. From the nature of these +preparations, I became quite aware that my lady intended to do honour to her +expected visitors. Indeed, Lady Ludlow never forgave by halves, as I have known +some people do. Whoever was coming as a visitor to my lady, peeress, or poor +nameless girl, there was a certain amount of preparation required in order to +do them fitting honour. I do not mean to say that the preparation was of the +same degree of importance in each case. I dare say, if a peeress had come to +visit us at the Hall, the covers would have been taken off the furniture in the +white drawing-room (they never were uncovered all the time I stayed at the +Hall), because my lady would wish to offer her the ornaments and luxuries which +this grand visitor (who never came—I wish she had! I did so want to see +that furniture uncovered!) was accustomed to at home, and to present them to +her in the best order in which my lady could. The same rule, mollified, held +good with Miss Galindo. Certain things, in which my lady knew she took an +interest, were laid out ready for her to examine on this very day; and, what +was more, great books of prints were laid out, such as I remembered my lady had +had brought forth to beguile my own early days of illness,—Mr. +Hogarth’s works, and the like,—which I was sure were put out for +Miss Bessy. +</p> + +<p> +No one knows how curious I was to see this mysterious Miss Bessy—twenty +times more mysterious, of course, for want of her surname. And then again (to +try and account for my great curiosity, of which in recollection I am more than +half ashamed), I had been leading the quiet monotonous life of a crippled +invalid for many years,—shut up from any sight of new faces; and this was +to be the face of one whom I had thought about so much and so long,—Oh! I +think I might be excused. +</p> + +<p> +Of course they drank tea in the great hall, with the four young gentlewomen, +who, with myself, formed the small bevy now under her ladyship’s charge. +Of those who were at Hanbury when first I came, none remained; all were +married, or gone once more to live at some home which could be called their +own, whether the ostensible head were father or brother. I myself was not +without some hopes of a similar kind. My brother Harry was now a curate in +Westmoreland, and wanted me to go and live with him, as eventually I did for a +time. But that is neither here nor there at present. What I am talking about is +Miss Bessy. +</p> + +<p> +After a reasonable time had elapsed, occupied as I well knew by the meal in the +great hall,—the measured, yet agreeable conversation +afterwards,—and a certain promenade around the hall, and through the +drawing-rooms, with pauses before different pictures, the history or subject of +each of which was invariably told by my lady to every new visitor,—a sort +of giving them the freedom of the old family-seat, by describing the kind and +nature of the great progenitors who had lived there before the +narrator,—I heard the steps approaching my lady’s room, where I +lay. I think I was in such a state of nervous expectation, that if I could have +moved easily, I should have got up and run away. And yet I need not have been, +for Miss Galindo was not in the least altered (her nose a little redder, to be +sure, but then that might only have had a temporary cause in the private crying +I know she would have had before coming to see her dear Lady Ludlow once +again). But I could almost have pushed Miss Galindo away, as she intercepted me +in my view of the mysterious Miss Bessy. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Bessy was, as I knew, only about eighteen, but she looked older. Dark +hair, dark eyes, a tall, firm figure, a good, sensible face, with a serene +expression, not in the least disturbed by what I had been thinking must be such +awful circumstances as a first introduction to my lady, who had so disapproved +of her very existence: those are the clearest impressions I remember of my +first interview with Miss Bessy. She seemed to observe us all, in her quiet +manner, quite as much as I did her; but she spoke very little; occupied +herself, indeed, as my lady had planned, with looking over the great books of +engravings. I think I must have (foolishly) intended to make her feel at her +ease, by my patronage; but she was seated far away from my sofa, in order to +command the light, and really seemed so unconcerned at her unwonted +circumstances, that she did not need my countenance or kindness. One thing I +did like—her watchful look at Miss Galindo from time to time: it showed +that her thoughts and sympathy were ever at Miss Galindo’s service, as +indeed they well might be. When Miss Bessy spoke, her voice was full and clear, +and what she said, to the purpose, though there was a slight provincial accent +in her way of speaking. After a while, my lady set us two to play at chess, a +game which I had lately learnt at Mr. Gray’s suggestion. Still we did not +talk much together, though we were becoming attracted towards each other, I +fancy. +</p> + +<p> +“You will play well,” said she. “You have only learnt about +six months, have you? And yet you can nearly beat me, who have been at it as +many years.” +</p> + +<p> +“I began to learn last November. I remember Mr. Gray’s bringing me +‘Philidor on Chess,’ one very foggy, dismal day.” +</p> + +<p> +What made her look up so suddenly, with bright inquiry in her eyes? What made +her silent for a moment as if in thought, and then go on with something, I know +not what, in quite an altered tone? +</p> + +<p> +My lady and Miss Galindo went on talking, while I sat thinking. I heard Captain +James’s name mentioned pretty frequently; and at last my lady put down +her work, and said, almost with tears in her eyes: +</p> + +<p> +“I could not—I cannot believe it. He must be aware she is a +schismatic; a baker’s daughter; and he is a gentleman by virtue and +feeling, as well as by his profession, though his manners may be at times a +little rough. My dear Miss Galindo, what will this world come to?” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Galindo might possibly be aware of her own share in bringing the world to +the pass which now dismayed my lady,—for of course, though all was now +over and forgiven, yet Miss, Bessy’s being received into a respectable +maiden lady’s house, was one of the portents as to the world’s +future which alarmed her ladyship; and Miss Galindo knew this,—but, at +any rate, she had too lately been forgiven herself not to plead for mercy for +the next offender against my lady’s delicate sense of fitness and +propriety,—so she replied: +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, my lady, I have long left off trying to conjecture what makes +Jack fancy Gill, or Gill Jack. It’s best to sit down quiet under the +belief that marriages are made for us, somewhere out of this world, and out of +the range of this world’s reason and laws. I’m not so sure that I +should settle it down that they were made in heaven; t’other place seems +to me as likely a workshop; but at any rate, I’ve given up troubling my +head as to why they take place. Captain James is a gentleman; I make no doubt +of that ever since I saw him stop to pick up old Goody Blake (when she tumbled +down on the slide last winter) and then swear at a little lad who was laughing +at her, and cuff him till he tumbled down crying; but we must have bread +somehow, and though I like it better baked at home in a good sweet brick oven, +yet, as some folks never can get it to rise, I don’t see why a man may +not be a baker. You see, my lady, I look upon baking as a simple trade, and as +such lawful. There is no machine comes in to take away a man’s or +woman’s power of earning their living, like the spinning-jenny (the old +busybody that she is), to knock up all our good old women’s livelihood, +and send them to their graves before their time. There’s an invention of +the enemy, if you will!” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s very true!” said my lady, shaking her head. +</p> + +<p> +“But baking bread is wholesome, straightforward elbow-work. They have not +got to inventing any contrivance for that yet, thank Heaven! It does not seem +to me natural, nor according to Scripture, that iron and steel (whose brows +can’t sweat) should be made to do man’s work. And so I say, all +those trades where iron and steel do the work ordained to man at the Fall, are +unlawful, and I never stand up for them. But say this baker Brooke did knead +his bread, and make it rise, and then that people, who had, perhaps, no good +ovens, came to him, and bought his good light bread, and in this manner he +turned an honest penny and got rich; why, all I say, my lady, is this,—I +dare say he would have been born a Hanbury, or a lord if he could; and if he +was not, it is no fault of his, that I can see, that he made good bread (being +a baker by trade), and got money, and bought his land. It was his misfortune, +not his fault, that he was not a person of quality by birth.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s very true,” said my lady, after a moment’s +pause for consideration. “But, although he was a baker, he might have +been a Churchman. Even your eloquence, Miss Galindo, shan’t convince me +that that is not his own fault.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t see even that, begging your pardon, my lady,” said +Miss Galindo, emboldened by the first success of her eloquence. “When a +Baptist is a baby, if I understand their creed aright, he is not baptized; and, +consequently, he can have no godfathers and godmothers to do anything for him +in his baptism; you agree to that, my lady?” +</p> + +<p> +My lady would rather have known what her acquiescence would lead to, before +acknowledging that she could not dissent from this first proposition; still she +gave her tacit agreement by bowing her head. +</p> + +<p> +“And, you know, our godfathers and godmothers are expected to promise and +vow three things in our name, when we are little babies, and can do nothing but +squall for ourselves. It is a great privilege, but don’t let us be hard +upon those who have not had the chance of godfathers and godmothers. Some +people, we know, are born with silver spoons,—that’s to say, a +godfather to give one things, and teach one’s catechism, and see that +we’re confirmed into good church-going Christians,—and others with +wooden ladles in their mouths. These poor last folks must just be content to be +godfatherless orphans, and Dissenters, all their lives; and if they are +tradespeople into the bargain, so much the worse for them; but let us be humble +Christians, my dear lady, and not hold our heads too high because we were born +orthodox quality.” +</p> + +<p> +“You go on too fast, Miss Galindo! I can’t follow you. Besides, I +do believe dissent to be an invention of the Devil’s. Why can’t +they believe as we do? It’s very wrong. Besides, its schism and heresy, +and, you know, the Bible says that’s as bad as witchcraft.” +</p> + +<p> +My lady was not convinced, as I could see. After Miss Galindo had gone, she +sent Mrs. Medlicott for certain books out of the great old library up stairs, +and had them made up into a parcel under her own eye. +</p> + +<p> +“If Captain James comes to-morrow, I will speak to him about these +Brookes. I have not hitherto liked to speak to him, because I did not wish to +hurt him, by supposing there could be any truth in the reports about his +intimacy with them. But now I will try and do my duty by him and them. Surely +this great body of divinity will bring them back to the true church.” +</p> + +<p> +I could not tell, for though my lady read me over the titles, I was not any the +wiser as to their contents. Besides, I was much more anxious to consult my lady +as to my own change of place. I showed her the letter I had that day received +from Harry; and we once more talked over the expediency of my going to live +with him, and trying what entire change of air would do to re-establish my +failing health. I could say anything to my lady, she was so sure to understand +me rightly. For one thing, she never thought of herself, so I had no fear of +hurting her by stating the truth. I told her how happy my years had been while +passed under her roof; but that now I had begun to wonder whether I had not +duties elsewhere, in making a home for Harry,—and whether the fulfilment +of these duties, quiet ones they must needs be in the case of such a cripple as +myself, would not prevent my sinking into the querulous habit of thinking and +talking, into which I found myself occasionally falling. Add to which, there +was the prospect of benefit from the more bracing air of the north. +</p> + +<p> +It was then settled that my departure from Hanbury, my happy home for so long, +was to take place before many weeks had passed. And as, when one period of life +is about to be shut up for ever, we are sure to look back upon it with fond +regret, so I, happy enough in my future prospects, could not avoid recurring to +all the days of my life in the Hall, from the time when I came to it, a shy +awkward girl, scarcely past childhood, to now, when a grown woman,—past +childhood—almost, from the very character of my illness, past +youth,—I was looking forward to leaving my lady’s house (as a +residence) for ever. As it has turned out, I never saw either her or it again. +Like a piece of sea-wreck, I have drifted away from those days: quiet, happy, +eventless days,—very happy to remember! +</p> + +<p> +I thought of good, jovial Mr. Mountford,—and his regrets that he might +not keep a pack, “a very small pack,” of harriers, and his merry +ways, and his love of good eating; of the first coming of Mr. Gray, and my +lady’s attempt to quench his sermons, when they tended to enforce any +duty connected with education. And now we had an absolute school-house in the +village; and since Miss Bessy’s drinking tea at the Hall, my lady had +been twice inside it, to give directions about some fine yarn she was having +spun for table-napery. And her ladyship had so outgrown her old custom of +dispensing with sermon or discourse, that even during the temporary preaching +of Mr. Crosse, she had never had recourse to it, though I believe she would +have had all the congregation on her side if she had. +</p> + +<p> +And Mr. Horner was dead, and Captain James reigned in his stead. Good, steady, +severe, silent Mr. Horner! with his clock-like regularity, and his +snuff-coloured clothes, and silver buckles! I have often wondered which one +misses most when they are dead and gone,—the bright creatures full of +life, who are hither and thither and everywhere, so that no one can reckon upon +their coming and going, with whom stillness and the long quiet of the grave, +seems utterly irreconcilable, so full are they of vivid motion and +passion,—or the slow, serious people, whose movements—nay, whose +very words, seem to go by clockwork; who never appear much to affect the course +of our life while they are with us, but whose methodical ways show themselves, +when they are gone, to have been intertwined with our very roots of daily +existence. I think I miss these last the most, although I may have loved the +former best. Captain James never was to me what Mr. Horner was, though the +latter had hardly changed a dozen words with me at the day of his death. Then +Miss Galindo! I remembered the time as if it had been only yesterday, when she +was but a name—and a very odd one—to me; then she was a queer, +abrupt, disagreeable, busy old maid. Now I loved her dearly, and I found out +that I was almost jealous of Miss Bessy. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Gray I never thought of with love; the feeling was almost reverence with +which I looked upon him. I have not wished to speak much of myself, or else I +could have told you how much he had been to me during these long, weary years +of illness. But he was almost as much to every one, rich and poor, from my lady +down to Miss Galindo’s Sally. +</p> + +<p> +The village, too, had a different look about it. I am sure I could not tell you +what caused the change; but there were no more lounging young men to form a +group at the cross-road, at a time of day when young men ought to be at work. I +don’t say this was all Mr. Gray’s doing, for there really was so +much to do in the fields that there was but little time for lounging +now-a-days. And the children were hushed up in school, and better behaved out +of it, too, than in the days when I used to be able to go my lady’s +errands in the village. I went so little about now, that I am sure I +can’t tell who Miss Galindo found to scold; and yet she looked so well +and so happy that I think she must have had her accustomed portion of that +wholesome exercise. +</p> + +<p> +Before I left Hanbury, the rumour that Captain James was going to marry Miss +Brooke, Baker Brooke’s eldest daughter, who had only a sister to share +his property with her, was confirmed. He himself announced it to my lady; nay, +more, with a courage, gained, I suppose, in his former profession, where, as I +have heard, he had led his ship into many a post of danger, he asked her +ladyship, the Countess Ludlow, if he might bring his bride elect, (the Baptist +baker’s daughter!) and present her to my lady! +</p> + +<p> +I am glad I was not present when he made this request; I should have felt so +much ashamed for him, and I could not have helped being anxious till I heard my +lady’s answer, if I had been there. Of course she acceded; but I can +fancy the grave surprise of her look. I wonder if Captain James noticed it. +</p> + +<p> +I hardly dared ask my lady, after the interview had taken place, what she +thought of the bride elect; but I hinted my curiosity, and she told me, that if +the young person had applied to Mrs. Medlicott, for the situation of cook, and +Mrs. Medlicott had engaged her, she thought that it would have been a very +suitable arrangement. I understood from this how little she thought a marriage +with Captain James, R.N., suitable. +</p> + +<p> +About a year after I left Hanbury, I received a letter from Miss Galindo; I +think I can find it.—Yes, this is it. +</p> + +<p class="right"> +‘Hanbury, May 4, 1811. +</p> + +<blockquote> + +<p> +D<small>EAR</small> M<small>ARGARET</small>, +</p> + +<p> +‘You ask for news of us all. Don’t you know there is no news in +Hanbury? Did you ever hear of an event here? Now, if you have answered +“Yes,” in your own mind to these questions, you have fallen into my +trap, and never were more mistaken in your life. Hanbury is full of news; and +we have more events on our hands than we know what to do with. I will take them +in the order of the newspapers—births, deaths, and marriages. In the +matter of births, Jenny Lucas has had twins not a week ago. Sadly too much of a +good thing, you’ll say. Very true: but then they died; so their birth did +not much signify. My cat has kittened, too; she has had three kittens, which +again you may observe is too much of a good thing; and so it would be, if it +were not for the next item of intelligence I shall lay before you. Captain and +Mrs. James have taken the old house next Pearson’s; and the house is +overrun with mice, which is just as fortunate for me as the King of +Egypt’s rat-ridden kingdom was to Dick Whittington. For my cat’s +kittening decided me to go and call on the bride, in hopes she wanted a cat; +which she did like a sensible woman, as I do believe she is, in spite of +Baptism, Bakers, Bread, and Birmingham, and something worse than all, which you +shall hear about, if you’ll only be patient. As I had got my best bonnet +on, the one I bought when poor Lord Ludlow was last at Hanbury in +’99—I thought it a great condescension in myself (always +remembering the date of the Galindo baronetcy) to go and call on the bride; +though I don’t think so much of myself in my every-day clothes, as you +know. But who should I find there but my Lady Ludlow! She looks as frail and +delicate as ever, but is, I think, in better heart ever since that old city +merchant of a Hanbury took it into his head that he was a cadet of the Hanburys +of Hanbury, and left her that handsome legacy. I’ll warrant you that the +mortgage was paid off pretty fast; and Mr. Horner’s money—or my +lady’s money, or Harry Gregson’s money, call it which you +will—is invested in his name, all right and tight; and they do talk of +his being captain of his school, or Grecian, or something, and going to +college, after all! Harry Gregson the poacher’s son! Well! to be sure, we +are living in strange times! +</p> + +<p> +‘But I have not done with the marriages yet. Captain James’s is all +very well, but no one cares for it now, we are so full of Mr. Gray’s. +Yes, indeed, Mr. Gray is going to be married, and to nobody else but my little +Bessy! I tell her she will have to nurse him half the days of her life, he is +such a frail little body. But she says she does not care for that; so that his +body holds his soul, it is enough for her. She has a good spirit and a brave +heart, has my Bessy! It is a great advantage that she won’t have to mark +her clothes over again: for when she had knitted herself her last set of +stockings, I told her to put G for Galindo, if she did not choose to put it for +Gibson, for she should be my child if she was no one else’s. And now you +see it stands for Gray. So there are two marriages, and what more would you +have? And she promises to take another of my kittens. +</p> + +<p> +‘Now, as to deaths, old Farmer Hale is dead—poor old man, I should +think his wife thought it a good riddance, for he beat her every day that he +was drunk, and he was never sober, in spite of Mr. Gray. I don’t think +(as I tell him) that Mr. Gray would ever have found courage to speak to Bessy +as long as Farmer Hale lived, he took the old gentleman’s sins so much to +heart, and seemed to think it was all his fault for not being able to make a +sinner into a saint. The parish bull is dead too. I never was so glad in my +life. But they say we are to have a new one in his place. In the meantime I +cross the common in peace, which is very convenient just now, when I have so +often to go to Mr. Gray’s to see about furnishing. +</p> + +<p> +‘Now you think I have told you all the Hanbury news, don’t you? Not +so. The very greatest thing of all is to come. I won’t tantalize you, but +just out with it, for you would never guess it. My Lady Ludlow has given a +party, just like any plebeian amongst us. We had tea and toast in the blue +drawing-room, old John Footman waiting with Tom Diggles, the lad that used to +frighten away crows in Farmer Hale’s fields, following in my lady’s +livery, hair powdered and everything. Mrs. Medlicott made tea in my +lady’s own room. My lady looked like a splendid fairy queen of mature +age, in black velvet, and the old lace, which I have never seen her wear before +since my lord’s death. But the company? you’ll say. Why, we had the +parson of Clover, and the parson of Headleigh, and the parson of Merribank, and +the three parsonesses; and Farmer Donkin, and two Miss Donkins; and Mr. Gray +(of course), and myself and Bessy; and Captain and Mrs. James; yes, and Mr. and +Mrs. Brooke; think of that! I am not sure the parsons liked it; but he was +there. For he has been helping Captain James to get my lady’s land into +order; and then his daughter married the agent; and Mr. Gray (who ought to +know) says that, after all, Baptists are not such bad people; and he was right +against them at one time, as you may remember. Mrs. Brooke is a rough diamond, +to be sure. People have said that of me, I know. But, being a Galindo, I learnt +manners in my youth and can take them up when I choose. But Mrs. Brooke never +learnt manners, I’ll be bound. When John Footman handed her the tray with +the tea-cups, she looked up at him as if she were sorely puzzled by that way of +going on. I was sitting next to her, so I pretended not to see her perplexity, +and put her cream and sugar in for her, and was all ready to pop it into her +hands,—when who should come up, but that impudent lad Tom Diggles (I call +him lad, for all his hair is powdered, for you know that it is not natural gray +hair), with his tray full of cakes and what not, all as good as Mrs. Medlicott +could make them. By this time, I should tell you, all the parsonesses were +looking at Mrs. Brooke, for she had shown her want of breeding before; and the +parsonesses, who were just a step above her in manners, were very much inclined +to smile at her doings and sayings. Well! what does she do, but pull out a +clean Bandanna pocket-handkerchief all red and yellow silk, spread it over her +best silk gown; it was, like enough, a new one, for I had it from Sally, who +had it from her cousin Molly, who is dairy-woman at the Brookes’, that +the Brookes were mighty set-up with an invitation to drink tea at the Hall. +There we were, Tom Diggles even on the grin (I wonder how long it is since he +was own brother to a scarecrow, only not so decently dressed) and Mrs. +Parsoness of Headleigh,—I forget her name, and it’s no matter, for +she’s an ill-bred creature, I hope Bessy will behave herself +better—was right-down bursting with laughter, and as near a hee-haw as +ever a donkey was, when what does my lady do? Ay! there’s my own dear +Lady Ludlow, God bless her! She takes out her own pocket-handkerchief, all +snowy cambric, and lays it softly down on her velvet lap, for all the world as +if she did it every day of her life, just like Mrs. Brooke, the baker’s +wife; and when the one got up to shake the crumbs into the fire-place, the +other did just the same. But with such a grace! and such a look at us all! Tom +Diggles went red all over; and Mrs. Parsoness of Headleigh scarce spoke for the +rest of the evening; and the tears came into my old silly eyes; and Mr. Gray, +who was before silent and awkward in a way which I tell Bessy she must cure him +of, was made so happy by this pretty action of my lady’s, that he talked +away all the rest of the evening, and was the life of the company. +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh, Margaret Dawson! I sometimes wonder if you’re the better off +for leaving us. To be sure you’re with your brother, and blood is blood. +But when I look at my lady and Mr. Gray, for all they’re so different, I +would not change places with any in England.’ +</p> + +</blockquote> + +<p> +Alas! alas! I never saw my dear lady again. She died in eighteen hundred and +fourteen, and Mr. Gray did not long survive her. As I dare say you know, the +Reverend Henry Gregson is now vicar of Hanbury, and his wife is the daughter of +Mr. Gray and Miss Bessy. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY LADY LUDLOW ***</div> +<div style='text-align:left'> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law 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™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ +concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, +and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following +the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use +of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for +copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very +easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation +of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project +Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away--you may +do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected +by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark +license, especially commercial redistribution. +</div> + +<div style='margin:0.83em 0; font-size:1.1em; text-align:center'>START: FULL LICENSE<br /> +<span style='font-size:smaller'>THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE<br /> +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK</span> +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project +Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full +Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at +www.gutenberg.org/license. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™ +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or +destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your +possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a +Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound +by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person +or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this +agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™ +electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the +Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection +of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual +works in the collection are in the public domain in the United +States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the +United States and you are located in the United States, we do not +claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, +displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as +all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope +that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting +free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™ +works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the +Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily +comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the +same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when +you share it without charge with others. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are +in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, +check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this +agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, +distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any +other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no +representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any +country other than the United States. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other +immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear +prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work +on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the +phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, +performed, viewed, copied or distributed: +</div> + +<blockquote> + <div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> + This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most + other parts of the world 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 <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you + are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws + of the country where you are located before using this eBook. + </div> +</blockquote> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is +derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not +contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the +copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in +the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are +redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project +Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply +either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or +obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™ +trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any +additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms +will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works +posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the +beginning of this work. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™ +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg™ License. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including +any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access +to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format +other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official +version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website +(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense +to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means +of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain +Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the +full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works +provided that: +</div> + +<div style='margin-left:0.7em;'> + <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> + • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed + to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has + agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project + Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid + within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are + legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty + payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project + Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in + Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg + Literary Archive Foundation.” + </div> + + <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> + • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ + License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all + copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue + all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ + works. + </div> + + <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> + • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of + any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of + receipt of the work. + </div> + + <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> + • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works. + </div> +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project +Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than +are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing +from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of +the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set +forth in Section 3 below. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project +Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ +electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may +contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate +or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other +intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or +other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or +cannot be read by your equipment. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right +of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium +with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you +with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in +lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person +or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second +opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If +the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing +without further opportunities to fix the problem. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO +OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT +LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of +damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement +violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the +agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or +limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or +unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the +remaining provisions. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in +accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the +production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ +electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, +including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of +the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this +or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or +additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any +Defect you cause. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™ +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of +computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It +exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations +from people in all walks of life. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future +generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see +Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by +U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, +Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up +to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website +and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact +</div> + +<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread +public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND +DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state +visit <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/donate/">www.gutenberg.org/donate</a>. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To +donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate +</div> + +<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project +Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be +freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and +distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of +volunteer support. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in +the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not +necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper +edition. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Most people start at our website which has the main PG search +facility: <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. +</div> + +</div> + +</body> + +</html> diff --git a/2524-h/images/cover.jpg b/2524-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..2297972 --- /dev/null +++ b/2524-h/images/cover.jpg |
