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diff --git a/old/2524-h/2524-h.htm b/old/2524-h/2524-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..132bc2b --- /dev/null +++ b/old/2524-h/2524-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,7077 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>My Lady Ludlow</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + H1, H2 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + } + H3, H4 { + text-align: left; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + .blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */ + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<h2> +<a href="#startoftext">My Lady Ludlow, by Elizabeth Gaskell</a> +</h2> +<pre> +The Project Gutenberg eBook, My Lady Ludlow, by Elizabeth Gaskell + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: My Lady Ludlow + + +Author: Elizabeth Gaskell + +Release Date: May 17, 2005 [eBook #2524] +[Last updated: March 30, 2011] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY LADY LUDLOW*** +</pre> +<p><a name="startoftext"></a></p> +<p>Transcribed from the 1896 Smith Elder and Co. “Lizzie Leigh +and Other Tales” edition by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk</p> +<h1>MY LADY LUDLOW<br /> +by Elizabeth Gaskell</h1> +<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 lost 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 bedrooms 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> +<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> +<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 out-lying 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> +<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 bedroom 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> +<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> +<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 in-doors 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> +<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 +chuckotting; 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> +<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> +<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 eye-sight, 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> +<blockquote><p>For Satan finds some mischief still<br /> +For idle hands to do,</p> +</blockquote> +<p>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 clock-work, 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> +<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 bed-ridden, 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> +<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 ancle 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> +<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> +<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 behind-hand, 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> +<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, straight-forward 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> +<blockquote><p>‘Hanbury, May 4, 1811.</p> +<p>DEAR MARGARET,</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> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY LADY LUDLOW***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 2524-h.htm or 2524-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/5/2/2524 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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