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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/2533-0.txt b/2533-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4b8dd8f --- /dev/null +++ b/2533-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,14030 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of Round the Sofa, by Elizabeth Gaskell + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: Round the Sofa + +Author: Elizabeth Gaskell + +Release Date: April 4, 2000 [eBook #2533] +[Most recently updated: December 22, 2021] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: David Price, Vanessa Mosher, Jennifer Lee, Alev Akman, Andy Wallace, Audrey Emmitt and Eugenia Corbo + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROUND THE SOFA *** + + + + + ROUND THE SOFA. + + by Elizabeth Gaskell + + + + +Long ago I was placed by my parents under the medical treatment of a +certain Mr. Dawson, a surgeon in Edinburgh, who had obtained a +reputation for the cure of a particular class of diseases. I was sent +with my governess into lodgings near his house, in the Old Town. I was +to combine lessons from the excellent Edinburgh masters, with the +medicines and exercises needed for my indisposition. It was at first +rather dreary to leave my brothers and sisters, and to give up our +merry out-of-doors life with our country home, for dull lodgings, with +only poor grave Miss Duncan for a companion; and to exchange our romps +in the garden and rambles through the fields for stiff walks in the +streets, the decorum of which obliged me to tie my bonnet-strings +neatly, and put on my shawl with some regard to straightness. + +The evenings were the worst. It was autumn, and of course they daily +grew longer: they were long enough, I am sure, when we first settled +down in those gray and drab lodgings. For, you must know, my father and +mother were not rich, and there were a great many of us, and the +medical expenses to be incurred by my being placed under Mr. Dawson’s +care were expected to be considerable; therefore, one great point in +our search after lodgings was economy. My father, who was too true a +gentleman to feel false shame, had named this necessity for cheapness +to Mr. Dawson; and in return, Mr. Dawson had told him of those at No. 6 +Cromer Street, in which we were finally settled. The house belonged to +an old man, at one time a tutor to young men preparing for the +University, in which capacity he had become known to Mr. Dawson. But +his pupils had dropped off; and when we went to lodge with him, I +imagine that his principal support was derived from a few occasional +lessons which he gave, and from letting the rooms that we took, a +drawing-room opening into a bed-room, out of which a smaller chamber +led. His daughter was his housekeeper: a son, whom we never saw, +supposed to be leading the same life that his father had done before +him, only we never saw or heard of any pupils; and there was one +hard-working, honest little Scottish maiden, square, stumpy, neat, and +plain, who might have been any age from eighteen to forty. + +Looking back on the household now, there was perhaps much to admire in +their quiet endurance of decent poverty; but at this time, their +poverty grated against many of my tastes, for I could not recognize the +fact, that in a town the simple graces of fresh flowers, clean white +muslin curtains, pretty bright chintzes, all cost money, which is saved +by the adoption of dust-coloured moreen, and mud-coloured carpets. +There was not a penny spent on mere elegance in that room; yet there +was everything considered necessary to comfort: but after all, such +mere pretences of comfort! a hard, slippery, black horse-hair sofa, +which was no place of rest; an old piano, serving as a sideboard; a +grate, narrowed by an inner supplement, till it hardly held a handful +of the small coal which could scarcely ever be stirred up into a genial +blaze. But there were two evils worse than even this coldness and +bareness of the rooms: one was that we were provided with a latch-key, +which allowed us to open the front door whenever we came home from a +walk, and go upstairs without meeting any face of welcome, or hearing +the sound of a human voice in the apparently deserted house—Mr. +Mackenzie piqued himself on the noiselessness of his establishment; and +the other, which might almost seem to neutralize the first, was the +danger we were always exposed to on going out, of the old man—sly, +miserly, and intelligent—popping out upon us from his room, close to +the left hand of the door, with some civility which we learned to +distrust as a mere pretext for extorting more money, yet which it was +difficult to refuse: such as the offer of any books out of his library, +a great temptation, for we could see into the shelf-lined room; but +just as we were on the point of yielding, there was a hint of the +“consideration” to be expected for the loan of books of so much higher +a class than any to be obtained at the circulating library, which made +us suddenly draw back. Another time he came out of his den to offer us +written cards, to distribute among our acquaintance, on which he +undertook to teach the very things I was to learn; but I would rather +have been the most ignorant woman that ever lived than tried to learn +anything from that old fox in breeches. When we had declined all his +proposals, he went apparently into dudgeon. Once when we had forgotten +our latch-key we rang in vain for many times at the door, seeing our +landlord standing all the time at the window to the right, looking out +of it in an absent and philosophical state of mind, from which no signs +and gestures of ours could arouse him. + +The women of the household were far better, and more really +respectable, though even on them poverty had laid her heavy left hand, +instead of her blessing right. Miss Mackenzie kept us as short in our +food as she decently could—we paid so much a week for our board, be it +observed; and if one day we had less appetite than another our meals +were docked to the smaller standard, until Miss Duncan ventured to +remonstrate. The sturdy maid-of-all-work was scrupulously honest, but +looked discontented, and scarcely vouchsafed us thanks, when on leaving +we gave her what Mrs. Dawson had told us would be considered handsome +in most lodgings. I do not believe Phenice ever received wages from the +Mackenzies. + +But that dear Mrs. Dawson! The mention of her comes into my mind like +the bright sunshine into our dingy little drawing room came on those +days;—as a sweet scent of violets greets the sorrowful passer among the +woodlands. + +Mrs. Dawson was not Mr. Dawson’s wife, for he was a bachelor. She was +his crippled sister, an old maid, who had, what she called, taken her +brevet rank. + +After we had been about a fortnight in Edinburgh, Mr. Dawson said, in a +sort of half doubtful manner to Miss Duncan— + +“My sister bids me say, that every Monday evening a few friends come in +to sit round her sofa for an hour or so,—some before going to gayer +parties—and that if you and Miss Greatorex would like a little change, +she would only be too glad to see you. Any time from seven to eight +to-night; and I must add my injunctions, both for her sake, and for +that of my little patient’s, here, that you leave at nine o’clock. +After all, I do not know if you will care to come; but Margaret bade me +ask you;” and he glanced up suspiciously and sharply at us. If either +of us had felt the slightest reluctance, however well disguised by +manner, to accept this invitation, I am sure he would have at once +detected our feelings, and withdrawn it; so jealous and chary was he of +anything pertaining to the appreciation of this beloved sister. + +But if it had been to spend an evening at the dentist’s, I believe I +should have welcomed the invitation, so weary was I of the monotony of +the nights in our lodgings; and as for Miss Duncan, an invitation to +tea was of itself a pure and unmixed honour, and one to be accepted +with all becoming form and gratitude: so Mr. Dawson’s sharp glances +over his spectacles failed to detect anything but the truest pleasure, +and he went on. + +“You’ll find it very dull, I dare say. Only a few old fogies like +myself, and one or two good sweet young women: I never know who’ll +come. Margaret is obliged to lie in a darkened room—only half-lighted I +mean,—because her eyes are weak,—oh, it will be very stupid, I dare +say: don’t thank me till you’ve been once and tried it, and then if you +like it, your best thanks will be to come again every Monday, from +half-past seven to nine, you know. Good-bye, good-bye.” + +Hitherto I had never been out to a party of grown-up people; and no +court ball to a London young lady could seem more redolent of honour +and pleasure than this Monday evening to me. + +Dressed out in new stiff book-muslin, made up to my throat,—a frock +which had seemed to me and my sisters the height of earthly grandeur +and finery—Alice, our old nurse, had been making it at home, in +contemplation of the possibility of such an event during my stay in +Edinburgh, but which had then appeared to me a robe too lovely and +angelic to be ever worn short of heaven—I went with Miss Duncan to Mr. +Dawson’s at the appointed time. We entered through one small lofty +room, perhaps I ought to call it an antechamber, for the house was +old-fashioned, and stately and grand, the large square drawing-room, +into the centre of which Mrs. Dawson’s sofa was drawn. Behind her a +little was placed a table with a great cluster candlestick upon it, +bearing seven or eight wax-lights; and that was all the light in the +room, which looked to me very vast and indistinct after our pinched-up +apartment at the Mackenzie’s. Mrs. Dawson must have been sixty; and yet +her face looked very soft and smooth and child-like. Her hair was quite +gray: it would have looked white but for the snowiness of her cap, and +satin ribbon. She was wrapped in a kind of dressing-gown of French grey +merino: the furniture of the room was deep rose-colour, and white and +gold,—the paper which covered the walls was Indian, beginning low down +with a profusion of tropical leaves and birds and insects, and +gradually diminishing in richness of detail till at the top it ended in +the most delicate tendrils and most filmy insects. + +Mr. Dawson had acquired much riches in his profession, and his house +gave one this impression. In the corners of the rooms were great jars +of Eastern china, filled with flower-leaves and spices; and in the +middle of all this was placed the sofa, which poor Margaret Dawson +passed whole days, and months, and years, without the power of moving +by herself. By-and-by Mrs. Dawson’s maid brought in tea and macaroons +for us, and a little cup of milk and water and a biscuit for her. Then +the door opened. We had come very early, and in came Edinburgh +professors, Edinburgh beauties, and celebrities, all on their way to +some other gayer and later party, but coming first to see Mrs. Dawson, +and tell her their _bon-mots_, or their interests, or their plans. By +each learned man, by each lovely girl, she was treated as a dear +friend, who knew something more about their own individual selves, +independent of their reputation and general society-character, than any +one else. + +It was very brilliant and very dazzling, and gave enough to think about +and wonder about for many days. + +Monday after Monday we went, stationary, silent; what could we find to +say to any one but Mrs. Margaret herself? Winter passed, summer was +coming, still I was ailing, and weary of my life; but still Mr. Dawson +gave hopes of my ultimate recovery. My father and mother came and went; +but they could not stay long, they had so many claims upon them. Mrs. +Margaret Dawson had become my dear friend, although, perhaps, I had +never exchanged as many words with her as I had with Miss Mackenzie, +but then with Mrs. Dawson every word was a pearl or a diamond. + +People began to drop off from Edinburgh, only a few were left, and I am +not sure if our Monday evenings were not all the pleasanter. + +There was Mr. Sperano, the Italian exile, banished even from France, +where he had long resided, and now teaching Italian with meek diligence +in the northern city; there was Mr. Preston, the Westmoreland squire, +or, as he preferred to be called, statesman, whose wife had come to +Edinburgh for the education of their numerous family, and who, whenever +her husband had come over on one of his occasional visits, was only too +glad to accompany him to Mrs. Dawson’s Monday evenings, he and the +invalid lady having been friends from long ago. These and ourselves +kept steady visitors, and enjoyed ourselves all the more from having +the more of Mrs. Dawson’s society. + +One evening I had brought the little stool close to her sofa, and was +caressing her thin white hand, when the thought came into my head and +out I spoke it. + +“Tell me, dear Mrs. Dawson,” said I, “how long you have been in +Edinburgh; you do not speak Scotch, and Mr. Dawson says he is not +Scotch.” + +“No, I am Lancashire—Liverpool-born,” said she, smiling. “Don’t you +hear it in my broad tongue?” + +“I hear something different to other people, but I like it because it +is just you; is that Lancashire?” + +“I dare say it is; for, though I am sure Lady Ludlow took pains enough +to correct me in my younger days, I never could get rightly over the +accent.” + +“Lady Ludlow,” said I, “what had she to do with you? I heard you +talking about her to Lady Madeline Stuart the first evening I ever came +here; you and she seemed so fond of Lady Ludlow; who is she?” + +“She is dead, my child; dead long ago.” + +I felt sorry I had spoken about her, Mrs. Dawson looked so grave and +sad. I suppose she perceived my sorrow, for she went on and said—“My +dear, I like to talk and to think of Lady Ludlow: she was my true, kind +friend and benefactress for many years; ask me what you like about her, +and do not think you give me pain.” + +I grew bold at this. + +“Will you tell me all about her, then, please, Mrs. Dawson?” + +“Nay,” said she, smiling, “that would be too long a story. Here are +Signor Sperano, and Miss Duncan, and Mr. and Mrs. Preston are coming +to-night, Mr. Preston told me; how would they like to hear an old-world +story which, after all, would be no story at all, neither beginning, +nor middle, nor end, only a bundle of recollections?” + +“If you speak of me, madame,” said Signor Sperano, “I can only say you +do me one great honour by recounting in my presence anything about any +person that has ever interested you.” + +Miss Duncan tried to say something of the same kind. In the middle of +her confused speech, Mr. and Mrs. Preston came in. I sprang up; I went +to meet them. + +“Oh,” said I, “Mrs. Dawson is just going to tell us all about Lady +Ludlow, and a great deal more, only she is afraid it won’t interest +anybody: do say you would like to hear it!” + +Mrs. Dawson smiled at me, and in reply to their urgency she promised to +tell us all about Lady Ludlow, on condition that each one of us should, +after she had ended, narrate something interesting, which we had either +heard, or which had fallen within our own experience. We all promised +willingly, and then gathered round her sofa to hear what she could tell +us about my Lady Ludlow. + + + + +MY LADY LUDLOW + + + + +CHAPTER I. + + +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. + +I will try and tell you about her. It is no story: it has, as I said, +neither beginning, middle, nor end. + +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. + +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: + +‘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.’ + +“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. + +‘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. + +‘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.’ + +My mother dropped the letter, and sat silent. + +“I shall not know what to do without you, Margaret.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +And this was how I came to know my Lady Ludlow. + +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. + +“Are we near Hanbury Court?” I asked. + +“Near! Why, Miss! we’ve a matter of ten mile yet to go.” + +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. + +After we left the Chase, the road grew worse. No one in these days, +who has not seen the byroads of fifty years ago, can imagine what they +were. We had to quarter, as Randal called it, nearly all the way along +the deep-rutted, miry lanes; and the tremendous jolts I occasionally +met with made my seat in the gig so unsteady that I could not look +about me at all, I was so much occupied in holding on. The road was +too muddy for me to walk without dirtying myself more than I liked to +do, just before my first sight of my Lady Ludlow. But by-and-by, when +we came to the fields in which the lane ended, I begged Randal to help +me down, as I saw that I could pick my steps among the pasture grass +without making myself unfit to be seen; and Randal, out of pity for his +steaming horse, wearied with the hard struggle through the mud, thanked +me kindly, and helped me down with a springing jump. + +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. + +“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.” + +“Are we near the house?” said I, suddenly checked by the idea. + +“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. + +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. + +The road by which we had come lay right at the back. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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:— + +“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. + +It was so small that I think it must have been a cell. The walls were +whitewashed stone; the bed was of white dimity. There was a small piece +of red staircarpet on each side of the bed, and two chairs. In a closet +adjoining were my washstand and toilet-table. There was a text of +Scripture painted on the wall right opposite to my bed; and below hung a +print, common enough in those days, of King George and Queen Charlotte, +with all their numerous children, down to the little Princess Amelia in a +go-cart. On each side hung a small portrait, also engraved: on the left, +it was Louis the Sixteenth; on the other, Marie-Antoinette. On the +chimney-piece there was a tinder-box and a Prayer-book. I do not +remember anything else in the room. Indeed, in those days people did not +dream of writing-tables, and inkstands, and portfolios, and easy chairs, +and what not. We were taught to go into our bed-rooms for the purposes of +dressing, and sleeping, and praying. + +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. + +“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. + +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.” + +“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. + +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.” + +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— + +“Mr. Gray, I will not trouble you for a discourse this morning.” + +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.” + +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. + +“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. + +“A very pretty young man, my dears,” said she, as we drove away. “But I +shall have my pew glazed all the same.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + + + + +CHAPTER II. + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +“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—” + +“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.” + +“He is only just appointed; he took the oaths not a month ago,—more’s +the pity!” + +“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—” + +“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.” + +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— + +“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—” + +“But more evidence has come out since,” broke in Mr. Gray. My lady went +a little stiffer, and spoke a little more coldly:— + +“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?” + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +“I think, Mr. Gray, we will drop the subject. It is one on which we are +not likely to agree.” + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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.” + +“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. + +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.” + +“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.” + +He bowed, and looked very sad. Lady Ludlow caught the expression of his +face. + +“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.” + +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: + +“He said, my lady, that ‘God help him! he was responsible for all the +evil he did not strive to overcome.’” + +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. + +In a few minutes she bade us accompany her in her ride in the coach. + +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. + +“John Footman,” said she, “where are we? Surely this is Hareman’s +Common.” + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +“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?” + +Mr. Lathom looked annoyed and vexed, but dared not show it in his words. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +He had the better of her ladyship for one moment; but then she answered— + +“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.” + +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.” + +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. + +“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. + +“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?” + +“The offence of theft is not bailable, my lady.” + +“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.” + +“It is against the law, my lady.” + +“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.” + +“The lord-lieutenant may take away my commission, if he heard of it.” + +“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.” + +“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 tete-a-tete drive with my lady, and possibly not quite prepared to go +to the illegal length of prompt measures, which she had in contemplation. + +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?” + +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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + + +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. + +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! + +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. + +“There take it, dear, take it!” she would say; “and don’t go on fretting +for what can’t be helped.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 levees (as her ladyship used to call +them) held before twelve. But, as she said to Mr. Horner, when he urged +returning to the former hours, it spoilt a whole day for a farmer, if +he had to dress himself in his best and leave his work in the forenoon +(and my lady liked to see her tenants come in their Sunday clothes; +she would not say a word, maybe, but she would take her spectacles +slowly out, and put them on with silent gravity, and look at a dirty or +raggedly-dressed man so solemnly and earnestly, that his nerves must +have been pretty strong if he did not wince, and resolve that, however +poor he might be, soap and water, and needle and thread, should be used +before he again appeared in her ladyship’s anteroom). The outlying +tenants had always a supper provided for them in the servants’-hall on +Thursdays, to which, indeed all comers were welcome to sit down. For +my lady said, though there were not many hours left of a working man’s +day when their business with her was ended, yet that they needed food +and rest, and that she should be ashamed if they sought either at the +Fighting Lion (called at this day the Hanbury Arms). They had as much +beer as they could drink while they were eating; and when the food was +cleared away, they had a cup a piece of good ale, in which the oldest +tenant present, standing up, gave Madam’s health; and after that was +drunk, they were expected to set off homewards; at any rate, no more +liquor was given them. The tenants one and all called her “Madam;” +for they recognized in her the married heiress of the Hanburys, not +the widow of a Lord Ludlow, of whom they and their forefathers knew +nothing; and against whose memory, indeed, there rankled a dim unspoken +grudge, the cause of which was accurately known to the very few who +understood the nature of a mortgage, and were therefore aware that +Madam’s money had been taken to enrich my lord’s poor land in Scotland. +I am sure—for you can understand I was behind the scenes, as it were, +and had many an opportunity of seeing and hearing, as I lay or sat +motionless in my lady’s room with the double doors open between it +and the anteroom beyond, where Lady Ludlow saw her steward, and gave +audience to her tenants,—I am certain, I say, that Mr. Horner was +silently as much annoyed at the money that was swallowed up by this +mortgage as any one; and, some time or other, he had probably spoken +his mind out to my lady; for there was a sort of offended reference +on her part, and respectful submission to blame on his, while every +now and then there was an implied protest—whenever the payments of +the interest became due, or whenever my lady stinted herself of any +personal expense, such as Mr. Horner thought was only decorous and +becoming in the heiress of the Hanburys. Her carriages were old and +cumbrous, wanting all the improvements which had been adopted by those +of her rank throughout the county. Mr. Horner would fain have had the +ordering of a new coach. The carriage-horses, too, were getting past +their work; yet all the promising colts bred on the estate were sold +for ready money; and so on. My lord, her son, was ambassador at some +foreign place; and very proud we all were of his glory and dignity; +but I fancy it cost money, and my lady would have lived on bread and +water sooner than have called upon him to help her in paying off the +mortgage, although he was the one who was to benefit by it in the end. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + + +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 protege; +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). + +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. + +But now let us go back to the terrace-door, and the footman sitting in +the antechamber. + +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. + +“What is the matter, John?” asked she, when he entered, + +“A little boy, my lady, who says he comes from Mr. Horner, and must see +your ladyship. Impudent little lad!” (This last to himself.) + +“What does he want?” + +“That’s just what I have asked him, my lady, but he won’t tell me, please +your ladyship.” + +“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! + +“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.” + +“You had better show him in then, without more words,” said her ladyship, +quietly, but still, as I have said, rather annoyed. + +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. + +“What do you want with me?” asked my lady; in so gentle a tone that it +seemed to surprise and stun him. + +“An’t please your ladyship?” said he, as if he had been deaf. + +“You come from Mr. Horner’s: why do you want to see me?” again asked she, +a little more loudly. + +“An’t please your ladyship, Mr. Horner was sent for all on a sudden to +Warwick this morning.” + +His face began to work; but he felt it, and closed his lips into a +resolute form. + +“Well?” + +“And he went off all on a sudden like.” + +“Well?” + +“And he left a note for your ladyship with me, your ladyship.” + +“Is that all? You might have given it to the footman.” + +“Please your ladyship, I’ve clean gone and lost it.” + +He never took his eyes off her face. If he had not kept his look fixed, +he would have burst out crying. + +“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. + +“Please, mum—please your ladyship—I can say it off by heart.” + +“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. + +“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. + +When he had done, he stood almost as if he expected commendation for his +accurate memory. + +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— + +“Margaret Dawson, what will this world come to?” And then she was +silent. + +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. + +“My poor lad!” said she, the angry look leaving her face, “into whose +hands have you fallen?” + +The boy’s lips began to quiver. + +“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?” + +“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. + +“Who taught you, I ask?” + +“It were Mr. Horner’s clerk who learned me, my lady.” + +“And did Mr. Horner know of it?” + +“Yes, my lady. And I am sure I thought for to please him.” + +“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?” + +“Please, my lady, it were open. Mr. Horner forgot for to seal it, in his +hurry to be off.” + +“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.” + +“Please, may lady, I thought it were good for practice, all as one as a +book.” + +My lady looked bewildered as to what way she could farther explain to him +the laws of honour as regarded letters. + +“You would not listen, I am sure,” said she, “to anything you were not +intended to hear?” + +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. + +“Please, my lady, I always hearken when I hear folk talking secrets; but +I mean no harm.” + +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. + +“What is to be done?” said she, half to herself and half to me. I could +not answer, for I was puzzled myself. + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“And your ladyship—” I half inquired. + +“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.” + +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. + +I suppose my lady understood something of what was passing in my mind; +for, after a minute or two, she went on:— + +“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.” + +“And did he finish it?” I asked. + +“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!” + +“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. + +“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—Clement de Crequy. Did I ever tell +you about him?” + +“No, your ladyship,” I replied. + +“Poor Clement! 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 hotel, with the basement +for our servants. On the floor above us the owner of the house lived, a +Marquise de Crequy, a widow. They tell me that the Crequy coat-of-arms +is still emblazoned, after all these terrible years, on a shield above +the arched porte-cochere, just as it was then, though the family is +quite extinct. Madame de Crequy had only one son, Clement, 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 hotel. 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 Clement 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 Clement, 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 Clement to some +scrambling or climbing, which Clement 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 Clement 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, Clement?’ said Urian, putting his arm round Clement’s neck. ‘Why +then, and not now, just when we are in the humour for it?’ ‘Because we +De Crequys 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.’ + +“‘But you would tear your legs.’ + +“‘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 Clement, 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 Clement’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. + +“All at once, from the little chapel at the corner of the large garden +belonging to the Missions Etrangeres, I heard the tinkle of the little +bell, announcing the elevation of the host. Down on his knees went +Clement, hands crossed, eyes bent down: while Urian stood looking on in +respectful thought. + +“What a friendship that might have been! I never dream of Urian without +seeing Clement too—Urian speaks to me, or does something,—but Clement +only flits round Urian, and never seems to see any one else!” + +“But I must not forget to tell you, that the next morning, before he was +out of his room, a footman of Madame de Crequy’s brought Urian the +starling’s nest.” + +“Well! we came back to England, and the boys were to correspond; and +Madame de Crequy and I exchanged civilities; and Urian went to sea.” + +“After that, all seemed to drop away. I cannot tell you all. However, +to confine myself to the De Crequys. I had a letter from Clement; 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 Crequy +wrote too. But I knew she could not feel my loss so much as Clement, 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 Crequy’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. + +“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? + +“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 Clement, 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 Clement de Crequy 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 Clement de Crequy. ‘My mother is +here,’ he said: ‘she is very ill, and I am bewildered in this strange +country. May I entreat you to receive me for a few minutes?’ The bearer +of the note was the woman of the house where they lodged. I had her +brought up into the anteroom, and questioned her myself, while my +carriage was being brought round. They had arrived in London a fortnight +or so before: she had not known their quality, judging them (according to +her kind) by their dress and their luggage; poor enough, no doubt. The +lady had never left her bed-room since her arrival; the young man waited +upon her, did everything for her, never left her, in fact; only she (the +messenger) had promised to stay within call, as soon as she returned, +while he went out somewhere. She could hardly understand him, he spoke +English so badly. He had never spoken it, I dare say, since he had +talked to my Urian.” + + + + +CHAPTER V. + + +“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 Clement 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 Clement 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 Clement 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. + +“I sent her forwards to request permission for my entrance. In a moment +I saw Clement—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. + +“‘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. + +“‘Clement! Clement! 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. + +“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 Clement’s broken +English, and mispronunciation of our proper names, and was obliged to +apply to the woman herself. I could not say much to Clement, 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 +Crequy’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 +Crequy 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 Clement’s voice, +brought on a fresh access of trembling and nervous agitation. + +“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. + +“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. + +“‘It can’t be done,’ said he. ‘Any change will kill her.’ + +“‘But it must be done,’ I replied. ‘And it shall not kill her.’ + +“‘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. + +“‘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.’ + +“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.’ + +“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 Clement 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 Clement; 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 +Clement 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. + +“Of course, it was all right; and neither my lord nor I could sleep for +wondering how Madame de Crequy 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 Clement 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 Crequy (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. + +“My lord was scandalized at Clement’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 Clement 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 +Crequy 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 Crequys +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 Clement—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 Crequys; 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 Crequy, the rightful owner; and +Clement was out with Monkshaven, so the old man waited; and when Clement +came in, I told him of the steward’s arrival, and how he had been cared +for by my people. Clement 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. + +“‘What is it, Clement?’ I asked. + +“He clasped his hands, and looked as though he tried to speak, but could +not bring out the words. + +“‘They have guillotined my uncle!’ said he at last. Now, I knew that +there was a Count de Crequy; 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 Crequy. + +“‘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. + +“‘Your uncle’s daughter?’ I inquired. + +“‘My cousin,’ he replied. + +“I did not say, ‘your betrothed,’ but I had no doubt of it. I was +mistaken, however. + +“‘O madame!’ he continued, ‘her mother died long ago—her father now—and +she is in daily fear,—alone, deserted—’ + +“‘Is she in the Abbaye?’ asked I. + +“‘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.’ + +“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. + +“But when I went to Madame de Crequy—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.’ + +“I was so astonished—I hardly knew what to say. I had spoken to Clement +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 Crequy! it was otherwise with her; she +despaired while I hoped, and Clement trusted. + +“‘Dear Madame de Crequy,’ 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?’ + +“‘His betrothed!’ cried she, now at the utmost pitch of her excitement. +‘Virginie betrothed to Clement?—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!’ + +“Clement 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: + +“‘Mother,’ he pleaded, ‘withdraw your prohibition. Let me go!’ + +“‘What were her words?’ Madame de Crequy 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-maitre. 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! + +“‘It was my father’s written wish,’ said Clement. + +“‘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—’ + +“‘Desolate! my mother! and the Countess Ludlow stands there!’ + +“‘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, Clement, would leave me for this Virginie,—this +degenerate De Crequy, tainted with the atheism of the Encyclopedistes! +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, Clement! She refused you with scorn: be too +proud to notice her now.’ + +“‘Mother, I cannot think of myself; only of her.’ + +“‘Think of me, then! I, your mother, forbid you to go.’ + +“Clement 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 +Crequy property during her son’s minority. Indeed, I remembered then, +that it was through Count de Crequy that Lord Ludlow had first heard +of the apartment which we afterwards took in the Hotel de Crequy; 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 Hotel de Crequy, 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 Clement (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 Crequy’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 Crequy was thus introduced into all the +free-thinking salons of Paris; among people who were always full of +plans for subverting society. ‘And did Clement affect such people?’ +Madame de Crequy had asked with some anxiety. No! Monsieur de Crequy +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 Crequy +listened, and questioned, and learnt nothing decided, until one day she +surprised Clement 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 Clement had sent her through her father, that ‘When she +married she married a man, not a petit-maitre.’ + +“Clement 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. + +“Madame de Crequy 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 Clement’s belief at the time of quitting the Hotel de Crequy +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 Crequy 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. + +“When I had heard all this story, I confess I lost in sympathy for +Clement what I gained for his mother. Virginie’s life did not seem to me +worth the risk that Clement’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 Crequy 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 Clement look even +paler and thinner than he had ever done before, he sent a message to +Madame de Crequy, requesting permission to speak to her in private. + +“‘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 AEneas 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 tete-a-tete with madame.’ + +“What he said, what passed, he never could repeat; but he came back +graver than he went. However, the point was gained; Madame de Crequy +withdrew her prohibition, and had given him leave to tell Clement as +much. + +“‘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. + +“However, my lord shook off all fancies that told against the fulfilment +of Clement’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 Clement’s +start on his journey towards the coast. + +“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 Clement 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. Clement 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 emigres who thronged London, and who had made +his escape from the shores of France in this disguise. Clement’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. + +“‘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—’ + +“‘Clement, 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 Crequy. 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!’” + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + + +“All night Madame de Crequy raved in delirium. If I could I would have +sent for Clement 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 Crequy +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 Clement 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 Clement +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 Clement had set sail under the +best auspices. It was agreed that I should tell all this to Madame de +Crequy, if she inquired; otherwise, it would be wiser not to renew her +agitation by alluding to her son’s journey. + +“I sat with her constantly for many days; but she never spoke of Clement. +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 Clement’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. + +“In a week we heard of Clement’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 Clement. I had told Lord Ludlow, in Madame de +Crequy’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. + +“One morning, on my awakening, my maid told me that Madame de Crequy 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. + +“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 Crequy to us. + +“However at last I was ready, and go I must. + +“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. + +“For a moment or two she did not speak, and I was glad of the respite. + +“‘Clement?’ she said at length, covering her mouth with a handkerchief +the minute she had spoken, that I might not see it quiver. + +“‘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.’ + +“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. + +“I told her what my lord had said about Clement’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. + +“I was very thankful when Medlicott came in with Madame’s breakfast, and +gave me an excuse for leaving. + +“But I think that conversation made me feel more anxious and impatient +than ever. I felt almost pledged to Madame de Crequy 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. + +“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 Crequy, 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. + +“At length the intendant of the De Crequy estates—the old man, you will +remember, whose information respecting Virginie de Crequy first gave +Clement 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. + +“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. + +“‘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. + +“‘Yes, madame,’ he replied, still standing with his head bent down, like +a child in disgrace. + +“‘And it is bad!’ I exclaimed. + +“‘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. + +“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 Crequy family, but had +managed their Paris affairs, while Flechier 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. Flechier, as +I knew, earned a very fair livelihood by going about to dress salads for +dinner parties. His compatriot, Le Febvre, 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 Flechier as to Monsieur +de Crequy + +“‘Clement was dead—guillotined. Virginie was dead—guillotined.’ + +“When Flechier 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 Febvre, 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.” + +My lady was trying to shake off the emotion which she evidently felt in +recurring to this sad history of Monsieur de Crequy’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. + +“Being once in France, it was no difficult thing for Clement 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 Marche 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 Medecine; 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 Clement thought +that he might rely. I am not sure if he had not been gardener in those +very gardens behind the Hotel Crequy where Clement and Urian used to play +together years before. But whatever the old man’s dwelling might be, +Clement 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. + +“The old gardener was, I believe, both faithful and tried, and sheltered +Clement in his garret as well as might be. Before he could stir out, it +was necessary to procure a fresh disguise, and one more in character with +an inhabitant of Paris than that of a Norman carter was procured; and +after waiting indoors for one or two days, to see if any suspicion was +excited, Clement set off to discover Virginie. + +“He found her at the old concierge’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 Clement. + +“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 Crequy, 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 Clement 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. + +“Well: this Virginie de Crequy was living with Madame Babette in the +conciergerie of an old French inn, somewhere to the north of Paris, +so, far enough from Clement’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 Crequys—her De Crequys, 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 Crequy’s well-known house—after +being compelled to form one of the mad crowds that saw the Count de +Crequy 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 Crequys 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 Clement 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 entree into the conciergerie 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. + +“It must have required some patience and much diplomacy, before Clement +de Crequy 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 Clement’s. (I will tell you afterwards how I came to know +all these particulars so well.) + +“After Clement’s return, on two succeeding days, from his dangerous +search, without meeting with any good result, Jacques entreated Monsieur +de Crequy to let him take it in hand. He represented that he, as +gardener for the space of twenty years and more at the Hotel de Crequy, +had a right to be acquainted with all the successive concierges 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 Crequy in England, was +true, that mademoiselle was in hiding at the house of a former concierge, +why, something relating to her would surely drop out in the course of +conversation. So he persuaded Clement to remain indoors, while he set +off on his round, with no apparent object but to gossip. + +“At night he came home,—having seen mademoiselle. He told Clement 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 Crequy, he would hardly have +noticed the entrance and withdrawal. + +“Clement and the good old gardener were always rather perplexed by Madame +Babette’s evident avoidance of all mention of the De Crequy 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 Clement 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 Clement 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 +Breton 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 +Crequy 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 Hotel Duguesclin, and paid his money for +such accommodation each morning at the little bureau under the window of +the conciergerie, 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 Clement, depend +upon it, looked a gentleman, whatever dress he wore. Yet it was unwise +to traverse Paris to his old friend the gardener’s grenier, so he had to +loiter about, where I hardly know. Only he did leave the Hotel +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. + +“Pierre was afraid that the Norman had some view upon the money which +his mother, as concierge, 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 Clement had bethought him of establishing a communication with +Virginie by some such means. + +“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 conciergerie, 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. + +“‘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-maitre; 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 Clement 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. + +“But Clement 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. + +“‘Here is our opera-singer!’ exclaimed Madame Babette. ‘Why, the Norman +grazier sings like Boupre,’ naming a favourite singer at the neighbouring +theatre. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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-cochere. 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.” + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + + +“I have told you that I heard much of this story from a friend of the +Intendant of the De Crequys, 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 Clement 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. + +“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 conciergerie, 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 conciergerie, 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 Hotel +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. + +“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 conciergerie, even had the inhabitants +devoted themselves to the purposes of spying or listening. + +“‘Chut!’ said Pierre, at last. ‘She goes out walking.’ + +“‘Well?’ said Monsieur Morin, half curious, half annoyed at being +disturbed in the delicious reverie of the future into which he longed to +fall. + +“‘Well! It is not well. It is bad.’ + +“‘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?’ + +“‘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.’ + +“‘Has my aunt seen him?’ + +“‘No, not so much as a fly’s wing of him. I myself have only seen his +back. It strikes me like a familiar back, and yet I cannot think who it +is. But they separate with sudden darts, like two birds who have been +together to feed their young ones. One moment they are in close talk, +their heads together chuchotting; the next he has turned up some +bye-street, and Mademoiselle Cannes is close upon me—has almost caught +me.’ + +“‘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. + +“Pierre returned home with a light heart, tossing up his five-franc piece +as he ran. Just as he was at the conciergerie 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. + +“‘What is the matter?’ asked she. ‘Speak, my child. What hast thou +done?’ + +“‘He has robbed me! he has robbed me!’ was all Pierre could gulp out. + +“‘Robbed thee! and of what, my poor boy?’ said Virginie, stroking his +hair gently. + +“‘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. + +“‘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.’ + +“‘But I cannot,’ said the boy, hesitating; some dim sense of honour +flitting through his misty morals. + +“‘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.’ + +“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. + +“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 Clement 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 conciergerie, 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.’ + +“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 Hotel Duguesclin, +giving him such opportunities of passing and repassing by the +conciergerie 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. + +“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? + +“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. + +“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 Clement!) 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. + +“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. + +“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 Fidelite, 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. + +“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). + +“‘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. + +“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 Crequy,—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 Clement, by +inflating her mind with his bubbles of theories,—this Count de Crequy +had long ago taken a fancy to Pierre, as he saw the bright sharp child +playing about his court—Monsieur de Crequy 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. + +“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 +Hotel 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. + +“‘My Aunt Babette is out of coffee.’ + +“‘I am sure I do not know,’ said Pierre. + +“‘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.’ + +“‘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. + +“‘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?’ + +“‘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.’ + +“‘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?’ + +“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 conciergerie, 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 Crequy, 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 Crequy 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 Crequys 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.” + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + + +“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. + +“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. + +“‘Begone, Pierre!’ said Morin. + +“‘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. + +“‘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.’ + +“Virginie did not speak. Pierre doubted if she heard a word of what they +were saying. She leant upon him more and more heavily. + +“‘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 Crequy, as a returned +emigre, 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 +Clement 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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“‘It is hard!’ he said. + +“‘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. + +“‘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. + +“‘Hush, Victor!’ said she. ‘There are other women in the world, if this +one will not have you.’ + +“‘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. + +“‘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 +Crequy, 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 concierge to a duke and three counts for nothing. I tell you, +all your ways are different to her ways.’ + +“‘I would change my “ways,” as you call them.’ + +“‘Be reasonable, Victor.’ + +“‘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 conciergerie of her father’s hotel, that she would +have nothing to do with this cousin whom I put out of the way to-day?’ + +“‘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.’ + +“‘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. + +“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. + +“And now I must take up the story as it was told to the Intendant +Flechier by the old gardener Jacques, with whom Clement 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. Clement had, as I said, returned +to the gardener’s garret after he had been dismissed from the Hotel +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, Clement 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 Clement 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 Clement 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 Clement’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 Flechier told me. A great +blow from a heavy club on the sword-arm of Monsieur de Crequy 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 Clement—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 Crequy and the +gardener found themselves disputing with interest in which chimney of +the stack the starling used to build,—the starling whose nest Clement +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 Hotel de Crequy. 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 Clement 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, Clement 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 Clement 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 Clement, 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 +Crequy, in case—Poor Clement, 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 Crequy, 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-maitres, and such kind of expressions, +said Jacques to Flechier, the intendant, little knowing what a clue +that one word gave to much of the poor lad’s suffering. + +“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.) + +“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. + +“‘The gaoler is early with breakfast,’ said some one, lazily. + +“‘It is the darkness of this accursed place that makes us think it +early,’ said another. + +“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 Crequy, 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. + +“‘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. + +“‘The good God bless you, my friend!’ she murmured, as she saw the +attitude of the old man, propped against a pillar, and holding Clement 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 Clement’s head to her own shoulder; softly she transferred the task +of holding the arm to herself. Clement 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. Clement 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. Clement 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. + +“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. + +“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 +Clement 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. + +“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. + +“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 +Crequy, 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 Clement 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, Clement was +wasting away daily; for he had received other injuries, internal and more +serious than that to his arm, during the melee 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. +Clement’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. + +“‘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. + +“There was perfect silence for a space of time which Jacques could not +measure. Then again the voice, hesitatingly, saying, ‘Monsieur!’ Clement +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. + +“‘Monsieur, do ask mademoiselle to listen to me,—just two words.’ + +“‘Mademoiselle de Crequy only listens to whom she chooses.’ Very +haughtily my Clement would say that, I am sure. + +“‘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.’ + +“Still no word or sign. Jacques did not understand the affair. Why was +she so obdurate to one who might be ready to include Clement in the +proposal, as far as Jacques knew? + +“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. + +“Jacques cleared away the breakfast-things as well as he could. +Purposely, as I suspect, he passed near the man. + +“‘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.’ + +“Jacques saw no harm in repeating this message. Clement listened in +silence, watching Virginie with an air of infinite tenderness. + +“‘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 +Clement 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!’ + +“‘No worse, Clement! and I should have known what you were, and have lost +you. My Clement!’ said she, reproachfully. + +“‘Ask him,’ said she, turning to Jacques, suddenly, ‘if he can save +Monsieur de Crequy as well,—if he can?—O Clement, we might escape to +England; we are but young.’ And she hid her face on his shoulder. + +“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. + +“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.’ + +“‘Your wife!’ Jacques could not help exclaiming, ‘That she will never +be—never!’ + +“‘Ask her!’ said Morin, hoarsely. + +“But almost before Jacques thought he could have fairly uttered the +words, Clement caught their meaning. + +“‘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 Clement. + +“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. + +“‘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 Greve. 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’— + +“‘Save my master, and I will do all,’ said Jacques. + +“‘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 Crequy 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. Clement 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. + +“Together they stood at the bar; together they were condemned. As the +words of judgment were pronounced, Virginie tuned to Clement, and +embraced him with passionate fondness. Then, making him lean on her, +they marched out towards the Place de la Greve. + +“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 Crequy. And now he followed them to the Place de la +Greve. 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 Clement +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. + +“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.” + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + + +After a pause, I ventured to ask what became of Madame de Crequy, +Clement’s mother. + +“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 Crequy 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 +Crequy’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 +Clement on—on—till at length the bright phantom stopped, motionless, +and Madame de Crequy’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 +Crequys in Saint Germain l’Auxerrois; and there the two last of the +Crequys laid them down among their forefathers, and Madame de Crequy 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 Crequy 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.” + +“And what became of her, my lady?” I again asked. + +“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 +Crequy’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.” + +“It is a sad story, your ladyship,” said I, after a while. + +“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.” + +“It is a pity he has not heard your ladyship tell the story of poor +Monsieur de Crequy.” + +“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.” + +“But, my lady, it might convince him,” I said, with perhaps injudicious +perseverance. + +“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!” + +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. + +“Which I could never have granted you,” said my lady. + +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. + +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?” + +“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. + +“A what?” asked my lady, in infinite surprise. + +“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.” + +“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!” + +“I should have hoped to have trained him, my lady, to understand the +rules of discretion.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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?” + +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— + +“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!” + +I could hardly help echoing Mr. Horner’s tone of surprise as he said— + +“Miss Galindo!” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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 +bona-fide money, and on the making-up, no little time and eyesight, +would lie for months in a yellow neglected heap; and at such times, it +was said, Miss Galindo was more amusing than usual, more full of dry +drollery and humour; just as at the times when an order came in to X. +(the initial she had chosen) for a stock of well-paying things, she sat +and stormed at her servant as she stitched away. She herself explained +her practice in this way:— + +“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.” + +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. + +She was going into a cottage, and in the doorway met the good woman +chasing out a duck, and apparently unconscious of her visitor. + +“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). + +“And so you call it after me, do you?” inquired her visitor. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“I don’t think I could bear to scold, Miss Galindo,” said her ladyship, +smiling. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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. + + For Satan finds some mischief still + For idle hands to do, + +you know, my lady.” + +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. + +“Miss Galindo, I have a great favour to ask of you.” + +“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. + +“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—” + +Lady Ludlow stopped. Miss Galindo’s countenance had fallen. There was +some great obstacle in her mind to her wish for obliging Lady Ludlow. + +“What would Sally do?” she asked at length. Lady Ludlow had not a notion +who Sally was. Nor if she had had a notion, would she have had a +conception of the perplexities that poured into Miss Galindo’s mind, at +the idea of leaving her rough forgetful dwarf without the perpetual +monitorship of her mistress. Lady Ludlow, accustomed to a household +where everything went on noiselessly, perfectly, and by clockwork, +conducted by a number of highly-paid, well-chosen, and accomplished +servants, had not a conception of the nature of the rough material from +which her servants came. Besides, in her establishment, so that the +result was good, no one inquired if the small economies had been observed +in the production. Whereas every penny—every halfpenny, was of +consequence to Miss Galindo; and visions of squandered drops of milk and +wasted crusts of bread filled her mind with dismay. But she swallowed +all her apprehensions down, out of her regard for Lady Ludlow, and desire +to be of service to her. No one knows how great a trial it was to her +when she thought of Sally, unchecked and unscolded for three hours every +morning. But all she said was— + +“‘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.’” + +“No, indeed; we must return to the subject of the clerkship afterwards, +if you please. An authoress, Miss Galindo! You surprise me!” + +“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?” + +“Well?” + +“Well! I got paper and half-a-hundred good pens, a bottle of ink, all +ready—” + +“And then—” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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. + +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. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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!” + +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— + +“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.” + +But something happened to the lad before this purpose could be +accomplished. + + + + +CHAPTER X. + + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“O, Miss Galindo!” said I, “don’t talk so my lady’s will! and she not +dead yet.” + +“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!” + +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. + +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.” + +When my lady returned again, she sat down and began to talk of Mr. Gray. + +“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!” + +“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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“There he goes,” she said, “clucking up the children just like an old +hen, and trying to teach them about their salvation and their souls, and +I don’t know what—things that it is just blasphemy to speak about out of +church. And he potters old people about reading their Bibles. I am sure +I don’t want to speak disrespectfully about the Holy Scriptures, but I +found old Job Horton busy reading his Bible yesterday. Says I, ‘What are +you reading, and where did you get it, and who gave it you?’ So he made +answer, ‘That he was reading Susannah and the Elders, for that he had +read Bel and the Dragon till he could pretty near say it off by heart, +and they were two as pretty stories as ever he had read, and that it was +a caution to him what bad old chaps there were in the world.’ Now, as +Job is bedridden, I don’t think he is likely to meet with the Elders, +and I say that I think repeating his Creed, the Commandments, and the +Lord’s Prayer, and, maybe, throwing in a verse of the Psalms, if he +wanted a bit of a change, would have done him far more good than his +pretty stories, as he called them. And what’s the next thing our young +parson does? Why he tries to make us all feel pitiful for the black +slaves, and leaves little pictures of negroes about, with the question +printed below, ‘Am I not a man and a brother?’ just as if I was to be +hail-fellow-well-met with every negro footman. They do say he takes no +sugar in his tea, because he thinks he sees spots of blood in it. Now I +call that superstition.” + +The next day it was a still worse story. + +“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!” + +“To seduce Sally! Mr. Gray!” + +“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.’ + +“Now, our Sally likes tea and bread and butter above everything, and dry +bread was not to her taste. + +“‘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.’ + +“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— + +“‘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.” + +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 tete-a-tete. 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. + +Presently my lady came in. Mr. Gray twitched and coloured more than +ever; but plunged into the middle of his subject at once. + +“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.” + +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. + +She was silent for a moment or two before she replied. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“But, madam, I think of something higher than any earthly dignities.” + +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. + +“Such want of reverence is, I should say, the clergyman’s fault. You +must excuse me, Mr. Gray, if I speak plainly.” + +“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.” + +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. + +My lady rang for a glass of water, and looked much distressed. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Nay, Mr. Gray, by your own admission, they look up to me.” + +“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.” + +“Mr. Gray”—surprise in her air, and some little indignation—“they and +their fathers have lived on the Hanbury lands for generations!” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“Oh, my lady!” said I, and then I stopped. + +“Well. What?” asked she. + +“If you would but let him have Farmer Hale’s barn at once, it would do +him more good than all.” + +“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.” + +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— + +“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?” + +“Harry Gregson! That black-eyed lad who read my letter? It all comes +from over-education!” + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + + +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:— + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.) + +“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 ‘_service oblige_,’ 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.” + +“And he had fallen down the old stone quarry, had he not?” + +“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.’” + +“But where is he?” asked I. “How did Mr. Gray get him out?” + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“But why should you sit up, Miss Galindo? It will tire you sadly.” + +“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 _would_ 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?” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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— + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“I have never done anything to make them follow my lead, as you call it, +Miss Galindo,” said my lady, gravely. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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— + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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— + +“So Mr. Horner and Mr. Gray seem to have gone a long way in advance of my +consent to their plans.” + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +This was not my dear lady’s fault; no one could have been more attentive +in every way to the slightest possible want of either of the invalids, +especially of Mr. Gray. And she would have gone to see him at his own +house, as she sent him word, but that her foot had slipped upon the +polished oak staircase, and her ankle had been sprained. + +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. + +She could not go to him, she was too lame for that, so she bade him be +shown into where she sat. + +“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. + +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. + +“Mr. Gray!” said she, quickly, with sharp, tremulous apprehension of some +unknown evil. “What is it? There is something unusual about you.” + +“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.” + +“My son!” said my dear lady, stretching out her arms in dumb questioning +attitude. + +“The Lord gave and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the +Lord.” + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + + +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. + +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. + +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—? + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“Whose farm is that?” asked my lady. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“A Captain James! A captain in the navy! going to manage your ladyship’s +estate!” + +“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.” + +“A Captain James! an invalid captain!” + +“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.” + +“Occupation! My lady, may I ask how a sailor is to manage land? Why, +your tenants will laugh him to scorn.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +To this there was nothing to be said but “Yes;” and again there was +silence. + +“And you have lost a good, kind friend, in Mr. Horner.” + +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: + +“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?” + +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. + +“Mr. Gray said as how he had left me a matter of money.” + +“Yes, he has left you two hundred pounds.” + +“But I would rather have had him alive, my lady,” he burst out, sobbing +as if his heart would break. + +“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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +Harry knew nothing of my lady’s part in the affair; that was very clear. +My lady kept silence. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“The school, my lady?” I exclaimed, almost thinking she did not know what +she was saying. + +“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.” + +“And I may be schoolmaster?” asked Harry, eagerly. + +“We’ll see about that,” said my lady, amused. “It will be some time +before that plan comes to pass, my little fellow.” + +And now to return to Captain James. My first account of him was from +Miss Galindo. + +“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.” + +“What sort of a looking man is he?” + +“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!” + +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. + +“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!” + +“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.” + +“Yes, my lady; but that was not confidential. Now I was so proud to have +something to do for you confidentially.” + +“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!” + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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? + +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. + +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— + +“But he never was married!” exclaimed Mrs. Trevor. + +“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.” + +“But the child!” asked Mrs. Trevor, still almost breathless with +astonishment. “How do you know it is his?” + +“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.” + +“What is to be done with her?” asked Mrs. Gibson. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 bona 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. + +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. + +Lady Ludlow was proud of her personal superintendence of her own +estate. She liked to tell us how her father used to take her with him +in his rides, and bid her observe this and that, and on no account +to allow such and such things to be done. But I have heard that the +first time she told all this to Captain James, he told her point-blank +that he had heard from Mr. Smithson that the farms were much neglected +and the rents sadly behindhand, and that he meant to set to in good +earnest and study agriculture, and see how he could remedy the state +of things. My lady would, I am sure, be greatly surprised, but what +could she do? Here was the very man she had chosen herself, setting to +with all his energy to conquer the defect of ignorance, which was all +that those who had presumed to offer her ladyship advice had ever had +to say against him. Captain James read Arthur Young’s “Tours” in all +his spare time, as long as he was an invalid; and shook his head at my +lady’s accounts as to how the land had been cropped or left fallow from +time immemorial. Then he set to, and tried too many new experiments at +once. My lady looked on in dignified silence; but all the farmers and +tenants were in an uproar, and prophesied a hundred failures. Perhaps +fifty did occur; they were only half as many as Lady Ludlow had feared; +but they were twice as many, four, eight times as many as the captain +had anticipated. His openly-expressed disappointment made him popular +again. The rough country people could not have understood silent and +dignified regret at the failure of his plans, but they sympathized +with a man who swore at his ill success—sympathized, even while they +chuckled over his discomfiture. Mr. Brooke, the retired tradesman, did +not cease blaming him for not succeeding, and for swearing. “But what +could you expect from a sailor?” Mr. Brooke asked, even in my lady’s +hearing; though he might have known Captain James was my lady’s own +personal choice, from the old friendship Mr. Urian had always shown for +him. I think it was this speech of the Birmingham baker’s that made +my lady determine to stand by Captain James, and encourage him to try +again. For she would not allow that her choice had been an unwise one, +at the bidding (as it were) of a dissenting tradesman; the only person +in the neighbourhood, too, who had flaunted about in coloured clothes, +when all the world was in mourning for my lady’s only son. + +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. + +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. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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—” + +My lady looked up in interrogation at Mr. Gray’s pause. + +“I disapprove of gossip, and it may be untrue; but people do say that +Captain James is very attentive to Miss Brooke.” + +“Impossible!” said my lady, indignantly. “Captain James is a loyal and +religious man. I beg your pardon Mr. Gray, but it is impossible.” + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“I began to learn last November. I remember Mr. Gray’s bringing me +‘Philidor on Chess,’ one very foggy, dismal day.” + +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? + +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: + +“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?” + +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: + +“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!” + +“That’s very true!” said my lady, shaking her head. + +“But baking bread is wholesome, straightforward elbow-work. They have +not got to inventing any contrivance for that yet, thank Heaven! It does +not seem to me natural, nor according to Scripture, that iron and steel +(whose brows can’t sweat) should be made to do man’s work. And so I say, +all those trades where iron and steel do the work ordained to man at the +Fall, are unlawful, and I never stand up for them. But say this baker +Brooke did knead his bread, and make it rise, and then that people, who +had, perhaps, no good ovens, came to him, and bought his good light +bread, and in this manner he turned an honest penny and got rich; why, +all I say, my lady, is this,—I dare say he would have been born a +Hanbury, or a lord if he could; and if he was not, it is no fault of his, +that I can see, that he made good bread (being a baker by trade), and got +money, and bought his land. It was his misfortune, not his fault, that +he was not a person of quality by birth.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +About a year after I left Hanbury, I received a letter from Miss Galindo; +I think I can find it.—Yes, this is it. + + ‘Hanbury, May 4, 1811. + + DEAR MARGARET, + + ‘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! + + ‘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. + + ‘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. + + ‘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. + + ‘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.’ + +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. + + * * * * * + +As any one may guess, it had taken Mrs. Dawson several Monday evenings +to narrate all this history of the days of her youth. Miss Duncan +thought it would be a good exercise for me, both in memory and +composition, to write out on Tuesday mornings all that I had heard the +night before; and thus it came to pass that I have the manuscript of +“My Lady Ludlow” now lying by me. + + * * * * * + + + + +Mr. Dawson had often come in and out of the room during the time that +his sister had been telling us about Lady Ludlow. He would stop, and +listen a little, and smile or sigh as the case might be. The Monday +after the dear old lady had wound up her tale (if tale it could be +called), we felt rather at a loss what to talk about, we had grown so +accustomed to listen to Mrs. Dawson. I remember I was saying, “Oh, +dear! I wish some one would tell us another story!” when her brother +said, as if in answer to my speech, that he had drawn up a paper all +ready for the Philosophical Society, and that perhaps we might care to +hear it before it was sent off: it was in a great measure compiled from +a French book, published by one of the Academies, and rather dry in +itself; but to which Mr. Dawson’s attention had been directed, after a +tour he had made in England during the past year, in which he had +noticed small walled-up doors in unusual parts of some old parish +churches, and had been told that they had formerly been appropriated to +the use of some half-heathen race, who, before the days of gipsies, +held the same outcast pariah position in most of the countries of +western Europe. Mr. Dawson had been recommended to the French book +which he named, as containing the fullest and most authentic account of +this mysterious race, the Cagots. I did not think I should like hearing +this paper as much as a story; but, of course, as he meant it kindly, +we were bound to submit, and I found it, on the whole, more interesting +than I anticipated. + + + + +AN ACCURSED RACE + + +We have our prejudices in England. Or, if that assertion offends any of +my readers, I will modify it: we have had our prejudices in England. We +have tortured Jews; we have burnt Catholics and Protestants, to say +nothing of a few witches and wizards. We have satirized Puritans, and we +have dressed-up Guys. But, after all, I do not think we have been so bad +as our Continental friends. To be sure, our insular position has kept us +free, to a certain degree, from the inroads of alien races; who, driven +from one land of refuge, steal into another equally unwilling to receive +them; and where, for long centuries, their presence is barely endured, +and no pains is taken to conceal the repugnance which the natives of +"pure blood" experience towards them. + +There yet remains a remnant of the miserable people called Cagots in the +valleys of the Pyrenees; in the Landes near Bourdeaux; and, stretching up +on the west side of France, their numbers become larger in Lower +Brittany. Even now, the origin of these families is a word of shame to +them among their neighbours; although they are protected by the law, +which confirmed them in the equal rights of citizens about the end of the +last century. Before then they had lived, for hundreds of years, +isolated from all those who boasted of pure blood, and they had been, all +this time, oppressed by cruel local edicts. They were truly what they +were popularly called, The Accursed Race. + +All distinct traces of their origin are lost. Even at the close of that +period which we call the Middle Ages, this was a problem which no one +could solve; and as the traces, which even then were faint and uncertain, +have vanished away one by one, it is a complete mystery at the present +day. Why they were accursed in the first instance, why isolated from +their kind, no one knows. From the earliest accounts of their state that +are yet remaining to us, it seems that the names which they gave each +other were ignored by the population they lived amongst, who spoke of +them as Crestiaa, or Cagots, just as we speak of animals by their generic +names. Their houses or huts were always placed at some distance out of +the villages of the country-folk, who unwillingly called in the services +of the Cagots as carpenters, or tilers, or slaters--trades which seemed +appropriated by this unfortunate race--who were forbidden to occupy land, +or to bear arms, the usual occupations of those times. They had some +small right of pasturage on the common lands, and in the forests: but the +number of their cattle and live-stock was strictly limited by the +earliest laws relating to the Cagots. They were forbidden by one act to +have more than twenty sheep, a pig, a ram, and six geese. The pig was to +be fattened and killed for winter food; the fleece of the sheep was to +clothe them; but if the said sheep had lambs, they were forbidden to eat +them. Their only privilege arising from this increase was, that they +might choose out the strongest and finest in preference to keeping the +old sheep. At Martinmas the authorities of the commune came round, and +counted over the stock of each Cagot. If he had more than his appointed +number, they were forfeited; half went to the commune, half to the +baillie, or chief magistrate of the commune. The poor beasts were +limited as to the amount of common which they might stray over in search +of grass. While the cattle of the inhabitants of the commune might +wander hither and thither in search of the sweetest herbage, the deepest +shade, or the coolest pool in which to stand on the hot days, and lazily +switch their dappled sides, the Cagot sheep and pig had to learn +imaginary bounds, beyond which if they strayed, any one might snap them +up, and kill them, reserving a part of the flesh for his own use, but +graciously restoring the inferior parts to their original owner. Any +damage done by the sheep was, however, fairly appraised, and the Cagot +paid no more for it than any other man would have done. + +Did a Cagot leave his poor cabin, and venture into the towns, even to +render services required of him in the way of his trade, he was bidden, by all +the municipal laws, to stand by and remember his rude old state. In all +the towns and villages the large districts extending on both sides of the +Pyrenees--in all that part of Spain--they were forbidden to buy or sell +anything eatable, to walk in the middle (esteemed the better) part of the +streets, to come within the gates before sunrise, or to be found after +sunset within the walls of the town. But still, as the Cagots were good- +looking men, and (although they bore certain natural marks of their +caste, of which I shall speak by-and-by) were not easily distinguished by +casual passers-by from other men, they were compelled to wear some +distinctive peculiarity which should arrest the eye; and, in the greater +number of towns, it was decreed that the outward sign of a Cagot should +be a piece of red cloth sewed conspicuously on the front of his dress. In +other towns, the mark of Cagoterie was the foot of a duck or a goose hung +over their left shoulder, so as to be seen by any one meeting them. After +a time, the more convenient badge of a piece of yellow cloth cut out in +the shape of a duck's foot, was adopted. If any Cagot was found in any +town or village without his badge, he had to pay a fine of five sous, and +to lose his dress. He was expected to shrink away from any passer-by, +for fear that their clothes should touch each other; or else to stand +still in some corner or by-place. If the Cagots were thirsty during the +days which they passed in those towns where their presence was barely +suffered, they had no means of quenching their thirst, for they were +forbidden to enter into the little cabarets or taverns. Even the water +gushing out of the common fountain was prohibited to them. Far away, in +their own squalid village, there was the Cagot fountain, and they were +not allowed to drink of any other water. A Cagot woman having to make +purchases in the town, was liable to be flogged out of it if she went to +buy anything except on a Monday--a day on which all other people who +could, kept their houses for fear of coming in contact with the accursed +race. + +In the Pays Basque, the prejudices--and for some time the laws--ran +stronger against them than any which I have hitherto mentioned. The +Basque Cagot was not allowed to possess sheep. He might keep a pig for +provision, but his pig had no right of pasturage. He might cut and carry +grass for the ass, which was the only other animal he was permitted to +own; and this ass was permitted, because its existence was rather an +advantage to the oppressor, who constantly availed himself of the Cagot's +mechanical skill, and was glad to have him and his tools easily conveyed +from one place to another. + +The race was repulsed by the State. Under the small local governments +they could hold no post whatsoever. And they were barely tolerated by +the Church, although they were good Catholics, and zealous frequenters of +the mass. They might only enter the churches by a small door set apart +for them, through which no one of the pure race ever passed. This door +was low, so as to compel them to make an obeisance. It was occasionally +surrounded by sculpture, which invariably represented an oak-branch with +a dove above it. When they were once in, they might not go to the holy +water used by others. They had a benitier of their own; nor were they +allowed to share in the consecrated bread when that was handed round to +the believers of the pure race. The Cagots stood afar off, near the +door. There were certain boundaries--imaginary lines on the nave and in +the aisles which they might not pass. In one or two of the more tolerant +of the Pyrenean villages, the blessed bread was offered to the Cagots, +the priest standing on one side of the boundary, and giving the pieces of +bread on a long wooden fork to each person successively. + +When the Cagot died, he was interred apart, in a plot burying-ground on +the north side of the cemetery. Under such laws and prescriptions as I +have described, it is no wonder that he was generally too poor to have +much property for his children to inherit; but certain descriptions of it +were forfeited to the commune. The only possession which all who were +not of his own race refused to touch, was his furniture. That was +tainted, infectious, unclean--fit for none but Cagots. + +When such were, for at least three centuries, the prevalent usages and +opinions with regard to this oppressed race, it is not surprising that we +read of occasional outbursts of ferocious violence on their part. In the +Basses-Pyrenees, for instance it is only about a hundred years since, +that the Cagots of Rehouilhes rose up against the inhabitants of the +neighbouring town of Lourdes, and got the better of them, by their +magical powers as it is said. The people of Lourdes were conquered and +slain, and their ghastly, bloody heads served the triumphant Cagots for +balls to play at ninepins with! The local parliaments had begun, by this +time, to perceive how oppressive was the ban of public opinion under +which the Cagots lay, and were not inclined to enforce too severe a +punishment. Accordingly, the decree of the parliament of Toulouse +condemned only the leading Cagots concerned in this affray to be put to +death, and that henceforward and for ever no Cagot was to be permitted to +enter the town of Lourdes by any gate but that called Capdet-pourtet: +they were only to be allowed to walk under the rain-gutters, and neither +to sit, eat, nor drink in the town. If they failed in observing any of +these rules, the parliament decreed, in the spirit of Shylock, that the +disobedient Cagots should have two strips of flesh, weighing never more +than two ounces a-piece, cut out from each side of their spines. + +In the fourteenth, fifteenth, and sixteenth centuries it was considered +no more a crime to kill a Cagot than to destroy obnoxious vermin. A +"nest of Cagots," as the old accounts phrase it, had assembled in a +deserted castle of Mauvezin, about the year sixteen hundred; and, +certainly, they made themselves not very agreeable neighbours, as they +seemed to enjoy their reputation of magicians; and, by some acoustic +secrets which were known to them, all sorts of moanings and groanings +were heard in the neighbouring forests, very much to the alarm of the +good people of the pure race; who could not cut off a withered branch for +firewood, but some unearthly sound seemed to fill the air, nor drink +water which was not poisoned, because the Cagots would persist in filling +their pitchers at the same running stream. Added to these grievances, +the various pilferings perpetually going on in the neighbourhood made the +inhabitants of the adjacent towns and hamlets believe that they had a +very sufficient cause for wishing to murder all the Cagots in the Chateau +de Mauvezin. But it was surrounded by a moat, and only accessible by a +drawbridge; besides which, the Cagots were fierce and vigilant. Some +one, however, proposed to get into their confidence; and for this purpose +he pretended to fall ill close to their path, so that on returning to +their stronghold they perceived him, and took him in, restored him to +health, and made a friend of him. One day, when they were all playing at +ninepins in the woods, their treacherous friend left the party on +pretence of being thirsty, and went back into the castle, drawing up the +bridge after he had passed over it, and so cutting off their means of +escape into safety. Them, going up to the highest part of the castle, he +blew a horn, and the pure race, who were lying in wait on the watch for +some such signal, fell upon the Cagots at their games, and slew them all. +For this murder I find no punishment decreed in the parliament of +Toulouse, or elsewhere. + +As any intermarriage with the pure race was strictly forbidden, and as +there were books kept in every commune in which the names and habitations +of the reputed Cagots were written, these unfortunate people had no hope +of ever becoming blended with the rest of the population. Did a Cagot +marriage take place, the couple were serenaded with satirical songs. They +also had minstrels, and many of their romances are still current in +Brittany; but they did not attempt to make any reprisals of satire or +abuse. Their disposition was amiable, and their intelligence great. +Indeed, it required both these qualities, and their great love of +mechanical labour, to make their lives tolerable. + +At last, they began to petition that they might receive some protection +from the laws; and, towards the end of the seventeenth century, the +judicial power took their side. But they gained little by this. Law +could not prevail against custom: and, in the ten or twenty years just +preceding the first French revolution, the prejudice in France against +the Cagots amounted to fierce and positive abhorrence. + +At the beginning of the sixteenth century, the Cagots of Navarre +complained to the Pope, that they were excluded from the fellowship of +men, and accursed by the Church, because their ancestors had given help +to a certain Count Raymond of Toulouse in his revolt against the Holy +See. They entreated his holiness not to visit upon them the sins of +their fathers. The Pope issued a bull on the thirteenth of May, fifteen +hundred and fifteen--ordering them to be well-treated and to be admitted +to the same privileges as other men. He charged Don Juan de Santa Maria +of Pampeluna to see to the execution of this bull. But Don Juan was slow +to help, and the poor Spanish Cagots grew impatient, and resolved to try +the secular power. They accordingly applied to the Cortes of Navarre, +and were opposed on a variety of grounds. First, it was stated that +their ancestors had had "nothing to do with Raymond Count of Toulouse, or +with any such knightly personage; that they were in fact descendants of +Gehazi, servant of Elisha (second book of Kings, fifth chapter, twenty- +seventh verse), who had been accursed by his master for his fraud upon +Naaman, and doomed, he and his descendants, to be lepers for evermore. +Name, Cagots or Gahets; Gahets, Gehazites. What can be more clear? And +if that is not enough, and you tell us that the Cagots are not lepers +now; we reply that there are two kinds of leprosy, one perceptible and +the other imperceptible, even to the person suffering from it. Besides, +it is the country talk, that where the Cagot treads, the grass withers, +proving the unnatural heat of his body. Many credible and trustworthy +witnesses will also tell you that, if a Cagot holds a freshly-gathered +apple in his hand, it will shrivel and wither up in an hour's time as +much as if it had been kept for a whole winter in a dry room. They are +born with tails; although the parents are cunning enough to pinch them +off immediately. Do you doubt this? If it is not true, why do the +children of the pure race delight in sewing on sheep's tails to the dress +of any Cagot who is so absorbed in his work as not to perceive them? And +their bodily smell is so horrible and detestable that it shows that they +must be heretics of some vile and pernicious description, for do we not +read of the incense of good workers, and the fragrance of holiness?" + +Such were literally the arguments by which the Cagots were thrown back +into a worse position than ever, as far as regarded their rights as +citizens. The Pope insisted that they should receive all their +ecclesiastical privileges. The Spanish priests said nothing; but tacitly +refused to allow the Cagots to mingle with the rest of the faithful, +either dead or alive. The accursed race obtained laws in their favour +from the Emperor Charles the Fifth; which, however, there was no one to +carry into effect. As a sort of revenge for their want of submission, +and for their impertinence in daring to complain, their tools were all +taken away from them by the local authorities: an old man and all his +family died of starvation, being no longer allowed to fish. + +They could not emigrate. Even to remove their poor mud habitations, from +one spot to another, excited anger and suspicion. To be sure, in sixteen +hundred and ninety-five, the Spanish government ordered the alcaldes to +search out all the Cagots, and to expel them before two months had +expired, under pain of having fifty ducats to pay for every Cagot +remaining in Spain at the expiration of that time. The inhabitants of +the villages rose up and flogged out any of the miserable race who might +be in their neighbourhood; but the French were on their guard against +this enforced irruption, and refused to permit them to enter France. +Numbers were hunted up into the inhospitable Pyrenees, and there died of +starvation, or became a prey to wild beasts. They were obliged to wear +both gloves and shoes when they were thus put to flight, otherwise the +stones and herbage they trod upon and the balustrades of the bridges that +they handled in crossing, would, according to popular belief, have become +poisonous. + +And all this time, there was nothing remarkable or disgusting in the +outward appearance of this unfortunate people. There was nothing about +them to countenance the idea of their being lepers--the most natural mode +of accounting for the abhorrence in which they were held. They were +repeatedly examined by learned doctors, whose experiments, although +singular and rude, appear to have been made in a spirit of humanity. For +instance, the surgeons of the king of Navarre, in sixteen hundred, bled +twenty-two Cagots, in order to examine and analyze their blood. They +were young and healthy people of both sexes; and the doctors seem to have +expected that they should have been able to extract some new kind of salt +from their blood which might account for the wonderful heat of their +bodies. But their blood was just like that of other people. Some of +these medical men have left us a description of the general appearance of +this unfortunate race, at a time when they were more numerous and less +intermixed than they are now. The families existing in the south and +west of France, who are reputed to be of Cagot descent at this day, are, +like their ancestors, tall, largely made, and powerful in frame; fair and +ruddy in complexion, with gray-blue eyes, in which some observers see a +pensive heaviness of look. Their lips are thick, but well-formed. Some +of the reports name their sad expression of countenance with surprise and +suspicion--"They are not gay, like other folk." The wonder would be if +they were. Dr. Guyon, the medical man of the last century who has left +the clearest report on the health of the Cagots, speaks of the vigorous +old age they attain to. In one family alone, he found a man of seventy- +four years of age; a woman as old, gathering cherries; and another woman, +aged eighty-three, was lying on the grass, having her hair combed by her +great-grandchildren. Dr. Guyon and other surgeons examined into the +subject of the horribly infectious smell which the Cagots were said to +leave behind them, and upon everything they touched; but they could +perceive nothing unusual on this head. They also examined their ears, +which according to common belief (a belief existing to this day), were +differently shaped from those of other people; being round and gristly, +without the lobe of flesh into which the ear-ring is inserted. They +decided that most of the Cagots whom they examined had the ears of this +round shape; but they gravely added, that they saw no reason why this +should exclude them from the good-will of men, and from the power of +holding office in Church and State. They recorded the fact, that the +children of the towns ran baaing after any Cagot who had been compelled +to come into the streets to make purchases, in allusion to this +peculiarity of the shape of the ear, which bore some resemblance to the +ears of the sheep as they are cut by the shepherds in this district. Dr. +Guyon names the case of a beautiful Cagot girl, who sang most sweetly, +and prayed to be allowed to sing canticles in the organ-loft. The +organist, more musician than bigot, allowed her to come, but the +indignant congregation, finding out whence proceeded that clear, fresh +voice, rushed up to the organ-loft, and chased the girl out, bidding her +"remember her ears," and not commit the sacrilege of singing praises to +God along with the pure race. + +But this medical report of Dr. Guyon's--bringing facts and arguments to +confirm his opinion, that there was no physical reason why the Cagots +should not be received on terms of social equality by the rest of the +world--did no more for his clients than the legal decrees promulgated two +centuries before had done. The French proved the truth of the saying in +Hudibras-- + + He that's convinced against his will + Is of the same opinion still. + +And, indeed, the being convinced by Dr. Guyon that they ought to receive +Cagots as fellow-creatures, only made them more rabid in declaring that +they would not. One or two little occurrences which are recorded, show +that the bitterness of the repugnance to the Cagots was in full force at +the time just preceding the first French revolution. There was a M. +d'Abedos, the curate of Lourdes, and brother to the seigneur of the +neighbouring castle, who was living in seventeen hundred and eighty; he +was well-educated for the time, a travelled man, and sensible and +moderate in all respects but that of his abhorrence of the Cagots: he +would insult them from the very altar, calling out to them, as they stood +afar off, "Oh! ye Cagots, damned for evermore!" One day, a half-blind +Cagot stumbled and touched the censer borne before this Abbe de Lourdes. +He was immediately turned out of the church, and forbidden ever to re- +enter it. One does not know how to account for the fact, that the very +brother of this bigoted abbe, the seigneur of the village, went and +married a Cagot girl; but so it was, and the abbe brought a legal process +against him, and had his estates taken from him, solely on account of his +marriage, which reduced him to the condition of a Cagot, against whom the +old law was still in force. The descendants of this Seigneur de Lourdes +are simple peasants at this very day, working on the lands which belonged +to their grandfather. + +This prejudice against mixed marriages remained prevalent until very +lately. The tradition of the Cagot descent lingered among the people, +long after the laws against the accursed race were abolished. A Breton +girl, within the last few years, having two lovers each of reputed Cagot +descent, employed a notary to examine their pedigrees, and see which of +the two had least Cagot in him; and to that one she gave her hand. In +Brittany the prejudice seems to have been more virulent than anywhere +else. M. Emile Souvestre records proofs of the hatred borne to them in +Brittany so recently as in eighteen hundred and thirty-five. Just lately +a baker at Hennebon, having married a girl of Cagot descent, lost all his +custom. The godfather and godmother of a Cagot child became Cagots +themselves by the Breton laws, unless, indeed, the poor little baby died +before attaining a certain number of days. They had to eat the butchers' +meat condemned as unhealthy; but, for some unknown reason, they were +considered to have a right to every cut loaf turned upside down, with its +cut side towards the door, and might enter any house in which they saw a +loaf in this position, and carry it away with them. About thirty years +ago, there was the skeleton of a hand hanging up as an offering in a +Breton church near Quimperle, and the tradition was, that it was the hand +of a rich Cagot who had dared to take holy water out of the usual +benitier, some time at the beginning of the reign of Louis the Sixteenth; +which an old soldier witnessing, he lay in wait, and the next time the +offender approached the benitier he cut off his hand, and hung it up, +dripping with blood, as an offering to the patron saint of the church. +The poor Cagots in Brittany petitioned against their opprobrious name, +and begged to be distinguished by the appelation of Malandrins. To +English ears one is much the same as the other, as neither conveys any +meaning; but, to this day, the descendants of the Cagots do not like to +have this name applied to them, preferring that of Malandrin. + +The French Cagots tried to destroy all the records of their pariah +descent, in the commotions of seventeen hundred and eighty-nine; but if +writings have disappeared, the tradition yet remains, and points out such +and such a family as Cagot, or Malandrin, or Oiselier, according to the +old terms of abhorrence. + +There are various ways in which learned men have attempted to account for +the universal repugnance in which this well-made, powerful race are held. +Some say that the antipathy to them took its rise in the days when +leprosy was a dreadfully prevalent disease; and that the Cagots are more +liable than any other men to a kind of skin disease, not precisely +leprosy, but resembling it in some of its symptoms; such as dead +whiteness of complexion, and swellings of the face and extremities. There +was also some resemblance to the ancient Jewish custom in respect to +lepers, in the habit of the people; who on meeting a Cagot called out, +"Cagote? Cagote?" to which they were bound to reply, "Perlute! perlute!" +Leprosy is not properly an infectious complaint, in spite of the horror +in which the Cagot furniture, and the cloth woven by them, are held in +some places; the disorder is hereditary, and hence (say this body of wise +men, who have troubled themselves to account for the origin of Cagoterie) +the reasonableness and the justice of preventing any mixed marriages, by +which this terrible tendency to leprous complaints might be spread far +and wide. Another authority says, that though the Cagots are +fine-looking men, hard-working, and good mechanics, yet they bear in +their faces, and show in their actions, reasons for the detestation in +which they are held: their glance, if you meet it, is the jettatura, or +evil-eye, and they are spiteful, and cruel, and deceitful above all other +men. All these qualities they derive from their ancestor Gehazi, the +servant of Elisha, together with their tendency to leprosy. + +Again, it is said that they are descended from the Arian Goths who were +permitted to live in certain places in Guienne and Languedoc, after their +defeat by King Clovis, on condition that they abjured their heresy, and +kept themselves separate from all other men for ever. The principal +reason alleged in support of this supposition of their Gothic descent, is +the specious one of derivation,--Chiens Gots, Cans Gets, Cagots, +equivalent to Dogs of Goths. + +Again, they were thought to be Saracens, coming from Syria. In +confirmation of this idea, was the belief that all Cagots were possessed +by a horrible smell. The Lombards, also, were an unfragrant race, or so +reputed among the Italians: witness Pope Stephen's letter to Charlemagne, +dissuading him from marrying Bertha, daughter of Didier, King of +Lombardy. The Lombards boasted of Eastern descent, and were noisome. The +Cagots were noisome, and therefore must be of Eastern descent. What +could be clearer? In addition, there was the proof to be derived from +the name Cagot, which those maintaining the opinion of their Saracen +descent held to be Chiens, or Chasseurs des Gots, because the Saracens +chased the Goths out of Spain. Moreover, the Saracens were originally +Mahometans, and as such obliged to bathe seven times a-day: whence the +badge of the duck's foot. A duck was a water-bird: Mahometans bathed in +the water. Proof upon proof! + +In Brittany the common idea was, they were of Jewish descent. Their +unpleasant smell was again pressed into service. The Jews, it was well +known, had this physical infirmity, which might be cured either by +bathing in a certain fountain in Egypt--which was a long way from +Brittany--or by anointing themselves with the blood of a Christian child. +Blood gushed out of the body of every Cagot on Good Friday. No wonder, +if they were of Jewish descent. It was the only way of accounting for so +portentous a fact. Again; the Cagots were capital carpenters, which gave +the Bretons every reason to believe that their ancestors were the very +Jews who made the cross. When first the tide of emigration set from +Brittany to America, the oppressed Cagots crowded to the ports, seeking +to go to some new country, where their race might be unknown. Here was +another proof of their descent from Abraham and his nomadic people: and, +the forty years' wandering in the wilderness and the Wandering Jew +himself, were pressed into the service to prove that the Cagots derived +their restlessness and love of change from their ancestors, the Jews. The +Jews, also, practised arts-magic, and the Cagots sold bags of wind to the +Breton sailors, enchanted maidens to love them--maidens who never would +have cared for them, unless they had been previously enchanted--made +hollow rocks and trees give out strange and unearthly noises, and sold +the magical herb called _bon-succes_. It is true enough that, in all the +early acts of the fourteenth century, the same laws apply to Jews as to +Cagots, and the appellations seem used indiscriminately; but their fair +complexions, their remarkable devotion to all the ceremonies of the +Catholic Church, and many other circumstances, conspire to forbid our +believing them to be of Hebrew descent. + +Another very plausible idea is, that they are the descendants of +unfortunate individuals afflicted with goitres, which is, even to this +day, not an uncommon disorder in the gorges and valleys of the Pyrenees. +Some have even derived the word goitre from Got, or Goth; but their name, +Crestia, is not unlike Cretin, and the same symptoms of idiotism were not +unusual among the Cagots; although sometimes, if old tradition is to be +credited, their malady of the brain took rather the form of violent +delirium, which attacked them at new and full moons. Then the workmen +laid down their tools, and rushed off from their labour to play mad +pranks up and down the country. Perpetual motion was required to +alleviate the agony of fury that seized upon the Cagots at such times. In +this desire for rapid movement, the attack resembled the Neapolitan +tarantella; while in the mad deeds they performed during such attacks, +they were not unlike the northern Berserker. In Bearn especially, those +suffering from this madness were dreaded by the pure race; the Bearnais, +going to cut their wooden clogs in the great forests that lay around the +base of the Pyrenees, feared above all things to go too near the periods +when the Cagoutelle seized on the oppressed and accursed people; from +whom it was then the oppressors' turn to fly. A man was living within +the memory of some, who married a Cagot wife; he used to beat her right +soundly when he saw the first symptoms of the Cagoutelle, and, having +reduced her to a wholesome state of exhaustion and insensibility, he +locked her up until the moon had altered her shape in the heavens. If he +had not taken such decided steps, say the oldest inhabitants, there is no +knowing what might have happened. + +From the thirteenth to the end of the nineteenth century, there are facts +enough to prove the universal abhorrence in which this unfortunate race +was held; whether called Cagots, or Gahets in Pyrenean districts, +Caqueaux in Brittany, or Yaqueros Asturias. The great French revolution +brought some good out of its fermentation of the people: the more +intelligent among them tried to overcome the prejudice against the +Cagots. + +In seventeen hundred and eighteen, there was a famous cause tried at +Biarritz relating to Cagot rights and privileges. There was a wealthy +miller, Etienne Arnauld by name, of the race of Gotz, Quagotz, Bisigotz, +Astragotz, or Gahetz, as his people are described in the legal document. +He married an heiress, a Gotte (or Cagot) of Biarritz; and the +newly-married well-to-do couple saw no reason why they should stand near +the door in the church, nor why he should not hold some civil office in +the commune, of which he was the principal inhabitant. Accordingly, he +petitioned the law that he and his wife might be allowed to sit in the +gallery of the church, and that he might be relieved from his civil +disabilities. This wealthy white miller, Etienne Arnauld, pursued his +rights with some vigour against the Baillie of Labourd, the dignitary of +the neighbourhood. Whereupon the inhabitants of Biarritz met in the open +air, on the eighth of May, to the number of one hundred and fifty; +approved of the conduct of the Baillie in rejecting Arnauld, made a +subscription, and gave all power to their lawyers to defend the cause of +the pure race against Etienne Arnauld--"that stranger," who, having +married a girl of Cagot blood, ought also to be expelled from the holy +places. This lawsuit was carried through all the local courts, and ended +by an appeal to the highest court in Paris; where a decision was given +against Basque superstitions; and Etienne Arnauld was thenceforward +entitled to enter the gallery of the church. + +Of course, the inhabitants of Biarritz were all the more ferocious for +having been conquered; and, four years later, a carpenter, named Miguel +Legaret, suspected of Cagot descent, having placed himself in the church +among other people, was dragged out by the abbe and two of the jurets of +the parish. Legaret defended himself with a sharp knife at the time, and +went to law afterwards; the end of which was, that the abbe and his two +accomplices were condemned to a public confession of penitence, to be +uttered while on their knees at the church door, just after high-mass. +They appealed to the parliament of Bourdeaux against this decision, but +met with no better success than the opponents of the miller Arnauld. +Legaret was confirmed in his right of standing where he would in the +parish church. That a living Cagot had equal rights with other men in +the town of Biarritz seemed now ceded to them; but a dead Cagot was a +different thing. The inhabitants of pure blood struggled long and hard +to be interred apart from the abhorred race. The Cagots were equally +persistent in claiming to have a common burying-ground. Again the texts +of the Old Testament were referred to, and the pure blood quoted +triumphantly the precedent of Uzziah the leper (twenty-sixth chapter of +the second book of Chronicles), who was buried in the field of the +Sepulchres of the Kings, not in the sepulchres themselves. The Cagots +pleaded that they were healthy and able-bodied; with no taint of leprosy +near them. They were met by the strong argument so difficult to be +refuted, which I quoted before. Leprosy was of two kinds, perceptible +and imperceptible. If the Cagots were suffering from the latter kind, +who could tell whether they were free from it or not? That decision must +be left to the judgment of others. + +One sturdy Cagot family alone, Belone by name, kept up a lawsuit, +claiming the privilege of common sepulture, for forty-two years; although +the cure of Biarritz had to pay one hundred livres for every Cagot not +interred in the right place. The inhabitants indemnified the curate for +all these fines. + +M. de Romagne, Bishop of Tarbes, who died in seventeen hundred and sixty- +eight, was the first to allow a Cagot to fill any office in the Church. +To be sure, some were so spiritless as to reject office when it was +offered to them, because, by so claiming their equality, they had to pay +the same taxes as other men, instead of the Rancale or pole-tax levied on +the Cagots; the collector of which had also a right to claim a piece of +bread of a certain size for his dog at every Cagot dwelling. + +Even in the present century, it has been necessary in some churches for +the archdeacon of the district, followed by all his clergy, to pass out +of the small door previously appropriated to the Cagots, in order to +mitigate the superstition which, even so lately, made the people refuse +to mingle with them in the house of God. A Cagot once played the +congregation at Larroque a trick suggested by what I have just named. He +slily locked the great parish-door of the church, while the greater part +of the inhabitants were assisting at mass inside; put gravel into the +lock itself, so as to prevent the use of any duplicate key,--and had the +pleasure of seeing the proud pure-blooded people file out with bended +head, through the small low door used by the abhorred Cagots. + +We are naturally shocked at discovering, from facts such as these, the +causeless rancour with which innocent and industrious people were so +recently persecuted. The moral of the history of the accursed race may, +perhaps, be best conveyed in the words of an epitaph on Mrs. Mary Hand, +who lies buried in the churchyard of Stratford-on-Avon:-- + + What faults you saw in me, + Pray strive to shun; + And look at home; there's + Something to be done. + + + + +For some time past I had observed that Miss Duncan made a good deal of +occupation for herself in writing, but that she did not like me to +notice her employment. Of course this made me all the more curious; and +many were my silent conjectures—some of them so near the truth that I +was not much surprised when, after Mr. Dawson had finished reading his +Paper to us, she hesitated, coughed, and abruptly introduced a little +formal speech, to the effect that she had noted down an old Welsh story +the particulars of which had often been told her in her youth, as she +lived close to the place where the events occurred. Everybody pressed +her to read the manuscript, which she now produced from her reticule; +but, when on the point of beginning, her nervousness seemed to overcome +her, and she made so many apologies for its being the first and only +attempt she had ever made at that kind of composition, that I began to +wonder if we should ever arrive at the story at all. At length, in a +high-pitched, ill-assured voice, she read out the title: + + “THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS.” + + + + + THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS + + + + +CHAPTER I. + + +I have always been much interested by the traditions which are scattered +up and down North Wales relating to Owen Glendower (Owain Glendwr is the +national spelling of the name), and I fully enter into the feeling which +makes the Welsh peasant still look upon him as the hero of his country. +There was great joy among many of the inhabitants of the principality, +when the subject of the Welsh prize poem at Oxford, some fifteen or +sixteen years ago, was announced to be “Owain Glendwr.” It was the most +proudly national subject that had been given for years. + +Perhaps, some may not be aware that this redoubted chieftain is, even in +the present days of enlightenment, as famous among his illiterate +countrymen for his magical powers as for his patriotism. He says +himself—or Shakespeare says it for him, which is much the same thing— + + ‘At my nativity + The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes + Of burning cressets . . . + . . . I can call spirits from the vasty deep.’ + +And few among the lower orders in the principality would think of asking +Hotspur’s irreverent question in reply. + +Among other traditions preserved relative to this part of the Welsh +hero’s character, is the old family prophecy which gives title to this +tale. When Sir David Gam, “as black a traitor as if he had been born in +Builth,” sought to murder Owen at Machynlleth, there was one with him +whose name Glendwr little dreamed of having associated with his enemies. +Rhys ap Gryfydd, his “old familiar friend,” his relation, his more than +brother, had consented unto his blood. Sir David Gam might be forgiven, +but one whom he had loved, and who had betrayed him, could never be +forgiven. Glendwr was too deeply read in the human heart to kill him. +No, he let him live on, the loathing and scorn of his compatriots, and +the victim of bitter remorse. The mark of Cain was upon him. + +But before he went forth—while he yet stood a prisoner, cowering beneath +his conscience before Owain Glendwr—that chieftain passed a doom upon him +and his race: + +“I doom thee to live, because I know thou wilt pray for death. Thou +shalt live on beyond the natural term of the life of man, the scorn of +all good men. The very children shall point to thee with hissing tongue, +and say, ‘There goes one who would have shed a brother’s blood!’ For I +loved thee more than a brother, oh Rhys ap Gryfydd! Thou shalt live on +to see all of thy house, except the weakling in arms, perish by the +sword. Thy race shall be accursed. Each generation shall see their +lands melt away like snow; yea their wealth shall vanish, though they may +labour night and day to heap up gold. And when nine generations have +passed from the face of the earth, thy blood shall no longer flow in the +veins of any human being. In those days the last male of thy race shall +avenge me. The son shall slay the father.” + +Such was the traditionary account of Owain Glendwr’s speech to his +once-trusted friend. And it was declared that the doom had been +fulfilled in all things; that live in as miserly a manner as they would, +the Griffiths never were wealthy and prosperous—indeed that their worldly +stock diminished without any visible cause. + +But the lapse of many years had almost deadened the wonder-inspiring +power of the whole curse. It was only brought forth from the hoards of +Memory when some untoward event happened to the Griffiths family; and in +the eighth generation the faith in the prophecy was nearly destroyed, by +the marriage of the Griffiths of that day, to a Miss Owen, who, +unexpectedly, by the death of a brother, became an heiress—to no +considerable amount, to be sure, but enough to make the prophecy appear +reversed. The heiress and her husband removed from his small patrimonial +estate in Merionethshire, to her heritage in Caernarvonshire, and for a +time the prophecy lay dormant. + +If you go from Tremadoc to Criccaeth, you pass by the parochial church of +Ynysynhanarn, situated in a boggy valley running from the mountains, +which shoulder up to the Rivals, down to Cardigan Bay. This tract of +land has every appearance of having been redeemed at no distant period of +time from the sea, and has all the desolate rankness often attendant upon +such marshes. But the valley beyond, similar in character, had yet more +of gloom at the time of which I write. In the higher part there were +large plantations of firs, set too closely to attain any size, and +remaining stunted in height and scrubby in appearance. Indeed, many of +the smaller and more weakly had died, and the bark had fallen down on the +brown soil neglected and unnoticed. These trees had a ghastly +appearance, with their white trunks, seen by the dim light which +struggled through the thick boughs above. Nearer to the sea, the valley +assumed a more open, though hardly a more cheerful character; it looked +dark and overhung by sea-fog through the greater part of the year, and +even a farm-house, which usually imparts something of cheerfulness to a +landscape, failed to do so here. This valley formed the greater part of +the estate to which Owen Griffiths became entitled by right of his wife. +In the higher part of the valley was situated the family mansion, or +rather dwelling-house, for “mansion” is too grand a word to apply to the +clumsy, but substantially-built Bodowen. It was square and +heavy-looking, with just that much pretension to ornament necessary to +distinguish it from the mere farm-house. + +In this dwelling Mrs. Owen Griffiths bore her husband two sons—Llewellyn, +the future Squire, and Robert, who was early destined for the Church. +The only difference in their situation, up to the time when Robert was +entered at Jesus College, was, that the elder was invariably indulged by +all around him, while Robert was thwarted and indulged by turns; that +Llewellyn never learned anything from the poor Welsh parson, who was +nominally his private tutor; while occasionally Squire Griffiths made a +great point of enforcing Robert’s diligence, telling him that, as he had +his bread to earn, he must pay attention to his learning. There is no +knowing how far the very irregular education he had received would have +carried Robert through his college examinations; but, luckily for him in +this respect, before such a trial of his learning came round, he heard of +the death of his elder brother, after a short illness, brought on by a +hard drinking-bout. Of course, Robert was summoned home, and it seemed +quite as much of course, now that there was no necessity for him to “earn +his bread by his learning,” that he should not return to Oxford. So the +half-educated, but not unintelligent, young man continued at home, during +the short remainder of his parent’s lifetime. + +His was not an uncommon character. In general he was mild, indolent, and +easily managed; but once thoroughly roused, his passions were vehement +and fearful. He seemed, indeed, almost afraid of himself, and in common +hardly dared to give way to justifiable anger—so much did he dread losing +his self-control. Had he been judiciously educated, he would, probably, +have distinguished himself in those branches of literature which call for +taste and imagination, rather than any exertion of reflection or +judgment. As it was, his literary taste showed itself in making +collections of Cambrian antiquities of every description, till his stock +of Welsh MSS. would have excited the envy of Dr. Pugh himself, had he +been alive at the time of which I write. + +There is one characteristic of Robert Griffiths which I have omitted to +note, and which was peculiar among his class. He was no hard drinker; +whether it was that his head was easily affected, or that his +partially-refined taste led him to dislike intoxication and its attendant +circumstances, I cannot say; but at five-and-twenty Robert Griffiths was +habitually sober—a thing so rare in Llyn, that he was almost shunned as a +churlish, unsociable being, and paused much of his time in solitude. + +About this time, he had to appear in some case that was tried at the +Caernarvon assizes; and while there, was a guest at the house of his +agent, a shrewd, sensible Welsh attorney, with one daughter, who had +charms enough to captivate Robert Griffiths. Though he remained only a +few days at her father’s house, they were sufficient to decide his +affections, and short was the period allowed to elapse before he brought +home a mistress to Bodowen. The new Mrs. Griffiths was a gentle, +yielding person, full of love toward her husband, of whom, nevertheless, +she stood something in awe, partly arising from the difference in their +ages, partly from his devoting much time to studies of which she could +understand nothing. + +She soon made him the father of a blooming little daughter, called +Augharad after her mother. Then there came several uneventful years in +the household of Bodowen; and when the old women had one and all declared +that the cradle would not rock again, Mrs. Griffiths bore the son and +heir. His birth was soon followed by his mother’s death: she had been +ailing and low-spirited during her pregnancy, and she seemed to lack the +buoyancy of body and mind requisite to bring her round after her time of +trial. Her husband, who loved her all the more from having few other +claims on his affections, was deeply grieved by her early death, and his +only comforter was the sweet little boy whom she had left behind. That +part of the squire’s character, which was so tender, and almost feminine, +seemed called forth by the helpless situation of the little infant, who +stretched out his arms to his father with the same earnest cooing that +happier children make use of to their mother alone. Augharad was almost +neglected, while the little Owen was king of the house; still next to his +father, none tended him so lovingly as his sister. She was so accustomed +to give way to him that it was no longer a hardship. By night and by day +Owen was the constant companion of his father, and increasing years +seemed only to confirm the custom. It was an unnatural life for the +child, seeing no bright little faces peering into his own (for Augharad +was, as I said before, five or six years older, and her face, poor +motherless girl! was often anything but bright), hearing no din of clear +ringing voices, but day after day sharing the otherwise solitary hours of +his father, whether in the dim room, surrounded by wizard-like +antiquities, or pattering his little feet to keep up with his “tada” in +his mountain rambles or shooting excursions. When the pair came to some +little foaming brook, where the stepping-stones were far and wide, the +father carried his little boy across with the tenderest care; when the +lad was weary, they rested, he cradled in his father’s arms, or the +Squire would lift him up and carry him to his home again. The boy was +indulged (for his father felt flattered by the desire) in his wish of +sharing his meals and keeping the same hours. All this indulgence did +not render Owen unamiable, but it made him wilful, and not a happy child. +He had a thoughtful look, not common to the face of a young boy. He knew +no games, no merry sports; his information was of an imaginative and +speculative character. His father delighted to interest him in his own +studies, without considering how far they were healthy for so young a +mind. + +Of course Squire Griffiths was not unaware of the prophecy which was to +be fulfilled in his generation. He would occasionally refer to it when +among his friends, with sceptical levity; but in truth it lay nearer to +his heart than he chose to acknowledge. His strong imagination rendered +him peculiarly impressible on such subjects; while his judgment, seldom +exercised or fortified by severe thought, could not prevent his +continually recurring to it. He used to gaze on the half-sad countenance +of the child, who sat looking up into his face with his large dark eyes, +so fondly yet so inquiringly, till the old legend swelled around his +heart, and became too painful for him not to require sympathy. Besides, +the overpowering love he bore to the child seemed to demand fuller vent +than tender words; it made him like, yet dread, to upbraid its object for +the fearful contrast foretold. Still Squire Griffiths told the legend, +in a half-jesting manner, to his little son, when they were roaming over +the wild heaths in the autumn days, “the saddest of the year,” or while +they sat in the oak-wainscoted room, surrounded by mysterious relics that +gleamed strangely forth by the flickering fire-light. The legend was +wrought into the boy’s mind, and he would crave, yet tremble, to hear it +told over and over again, while the words were intermingled with caresses +and questions as to his love. Occasionally his loving words and actions +were cut short by his father’s light yet bitter speech—“Get thee away, my +lad; thou knowest not what is to come of all this love.” + +When Augharad was seventeen, and Owen eleven or twelve, the rector of the +parish in which Bodowen was situated, endeavoured to prevail on Squire +Griffiths to send the boy to school. Now, this rector had many congenial +tastes with his parishioner, and was his only intimate; and, by repeated +arguments, he succeeded in convincing the Squire that the unnatural life +Owen was leading was in every way injurious. Unwillingly was the father +wrought to part from his son; but he did at length send him to the +Grammar School at Bangor, then under the management of an excellent +classic. Here Owen showed that he had more talents than the rector had +given him credit for, when he affirmed that the lad had been completely +stupefied by the life he led at Bodowen. He bade fair to do credit to +the school in the peculiar branch of learning for which it was famous. +But he was not popular among his schoolfellows. He was wayward, though, +to a certain degree, generous and unselfish; he was reserved but gentle, +except when the tremendous bursts of passion (similar in character to +those of his father) forced their way. + +On his return from school one Christmas-time, when he had been a year or +so at Bangor, he was stunned by hearing that the undervalued Augharad was +about to be married to a gentleman of South Wales, residing near +Aberystwith. Boys seldom appreciate their sisters; but Owen thought of +the many slights with which he had requited the patient Augharad, and he +gave way to bitter regrets, which, with a selfish want of control over +his words, he kept expressing to his father, until the Squire was +thoroughly hurt and chagrined at the repeated exclamations of “What shall +we do when Augharad is gone?” “How dull we shall be when Augharad is +married!” Owen’s holidays were prolonged a few weeks, in order that he +might be present at the wedding; and when all the festivities were over, +and the bride and bridegroom had left Bodowen, the boy and his father +really felt how much they missed the quiet, loving Augharad. She had +performed so many thoughtful, noiseless little offices, on which their +daily comfort depended; and now she was gone, the household seemed to +miss the spirit that peacefully kept it in order; the servants roamed +about in search of commands and directions, the rooms had no longer the +unobtrusive ordering of taste to make them cheerful, the very fires +burned dim, and were always sinking down into dull heaps of gray ashes. +Altogether Owen did not regret his return to Bangor, and this also the +mortified parent perceived. Squire Griffiths was a selfish parent. + +Letters in those days were a rare occurrence. Owen usually received one +during his half-yearly absences from home, and occasionally his father +paid him a visit. This half-year the boy had no visit, nor even a +letter, till very near the time of his leaving school, and then he was +astounded by the intelligence that his father was married again. + +Then came one of his paroxysms of rage; the more disastrous in its +effects upon his character because it could find no vent in action. +Independently of slight to the memory of the first wife which children +are so apt to fancy such an action implies, Owen had hitherto considered +himself (and with justice) the first object of his father’s life. They +had been so much to each other; and now a shapeless, but too real +something had come between him and his father there for ever. He felt as +if his permission should have been asked, as if he should have been +consulted. Certainly he ought to have been told of the intended event. +So the Squire felt, and hence his constrained letter which had so much +increased the bitterness of Owen’s feelings. + +With all this anger, when Owen saw his stepmother, he thought he had +never seen so beautiful a woman for her age; for she was no longer in the +bloom of youth, being a widow when his father married her. Her manners, +to the Welsh lad, who had seen little of female grace among the families +of the few antiquarians with whom his father visited, were so fascinating +that he watched her with a sort of breathless admiration. Her measured +grace, her faultless movements, her tones of voice, sweet, till the ear +was sated with their sweetness, made Owen less angry at his father’s +marriage. Yet he felt, more than ever, that the cloud was between him +and his father; that the hasty letter he had sent in answer to the +announcement of his wedding was not forgotten, although no allusion was +ever made to it. He was no longer his father’s confidant—hardly ever his +father’s companion, for the newly-married wife was all in all to the +Squire, and his son felt himself almost a cipher, where he had so long +been everything. The lady herself had ever the softest consideration for +her stepson; almost too obtrusive was the attention paid to his wishes, +but still he fancied that the heart had no part in the winning advances. +There was a watchful glance of the eye that Owen once or twice caught +when she had imagined herself unobserved, and many other nameless little +circumstances, that gave him a strong feeling of want of sincerity in his +stepmother. Mrs. Owen brought with her into the family her little child +by her first husband, a boy nearly three years old. He was one of those +elfish, observant, mocking children, over whose feelings you seem to have +no control: agile and mischievous, his little practical jokes, at first +performed in ignorance of the pain he gave, but afterward proceeding to a +malicious pleasure in suffering, really seemed to afford some ground to +the superstitious notion of some of the common people that he was a fairy +changeling. + +Years passed on; and as Owen grew older he became more observant. He +saw, even in his occasional visits at home (for from school he had passed +on to college), that a great change had taken place in the outward +manifestations of his father’s character; and, by degrees, Owen traced +this change to the influence of his stepmother; so slight, so +imperceptible to the common observer, yet so resistless in its effects. +Squire Griffiths caught up his wife’s humbly advanced opinions, and, +unawares to himself, adopted them as his own, defying all argument and +opposition. It was the same with her wishes; they met their fulfilment, +from the extreme and delicate art with which she insinuated them into her +husband’s mind, as his own. She sacrificed the show of authority for the +power. At last, when Owen perceived some oppressive act in his father’s +conduct toward his dependants, or some unaccountable thwarting of his own +wishes, he fancied he saw his stepmother’s secret influence thus +displayed, however much she might regret the injustice of his father’s +actions in her conversations with him when they were alone. His father +was fast losing his temperate habits, and frequent intoxication soon took +its usual effect upon the temper. Yet even here was the spell of his +wife upon him. Before her he placed a restraint upon his passion, yet +she was perfectly aware of his irritable disposition, and directed it +hither and thither with the same apparent ignorance of the tendency of +her words. + +Meanwhile Owen’s situation became peculiarly mortifying to a youth whose +early remembrances afforded such a contrast to his present state. As a +child, he had been elevated to the consequence of a man before his years +gave any mental check to the selfishness which such conduct was likely to +engender; he could remember when his will was law to the servants and +dependants, and his sympathy necessary to his father: now he was as a +cipher in his father’s house; and the Squire, estranged in the first +instance by a feeling of the injury he had done his son in not sooner +acquainting him with his purposed marriage, seemed rather to avoid than +to seek him as a companion, and too frequently showed the most utter +indifference to the feelings and wishes which a young man of a high and +independent spirit might be supposed to indulge. + +Perhaps Owen was not fully aware of the force of all these circumstances; +for an actor in a family drama is seldom unimpassioned enough to be +perfectly observant. But he became moody and soured; brooding over his +unloved existence, and craving with a human heart after sympathy. + +This feeling took more full possession of his mind when he had left +college, and returned home to lead an idle and purposeless life. As the +heir, there was no worldly necessity for exertion: his father was too +much of a Welsh squire to dream of the moral necessity, and he himself +had not sufficient strength of mind to decide at once upon abandoning a +place and mode of life which abounded in daily mortifications; yet to +this course his judgment was slowly tending, when some circumstances +occurred to detain him at Bodowen. + +It was not to be expected that harmony would long be preserved, even in +appearance, between an unguarded and soured young man, such as Owen, and +his wary stepmother, when he had once left college, and come, not as a +visitor, but as the heir to his father’s house. Some cause of difference +occurred, where the woman subdued her hidden anger sufficiently to become +convinced that Owen was not entirely the dupe she had believed him to be. +Henceforward there was no peace between them. Not in vulgar altercations +did this show itself; but in moody reserve on Owen’s part, and in +undisguised and contemptuous pursuance of her own plans by his +stepmother. Bodowen was no longer a place where, if Owen was not loved +or attended to, he could at least find peace, and care for himself: he +was thwarted at every step, and in every wish, by his father’s desire, +apparently, while the wife sat by with a smile of triumph on her +beautiful lips. + +So Owen went forth at the early day dawn, sometimes roaming about on the +shore or the upland, shooting or fishing, as the season might be, but +oftener “stretched in indolent repose” on the short, sweet grass, +indulging in gloomy and morbid reveries. He would fancy that this +mortified state of existence was a dream, a horrible dream, from which he +should awake and find himself again the sole object and darling of his +father. And then he would start up and strive to shake off the incubus. +There was the molten sunset of his childish memory; the gorgeous crimson +piles of glory in the west, fading away into the cold calm light of the +rising moon, while here and there a cloud floated across the western +heaven, like a seraph’s wing, in its flaming beauty; the earth was the +same as in his childhood’s days, full of gentle evening sounds, and the +harmonies of twilight—the breeze came sweeping low over the heather and +blue-bells by his side, and the turf was sending up its evening incense +of perfume. But life, and heart, and hope were changed for ever since +those bygone days! + +Or he would seat himself in a favourite niche of the rocks on Moel Gêst, +hidden by a stunted growth of the whitty, or mountain-ash, from general +observation, with a rich-tinted cushion of stone-crop for his feet, and a +straight precipice of rock rising just above. Here would he sit for +hours, gazing idly at the bay below with its back-ground of purple hills, +and the little fishing-sail on its bosom, showing white in the sunbeam, +and gliding on in such harmony with the quiet beauty of the glassy sea; +or he would pull out an old school-volume, his companion for years, and +in morbid accordance with the dark legend that still lurked in the +recesses of his mind—a shape of gloom in those innermost haunts awaiting +its time to come forth in distinct outline—would he turn to the old Greek +dramas which treat of a family foredoomed by an avenging Fate. The worn +page opened of itself at the play of the Œdipus Tyrannus, and Owen dwelt +with the craving disease upon the prophecy so nearly resembling that +which concerned himself. With his consciousness of neglect, there was a +sort of self-flattery in the consequence which the legend gave him. He +almost wondered how they durst, with slights and insults, thus provoke +the Avenger. + +The days drifted onward. Often he would vehemently pursue some sylvan +sport, till thought and feeling were lost in the violence of bodily +exertion. Occasionally his evenings were spent at a small public-house, +such as stood by the unfrequented wayside, where the welcome, hearty, +though bought, seemed so strongly to contrast with the gloomy negligence +of home—unsympathising home. + +One evening (Owen might be four or five-and-twenty), wearied with a day’s +shooting on the Clenneny Moors, he passed by the open door of “The Goat” +at Penmorfa. The light and the cheeriness within tempted him, poor +self-exhausted man! as it has done many a one more wretched in worldly +circumstances, to step in, and take his evening meal where at least his +presence was of some consequence. It was a busy day in that little +hostel. A flock of sheep, amounting to some hundreds, had arrived at +Penmorfa, on their road to England, and thronged the space before the +house. Inside was the shrewd, kind-hearted hostess, bustling to and fro, +with merry greetings for every tired drover who was to pass the night in +her house, while the sheep were penned in a field close by. Ever and +anon, she kept attending to the second crowd of guests, who were +celebrating a rural wedding in her house. It was busy work to Martha +Thomas, yet her smile never flagged; and when Owen Griffiths had finished +his evening meal she was there, ready with a hope that it had done him +good, and was to his mind, and a word of intelligence that the +wedding-folk were about to dance in the kitchen, and the harper was the +famous Edward of Corwen. + +Owen, partly from good-natured compliance with his hostess’s implied +wish, and partly from curiosity, lounged to the passage which led to the +kitchen—not the every-day, working, cooking kitchen, which was behind, +but a good-sized room, where the mistress sat, when her work was done, +and where the country people were commonly entertained at such +merry-makings as the present. The lintels of the door formed a frame for +the animated picture which Owen saw within, as he leaned against the wall +in the dark passage. The red light of the fire, with every now and then +a falling piece of turf sending forth a fresh blaze, shone full upon four +young men who were dancing a measure something like a Scotch reel, +keeping admirable time in their rapid movements to the capital tune the +harper was playing. They had their hats on when Owen first took his +stand, but as they grew more and more animated they flung them away, and +presently their shoes were kicked off with like disregard to the spot +where they might happen to alight. Shouts of applause followed any +remarkable exertion of agility, in which each seemed to try to excel his +companions. At length, wearied and exhausted, they sat down, and the +harper gradually changed to one of those wild, inspiring national airs +for which he was so famous. The thronged audience sat earnest and +breathless, and you might have heard a pin drop, except when some maiden +passed hurriedly, with flaring candle and busy look, through to the real +kitchen beyond. When he had finished his beautiful theme on “The March +of the men of Harlech,” he changed the measure again to “Tri chant o’ +bunnan” (Three hundred pounds), and immediately a most unmusical-looking +man began chanting “Pennillion,” or a sort of recitative stanzas, which +were soon taken up by another, and this amusement lasted so long that +Owen grew weary, and was thinking of retreating from his post by the +door, when some little bustle was occasioned, on the opposite side of the +room, by the entrance of a middle-aged man, and a young girl, apparently +his daughter. The man advanced to the bench occupied by the seniors of +the party, who welcomed him with the usual pretty Welsh greeting, “Pa sut +mae dy galon?” (“How is thy heart?”) and drinking his health passed on to +him the cup of excellent _cwrw_. The girl, evidently a village belle, +was as warmly greeted by the young men, while the girls eyed her rather +askance with a half-jealous look, which Owen set down to the score of her +extreme prettiness. Like most Welsh women, she was of middle size as to +height, but beautifully made, with the most perfect yet delicate +roundness in every limb. Her little mob-cap was carefully adjusted to a +face which was excessively pretty, though it never could be called +handsome. It also was round, with the slightest tendency to the oval +shape, richly coloured, though somewhat olive in complexion, with dimples +in cheek and chin, and the most scarlet lips Owen had ever seen, that +were too short to meet over the small pearly teeth. The nose was the +most defective feature; but the eyes were splendid. They were so long, +so lustrous, yet at times so very soft under their thick fringe of +eyelash! The nut-brown hair was carefully braided beneath the border of +delicate lace: it was evident the little village beauty knew how to make +the most of all her attractions, for the gay colours which were displayed +in her neckerchief were in complete harmony with the complexion. + +Owen was much attracted, while yet he was amused, by the evident coquetry +the girl displayed, collecting around her a whole bevy of young fellows, +for each of whom she seemed to have some gay speech, some attractive look +or action. In a few minutes young Griffiths of Bodowen was at her side, +brought thither by a variety of idle motives, and as her undivided +attention was given to the Welsh heir, her admirers, one by one, dropped +off, to seat themselves by some less fascinating but more attentive fair +one. The more Owen conversed with the girl, the more he was taken; she +had more wit and talent than he had fancied possible; a self-abandon and +thoughtfulness, to boot, that seemed full of charms; and then her voice +was so clear and sweet, and her actions so full of grace, that Owen was +fascinated before he was well aware, and kept looking into her bright, +blushing face, till her uplifted flashing eye fell beneath his earnest +gaze. + +While it thus happened that they were silent—she from confusion at the +unexpected warmth of his admiration, he from an unconsciousness of +anything but the beautiful changes in her flexile countenance—the man +whom Owen took for her father came up and addressed some observation to +his daughter, from whence he glided into some commonplace though +respectful remark to Owen, and at length engaging him in some slight, +local conversation, he led the way to the account of a spot on the +peninsula of Penthryn, where teal abounded, and concluded with begging +Owen to allow him to show him the exact place, saying that whenever the +young Squire felt so inclined, if he would honour him by a call at his +house, he would take him across in his boat. While Owen listened, his +attention was not so much absorbed as to be unaware that the little +beauty at his side was refusing one or two who endeavoured to draw her +from her place by invitations to dance. Flattered by his own +construction of her refusals, he again directed all his attention to her, +till she was called away by her father, who was leaving the scene of +festivity. Before he left he reminded Owen of his promise, and added— + +“Perhaps, sir, you do not know me. My name is Ellis Pritchard, and I +live at Ty Glas, on this side of Moel Gêst; anyone can point it out to +you.” + +When the father and daughter had left, Owen slowly prepared for his ride +home; but encountering the hostess, he could not resist asking a few +questions relative to Ellis Pritchard and his pretty daughter. She +answered shortly but respectfully, and then said, rather hesitatingly— + +“Master Griffiths, you know the triad, ‘Tri pheth tebyg y naill i’r +llall, ysgnbwr heb yd, mail deg heb ddiawd, a merch deg heb ei geirda’ +(Three things are alike: a fine barn without corn, a fine cup without +drink, a fine woman without her reputation).” She hastily quitted him, +and Owen rode slowly to his unhappy home. + +Ellis Pritchard, half farmer and half fisherman, was shrewd, and keen, +and worldly; yet he was good-natured, and sufficiently generous to have +become rather a popular man among his equals. He had been struck with +the young Squire’s attention to his pretty daughter, and was not +insensible to the advantages to be derived from it. Nest would not be +the first peasant girl, by any means, who had been transplanted to a +Welsh manor-house as its mistress; and, accordingly, her father had +shrewdly given the admiring young man some pretext for further +opportunities of seeing her. + +As for Nest herself, she had somewhat of her father’s worldliness, and +was fully alive to the superior station of her new admirer, and quite +prepared to slight all her old sweethearts on his account. But then she +had something more of feeling in her reckoning; she had not been +insensible to the earnest yet comparatively refined homage which Owen +paid her; she had noticed his expressive and occasionally handsome +countenance with admiration, and was flattered by his so immediately +singling her out from her companions. As to the hint which Martha Thomas +had thrown out, it is enough to say that Nest was very giddy, and that +she was motherless. She had high spirits and a great love of admiration, +or, to use a softer term, she loved to please; men, women, and children, +all, she delighted to gladden with her smile and voice. She coquetted, +and flirted, and went to the extreme lengths of Welsh courtship, till the +seniors of the village shook their heads, and cautioned their daughters +against her acquaintance. If not absolutely guilty, she had too +frequently been on the verge of guilt. + +Even at the time, Martha Thomas’s hint made but little impression on +Owen, for his senses were otherwise occupied; but in a few days the +recollection thereof had wholly died away, and one warm glorious summer’s +day, he bent his steps toward Ellis Pritchard’s with a beating heart; +for, except some very slight flirtations at Oxford, Owen had never been +touched; his thoughts, his fancy, had been otherwise engaged. + +Ty Glas was built against one of the lower rocks of Moel Gêst, which, +indeed, formed a side to the low, lengthy house. The materials of the +cottage were the shingly stones which had fallen from above, plastered +rudely together, with deep recesses for the small oblong windows. +Altogether, the exterior was much ruder than Owen had expected; but +inside there seemed no lack of comforts. The house was divided into two +apartments, one large, roomy, and dark, into which Owen entered +immediately; and before the blushing Nest came from the inner chamber +(for she had seen the young Squire coming, and hastily gone to make some +alteration in her dress), he had had time to look around him, and note +the various little particulars of the room. Beneath the window (which +commanded a magnificent view) was an oaken dresser, replete with drawers +and cupboards, and brightly polished to a rich dark colour. In the +farther part of the room Owen could at first distinguish little, entering +as he did from the glaring sunlight, but he soon saw that there were two +oaken beds, closed up after the manner of the Welsh: in fact, the +domitories of Ellis Pritchard and the man who served under him, both on +sea and on land. There was the large wheel used for spinning wool, left +standing on the middle of the floor, as if in use only a few minutes +before; and around the ample chimney hung flitches of bacon, dried +kids’-flesh, and fish, that was in process of smoking for winter’s store. + +Before Nest had shyly dared to enter, her father, who had been mending +his nets down below, and seen Owen winding up to the house, came in and +gave him a hearty yet respectful welcome; and then Nest, downcast and +blushing, full of the consciousness which her father’s advice and +conversation had not failed to inspire, ventured to join them. To Owen’s +mind this reserve and shyness gave her new charms. + +It was too bright, too hot, too anything to think of going to shoot teal +till later in the day, and Owen was delighted to accept a hesitating +invitation to share the noonday meal. Some ewe-milk cheese, very hard +and dry, oat-cake, slips of the dried kids’-flesh broiled, after having +been previously soaked in water for a few minutes, delicious butter and +fresh butter-milk, with a liquor called “diod griafol” (made from the +berries of the _Sorbus aucuparia_, infused in water and then fermented), +composed the frugal repast; but there was something so clean and neat, +and withal such a true welcome, that Owen had seldom enjoyed a meal so +much. Indeed, at that time of day the Welsh squires differed from the +farmers more in the plenty and rough abundance of their manner of living +than in the refinement of style of their table. + +At the present day, down in Llyn, the Welsh gentry are not a wit behind +their Saxon equals in the expensive elegances of life; but then (when +there was but one pewter-service in all Northumberland) there was nothing +in Ellis Pritchard’s mode of living that grated on the young Squire’s +sense of refinement. + +Little was said by that young pair of wooers during the meal; the father +had all the conversation to himself, apparently heedless of the ardent +looks and inattentive mien of his guest. As Owen became more serious in +his feelings, he grew more timid in their expression, and at night, when +they returned from their shooting-excursion, the caress he gave Nest was +almost as bashfully offered as received. + +This was but the first of a series of days devoted to Nest in reality, +though at first he thought some little disguise of his object was +necessary. The past, the future, was all forgotten in those happy days +of love. + +And every worldly plan, every womanly wile was put in practice by Ellis +Pritchard and his daughter, to render his visits agreeable and alluring. +Indeed, the very circumstance of his being welcome was enough to attract +the poor young man, to whom the feeling so produced was new and full of +charms. He left a home where the certainty of being thwarted made him +chary in expressing his wishes; where no tones of love ever fell on his +ear, save those addressed to others; where his presence or absence was a +matter of utter indifference; and when he entered Ty Glas, all, down to +the little cur which, with clamorous barkings, claimed a part of his +attention, seemed to rejoice. His account of his day’s employment found +a willing listener in Ellis; and when he passed on to Nest, busy at her +wheel or at her churn, the deepened colour, the conscious eye, and the +gradual yielding of herself up to his lover-like caress, had worlds of +charms. Ellis Pritchard was a tenant on the Bodowen estate, and +therefore had reasons in plenty for wishing to keep the young Squire’s +visits secret; and Owen, unwilling to disturb the sunny calm of these +halcyon days by any storm at home, was ready to use all the artifice +which Ellis suggested as to the mode of his calls at Ty Glas. Nor was he +unaware of the probable, nay, the hoped-for termination of these repeated +days of happiness. He was quite conscious that the father wished for +nothing better than the marriage of his daughter to the heir of Bodowen; +and when Nest had hidden her face in his neck, which was encircled by her +clasping arms, and murmured into his ear her acknowledgment of love, he +felt only too desirous of finding some one to love him for ever. Though +not highly principled, he would not have tried to obtain Nest on other +terms save those of marriage: he did so pine after enduring love, and +fancied he should have bound her heart for evermore to his, when they had +taken the solemn oaths of matrimony. + +There was no great difficulty attending a secret marriage at such a place +and at such a time. One gusty autumn day, Ellis ferried them round +Penthryn to Llandutrwyn, and there saw his little Nest become future Lady +of Bodowen. + +How often do we see giddy, coquetting, restless girls become sobered by +marriage? A great object in life is decided; one on which their thoughts +have been running in all their vagaries, and they seem to verify the +beautiful fable of Undine. A new soul beams out in the gentleness and +repose of their future lives. An indescribable softness and tenderness +takes place of the wearying vanity of their former endeavours to attract +admiration. Something of this sort took place in Nest Pritchard. If at +first she had been anxious to attract the young Squire of Bodowen, long +before her marriage this feeling had merged into a truer love than she +had ever felt before; and now that he was her own, her husband, her whole +soul was bent toward making him amends, as far as in her lay, for the +misery which, with a woman’s tact, she saw that he had to endure at his +home. Her greetings were abounding in delicately-expressed love; her +study of his tastes unwearying, in the arrangement of her dress, her +time, her very thoughts. + +No wonder that he looked back on his wedding-day with a thankfulness +which is seldom the result of unequal marriages. No wonder that his +heart beat aloud as formerly when he wound up the little path to Ty Glas, +and saw—keen though the winter’s wind might be—that Nest was standing out +at the door to watch for his dimly-seen approach, while the candle flared +in the little window as a beacon to guide him aright. + +The angry words and unkind actions of home fell deadened on his heart; he +thought of the love that was surely his, and of the new promise of love +that a short time would bring forth, and he could almost have smiled at +the impotent efforts to disturb his peace. + +A few more months, and the young father was greeted by a feeble little +cry, when he hastily entered Ty Glas, one morning early, in consequence +of a summons conveyed mysteriously to Bodowen; and the pale mother, +smiling, and feebly holding up her babe to its father’s kiss, seemed to +him even more lovely than the bright gay Nest who had won his heart at +the little inn of Penmorfa. + +But the curse was at work! The fulfilment of the prophecy was nigh at +hand! + + + + +CHAPTER II. + + +It was the autumn after the birth of their boy; it had been a glorious +summer, with bright, hot, sunny weather; and now the year was fading away +as seasonably into mellow days, with mornings of silver mists and clear +frosty nights. The blooming look of the time of flowers, was past and +gone; but instead there were even richer tints abroad in the sun-coloured +leaves, the lichens, the golden blossomed furze; if it was the time of +fading, there was a glory in the decay. + +Nest, in her loving anxiety to surround her dwelling with every charm for +her husband’s sake, had turned gardener, and the little corners of the +rude court before the house were filled with many a delicate +mountain-flower, transplanted more for its beauty than its rarity. The +sweetbrier bush may even yet be seen, old and gray, which she and Owen +planted a green slipling beneath the window of her little chamber. In +those moments Owen forgot all besides the present; all the cares and +griefs he had known in the past, and all that might await him of woe and +death in the future. The boy, too, was as lovely a child as the fondest +parent was ever blessed with; and crowed with delight, and clapped his +little hands, as his mother held him in her arms at the cottage-door to +watch his father’s ascent up the rough path that led to Ty Glas, one +bright autumnal morning; and when the three entered the house together, +it was difficult to say which was the happiest. Owen carried his boy, +and tossed and played with him, while Nest sought out some little article +of work, and seated herself on the dresser beneath the window, where now +busily plying the needle, and then again looking at her husband, she +eagerly told him the little pieces of domestic intelligence, the winning +ways of the child, the result of yesterday’s fishing, and such of the +gossip of Penmorfa as came to the ears of the now retired Nest. She +noticed that, when she mentioned any little circumstance which bore the +slightest reference to Bodowen, her husband appeared chafed and uneasy, +and at last avoided anything that might in the least remind him of home. +In truth, he had been suffering much of late from the irritability of his +father, shown in trifles to be sure, but not the less galling on that +account. + +While they were thus talking, and caressing each other and the child, a +shadow darkened the room, and before they could catch a glimpse of the +object that had occasioned it, it vanished, and Squire Griffiths lifted +the door-latch and stood before them. He stood and looked—first on his +son, so different, in his buoyant expression of content and enjoyment, +with his noble child in his arms, like a proud and happy father, as he +was, from the depressed, moody young man he too often appeared at +Bodowen; then on Nest—poor, trembling, sickened Nest!—who dropped her +work, but yet durst not stir from her seat, on the dresser, while she +looked to her husband as if for protection from his father. + +The Squire was silent, as he glared from one to the other, his features +white with restrained passion. When he spoke, his words came most +distinct in their forced composure. It was to his son he addressed +himself: + +“That woman! who is she?” + +Owen hesitated one moment, and then replied, in a steady, yet quiet +voice: + +“Father, that woman is my wife.” + +He would have added some apology for the long concealment of his +marriage; have appealed to his father’s forgiveness; but the foam flew +from Squire Owen’s lips as he burst forth with invective against Nest:— + +“You have married her! It is as they told me! Married Nest Pritchard yr +buten! And you stand there as if you had not disgraced yourself for ever +and ever with your accursed wiving! And the fair harlot sits there, in +her mocking modesty, practising the mimming airs that will become her +state as future Lady of Bodowen. But I will move heaven and earth before +that false woman darken the doors of my father’s house as mistress!” + +All this was said with such rapidity that Owen had no time for the words +that thronged to his lips. “Father!” (he burst forth at length) “Father, +whosoever told you that Nest Pritchard was a harlot told you a lie as +false as hell! Ay! a lie as false as hell!” he added, in a voice of +thunder, while he advanced a step or two nearer to the Squire. And then, +in a lower tone, he said— + +“She is as pure as your own wife; nay, God help me! as the dear, precious +mother who brought me forth, and then left me—with no refuge in a +mother’s heart—to struggle on through life alone. I tell you Nest is as +pure as that dear, dead mother!” + +“Fool—poor fool!” + +At this moment the child—the little Owen—who had kept gazing from one +angry countenance to the other, and with earnest look, trying to +understand what had brought the fierce glare into the face where till now +he had read nothing but love, in some way attracted the Squire’s +attention, and increased his wrath. + +“Yes,” he continued, “poor, weak fool that you are, hugging the child of +another as if it were your own offspring!” Owen involuntarily caressed +the affrighted child, and half smiled at the implication of his father’s +words. This the Squire perceived, and raising his voice to a scream of +rage, he went on: + +“I bid you, if you call yourself my son, to cast away that miserable, +shameless woman’s offspring; cast it away this instant—this instant!” + +In this ungovernable rage, seeing that Owen was far from complying with +his command, he snatched the poor infant from the loving arms that held +it, and throwing it to his mother, left the house inarticulate with fury. + +Nest—who had been pale and still as marble during this terrible dialogue, +looking on and listening as if fascinated by the words that smote her +heart—opened her arms to receive and cherish her precious babe; but the +boy was not destined to reach the white refuge of her breast. The +furious action of the Squire had been almost without aim, and the infant +fell against the sharp edge of the dresser down on to the stone floor. + +Owen sprang up to take the child, but he lay so still, so motionless, +that the awe of death came over the father, and he stooped down to gaze +more closely. At that moment, the upturned, filmy eyes rolled +convulsively—a spasm passed along the body—and the lips, yet warm with +kissing, quivered into everlasting rest. + +A word from her husband told Nest all. She slid down from her seat, and +lay by her little son as corpse-like as he, unheeding all the agonizing +endearments and passionate adjurations of her husband. And that poor, +desolate husband and father! Scarce one little quarter of an hour, and +he had been so blessed in his consciousness of love! the bright promise +of many years on his infant’s face, and the new, fresh soul beaming forth +in its awakened intelligence. And there it was; the little clay image, +that would never more gladden up at the sight of him, nor stretch forth +to meet his embrace; whose inarticulate, yet most eloquent cooings might +haunt him in his dreams, but would never more be heard in waking life +again! And by the dead babe, almost as utterly insensate, the poor +mother had fallen in a merciful faint—the slandered, heart-pierced Nest! +Owen struggled against the sickness that came over him, and busied +himself in vain attempts at her restoration. + +It was now near noon-day, and Ellis Pritchard came home, little dreaming +of the sight that awaited him; but though stunned, he was able to take +more effectual measures for his poor daughter’s recovery than Owen had +done. + +By-and-by she showed symptoms of returning sense, and was placed in her +own little bed in a darkened room, where, without ever waking to complete +consciousness, she fell asleep. Then it was that her husband, suffocated +by pressure of miserable thought, gently drew his hand from her tightened +clasp, and printing one long soft kiss on her white waxen forehead, +hastily stole out of the room, and out of the house. + +Near the base of Moel Gêst—it might be a quarter of a mile from Ty +Glas—was a little neglected solitary copse, wild and tangled with the +trailing branches of the dog-rose and the tendrils of the white bryony. +Toward the middle of this thicket a deep crystal pool—a clear mirror for +the blue heavens above—and round the margin floated the broad green +leaves of the water-lily, and when the regal sun shone down in his +noonday glory the flowers arose from their cool depths to welcome and +greet him. The copse was musical with many sounds; the warbling of birds +rejoicing in its shades, the ceaseless hum of the insects that hovered +over the pool, the chime of the distant waterfall, the occasional +bleating of the sheep from the mountaintop, were all blended into the +delicious harmony of nature. + +It had been one of Owen’s favourite resorts when he had been a lonely +wanderer—a pilgrim in search of love in the years gone by. And thither +he went, as if by instinct, when he left Ty Glas; quelling the uprising +agony till he should reach that little solitary spot. + +It was the time of day when a change in the aspect of the weather so +frequently takes place; and the little pool was no longer the reflection +of a blue and sunny sky: it sent back the dark and slaty clouds above, +and, every now and then, a rough gust shook the painted autumn leaves +from their branches, and all other music was lost in the sound of the +wild winds piping down from the moorlands, which lay up and beyond the +clefts in the mountain-side. Presently the rain came on and beat down in +torrents. + +But Owen heeded it not. He sat on the dank ground, his face buried in +his hands, and his whole strength, physical and mental, employed in +quelling the rush of blood, which rose and boiled and gurgled in his +brain as if it would madden him. + +The phantom of his dead child rose ever before him, and seemed to cry +aloud for vengeance. And when the poor young man thought upon the victim +whom he required in his wild longing for revenge, he shuddered, for it +was his father! + +Again and again he tried not to think; but still the circle of thought +came round, eddying through his brain. At length he mastered his +passions, and they were calm; then he forced himself to arrange some plan +for the future. + +He had not, in the passionate hurry of the moment, seen that his father +had left the cottage before he was aware of the fatal accident that +befell the child. Owen thought he had seen all; and once he planned to +go to the Squire and tell him of the anguish of heart he had wrought, and +awe him, as it were, by the dignity of grief. But then again he durst +not—he distrusted his self-control—the old prophecy rose up in its +horror—he dreaded his doom. + +At last he determined to leave his father for ever; to take Nest to some +distant country where she might forget her firstborn, and where he +himself might gain a livelihood by his own exertions. + +But when he tried to descend to the various little arrangements which +were involved in the execution of this plan, he remembered that all his +money (and in this respect Squire Griffiths was no niggard) was locked up +in his escritoire at Bodowen. In vain he tried to do away with this +matter-of-fact difficulty; go to Bodowen he must: and his only hope—nay +his determination—was to avoid his father. + +He rose and took a by-path to Bodowen. The house looked even more gloomy +and desolate than usual in the heavy down-pouring rain, yet Owen gazed on +it with something of regret—for sorrowful as his days in it had been, he +was about to leave it for many many years, if not for ever. He entered +by a side door opening into a passage that led to his own room, where he +kept his books, his guns, his fishing-tackle, his writing materials, et +cetera. + +Here he hurriedly began to select the few articles he intended to take; +for, besides the dread of interruption, he was feverishly anxious to +travel far that very night, if only Nest was capable of performing the +journey. As he was thus employed, he tried to conjecture what his +father’s feelings would be on finding that his once-loved son was gone +away for ever. Would he then awaken to regret for the conduct which had +driven him from home, and bitterly think on the loving and caressing boy +who haunted his footsteps in former days? Or, alas! would he only feel +that an obstacle to his daily happiness—to his contentment with his wife, +and his strange, doting affection for the child—was taken away? Would +they make merry over the heir’s departure? Then he thought of Nest—the +young childless mother, whose heart had not yet realized her fulness of +desolation. Poor Nest! so loving as she was, so devoted to her child—how +should he console her? He pictured her away in a strange land, pining +for her native mountains, and refusing to be comforted because her child +was not. + +Even this thought of the home-sickness that might possibly beset Nest +hardly made him hesitate in his determination; so strongly had the idea +taken possession of him that only by putting miles and leagues between +him and his father could he avert the doom which seemed blending itself +with the very purposes of his life as long as he stayed in proximity with +the slayer of his child. + +He had now nearly completed his hasty work of preparation, and was full +of tender thoughts of his wife, when the door opened, and the elfish +Robert peered in, in search of some of his brother’s possessions. On +seeing Owen he hesitated, but then came boldly forward, and laid his hand +on Owen’s arm, saying, + +“Nesta yr buten! How is Nest yr buten?” + +He looked maliciously into Owen’s face to mark the effect of his words, +but was terrified at the expression he read there. He started off and +ran to the door, while Owen tried to check himself, saying continually, +“He is but a child. He does not understand the meaning of what he says. +He is but a child!” Still Robert, now in fancied security, kept calling +out his insulting words, and Owen’s hand was on his gun, grasping it as +if to restrain his rising fury. + +But when Robert passed on daringly to mocking words relating to the poor +dead child, Owen could bear it no longer; and before the boy was well +aware, Owen was fiercely holding him in an iron clasp with one hand, +while he struck him hard with the other. + +In a minute he checked himself. He paused, relaxed his grasp, and, to +his horror, he saw Robert sink to the ground; in fact, the lad was +half-stunned, half-frightened, and thought it best to assume +insensibility. + +Owen—miserable Owen—seeing him lie there prostrate, was bitterly +repentant, and would have dragged him to the carved settle, and done all +he could to restore him to his senses, but at this instant the Squire +came in. + +Probably, when the household at Bodowen rose that morning, there was but +one among them ignorant of the heir’s relation to Nest Pritchard and her +child; for secret as he tried to make his visits to Ty Glas, they had +been too frequent not to be noticed, and Nest’s altered conduct—no longer +frequenting dances and merry-makings—was a strongly corroborative +circumstance. But Mrs. Griffiths’ influence reigned paramount, if +unacknowledged, at Bodowen, and till she sanctioned the disclosure, none +would dare to tell the Squire. + +Now, however, the time drew near when it suited her to make her husband +aware of the connection his son had formed; so, with many tears, and much +seeming reluctance, she broke the intelligence to him—taking good care, +at the same time, to inform him of the light character Nest had borne. +Nor did she confine this evil reputation to her conduct before her +marriage, but insinuated that even to this day she was a “woman of the +grove and brake”—for centuries the Welsh term of opprobrium for the +loosest female characters. + +Squire Griffiths easily tracked Owen to Ty Glas; and without any aim but +the gratification of his furious anger, followed him to upbraid as we +have seen. But he left the cottage even more enraged against his son +than he had entered it, and returned home to hear the evil suggestions of +the stepmother. He had heard a slight scuffle in which he caught the +tones of Robert’s voice, as he passed along the hall, and an instant +afterwards he saw the apparently lifeless body of his little favourite +dragged along by the culprit Owen—the marks of strong passion yet visible +on his face. Not loud, but bitter and deep were the evil words which the +father bestowed on the son; and as Owen stood proudly and sullenly +silent, disdaining all exculpation of himself in the presence of one who +had wrought him so much graver—so fatal an injury—Robert’s mother entered +the room. At sight of her natural emotion the wrath of the Squire was +redoubled, and his wild suspicions that this violence of Owen’s to Robert +was a premeditated act appeared like the proven truth through the mists +of rage. He summoned domestics as if to guard his own and his wife’s +life from the attempts of his son; and the servants stood wondering +around—now gazing at Mrs. Griffiths, alternately scolding and sobbing, +while she tried to restore the lad from his really bruised and +half-unconscious state; now at the fierce and angry Squire; and now at +the sad and silent Owen. And he—he was hardly aware of their looks of +wonder and terror; his father’s words fell on a deadened ear; for before +his eyes there rose a pale dead babe, and in that lady’s violent sounds +of grief he heard the wailing of a more sad, more hopeless mother. For +by this time the lad Robert had opened his eyes, and though evidently +suffering a good deal from the effects of Owen’s blows, was fully +conscious of all that was passing around him. + +Had Owen been left to his own nature, his heart would have worked itself +to doubly love the boy whom he had injured; but he was stubborn from +injustice, and hardened by suffering. He refused to vindicate himself; +he made no effort to resist the imprisonment the Squire had decreed, +until a surgeon’s opinion of the real extent of Robert’s injuries was +made known. It was not until the door was locked and barred, as if upon +some wild and furious beast, that the recollection of poor Nest, without +his comforting presence, came into his mind. Oh! thought he, how she +would be wearying, pining for his tender sympathy; if, indeed, she had +recovered the shock of mind sufficiently to be sensible of consolation! +What would she think of his absence? Could she imagine he believed his +father’s words, and had left her, in this her sore trouble and +bereavement? The thought madened him, and he looked around for some mode +of escape. + +He had been confined in a small unfurnished room on the first floor, +wainscoted, and carved all round, with a massy door, calculated to resist +the attempts of a dozen strong men, even had he afterward been able to +escape from the house unseen, unheard. The window was placed (as is +common in old Welsh houses) over the fire-place; with branching chimneys +on either hand, forming a sort of projection on the outside. By this +outlet his escape was easy, even had he been less determined and +desperate than he was. And when he had descended, with a little care, a +little winding, he might elude all observation and pursue his original +intention of going to Ty Glas. + +The storm had abated, and watery sunbeams were gilding the bay, as Owen +descended from the window, and, stealing along in the broad afternoon +shadows, made his way to the little plateau of green turf in the garden +at the top of a steep precipitous rock, down the abrupt face of which he +had often dropped, by means of a well-secured rope, into the small +sailing-boat (his father’s present, alas! in days gone by) which lay +moored in the deep sea-water below. He had always kept his boat there, +because it was the nearest available spot to the house; but before he +could reach the place—unless, indeed, he crossed a broad sun-lighted +piece of ground in full view of the windows on that side of the house, +and without the shadow of a single sheltering tree or shrub—he had to +skirt round a rude semicircle of underwood, which would have been +considered as a shrubbery had any one taken pains with it. Step by step +he stealthily moved along—hearing voices now, again seeing his father and +stepmother in no distant walk, the Squire evidently caressing and +consoling his wife, who seemed to be urging some point with great +vehemence, again forced to crouch down to avoid being seen by the cook, +returning from the rude kitchen-garden with a handful of herbs. This was +the way the doomed heir of Bodowen left his ancestral house for ever, and +hoped to leave behind him his doom. At length he reached the plateau—he +breathed more freely. He stooped to discover the hidden coil of rope, +kept safe and dry in a hole under a great round flat piece of rock: his +head was bent down; he did not see his father approach, nor did he hear +his footstep for the rush of blood to his head in the stooping effort of +lifting the stone; the Squire had grappled with him before he rose up +again, before he fully knew whose hands detained him, now, when his +liberty of person and action seemed secure. He made a vigorous struggle +to free himself; he wrestled with his father for a moment—he pushed him +hard, and drove him on to the great displaced stone, all unsteady in its +balance. + +Down went the Squire, down into the deep waters below—down after him went +Owen, half consciously, half unconsciously, partly compelled by the +sudden cessation of any opposing body, partly from a vehement +irrepressible impulse to rescue his father. But he had instinctively +chosen a safer place in the deep seawater pool than that into which his +push had sent his father. The Squire had hit his head with much violence +against the side of the boat, in his fall; it is, indeed, doubtful +whether he was not killed before ever he sank into the sea. But Owen +knew nothing save that the awful doom seemed even now present. He +plunged down, he dived below the water in search of the body which had +none of the elasticity of life to buoy it up; he saw his father in those +depths, he clutched at him, he brought him up and cast him, a dead +weight, into the boat, and exhausted by the effort, he had begun himself +to sink again before he instinctively strove to rise and climb into the +rocking boat. There lay his father, with a deep dent in the side of his +head where the skull had been fractured by his fall; his face blackened +by the arrested course of the blood. Owen felt his pulse, his heart—all +was still. He called him by his name. + +“Father, father!” he cried, “come back! come back! You never knew how I +loved you! how I could love you still—if—Oh God!” + +And the thought of his little child rose before him. “Yes, father,” he +cried afresh, “you never knew how he fell—how he died! Oh, if I had but +had patience to tell you! If you would but have borne with me and +listened! And now it is over! Oh father! father!” + +Whether she had heard this wild wailing voice, or whether it was only +that she missed her husband and wanted him for some little every-day +question, or, as was perhaps more likely, she had discovered Owen’s +escape, and come to inform her husband of it, I do not know, but on the +rock, right above his head, as it seemed, Owen heard his stepmother +calling her husband. + +He was silent, and softly pushed the boat right under the rock till the +sides grated against the stones, and the overhanging branches concealed +him and it from all not on a level with the water. Wet as he was, he lay +down by his dead father the better to conceal himself; and, somehow, the +action recalled those early days of childhood—the first in the Squire’s +widowhood—when Owen had shared his father’s bed, and used to waken him in +the morning to hear one of the old Welsh legends. How long he lay +thus—body chilled, and brain hard-working through the heavy pressure of a +reality as terrible as a nightmare—he never knew; but at length he roused +himself up to think of Nest. + +Drawing out a great sail, he covered up the body of his father with it +where he lay in the bottom of the boat. Then with his numbed hands he +took the oars, and pulled out into the more open sea toward Criccaeth. +He skirted along the coast till he found a shadowed cleft in the dark +rocks; to that point he rowed, and anchored his boat close in land. Then +he mounted, staggering, half longing to fall into the dark waters and be +at rest—half instinctively finding out the surest foot-rests on that +precipitous face of rock, till he was high up, safe landed on the turfy +summit. He ran off, as if pursued, toward Penmorfa; he ran with maddened +energy. Suddenly he paused, turned, ran again with the same speed, and +threw himself prone on the summit, looking down into his boat with +straining eyes to see if there had been any movement of life—any +displacement of a fold of sail-cloth. It was all quiet deep down below, +but as he gazed the shifting light gave the appearance of a slight +movement. Owen ran to a lower part of the rock, stripped, plunged into +the water, and swam to the boat. When there, all was still—awfully +still! For a minute or two, he dared not lift up the cloth. Then +reflecting that the same terror might beset him again—of leaving his +father unaided while yet a spark of life lingered—he removed the +shrouding cover. The eyes looked into his with a dead stare! He closed +the lids and bound up the jaw. Again he looked. This time he raised +himself out of the water and kissed the brow. + +“It was my doom, father! It would have been better if I had died at my +birth!” + +Daylight was fading away. Precious daylight! He swam back, dressed, and +set off afresh for Penmorfa. When he opened the door of Ty Glas, Ellis +Pritchard looked at him reproachfully, from his seat in the +darkly-shadowed chimney-corner. + +“You’re come at last,” said he. “One of our kind (_i.e._, station) would +not have left his wife to mourn by herself over her dead child; nor would +one of our kind have let his father kill his own true son. I’ve a good +mind to take her from you for ever.” + +“I did not tell him,” cried Nest, looking piteously at her husband; “he +made me tell him part, and guessed the rest.” + +She was nursing her babe on her knee as if it was alive. Owen stood +before Ellis Pritchard. + +“Be silent,” said he, quietly. “Neither words nor deeds but what are +decreed can come to pass. I was set to do my work, this hundred years +and more. The time waited for me, and the man waited for me. I have +done what was foretold of me for generations!” + +Ellis Pritchard knew the old tale of the prophecy, and believed in it in +a dull, dead kind of way, but somehow never thought it would come to pass +in his time. Now, however, he understood it all in a moment, though he +mistook Owen’s nature so much as to believe that the deed was +intentionally done, out of revenge for the death of his boy; and viewing +it in this light, Ellis thought it little more than a just punishment for +the cause of all the wild despairing sorrow he had seen his only child +suffer during the hours of this long afternoon. But he knew the law +would not so regard it. Even the lax Welsh law of those days could not +fail to examine into the death of a man of Squire Griffith’s standing. +So the acute Ellis thought how he could conceal the culprit for a time. + +“Come,” said he; “don’t look so scared! It was your doom, not your +fault;” and he laid a hand on Owen’s shoulder. + +“You’re wet,” said he, suddenly. “Where have you been? Nest, your +husband is dripping, drookit wet. That’s what makes him look so blue and +wan.” + +Nest softly laid her baby in its cradle; she was half stupefied with +crying, and had not understood to what Owen alluded, when he spoke of his +doom being fulfilled, if indeed she had heard the words. + +Her touch thawed Owen’s miserable heart. + +“Oh, Nest!” said he, clasping her in his arms; “do you love me still—can +you love me, my own darling?” + +“Why not?” asked she, her eyes filling with tears. “I only love you more +than ever, for you were my poor baby’s father!” + +“But, Nest—Oh, tell her, Ellis! _you_ know.” + +“No need, no need!” said Ellis. “She’s had enough to think on. Bustle, +my girl, and get out my Sunday clothes.” + +“I don’t understand,” said Nest, putting her hand up to her head. “What +is to tell? and why are you so wet? God help me for a poor crazed thing, +for I cannot guess at the meaning of your words and your strange looks! +I only know my baby is dead!” and she burst into tears. + +“Come, Nest! go and fetch him a change, quick!” and as she meekly obeyed, +too languid to strive further to understand, Ellis said rapidly to Owen, +in a low, hurried voice— + +“Are you meaning that the Squire is dead? Speak low, lest she hear. +Well, well, no need to talk about how he died. It was sudden, I see; and +we must all of us die; and he’ll have to be buried. It’s well the night +is near. And I should not wonder now if you’d like to travel for a bit; +it would do Nest a power of good; and then—there’s many a one goes out of +his own house and never comes back again; and—I trust he’s not lying in +his own house—and there’s a stir for a bit, and a search, and a +wonder—and, by-and-by, the heir just steps in, as quiet as can be. And +that’s what you’ll do, and bring Nest to Bodowen after all. Nay, child, +better stockings nor those; find the blue woollens I bought at Llanrwst +fair. Only don’t lose heart. It’s done now and can’t be helped. It was +the piece of work set you to do from the days of the Tudors, they say. +And he deserved it. Look in yon cradle. So tell us where he is, and +I’ll take heart of grace and see what can be done for him.” + +But Owen sat wet and haggard, looking into the peat fire as if for +visions of the past, and never heeding a word Ellis said. Nor did he +move when Nest brought the armful of dry clothes. + +“Come, rouse up, man!” said Ellis, growing impatient. But he neither +spoke nor moved. + +“What is the matter, father?” asked Nest, bewildered. + +Ellis kept on watching Owen for a minute or two, till on his daughter’s +repetition of the question, he said— + +“Ask him yourself, Nest.” + +“Oh, husband, what is it?” said she, kneeling down and bringing her face +to a level with his. + +“Don’t you know?” said he, heavily. “You won’t love me when you do know. +And yet it was not my doing: it was my doom.” + +“What does he mean, father?” asked Nest, looking up; but she caught a +gesture from Ellis urging her to go on questioning her husband. + +“I will love you, husband, whatever has happened. Only let me know the +worst.” + +A pause, during which Nest and Ellis hung breathless. + +“My father is dead, Nest.” + +Nest caught her breath with a sharp gasp. + +“God forgive him!” said she, thinking on her babe. + +“God forgive _me_!” said Owen. + +“You did not—” Nest stopped. + +“Yes, I did. Now you know it. It was my doom. How could I help it? +The devil helped me—he placed the stone so that my father fell. I jumped +into the water to save him. I did, indeed, Nest. I was nearly drowned +myself. But he was dead—dead—killed by the fall!” + +“Then he is safe at the bottom of the sea?” said Ellis, with hungry +eagerness. + +“No, he is not; he lies in my boat,” said Owen, shivering a little, more +at the thought of his last glimpse at his father’s face than from cold. + +“Oh, husband, change your wet clothes!” pleaded Nest, to whom the death +of the old man was simply a horror with which she had nothing to do, +while her husband’s discomfort was a present trouble. + +While she helped him to take off the wet garments which he would never +have had energy enough to remove of himself, Ellis was busy preparing +food, and mixing a great tumbler of spirits and hot water. He stood over +the unfortunate young man and compelled him to eat and drink, and made +Nest, too, taste some mouthfuls—all the while planning in his own mind +how best to conceal what had been done, and who had done it; not +altogether without a certain feeling of vulgar triumph in the reflection +that Nest, as she stood there, carelessly dressed, dishevelled in her +grief, was in reality the mistress of Bodowen, than which Ellis Pritchard +had never seen a grander house, though he believed such might exist. + +By dint of a few dexterous questions he found out all he wanted to know +from Owen, as he ate and drank. In fact, it was almost a relief to Owen +to dilute the horror by talking about it. Before the meal was done, if +meal it could be called, Ellis knew all he cared to know. + +“Now, Nest, on with your cloak and haps. Pack up what needs to go with +you, for both you and your husband must be half way to Liverpool by +to-morrow’s morn. I’ll take you past Rhyl Sands in my fishing-boat, with +yours in tow; and, once over the dangerous part, I’ll return with my +cargo of fish, and learn how much stir there is at Bodowen. Once safe +hidden in Liverpool, no one will know where you are, and you may stay +quiet till your time comes for returning.” + +“I will never come home again,” said Owen, doggedly. “The place is +accursed!” + +“Hoot! be guided by me, man. Why, it was but an accident, after all! +And we’ll land at the Holy Island, at the Point of Llyn; there is an old +cousin of mine, the parson, there—for the Pritchards have known better +days, Squire—and we’ll bury him there. It was but an accident, man. +Hold up your head! You and Nest will come home yet and fill Bodowen with +children, and I’ll live to see it.” + +“Never!” said Owen. “I am the last male of my race, and the son has +murdered his father!” + +Nest came in laden and cloaked. Ellis was for hurrying them off. The +fire was extinguished, the door was locked. + +“Here, Nest, my darling, let me take your bundle while I guide you down +the steps.” But her husband bent his head, and spoke never a word. Nest +gave her father the bundle (already loaded with such things as he himself +had seen fit to take), but clasped another softly and tightly. + +“No one shall help me with this,” said she, in a low voice. + +Her father did not understand her; her husband did, and placed his strong +helping arm round her waist, and blessed her. + +“We will all go together, Nest,” said he. “But where?” and he looked up +at the storm-tossed clouds coming up from windward. + +“It is a dirty night,” said Ellis, turning his head round to speak to his +companions at last. “But never fear, we’ll weather it?” And he made for +the place where his vessel was moored. Then he stopped and thought a +moment. + +“Stay here!” said he, addressing his companions. “I may meet folk, and I +shall, maybe, have to hear and to speak. You wait here till I come back +for you.” So they sat down close together in a corner of the path. + +“Let me look at him, Nest!” said Owen. + +She took her little dead son out from under her shawl; they looked at his +waxen face long and tenderly; kissed it, and covered it up reverently and +softly. + +“Nest,” said Owen, at last, “I feel as though my father’s spirit had been +near us, and as if it had bent over our poor little one. A strange +chilly air met me as I stooped over him. I could fancy the spirit of our +pure, blameless child guiding my father’s safe over the paths of the sky +to the gates of heaven, and escaping those accursed dogs of hell that +were darting up from the north in pursuit of souls not five minutes +since. + +“Don’t talk so, Owen,” said Nest, curling up to him in the darkness of +the copse. “Who knows what may be listening?” + +The pair were silent, in a kind of nameless terror, till they heard Ellis +Pritchard’s loud whisper. “Where are ye? Come along, soft and steady. +There were folk about even now, and the Squire is missed, and madam in a +fright.” + +They went swiftly down to the little harbour, and embarked on board +Ellis’s boat. The sea heaved and rocked even there; the torn clouds went +hurrying overhead in a wild tumultuous manner. + +They put out into the bay; still in silence, except when some word of +command was spoken by Ellis, who took the management of the vessel. They +made for the rocky shore, where Owen’s boat had been moored. It was not +there. It had broken loose and disappeared. + +Owen sat down and covered his face. This last event, so simple and +natural in itself, struck on his excited and superstitious mind in an +extraordinary manner. He had hoped for a certain reconciliation, so to +say, by laying his father and his child both in one grave. But now it +appeared to him as if there was to be no forgiveness; as if his father +revolted even in death against any such peaceful union. Ellis took a +practical view of the case. If the Squire’s body was found drifting +about in a boat known to belong to his son, it would create terrible +suspicion as to the manner of his death. At one time in the evening, +Ellis had thought of persuading Owen to let him bury the Squire in a +sailor’s grave; or, in other words, to sew him up in a spare sail, and +weighting it well, sink it for ever. He had not broached the subject, +from a certain fear of Owen’s passionate repugnance to the plan; +otherwise, if he had consented, they might have returned to Penmorfa, and +passively awaited the course of events, secure of Owen’s succession to +Bodowen, sooner or later; or if Owen was too much overwhelmed by what had +happened, Ellis would have advised him to go away for a short time, and +return when the buzz and the talk was over. + +Now it was different. It was absolutely necessary that they should leave +the country for a time. Through those stormy waters they must plough +their way that very night. Ellis had no fear—would have had no fear, at +any rate, with Owen as he had been a week, a day ago; but with Owen wild, +despairing, helpless, fate-pursued, what could he do? + +They sailed into the tossing darkness, and were never more seen of men. + +The house of Bodowen has sunk into damp, dark ruins; and a Saxon stranger +holds the lands of the Griffiths. + + + + +You cannot think how kindly Mrs. Dawson thanked Miss Duncan for writing +and reading this story. She shook my poor, pale governess so tenderly +by the hand that the tears came into her eyes, and the colour to her +checks. + +“I though you had been so kind; I liked hearing about Lady Ludlow; I +fancied, perhaps, I could do something to give a little pleasure,” were +the half-finished sentences Miss Duncan stammered out. I am sure it was +the wish to earn similar kind words from Mrs. Dawson, that made Mrs. +Preston try and rummage through her memory to see if she could not +recollect some fact, or event, or history, which might interested Mrs. +Dawson and the little party that gathered round her sofa. Mrs. Preston +it was who told us the following tale: + + “HALF A LIFE-TIME AGO.” + + + + +HALF A LIFE-TIME AGO + + + + +CHAPTER I. + + +Half a life-time ago, there lived in one of the Westmoreland dales a +single woman, of the name of Susan Dixon. She was owner of the small +farm-house where she resided, and of some thirty or forty acres of land +by which it was surrounded. She had also an hereditary right to a +sheep-walk, extending to the wild fells that overhang Blea Tarn. In the +language of the country she was a Stateswoman. Her house is yet to be +seen on the Oxenfell road, between Skelwith and Coniston. You go along +a moorland track, made by the carts that occasionally came for turf +from the Oxenfell. A brook babbles and brattles by the wayside, giving +you a sense of companionship, which relieves the deep solitude in which +this way is usually traversed. Some miles on this side of Coniston +there is a farmstead—a gray stone house, and a square of farm-buildings +surrounding a green space of rough turf, in the midst of which stands a +mighty, funereal umbrageous yew, making a solemn shadow, as of death, +in the very heart and centre of the light and heat of the brightest +summer day. On the side away from the house, this yard slopes down to a +dark-brown pool, which is supplied with fresh water from the +overflowings of a stone cistern, into which some rivulet of the brook +before-mentioned continually and melodiously falls bubbling. The cattle +drink out of this cistern. The household bring their pitchers and fill +them with drinking-water by a dilatory, yet pretty, process. The +water-carrier brings with her a leaf of the hound’s-tongue fern, and, +inserting it in the crevice of the gray rock, makes a cool, green spout +for the sparkling stream. + +The house is no specimen, at the present day, of what it was in the +lifetime of Susan Dixon. Then, every small diamond pane in the windows +glittered with cleanliness. You might have eaten off the floor; you +could see yourself in the pewter plates and the polished oaken awmry, +or dresser, of the state kitchen into which you entered. Few strangers +penetrated further than this room. Once or twice, wandering tourists, +attracted by the lonely picturesqueness of the situation, and the +exquisite cleanliness of the house itself, made their way into this +house-place, and offered money enough (as they thought) to tempt the +hostess to receive them as lodgers. They would give no trouble, they +said; they would be out rambling or sketching all day long; would be +perfectly content with a share of the food which she provided for +herself; or would procure what they required from the Waterhead Inn at +Coniston. But no liberal sum—no fair words—moved her from her stony +manner, or her monotonous tone of indifferent refusal. No persuasion +could induce her to show any more of the house than that first room; no +appearance of fatigue procured for the weary an invitation to sit down +and rest; and if one more bold and less delicate did so without being +asked, Susan stood by, cold and apparently deaf, or only replying by +the briefest monosyllables, till the unwelcome visitor had departed. +Yet those with whom she had dealings, in the way of selling her cattle +or her farm produce, spoke of her as keen after a bargain—a hard one to +have to do with; and she never spared herself exertion or fatigue, at +market or in the field, to make the most of her produce. She led the +hay-makers with her swift, steady rake, and her noiseless evenness of +motion. She was about among the earliest in the market, examining +samples of oats, pricing them, and then turning with grim satisfaction +to her own cleaner corn. + +She was served faithfully and long by those who were rather her +fellow-labourers than her servants. She was even and just in her +dealings with them. If she was peculiar and silent, they knew her, and +knew that she might be relied on. Some of them had known her from her +childhood; and deep in their hearts was an unspoken—almost +unconscious—pity for her, for they knew her story, though they never +spoke of it. + +Yes; the time had been when that tall, gaunt, hard-featured, angular +woman—who never smiled, and hardly ever spoke an unnecessary word—had +been a fine-looking girl, bright-spirited and rosy; and when the hearth +at the Yew Nook had been as bright as she, with family love and +youthful hope and mirth. Fifty or fifty-one years ago, William Dixon +and his wife Margaret were alive; and Susan, their daughter, was about +eighteen years old—ten years older than the only other child, a boy +named after his father. William and Margaret Dixon were rather superior +people, of a character belonging—as far as I have seen—exclusively to +the class of Westmoreland and Cumberland statesmen—just, independent, +upright; not given to much speaking; kind-hearted, but not +demonstrative; disliking change, and new ways, and new people; sensible +and shrewd; each household self-contained, and its members having +little curiosity as to their neighbours, with whom they rarely met for +any social intercourse, save at the stated times of sheep-shearing and +Christmas; having a certain kind of sober pleasure in amassing money, +which occasionally made them miserable (as they call miserly people up +in the north) in their old age; reading no light or ephemeral +literature, but the grave, solid books brought round by the pedlars +(such as the “Paradise Lost” and “Regained,’” “The Death of Abel,” “The +Spiritual Quixote,” and “The Pilgrim’s Progress”), were to be found in +nearly every house: the men occasionally going off laking, _i.e._ +playing, _i.e._ drinking for days together, and having to be hunted up +by anxious wives, who dared not leave their husbands to the chances of +the wild precipitous roads, but walked miles and miles, lantern in +hand, in the dead of night, to discover and guide the solemnly-drunken +husband home; who had a dreadful headache the next day, and the day +after that came forth as grave, and sober, and virtuous looking as if +there were no such thing as malt and spirituous liquors in the world; +and who were seldom reminded of their misdoings by their wives, to whom +such occasional outbreaks were as things of course, when once the +immediate anxiety produced by them was over. Such were—such are—the +characteristics of a class now passing away from the face of the land, +as their compeers, the yeomen, have done before them. Of such was +William Dixon. He was a shrewd clever farmer, in his day and +generation, when shrewdness was rather shown in the breeding and +rearing of sheep and cattle than in the cultivation of land. Owing to +this character of his, statesmen from a distance from beyond Kendal, or +from Borrowdale, of greater wealth than he, would send their sons to be +farm-servants for a year or two with him, in order to learn some of his +methods before setting up on land of their own. When Susan, his +daughter, was about seventeen, one Michael Hurst was farm-servant at +Yew Nook. He worked with the master, and lived with the family, and was +in all respects treated as an equal, except in the field. His father +was a wealthy statesman at Wythburne, up beyond Grasmere; and through +Michael’s servitude the families had become acquainted, and the Dixons +went over to the High Beck sheep-shearing, and the Hursts came down by +Red Bank and Loughrig Tarn and across the Oxenfell when there was the +Christmas-tide feasting at Yew Nook. The fathers strolled round the +fields together, examined cattle and sheep, and looked knowing over +each other’s horses. The mothers inspected the dairies and household +arrangements, each openly admiring the plans of the other, but secretly +preferring their own. Both fathers and mothers cast a glance from time +to time at Michael and Susan, who were thinking of nothing less than +farm or dairy, but whose unspoken attachment was, in all ways, so +suitable and natural a thing that each parent rejoiced over it, +although with characteristic reserve it was never spoken about—not even +between husband and wife. + +Susan had been a strong, independent, healthy girl; a clever help to +her mother, and a spirited companion to her father; more of a man in +her (as he often said) than her delicate little brother ever would +have. He was his mother’s darling, although she loved Susan well. There +was no positive engagement between Michael and Susan—I doubt whether +even plain words of love had been spoken; when one winter-time Margaret +Dixon was seized with inflammation consequent upon a neglected cold. +She had always been strong and notable, and had been too busy to attend +to the early symptoms of illness. It would go off, she said to the +woman who helped in the kitchen; or if she did not feel better when +they had got the hams and bacon out of hand, she would take some +herb-tea and nurse up a bit. But Death could not wait till the hams and +bacon were cured: he came on with rapid strides, and shooting arrows of +portentous agony. Susan had never seen illness—never knew how much she +loved her mother till now, when she felt a dreadful, instinctive +certainty that she was losing her. Her mind was thronged with +recollections of the many times she had slighted her mother’s wishes; +her heart was full of the echoes of careless and angry replies that she +had spoken. What would she not now give to have opportunities of +service and obedience, and trials of her patience and love, for that +dear mother who lay gasping in torture! And yet Susan had been a good +girl and an affectionate daughter. + +The sharp pain went off, and delicious ease came on; yet still her +mother sunk. In the midst of this languid peace she was dying. She +motioned Susan to her bedside, for she could only whisper; and then, +while the father was out of the room, she spoke as much to the eager, +hungering eyes of her daughter by the motion of her lips, as by the +slow, feeble sounds of her voice. + +“Susan, lass, thou must not fret. It is God’s will, and thou wilt have +a deal to do. Keep father straight if thou canst; and if he goes out +Ulverstone ways, see that thou meet him before he gets to the Old +Quarry. It’s a dree bit for a man who has had a drop. As for lile +Will”—Here the poor woman’s face began to work and her fingers to move +nervously as they lay on the bed-quilt—“lile Will will miss me most of +all. Father’s often vexed with him because he’s not a quick strong lad; +he is not, my poor lile chap. And father thinks he’s saucy, because he +cannot always stomach oat-cake and porridge. There’s better than three +pound in th’ old black tea-pot on the top shelf of the cupboard. Just +keep a piece of loaf-bread by you, Susan dear, for Will to come to when +he’s not taken his breakfast. I have, may be, spoilt him; but there’ll +be no one to spoil him now.” + +She began to cry a low, feeble cry, and covered up her face that Susan +might not see her. That dear face! those precious moments while yet the +eyes could look out with love and intelligence. Susan laid her head +down close by her mother’s ear. + +“Mother I’ll take tent of Will. Mother, do you hear? He shall not want +ought I can give or get for him, least of all the kind words which you +had ever ready for us both. Bless you! bless you! my own mother.” + +“Thou’lt promise me that, Susan, wilt thou? I can die easy if thou’lt +take charge of him. But he’s hardly like other folk; he tries father at +times, though I think father’ll be tender of him when I’m gone, for my +sake. And, Susan, there’s one thing more. I never spoke on it for fear +of the bairn being called a tell-tale, but I just comforted him up. He +vexes Michael at times, and Michael has struck him before now. I did +not want to make a stir; but he’s not strong, and a word from thee, +Susan, will go a long way with Michael.” + +Susan was as red now as she had been pale before; it was the first time +that her influence over Michael had been openly acknowledged by a third +person, and a flash of joy came athwart the solemn sadness of the +moment. Her mother had spoken too much, and now came on the miserable +faintness. She never spoke again coherently; but when her children and +her husband stood by her bedside, she took lile Will’s hand and put it +into Susan’s, and looked at her with imploring eyes. Susan clasped her +arms round Will, and leaned her head upon his little curly one, and +vowed within herself to be as a mother to him. + +Henceforward she was all in all to her brother. She was a more spirited +and amusing companion to him than his mother had been, from her greater +activity, and perhaps, also, from her originality of character, which +often prompted her to perform her habitual actions in some new and racy +manner. She was tender to lile Will when she was prompt and sharp with +everybody else—with Michael most of all; for somehow the girl felt +that, unprotected by her mother, she must keep up her own dignity, and +not allow her lover to see how strong a hold he had upon her heart. He +called her hard and cruel, and left her so; and she smiled softly to +herself, when his back was turned, to think how little he guessed how +deeply he was loved. For Susan was merely comely and fine looking; +Michael was strikingly handsome, admired by all the girls for miles +round, and quite enough of a country coxcomb to know it and plume +himself accordingly. He was the second son of his father; the eldest +would have High Beck farm, of course, but there was a good penny in the +Kendal bank in store for Michael. When harvest was over, he went to +Chapel Langdale to learn to dance; and at night, in his merry moods, he +would do his steps on the flag floor of the Yew Nook kitchen, to the +secret admiration of Susan, who had never learned dancing, but who +flouted him perpetually, even while she admired, in accordance with the +rule she seemed to have made for herself about keeping him at a +distance so long as he lived under the same roof with her. One evening +he sulked at some saucy remark of hers; he sitting in the chimney +corner with his arms on his knees, and his head bent forwards, lazily +gazing into the wood-fire on the hearth, and luxuriating in rest after +a hard day’s labour; she sitting among the geraniums on the long, low +window-seat, trying to catch the last slanting rays of the autumnal +light to enable her to finish stitching a shirt-collar for Will, who +lounged full length on the flags at the other side of the hearth to +Michael, poking the burning wood from time to time with a long +hazel-stick to bring out the leap of glittering sparks. + +“And if you can dance a threesome reel, what good does it do ye?” asked +Susan, looking askance at Michael, who had just been vaunting his +proficiency. “Does it help you plough, reap, or even climb the rocks to +take a raven’s nest? If I were a man, I’d be ashamed to give in to such +softness.” + +“If you were a man, you’d be glad to do anything which made the pretty +girls stand round and admire.” + +“As they do to you, eh! Ho, Michael, that would not be my way o’ being +a man!” + +“What would then?” asked he, after a pause, during which he had +expected in vain that she would go on with her sentence. No answer. + +“I should not like you as a man, Susy; you’d be too hard and +headstrong.” + +“Am I hard and headstrong?” asked she, with as indifferent a tone as +she could assume, but which yet had a touch of pique in it. His quick +ear detected the inflexion. + +“No, Susy! You’re wilful at times, and that’s right enough. I don’t +like a girl without spirit. There’s a mighty pretty girl comes to the +dancing class; but she is all milk and water. Her eyes never flash like +yours when you’re put out; why, I can see them flame across the kitchen +like a cat’s in the dark. Now, if you were a man, I should feel queer +before those looks of yours; as it is, I rather like them, because—” + +“Because what?” asked she, looking up and perceiving that he had stolen +close up to her. + +“Because I can make all right in this way,” said he, kissing her +suddenly. + +“Can you?” said she, wrenching herself out of his grasp and panting, +half with rage. “Take that, by way of proof that making right is none +so easy.” And she boxed his ears pretty sharply. He went back to his +seat discomfited and out of temper. She could no longer see to look, +even if her face had not burnt and her eyes dazzled, but she did not +choose to move her seat, so she still preserved her stooping attitude +and pretended to go on sewing. + +“Eleanor Hebthwaite may be milk-and-water,” muttered he, “but—Confound +thee, lad! what art thou doing?” exclaimed Michael, as a great piece of +burning wood was cast into his face by an unlucky poke of Will’s. “Thou +great lounging, clumsy chap, I’ll teach thee better!” and with one or +two good round kicks he sent the lad whimpering away into the +back-kitchen. When he had a little recovered himself from his passion, +he saw Susan standing before him, her face looking strange and almost +ghastly by the reversed position of the shadows, arising from the +firelight shining upwards right under it. + +“I tell thee what, Michael,” said she, “that lad’s motherless, but not +friendless.” + +“His own father leathers him, and why should not I, when he’s given me +such a burn on my face?” said Michael, putting up his hand to his cheek +as if in pain. + +“His father’s his father, and there is nought more to be said. But if +he did burn thee, it was by accident, and not o’ purpose; as thou +kicked him, it’s a mercy if his ribs are not broken.” + +“He howls loud enough, I’m sure. I might ha’ kicked many a lad twice as +hard, and they’d ne’er ha’ said ought but ‘damn ye;’ but yon lad must +needs cry out like a stuck pig if one touches him;” replied Michael, +sullenly. + +Susan went back to the window-seat, and looked absently out of the +window at the drifting clouds for a minute or two, while her eyes +filled with tears. Then she got up and made for the outer door which +led into the back-kitchen. Before she reached it, however, she heard a +low voice, whose music made her thrill, say— + +“Susan, Susan!” + +Her heart melted within her, but it seemed like treachery to her poor +boy, like faithlessness to her dead mother, to turn to her lover while +the tears which he had caused to flow were yet unwiped on Will’s +cheeks. So she seemed to take no heed, but passed into the darkness, +and, guided by the sobs, she found her way to where Willie sat crouched +among the disused tubs and churns. + +“Come out wi’ me, lad;” and they went out into the orchard, where the +fruit-trees were bare of leaves, but ghastly in their tattered covering +of gray moss: and the soughing November wind came with long sweeps over +the fells till it rattled among the crackling boughs, underneath which +the brother and sister sat in the dark; he in her lap, and she hushing +his head against her shoulder. + +“Thou should’st na’ play wi’ fire. It’s a naughty trick. Thoul’t suffer +for it in worse ways nor this before thou’st done, I’m afeared. I +should ha’ hit thee twice as lungeous kicks as Mike, if I’d been in his +place. He did na’ hurt thee, I am sure,” she assumed, half as a +question. + +“Yes but he did. He turned me quite sick.” And he let his head fall +languidly down on his sister’s breast. + +“Come, lad! come, lad!” said she anxiously. “Be a man. It was not much +that I saw. Why, when first the red cow came she kicked me far harder +for offering to milk her before her legs were tied. See thee! here’s a +peppermint-drop, and I’ll make thee a pasty to-night; only don’t give +way so, for it hurts me sore to think that Michael has done thee any +harm, my pretty.” + +Willie roused himself up, and put back the wet and ruffled hair from +his heated face; and he and Susan rose up, and hand-in-hand went +towards the house, walking slowly and quietly except for a kind of sob +which Willie could not repress. Susan took him to the pump and washed +his tear-stained face, till she thought she had obliterated all traces +of the recent disturbance, arranging his curls for him, and then she +kissed him tenderly, and led him in, hoping to find Michael in the +kitchen, and make all straight between them. But the blaze had dropped +down into darkness; the wood was a heap of gray ashes in which the +sparks ran hither and thither; but even in the groping darkness Susan +knew by the sinking at her heart that Michael was not there. She threw +another brand on the hearth and lighted the candle, and sat down to her +work in silence. Willie cowered on his stool by the side of the fire, +eyeing his sister from time to time, and sorry and oppressed, he knew +not why, by the sight of her grave, almost stern face. No one came. +They two were in the house alone. The old woman who helped Susan with +the household work had gone out for the night to some friend’s +dwelling. William Dixon, the father, was up on the fells seeing after +his sheep. Susan had no heart to prepare the evening meal. + +“Susy, darling, are you angry with me?” said Willie, in his little +piping, gentle voice. He had stolen up to his sister’s side. “I won’t +never play with the fire again; and I’ll not cry if Michael does kick +me. Only don’t look so like dead mother—don’t—don’t—please don’t!” he +exclaimed, hiding his face on her shoulder. + +“I’m not angry, Willie,” said she. “Don’t be feared on me. You want +your supper, and you shall have it; and don’t you be feared on Michael. +He shall give reason for every hair of your head that he touches—he +shall.” + +When William Dixon came home he found Susan and Willie sitting +together, hand-in-hand, and apparently pretty cheerful. He bade them go +to bed, for that he would sit up for Michael; and the next morning, +when Susan came down, she found that Michael had started an hour before +with the cart for lime. It was a long day’s work; Susan knew it would +be late, perhaps later than on the preceding night, before he +returned—at any rate, past her usual bed-time; and on no account would +she stop up a minute beyond that hour in the kitchen, whatever she +might do in her bed-room. Here she sat and watched till past midnight; +and when she saw him coming up the brow with the carts, she knew full +well, even in that faint moonlight, that his gait was the gait of a man +in liquor. But though she was annoyed and mortified to find in what way +he had chosen to forget her, the fact did not disgust or shock her as +it would have done many a girl, even at that day, who had not been +brought up as Susan had, among a class who considered it no crime, but +rather a mark of spirit, in a man to get drunk occasionally. +Nevertheless, she chose to hold herself very high all the next day when +Michael was, perforce, obliged to give up any attempt to do heavy work, +and hung about the out-buildings and farm in a very disconsolate and +sickly state. Willie had far more pity on him than Susan. Before +evening, Willie and he were fast, and, on his side, ostentatious +friends. Willie rode the horses down to water; Willie helped him to +chop wood. Susan sat gloomily at her work, hearing an indistinct but +cheerful conversation going on in the shippon, while the cows were +being milked. She almost felt irritated with her little brother, as if +he were a traitor, and had gone over to the enemy in the very battle +that she was fighting in his cause. She was alone with no one to speak +to, while they prattled on regardless if she were glad or sorry. + +Soon Willie burst in. “Susan! Susan! come with me; I’ve something so +pretty to show you. Round the corner of the barn—run! run!” (He was +dragging her along, half reluctant, half desirous of some change in +that weary day.) Round the corner of the barn; and caught hold of by +Michael, who stood there awaiting her. + +“O Willie!” cried she “you naughty boy. There is nothing pretty—what +have you brought me here for? Let me go; I won’t be held.” + +“Only one word. Nay, if you wish it so much, you may go,” said Michael, +suddenly loosing his hold as she struggled. But now she was free, she +only drew off a step or two, murmuring something about Willie. + +“You are going, then?” said Michael, with seeming sadness. “You won’t +hear me say a word of what is in my heart.” + +“How can I tell whether it is what I should like to hear?” replied she, +still drawing back. + +“That is just what I want you to tell me; I want you to hear it and +then to tell me whether you like it or not.” + +“Well, you may speak,” replied she, turning her back, and beginning to +plait the hem of her apron. + +He came close to her ear. + +“I’m sorry I hurt Willie the other night. He has forgiven me. Can you?” + +“You hurt him very badly,” she replied. “But you are right to be sorry. +I forgive you.” + +“Stop, stop!” said he, laying his hand upon her arm. “There is +something more I’ve got to say. I want you to be my—what is it they +call it, Susan?” + +“I don’t know,” said she, half-laughing, but trying to get away with +all her might now; and she was a strong girl, but she could not manage +it. + +“You do. My—what is it I want you to be?” + +“I tell you I don’t know, and you had best be quiet, and just let me go +in, or I shall think you’re as bad now as you were last night.” + +“And how did you know what I was last night? It was past twelve when I +came home. Were you watching? Ah, Susan! be my wife, and you shall +never have to watch for a drunken husband. If I were your husband, I +would come straight home, and count every minute an hour till I saw +your bonny face. Now you know what I want you to be. I ask you to be my +wife. Will you, my own dear Susan?” + +She did not speak for some time. Then she only said “Ask father.” And +now she was really off like a lapwing round the corner of the barn, and +up in her own little room, crying with all her might, before the +triumphant smile had left Michael’s face where he stood. + +The “Ask father” was a mere form to be gone though. Old Daniel Hurst +and William Dixon had talked over what they could respectively give +their children before this; and that was the parental way of arranging +such matters. When the probable amount of worldly gear that he could +give his child had been named by each father, the young folk, as they +said, might take their own time in coming to the point which the old +men, with the prescience of experience, saw they were drifting to; no +need to hurry them, for they were both young, and Michael, though +active enough, was too thoughtless, old Daniel said, to be trusted with +the entire management of a farm. Meanwhile, his father would look about +him, and see after all the farms that were to be let. + +Michael had a shrewd notion of this preliminary understanding between +the fathers, and so felt less daunted than he might otherwise have done +at making the application for Susan’s hand. It was all right, there was +not an obstacle; only a deal of good advice, which the lover thought +might have as well been spared, and which it must be confessed he did +not much attend to, although he assented to every part of it. Then +Susan was called down stairs, and slowly came dropping into view down +the steps which led from the two family apartments into the +house-place. She tried to look composed and quiet, but it could not be +done. She stood side by side with her lover, with her head drooping, +her cheeks burning, not daring to look up or move, while her father +made the newly-betrothed a somewhat formal address in which he gave his +consent, and many a piece of worldly wisdom beside. Susan listened as +well as she could for the beating of her heart; but when her father +solemnly and sadly referred to his own lost wife, she could keep from +sobbing no longer; but throwing her apron over her face, she sat down +on the bench by the dresser, and fairly gave way to pent-up tears. Oh, +how strangely sweet to be comforted as she was comforted, by tender +caress, and many a low-whispered promise of love! Her father sat by the +fire, thinking of the days that were gone; Willie was still out of +doors; but Susan and Michael felt no one’s presence or absence—they +only knew they were together as betrothed husband and wife. + +In a week, or two, they were formally told of the arrangements to be +made in their favour. A small farm in the neighbourhood happened to +fall vacant; and Michael’s father offered to take it for him, and be +responsible for the rent for the first year, while William Dixon was to +contribute a certain amount of stock, and both fathers were to help +towards the furnishing of the house. Susan received all this +information in a quiet, indifferent way; she did not care much for any +of these preparations, which were to hurry her through the happy hours; +she cared least of all for the money amount of dowry and of substance. +It jarred on her to be made the confidante of occasional slight +repinings of Michael’s, as one by one his future father-in-law set +aside a beast or a pig for Susan’s portion, which were not always the +best animals of their kind upon the farm. But he also complained of his +own father’s stinginess, which somewhat, though not much, alleviated +Susan’s dislike to being awakened out of her pure dream of love to the +consideration of worldly wealth. + +But in the midst of all this bustle, Willie moped and pined. He had the +same chord of delicacy running through his mind that made his body +feeble and weak. He kept out of the way, and was apparently occupied in +whittling and carving uncouth heads on hazel-sticks in an out-house. +But he positively avoided Michael, and shrunk away even from Susan. She +was too much occupied to notice this at first. Michael pointed it out +to her, saying, with a laugh,— + +“Look at Willie! he might be a cast-off lover and jealous of me, he +looks so dark and downcast at me.” Michael spoke this jest out loud, +and Willie burst into tears, and ran out of the house. + +“Let me go. Let me go!” said Susan (for her lover’s arm was round her +waist). “I must go to him if he’s fretting. I promised mother I would!” +She pulled herself away, and went in search of the boy. She sought in +byre and barn, through the orchard, where indeed in this leafless +winter-time there was no great concealment; up into the room where the +wool was usually stored in the later summer, and at last she found him, +sitting at bay, like some hunted creature, up behind the wood-stack. + +“What are ye gone for, lad, and me seeking you everywhere?” asked she, +breathless. + +“I did not know you would seek me. I’ve been away many a time, and no +one has cared to seek me,” said he, crying afresh. + +“Nonsense,” replied Susan, “don’t be so foolish, ye little +good-for-nought.” But she crept up to him in the hole he had made +underneath the great, brown sheafs of wood, and squeezed herself down +by him. “What for should folk seek after you, when you get away from +them whenever you can?” asked she. + +“They don’t want me to stay. Nobody wants me. If I go with father, he +says I hinder more than I help. You used to like to have me with you. +But now, you’ve taken up with Michael, and you’d rather I was away; and +I can just bide away; but I cannot stand Michael jeering at me. He’s +got you to love him and that might serve him.” + +“But I love you, too, dearly, lad!” said she, putting her arm round his +neck. + +“Which one of us do you like best?” said he, wistfully, after a little +pause, putting her arm away, so that he might look in her face, and see +if she spoke truth. + +She went very red. + +“You should not ask such questions. They are not fit for you to ask, +nor for me to answer.” + +“But mother bade you love me!” said he, plaintively. + +“And so I do. And so I ever will do. Lover nor husband shall come +betwixt thee and me, lad—ne’er a one of them. That I promise thee (as I +promised mother before), in the sight of God and with her hearkening +now, if ever she can hearken to earthly word again. Only I cannot abide +to have thee fretting, just because my heart is large enough for two.” + +“And thou’lt love me always?” + +“Always, and ever. And the more—the more thou’lt love Michael,” said +she, dropping her voice. + +“I’ll try,” said the boy, sighing, for he remembered many a harsh word +and blow of which his sister knew nothing. She would have risen up to +go away, but he held her tight, for here and now she was all his own, +and he did not know when such a time might come again. So the two sat +crouched up and silent, till they heard the horn blowing at the +field-gate, which was the summons home to any wanderers belonging to +the farm, and at this hour of the evening, signified that supper was +ready. Then the two went in. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + + +Susan and Michael were to be married in April. He had already gone to +take possession of his new farm, three or four miles away from Yew +Nook—but that is neighbouring, according to the acceptation of the word +in that thinly-populated district,—when William Dixon fell ill. He came +home one evening, complaining of head-ache and pains in his limbs, but +seemed to loathe the posset which Susan prepared for him; the +treacle-posset which was the homely country remedy against an incipient +cold. He took to his bed with a sensation of exceeding weariness, and +an odd, unusual looking-back to the days of his youth, when he was a +lad living with his parents, in this very house. + +The next morning he had forgotten all his life since then, and did not +know his own children; crying, like a newly-weaned baby, for his mother +to come and soothe away his terrible pain. The doctor from Coniston +said it was the typhus-fever, and warned Susan of its infectious +character, and shook his head over his patient. There were no near +friends to come and share her anxiety; only good, kind old Peggy, who +was faithfulness itself, and one or two labourers’ wives, who would +fain have helped her, had not their hands been tied by their +responsibility to their own families. But, somehow, Susan neither +feared nor flagged. As for fear, indeed, she had no time to give way to +it, for every energy of both body and mind was required. Besides, the +young have had too little experience of the danger of infection to +dread it much. She did indeed wish, from time to time, that Michael had +been at home to have taken Willie over to his father’s at High Beck; +but then, again, the lad was docile and useful to her, and his +fecklessness in many things might make him harshly treated by +strangers; so, perhaps, it was as well that Michael was away at Appleby +fair, or even beyond that—gone into Yorkshire after horses. + +Her father grew worse; and the doctor insisted on sending over a nurse +from Coniston. Not a professed nurse—Coniston could not have supported +such a one; but a widow who was ready to go where the doctor sent her +for the sake of the payment. When she came, Susan suddenly gave way; +she was felled by the fever herself, and lay unconscious for long +weeks. Her consciousness returned to her one spring afternoon; early +spring: April,—her wedding-month. There was a little fire burning in +the small corner-grate, and the flickering of the blaze was enough for +her to notice in her weak state. She felt that there was some one +sitting on the window-side of her bed, behind the curtain, but she did +not care to know who it was; it was even too great a trouble for her +languid mind to consider who it was likely to be. She would rather shut +her eyes, and melt off again into the gentle luxury of sleep. The next +time she wakened, the Coniston nurse perceived her movement, and made +her a cup of tea, which she drank with eager relish; but still they did +not speak, and once more Susan lay motionless—not asleep, but +strangely, pleasantly conscious of all the small chamber and household +sounds; the fall of a cinder on the hearth, the fitful singing of the +half-empty kettle, the cattle tramping out to field again after they +had been milked, the aged step on the creaking stair—old Peggy’s, as +she knew. It came to her door; it stopped; the person outside listened +for a moment, and then lifted the wooden latch, and looked in. The +watcher by the bedside arose, and went to her. Susan would have been +glad to see Peggy’s face once more, but was far too weak to turn, so +she lay and listened. + +“How is she?” whispered one trembling, aged voice. + +“Better,” replied the other. “She’s been awake, and had a cup of tea. +She’ll do now.” + +“Has she asked after him?” + +“Hush! No; she has not spoken a word.” + +“Poor lass! poor lass!” + +The door was shut. A weak feeling of sorrow and self-pity came over +Susan. What was wrong? Whom had she loved? And dawning, dawning, slowly +rose the sun of her former life, and all particulars were made distinct +to her. She felt that some sorrow was coming to her, and cried over it +before she knew what it was, or had strength enough to ask. In the dead +of night,—and she had never slept again,—she softly called to the +watcher, and asked— + +“Who?” + +“Who what?” replied the woman, with a conscious affright, ill-veiled by +a poor assumption of ease. “Lie still, there’s a darling, and go to +sleep. Sleep’s better for you than all the doctor’s stuff.” + +“Who?” repeated Susan. “Something is wrong. Who?” + +“Oh, dear!” said the woman. “There’s nothing wrong. Willie has taken +the turn, and is doing nicely.” + +“Father?” + +“Well! he’s all right now,” she answered, looking another way, as if +seeking for something. + +“Then it’s Michael! Oh, me! oh, me!” She set up a succession of weak, +plaintive, hysterical cries before the nurse could pacify her, by +declaring that Michael had been at the house not three hours before to +ask after her, and looked as well and as hearty as ever man did. + +“And you heard of no harm to him since?” inquired Susan. + +“Bless the lass, no, for sure! I’ve ne’er heard his name named since I +saw him go out of the yard as stout a man as ever trod shoe-leather.” + +It was well, as the nurse said afterwards to Peggy, that Susan had been +so easily pacified by the equivocating answer in respect to her father. +If she had pressed the questions home in his case as she did in +Michael’s, she would have learnt that he was dead and buried more than +a month before. It was well, too, that in her weak state of +convalescence (which lasted long after this first day of consciousness) +her perceptions were not sharp enough to observe the sad change that +had taken place in Willie. His bodily strength returned, his appetite +was something enormous, but his eyes wandered continually; his regard +could not be arrested; his speech became slow, impeded, and incoherent. +People began to say that the fever had taken away the little wit Willie +Dixon had ever possessed and that they feared that he would end in +being a “natural,” as they call an idiot in the Dales. + +The habitual affection and obedience to Susan lasted longer than any +other feeling that the boy had had previous to his illness; and, +perhaps, this made her be the last to perceive what every one else had +long anticipated. She felt the awakening rude when it did come. It was +in this wise:— + +One June evening, she sat out of doors under the yew-tree, knitting. +She was pale still from her recent illness; and her languor, joined to +the fact of her black dress, made her look more than usually +interesting. She was no longer the buoyant self-sufficient Susan, equal +to every occasion. The men were bringing in the cows to be milked, and +Michael was about in the yard giving orders and directions with +somewhat the air of a master, for the farm belonged of right to Willie, +and Susan had succeeded to the guardianship of her brother. Michael and +she were to be married as soon as she was strong enough—so, perhaps, +his authoritative manner was justified; but the labourers did not like +it, although they said little. They remembered a stripling on the farm, +knowing far less than they did, and often glad to shelter his ignorance +of all agricultural matters behind their superior knowledge. They would +have taken orders from Susan with far more willingness; nay, Willie +himself might have commanded them; and from the old hereditary feeling +toward the owners of land, they would have obeyed him with far greater +cordiality than they now showed to Michael. But Susan was tired with +even three rounds of knitting, and seemed not to notice, or to care, +how things went on around her; and Willie—poor Willie!—there he stood +lounging against the door-sill, enormously grown and developed, to be +sure, but with restless eyes and ever-open mouth, and every now and +then setting up a strange kind of howling cry, and then smiling +vacantly to himself at the sound he had made. As the two old labourers +passed him, they looked at each other ominously, and shook their heads. + +“Willie, darling,” said Susan, “don’t make that noise—it makes my head +ache.” + +She spoke feebly, and Willie did not seem to hear; at any rate, he +continued his howl from time to time. + +“Hold thy noise, wilt’a?” said Michael, roughly, as he passed near him, +and threatening him with his fist. Susan’s back was turned to the pair. +The expression of Willie’s face changed from vacancy to fear, and he +came shambling up to Susan, who put her arm round him, and, as if +protected by that shelter, he began making faces at Michael. Susan saw +what was going on, and, as if now first struck by the strangeness of +her brother’s manner, she looked anxiously at Michael for an +explanation. Michael was irritated at Willie’s defiance of him, and did +not mince the matter. + +“It’s just that the fever has left him silly—he never was as wise as +other folk, and now I doubt if he will ever get right.” + +Susan did not speak, but she went very pale, and her lip quivered. She +looked long and wistfully at Willie’s face, as he watched the motion of +the ducks in the great stable-pool. He laughed softly to himself every +now and then. + +“Willie likes to see the ducks go overhead,” said Susan, instinctively +adopting the form of speech she would have used to a young child. + +“Willie, boo! Willie, boo!” he replied, clapping his hands, and +avoiding her eye. + +“Speak properly, Willie,” said Susan, making a strong effort at +self-control, and trying to arrest his attention. + +“You know who I am—tell me my name!” She grasped his arm almost +painfully tight to make him attend. Now he looked at her, and, for an +instant, a gleam of recognition quivered over his face; but the +exertion was evidently painful, and he began to cry at the vainness of +the effort to recall her name. He hid his face upon her shoulder with +the old affectionate trick of manner. She put him gently away, and went +into the house into her own little bedroom. She locked the door, and +did not reply at all to Michael’s calls for her, hardly spoke to old +Peggy, who tried to tempt her out to receive some homely sympathy, and +through the open easement there still came the idiotic sound of +“Willie, boo! Willie, boo!” + + + + +CHAPTER III. + + +After the stun of the blow came the realization of the consequences. +Susan would sit for hours trying patiently to recall and piece together +fragments of recollection and consciousness in her brother’s mind. She +would let him go and pursue some senseless bit of play, and wait until +she could catch his eye or his attention again, when she would resume +her self-imposed task. Michael complained that she never had a word for +him, or a minute of time to spend with him now; but she only said she +must try, while there was yet a chance, to bring back her brother’s +lost wits. As for marriage in this state of uncertainty, she had no +heart to think of it. Then Michael stormed, and absented himself for +two or three days; but it was of no use. When he came back, he saw that +she had been crying till her eyes were all swollen up, and he gathered +from Peggy’s scoldings (which she did not spare him) that Susan had +eaten nothing since he went away. But she was as inflexible as ever. + +“Not just yet. Only not just yet. And don’t say again that I do not +love you,” said she, suddenly hiding herself in his arms. + +And so matters went on through August. The crop of oats was gathered +in; the wheat-field was not ready as yet, when one fine day Michael +drove up in a borrowed shandry, and offered to take Willie a ride. His +manner, when Susan asked him where he was going to, was rather +confused; but the answer was straight and clear enough. + +He had business in Ambleside. He would never lose sight of the lad, and +have him back safe and sound before dark. So Susan let him go. + +Before night they were at home again: Willie in high delight at a +little rattling paper windmill that Michael had bought for him in the +street, and striving to imitate this new sound with perpetual buzzings. +Michael, too, looked pleased. Susan knew the look, although afterwards +she remembered that he had tried to veil it from her, and had assumed a +grave appearance of sorrow whenever he caught her eye. He put up his +horse; for, although he had three miles further to go, the moon was +up—the bonny harvest-moon—and he did not care how late he had to drive +on such a road by such a light. After the supper which Susan had +prepared for the travellers was over, Peggy went up-stairs to see +Willie safe in bed; for he had to have the same care taken of him that +a little child of four years old requires. + +Michael drew near to Susan. + +“Susan,” said he, “I took Will to see Dr. Preston, at Kendal. He’s the +first doctor in the county. I thought it were better for us—for you—to +know at once what chance there were for him.” + +“Well!” said Susan, looking eagerly up. She saw the same strange glance +of satisfaction, the same instant change to apparent regret and pain. +“What did he say?” said she. “Speak! can’t you?” + +“He said he would never get better of his weakness.” + +“Never!” + +“No; never. It’s a long word, and hard to bear. And there’s worse to +come, dearest. The doctor thinks he will get badder from year to year. +And he said, if he was us—you—he would send him off in time to +Lancaster Asylum. They’ve ways there both of keeping such people in +order and making them happy. I only tell you what he said,” continued +he, seeing the gathering storm in her face. + +“There was no harm in his saying it,” she replied, with great +self-constraint, forcing herself to speak coldly instead of angrily. +“Folk is welcome to their opinions.” + +They sat silent for a minute or two, her breast heaving with suppressed +feeling. + +“He’s counted a very clever man,” said Michael at length. + +“He may be. He’s none of my clever men, nor am I going to be guided by +him, whatever he may think. And I don’t thank them that went and took +my poor lad to have such harsh notions formed about him. If I’d been +there, I could have called out the sense that is in him.” + +“Well! I’ll not say more to-night, Susan. You’re not taking it rightly, +and I’d best be gone, and leave you to think it over. I’ll not deny +they are hard words to hear, but there’s sense in them, as I take it; +and I reckon you’ll have to come to ’em. Anyhow, it’s a bad way of +thanking me for my pains, and I don’t take it well in you, Susan,” said +he, getting up, as if offended. + +“Michael, I’m beside myself with sorrow. Don’t blame me if I speak +sharp. He and me is the only ones, you see. And mother did so charge me +to have a care of him! And this is what he’s come to, poor lile chap!” +She began to cry, and Michael to comfort her with caresses. + +“Don’t,” said she. “It’s no use trying to make me forget poor Willie is +a natural. I could hate myself for being happy with you, even for just +a little minute. Go away, and leave me to face it out.” + +“And you’ll think it over, Susan, and remember what the doctor says?” + +“I can’t forget,” said she. She meant she could not forget what the +doctor had said about the hopelessness of her brother’s case; Michael +had referred to the plan of sending Willie to an asylum, or madhouse, +as they were called in that day and place. The idea had been gathering +force in Michael’s mind for some time; he had talked it over with his +father, and secretly rejoiced over the possession of the farm and land +which would then be his in fact, if not in law, by right of his wife. +He had always considered the good penny her father could give her in +his catalogue of Susan’s charms and attractions. But of late he had +grown to esteem her as the heiress of Yew Nook. He, too, should have +land like his brother—land to possess, to cultivate, to make profit +from, to bequeath. For some time he had wondered that Susan had been so +much absorbed in Willie’s present, that she had never seemed to look +forward to his future, state. Michael had long felt the boy to be a +trouble; but of late he had absolutely loathed him. His gibbering, his +uncouth gestures, his loose, shambling gait, all irritated Michael +inexpressibly. He did not come near the Yew Nook for a couple of days. +He thought that he would leave her time to become anxious to see him +and reconciled to his plan. They were strange lonely days to Susan. +They were the first she had spent face to face with the sorrows that +had turned her from a girl into a woman; for hitherto Michael had never +let twenty-four hours pass by without coming to see her since she had +had the fever. Now that he was absent, it seemed as though some cause +of irritation was removed from Will, who was much more gentle and +tractable than he had been for many weeks. Susan thought that she +observed him making efforts at her bidding, and there was something +piteous in the way in which he crept up to her, and looked wistfully in +her face, as if asking her to restore him the faculties that he felt to +be wanting. + +“I never will let thee go, lad. Never! There’s no knowing where they +would take thee to, or what they would do with thee. As it says in the +Bible, ‘Nought but death shall part thee and me!’” + +The country-side was full, in those days, of stories of the brutal +treatment offered to the insane; stories that were, in fact, but too +well founded, and the truth of one of which only would have been a +sufficient reason for the strong prejudice existing against all such +places. Each succeeding hour that Susan passed, alone, or with the poor +affectionate lad for her sole companion, served to deepen her solemn +resolution never to part with him. So, when Michael came, he was +annoyed and surprised by the calm way in which she spoke, as if +following Dr. Preston’s advice was utterly and entirely out of the +question. He had expected nothing less than a consent, reluctant it +might be, but still a consent; and he was extremely irritated. He could +have repressed his anger, but he chose rather to give way to it; +thinking that he could thus best work upon Susan’s affection, so as to +gain his point. But, somehow, he over-reached himself; and now he was +astonished in his turn at the passion of indignation that she burst +into. + +“Thou wilt not bide in the same house with him, say’st thou? There’s no +need for thy biding, as far as I can tell. There’s solemn reason why I +should bide with my own flesh and blood and keep to the word I pledged +my mother on her death-bed; but, as for thee, there’s no tie that I +know on to keep thee fro’ going to America or Botany Bay this very +night, if that were thy inclination. I will have no more of your +threats to make me send my bairn away. If thou marry me, thou’lt help +me to take charge of Willie. If thou doesn’t choose to marry me on +those terms—why, I can snap my fingers at thee, never fear. I’m not so +far gone in love as that. But I will not have thee, if thou say’st in +such a hectoring way that Willie must go out of the house—and the house +his own too—before thoul’t set foot in it. Willie bides here, and I +bide with him.” + +“Thou hast may-be spoken a word too much,” said Michael, pale with +rage. “If I am free, as thou say’st, to go to Canada, or Botany Bay, I +reckon I’m free to live where I like, and that will not be with a +natural who may turn into a madman some day, for aught I know. Choose +between him and me, Susy, for I swear to thee, thou shan’t have both.” + +“I have chosen,” said Susan, now perfectly composed and still. +“Whatever comes of it, I bide with Willie.” + +“Very well,” replied Michael, trying to assume an equal composure of +manner. “Then I’ll wish you a very good night.” He went out of the +house door, half-expecting to be called back again; but, instead, he +heard a hasty step inside, and a bolt drawn. + +“Whew!” said he to himself, “I think I must leave my lady alone for a +week or two, and give her time to come to her senses. She’ll not find +it so easy as she thinks to let me go.” + +So he went past the kitchen-window in nonchalant style, and was not +seen again at Yew Nook for some weeks. How did he pass the time? For +the first day or two, he was unusually cross with all things and people +that came athwart him. Then wheat-harvest began, and he was busy, and +exultant about his heavy crop. Then a man came from a distance to bid +for the lease of his farm, which, by his father’s advice, had been +offered for sale, as he himself was so soon likely to remove to the Yew +Nook. He had so little idea that Susan really would remain firm to her +determination, that he at once began to haggle with the man who came +after his farm, showed him the crop just got in, and managed skilfully +enough to make a good bargain for himself. Of course, the bargain had +to be sealed at the public-house; and the companions he met with there +soon became friends enough to tempt him into Langdale, where again he +met with Eleanor Hebthwaite. + +How did Susan pass the time? For the first day or so, she was too angry +and offended to cry. She went about her household duties in a quick, +sharp, jerking, yet absent way; shrinking one moment from Will, +overwhelming him with remorseful caresses the next. The third day of +Michael’s absence, she had the relief of a good fit of crying; and +after that, she grew softer and more tender; she felt how harshly she +had spoken to him, and remembered how angry she had been. She made +excuses for him. “It was no wonder,” she said to herself, “that he had +been vexed with her; and no wonder he would not give in, when she had +never tried to speak gently or to reason with him. She was to blame, +and she would tell him so, and tell him once again all that her mother +had bade her to be to Willie, and all the horrible stories she had +heard about madhouses, and he would be on her side at once.” + +And so she watched for his coming, intending to apologise as soon as +ever she saw him. She hurried over her household work, in order to sit +quietly at her sewing, and hear the first distant sound of his +well-known step or whistle. But even the sound of her flying needle +seemed too loud—perhaps she was losing an exquisite instant of +anticipation; so she stopped sewing, and looked longingly out through +the geranium leaves, in order that her eye might catch the first stir +of the branches in the wood-path by which he generally came. Now and +then a bird might spring out of the covert; otherwise the leaves were +heavily still in the sultry weather of early autumn. Then she would +take up her sewing, and, with a spasm of resolution, she would +determine that a certain task should be fulfilled before she would +again allow herself the poignant luxury of expectation. Sick at heart +was she when the evening closed in, and the chances of that day +diminished. Yet she stayed up longer than usual, thinking that if he +were coming—if he were only passing along the distant road—the sight of +a light in the window might encourage him to make his appearance even +at that late hour, while seeing the house all darkened and shut up +might quench any such intention. + +Very sick and weary at heart, she went to bed; too desolate and +despairing to cry, or make any moan. But in the morning hope came +afresh. Another day—another chance! And so it went on for weeks. Peggy +understood her young mistress’s sorrow full well, and respected it by +her silence on the subject. Willie seemed happier now that the +irritation of Michael’s presence was removed; for the poor idiot had a +sort of antipathy to Michael, which was a kind of heart’s echo to the +repugnance in which the latter held him. Altogether, just at this time, +Willie was the happiest of the three. + +As Susan went into Coniston, to sell her butter, one Saturday, some +inconsiderate person told her that she had seen Michael Hurst the night +before. I said inconsiderate, but I might rather have said unobservant; +for any one who had spent half-an-hour in Susan Dixon’s company might +have seen that she disliked having any reference made to the subjects +nearest her heart, were they joyous or grievous. Now she went a little +paler than usual (and she had never recovered her colour since she had +had the fever), and tried to keep silence. But an irrepressible pang +forced out the question— + +“Where?” + +“At Thomas Applethwaite’s, in Langdale. They had a kind of +harvest-home, and he were there among the young folk, and very thick +wi’ Nelly Hebthwaite, old Thomas’s niece. Thou’lt have to look after +him a bit, Susan!” + +She neither smiled nor sighed. The neighbour who had been speaking to +her was struck with the gray stillness of her face. Susan herself felt +how well her self-command was obeyed by every little muscle, and said +to herself in her Spartan manner, “I can bear it without either wincing +or blenching.” She went home early, at a tearing, passionate pace, +trampling and breaking through all obstacles of briar or bush. Willie +was moping in her absence—hanging listlessly on the farm-yard gate to +watch for her. When he saw her, he set up one of his strange, +inarticulate cries, of which she was now learning the meaning, and came +towards her with his loose, galloping run, head and limbs all shaking +and wagging with pleasant excitement. Suddenly she turned from him, and +burst into tears. She sat down on a stone by the wayside, not a hundred +yards from home, and buried her face in her hands, and gave way to a +passion of pent-up sorrow; so terrible and full of agony were her low +cries, that the idiot stood by her, aghast and silent. All his joy gone +for the time, but not, like her joy, turned into ashes. Some thought +struck him. Yes! the sight of her woe made him think, great as the +exertion was. He ran, and stumbled, and shambled home, buzzing with his +lips all the time. She never missed him. He came back in a trice, +bringing with him his cherished paper windmill, bought on that fatal +day when Michael had taken him into Kendal to have his doom of +perpetual idiocy pronounced. He thrust it into Susan’s face, her hands, +her lap, regardless of the injury his frail plaything thereby received. +He leapt before her to think how he had cured all heart-sorrow, buzzing +louder than ever. Susan looked up at him, and that glance of her sad +eyes sobered him. He began to whimper, he knew not why: and she now, +comforter in her turn, tried to soothe him by twirling his windmill. +But it was broken; it made no noise; it would not go round. This seemed +to afflict Susan more than him. She tried to make it right, although +she saw the task was hopeless; and while she did so, the tears rained +down unheeded from her bent head on the paper toy. + +“It won’t do,” said she, at last. “It will never do again.” And, +somehow, she took the accident and her words as omens of the love that +was broken, and that she feared could never be pieced together more. +She rose up and took Willie’s hand, and the two went slowly into the +house. + +To her surprise, Michael Hurst sat in the house-place. House-place is a +sort of better kitchen, where no cookery is done, but which is reserved +for state occasions. Michael had gone in there because he was +accompanied by his only sister, a woman older than himself, who was +well married beyond Keswick, and who now came for the first time to +make acquaintance with Susan. Michael had primed his sister with his +wishes regarding Will, and the position in which he stood with Susan; +and arriving at Yew Nook in the absence of the latter, he had not +scrupled to conduct his sister into the guest-room, as he held Mrs. +Gale’s worldly position in respect and admiration, and therefore wished +her to be favourably impressed with all the signs of property which he +was beginning to consider as Susan’s greatest charms. He had secretly +said to himself, that if Eleanor Hebthwaite and Susan Dixon were equal +in point of riches, he would sooner have Eleanor by far. He had begun +to consider Susan as a termagant; and when he thought of his +intercourse with her, recollections of her somewhat warm and hasty +temper came far more readily to his mind than any remembrance of her +generous, loving nature. + +And now she stood face to face with him; her eyes tear-swollen, her +garments dusty, and here and there torn in consequence of her rapid +progress through the bushy by-paths. She did not make a favourable +impression on the well-clad Mrs. Gale, dressed in her best silk gown, +and therefore unusually susceptible to the appearance of another. Nor +were Susan’s manners gracious or cordial. How could they be, when she +remembered what had passed between Michael and herself the last time +they met? For her penitence had faded away under the daily +disappointment of these last weary weeks. + +But she was hospitable in substance. She bade Peggy hurry on the +kettle, and busied herself among the tea-cups, thankful that the +presence of Mrs. Gale, as a stranger, would prevent the immediate +recurrence to the one subject which she felt must be present in +Michael’s mind as well as in her own. But Mrs. Gale was withheld by no +such feelings of delicacy. She had come ready-primed with the case, and +had undertaken to bring the girl to reason. There was no time to be +lost. It had been prearranged between the brother and sister that he +was to stroll out into the farm-yard before his sister introduced the +subject; but she was so confident in the success of her arguments, that +she must needs have the triumph of a victory as soon as possible; and, +accordingly, she brought a hail-storm of good reasons to bear upon +Susan. Susan did not reply for a long time; she was so indignant at +this intermeddling of a stranger in the deep family sorrow and shame. +Mrs. Gale thought she was gaining the day, and urged her arguments more +pitilessly. Even Michael winced for Susan, and wondered at her silence. +He shrank out of sight, and into the shadow, hoping that his sister +might prevail, but annoyed at the hard way in which she kept putting +the case. + +Suddenly Susan turned round from the occupation she had pretended to be +engaged in, and said to him in a low voice, which yet not only vibrated +itself, but made its hearers thrill through all their obtuseness: + +“Michael Hurst! does your sister speak truth, think you?” + +Both women looked at him for his answer; Mrs. Gale without anxiety, for +had she not said the very words they had spoken together before? had +she not used the very arguments that he himself had suggested? Susan, +on the contrary, looked to his answer as settling her doom for life; +and in the gloom of her eyes you might have read more despair than +hope. + +He shuffled his position. He shuffled in his words. + +“What is it you ask? My sister has said many things.” + +“I ask you,” said Susan, trying to give a crystal clearness both to her +expressions and her pronunciation, “if, knowing as you do how Will is +afflicted, you will help me to take that charge of him which I promised +my mother on her death-bed that I would do; and which means, that I +shall keep him always with me, and do all in my power to make his life +happy. If you will do this, I will be your wife; if not, I remain +unwed.” + +“But he may get dangerous; he can be but a trouble; his being here is a +pain to you, Susan, not a pleasure.” + +“I ask you for either yes or no,” said she, a little contempt at his +evading her question mingling with her tone. He perceived it, and it +nettled him. + +“And I have told you. I answered your question the last time I was +here. I said I would ne’er keep house with an idiot; no more I will. So +now you’ve gotten your answer.” + +“I have,” said Susan. And she sighed deeply. + +“Come, now,” said Mrs. Gale, encouraged by the sigh; “one would think +you don’t love Michael, Susan, to be so stubborn in yielding to what +I’m sure would be best for the lad.” + +“Oh! she does not care for me,” said Michael. “I don’t believe she ever +did.” + +“Don’t I? Haven’t I?” asked Susan, her eyes blazing out fire. She left +the room directly, and sent Peggy in to make the tea; and catching at +Will, who was lounging about in the kitchen, she went up-stairs with +him and bolted herself in, straining the boy to her heart, and keeping +almost breathless, lest any noise she made might cause him to break out +into the howls and sounds which she could not bear that those below +should hear. + +A knock at the door. It was Peggy. + +“He wants for to see you, to wish you good-bye.” + +“I cannot come. Oh, Peggy, send them away.” + +It was her only cry for sympathy; and the old servant understood it. +She sent them away, somehow; not politely, as I have been given to +understand. + +“Good go with them,” said Peggy, as she grimly watched their retreating +figures. “We’re rid of bad rubbish, anyhow.” And she turned into the +house, with the intention of making ready some refreshment for Susan, +after her hard day at the market, and her harder evening. But in the +kitchen, to which she passed through the empty house-place, making a +face of contemptuous dislike at the used tea-cups and fragments of a +meal yet standing there, she found Susan, with her sleeves tucked up +and her working apron on, busied in preparing to make clap-bread, one +of the hardest and hottest domestic tasks of a Daleswoman. She looked +up, and first met, and then avoided Peggy’s eye; it was too full of +sympathy. Her own cheeks were flushed, and her own eyes were dry and +burning. + +“Where’s the board, Peggy? We need clap-bread; and, I reckon, I’ve time +to get through with it to-night.” Her voice had a sharp, dry tone in +it, and her motions a jerking angularity about them. + +Peggy said nothing, but fetched her all that she needed. Susan beat her +cakes thin with vehement force. As she stooped over them, regardless +even of the task in which she seemed so much occupied, she was +surprised by a touch on her mouth of something—what she did not see at +first. It was a cup of tea, delicately sweetened and cooled, and held +to her lips, when exactly ready, by the faithful old woman. Susan held +it off a hand’s breath, and looked into Peggy’s eyes, while her own +filled with the strange relief of tears. + +“Lass!” said Peggy, solemnly, “thou hast done well. It is not long to +bide, and then the end will come.” + +“But you are very old, Peggy,” said Susan, quivering. + +“It is but a day sin’ I were young,” replied Peggy; but she stopped the +conversation by again pushing the cup with gentle force to Susan’s dry +and thirsty lips. When she had drunken she fell again to her labour, +Peggy heating the hearth, and doing all that she knew would be +required, but never speaking another word. Willie basked close to the +fire, enjoying the animal luxury of warmth, for the autumn evenings +were beginning to be chilly. It was one o’clock before they thought of +going to bed on that memorable night. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + + +The vehemence with which Susan Dixon threw herself into occupation +could not last for ever. Times of languor and remembrance would +come—times when she recurred with a passionate yearning to bygone days, +the recollection of which was so vivid and delicious, that it seemed as +though it were the reality, and the present bleak bareness the dream. +She smiled anew at the magical sweetness of some touch or tone which in +memory she felt and heard, and drank the delicious cup of poison, +although at the very time she knew what the consequences of racking +pain would be. + +“This time, last year,” thought she, “we went nutting together—this +very day last year; just such a day as to-day. Purple and gold were the +lights on the hills; the leaves were just turning brown; here and there +on the sunny slopes the stubble-fields looked tawny; down in a cleft of +yon purple slate-rock the beck fell like a silver glancing thread; all +just as it is to-day. And he climbed the slender, swaying nut-trees, +and bent the branches for me to gather; or made a passage through the +hazel copses, from time to time claiming a toll. Who could have thought +he loved me so little?—who?—who?” + +Or, as the evening closed in, she would allow herself to imagine that +she heard his coming step, just that she might recall time feeling of +exquisite delight which had passed by without the due and passionate +relish at the time. Then she would wonder how she could have had +strength, the cruel, self-piercing strength, to say what she had done; +to stab himself with that stern resolution, of which the sear would +remain till her dying day. It might have been right; but, as she +sickened, she wished she had not instinctively chosen the right. How +luxurious a life haunted by no stern sense of duty must be! And many +led this kind of life; why could not she? O, for one hour again of his +sweet company! If he came now, she would agree to whatever he proposed. + +It was a fever of the mind. She passed through it, and came out +healthy, if weak. She was capable once more of taking pleasure in +following an unseen guide through briar and brake. She returned with +tenfold affection to her protecting care of Willie. She acknowledged to +herself that he was to be her all-in-all in life. She made him her +constant companion. For his sake, as the real owner of Yew Nook, and +she as his steward and guardian, she began that course of careful +saving, and that love of acquisition, which afterwards gained for her +the reputation of being miserly. She still thought that he might regain +a scanty portion of sense—enough to require some simple pleasures and +excitement, which would cost money. And money should not be wanting. +Peggy rather assisted her in the formation of her parsimonious habits +than otherwise; economy was the order of the district, and a certain +degree of respectable avarice the characteristic of her age. Only +Willie was never stinted nor hindered of anything that the two women +thought could give him pleasure, for want of money. + +There was one gratification which Susan felt was needed for the +restoration of her mind to its more healthy state, after she had passed +through the whirling fever, when duty was as nothing, and anarchy +reigned; a gratification that, somehow, was to be her last burst of +unreasonableness; of which she knew and recognised pain as the sure +consequence. She must see him once more,—herself unseen. + +The week before the Christmas of this memorable year, she went out in +the dusk of the early winter evening, wrapped close in shawl and cloak. +She wore her dark shawl under her cloak, putting it over her head in +lieu of a bonnet; for she knew that she might have to wait long in +concealment. Then she tramped over the wet fell-path, shut in by misty +rain for miles and miles, till she came to the place where he was +lodging; a farm-house in Langdale, with a steep, stony lane leading up +to it: this lane was entered by a gate out of the main road, and by the +gate were a few bushes—thorns; but of them the leaves had fallen, and +they offered no concealment: an old wreck of a yew-tree grew among +them, however, and underneath that Susan cowered down, shrouding her +face, of which the colour might betray her, with a corner of her shawl. +Long did she wait; cold and cramped she became, too damp and stiff to +change her posture readily. And after all, he might never come! But, +she would wait till daylight, if need were; and she pulled out a crust, +with which she had providently supplied herself. The rain had ceased,—a +dull, still, brooding weather had succeeded; it was a night to hear +distant sounds. She heard horses’ hoofs striking and splashing in the +stones, and in the pools of the road at her back. Two horses; not +well-ridden, or evenly guided, as she could tell. + +Michael Hurst and a companion drew near: not tipsy, but not sober. They +stopped at the gate to bid each other a maudlin farewell. Michael +stooped forward to catch the latch with the hook of the stick which he +carried; he dropped the stick, and it fell with one end close to +Susan,—indeed, with the slightest change of posture she could have +opened the gate for him. He swore a great oath, and struck his horse +with his closed fist, as if that animal had been to blame; then he +dismounted, opened the gate, and fumbled about for his stick. When he +had found it (Susan had touched the other end) his first use of it was +to flog his horse well, and she had much ado to avoid its kicks and +plunges. Then, still swearing, he staggered up the lane, for it was +evident he was not sober enough to remount. + +By daylight Susan was back and at her daily labours at Yew Nook. When +the spring came, Michael Hurst was married to Eleanor Hebthwaite. +Others, too, were married, and christenings made their firesides merry +and glad; or they travelled, and came back after long years with many +wondrous tales. More rarely, perhaps, a Dalesman changed his dwelling. +But to all households more change came than to Yew Nook. There the +seasons came round with monotonous sameness; or, if they brought +mutation, it was of a slow, and decaying, and depressing kind. Old +Peggy died. Her silent sympathy, concealed under much roughness, was a +loss to Susan Dixon. Susan was not yet thirty when this happened, but +she looked a middle-aged, not to say an elderly woman. People affirmed +that she had never recovered her complexion since that fever, a dozen +years ago, which killed her father, and left Will Dixon an idiot. But +besides her gray sallowness, the lines in her face were strong, and +deep, and hard. The movements of her eyeballs were slow and heavy; the +wrinkles at the corners of her mouth and eyes were planted firm and +sure; not an ounce of unnecessary flesh was there on her bones—every +muscle started strong and ready for use. She needed all this bodily +strength, to a degree that no human creature, now Peggy was dead, knew +of: for Willie had grown up large and strong in body, and, in general, +docile enough in mind; but, every now and then, he became first moody, +and then violent. These paroxysms lasted but a day or two; and it was +Susan’s anxious care to keep their very existence hidden and unknown. +It is true, that occasional passers-by on that lonely road heard sounds +at night of knocking about of furniture, blows, and cries, as of some +tearing demon within the solitary farm-house; but these fits of +violence usually occurred in the night; and whatever had been their +consequence, Susan had tidied and redded up all signs of aught unusual +before the morning. For, above all, she dreaded lest some one might +find out in what danger and peril she occasionally was, and might +assume a right to take away her brother from her care. The one idea of +taking charge of him had deepened and deepened with years. It was +graven into her mind as the object for which she lived. The sacrifice +she had made for this object only made it more precious to her. +Besides, she separated the idea of the docile, affectionate, loutish, +indolent Will, and kept it distinct from the terror which the demon +that occasionally possessed him inspired her with. The one was her +flesh and her blood—the child of her dead mother; the other was some +fiend who came to torture and convulse the creature she so loved. She +believed that she fought her brother’s battle in holding down those +tearing hands, in binding whenever she could those uplifted restless +arms prompt and prone to do mischief. All the time she subdued him with +her cunning or her strength, she spoke to him in pitying murmurs, or +abused the third person, the fiendish enemy, in no unmeasured tones. +Towards morning the paroxysm was exhausted, and he would fall asleep, +perhaps only to waken with evil and renewed vigour. But when he was +laid down, she would sally out to taste the fresh air, and to work off +her wild sorrow in cries and mutterings to herself. The early labourers +saw her gestures at a distance, and thought her as crazed as the +idiot-brother who made the neighbourhood a haunted place. But did any +chance person call at Yew Nook later on in the day, he would find Susan +Dixon cold, calm, collected; her manner curt, her wits keen. + +Once this fit of violence lasted longer than usual. Susan’s strength +both of mind and body was nearly worn out; she wrestled in prayer that +somehow it might end before she, too, was driven mad; or, worse, might +be obliged to give up life’s aim, and consign Willie to a madhouse. +From that moment of prayer (as she afterwards superstitiously thought) +Willie calmed—and then he drooped—and then he sank—and, last of all, he +died in reality from physical exhaustion. + +But he was so gentle and tender as he lay on his dying bed; such +strange, child-like gleams of returning intelligence came over his +face, long after the power to make his dull, inarticulate sounds had +departed, that Susan was attracted to him by a stronger tie than she +had ever felt before. It was something to have even an idiot loving her +with dumb, wistful, animal affection; something to have any creature +looking at her with such beseeching eyes, imploring protection from the +insidious enemy stealing on. And yet she knew that to him death was no +enemy, but a true friend, restoring light and health to his poor +clouded mind. It was to her that death was an enemy; to her, the +survivor, when Willie died; there was no one to love her. + +Worse doom still, there was no one left on earth for her to love. + +You now know why no wandering tourist could persuade her to receive him +as a lodger; why no tired traveller could melt her heart to afford him +rest and refreshment; why long habits of seclusion had given her a +moroseness of manner, and how care for the interests of another had +rendered her keen and miserly. + +But there was a third act in the drama of her life. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + + +In spite of Peggy’s prophecy that Susan’s life should not seem long, it +did seem wearisome and endless, as the years slowly uncoiled their +monotonous circles. To be sure, she might have made change for herself, +but she did not care to do it. It was, indeed, more than “not caring,” +which merely implies a certain degree of _vis inertiæ_ to be subdued +before an object can be attained, and that the object itself does not +seem to be of sufficient importance to call out the requisite energy. +On the contrary, Susan exerted herself to avoid change and variety. She +had a morbid dread of new faces, which originated in her desire to keep +poor dead Willie’s state a profound secret. She had a contempt for new +customs; and, indeed, her old ways prospered so well under her active +hand and vigilant eye, that it was difficult to know how they could be +improved upon. She was regularly present in Coniston market with the +best butter and the earliest chickens of the season. Those were the +common farm produce that every farmer’s wife about had to sell; but +Susan, after she had disposed of the more feminine articles, turned to +on the man’s side. A better judge of a horse or cow there was not in +all the country round. Yorkshire itself might have attempted to jockey +her, and would have failed. Her corn was sound and clean; her potatoes +well preserved to the latest spring. People began to talk of the hoards +of money Susan Dixon must have laid up somewhere; and one young +ne’er-do-weel of a farmer’s son undertook to make love to the woman of +forty, who looked fifty-five, if a day. He made up to her by opening a +gate on the road-path home, as she was riding on a bare-backed horse, +her purchase not an hour ago. She was off before him, refusing his +civility; but the remounting was not so easy, and rather than fail she +did not choose to attempt it. She walked, and he walked alongside, +improving his opportunity, which, as he vainly thought, had been +consciously granted to him. As they drew near Yew Nook, he ventured on +some expression of a wish to keep company with her. His words were +vague and clumsily arranged. Susan turned round and coolly asked him to +explain himself, he took courage, as he thought of her reputed wealth, +and expressed his wishes this second time pretty plainly. To his +surprise, the reply she made was in a series of smart strokes across +his shoulders, administered through the medium of a supple +hazel-switch. + +“Take that!” said she, almost breathless, “to teach thee how thou +darest make a fool of an honest woman old enough to be thy mother. If +thou com’st a step nearer the house, there’s a good horse-pool, and +there’s two stout fellows who’ll like no better fun than ducking thee. +Be off wi’ thee!” + +And she strode into her own premises, never looking round to see +whether he obeyed her injunction or not. + +Sometimes three or four years would pass over without her hearing +Michael Hurst’s name mentioned. She used to wonder at such times +whether he were dead or alive. She would sit for hours by the dying +embers of her fire on a winter’s evening, trying to recall the scenes +of her youth; trying to bring up living pictures of the faces she had +then known—Michael’s most especially. She thought it was possible, so +long had been the lapse of years, that she might now pass by him in the +street unknowing and unknown. His outward form she might not recognize, +but himself she should feel in the thrill of her whole being. He could +not pass her unawares. + +What little she did hear about him, all testified a downward tendency. +He drank—not at stated times when there was no other work to be done, +but continually, whether it was seed-time or harvest. His children were +all ill at the same time; then one died, while the others recovered, +but were poor sickly things. No one dared to give Susan any direct +intelligence of her former lover; many avoided all mention of his name +in her presence; but a few spoke out either in indifference to, or +ignorance of, those bygone days. Susan heard every word, every whisper, +every sound that related to him. But her eye never changed, nor did a +muscle of her face move. + +Late one November night she sat over her fire; not a human being +besides herself in the house; none but she had ever slept there since +Willie’s death. The farm-labourers had foddered the cattle and gone +home hours before. There were crickets chirping all round the warm +hearth-stones; there was the clock ticking with the peculiar beat Susan +had known from her childhood, and which then and ever since she had +oddly associated within the idea of a mother and child talking +together, one loud tick, and quick—a feeble, sharp one following. + +The day had been keen, and piercingly cold. The whole lift of heaven +seemed a dome of iron. Black and frost-bound was the earth under the +cruel east wind. Now the wind had dropped, and as the darkness had +gathered in, the weather-wise old labourers prophesied snow. The sounds +in the air arose again, as Susan sat still and silent. They were of a +different character to what they had been during the prevalence of the +east wind. Then they had been shrill and piping; now they were like low +distant growling; not unmusical, but strangely threatening. Susan went +to the window, and drew aside the little curtain. The whole world was +white—the air was blinded with the swift and heavy fall of snow. At +present it came down straight, but Susan knew those distant sounds in +the hollows and gulleys of the hills portended a driving wind and a +more cruel storm. She thought of her sheep; were they all folded? the +new-born calf, was it bedded well? Before the drifts were formed too +deep for her to pass in and out—and by the morning she judged that they +would be six or seven feet deep—she would go out and see after the +comfort of her beasts. She took a lantern, and tied a shawl over her +head, and went out into the open air. She had tenderly provided for all +her animals, and was returning, when, borne on the blast as if some +spirit-cry—for it seemed to come rather down from the skies than from +any creature standing on earth’s level—she heard a voice of agony; she +could not distinguish words; it seemed rather as if some bird of prey +was being caught in the whirl of the icy wind, and torn and tortured by +its violence. Again up high above! Susan put down her lantern, and +shouted loud in return; it was an instinct, for if the creature were +not human, which she had doubted but a moment before, what good could +her responding cry do? And her cry was seized on by the tyrannous wind, +and borne farther away in the opposite direction to that from which the +call of agony had proceeded. Again she listened; no sound: then again +it rang through space; and this time she was sure it was human. She +turned into the house, and heaped turf and wood on the fire, which, +careless of her own sensations, she had allowed to fade and almost die +out. She put a new candle in her lantern; she changed her shawl for a +maud, and leaving the door on latch, she sallied out. Just at the +moment when her ear first encountered the weird noises of the storm, on +issuing forth into the open air, she thought she heard the words, “O +God! O help!” They were a guide to her, if words they were, for they +came straight from a rock not a quarter of a mile from Yew Nook, but +only to be reached, on account of its precipitous character, by a +round-about path. Thither she steered, defying wind and snow; guided by +here a thorn-tree, there an old, doddered oak, which had not quite lest +their identity under the whelming mask of snow. Now and then she +stopped to listen; but never a word or sound heard she, till right from +where the copse-wood grew thick and tangled at the base of the rock, +round which she was winding, she heard a moan. Into the brake—all snow +in appearance—almost a plain of snow looked on from the little eminence +where she stood—she plunged, breaking down the bush, stumbling, +bruising herself, fighting her way; her lantern held between her teeth, +and she herself using head as well as hands to butt away a passage, at +whatever cost of bodily injury. As she climbed or staggered, owing to +the unevenness of the snow-covered ground, where the briars and weeds +of years were tangled and matted together, her foot felt something +strangely soft and yielding. She lowered her lantern; there lay a man, +prone on his face, nearly covered by the fast-falling flakes; he must +have fallen from the rock above, as, not knowing of the circuitous +path, he had tried to descend its steep, slippery face. Who could tell? +it was no time for thinking. Susan lifted him up with her wiry +strength; he gave no help—no sign of life; but for all that he might be +alive: he was still warm; she tied her maud round him; she fastened the +lantern to her apron-string; she held him tight: half-carrying, +half-dragging—what did a few bruises signify to him, compared to dear +life, to precious life! She got him through the brake, and down the +path. There, for an instant, she stopped to take breath; but, as if +stung by the Furies, she pushed on again with almost superhuman +strength. Clasping him round the waist, and leaning his dead weight +against the lintel of the door, she tried to undo the latch; but now, +just at this moment, a trembling faintness came over her, and a fearful +dread took possession of her—that here, on the very threshold of her +home, she might be found dead, and buried under the snow, when the +farm-servants came in the morning. This terror stirred her up to one +more effort. Then she and her companion were in the warmth of the quiet +haven of that kitchen; she laid him on the settle, and sank on the +floor by his side. How long she remained in this swoon she could not +tell; not very long she judged by the fire, which was still red and +sullenly glowing when she came to herself. She lighted the candle, and +bent over her late burden to ascertain if indeed he were dead. She +stood long gazing. The man lay dead. There could be no doubt about it. +His filmy eyes glared at her, unshut. But Susan was not one to be +affrighted by the stony aspect of death. It was not that; it was the +bitter, woeful recognition of Michael Hurst! + +She was convinced he was dead; but after a while she refused to believe +in her conviction. She stripped off his wet outer-garments with +trembling, hurried hands. She brought a blanket down from her own bed; +she made up the fire. She swathed him in fresh, warm wrappings, and +laid him on the flags before the fire, sitting herself at his head, and +holding it in her lap, while she tenderly wiped his loose, wet hair, +curly still, although its colour had changed from nut-brown to +iron-gray since she had seen it last. From time to time she bent over +the face afresh, sick, and fain to believe that the flicker of the +fire-light was some slight convulsive motion. But the dim, staring eyes +struck chill to her heart. At last she ceased her delicate, busy cares: +but she still held the head softly, as if caressing it. She thought +over all the possibilities and chances in the mingled yarn of their +lives that might, by so slight a turn, have ended far otherwise. If her +mother’s cold had been early tended, so that the responsibility as to +her brother’s weal or woe had not fallen upon her; if the fever had not +taken such rough, cruel hold on Will; nay, if Mrs. Gale, that hard, +worldly sister, had not accompanied him on his last visit to Yew +Nook—his very last before this fatal, stormy might; if she had heard +his cry,—cry uttered by these pale, dead lips with such wild, +despairing agony, not yet three hours ago!—O! if she had but heard it +sooner, he might have been saved before that blind, false step had +precipitated him down the rock! In going over this weary chain of +unrealized possibilities, Susan learnt the force of Peggy’s words. Life +was short, looking back upon it. It seemed but yesterday since all the +love of her being had been poured out, and run to waste. The +intervening years—the long monotonous years that had turned her into an +old woman before her time—were but a dream. + +The labourers coming in the dawn of the winter’s day were surprised to +see the fire-light through the low kitchen-window. They knocked, and +hearing a moaning answer, they entered, fearing that something had +befallen their mistress. For all explanation they got these words + +“It is Michael Hurst. He was belated, and fell down the Raven’s Crag. +Where does Eleanor, his wife, live?” + +How Michael Hurst got to Yew Nook no one but Susan ever knew. They +thought he had dragged himself there, with some sore internal bruise +sapping away his minuted life. They could not have believed the +superhuman exertion which had first sought him out, and then dragged +him hither. Only Susan knew of that. + +She gave him into the charge of her servants, and went out and saddled +her horse. Where the wind had drifted the snow on one side, and the +road was clear and bare, she rode, and rode fast; where the soft, +deceitful heaps were massed up, she dismounted and led her steed, +plunging in deep, with fierce energy, the pain at her heart urging her +onwards with a sharp, digging spur. + +The gray, solemn, winter’s noon was more night-like than the depth of +summer’s night; dim-purple brooded the low skies over the white earth, +as Susan rode up to what had been Michael Hurst’s abode while living. +It was a small farm-house carelessly kept outside, slatternly tended +within. The pretty Nelly Hebthwaite was pretty still; her delicate face +had never suffered from any long-enduring feeling. If anything, its +expression was that of plaintive sorrow; but the soft, light hair had +scarcely a tinge of gray; the wood-rose tint of complexion yet +remained, if not so brilliant as in youth; the straight nose, the small +mouth were untouched by time. Susan felt the contrast even at that +moment. She knew that her own skin was weather-beaten, furrowed, +brown,—that her teeth were gone, and her hair gray and ragged. And yet +she was not two years older than Nelly,—she had not been, in youth, +when she took account of these things. Nelly stood wondering at the +strange-enough horse-woman, who stopped and panted at the door, holding +her horse’s bridle, and refusing to enter. + +“Where is Michael Hurst?” asked Susan, at last. + +“Well, I can’t rightly say. He should have been at home last night, but +he was off, seeing after a public-house to be let at Ulverstone, for +our farm does not answer, and we were thinking—” + +“He did not come home last night?” said Susan, cutting short the story, +and half-affirming, half-questioning, by way of letting in a ray of the +awful light before she let it full in, in its consuming wrath. + +“No! he’ll be stopping somewhere out Ulverstone ways. I’m sure we’ve +need of him at home, for I’ve no one but lile Tommy to help me tend the +beasts. Things have not gone well with us, and we don’t keep a servant +now. But you’re trembling all over, ma’am. You’d better come in, and +take something warm, while your horse rests. That’s the stable-door, to +your left.” + +Susan took her horse there; loosened his girths, and rubbed him down +with a wisp of straw. Then she hooked about her for hay; but the place +was bare of feed, and smelt damp and unused. She went to the house, +thankful for the respite, and got some clap-bread, which she mashed up +in a pailful of lukewarm water. Every moment was a respite, and yet +every moment made her dread the more the task that lay before her. It +would be longer than she thought at first. She took the saddle off, and +hung about her horse, which seemed, somehow, more like a friend than +anything else in the world. She laid her cheek against its neck, and +rested there, before returning to the house for the last time. + +Eleanor had brought down one of her own gowns, which hung on a chair +against the fire, and had made her unknown visitor a cup of hot tea. +Susan could hardly bear all these little attentions: they choked her, +and yet she was so wet, so weak with fatigue and excitement, that she +could neither resist by voice or by action. Two children stood +awkwardly about, puzzled at the scene, and even Eleanor began to wish +for some explanation of who her strange visitor was. + +“You’ve, maybe, heard him speaking of me? I’m called Susan Dixon.” + +Nelly coloured, and avoided meeting Susan’s eye. + +“I’ve heard other folk speak of you. He never named your name.” + +This respect of silence came like balm to Susan: balm not felt or +heeded at the time it was applied, but very grateful in its effects for +all that. + +“He is at my house,” continued Susan, determined not to stop or quaver +in the operation—the pain which must be inflicted. + +“At your house? Yew Nook?” questioned Eleanor, surprised. “How came he +there?”—half jealously. “Did he take shelter from the coming storm? +Tell me,—there is something—tell me, woman!” + +“He took no shelter. Would to God he had!” + +“O! would to God! would to God!” shrieked out Eleanor, learning all +from the woful import of those dreary eyes. Her cries thrilled through +the house; the children’s piping wailings and passionate cries on +“Daddy! Daddy!” pierced into Susan’s very marrow. But she remained as +still and tearless as the great round face upon the clock. + +At last, in a lull of crying, she said,—not exactly questioning, but as +if partly to herself— + +“You loved him, then?” + +“Loved him! he was my husband! He was the father of three bonny bairns +that lie dead in Grasmere churchyard. I wish you’d go, Susan Dixon, and +let me weep without your watching me! I wish you’d never come near the +place.” + +“Alas! alas! it would not have brought him to life. I would have laid +down my own to save his. My life has been so very sad! No one would +have cared if I had died. Alas! alas!” + +The tone in which she said this was so utterly mournful and despairing +that it awed Nelly into quiet for a time. But by-and-by she said, “I +would not turn a dog out to do it harm; but the night is clear, and +Tommy shall guide you to the Red Cow. But, oh, I want to be alone! If +you’ll come back to-morrow, I’ll be better, and I’ll hear all, and +thank you for every kindness you have shown him,—and I do believe +you’ve showed him kindness,—though I don’t know why.” + +Susan moved heavily and strangely. + +She said something—her words came thick and unintelligible. She had had +a paralytic stroke since she had last spoken. She could not go, even if +she would. Nor did Eleanor, when she became aware of the state of the +case, wish her to leave. She had her laid on her own bed, and weeping +silently all the while for her last husband, she nursed Susan like a +sister. She did not know what her guest’s worldly position might be; +and she might never be repaid. But she sold many a little trifle to +purchase such small comforts as Susan needed. Susan, lying still and +motionless, learnt much. It was not a severe stroke; it might be the +forerunner of others yet to come, but at some distance of time. But for +the present she recovered, and regained much of her former health. On +her sick-bed she matured her plans. When she returned to Yew Nook, she +took Michael Hurst’s widow and children with her to live there, and +fill up the haunted hearth with living forms that should banish the +ghosts. + +And so it fell out that the latter days of Susan Dixon’s life were +better than the former. + + + + +When this narrative was finished, Mrs. Dawson called on our two +gentlemen, Signor Sperano and Mr. Preston, and told them that they had +hitherto been amused or interested, but that it was now their turn to +amuse or interest. They looked at each other as if this application of +hers took them by surprise, and seemed altogether as much abashed as +well-grown men can ever be. Signor Sperano was the first to recover +himself: after thinking a little, he said— + +“Your will, dear lady, is law. Next Monday evening, I will bring you an +old, old story, which I found among the papers of the good old priest +who first welcomed me to England. It was but a poor return for his +generous kindness; but I had the opportunity of nursing him through the +cholera, of which he died. He left me all that he had—no money—but his +scanty furniture, his book of prayers, his crucifix and rosary, and his +papers. How some of those papers came into his hands I know not. They +had evidently been written many years before the venerable man was +born; and I doubt whether he had ever examined the bundles, which had +come down to him from some old ancestor, or in some strange bequest. +His life was too busy to leave any time for the gratification of mere +curiosity; I, alas! have only had too much leisure.” + +Next Monday, Signor Sperano read to us the story which I will call + + “THE POOR CLARE.” + + + + + THE POOR CLARE + + + + +CHAPTER I. + + +December 12th, 1747.—My life has been strangely bound up with +extraordinary incidents, some of which occurred before I had any +connection with the principal actors in them, or indeed, before I even +knew of their existence. I suppose, most old men are, like me, more +given to looking back upon their own career with a kind of fond interest +and affectionate remembrance, than to watching the events—though these +may have far more interest for the multitude—immediately passing before +their eyes. If this should be the case with the generality of old +people, how much more so with me! . . . If I am to enter upon that +strange story connected with poor Lucy, I must begin a long way back. I +myself only came to the knowledge of her family history after I knew her; +but, to make the tale clear to any one else, I must arrange events in the +order in which they occurred—not that in which I became acquainted with +them. + +There is a great old hall in the north-east of Lancashire, in a part they +called the Trough of Bolland, adjoining that other district named Craven. +Starkey Manor-house is rather like a number of rooms clustered round a +gray, massive, old keep than a regularly-built hall. Indeed, I suppose +that the house only consisted of a great tower in the centre, in the days +when the Scots made their raids terrible as far south as this; and that +after the Stuarts came in, and there was a little more security of +property in those parts, the Starkeys of that time added the lower +building, which runs, two stories high, all round the base of the keep. +There has been a grand garden laid out in my days, on the southern slope +near the house; but when I first knew the place, the kitchen-garden at +the farm was the only piece of cultivated ground belonging to it. The +deer used to come within sight of the drawing-room windows, and might +have browsed quite close up to the house if they had not been too wild +and shy. Starkey Manor-house itself stood on a projection or peninsula +of high land, jutting out from the abrupt hills that form the sides of +the Trough of Bolland. These hills were rocky and bleak enough towards +their summit; lower down they were clothed with tangled copsewood and +green depths of fern, out of which a gray giant of an ancient forest-tree +would tower here and there, throwing up its ghastly white branches, as if +in imprecation, to the sky. These trees, they told me, were the remnants +of that forest which existed in the days of the Heptarchy, and were even +then noted as landmarks. No wonder that their upper and more exposed +branches were leafless, and that the dead bark had peeled away, from +sapless old age. + +Not far from the house there were a few cottages, apparently, of the same +date as the keep; probably built for some retainers of the family, who +sought shelter—they and their families and their small flocks and +herds—at the hands of their feudal lord. Some of them had pretty much +fallen to decay. They were built in a strange fashion. Strong beams had +been sunk firm in the ground at the requisite distance, and their other +ends had been fastened together, two and two, so as to form the shape of +one of those rounded waggon-headed gipsy-tents, only very much larger. +The spaces between were filled with mud, stones, osiers, rubbish, +mortar—anything to keep out the weather. The fires were made in the +centre of these rude dwellings, a hole in the roof forming the only +chimney. No Highland hut or Irish cabin could be of rougher +construction. + +The owner of this property, at the beginning of the present century, was +a Mr. Patrick Byrne Starkey. His family had kept to the old faith, and +were stanch Roman Catholics, esteeming it even a sin to marry any one of +Protestant descent, however willing he or she might have been to embrace +the Romish religion. Mr. Patrick Starkey’s father had been a follower of +James the Second; and, during the disastrous Irish campaign of that +monarch he had fallen in love with an Irish beauty, a Miss Byrne, as +zealous for her religion and for the Stuarts as himself. He had returned +to Ireland after his escape to France, and married her, bearing her back +to the court at St. Germains. But some licence on the part of the +disorderly gentlemen who surrounded King James in his exile, had insulted +his beautiful wife, and disgusted him; so he removed from St. Germains to +Antwerp, whence, in a few years’ time, he quietly returned to Starkey +Manor-house—some of his Lancashire neighbours having lent their good +offices to reconcile him to the powers that were. He was as firm a +Catholic as ever, and as stanch an advocate for the Stuarts and the +divine rights of kings; but his religion almost amounted to asceticism, +and the conduct of these with whom he had been brought in such close +contact at St. Germains would little bear the inspection of a stern +moralist. So he gave his allegiance where he could not give his esteem, +and learned to respect sincerely the upright and moral character of one +whom he yet regarded as an usurper. King William’s government had little +need to fear such a one. So he returned, as I have said, with a sobered +heart and impoverished fortunes, to his ancestral house, which had fallen +sadly to ruin while the owner had been a courtier, a soldier, and an +exile. The roads into the Trough of Bolland were little more than +cart-ruts; indeed, the way up to the house lay along a ploughed field +before you came to the deer-park. Madam, as the country-folk used to +call Mrs. Starkey, rode on a pillion behind her husband, holding on to +him with a light hand by his leather riding-belt. Little master (he that +was afterwards Squire Patrick Byrne Starkey) was held on to his pony by a +serving-man. A woman past middle age walked, with a firm and strong +step, by the cart that held much of the baggage; and high up on the mails +and boxes, sat a girl of dazzling beauty, perched lightly on the topmost +trunk, and swaying herself fearlessly to and fro, as the cart rocked and +shook in the heavy roads of late autumn. The girl wore the Antwerp +faille, or black Spanish mantle over her head, and altogether her +appearance was such that the old cottager, who described the possession +to me many years after, said that all the country-folk took her for a +foreigner. Some dogs, and the boy who held them in charge, made up the +company. They rode silently along, looking with grave, serious eyes at +the people, who came out of the scattered cottages to bow or curtsy to +the real Squire, “come back at last,” and gazed after the little +procession with gaping wonder, not deadened by the sound of the foreign +language in which the few necessary words that passed among them were +spoken. One lad, called from his staring by the Squire to come and help +about the cart, accompanied them to the Manor-house. He said that when +the lady had descended from her pillion, the middle-aged woman whom I +have described as walking while the others rode, stepped quickly forward, +and taking Madam Starkey (who was of a slight and delicate figure) in her +arms, she lifted her over the threshold, and set her down in her +husband’s house, at the same time uttering a passionate and outlandish +blessing. The Squire stood by, smiling gravely at first; but when the +words of blessing were pronounced, he took off his fine feathered hat, +and bent his head. The girl with the black mantle stepped onward into +the shadow of the dark hall, and kissed the lady’s hand; and that was all +the lad could tell to the group that gathered round him on his return, +eager to hear everything, and to know how much the Squire had given him +for his services. + +From all I could gather, the Manor-house, at the time of the Squire’s +return, was in the most dilapidated state. The stout gray walls remained +firm and entire; but the inner chambers had been used for all kinds of +purposes. The great withdrawing-room had been a barn; the state +tapestry-chamber had held wool, and so on. But, by-and-by, they were +cleared out; and if the Squire had no money to spend on new furniture, he +and his wife had the knack of making the best of the old. He was no +despicable joiner; she had a kind of grace in whatever she did, and +imparted an air of elegant picturesqueness to whatever she touched. +Besides, they had brought many rare things from the Continent; perhaps I +should rather say, things that were rare in that part of +England—carvings, and crosses, and beautiful pictures. And then, again, +wood was plentiful in the Trough of Bolland, and great log-fires danced +and glittered in all the dark, old rooms, and gave a look of home and +comfort to everything. + +Why do I tell you all this? I have little to do with the Squire and +Madame Starkey; and yet I dwell upon them, as if I were unwilling to come +to the real people with whom my life was so strangely mixed up. Madam +had been nursed in Ireland by the very woman who lifted her in her arms, +and welcomed her to her husband’s home in Lancashire. Excepting for the +short period of her own married life, Bridget Fitzgerald had never left +her nursling. Her marriage—to one above her in rank—had been unhappy. +Her husband had died, and left her in even greater poverty than that in +which she was when he had first met with her. She had one child, the +beautiful daughter who came riding on the waggon-load of furniture that +was brought to the Manor-house. Madame Starkey had taken her again into +her service when she became a widow. She and her daughter had followed +“the mistress” in all her fortunes; they had lived at St. Germains and at +Antwerp, and were now come to her home in Lancashire. As soon as Bridget +had arrived there, the Squire gave her a cottage of her own, and took +more pains in furnishing it for her than he did in anything else out of +his own house. It was only nominally her residence. She was constantly +up at the great house; indeed, it was but a short cut across the woods +from her own home to the home of her nursling. Her daughter Mary, in +like manner, moved from one house to the other at her own will. Madam +loved both mother and child dearly. They had great influence over her, +and, through her, over her husband. Whatever Bridget or Mary willed was +sure to come to pass. They were not disliked; for, though wild and +passionate, they were also generous by nature. But the other servants +were afraid of them, as being in secret the ruling spirits of the +household. The Squire had lost his interest in all secular things; Madam +was gentle, affectionate, and yielding. Both husband and wife were +tenderly attached to each other and to their boy; but they grew more and +more to shun the trouble of decision on any point; and hence it was that +Bridget could exert such despotic power. But if everyone else yielded to +her “magic of a superior mind,” her daughter not unfrequently rebelled. +She and her mother were too much alike to agree. There were wild +quarrels between them, and wilder reconciliations. There were times +when, in the heat of passion, they could have stabbed each other. At all +other times they both—Bridget especially—would have willingly laid down +their lives for one another. Bridget’s love for her child lay very +deep—deeper than that daughter ever knew; or I should think she would +never have wearied of home as she did, and prayed her mistress to obtain +for her some situation—as waiting maid—beyond the seas, in that more +cheerful continental life, among the scenes of which so many of her +happiest years had been spent. She thought, as youth thinks, that life +would last for ever, and that two or three years were but a small portion +of it to pass away from her mother, whose only child she was. Bridget +thought differently, but was too proud ever to show what she felt. If +her child wished to leave her, why—she should go. But people said +Bridget became ten years older in the course of two months at this time. +She took it that Mary wanted to leave her. The truth was, that Mary +wanted for a time to leave the place, and to seek some change, and would +thankfully have taken her mother with her. Indeed when Madam Starkey had +gotten her a situation with some grand lady abroad, and the time drew +near for her to go, it was Mary who clung to her mother with passionate +embrace, and, with floods of tears, declared that she would never leave +her; and it was Bridget, who at last loosened her arms, and, grave and +tearless herself, bade her keep her word, and go forth into the wide +world. Sobbing aloud, and looking back continually, Mary went away. +Bridget was still as death, scarcely drawing her breath, or closing her +stony eyes; till at last she turned back into her cottage, and heaved a +ponderous old settle against the door. There she sat, motionless, over +the gray ashes of her extinguished fire, deaf to Madam’s sweet voice, as +she begged leave to enter and comfort her nurse. Deaf, stony, and +motionless, she sat for more than twenty hours; till, for the third time, +Madam came across the snowy path from the great house, carrying with her +a young spaniel, which had been Mary’s pet up at the hall; and which had +not ceased all night long to seek for its absent mistress, and to whine +and moan after her. With tears Madam told this story, through the closed +door—tears excited by the terrible look of anguish, so steady, so +immovable—so the same to-day as it was yesterday—on her nurse’s face. +The little creature in her arms began to utter its piteous cry, as it +shivered with the cold. Bridget stirred; she moved—she listened. Again +that long whine; she thought it was for her daughter; and what she had +denied to her nursling and mistress she granted to the dumb creature that +Mary had cherished. She opened the door, and took the dog from Madam’s +arms. Then Madam came in, and kissed and comforted the old woman, who +took but little notice of her or anything. And sending up Master Patrick +to the hall for fire and food, the sweet young lady never left her nurse +all that night. Next day, the Squire himself came down, carrying a +beautiful foreign picture—Our Lady of the Holy Heart, the Papists call +it. It is a picture of the Virgin, her heart pierced with arrows, each +arrow representing one of her great woes. That picture hung in Bridget’s +cottage when I first saw her; I have that picture now. + +Years went on. Mary was still abroad. Bridget was still and stern, +instead of active and passionate. The little dog, Mignon, was indeed her +darling. I have heard that she talked to it continually; although, to +most people, she was so silent. The Squire and Madam treated her with +the greatest consideration, and well they might; for to them she was as +devoted and faithful as ever. Mary wrote pretty often, and seemed +satisfied with her life. But at length the letters ceased—I hardly know +whether before or after a great and terrible sorrow came upon the house +of the Starkeys. The Squire sickened of a putrid fever; and Madam caught +it in nursing him, and died. You may be sure, Bridget let no other woman +tend her but herself; and in the very arms that had received her at her +birth, that sweet young woman laid her head down, and gave up her breath. +The Squire recovered, in a fashion. He was never strong—he had never the +heart to smile again. He fasted and prayed more than ever; and people +did say that he tried to cut off the entail, and leave all the property +away to found a monastery abroad, of which he prayed that some day little +Squire Patrick might be the reverend father. But he could not do this, +for the strictness of the entail and the laws against the Papists. So he +could only appoint gentlemen of his own faith as guardians to his son, +with many charges about the lad’s soul, and a few about the land, and the +way it was to be held while he was a minor. Of course, Bridget was not +forgotten. He sent for her as he lay on his death-bed, and asked her if +she would rather have a sum down, or have a small annuity settled upon +her. She said at once she would have a sum down; for she thought of her +daughter, and how she could bequeath the money to her, whereas an annuity +would have died with her. So the Squire left her her cottage for life, +and a fair sum of money. And then he died, with as ready and willing a +heart as, I suppose, ever any gentleman took out of this world with him. +The young Squire was carried off by his guardians, and Bridget was left +alone. + +I have said that she had not heard from Mary for some time. In her last +letter, she had told of travelling about with her mistress, who was the +English wife of some great foreign officer, and had spoken of her chances +of making a good marriage, without naming the gentleman’s name, keeping +it rather back as a pleasant surprise to her mother; his station and +fortune being, as I had afterwards reason to know, far superior to +anything she had a right to expect. Then came a long silence; and Madam +was dead, and the Squire was dead; and Bridget’s heart was gnawed by +anxiety, and she knew not whom to ask for news of her child. She could +not write, and the Squire had managed her communication with her +daughter. She walked off to Hurst; and got a good priest there—one whom +she had known at Antwerp—to write for her. But no answer came. It was +like crying into the’ awful stillness of night. + +One day, Bridget was missed by those neighbours who had been accustomed +to mark her goings-out and comings-in. She had never been sociable with +any of them; but the sight of her had become a part of their daily lives, +and slow wonder arose in their minds, as morning after morning came, and +her house-door remained closed, her window dead from any glitter, or +light of fire within. At length, some one tried the door; it was locked. +Two or three laid their heads together, before daring to look in through +the blank unshuttered window. But, at last, they summoned up courage; +and then saw that Bridget’s absence from their little world was not the +result of accident or death, but of premeditation. Such small articles +of furniture as could be secured from the effects of time and damp by +being packed up, were stowed away in boxes. The picture of the Madonna +was taken down, and gone. In a word, Bridget had stolen away from her +home, and left no trace whither she was departed. I knew afterwards, +that she and her little dog had wandered off on the long search for her +lost daughter. She was too illiterate to have faith in letters, even had +she had the means of writing and sending many. But she had faith in her +own strong love, and believed that her passionate instinct would guide +her to her child. Besides, foreign travel was no new thing to her, and +she could speak enough of French to explain the object of her journey, +and had, moreover, the advantage of being, from her faith, a welcome +object of charitable hospitality at many a distant convent. But the +country people round Starkey Manor-house knew nothing of all this. They +wondered what had become of her, in a torpid, lazy fashion, and then left +off thinking of her altogether. Several years passed. Both Manor-house +and cottage were deserted. The young Squire lived far away under the +direction of his guardians. There were inroads of wool and corn into the +sitting-rooms of the Hall; and there was some low talk, from time to +time, among the hinds and country people whether it would not be as well +to break into old Bridget’s cottage, and save such of her goods as were +left from the moth and rust which must be making sad havoc. But this +idea was always quenched by the recollection of her strong character and +passionate anger; and tales of her masterful spirit, and vehement force +of will, were whispered about, till the very thought of offending her, by +touching any article of hers, became invested with a kind of horror: it +was believed that, dead or alive, she would not fail to avenge it. + +Suddenly she came home; with as little noise or note of preparation as +she had departed. One day some one noticed a thin, blue curl of smoke +ascending from her chimney. Her door stood open to the noonday sun; and, +ere many hours had elapsed, some one had seen an old +travel-and-sorrow-stained woman dipping her pitcher in the well; and +said, that the dark, solemn eyes that looked up at him were more like +Bridget Fitzgerald’s than any one else’s in this world; and yet, if it +were she, she looked as if she had been scorched in the flames of hell, +so brown, and scared, and fierce a creature did she seem. By-and-by many +saw her; and those who met her eye once cared not to be caught looking at +her again. She had got into the habit of perpetually talking to herself; +nay, more, answering herself, and varying her tones according to the side +she took at the moment. It was no wonder that those who dared to listen +outside her door at night believed that she held converse with some +spirit; in short, she was unconsciously earning for herself the dreadful +reputation of a witch. + +Her little dog, which had wandered half over the Continent with her, was +her only companion; a dumb remembrancer of happier days. Once he was +ill; and she carried him more than three miles, to ask about his +management from one who had been groom to the last Squire, and had then +been noted for his skill in all diseases of animals. Whatever this man +did, the dog recovered; and they who heard her thanks, intermingled with +blessings (that were rather promises of good fortune than prayers), +looked grave at his good luck when, next year, his ewes twinned, and his +meadow-grass was heavy and thick. + +Now it so happened that, about the year seventeen hundred and eleven, one +of the guardians of the young squire, a certain Sir Philip Tempest, +bethought him of the good shooting there must be on his ward’s property; +and in consequence he brought down four or five gentlemen, of his +friends, to stay for a week or two at the Hall. From all accounts, they +roystered and spent pretty freely. I never heard any of their names but +one, and that was Squire Gisborne’s. He was hardly a middle-aged man +then; he had been much abroad, and there, I believe, he had known Sir +Philip Tempest, and done him some service. He was a daring and dissolute +fellow in those days: careless and fearless, and one who would rather be +in a quarrel than out of it. He had his fits of ill-temper besides, when +he would spare neither man nor beast. Otherwise, those who knew him +well, used to say he had a good heart, when he was neither drunk, nor +angry, nor in any way vexed. He had altered much when I came to know +him. + +One day, the gentlemen had all been out shooting, and with but little +success, I believe; anyhow, Mr. Gisborne had none, and was in a black +humour accordingly. He was coming home, having his gun loaded, +sportsman-like, when little Mignon crossed his path, just as he turned +out of the wood by Bridget’s cottage. Partly for wantonness, partly to +vent his spleen upon some living creature. Mr. Gisborne took his gun, +and fired—he had better have never fired gun again, than aimed that +unlucky shot, he hit Mignon, and at the creature’s sudden cry, Bridget +came out, and saw at a glance what had been done. She took Mignon up in +her arms, and looked hard at the wound; the poor dog looked at her with +his glazing eyes, and tried to wag his tail and lick her hand, all +covered with blood. Mr. Gisborne spoke in a kind of sullen penitence: + +“You should have kept the dog out of my way—a little poaching varmint.” + +At this very moment, Mignon stretched out his legs, and stiffened in her +arms—her lost Mary’s dog, who had wandered and sorrowed with her for +years. She walked right into Mr. Gisborne’s path, and fixed his +unwilling, sullen look, with her dark and terrible eye. + +“Those never throve that did me harm,” said she. “I’m alone in the +world, and helpless; the more do the saints in heaven hear my prayers. +Hear me, ye blessed ones! hear me while I ask for sorrow on this bad, +cruel man. He has killed the only creature that loved me—the dumb beast +that I loved. Bring down heavy sorrow on his head for it, O ye saints! +He thought that I was helpless, because he saw me lonely and poor; but +are not the armies of heaven for the like of me?” + +“Come, come,” said he, half remorseful, but not one whit afraid. “Here’s +a crown to buy thee another dog. Take it, and leave off cursing! I care +none for thy threats.” + +“Don’t you?” said she, coming a step closer, and changing her imprecatory +cry for a whisper which made the gamekeeper’s lad, following Mr. +Gisborne, creep all over. “You shall live to see the creature you love +best, and who alone loves you—ay, a human creature, but as innocent and +fond as my poor, dead darling—you shall see this creature, for whom death +would be too happy, become a terror and a loathing to all, for this +blood’s sake. Hear me, O holy saints, who never fail them that have no +other help!” + +She threw up her right hand, filled with poor Mignon’s life-drops; they +spirted, one or two of them, on his shooting-dress,—an ominous sight to +the follower. But the master only laughed a little, forced, scornful +laugh, and went on to the Hall. Before he got there, however, he took +out a gold piece, and bade the boy carry it to the old woman on his +return to the village. The lad was “afeared,” as he told me in after +years; he came to the cottage, and hovered about, not daring to enter. +He peeped through the window at last; and by the flickering wood-flame, +he saw Bridget kneeling before the picture of Our Lady of the Holy Heart, +with dead Mignon lying between her and the Madonna. She was praying +wildly, as her outstretched arms betokened. The lad shrunk away in +redoubled terror; and contented himself with slipping the gold piece +under the ill-fitting door. The next day it was thrown out upon the +midden; and there it lay, no one daring to touch it. + +Meanwhile Mr. Gisborne, half curious, half uneasy, thought to lessen his +uncomfortable feelings by asking Sir Philip who Bridget was? He could +only describe her—he did not know her name. Sir Philip was equally at a +loss. But an old servant of the Starkeys, who had resumed his livery at +the Hall on this occasion—a scoundrel whom Bridget had saved from +dismissal more than once during her palmy days—said:— + +“It will be the old witch, that his worship means. She needs a ducking, +if ever a woman did, does that Bridget Fitzgerald.” + +“Fitzgerald!” said both the gentlemen at once. But Sir Philip was the +first to continue:— + +“I must have no talk of ducking her, Dickon. Why, she must be the very +woman poor Starkey bade me have a care of; but when I came here last she +was gone, no one knew where. I’ll go and see her to-morrow. But mind +you, sirrah, if any harm comes to her, or any more talk of her being a +witch—I’ve a pack of hounds at home, who can follow the scent of a lying +knave as well as ever they followed a dog-fox; so take care how you talk +about ducking a faithful old servant of your dead master’s.” + +“Had she ever a daughter?” asked Mr. Gisborne, after a while. + +“I don’t know—yes! I’ve a notion she had; a kind of waiting woman to +Madam Starkey.” + +“Please your worship,” said humbled Dickon, “Mistress Bridget had a +daughter—one Mistress Mary—who went abroad, and has never been heard on +since; and folk do say that has crazed her mother.” + +Mr. Gisborne shaded his eyes with his hand. + +“I could wish she had not cursed me,” he muttered. “She may have +power—no one else could.” After a while, he said aloud, no one +understanding rightly what he meant, “Tush! it is impossible!”—and called +for claret; and he and the other gentlemen set-to to a drinking-bout. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + + +I now come to the time in which I myself was mixed up with the people +that I have been writing about. And to make you understand how I became +connected with them, I must give you some little account of myself. My +father was the younger son of a Devonshire gentleman of moderate +property; my eldest uncle succeeded to the estate of his forefathers, my +second became an eminent attorney in London, and my father took orders. +Like most poor clergymen, he had a large family; and I have no doubt was +glad enough when my London uncle, who was a bachelor, offered to take +charge of me, and bring me up to be his successor in business. + +In this way I came to live in London, in my uncle’s house, not far from +Gray’s Inn, and to be treated and esteemed as his son, and to labour with +him in his office. I was very fond of the old gentleman. He was the +confidential agent of many country squires, and had attained to his +present position as much by knowledge of human nature as by knowledge of +law; though he was learned enough in the latter. He used to say his +business was law, his pleasure heraldry. From his intimate acquaintance +with family history, and all the tragic courses of life therein involved, +to hear him talk, at leisure times, about any coat of arms that came +across his path was as good as a play or a romance. Many cases of +disputed property, dependent on a love of genealogy, were brought to him, +as to a great authority on such points. If the lawyer who came to +consult him was young, he would take no fee, only give him a long lecture +on the importance of attending to heraldry; if the lawyer was of mature +age and good standing, he would mulct him pretty well, and abuse him to +me afterwards as negligent of one great branch of the profession. His +house was in a stately new street called Ormond Street, and in it he had +a handsome library; but all the books treated of things that were past; +none of them planned or looked forward into the future. I worked +away—partly for the sake of my family at home, partly because my uncle +had really taught me to enjoy the kind of practice in which he himself +took such delight. I suspect I worked too hard; at any rate, in +seventeen hundred and eighteen I was far from well, and my good uncle was +disturbed by my ill looks. + +One day, he rang the bell twice into the clerk’s room at the dingy office +in Grey’s Inn Lane. It was the summons for me, and I went into his +private room just as a gentleman—whom I knew well enough by sight as an +Irish lawyer of more reputation than he deserved—was leaving. + +My uncle was slowly rubbing his hands together and considering. I was +there two or three minutes before he spoke. Then he told me that I must +pack up my portmanteau that very afternoon, and start that night by +post-horse for West Chester. I should get there, if all went well, at +the end of five days’ time, and must then wait for a packet to cross over +to Dublin; from thence I must proceed to a certain town named Kildoon, +and in that neighbourhood I was to remain, making certain inquiries as to +the existence of any descendants of the younger branch of a family to +whom some valuable estates had descended in the female line. The Irish +lawyer whom I had seen was weary of the case, and would willingly have +given up the property, without further ado, to a man who appeared to +claim them; but on laying his tables and trees before my uncle, the +latter had foreseen so many possible prior claimants, that the lawyer had +begged him to undertake the management of the whole business. In his +youth, my uncle would have liked nothing better than going over to +Ireland himself, and ferreting out every scrap of paper or parchment, and +every word of tradition respecting the family. As it was, old and gouty, +he deputed me. + +Accordingly, I went to Kildoon. I suspect I had something of my uncle’s +delight in following up a genealogical scent, for I very soon found out, +when on the spot, that Mr. Rooney, the Irish lawyer, would have got both +himself and the first claimant into a terrible scrape, if he had +pronounced his opinion that the estates ought to be given up to him. +There were three poor Irish fellows, each nearer of kin to the last +possessor; but, a generation before, there was a still nearer relation, +who had never been accounted for, nor his existence ever discovered by +the lawyers, I venture to think, till I routed him out from the memory of +some of the old dependants of the family. What had become of him? I +travelled backwards and forwards; I crossed over to France, and came back +again with a slight clue, which ended in my discovering that, wild and +dissipated himself, he had left one child, a son, of yet worse character +than his father; that this same Hugh Fitzgerald had married a very +beautiful serving-woman of the Byrnes—a person below him in hereditary +rank, but above him in character; that he had died soon after his +marriage, leaving one child, whether a boy or a girl I could not learn, +and that the mother had returned to live in the family of the Byrnes. +Now, the chief of this latter family was serving in the Duke of Berwick’s +regiment, and it was long before I could hear from him; it was more than +a year before I got a short, haughty letter—I fancy he had a soldier’s +contempt for a civilian, an Irishman’s hatred for an Englishman, an +exiled Jacobite’s jealousy of one who prospered and lived tranquilly +under the government he looked upon as an usurpation. “Bridget +Fitzgerald,” he said, “had been faithful to the fortunes of his +sister—had followed her abroad, and to England when Mrs. Starkey had +thought fit to return. Both his sister and her husband were dead, he +knew nothing of Bridget Fitzgerald at the present time: probably Sir +Philip Tempest, his nephew’s guardian, might be able to give me some +information.” I have not given the little contemptuous terms; the way in +which faithful service was meant to imply more than it said—all that has +nothing to do with my story. Sir Philip, when applied to, told me that +he paid an annuity regularly to an old woman named Fitzgerald, living at +Coldholme (the village near Starkey Manor-house). Whether she had any +descendants he could not say. + +One bleak March evening, I came in sight of the places described at the +beginning of my story. I could hardly understand the rude dialect in +which the direction to old Bridget’s house was given. + +“Yo’ see yon furleets,” all run together, gave me no idea that I was to +guide myself by the distant lights that shone in the windows of the Hall, +occupied for the time by a farmer who held the post of steward, while the +Squire, now four or five and twenty, was making the grand tour. However, +at last, I reached Bridget’s cottage—a low, moss-grown place: the palings +that had once surrounded it were broken and gone; and the underwood of +the forest came up to the walls, and must have darkened the windows. It +was about seven o’clock—not late to my London notions—but, after knocking +for some time at the door and receiving no reply, I was driven to +conjecture that the occupant of the house was gone to bed. So I betook +myself to the nearest church I had seen, three miles back on the road I +had come, sure that close to that I should find an inn of some kind; and +early the next morning I set off back to Coldholme, by a field-path which +my host assured me I should find a shorter cut than the road I had taken +the night before. It was a cold, sharp morning; my feet left prints in +the sprinkling of hoar-frost that covered the ground; nevertheless, I saw +an old woman, whom I instinctively suspected to be the object of my +search, in a sheltered covert on one side of my path. I lingered and +watched her. She must have been considerably above the middle size in +her prime, for when she raised herself from the stooping position in +which I first saw her, there was something fine and commanding in the +erectness of her figure. She drooped again in a minute or two, and +seemed looking for something on the ground, as, with bent head, she +turned off from the spot where I gazed upon her, and was lost to my +sight. I fancy I missed my way, and made a round in spite of the +landlord’s directions; for by the time I had reached Bridget’s cottage +she was there, with no semblance of hurried walk or discomposure of any +kind. The door was slightly ajar. I knocked, and the majestic figure +stood before me, silently awaiting the explanation of my errand. Her +teeth were all gone, so the nose and chin were brought near together; the +gray eyebrows were straight, and almost hung over her deep, cavernous +eyes, and the thick white hair lay in silvery masses over the low, wide, +wrinkled forehead. For a moment, I stood uncertain how to shape my +answer to the solemn questioning of her silence. + +“Your name is Bridget Fitzgerald, I believe?” + +She bowed her head in assent. + +“I have something to say to you. May I come in? I am unwilling to keep +you standing.” + +“You cannot tire me,” she said, and at first she seemed inclined to deny +me the shelter of her roof. But the next moment—she had searched the +very soul in me with her eyes during that instant—she led me in, and +dropped the shadowing hood of her gray, draping cloak, which had +previously hid part of the character of her countenance. The cottage was +rude and bare enough. But before the picture of the Virgin, of which I +have made mention, there stood a little cup filled with fresh primroses. +While she paid her reverence to the Madonna, I understood why she had +been out seeking through the clumps of green in the sheltered copse. +Then she turned round, and bade me be seated. The expression of her +face, which all this time I was studying, was not bad, as the stories of +my last night’s landlord had led me to expect; it was a wild, stern, +fierce, indomitable countenance, seamed and scarred by agonies of +solitary weeping; but it was neither cunning nor malignant. + +“My name is Bridget Fitzgerald,” said she, by way of opening our +conversation. + +“And your husband was Hugh Fitzgerald, of Knock Mahon, near Kildoon, in +Ireland?” + +A faint light came into the dark gloom of her eyes. + +“He was.” + +“May I ask if you had any children by him?” + +The light in her eyes grew quick and red. She tried to speak, I could +see; but something rose in her throat, and choked her, and until she +could speak calmly, she would fain not speak at all before a stranger. +In a minute or so she said—“I had a daughter—one Mary Fitzgerald,”—then +her strong nature mastered her strong will, and she cried out, with a +trembling wailing cry: “Oh, man! what of her?—what of her?” + +She rose from her seat, and came and clutched at my arm, and looked in my +eyes. There she read, as I suppose, my utter ignorance of what had +become of her child; for she went blindly back to her chair, and sat +rocking herself and softly moaning, as if I were not there; I not daring +to speak to the lone and awful woman. After a little pause, she knelt +down before the picture of Our Lady of the Holy Heart, and spoke to her +by all the fanciful and poetic names of the Litany. + +“O Rose of Sharon! O Tower of David! O Star of the Sea! have ye no +comfort for my sore heart? Am I for ever to hope? Grant me at least +despair!”—and so on she went, heedless of my presence. Her prayers grew +wilder and wilder, till they seemed to me to touch on the borders of +madness and blasphemy. Almost involuntarily, I spoke as if to stop her. + +“Have you any reason to think that your daughter is dead?” + +She rose from her knees, and came and stood before me. + +“Mary Fitzgerald is dead,” said she. “I shall never see her again in the +flesh. No tongue ever told me; but I know she is dead. I have yearned +so to see her, and my heart’s will is fearful and strong: it would have +drawn her to me before now, if she had been a wanderer on the other side +of the world. I wonder often it has not drawn her out of the grave to +come and stand before me, and hear me tell her how I loved her. For, +sir, we parted unfriends.” + +I knew nothing but the dry particulars needed for my lawyer’s quest, but +I could not help feeling for the desolate woman; and she must have read +the unusual sympathy with her wistful eyes. + +“Yes, sir, we did. She never knew how I loved her; and we parted +unfriends; and I fear me that I wished her voyage might not turn out +well, only meaning,—O, blessed Virgin! you know I only meant that she +should come home to her mother’s arms as to the happiest place on earth; +but my wishes are terrible—their power goes beyond my thought—and there +is no hope for me, if my words brought Mary harm.” + +“But,” I said, “you do not know that she is dead. Even now, you hoped +she might be alive. Listen to me,” and I told her the tale I have +already told you, giving it all in the driest manner, for I wanted to +recall the clear sense that I felt almost sure she had possessed in her +younger days, and by keeping up her attention to details, restrain the +vague wildness of her grief. + +She listened with deep attention, putting from time to time such +questions as convinced me I had to do with no common intelligence, +however dimmed and shorn by solitude and mysterious sorrow. Then she +took up her tale; and in few brief words, told me of her wanderings +abroad in vain search after her daughter; sometimes in the wake of +armies, sometimes in camp, sometimes in city. The lady, whose +waiting-woman Mary had gone to be, had died soon after the date of her +last letter home; her husband, the foreign officer, had been serving in +Hungary, whither Bridget had followed him, but too late to find him. +Vague rumours reached her that Mary had made a great marriage: and this +sting of doubt was added,—whether the mother might not be close to her +child under her new name, and even hearing of her every day; and yet +never recognizing the lost one under the appellation she then bore. At +length the thought took possession of her, that it was possible that all +this time Mary might be at home at Coldholme, in the Trough of Bolland, +in Lancashire, in England; and home came Bridget, in that vain hope, to +her desolate hearth, and empty cottage. Here she had thought it safest +to remain; if Mary was in life, it was here she would seek for her +mother. + +I noted down one or two particulars out of Bridget’s narrative that I +thought might be of use to me: for I was stimulated to further search in +a strange and extraordinary manner. It seemed as if it were impressed +upon me, that I must take up the quest where Bridget had laid it down; +and this for no reason that had previously influenced me (such as my +uncle’s anxiety on the subject, my own reputation as a lawyer, and so +on), but from some strange power which had taken possession of my will +only that very morning, and which forced it in the direction it chose. + +“I will go,” said I. “I will spare nothing in the search. Trust to me. +I will learn all that can be learnt. You shall know all that money, or +pains, or wit can discover. It is true she may be long dead: but she may +have left a child.” + +“A child!” she cried, as if for the first time this idea had struck her +mind. “Hear him, Blessed Virgin! he says she may have left a child. And +you have never told me, though I have prayed so for a sign, waking or +sleeping!” + +“Nay,” said I, “I know nothing but what you tell me. You say you heard +of her marriage.” + +But she caught nothing of what I said. She was praying to the Virgin in +a kind of ecstasy, which seemed to render her unconscious of my very +presence. + +From Coldholme I went to Sir Philip Tempest’s. The wife of the foreign +officer had been a cousin of his father’s, and from him I thought I might +gain some particulars as to the existence of the Count de la Tour +d’Auvergne, and where I could find him; for I knew questions _de vive +voix_ aid the flagging recollection, and I was determined to lose no +chance for want of trouble. But Sir Philip had gone abroad, and it would +be some time before I could receive an answer. So I followed my uncle’s +advice, to whom I had mentioned how wearied I felt, both in body and +mind, by my will-o’-the-wisp search. He immediately told me to go to +Harrogate, there to await Sir Philip’s reply. I should be near to one of +the places connected with my search, Coldholme; not far from Sir Philip +Tempest, in case he returned, and I wished to ask him any further +questions; and, in conclusion, my uncle bade me try to forget all about +my business for a time. + +This was far easier said than done. I have seen a child on a common +blown along by a high wind, without power of standing still and resisting +the tempestuous force. I was somewhat in the same predicament as +regarded my mental state. Something resistless seemed to urge my +thoughts on, through every possible course by which there was a chance of +attaining to my object. I did not see the sweeping moors when I walked +out: when I held a book in my hand, and read the words, their sense did +not penetrate to my brain. If I slept, I went on with the same ideas, +always flowing in the same direction. This could not last long without +having a bad effect on the body. I had an illness, which, although I was +racked with pain, was a positive relief to me, as it compelled me to live +in the present suffering, and not in the visionary researches I had been +continually making before. My kind uncle came to nurse me; and after the +immediate danger was over, my life seemed to slip away in delicious +languor for two or three months. I did not ask—so much did I dread +falling into the old channel of thought—whether any reply had been +received to my letter to Sir Philip. I turned my whole imagination right +away from all that subject. My uncle remained with me until nigh +midsummer, and then returned to his business in London; leaving me +perfectly well, although not completely strong. I was to follow him in a +fortnight; when, as he said, “we would look over letters, and talk about +several things.” I knew what this little speech alluded to, and shrank +from the train of thought it suggested, which was so intimately connected +with my first feelings of illness. However, I had a fortnight more to +roam on those invigorating Yorkshire moors. + +In those days, there was one large, rambling inn, at Harrogate, close to +the Medicinal Spring; but it was already becoming too small for the +accommodation of the influx of visitors, and many lodged round about, in +the farm-houses of the district. It was so early in the season, that I +had the inn pretty much to myself; and, indeed, felt rather like a +visitor in a private house, so intimate had the landlord and landlady +become with me during my long illness. She would chide me for being out +so late on the moors, or for having been too long without food, quite in +a motherly way; while he consulted me about vintages and wines, and +taught me many a Yorkshire wrinkle about horses. In my walks I met other +strangers from time to time. Even before my uncle had left me, I had +noticed, with half-torpid curiosity, a young lady of very striking +appearance, who went about always accompanied by an elderly +companion,—hardly a gentlewoman, but with something in her look that +prepossessed me in her favour. The younger lady always put her veil down +when any one approached; so it had been only once or twice, when I had +come upon her at a sudden turn in the path, that I had even had a glimpse +at her face. I am not sure if it was beautiful, though in after-life I +grew to think it so. But it was at this time overshadowed by a sadness +that never varied: a pale, quiet, resigned look of intense suffering, +that irresistibly attracted me,—not with love, but with a sense of +infinite compassion for one so young yet so hopelessly unhappy. The +companion wore something of the same look: quiet melancholy, hopeless, +yet resigned. I asked my landlord who they were. He said they were +called Clarke, and wished to be considered as mother and daughter; but +that, for his part, he did not believe that to be their right name, or +that there was any such relationship between them. They had been in the +neighbourhood of Harrogate for some time, lodging in a remote farm-house. +The people there would tell nothing about them; saying that they paid +handsomely, and never did any harm; so why should they be speaking of any +strange things that might happen? That, as the landlord shrewdly +observed, showed there was something out of the common way he had heard +that the elderly woman was a cousin of the farmer’s where they lodged, +and so the regard existing between relations might help to keep them +quiet. + +“What did he think, then, was the reason for their extreme seclusion?” +asked I. + +“Nay, he could not tell,—not he. He had heard that the young lady, for +all as quiet as she seemed, played strange pranks at times.” He shook +his head when I asked him for more particulars, and refused to give them, +which made me doubt if he knew any, for he was in general a talkative and +communicative man. In default of other interests, after my uncle left, I +set myself to watch these two people. I hovered about their walks drawn +towards them with a strange fascination, which was not diminished by +their evident annoyance at so frequently meeting me. One day, I had the +sudden good fortune to be at hand when they were alarmed by the attack of +a bull, which, in those unenclosed grazing districts, was a particularly +dangerous occurrence. I have other and more important things to relate, +than to tell of the accident which gave me an opportunity of rescuing +them, it is enough to say, that this event was the beginning of an +acquaintance, reluctantly acquiesced in by them, but eagerly prosecuted +by me. I can hardly tell when intense curiosity became merged in love, +but in less than ten days after my uncle’s departure I was passionately +enamoured of Mistress Lucy, as her attendant called her; carefully—for +this I noted well—avoiding any address which appeared as if there was an +equality of station between them. I noticed also that Mrs. Clarke, the +elderly woman, after her first reluctance to allow me to pay them any +attentions had been overcome, was cheered by my evident attachment to the +young girl; it seemed to lighten her heavy burden of care, and she +evidently favoured my visits to the farmhouse where they lodged. It was +not so with Lucy. A more attractive person I never saw, in spite of her +depression of manner, and shrinking avoidance of me. I felt sure at +once, that whatever was the source of her grief, it rose from no fault of +her own. It was difficult to draw her into conversation; but when at +times, for a moment or two, I beguiled her into talk, I could see a rare +intelligence in her face, and a grave, trusting look in the soft, gray +eyes that were raised for a minute to mine. I made every excuse I +possibly could for going there. I sought wild flowers for Lucy’s sake; I +planned walks for Lucy’s sake; I watched the heavens by night, in hopes +that some unusual beauty of sky would justify me in tempting Mrs. Clarke +and Lucy forth upon the moors, to gaze at the great purple dome above. + +It seemed to me that Lucy was aware of my love; but that, for some motive +which I could not guess, she would fain have repelled me; but then again +I saw, or fancied I saw, that her heart spoke in my favour, and that +there was a struggle going on in her mind, which at times (I loved so +dearly) I could have begged her to spare herself, even though the +happiness of my whole life should have been the sacrifice; for her +complexion grew paler, her aspect of sorrow more hopeless, her delicate +frame yet slighter. During this period I had written, I should say, to +my uncle, to beg to be allowed to prolong my stay at Harrogate, not +giving any reason; but such was his tenderness towards me, that in a few +days I heard from him, giving me a willing permission, and only charging +me to take care of myself, and not use too much exertion during the hot +weather. + +One sultry evening I drew near the farm. The windows of their parlour +were open, and I heard voices when I turned the corner of the house, as I +passed the first window (there were two windows in their little +ground-floor room). I saw Lucy distinctly; but when I had knocked at +their door—the house-door stood always ajar—she was gone, and I saw only +Mrs. Clarke, turning over the work-things lying on the table, in a +nervous and purposeless manner. I felt by instinct that a conversation +of some importance was coming on, in which I should be expected to say +what was my object in paying these frequent visits. I was glad of the +opportunity. My uncle had several times alluded to the pleasant +possibility of my bringing home a young wife, to cheer and adorn the old +house in Ormond Street. He was rich, and I was to succeed him, and had, +as I knew, a fair reputation for so young a lawyer. So on my side I saw +no obstacle. It was true that Lucy was shrouded in mystery; her name (I +was convinced it was not Clarke), birth, parentage, and previous life +were unknown to me. But I was sure of her goodness and sweet innocence, +and although I knew that there must be something painful to be told, to +account for her mournful sadness, yet I was willing to bear my share in +her grief, whatever it might be. + +Mrs. Clarke began, as if it was a relief to her to plunge into the +subject. + +“We have thought, sir—at least I have thought—that you knew very little +of us, nor we of you, indeed; not enough to warrant the intimate +acquaintance we have fallen into. I beg your pardon, sir,” she went on, +nervously; “I am but a plain kind of woman, and I mean to use no +rudeness; but I must say straight out that I—we—think it would be better +for you not to come so often to see us. She is very unprotected, and—” + +“Why should I not come to see you, dear madam?” asked I, eagerly, glad of +the opportunity of explaining myself. “I come, I own, because I have +learnt to love Mistress Lucy, and wish to teach her to love me.” + +Mistress Clarke shook her head, and sighed. + +“Don’t, sir—neither love her, nor, for the sake of all you hold sacred, +teach her to love you! If I am too late, and you love her already, +forget her,—forget these last few weeks. O! I should never have allowed +you to come!” she went on passionately; “but what am I to do? We are +forsaken by all, except the great God, and even He permits a strange and +evil power to afflict us—what am I to do! Where is it to end?” She wrung +her hands in her distress; then she turned to me: “Go away, sir! go away, +before you learn to care any more for her. I ask it for your own sake—I +implore! You have been good and kind to us, and we shall always +recollect you with gratitude; but go away now, and never come back to +cross our fatal path!” + +“Indeed, madam,” said I, “I shall do no such thing. You urge it for my +own sake. I have no fear, so urged—nor wish, except to hear more—all. I +cannot have seen Mistress Lucy in all the intimacy of this last +fortnight, without acknowledging her goodness and innocence; and without +seeing—pardon me, madam—that for some reason you are two very lonely +women, in some mysterious sorrow and distress. Now, though I am not +powerful myself, yet I have friends who are so wise and kind that they +may be said to possess power. Tell me some particulars. Why are you in +grief—what is your secret—why are you here? I declare solemnly that +nothing you have said has daunted me in my wish to become Lucy’s husband; +nor will I shrink from any difficulty that, as such an aspirant, I may +have to encounter. You say you are friendless—why cast away an honest +friend? I will tell you of people to whom you may write, and who will +answer any questions as to my character and prospects. I do not shun +inquiry.” + +She shook her head again. “You had better go away, sir. You know +nothing about us.” + +“I know your names,” said I, “and I have heard you allude to the part of +the country from which you came, which I happen to know as a wild and +lonely place. There are so few people living in it that, if I chose to +go there, I could easily ascertain all about you; but I would rather hear +it from yourself.” You see I wanted to pique her into telling me +something definite. + +“You do not know our true names, sir,” said she, hastily. + +“Well, I may have conjectured as much. But tell me, then, I conjure you. +Give me your reasons for distrusting my willingness to stand by what I +have said with regard to Mistress Lucy.” + +“Oh, what can I do?” exclaimed she. “If I am turning away a true friend, +as he says?—Stay!” coming to a sudden decision—“I will tell you +something—I cannot tell you all—you would not believe it. But, perhaps, +I can tell you enough to prevent your going on in your hopeless +attachment. I am not Lucy’s mother.” + +“So I conjectured,” I said. “Go on.” + +“I do not even know whether she is the legitimate or illegitimate child +of her father. But he is cruelly turned against her; and her mother is +long dead; and for a terrible reason, she has no other creature to keep +constant to her but me. She—only two years ago—such a darling and such a +pride in her father’s house! Why, sir, there is a mystery that might +happen in connection with her any moment; and then you would go away like +all the rest; and, when you next heard her name, you would loathe her. +Others, who have loved her longer, have done so before now. My poor +child! whom neither God nor man has mercy upon—or, surely, she would +die!” + +The good woman was stopped by her crying. I confess, I was a little +stunned by her last words; but only for a moment. At any rate, till I +knew definitely what was this mysterious stain upon one so simple and +pure, as Lucy seemed, I would not desert her, and so I said; and she made +me answer:— + +“If you are daring in your heart to think harm of my child, sir, after +knowing her as you have done, you are no good man yourself; but I am so +foolish and helpless in my great sorrow, that I would fain hope to find a +friend in you. I cannot help trusting that, although you may no longer +feel toward her as a lover, you will have pity upon us; and perhaps, by +your learning you can tell us where to go for aid.” + +“I implore you to tell me what this mystery is,” I cried, almost maddened +by this suspense. + +“I cannot,” said she, solemnly. “I am under a deep vow of secrecy. If +you are to be told, it must be by her.” She left the room, and I +remained to ponder over this strange interview. I mechanically turned +over the few books, and with eyes that saw nothing at the time, examined +the tokens of Lucy’s frequent presence in that room. + +When I got home at night, I remembered how all these trifles spoke of a +pure and tender heart and innocent life. Mistress Clarke returned; she +had been crying sadly. + +“Yes,” said she, “it is as I feared: she loves you so much that she is +willing to run the fearful risk of telling you all herself—she +acknowledges it is but a poor chance; but your sympathy will be a balm, +if you give it. To-morrow, come here at ten in the morning; and, as you +hope for pity in your hour of agony, repress all show of fear or +repugnance you may feel towards one so grievously afflicted.” + +I half smiled. “Have no fear,” I said. It seemed too absurd to imagine +my feeling dislike to Lucy. + +“Her father loved her well,” said she, gravely, “yet he drove her out +like some monstrous thing.” + +Just at this moment came a peal of ringing laughter from the garden. It +was Lucy’s voice; it sounded as if she were standing just on one side of +the open casement—and as though she were suddenly stirred to +merriment—merriment verging on boisterousness, by the doings or sayings +of some other person. I can scarcely say why, but the sound jarred on me +inexpressibly. She knew the subject of our conversation, and must have +been at least aware of the state of agitation her friend was in; she +herself usually so gentle and quiet. I half rose to go to the window, +and satisfy my instinctive curiosity as to what had provoked this burst +of, ill-timed laughter; but Mrs. Clarke threw her whole weight and power +upon the hand with which she pressed and kept me down. + +“For God’s sake!” she said, white and trembling all over, “sit still; be +quiet. Oh! be patient. To-morrow you will know all. Leave us, for we +are all sorely afflicted. Do not seek to know more about us.” + +Again that laugh—so musical in sound, yet so discordant to my heart. She +held me tight—tighter; without positive violence I could not have risen. +I was sitting with my back to the window, but I felt a shadow pass +between the sun’s warmth and me, and a strange shudder ran through my +frame. In a minute or two she released me. + +“Go,” repeated she. “Be warned, I ask you once more. I do not think you +can stand this knowledge that you seek. If I had had my own way, Lucy +should never have yielded, and promised to tell you all. Who knows what +may come of it?” + +“I am firm in my wish to know all. I return at ten to-morrow morning, +and then expect to see Mistress Lucy herself.” + +I turned away; having my own suspicions, I confess, as to Mistress +Clarke’s sanity. + +Conjectures as to the meaning of her hints, and uncomfortable thoughts +connected with that strange laughter, filled my mind. I could hardly +sleep. I rose early; and long before the hour I had appointed, I was on +the path over the common that led to the old farm-house where they +lodged. I suppose that Lucy had passed no better a night than I; for +there she was also, slowly pacing with her even step, her eyes bent down, +her whole look most saintly and pure. She started when I came close to +her, and grew paler as I reminded her of my appointment, and spoke with +something of the impatience of obstacles that, seeing her once more, had +called up afresh in my mind. All strange and terrible hints, and giddy +merriment were forgotten. My heart gave forth words of fire, and my +tongue uttered them. Her colour went and came, as she listened; but, +when I had ended my passionate speeches, she lifted her soft eyes to me, +and said— + +“But you know that you have something to learn about me yet. I only want +to say this: I shall not think less of you—less well of you, I mean—if +you, too, fall away from me when you know all. Stop!” said she, as if +fearing another burst of mad words. “Listen to me. My father is a man +of great wealth. I never knew my mother; she must have died when I was +very young. When first I remember anything, I was living in a great, +lonely house, with my dear and faithful Mistress Clarke. My father, +even, was not there; he was—he is—a soldier, and his duties lie aboard. +But he came from time to time, and every time I think he loved me more +and more. He brought me rarities from foreign lands, which prove to me +now how much he must have thought of me during his absences. I can sit +down and measure the depth of his lost love now, by such standards as +these. I never thought whether he loved me or not, then; it was so +natural, that it was like the air I breathed. Yet he was an angry man at +times, even then; but never with me. He was very reckless, too; and, +once or twice, I heard a whisper among the servants that a doom was over +him, and that he knew it, and tried to drown his knowledge in wild +activity, and even sometimes, sir, in wine. So I grew up in this grand +mansion, in that lonely place. Everything around me seemed at my +disposal, and I think every one loved me; I am sure I loved them. Till +about two years ago—I remember it well—my father had come to England, to +us; and he seemed so proud and so pleased with me and all I had done. +And one day his tongue seemed loosened with wine, and he told me much +that I had not known till then,—how dearly he had loved my mother, yet +how his wilful usage had caused her death; and then he went on to say how +he loved me better than any creature on earth, and how, some day, he +hoped to take me to foreign places, for that he could hardly bear these +long absences from his only child. Then he seemed to change suddenly, +and said, in a strange, wild way, that I was not to believe what he said; +that there was many a thing he loved better—his horse—his dog—I know not +what. + +“And ’twas only the next morning that, when I came into his room to ask +his blessing as was my wont, he received me with fierce and angry words. +‘Why had I,’ so he asked, ‘been delighting myself in such wanton +mischief—dancing over the tender plants in the flower-beds, all set with +the famous Dutch bulbs he had brought from Holland?’ I had never been out +of doors that morning, sir, and I could not conceive what he meant, and +so I said; and then he swore at me for a liar, and said I was of no true +blood, for he had seen me doing all that mischief himself—with his own +eyes. What could I say? He would not listen to me, and even my tears +seemed only to irritate him. That day was the beginning of my great +sorrows. Not long after, he reproached me for my undue familiarity—all +unbecoming a gentlewoman—with his grooms. I had been in the stable-yard, +laughing and talking, he said. Now, sir, I am something of a coward by +nature, and I had always dreaded horses; be-sides that, my father’s +servants—those whom he brought with him from foreign parts—were wild +fellows, whom I had always avoided, and to whom I had never spoken, +except as a lady must needs from time to time speak to her father’s +people. Yet my father called me by names of which I hardly know the +meaning, but my heart told me they were such as shame any modest woman; +and from that day he turned quite against me;—nay, sir, not many weeks +after that, he came in with a riding-whip in his hand; and, accusing me +harshly of evil doings, of which I knew no more than you, sir, he was +about to strike me, and I, all in bewildering tears, was ready to take +his stripes as great kindness compared to his harder words, when suddenly +he stopped his arm mid-way, gasped and staggered, crying out, ‘The +curse—the curse!’ I looked up in terror. In the great mirror opposite I +saw myself, and right behind, another wicked, fearful self, so like me +that my soul seemed to quiver within me, as though not knowing to which +similitude of body it belonged. My father saw my double at the same +moment, either in its dreadful reality, whatever that might be, or in the +scarcely less terrible reflection in the mirror; but what came of it at +that moment I cannot say, for I suddenly swooned away; and when I came to +myself I was lying in my bed, and my faithful Clarke sitting by me. I +was in my bed for days; and even while I lay there my double was seen by +all, flitting about the house and gardens, always about some mischievous +or detestable work. What wonder that every one shrank from me in +dread—that my father drove me forth at length, when the disgrace of which +I was the cause was past his patience to bear. Mistress Clarke came with +me; and here we try to live such a life of piety and prayer as may in +time set me free from the curse.” + +All the time she had been speaking, I had been weighing her story in my +mind. I had hitherto put cases of witchcraft on one side, as mere +superstitions; and my uncle and I had had many an argument, he supporting +himself by the opinion of his good friend Sir Matthew Hale. Yet this +sounded like the tale of one bewitched; or was it merely the effect of a +life of extreme seclusion telling on the nerves of a sensitive girl? My +scepticism inclined me to the latter belief, and when she paused I said: + +“I fancy that some physician could have disabused your father of his +belief in visions—” + +Just at that instant, standing as I was opposite to her in the full and +perfect morning light, I saw behind her another figure—a ghastly +resemblance, complete in likeness, so far as form and feature and +minutest touch of dress could go, but with a loathsome demon soul looking +out of the gray eyes, that were in turns mocking and voluptuous. My +heart stood still within me; every hair rose up erect; my flesh crept +with horror. I could not see the grave and tender Lucy—my eyes were +fascinated by the creature beyond. I know not why, but I put out my hand +to clutch it; I grasped nothing but empty air, and my whole blood curdled +to ice. For a moment I could not see; then my sight came back, and I saw +Lucy standing before me, alone, deathly pale, and, I could have fancied, +almost, shrunk in size. + +“IT has been near me?” she said, as if asking a question. + +The sound seemed taken out of her voice; it was husky as the notes on an +old harpsichord when the strings have ceased to vibrate. She read her +answer in my face, I suppose, for I could not speak. Her look was one of +intense fear, but that died away into an aspect of most humble patience. +At length she seemed to force herself to face behind and around her: she +saw the purple moors, the blue distant hills, quivering in the sunlight, +but nothing else. + +“Will you take me home?” she said, meekly. + +I took her by the hand, and led her silently through the budding +heather—we dared not speak; for we could not tell but that the dread +creature was listening, although unseen,—but that IT might appear and +push us asunder. I never loved her more fondly than now when—and that +was the unspeakable misery—the idea of her was becoming so inextricably +blended with the shuddering thought of IT. She seemed to understand what +I must be feeling. She let go my hand, which she had kept clasped until +then, when we reached the garden gate, and went forwards to meet her +anxious friend, who was standing by the window looking for her. I could +not enter the house: I needed silence, society, leisure, change—I knew +not what—to shake off the sensation of that creature’s presence. Yet I +lingered about the garden—I hardly know why; I partly suppose, because I +feared to encounter the resemblance again on the solitary common, where +it had vanished, and partly from a feeling of inexpressible compassion +for Lucy. In a few minutes Mistress Clarke came forth and joined me. We +walked some paces in silence. + +“You know all now,” said she, solemnly. + +“I saw IT,” said I, below my breath. + +“And you shrink from us, now,” she said, with a hopelessness which +stirred up all that was brave or good in me. + +“Not a whit,” said I. “Human flesh shrinks from encounter with the +powers of darkness: and, for some reason unknown to me, the pure and holy +Lucy is their victim.” + +“The sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the children,” she said. + +“Who is her father?” asked I. “Knowing as much as I do, I may surely +know more—know all. Tell me, I entreat you, madam, all that you can +conjecture respecting this demoniac persecution of one so good.” + +“I will; but not now. I must go to Lucy now. Come this afternoon, I +will see you alone; and oh, sir! I will trust that you may yet find some +way to help us in our sore trouble!” + +I was miserably exhausted by the swooning affright which had taken +possession of me. When I reached the inn, I staggered in like one +overcome by wine. I went to my own private room. It was some time +before I saw that the weekly post had come in, and brought me my letters. +There was one from my uncle, one from my home in Devonshire, and one, +re-directed over the first address, sealed with a great coat of arms, It +was from Sir Philip Tempest: my letter of inquiry respecting Mary +Fitzgerald had reached him at Liége, where it so happened that the Count +de la Tour d’Auvergne was quartered at the very time. He remembered his +wife’s beautiful attendant; she had had high words with the deceased +countess, respecting her intercourse with an English gentleman of good +standing, who was also in the foreign service. The countess augured evil +of his intentions; while Mary, proud and vehement, asserted that he would +soon marry her, and resented her mistress’s warnings as an insult. The +consequence was, that she had left Madame de la Tour d’Auvergne’s +service, and, as the Count believed, had gone to live with the +Englishman; whether he had married her, or not, he could not say. “But,” +added Sir Philip Tempest, “you may easily hear what particulars you wish +to know respecting Mary Fitzgerald from the Englishman himself, if, as I +suspect, he is no other than my neighbour and former acquaintance, Mr. +Gisborne, of Skipford Hall, in the West Riding. I am led to the belief +that he is no other, by several small particulars, none of which are in +themselves conclusive, but which, taken together, furnish a mass of +presumptive evidence. As far as I could make out from the Count’s +foreign pronunciation, Gisborne was the name of the Englishman: I know +that Gisborne of Skipford was abroad and in the foreign service at that +time—he was a likely fellow enough for such an exploit, and, above all, +certain expressions recur to my mind which he used in reference to old +Bridget Fitzgerald, of Coldholme, whom he once encountered while staying +with me at Starkey Manor-house. I remember that the meeting seemed to +have produced some extraordinary effect upon his mind, as though he had +suddenly discovered some connection which she might have had with his +previous life. I beg you to let me know if I can be of any further +service to you. Your uncle once rendered me a good turn, and I will +gladly repay it, so far as in me lies, to his nephew.” + +I was now apparently close on the discovery which I had striven so many +months to attain. But success had lost its zest. I put my letters down, +and seemed to forget them all in thinking of the morning I had passed +that very day. Nothing was real but the unreal presence, which had come +like an evil blast across my bodily eyes, and burnt itself down upon my +brain. Dinner came, and went away untouched. Early in the afternoon I +walked to the farm-house. I found Mistress Clarke alone, and I was glad +and relieved. She was evidently prepared to tell me all I might wish to +hear. + +“You asked me for Mistress Lucy’s true name; it is Gisborne,” she began. + +“Not Gisborne of Skipford?” I exclaimed, breathless with anticipation. + +“The same,” said she, quietly, not regarding my manner. “Her father is a +man of note; although, being a Roman Catholic, he cannot take that rank +in this country to which his station entitles him. The consequence is +that he lives much abroad—has been a soldier, I am told.” + +“And Lucy’s mother?” I asked. + +She shook her head. “I never knew her,” said she. “Lucy was about three +years old when I was engaged to take charge of her. Her mother was +dead.” + +“But you know her name?—you can tell if it was Mary Fitzgerald?” + +She looked astonished. “That was her name. But, sir, how came you to be +so well acquainted with it? It was a mystery to the whole household at +Skipford Court. She was some beautiful young woman whom he lured away +from her protectors while he was abroad. I have heard said he practised +some terrible deceit upon her, and when she came to know it, she was +neither to have nor to hold, but rushed off from his very arms, and threw +herself into a rapid stream and was drowned. It stung him deep with +remorse, but I used to think the remembrance of the mother’s cruel death +made him love the child yet dearer.” + +I told her, as briefly as might be, of my researches after the descendant +and heir of the Fitzgeralds of Kildoon, and added—something of my old +lawyer spirit returning into me for the moment—that I had no doubt but +that we should prove Lucy to be by right possessed of large estates in +Ireland. + +No flush came over her gray face; no light into her eyes. “And what is +all the wealth in the whole world to that poor girl?” she said. “It will +not free her from the ghastly bewitchment which persecutes her. As for +money, what a pitiful thing it is! it cannot touch her.” + +“No more can the Evil Creature harm her,” I said. “Her holy nature +dwells apart, and cannot be defiled or stained by all the devilish arts +in the whole world.” + +“True! but it is a cruel fate to know that all shrink from her, sooner or +later, as from one possessed—accursed.” + +“How came it to pass?” I asked. + +“Nay, I know not. Old rumours there are, that were bruited through the +household at Skipford.” + +“Tell me,” I demanded. + +“They came from servants, who would fain account for every thing. They +say that, many years ago, Mr. Gisborne killed a dog belonging to an old +witch at Coldholme; that she cursed, with a dreadful and mysterious +curse, the creature, whatever it might be, that he should love best; and +that it struck so deeply into his heart that for years he kept himself +aloof from any temptation to love aught. But who could help loving +Lucy?” + +“You never heard the witch’s name?” I gasped. + +“Yes—they called her Bridget: they said he would never go near the spot +again for terror of her. Yet he was a brave man!” + +“Listen,” said I, taking hold of her arm, the better to arrest her full +attention: “if what I suspect holds true, that man stole Bridget’s only +child—the very Mary Fitzgerald who was Lucy’s mother; if so, Bridget +cursed him in ignorance of the deeper wrong he had done her. To this +hour she yearns after her lost child, and questions the saints whether +she be living or not. The roots of that curse lie deeper than she knows: +she unwittingly banned him for a deeper guilt than that of killing a dumb +beast. The sins of the fathers are indeed visited upon the children.” + +“But,” said Mistress Clarke, eagerly, “she would never let evil rest on +her own grandchild? Surely, sir, if what you say be true, there are +hopes for Lucy. Let us go—go at once, and tell this fearful woman all +that you suspect, and beseech her to take off the spell she has put upon +her innocent grandchild.” + +It seemed to me, indeed, that something like this was the best course we +could pursue. But first it was necessary to ascertain more than what +mere rumour or careless hearsay could tell. My thoughts turned to my +uncle—he could advise me wisely—he ought to know all. I resolved to go +to him without delay; but I did not choose to tell Mistress Clarke of all +the visionary plans that flitted through my mind. I simply declared my +intention of proceeding straight to London on Lucy’s affairs. I bade her +believe that my interest on the young lady’s behalf was greater than +ever, and that my whole time should be given up to her cause. I saw that +Mistress Clarke distrusted me, because my mind was too full of thoughts +for my words to flow freely. She sighed and shook her head, and said, +“Well, it is all right!” in such a tone that it was an implied reproach. +But I was firm and constant in my heart, and I took confidence from that. + +I rode to London. I rode long days drawn out into the lovely summer +nights: I could not rest. I reached London. I told my uncle all, though +in the stir of the great city the horror had faded away, and I could +hardly imagine that he would believe the account I gave him of the +fearful double of Lucy which I had seen on the lonely moor-side. But my +uncle had lived many years, and learnt many things; and, in the deep +secrets of family history that had been confided to him, he had heard of +cases of innocent people bewitched and taken possession of by evil +spirits yet more fearful than Lucy’s. For, as he said, to judge from all +I told him, that resemblance had no power over her—she was too pure and +good to be tainted by its evil, haunting presence. It had, in all +probability, so my uncle conceived, tried to suggest wicked thoughts and +to tempt to wicked actions but she, in her saintly maidenhood, had passed +on undefiled by evil thought or deed. It could not touch her soul: but +true, it set her apart from all sweet love or common human intercourse. +My uncle threw himself with an energy more like six-and-twenty than sixty +into the consideration of the whole case. He undertook the proving +Lucy’s descent, and volunteered to go and find out Mr. Gisborne, and +obtain, firstly, the legal proofs of her descent from the Fitzgeralds of +Kildoon, and, secondly, to try and hear all that he could respecting the +working of the curse, and whether any and what means had been taken to +exorcise that terrible appearance. For he told me of instances where, by +prayers and long fasting, the evil possessor had been driven forth with +howling and many cries from the body which it had come to inhabit; he +spoke of those strange New England cases which had happened not so long +before; of Mr. Defoe, who had written a book, wherein he had named many +modes of subduing apparitions, and sending them back whence they came; +and, lastly, he spoke low of dreadful ways of compelling witches to undo +their witchcraft. But I could not endure to hear of those tortures and +burnings. I said that Bridget was rather a wild and savage woman than a +malignant witch; and, above all, that Lucy was of her kith and kin; and +that, in putting her to the trial, by water or by fire, we should be +torturing—it might be to the death—the ancestress of her we sought to +redeem. + +My uncle thought awhile, and then said, that in this last matter I was +right—at any rate, it should not be tried, with his consent, till all +other modes of remedy had failed; and he assented to my proposal that I +should go myself and see Bridget, and tell her all. + +In accordance with this, I went down once more to the wayside inn near +Coldholme. It was late at night when I arrived there; and, while I +supped, I inquired of the landlord more particulars as to Bridget’s ways. +Solitary and savage had been her life for many years. Wild and despotic +were her words and manner to those few people who came across her path. +The country-folk did her imperious bidding, because they feared to +disobey. If they pleased her, they prospered; if, on the contrary, they +neglected or traversed her behests, misfortune, small or great, fell on +them and theirs. It was not detestation so much as an indefinable terror +that she excited. + +In the morning I went to see her. She was standing on the green outside +her cottage, and received me with the sullen grandeur of a throneless +queen. I read in her face that she recognized me, and that I was not +unwelcome; but she stood silent till I had opened my errand. + +“I have news of your daughter,” said I, resolved to speak straight to all +that I knew she felt of love, and not to spare her. “She is dead!” + +The stern figure scarcely trembled, but her hand sought the support of +the door-post. + +“I knew that she was dead,” said she, deep and low, and then was silent +for an instant. “My tears that should have flowed for her were burnt up +long years ago. Young man, tell me about her.” + +“Not yet,” said I, having a strange power given me of confronting one, +whom, nevertheless, in my secret soul I dreaded. + +“You had once a little dog,” I continued. The words called out in her +more show of emotion than the intelligence of her daughter’s death. She +broke in upon my speech:— + +“I had! It was hers—the last thing I had of hers—and it was shot for +wantonness! It died in my arms. The man who killed that dog rues it to +this day. For that dumb beast’s blood, his best-beloved stands +accursed.” + +Her eyes distended, as if she were in a trance and saw the working of her +curse. Again I spoke:— + +“O, woman!” I said, “that best-beloved, standing accursed before men, is +your dead daughter’s child.” + +The life, the energy, the passion, came back to the eyes with which she +pierced through me, to see if I spoke truth; then, without another +question or word, she threw herself on the ground with fearful vehemence, +and clutched at the innocent daisies with convulsed hands. + +“Bone of my bone! flesh of my flesh! have I cursed thee—and art thou +accursed?” + +So she moaned, as she lay prostrate in her great agony. I stood aghast +at my own work. She did not hear my broken sentences; she asked no more, +but the dumb confirmation which my sad looks had given that one fact, +that her curse rested on her own daughter’s child. The fear grew on me +lest she should die in her strife of body and soul; and then might not +Lucy remain under the spell as long as she lived? + +Even at this moment, I saw Lucy coming through the woodland path that led +to Bridget’s cottage; Mistress Clarke was with her: I felt at my heart +that it was she, by the balmy peace which the look of her sent over me, +as she slowly advanced, a glad surprise shining out of her soft quiet +eyes. That was as her gaze met mine. As her looks fell on the woman +lying stiff, convulsed on the earth, they became full of tender pity; and +she came forward to try and lift her up. Seating herself on the turf, +she took Bridget’s head into her lap; and, with gentle touches, she +arranged the dishevelled gray hair streaming thick and wild from beneath +her mutch. + +“God help her!” murmured Lucy. “How she suffers!” + +At her desire we sought for water; but when we returned, Bridget had +recovered her wandering senses, and was kneeling with clasped hands +before Lucy, gazing at that sweet sad face as though her troubled nature +drank in health and peace from every moment’s contemplation. A faint +tinge on Lucy’s pale cheeks showed me that she was aware of our return; +otherwise it appeared as if she was conscious of her influence for good +over the passionate and troubled woman kneeling before her, and would not +willingly avert her grave and loving eyes from that wrinkled and careworn +countenance. + +Suddenly—in the twinkling of an eye—the creature appeared, there, behind +Lucy; fearfully the same as to outward semblance, but kneeling exactly as +Bridget knelt, and clasping her hands in jesting mimicry as Bridget +clasped hers in her ecstasy that was deepening into a prayer. Mistress +Clarke cried out—Bridget arose slowly, her gaze fixed on the creature +beyond: drawing her breath with a hissing sound, never moving her +terrible eyes, that were steady as stone, she made a dart at the phantom, +and caught, as I had done, a mere handful of empty air. We saw no more +of the creature—it vanished as suddenly as it came, but Bridget looked +slowly on, as if watching some receding form. Lucy sat still, white, +trembling, drooping—I think she would have swooned if I had not been +there to uphold her. While I was attending to her, Bridget passed us, +without a word to any one, and, entering her cottage, she barred herself +in, and left us without. + +All our endeavours were now directed to get Lucy back to the house where +she had tarried the night before. Mistress Clarke told me that, not +hearing from me (some letter must have miscarried), she had grown +impatient and despairing, and had urged Lucy to the enterprise of coming +to seek her grandmother; not telling her, indeed, of the dread reputation +she possessed, or how we suspected her of having so fearfully blighted +that innocent girl; but, at the same time, hoping much from the +mysterious stirring of blood, which Mistress Clarke trusted in for the +removal of the curse. They had come, by a different route from that +which I had taken, to a village inn not far from Coldholme, only the +night before. This was the first interview between ancestress and +descendant. + +All through the sultry noon I wandered along the tangled brush-wood of +the old neglected forest, thinking where to turn for remedy in a matter +so complicated and mysterious. Meeting a countryman, I asked my way to +the nearest clergyman, and went, hoping to obtain some counsel from him. +But he proved to be a coarse and common-minded man, giving no time or +attention to the intricacies of a case, but dashing out a strong opinion +involving immediate action. For instance, as soon as I named Bridget +Fitzgerald, he exclaimed:— + +“The Coldholme witch! the Irish papist! I’d have had her ducked long +since but for that other papist, Sir Philip Tempest. He has had to +threaten honest folk about here over and over again, or they’d have had +her up before the justices for her black doings. And it’s the law of the +land that witches should be burnt! Ay, and of Scripture, too, sir! Yet +you see a papist, if he’s a rich squire, can overrule both law and +Scripture. I’d carry a faggot myself to rid the country of her!” + +Such a one could give me no help. I rather drew back what I had already +said; and tried to make the parson forget it, by treating him to several +pots of beer, in the village inn, to which we had adjourned for our +conference at his suggestion. I left him as soon as I could, and +returned to Coldholme, shaping my way past deserted Starkey Manor-house, +and coming upon it by the back. At that side were the oblong remains of +the old moat, the waters of which lay placid and motionless under the +crimson rays of the setting sun; with the forest-trees lying straight +along each side, and their deep-green foliage mirrored to blackness in +the burnished surface of the moat below—and the broken sun-dial at the +end nearest the hall—and the heron, standing on one leg at the water’s +edge, lazily looking down for fish—the lonely and desolate house scarce +needed the broken windows, the weeds on the door-sill, the broken shutter +softly flapping to and fro in the twilight breeze, to fill up the picture +of desertion and decay. I lingered about the place until the growing +darkness warned me on. And then I passed along the path, cut by the +orders of the last lady of Starkey Manor-House, that led me to Bridget’s +cottage. I resolved at once to see her; and, in spite of closed doors—it +might be of resolved will—she should see me. So I knocked at her door, +gently, loudly, fiercely. I shook it so vehemently that a length the old +hinges gave way, and with a crash it fell inwards, leaving me suddenly +face to face with Bridget—I, red, heated, agitated with my so long +baffled efforts—she, stiff as any stone, standing right facing me, her +eyes dilated with terror, her ashen lips trembling, but her body +motionless. In her hands she held her crucifix, as if by that holy +symbol she sought to oppose my entrance. At sight of me, her whole frame +relaxed, and she sank back upon a chair. Some mighty tension had given +way. Still her eyes looked fearfully into the gloom of the outer air, +made more opaque by the glimmer of the lamp inside, which she had placed +before the picture of the Virgin. + +“Is she there?” asked Bridget, hoarsely. + +“No! Who? I am alone. You remember me.” + +“Yes,” replied she, still terror stricken. “But she—that creature—has +been looking in upon me through that window all day long. I closed it up +with my shawl; and then I saw her feet below the door, as long as it was +light, and I knew she heard my very breathing—nay, worse, my very +prayers; and I could not pray, for her listening choked the words ere +they rose to my lips. Tell me, who is she?—what means that double girl I +saw this morning? One had a look of my dead Mary; but the other curdled +my blood, and yet it was the same!” + +She had taken hold of my arm, as if to secure herself some human +companionship. She shook all over with the slight, never-ceasing tremor +of intense terror. I told her my tale as I have told it you, sparing +none of the details. + +How Mistress Clarke had informed me that the resemblance had driven Lucy +forth from her father’s house—how I had disbelieved, until, with mine own +eyes, I had seen another Lucy standing behind my Lucy, the same in form +and feature, but with the demon-soul looking out of the eyes. I told her +all, I say, believing that she—whose curse was working so upon the life +of her innocent grandchild—was the only person who could find the remedy +and the redemption. When I had done, she sat silent for many minutes. + +“You love Mary’s child?” she asked. + +“I do, in spite of the fearful working of the curse—I love her. Yet I +shrink from her ever since that day on the moor-side. And men must +shrink from one so accompanied; friends and lovers must stand afar off. +Oh, Bridget Fitzgerald! loosen the curse! Set her free!” + +“Where is she?” + +I eagerly caught at the idea that her presence was needed, in order that, +by some strange prayer or exorcism, the spell might be reversed. + +“I will go and bring her to you,” I exclaimed. Bridget tightened her +hold upon my arm. + +“Not so,” said she, in a low, hoarse voice. “It would kill me to see her +again as I saw her this morning. And I must live till I have worked my +work. Leave me!” said she, suddenly, and again taking up the cross. “I +defy the demon I have called up. Leave me to wrestle with it!” + +She stood up, as if in an ecstasy of inspiration, from which all fear was +banished. I lingered—why I can hardly tell—until once more she bade me +begone. As I went along the forest way, I looked back, and saw her +planting the cross in the empty threshold, where the door had been. + +The next morning Lucy and I went to seek her, to bid her join her prayers +with ours. The cottage stood open and wide to our gaze. No human being +was there: the cross remained on the threshold, but Bridget was gone. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + + +What was to be done next? was the question that I asked myself. As for +Lucy, she would fain have submitted to the doom that lay upon her. Her +gentleness and piety, under the pressure of so horrible a life, seemed +over-passive to me. She never complained. Mrs. Clarke complained more +than ever. As for me, I was more in love with the real Lucy than ever; +but I shrunk from the false similitude with an intensity proportioned to +my love. I found out by instinct that Mrs. Clarke had occasional +temptations to leave Lucy. The good lady’s nerves were shaken, and, from +what she said, I could almost have concluded that the object of the +Double was to drive away from Lucy this last, and almost earliest friend. +At times, I could scarcely bear to own it, but I myself felt inclined to +turn recreant; and I would accuse Lucy of being too patient—too resigned. +One after another, she won the little children of Coldholme. (Mrs. +Clarke and she had resolved to stay there, for was it not as good a place +as any other, to such as they? and did not all our faint hopes rest on +Bridget—never seen or heard of now, but still we trusted to come back, or +give some token?) So, as I say, one after another, the little children +came about my Lucy, won by her soft tones, and her gentle smiles, and +kind actions. Alas! one after another they fell away, and shrunk from +her path with blanching terror; and we too surely guessed the reason why. +It was the last drop. I could bear it no longer. I resolved no more to +linger around the spot, but to go back to my uncle, and among the learned +divines of the city of London, seek for some power whereby to annul the +curse. + +My uncle, meanwhile, had obtained all the requisite testimonials relating +to Lucy’s descent and birth, from the Irish lawyers, and from Mr. +Gisborne. The latter gentleman had written from abroad (he was again +serving in the Austrian army), a letter alternately passionately +self-reproachful and stoically repellant. It was evident that when he +thought of Mary—her short life—how he had wronged her, and of her violent +death, he could hardly find words severe enough for his own conduct; and +from this point of view, the curse that Bridget had laid upon him and +his, was regarded by him as a prophetic doom, to the utterance of which +she was moved by a Higher Power, working for the fulfilment of a deeper +vengeance than for the death of the poor dog. But then, again, when he +came to speak of his daughter, the repugnance which the conduct of the +demoniac creature had produced in his mind, was but ill-disguised under a +show of profound indifference as to Lucy’s fate. One almost felt as if +he would have been as content to put her out of existence, as he would +have been to destroy some disgusting reptile that had invaded his chamber +or his couch. + +The great Fitzgerald property was Lucy’s; and that was all—was nothing. + +My uncle and I sat in the gloom of a London November evening, in our +house in Ormond Street. I was out of health, and felt as if I were in an +inextricable coil of misery. Lucy and I wrote to each other, but that +was little; and we dared not see each other for dread of the fearful +Third, who had more than once taken her place at our meetings. My uncle +had, on the day I speak of, bidden prayers to be put up on the ensuing +Sabbath in many a church and meeting-house in London, for one grievously +tormented by an evil spirit. He had faith in prayers—I had none; I was +fast losing faith in all things. So we sat, he trying to interest me in +the old talk of other days, I oppressed by one thought—when our old +servant, Anthony, opened the door, and, without speaking, showed in a +very gentlemanly and prepossessing man, who had something remarkable +about his dress, betraying his profession to be that of the Roman +Catholic priesthood. He glanced at my uncle first, then at me. It was +to me he bowed. + +“I did not give my name,” said he, “because you would hardly have +recognised it; unless, sir, when, in the north, you heard of Father +Bernard, the chaplain at Stoney Hurst?” + +I remembered afterwards that I had heard of him, but at the time I had +utterly forgotten it; so I professed myself a complete stranger to him; +while my ever-hospitable uncle, although hating a papist as much as it +was in his nature to hate anything, placed a chair for the visitor, and +bade Anthony bring glasses, and a fresh jug of claret. + +Father Bernard received this courtesy with the graceful ease and pleasant +acknowledgement which belongs to a man of the world. Then he turned to +scan me with his keen glance. After some alight conversation, entered +into on his part, I am certain, with an intention of discovering on what +terms of confidence I stood with my uncle, he paused, and said gravely— + +“I am sent here with a message to you, sir, from a woman to whom you have +shown kindness, and who is one of my penitents, in Antwerp—one Bridget +Fitzgerald.” + +“Bridget Fitzgerald!” exclaimed I. “In Antwerp? Tell me, sir, all that +you can about her.” + +“There is much to be said,” he replied. “But may I inquire if this +gentleman—if your uncle is acquainted with the particulars of which you +and I stand informed?” + +“All that I know, he knows,” said I, eagerly laying my hand on my uncle’s +arm, as he made a motion as if to quit the room. + +“Then I have to speak before two gentlemen who, however they may differ +from me in faith, are yet fully impressed with the fact that there are +evil powers going about continually to take cognizance of our evil +thoughts: and, if their Master gives them power, to bring them into overt +action. Such is my theory of the nature of that sin, which I dare not +disbelieve—as some sceptics would have us do—the sin of witchcraft. Of +this deadly sin, you and I are aware, Bridget Fitzgerald has been guilty. +Since you saw her last, many prayers have been offered in our churches, +many masses sung, many penances undergone, in order that, if God and the +holy saints so willed it, her sin might be blotted out. But it has not +been so willed.” + +“Explain to me,” said I, “who you are, and how you come connected with +Bridget. Why is she at Antwerp? I pray you, sir, tell me more. If I am +impatient, excuse me; I am ill and feverish, and in consequence +bewildered.” + +There was something to me inexpressibly soothing in the tone of voice +with which he began to narrate, as it were from the beginning, his +acquaintance with Bridget. + +“I had known Mr. and Mrs. Starkey during their residence abroad, and so +it fell out naturally that, when I came as chaplain to the Sherburnes at +Stoney Hurst, our acquaintance was renewed; and thus I became the +confessor of the whole family, isolated as they were from the offices of +the Church, Sherburne being their nearest neighbour who professed the +true faith. Of course, you are aware that facts revealed in confession +are sealed as in the grave; but I learnt enough of Bridget’s character to +be convinced that I had to do with no common woman; one powerful for good +as for evil. I believe that I was able to give her spiritual assistance +from time to time, and that she looked upon me as a servant of that Holy +Church, which has such wonderful power of moving men’s hearts, and +relieving them of the burden of their sins. I have known her cross the +moors on the wildest nights of storm, to confess and be absolved; and +then she would return, calmed and subdued, to her daily work about her +mistress, no one witting where she had been during the hours that most +passed in sleep upon their beds. After her daughter’s departure—after +Mary’s mysterious disappearance—I had to impose many a long penance, in +order to wash away the sin of impatient repining that was fast leading +her into the deeper guilt of blasphemy. She set out on that long journey +of which you have possibly heard—that fruitless journey in search of +Mary—and during her absence, my superiors ordered my return to my former +duties at Antwerp, and for many years I heard no more of Bridget. + +“Not many months ago, as I was passing homewards in the evening, along +one of the streets near St. Jacques, leading into the Meer Straet, I saw +a woman sitting crouched up under the shrine of the Holy Mother of +Sorrows. Her hood was drawn over her head, so that the shadow caused by +the light of the lamp above fell deep over her face; her hands were +clasped round her knees. It was evident that she was some one in +hopeless trouble, and as such it was my duty to stop and speak. I +naturally addressed her first in Flemish, believing her to be one of the +lower class of inhabitants. She shook her head, but did not look up. +Then I tried French, and she replied in that language, but speaking it so +indifferently, that I was sure she was either English or Irish, and +consequently spoke to her in my own native tongue. She recognized my +voice; and, starting up, caught at my robes, dragging me before the +blessed shrine, and throwing herself down, and forcing me, as much by her +evident desire as by her action, to kneel beside her, she exclaimed: + +“‘O Holy Virgin! you will never hearken to me again, but hear him; for +you know him of old, that he does your bidding, and strives to heal +broken hearts. Hear him!’ + +“She turned to me. + +“‘She will hear you, if you will only pray. She never hears _me_: she +and all the saints in heaven cannot hear my prayers, for the Evil One +carries them off, as he carried that first away. O, Father Bernard, pray +for me!’ + +“I prayed for one in sore distress, of what nature I could not say; but +the Holy Virgin would know. Bridget held me fast, gasping with eagerness +at the sound of my words. When I had ended, I rose, and, making the sign +of the Cross over her, I was going to bless her in the name of the Holy +Church, when she shrank away like some terrified creature, and said— + +“‘I am guilty of deadly sin, and am not shriven.’ + +“‘Arise, my daughter,’ said I, ‘and come with me.’ And I led the way +into one of the confessionals of St. Jaques. + +“She knelt; I listened. No words came. The evil powers had stricken her +dumb, as I heard afterwards they had many a time before, when she +approached confession. + +“She was too poor to pay for the necessary forms of exorcism; and +hitherto those priests to whom she had addressed herself were either so +ignorant of the meaning of her broken French, or her Irish-English, or +else esteemed her to be one crazed—as, indeed, her wild and excited +manner might easily have led any one to think—that they had neglected the +sole means of loosening her tongue, so that she might confess her deadly +sin, and, after due penance, obtain absolution. But I knew Bridget of +old, and felt that she was a penitent sent to me. I went through those +holy offices appointed by our Church for the relief of such a case. I +was the more bound to do this, as I found that she had come to Antwerp +for the sole purpose of discovering me, and making confession to me. Of +the nature of that fearful confession I am forbidden to speak. Much of +it you know; possibly all. + +“It now remains for her to free herself from mortal guilt, and to set +others free from the consequences thereof. No prayers, no masses, will +ever do it, although they may strengthen her with that strength by which +alone acts of deepest love and purest self-devotion may be performed. +Her words of passion, and cries for revenge—her unholy prayers could +never reach the ears of the holy saints! Other powers intercepted them, +and wrought so that the curses thrown up to heaven have fallen on her own +flesh and blood; and so, through her very strength of love, have brused +and crushed her heart. Henceforward her former self must be buried,—yea, +buried quick, if need be,—but never more to make sign, or utter cry on +earth! She has become a Poor Clare, in order that, by perpetual penance +and constant service of others, she may at length so act as to obtain +final absolution and rest for her soul. Until then, the innocent must +suffer. It is to plead for the innocent that I come to you; not in the +name of the witch, Bridget Fitzgerald, but of the penitent and servant of +all men, the Poor Clare, Sister Magdalen.” + +“Sir,” said I, “I listen to your request with respect; only I may tell +you it is not needed to urge me to do all that I can on behalf of one, +love for whom is part of my very life. If for a time I have absented +myself from her, it is to think and work for her redemption. I, a member +of the English Church—my uncle, a Puritan—pray morning and night for her +by name: the congregations of London, on the next Sabbath, will pray for +one unknown, that she may be set free from the Powers of Darkness. +Moreover, I must tell you, sir, that those evil ones touch not the great +calm of her soul. She lives her own pure and loving life, unharmed and +untainted, though all men fall off from her. I would I could have her +faith!” + +My uncle now spoke. + +“Nephew,” said he, “it seems to me that this gentleman, although +professing what I consider an erroneous creed, has touched upon the right +point in exhorting Bridget to acts of love and mercy, whereby to wipe out +her sin of hate and vengeance. Let us strive after our fashion, by +almsgiving and visiting of the needy and fatherless, to make our prayers +acceptable. Meanwhile, I myself will go down into the north, and take +charge of the maiden. I am too old to be daunted by man or demon. I +will bring her to this house as to a home; and let the Double come if it +will! A company of godly divines shall give it the meeting, and we will +try issue.” + +The kindly, brave old man! But Father Bernard sat on musing. + +“All hate,” said he, “cannot be quenched in her heart; all Christian +forgiveness cannot have entered into her soul, or the demon would have +lost its power. You said, I think, that her grandchild was still +tormented?” + +“Still tormented!” I replied, sadly, thinking of Mistress Clarke’s last +letter—He rose to go. We afterwards heard that the occasion of his +coming to London was a secret political mission on behalf of the +Jacobites. Nevertheless, he was a good and a wise man. + +Months and months passed away without any change. Lucy entreated my +uncle to leave her where she was,—dreading, as I learnt, lest if she +came, with her fearful companion, to dwell in the same house with me, +that my love could not stand the repeated shocks to which I should be +doomed. And this she thought from no distrust of the strength of my +affection, but from a kind of pitying sympathy for the terror to the +nerves which she clearly observed that the demoniac visitation caused in +all. + +I was restless and miserable. I devoted myself to good works; but I +performed them from no spirit of love, but solely from the hope of reward +and payment, and so the reward was never granted. At length, I asked my +uncle’s leave to travel; and I went forth, a wanderer, with no distincter +end than that of many another wanderer—to get away from myself. A +strange impulse led me to Antwerp, in spite of the wars and commotions +then raging in the Low Countries—or rather, perhaps, the very craving to +become interested in something external, led me into the thick of the +struggle then going on with the Austrians. The cities of Flanders were +all full at that time of civil disturbances and rebellions, only kept +down by force, and the presence of an Austrian garrison in every place. + +I arrived in Antwerp, and made inquiry for Father Bernard. He was away +in the country for a day or two. Then I asked my way to the Convent of +Poor Clares; but, being healthy and prosperous, I could only see the dim, +pent-up, gray walls, shut closely in by narrow streets, in the lowest +part of the town. My landlord told me, that had I been stricken by some +loathsome disease, or in desperate case of any kind, the Poor Clares +would have taken me, and tended me. He spoke of them as an order of +mercy of the strictest kind, dressing scantily in the coarsest materials, +going barefoot, living on what the inhabitants of Antwerp chose to +bestow, and sharing even those fragments and crumbs with the poor and +helpless that swarmed all around; receiving no letters or communication +with the outer world; utterly dead to everything but the alleviation of +suffering. He smiled at my inquiring whether I could get speech of one +of them; and told me that they were even forbidden to speak for the +purposes of begging their daily food; while yet they lived, and fed +others upon what was given in charity. + +“But,” exclaimed I, “supposing all men forgot them! Would they quietly +lie down and die, without making sign of their extremity?” + +“If such were the rule the Poor Clares would willingly do it; but their +founder appointed a remedy for such extreme cases as you suggest. They +have a bell—’tis but a small one, as I have heard, and has yet never been +rung in the memory man: when the Poor Clares have been without food for +twenty-four hours, they may ring this bell, and then trust to our good +people of Antwerp for rushing to the rescue of the Poor Clares, who have +taken such blessed care of us in all our straits.” + +It seemed to me that such rescue would be late in the day; but I did not +say what I thought. I rather turned the conversation, by asking my +landlord if he knew, or had ever heard, anything of a certain Sister +Magdalen. + +“Yes,” said he, rather under his breath, “news will creep out, even from +a convent of Poor Clares. Sister Magdalen is either a great sinner or a +great saint. She does more, as I have heard, than all the other nuns put +together; yet, when last month they would fain have made her +mother-superior, she begged rather that they would place her below all +the rest, and make her the meanest servant of all.” + +“You never saw her?” asked I. + +“Never,” he replied. + +I was weary of waiting for Father Bernard, and yet I lingered in Antwerp. +The political state of things became worse than ever, increased to its +height by the scarcity of food consequent on many deficient harvests. I +saw groups of fierce, squalid men, at every corner of the street, glaring +out with wolfish eyes at my sleek skin and handsome clothes. + +At last Father Bernard returned. We had a long conversation, in which he +told me that, curiously enough, Mr. Gisborne, Lucy’s father, was serving +in one of the Austrian regiments, then in garrison at Antwerp. I asked +Father Bernard if he would make us acquainted; which he consented to do. +But, a day or two afterwards, he told me that, on hearing my name, Mr. +Gisborne had declined responding to any advances on my part, saying he +had adjured his country, and hated his countrymen. + +Probably he recollected my name in connection with that of his daughter +Lucy. Anyhow, it was clear enough that I had no chance of making his +acquaintance. Father Bernard confirmed me in my suspicions of the hidden +fermentation, for some coming evil, working among the “blouses” of +Antwerp, and he would fain have had me depart from out the city; but I +rather craved the excitement of danger, and stubbornly refused to leave. + +One day, when I was walking with him in the Place Verte, he bowed to an +Austrian officer, who was crossing towards the cathedral. + +“That is Mr. Gisborne,” said he, as soon as the gentleman was past. + +I turned to look at the tall, slight figure of the officer. He carried +himself in a stately manner, although he was past middle age, and from +his years might have had some excuse for a slight stoop. As I looked at +the man, he turned round, his eyes met mine, and I saw his face. Deeply +lined, sallow, and scathed was that countenance; scarred by passion as +well as by the fortunes of war. ’Twas but a moment our eyes met. We +each turned round, and went on our separate way. + +But his whole appearance was not one to be easily forgotten; the thorough +appointment of the dress, and evident thought bestowed on it, made but an +incongruous whole with the dark, gloomy expression of his countenance. +Because he was Lucy’s father, I sought instinctively to meet him +everywhere. At last he must have become aware of my pertinacity, for he +gave me a haughty scowl whenever I passed him. In one of these +encounters, however, I chanced to be of some service to him. He was +turning the corner of a street, and came suddenly on one of the groups of +discontented Flemings of whom I have spoken. Some words were exchanged, +when my gentleman out with his sword, and with a slight but skilful cut +drew blood from one of those who had insulted him, as he fancied, though +I was too far off to hear the words. They would all have fallen upon him +had I not rushed forwards and raised the cry, then well known in Antwerp, +of rally, to the Austrian soldiers who were perpetually patrolling the +streets, and who came in numbers to the rescue. I think that neither Mr. +Gisborne nor the mutinous group of plebeians owed me much gratitude for +my interference. He had planted himself against a wall, in a skilful +attitude of fence, ready with his bright glancing rapier to do battle +with all the heavy, fierce, unarmed men, some six or seven in number. +But when his own soldiers came up, he sheathed his sword; and, giving +some careless word of command, sent them away again, and continued his +saunter all alone down the street, the workmen snarling in his rear, and +more than half-inclined to fall on me for my cry for rescue. I cared not +if they did, my life seemed so dreary a burden just then; and, perhaps, +it was this daring loitering among them that prevented their attacking +me. Instead, they suffered me to fall into conversation with them; and I +heard some of their grievances. Sore and heavy to be borne were they, +and no wonder the sufferers were savage and desperate. + +The man whom Gisborne had wounded across his face would fain have got out +of me the name of his aggressor, but I refused to tell it. Another of +the group heard his inquiry, and made answer—“I know the man. He is one +Gisborne, aide-de-camp to the General-Commandant. I know him well.” + +He began to tell some story in connection with Gisborne in a low and +muttering voice; and while he was relating a tale, which I saw excited +their evil blood, and which they evidently wished me not to hear, I +sauntered away and back to my lodgings. + +That night Antwerp was in open revolt. The inhabitants rose in rebellion +against their Austrian masters. The Austrians, holding the gates of the +city, remained at first pretty quiet in the citadel; only, from time to +time, the boom of the great cannon swept sullenly over the town. But if +they expected the disturbance to die away, and spend itself in a few +hours’ fury, they were mistaken. In a day or two, the rioters held +possession of the principal municipal buildings. Then the Austrians +poured forth in bright flaming array, calm and smiling, as they marched +to the posts assigned, as if the fierce mob were no more to them then the +swarms of buzzing summer flies. Their practised manœuvres, their +well-aimed shot, told with terrible effect; but in the place of one slain +rioter, three sprang up of his blood to avenge his loss. But a deadly +foe, a ghastly ally of the Austrians, was at work. Food, scarce and dear +for months, was now hardly to be obtained at any price. Desperate +efforts were being made to bring provisions into the city, for the +rioters had friends without. Close to the city port, nearest to the +Scheldt, a great struggle took place. I was there, helping the rioters, +whose cause I had adopted. We had a savage encounter with the Austrians. +Numbers fell on both sides: I saw them lie bleeding for a moment: then a +volley of smoke obscured them; and when it cleared away, they were +dead—trampled upon or smothered, pressed down and hidden by the +freshly-wounded whom those last guns had brought low. And then a +gray-robed and grey-veiled figure came right across the flashing guns and +stooped over some one, whose life-blood was ebbing away; sometimes it was +to give him drink from cans which they carried slung at their sides; +sometimes I saw the cross held above a dying man, and rapid prayers were +being uttered, unheard by men in that hellish din and clangour, but +listened to by One above. I saw all this as in a dream: the reality of +that stern time was battle and carnage. But I knew that these gray +figures, their bare feet all wet with blood, and their faces hidden by +their veils, were the Poor Clares—sent forth now because dire agony was +abroad and imminent danger at hand. Therefore, they left their +cloistered shelter, and came into that thick and evil mêlée. + +Close to me—driven past me by the struggle of many fighters—came the +Antwerp burgess with the scarce-healed scar upon his face; and in an +instant more, he was thrown by the press upon the Austrian officer +Gisborne, and ere either had recovered the shock, the burgess had +recognized his opponent. + +“Ha! the Englishman Gisborne!” he cried, and threw himself upon him with +redoubled fury. He had struck him hard—the Englishman was down; when out +of the smoke came a dark-gray figure, and threw herself right under the +uplifted flashing sword. The burgess’s arm stood arrested. Neither +Austrians nor Anversois willingly harmed the Poor Clares. + +“Leave him to me!” said a low stern voice. “He is mine enemy—mine for +many years.” + +Those words were the last I heard. I myself was struck down by a bullet. +I remember nothing more for days. When I came to myself, I was at the +extremity of weakness, and was craving for food to recruit my strength. +My landlord sat watching me. He, too, looked pinched and shrunken; he +had heard of my wounded state, and sought me out. Yes! the struggle +still continued, but the famine was sore: and some, he had heard, had +died for lack of food. The tears stood in his eyes as he spoke. But +soon he shook off his weakness, and his natural cheerfulness returned. +Father Bernard had been to see me—no one else. (Who should, indeed?) +Father Bernard would come back that afternoon—he had promised. But +Father Bernard never came, although I was up and dressed, and looking +eagerly for him. + +My landlord brought me a meal which he had cooked himself: of what it was +composed he would not say, but it was most excellent, and with every +mouthful I seemed to gain strength. The good man sat looking at my +evident enjoyment with a happy smile of sympathy; but, as my appetite +became satisfied, I began to detect a certain wistfulness in his eyes, as +if craving for the food I had so nearly devoured—for, indeed, at that +time I was hardly aware of the extent of the famine. Suddenly, there was +a sound of many rushing feet past our window. My landlord opened one of +the sides of it, the better to learn what was going on. Then we heard a +faint, cracked, tinkling bell, coming shrill upon the air, clear and +distinct from all other sounds. “Holy Mother!” exclaimed my landlord, +“the Poor Clares!” + +He snatched up the fragments of my meal, and crammed them into my hands, +bidding me follow. Down stairs he ran, clutching at more food, as the +women of his house eagerly held it out to him; and in a moment we were in +the street, moving along with the great current, all tending towards the +Convent of the Poor Clares. And still, as if piercing our ears with its +inarticulate cry, came the shrill tinkle of the bell. In that strange +crowd were old men trembling and sobbing, as they carried their little +pittance of food; women with tears running down their cheeks, who had +snatched up what provisions they had in the vessels in which they stood, +so that the burden of these was in many cases much greater than that +which they contained; children, with flushed faces, grasping tight the +morsel of bitten cake or bread, in their eagerness to carry it safe to +the help of the Poor Clares; strong men—yea, both Anversois and +Austrians—pressing onward with set teeth, and no word spoken; and over +all, and through all, came that sharp tinkle—that cry for help in +extremity. + +We met the first torrent of people returning with blanched and piteous +faces: they were issuing out of the convent to make way for the offerings +of others. “Haste, haste!” said they. “A Poor Clare is dying! A Poor +Clare is dead for hunger! God forgive us and our city!” + +We pressed on. The stream bore us along where it would. We were carried +through refectories, bare and crumbless; into cells over whose doors the +conventual name of the occupant was written. Thus it was that I, with +others, was forced into Sister Magdalen’s cell. On her couch lay +Gisborne, pale unto death, but not dead. By his side was a cup of water, +and a small morsel of mouldy bread, which he had pushed out of his reach, +and could not move to obtain. Over against his bed were these words, +copied in the English version “Therefore, if thine enemy hunger, feed +him; if he thirst, give him drink.” + +Some of us gave him of our food, and left him eating greedily, like some +famished wild animal. For now it was no longer the sharp tinkle, but +that one solemn toll, which in all Christian countries tells of the +passing of the spirit out of earthly life into eternity; and again a +murmur gathered and grew, as of many people speaking with awed breath, “A +Poor Clare is dying! a Poor Clare is dead!” + +Borne along once more by the motion of the crowd, we were carried into +the chapel belonging to the Poor Clares. On a bier before the high +altar, lay a woman—lay Sister Magdalen—lay Bridget Fitzgerald. By her +side stood Father Bernard, in his robes of office, and holding the +crucifix on high while he pronounced the solemn absolution of the Church, +as to one who had newly confessed herself of deadly sin. I pushed on +with passionate force, till I stood close to the dying woman, as she +received extreme unction amid the breathless and awed hush of the +multitude around. Her eyes were glazing, her limbs were stiffening; but +when the rite was over and finished, she raised her gaunt figure slowly +up, and her eyes brightened to a strange intensity of joy, as, with the +gesture of her finger and the trance-like gleam of her eye, she seemed +like one who watched the disappearance of some loathed and fearful +creature. + +“She is freed from the curse!” said she, as she fell back dead. + + + + +Now, of all our party who had first listened to my Lady Ludlow, Mr. +Preston was the only one who had not told us something, either of +information, tradition, history, or legend. We naturally turned to him; +but we did not like asking him directly for his contribution, for he +was a grave, reserved, and silent man. + +He understood us, however, and, rousing himself as it were, he said— + +“I know you wish me to tell you, in my turn, of something which I have +learnt during my life. I could tell you something of my own life, and +of a life dearer still to my memory; but I have shunk from narrating +anything so purely personal. Yet, shrink as I will, no other but those +sad recollections will present themselves to my mind. I call them sad +when I think of the end of it all. However, I am not going to moralize. +If my dear brother’s life and death does not speak for itself, no words +of mine will teach you what may be learnt from it.” + + + + +THE HALF-BROTHERS + + +My mother was twice married. She never spoke of her first husband, and +it is only from other people that I have learnt what little I know +about him. I believe she was scarcely seventeen when she was married to +him: and he was barely one-and-twenty. He rented a small farm up in +Cumberland, somewhere towards the sea-coast; but he was perhaps too +young and inexperienced to have the charge of land and cattle: anyhow, +his affairs did not prosper, and he fell into ill health, and died of +consumption before they had been three years man and wife, leaving my +mother a young widow of twenty, with a little child only just able to +walk, and the farm on her hands for four years more by the lease, with +half the stock on it dead, or sold off one by one to pay the more +pressing debts, and with no money to purchase more, or even to buy the +provisions needed for the small consumption of every day. There was +another child coming, too; and sad and sorry, I believe, she was to +think of it. A dreary winter she must have had in her lonesome +dwelling, with never another near it for miles around; her sister came +to bear her company, and they two planned and plotted how to make every +penny they could raise go as far as possible. I can’t tell you how it +happened that my little sister, whom I never saw, came to sicken and +die; but, as if my poor mother’s cup was not full enough, only a +fortnight before Gregory was born the little girl took ill of scarlet +fever, and in a week she lay dead. My mother was, I believe, just +stunned with this last blow. My aunt has told me that she did not cry; +aunt Fanny would have been thankful if she had; but she sat holding the +poor wee lassie’s hand and looking in her pretty, pale, dead face, +without so much as shedding a tear. And it was all the same, when they +had to take her away to be buried. She just kissed the child, and sat +her down in the window-seat to watch the little black train of people +(neighbours—my aunt, and one far-off cousin, who were all the friends +they could muster) go winding away amongst the snow, which had fallen +thinly over the country the night before. When my aunt came back from +the funeral, she found my mother in the same place, and as dry-eyed as +ever. So she continued until after Gregory was born; and, somehow, his +coming seemed to loosen the tears, and she cried day and night, till my +aunt and the other watcher looked at each other in dismay, and would +fain have stopped her if they had but known how. But she bade them let +her alone, and not be over-anxious, for every drop she shed eased her +brain, which had been in a terrible state before for want of the power +to cry. She seemed after that to think of nothing but her new little +baby; she had hardly appeared to remember either her husband or her +little daughter that lay dead in Brigham churchyard—at least so aunt +Fanny said, but she was a great talker, and my mother was very silent +by nature, and I think aunt Fanny may have been mistaken in believing +that my mother never thought of her husband and child just because she +never spoke about them. Aunt Fanny was older than my mother, and had a +way of treating her like a child; but, for all that, she was a kind, +warm-hearted creature, who thought more of her sister’s welfare than +she did of her own and it was on her bit of money that they principally +lived, and on what the two could earn by working for the great Glasgow +sewing-merchants. But by-and-by my mother’s eye-sight began to fail. It +was not that she was exactly blind, for she could see well enough to +guide herself about the house, and to do a good deal of domestic work; +but she could no longer do fine sewing and earn money. It must have +been with the heavy crying she had had in her day, for she was but a +young creature at this time, and as pretty a young woman, I have heard +people say, as any on the country side. She took it sadly to heart that +she could no longer gain anything towards the keep of herself and her +child. My aunt Fanny would fain have persuaded her that she had enough +to do in managing their cottage and minding Gregory; but my mother knew +that they were pinched, and that aunt Fanny herself had not as much to +eat, even of the commonest kind of food, as she could have done with; +and as for Gregory, he was not a strong lad, and needed, not more +food—for he always had enough, whoever went short—but better +nourishment, and more flesh-meat. One day—it was aunt Fanny who told me +all this about my poor mother, long after her death—as the sisters were +sitting together, aunt Fanny working, and my mother hushing Gregory to +sleep, William Preston, who was afterwards my father, came in. He was +reckoned an old bachelor; I suppose he was long past forty, and he was +one of the wealthiest farmers thereabouts, and had known my grandfather +well, and my mother and my aunt in their more prosperous days. He sat +down, and began to twirl his hat by way of being agreeable; my aunt +Fanny talked, and he listened and looked at my mother. But he said very +little, either on that visit, or on many another that he paid before he +spoke out what had been the real purpose of his calling so often all +along, and from the very first time he came to their house. One Sunday, +however, my aunt Fanny stayed away from church, and took care of the +child, and my mother went alone. When she came back, she ran straight +upstairs, without going into the kitchen to look at Gregory or speak +any word to her sister, and aunt Fanny heard her cry as if her heart +was breaking; so she went up and scolded her right well through the +bolted door, till at last she got her to open it. And then she threw +herself on my aunt’s neck, and told her that William Preston had asked +her to marry him, and had promised to take good charge of her boy, and +to let him want for nothing, neither in the way of keep nor of +education, and that she had consented. Aunt Fanny was a good deal +shocked at this; for, as I have said, she had often thought that my +mother had forgotten her first husband very quickly, and now here was +proof positive of it, if she could so soon think of marrying again. +Besides as aunt Fanny used to say, she herself would have been a far +more suitable match for a man of William Preston’s age than Helen, who, +though she was a widow, had not seen her four-and-twentieth summer. +However, as aunt Fanny said, they had not asked her advice; and there +was much to be said on the other side of the question. Helen’s eyesight +would never be good for much again, and as William Preston’s wife she +would never need to do anything, if she chose to sit with her hands +before her; and a boy was a great charge to a widowed mother; and now +there would be a decent steady man to see after him. So, by-and-by, +aunt Fanny seemed to take a brighter view of the marriage than did my +mother herself, who hardly ever looked up, and never smiled after the +day when she promised William Preston to be his wife. But much as she +had loved Gregory before, she seemed to love him more now. She was +continually talking to him when they were alone, though he was far too +young to understand her moaning words, or give her any comfort, except +by his caresses. + +At last William Preston and she were wed; and she went to be mistress +of a well-stocked house, not above half-an-hour’s walk from where aunt +Fanny lived. I believe she did all that she could to please my father; +and a more dutiful wife, I have heard him himself say, could never have +been. But she did not love him, and he soon found it out. She loved +Gregory, and she did not love him. Perhaps, love would have come in +time, if he had been patient enough to wait; but it just turned him +sour to see how her eye brightened and her colour came at the sight of +that little child, while for him who had given her so much, she had +only gentle words as cold as ice. He got to taunt her with the +difference in her manner, as if that would bring love: and he took a +positive dislike to Gregory,—he was so jealous of the ready love that +always gushed out like a spring of fresh water when he came near. He +wanted her to love him more, and perhaps that was all well and good; +but he wanted her to love her child less, and that was an evil wish. +One day, he gave way to his temper, and cursed and swore at Gregory, +who had got into some mischief, as children will; my mother made some +excuse for him; my father said it was hard enough to have to keep +another man’s child, without having it perpetually held up in its +naughtiness by his wife, who ought to be always in the same mind that +he was; and so from little they got to more; and the end of it was, +that my mother took to her bed before her time, and I was born that +very day. My father was glad, and proud, and sorry, all in a breath; +glad and proud that a son was born to him; and sorry for his poor +wife’s state, and to think how his angry words had brought it on. But +he was a man who liked better to be angry than sorry, so he soon found +out that it was all Gregory’s fault, and owed him an additional grudge +for having hastened my birth. He had another grudge against him before +long. My mother began to sink the day after I was born. My father sent +to Carlisle for doctors, and would have coined his heart’s blood into +gold to save her, if that could have been; but it could not. My aunt +Fanny used to say sometimes, that she thought that Helen did not wish +to live, and so just let herself die away without trying to take hold +on life; but when I questioned her, she owned that my mother did all +the doctors bade her do, with the same sort of uncomplaining patience +with which she had acted through life. One of her last requests was to +have Gregory laid in her bed by my side, and then she made him take +hold of my little hand. Her husband came in while she was looking at us +so, and when he bent tenderly over her to ask her how she felt now, and +seemed to gaze on us two little half-brothers, with a grave sort of +kindness, she looked up in his face and smiled, almost her first smile +at him; and such a sweet smile! as more besides aunt Fanny have said. +In an hour she was dead. Aunt Fanny came to live with us. It was the +best thing that could be done. My father would have been glad to return +to his old mode of bachelor life, but what could he do with two little +children? He needed a woman to take care of him, and who so fitting as +his wife’s elder sister? So she had the charge of me from my birth; and +for a time I was weakly, as was but natural, and she was always beside +me, night and day watching over me, and my father nearly as anxious as +she. For his land had come down from father to son for more than three +hundred years, and he would have cared for me merely as his flesh and +blood that was to inherit the land after him. But he needed something +to love, for all that, to most people, he was a stern, hard man, and he +took to me as, I fancy, he had taken to no human being before—as he +might have taken to my mother, if she had had no former life for him to +be jealous of. I loved him back again right heartily. I loved all +around me, I believe, for everybody was kind to me. After a time, I +overcame my original weakness of constitution, and was just a bonny, +strong-looking lad whom every passer-by noticed, when my father took me +with him to the nearest town. + +At home I was the darling of my aunt, the tenderly-beloved of my +father, the pet and plaything of the old domestics, the “young master” +of the farm-labourers, before whom I played many a lordly antic, +assuming a sort of authority which sat oddly enough, I doubt not, on +such a baby as I was. + +Gregory was three years older than I. Aunt Fanny was always kind to him +in deed and in action, but she did not often think about him, she had +fallen so completely into the habit of being engrossed by me, from the +fact of my having come into her charge as a delicate baby. My father +never got over his grudging dislike to his stepson, who had so +innocently wrestled with him for the possession of my mother’s heart. I +mistrust me, too, that my father always considered him as the cause of +my mother’s death and my early delicacy; and utterly unreasonable as +this may seem, I believe my father rather cherished his feeling of +alienation to my brother as a duty, than strove to repress it. Yet not +for the world would my father have grudged him anything that money +could purchase. That was, as it were, in the bond when he had wedded my +mother. Gregory was lumpish and loutish, awkward and ungainly, marring +whatever he meddled in, and many a hard word and sharp scolding did he +get from the people about the farm, who hardly waited till my father’s +back was turned before they rated the stepson. I am ashamed—my heart is +sore to think how I fell into the fashion of the family, and slighted +my poor orphan step-brother. I don’t think I ever scouted him, or was +wilfully ill-natured to him; but the habit of being considered in all +things, and being treated as something uncommon and superior, made me +insolent in my prosperity, and I exacted more than Gregory was always +willing to grant, and then, irritated, I sometimes repeated the +disparaging words I had heard others use with regard to him, without +fully understanding their meaning. Whether he did or not I cannot tell. +I am afraid he did. He used to turn silent and quiet—sullen and sulky, +my father thought it: stupid, aunt Fanny used to call it. But every one +said he was stupid and dull, and this stupidity and dullness grew upon +him. He would sit without speaking a word, sometimes, for hours; then +my father would bid him rise and do some piece of work, maybe, about +the farm. And he would take three or four tellings before he would go. +When we were sent to school, it was all the same. He could never be +made to remember his lessons; the school-master grew weary of scolding +and flogging, and at last advised my father just to take him away, and +set him to some farm-work that might not be above his comprehension. I +think he was more gloomy and stupid than ever after this, yet he was +not a cross lad; he was patient and good-natured, and would try to do a +kind turn for any one, even if they had been scolding or cuffing him +not a minute before. But very often his attempts at kindness ended in +some mischief to the very people he was trying to serve, owing to his +awkward, ungainly ways. I suppose I was a clever lad; at any rate, I +always got plenty of praise; and was, as we called it, the cock of the +school. The schoolmaster said I could learn anything I chose, but my +father, who had no great learning himself, saw little use in much for +me, and took me away betimes, and kept me with him about the farm. +Gregory was made into a kind of shepherd, receiving his training under +old Adam, who was nearly past his work. I think old Adam was almost the +first person who had a good opinion of Gregory. He stood to it that my +brother had good parts, though he did not rightly know how to bring +them out; and, for knowing the bearings of the Fells, he said he had +never seen a lad like him. My father would try to bring Adam round to +speak of Gregory’s faults and shortcomings; but, instead of that, he +would praise him twice as much, as soon as he found out what was my +father’s object. + +One winter-time, when I was about sixteen, and Gregory nineteen, I was +sent by my father on an errand to a place about seven miles distant by +the road, but only about four by the Fells. He bade me return by the +road, whichever way I took in going, for the evenings closed in early, +and were often thick and misty; besides which, old Adam, now paralytic +and bedridden, foretold a downfall of snow before long. I soon got to +my journey’s end, and soon had done my business; earlier by an hour, I +thought, than my father had expected, so I took the decision of the way +by which I would return into my own hands, and set off back again over +the Fells, just as the first shades of evening began to fall. It looked +dark and gloomy enough; but everything was so still that I thought I +should have plenty of time to get home before the snow came down. Off I +set at a pretty quick pace. But night came on quicker. The right path +was clear enough in the day-time, although at several points two or +three exactly similar diverged from the same place; but when there was +a good light, the traveller was guided by the sight of distant +objects,—a piece of rock,—a fall in the ground—which were quite +invisible to me now. I plucked up a brave heart, however, and took what +seemed to me the right road. It was wrong, nevertheless, and led me +whither I knew not, but to some wild boggy moor where the solitude +seemed painful, intense, as if never footfall of man had come thither +to break the silence. I tried to shout—with the dimmest possible hope +of being heard—rather to reassure myself by the sound of my own voice; +but my voice came husky and short, and yet it dismayed me; it seemed so +weird and strange, in that noiseless expanse of black darkness. +Suddenly the air was filled thick with dusky flakes, my face and hands +were wet with snow. It cut me off from the slightest knowledge of where +I was, for I lost every idea of the direction from which I had come, so +that I could not even retrace my steps; it hemmed me in, thicker, +thicker, with a darkness that might be felt. The boggy soil on which I +stood quaked under me if I remained long in one place, and yet I dared +not move far. All my youthful hardiness seemed to leave me at once. I +was on the point of crying, and only very shame seemed to keep it down. +To save myself from shedding tears, I shouted—terrible, wild shouts for +bare life they were. I turned sick as I paused to listen; no answering +sound came but the unfeeling echoes. Only the noiseless, pitiless snow +kept falling thicker, thicker—faster, faster! I was growing numb and +sleepy. I tried to move about, but I dared not go far, for fear of the +precipices which, I knew, abounded in certain places on the Fells. Now +and then, I stood still and shouted again; but my voice was getting +choked with tears, as I thought of the desolate helpless death I was to +die, and how little they at home, sitting round the warm, red, bright +fire, wotted what was become of me,—and how my poor father would grieve +for me—it would surely kill him—it would break his heart, poor old man! +Aunt Fanny too—was this to be the end of all her cares for me? I began +to review my life in a strange kind of vivid dream, in which the +various scenes of my few boyish years passed before me like visions. In +a pang of agony, caused by such remembrance of my short life, I +gathered up my strength and called out once more, a long, despairing, +wailing cry, to which I had no hope of obtaining any answer, save from +the echoes around, dulled as the sound might be by the thickened air. +To my surprise I heard a cry—almost as long, as wild as mine—so wild +that it seemed unearthly, and I almost thought it must be the voice of +some of the mocking spirits of the Fells, about whom I had heard so +many tales. My heart suddenly began to beat fast and loud. I could not +reply for a minute or two. I nearly fancied I had lost the power of +utterance. Just at this moment a dog barked. Was it Lassie’s bark—my +brother’s collie?—an ugly enough brute, with a white, ill-looking face, +that my father always kicked whenever he saw it, partly for its own +demerits, partly because it belonged to my brother. On such occasions, +Gregory would whistle Lassie away, and go off and sit with her in some +outhouse. My father had once or twice been ashamed of himself, when the +poor collie had yowled out with the suddenness of the pain, and had +relieved himself of his self-reproach by blaming my brother, who, he +said, had no notion of training a dog, and was enough to ruin any +collie in Christendom with his stupid way of allowing them to lie by +the kitchen fire. To all which Gregory would answer nothing, nor even +seem to hear, but go on looking absent and moody. + +Yes! there again! It was Lassie’s bark! Now or never! I lifted up my +voice and shouted “Lassie! Lassie! for God’s sake, Lassie!” Another +moment, and the great white-faced Lassie was curving and gambolling +with delight round my feet and legs, looking, however, up in my face +with her intelligent, apprehensive eyes, as if fearing lest I might +greet her with a blow, as I had done oftentimes before. But I cried +with gladness, as I stooped down and patted her. My mind was sharing in +my body’s weakness, and I could not reason, but I knew that help was at +hand. A gray figure came more and more distinctly out of the thick, +close-pressing darkness. It was Gregory wrapped in his maud. + +“Oh, Gregory!” said I, and I fell upon his neck, unable to speak +another word. He never spoke much, and made me no answer for some +little time. Then he told me we must move, we must walk for the dear +life—we must find our road home, if possible; but we must move, or we +should be frozen to death. + +“Don’t you know the way home?” asked I. + +“I thought I did when I set out, but I am doubtful now. The snow blinds +me, and I am feared that in moving about just now, I have lost the +right gait homewards.” + +He had his shepherd’s staff with him, and by dint of plunging it before +us at every step we took—clinging close to each other, we went on +safely enough, as far as not falling down any of the steep rocks, but +it was slow, dreary work. My brother, I saw, was more guided by Lassie +and the way she took than anything else, trusting to her instinct. It +was too dark to see far before us; but he called her back continually, +and noted from what quarter she returned, and shaped our slow steps +accordingly. But the tedious motion scarcely kept my very blood from +freezing. Every bone, every fibre in my body seemed first to ache, and +then to swell, and then to turn numb with the intense cold. My brother +bore it better than I, from having been more out upon the hills. He did +not speak, except to call Lassie. I strove to be brave, and not +complain; but now I felt the deadly fatal sleep stealing over me. + +“I can go no farther,” I said, in a drowsy tone. I remember I suddenly +became dogged and resolved. Sleep I would, were it only for five +minutes. If death were to be the consequence, sleep I would. Gregory +stood still. I suppose, he recognized the peculiar phase of suffering +to which I had been brought by the cold. + +“It is of no use,” said he, as if to himself. “We are no nearer home +than we were when we started, as far as I can tell. Our only chance is +in Lassie. Here! roll thee in my maud, lad, and lay thee down on this +sheltered side of this bit of rock. Creep close under it, lad, and I’ll +lie by thee, and strive to keep the warmth in us. Stay! hast gotten +aught about thee they’ll know at home?” + +I felt him unkind thus to keep me from slumber, but on his repeating +the question, I pulled out my pocket-handkerchief, of some showy +pattern, which Aunt Fanny had hemmed for me—Gregory took it, and tied +it round Lassie’s neck. + +“Hie thee, Lassie, hie thee home!” And the white-faced ill-favoured +brute was off like a shot in the darkness. Now I might lie down—now I +might sleep. In my drowsy stupor I felt that I was being tenderly +covered up by my brother; but what with I neither knew nor cared—I was +too dull, too selfish, too numb to think and reason, or I might have +known that in that bleak bare place there was nought to wrap me in, +save what was taken off another. I was glad enough when he ceased his +cares and lay down by me. I took his hand. + +“Thou canst not remember, lad, how we lay together thus by our dying +mother. She put thy small, wee hand in mine—I reckon she sees us now; +and belike we shall soon be with her. Anyhow, God’s will be done.” + +“Dear Gregory,” I muttered, and crept nearer to him for warmth. He was +talking still, and again about our mother, when I fell asleep. In an +instant—or so it seemed—there were many voices about me—many faces +hovering round me—the sweet luxury of warmth was stealing into every +part of me. I was in my own little bed at home. I am thankful to say, +my first word was “Gregory?” + +A look passed from one to another—my father’s stern old face strove in +vain to keep its sternness; his mouth quivered, his eyes filled slowly +with unwonted tears. + +“I would have given him half my land—I would have blessed him as my +son,—oh God! I would have knelt at his feet, and asked him to forgive +my hardness of heart.” + +I heard no more. A whirl came through my brain, catching me back to +death. + +I came slowly to my consciousness, weeks afterwards. My father’s hair +was white when I recovered, and his hands shook as he looked into my +face. + +We spoke no more of Gregory. We could not speak of him; but he was +strangely in our thoughts. Lassie came and went with never a word of +blame; nay, my father would try to stroke her, but she shrank away; and +he, as if reproved by the poor dumb beast, would sigh, and be silent +and abstracted for a time. + +Aunt Fanny—always a talker—told me all. How, on that fatal night, my +father,—irritated by my prolonged absence, and probably more anxious +than he cared to show, had been fierce and imperious, even beyond his +wont, to Gregory; had upbraided him with his father’s poverty, his own +stupidity which made his services good for nothing—for so, in spite of +the old shepherd, my father always chose to consider them. At last, +Gregory had risen up, and whistled Lassie out with him—poor Lassie, +crouching underneath his chair for fear of a kick or a blow. Some time +before, there had been some talk between my father and my aunt +respecting my return; and when aunt Fanny told me all this, she said +she fancied that Gregory might have noticed the coming storm, and gone +out silently to meet me. Three hours afterwards, when all were running +about in wild alarm, not knowing whither to go in search of me—not even +missing Gregory, or heeding his absence, poor fellow—poor, poor +fellow!—Lassie came home, with my handkerchief tied round her neck. +They knew and understood, and the whole strength of the farm was turned +out to follow her, with wraps, and blankets, and brandy, and every +thing that could be thought of. I lay in chilly sleep, but still alive, +beneath the rock that Lassie guided them to. I was covered over with my +brother’s plaid, and his thick shepherd’s coat was carefully wrapped +round my feet. He was in his shirt-sleeves—his arm thrown over me—a +quiet smile (he had hardly ever smiled in life) upon his still, cold +face. + +My father’s last words were, “God forgive me my hardness of heart +towards the fatherless child!” + +And what marked the depth of his feeling of repentance, perhaps more +than all, considering the passionate love he bore my mother, was this: +we found a paper of directions after his death, in which he desired +that he might lie at the foot of the grave, in which, by his desire, +poor Gregory had been laid with OUR MOTHER. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROUND THE SOFA *** + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Round the Sofa</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Elizabeth Gaskell</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: April 4, 2000 [eBook #2533]<br /> +[Most recently updated: December 22, 2021]</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: David Price, Vanessa Mosher, Jennifer Lee, Alev Akman, Andy Wallace, Audrey Emmitt and Eugenia Corbo</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROUND THE SOFA ***</div> + +<h1>ROUND THE SOFA</h1> + +<h2 class="no-break">by Elizabeth Gaskell</h2> + +<hr /> + +<h2>Contents</h2> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap01">MY LADY LUDLOW</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap02">AN ACCURSED RACE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap03">THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap04">HALF A LIFE-TIME AGO</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap05">THE POOR CLARE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap06">THE HALF-BROTHERS </a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p> +Long ago I was placed by my parents under the medical treatment of a certain +Mr. Dawson, a surgeon in Edinburgh, who had obtained a reputation for the cure +of a particular class of diseases. I was sent with my governess into lodgings +near his house, in the Old Town. I was to combine lessons from the excellent +Edinburgh masters, with the medicines and exercises needed for my +indisposition. It was at first rather dreary to leave my brothers and sisters, +and to give up our merry out-of-doors life with our country home, for dull +lodgings, with only poor grave Miss Duncan for a companion; and to exchange our +romps in the garden and rambles through the fields for stiff walks in the +streets, the decorum of which obliged me to tie my bonnet-strings neatly, and +put on my shawl with some regard to straightness. +</p> + +<p> +The evenings were the worst. It was autumn, and of course they daily grew +longer: they were long enough, I am sure, when we first settled down in those +gray and drab lodgings. For, you must know, my father and mother were not rich, +and there were a great many of us, and the medical expenses to be incurred by +my being placed under Mr. Dawson’s care were expected to be considerable; +therefore, one great point in our search after lodgings was economy. My father, +who was too true a gentleman to feel false shame, had named this necessity for +cheapness to Mr. Dawson; and in return, Mr. Dawson had told him of those at No. +6 Cromer Street, in which we were finally settled. The house belonged to an old +man, at one time a tutor to young men preparing for the University, in which +capacity he had become known to Mr. Dawson. But his pupils had dropped off; and +when we went to lodge with him, I imagine that his principal support was +derived from a few occasional lessons which he gave, and from letting the rooms +that we took, a drawing-room opening into a bed-room, out of which a smaller +chamber led. His daughter was his housekeeper: a son, whom we never saw, +supposed to be leading the same life that his father had done before him, only +we never saw or heard of any pupils; and there was one hard-working, honest +little Scottish maiden, square, stumpy, neat, and plain, who might have been +any age from eighteen to forty. +</p> + +<p> +Looking back on the household now, there was perhaps much to admire in their +quiet endurance of decent poverty; but at this time, their poverty grated +against many of my tastes, for I could not recognize the fact, that in a town +the simple graces of fresh flowers, clean white muslin curtains, pretty bright +chintzes, all cost money, which is saved by the adoption of dust-coloured +moreen, and mud-coloured carpets. There was not a penny spent on mere elegance +in that room; yet there was everything considered necessary to comfort: but +after all, such mere pretences of comfort! a hard, slippery, black horse-hair +sofa, which was no place of rest; an old piano, serving as a sideboard; a +grate, narrowed by an inner supplement, till it hardly held a handful of the +small coal which could scarcely ever be stirred up into a genial blaze. But +there were two evils worse than even this coldness and bareness of the rooms: +one was that we were provided with a latch-key, which allowed us to open the +front door whenever we came home from a walk, and go upstairs without meeting +any face of welcome, or hearing the sound of a human voice in the apparently +deserted house—Mr. Mackenzie piqued himself on the noiselessness of his +establishment; and the other, which might almost seem to neutralize the first, +was the danger we were always exposed to on going out, of the old +man—sly, miserly, and intelligent—popping out upon us from his +room, close to the left hand of the door, with some civility which we learned +to distrust as a mere pretext for extorting more money, yet which it was +difficult to refuse: such as the offer of any books out of his library, a great +temptation, for we could see into the shelf-lined room; but just as we were on +the point of yielding, there was a hint of the “consideration” to +be expected for the loan of books of so much higher a class than any to be +obtained at the circulating library, which made us suddenly draw back. Another +time he came out of his den to offer us written cards, to distribute among our +acquaintance, on which he undertook to teach the very things I was to learn; +but I would rather have been the most ignorant woman that ever lived than tried +to learn anything from that old fox in breeches. When we had declined all his +proposals, he went apparently into dudgeon. Once when we had forgotten our +latch-key we rang in vain for many times at the door, seeing our landlord +standing all the time at the window to the right, looking out of it in an +absent and philosophical state of mind, from which no signs and gestures of +ours could arouse him. +</p> + +<p> +The women of the household were far better, and more really respectable, though +even on them poverty had laid her heavy left hand, instead of her blessing +right. Miss Mackenzie kept us as short in our food as she decently +could—we paid so much a week for our board, be it observed; and if one +day we had less appetite than another our meals were docked to the smaller +standard, until Miss Duncan ventured to remonstrate. The sturdy +maid-of-all-work was scrupulously honest, but looked discontented, and scarcely +vouchsafed us thanks, when on leaving we gave her what Mrs. Dawson had told us +would be considered handsome in most lodgings. I do not believe Phenice ever +received wages from the Mackenzies. +</p> + +<p> +But that dear Mrs. Dawson! The mention of her comes into my mind like the +bright sunshine into our dingy little drawing room came on those days;—as +a sweet scent of violets greets the sorrowful passer among the woodlands. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Dawson was not Mr. Dawson’s wife, for he was a bachelor. She was his +crippled sister, an old maid, who had, what she called, taken her brevet rank. +</p> + +<p> +After we had been about a fortnight in Edinburgh, Mr. Dawson said, in a sort of +half doubtful manner to Miss Duncan— +</p> + +<p> +“My sister bids me say, that every Monday evening a few friends come in +to sit round her sofa for an hour or so,—some before going to gayer +parties—and that if you and Miss Greatorex would like a little change, +she would only be too glad to see you. Any time from seven to eight to-night; +and I must add my injunctions, both for her sake, and for that of my little +patient’s, here, that you leave at nine o’clock. After all, I do +not know if you will care to come; but Margaret bade me ask you;” and he +glanced up suspiciously and sharply at us. If either of us had felt the +slightest reluctance, however well disguised by manner, to accept this +invitation, I am sure he would have at once detected our feelings, and +withdrawn it; so jealous and chary was he of anything pertaining to the +appreciation of this beloved sister. +</p> + +<p> +But if it had been to spend an evening at the dentist’s, I believe I +should have welcomed the invitation, so weary was I of the monotony of the +nights in our lodgings; and as for Miss Duncan, an invitation to tea was of +itself a pure and unmixed honour, and one to be accepted with all becoming form +and gratitude: so Mr. Dawson’s sharp glances over his spectacles failed +to detect anything but the truest pleasure, and he went on. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll find it very dull, I dare say. Only a few old fogies like +myself, and one or two good sweet young women: I never know who’ll come. +Margaret is obliged to lie in a darkened room—only half-lighted I +mean,—because her eyes are weak,—oh, it will be very stupid, I dare +say: don’t thank me till you’ve been once and tried it, and then if +you like it, your best thanks will be to come again every Monday, from +half-past seven to nine, you know. Good-bye, good-bye.” +</p> + +<p> +Hitherto I had never been out to a party of grown-up people; and no court ball +to a London young lady could seem more redolent of honour and pleasure than +this Monday evening to me. +</p> + +<p> +Dressed out in new stiff book-muslin, made up to my throat,—a frock which +had seemed to me and my sisters the height of earthly grandeur and +finery—Alice, our old nurse, had been making it at home, in contemplation +of the possibility of such an event during my stay in Edinburgh, but which had +then appeared to me a robe too lovely and angelic to be ever worn short of +heaven—I went with Miss Duncan to Mr. Dawson’s at the appointed +time. We entered through one small lofty room, perhaps I ought to call it an +antechamber, for the house was old-fashioned, and stately and grand, the large +square drawing-room, into the centre of which Mrs. Dawson’s sofa was +drawn. Behind her a little was placed a table with a great cluster candlestick +upon it, bearing seven or eight wax-lights; and that was all the light in the +room, which looked to me very vast and indistinct after our pinched-up +apartment at the Mackenzie’s. Mrs. Dawson must have been sixty; and yet +her face looked very soft and smooth and child-like. Her hair was quite gray: +it would have looked white but for the snowiness of her cap, and satin ribbon. +She was wrapped in a kind of dressing-gown of French grey merino: the furniture +of the room was deep rose-colour, and white and gold,—the paper which +covered the walls was Indian, beginning low down with a profusion of tropical +leaves and birds and insects, and gradually diminishing in richness of detail +till at the top it ended in the most delicate tendrils and most filmy insects. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Dawson had acquired much riches in his profession, and his house gave one +this impression. In the corners of the rooms were great jars of Eastern china, +filled with flower-leaves and spices; and in the middle of all this was placed +the sofa, which poor Margaret Dawson passed whole days, and months, and years, +without the power of moving by herself. By-and-by Mrs. Dawson’s maid +brought in tea and macaroons for us, and a little cup of milk and water and a +biscuit for her. Then the door opened. We had come very early, and in came +Edinburgh professors, Edinburgh beauties, and celebrities, all on their way to +some other gayer and later party, but coming first to see Mrs. Dawson, and tell +her their <i>bon-mots</i>, or their interests, or their plans. By each learned +man, by each lovely girl, she was treated as a dear friend, who knew something +more about their own individual selves, independent of their reputation and +general society-character, than any one else. +</p> + +<p> +It was very brilliant and very dazzling, and gave enough to think about and +wonder about for many days. +</p> + +<p> +Monday after Monday we went, stationary, silent; what could we find to say to +any one but Mrs. Margaret herself? Winter passed, summer was coming, still I +was ailing, and weary of my life; but still Mr. Dawson gave hopes of my +ultimate recovery. My father and mother came and went; but they could not stay +long, they had so many claims upon them. Mrs. Margaret Dawson had become my +dear friend, although, perhaps, I had never exchanged as many words with her as +I had with Miss Mackenzie, but then with Mrs. Dawson every word was a pearl or +a diamond. +</p> + +<p> +People began to drop off from Edinburgh, only a few were left, and I am not +sure if our Monday evenings were not all the pleasanter. +</p> + +<p> +There was Mr. Sperano, the Italian exile, banished even from France, where he +had long resided, and now teaching Italian with meek diligence in the northern +city; there was Mr. Preston, the Westmoreland squire, or, as he preferred to be +called, statesman, whose wife had come to Edinburgh for the education of their +numerous family, and who, whenever her husband had come over on one of his +occasional visits, was only too glad to accompany him to Mrs. Dawson’s +Monday evenings, he and the invalid lady having been friends from long ago. +These and ourselves kept steady visitors, and enjoyed ourselves all the more +from having the more of Mrs. Dawson’s society. +</p> + +<p> +One evening I had brought the little stool close to her sofa, and was caressing +her thin white hand, when the thought came into my head and out I spoke it. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me, dear Mrs. Dawson,” said I, “how long you have been +in Edinburgh; you do not speak Scotch, and Mr. Dawson says he is not +Scotch.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I am Lancashire—Liverpool-born,” said she, smiling. +“Don’t you hear it in my broad tongue?” +</p> + +<p> +“I hear something different to other people, but I like it because it is +just you; is that Lancashire?” +</p> + +<p> +“I dare say it is; for, though I am sure Lady Ludlow took pains enough to +correct me in my younger days, I never could get rightly over the +accent.” +</p> + +<p> +“Lady Ludlow,” said I, “what had she to do with you? I heard +you talking about her to Lady Madeline Stuart the first evening I ever came +here; you and she seemed so fond of Lady Ludlow; who is she?” +</p> + +<p> +“She is dead, my child; dead long ago.” +</p> + +<p> +I felt sorry I had spoken about her, Mrs. Dawson looked so grave and sad. I +suppose she perceived my sorrow, for she went on and said—“My dear, +I like to talk and to think of Lady Ludlow: she was my true, kind friend and +benefactress for many years; ask me what you like about her, and do not think +you give me pain.” +</p> + +<p> +I grew bold at this. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you tell me all about her, then, please, Mrs. Dawson?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay,” said she, smiling, “that would be too long a story. +Here are Signor Sperano, and Miss Duncan, and Mr. and Mrs. Preston are coming +to-night, Mr. Preston told me; how would they like to hear an old-world story +which, after all, would be no story at all, neither beginning, nor middle, nor +end, only a bundle of recollections?” +</p> + +<p> +“If you speak of me, madame,” said Signor Sperano, “I can +only say you do me one great honour by recounting in my presence anything about +any person that has ever interested you.” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Duncan tried to say something of the same kind. In the middle of her +confused speech, Mr. and Mrs. Preston came in. I sprang up; I went to meet +them. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” said I, “Mrs. Dawson is just going to tell us all about +Lady Ludlow, and a great deal more, only she is afraid it won’t interest +anybody: do say you would like to hear it!” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Dawson smiled at me, and in reply to their urgency she promised to tell us +all about Lady Ludlow, on condition that each one of us should, after she had +ended, narrate something interesting, which we had either heard, or which had +fallen within our own experience. We all promised willingly, and then gathered +round her sofa to hear what she could tell us about my Lady Ludlow. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap01"></a>MY LADY LUDLOW</h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>CHAPTER I.</h2> + +<p> +I am an old woman now, and things are very different to what they were in my +youth. Then we, who travelled, travelled in coaches, carrying six inside, and +making a two days’ journey out of what people now go over in a couple of +hours with a whizz and a flash, and a screaming whistle, enough to deafen one. +Then letters came in but three times a week: indeed, in some places in Scotland +where I have stayed when I was a girl, the post came in but once a +month;—but letters were letters then; and we made great prizes of them, +and read them and studied them like books. Now the post comes rattling in twice +a day, bringing short jerky notes, some without beginning or end, but just a +little sharp sentence, which well-bred folks would think too abrupt to be +spoken. Well, well! they may all be improvements,—I dare say they are; +but you will never meet with a Lady Ludlow in these days. +</p> + +<p> +I will try and tell you about her. It is no story: it has, as I said, neither +beginning, middle, nor end. +</p> + +<p> +My father was a poor clergyman with a large family. My mother was always said +to have good blood in her veins; and when she wanted to maintain her position +with the people she was thrown among,—principally rich democratic +manufacturers, all for liberty and the French Revolution,—she would put +on a pair of ruffles, trimmed with real old English point, very much darned to +be sure,—but which could not be bought new for love or money, as the art +of making it was lost years before. These ruffles showed, as she said, that her +ancestors had been Somebodies, when the grandfathers of the rich folk, who now +looked down upon her, had been Nobodies,—if, indeed, they had any +grandfathers at all. I don’t know whether any one out of our own family +ever noticed these ruffles,—but we were all taught as children to feel +rather proud when my mother put them on, and to hold up our heads as became the +descendants of the lady who had first possessed the lace. Not but what my dear +father often told us that pride was a great sin; we were never allowed to be +proud of anything but my mother’s ruffles: and she was so innocently +happy when she put them on,—often, poor dear creature, to a very worn and +threadbare gown,—that I still think, even after all my experience of +life, they were a blessing to the family. You will think that I am wandering +away from my Lady Ludlow. Not at all. The Lady who had owned the lace, Ursula +Hanbury, was a common ancestress of both my mother and my Lady Ludlow. And so +it fell out, that when my poor father died, and my mother was sorely pressed to +know what to do with her nine children, and looked far and wide for signs of +willingness to help, Lady Ludlow sent her a letter, proffering aid and +assistance. I see that letter now: a large sheet of thick yellow paper, with a +straight broad margin left on the left-hand side of the delicate Italian +writing,—writing which contained far more in the same space of paper than +all the sloping, or masculine hand-writings of the present day. It was sealed +with a coat-of-arms,—a lozenge,—for Lady Ludlow was a widow. My +mother made us notice the motto, “Foy et Loy,” and told us where to +look for the quarterings of the Hanbury arms before she opened the letter. +Indeed, I think she was rather afraid of what the contents might be; for, as I +have said, in her anxious love for her fatherless children, she had written to +many people upon whom, to tell truly, she had but little claim; and their cold, +hard answers had many a time made her cry, when she thought none of us were +looking. I do not even know if she had ever seen Lady Ludlow: all I knew of her +was that she was a very grand lady, whose grandmother had been half-sister to +my mother’s great-grandmother; but of her character and circumstances I +had heard nothing, and I doubt if my mother was acquainted with them. +</p> + +<p> +I looked over my mother’s shoulder to read the letter; it began, +“Dear Cousin Margaret Dawson,” and I think I felt hopeful from the +moment I saw those words. She went on to say,—stay, I think I can +remember the very words: +</p> + +<p> +‘DEAR COUSIN MARGARET DAWSON,—I have been much grieved to hear of +the loss you have sustained in the death of so good a husband, and so excellent +a clergyman as I have always heard that my late cousin Richard was esteemed to +be.’ +</p> + +<p> +“There!” said my mother, laying her finger on the passage, +“read that aloud to the little ones. Let them hear how their +father’s good report travelled far and wide, and how well he is spoken of +by one whom he never saw. COUSIN Richard, how prettily her ladyship writes! Go +on, Margaret!” She wiped her eyes as she spoke: and laid her fingers on +her lips, to still my little sister, Cecily, who, not understanding anything +about the important letter, was beginning to talk and make a noise. +</p> + +<p> +‘You say you are left with nine children. I too should have had nine, if +mine had all lived. I have none left but Rudolph, the present Lord Ludlow. He +is married, and lives, for the most part, in London. But I entertain six young +gentlewomen at my house at Connington, who are to me as daughters—save +that, perhaps, I restrict them in certain indulgences in dress and diet that +might be befitting in young ladies of a higher rank, and of more probable +wealth. These young persons—all of condition, though out of +means—are my constant companions, and I strive to do my duty as a +Christian lady towards them. One of these young gentlewomen died (at her own +home, whither she had gone upon a visit) last May. Will you do me the favour to +allow your eldest daughter to supply her place in my household? She is, as I +make out, about sixteen years of age. She will find companions here who are but +a little older than herself. I dress my young friends myself, and make each of +them a small allowance for pocket-money. They have but few opportunities for +matrimony, as Connington is far removed from any town. The clergyman is a deaf +old widower; my agent is married; and as for the neighbouring farmers, they +are, of course, below the notice of the young gentlewomen under my protection. +Still, if any young woman wishes to marry, and has conducted herself to my +satisfaction, I give her a wedding dinner, her clothes, and her house-linen. +And such as remain with me to my death, will find a small competency provided +for them in my will. I reserve to myself the option of paying their travelling +expenses,—disliking gadding women, on the one hand; on the other, not +wishing by too long absence from the family home to weaken natural ties. +</p> + +<p> +‘If my proposal pleases you and your daughter—or rather, if it +pleases you, for I trust your daughter has been too well brought up to have a +will in opposition to yours—let me know, dear cousin Margaret Dawson, and +I will make arrangements for meeting the young gentlewoman at Cavistock, which +is the nearest point to which the coach will bring her.’ +</p> + +<p> +My mother dropped the letter, and sat silent. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall not know what to do without you, Margaret.” +</p> + +<p> +A moment before, like a young untried girl as I was, I had been pleased at the +notion of seeing a new place, and leading a new life. But now,—my +mother’s look of sorrow, and the children’s cry of remonstrance: +“Mother; I won’t go,” I said. +</p> + +<p> +“Nay! but you had better,” replied she, shaking her head. +“Lady Ludlow has much power. She can help your brothers. It will not do +to slight her offer.” +</p> + +<p> +So we accepted it, after much consultation. We were rewarded,—or so we +thought,—for, afterwards, when I came to know Lady Ludlow, I saw that she +would have done her duty by us, as helpless relations, however we might have +rejected her kindness,—by a presentation to Christ’s Hospital for +one of my brothers. +</p> + +<p> +And this was how I came to know my Lady Ludlow. +</p> + +<p> +I remember well the afternoon of my arrival at Hanbury Court. Her ladyship had +sent to meet me at the nearest post-town at which the mail-coach stopped. There +was an old groom inquiring for me, the ostler said, if my name was +Dawson—from Hanbury Court, he believed. I felt it rather formidable; and +first began to understand what was meant by going among strangers, when I lost +sight of the guard to whom my mother had intrusted me. I was perched up in a +high gig with a hood to it, such as in those days was called a chair, and my +companion was driving deliberately through the most pastoral country I had ever +yet seen. By-and-by we ascended a long hill, and the man got out and walked at +the horse’s head. I should have liked to walk, too, very much indeed; but +I did not know how far I might do it; and, in fact, I dared not speak to ask to +be helped down the deep steps of the gig. We were at last at the top,—on +a long, breezy, sweeping, unenclosed piece of ground, called, as I afterwards +learnt, a Chase. The groom stopped, breathed, patted his horse, and then +mounted again to my side. +</p> + +<p> +“Are we near Hanbury Court?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Near! Why, Miss! we’ve a matter of ten mile yet to go.” +</p> + +<p> +Once launched into conversation, we went on pretty glibly. I fancy he had been +afraid of beginning to speak to me, just as I was to him; but he got over his +shyness with me sooner than I did mine with him. I let him choose the subjects +of conversation, although very often I could not understand the points of +interest in them: for instance, he talked for more than a quarter of an hour of +a famous race which a certain dog-fox had given him, above thirty years before; +and spoke of all the covers and turns just as if I knew them as well as he did; +and all the time I was wondering what kind of an animal a dog-fox might be. +</p> + +<p> +After we left the Chase, the road grew worse. No one in these days, who has not +seen the byroads of fifty years ago, can imagine what they were. We had to +quarter, as Randal called it, nearly all the way along the deep-rutted, miry +lanes; and the tremendous jolts I occasionally met with made my seat in the gig +so unsteady that I could not look about me at all, I was so much occupied in +holding on. The road was too muddy for me to walk without dirtying myself more +than I liked to do, just before my first sight of my Lady Ludlow. But +by-and-by, when we came to the fields in which the lane ended, I begged Randal +to help me down, as I saw that I could pick my steps among the pasture grass +without making myself unfit to be seen; and Randal, out of pity for his +steaming horse, wearied with the hard struggle through the mud, thanked me +kindly, and helped me down with a springing jump. +</p> + +<p> +The pastures fell gradually down to the lower land, shut in on either side by +rows of high elms, as if there had been a wide grand avenue here in former +times. Down the grassy gorge we went, seeing the sunset sky at the end of the +shadowed descent. Suddenly we came to a long flight of steps. +</p> + +<p> +“If you’ll run down there, Miss, I’ll go round and meet you, +and then you’d better mount again, for my lady will like to see you drive +up to the house.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are we near the house?” said I, suddenly checked by the idea. +</p> + +<p> +“Down there, Miss,” replied he, pointing with his whip to certain +stacks of twisted chimneys rising out of a group of trees, in deep shadow +against the crimson light, and which lay just beyond a great square lawn at the +base of the steep slope of a hundred yards, on the edge of which we stood. +</p> + +<p> +I went down the steps quietly enough. I met Randal and the gig at the bottom; +and, falling into a side road to the left, we drove sedately round, through the +gateway, and into the great court in front of the house. +</p> + +<p> +The road by which we had come lay right at the back. +</p> + +<p> +Hanbury Court is a vast red-brick house—at least, it is cased in part +with red bricks; and the gate-house and walls about the place are of +brick,—with stone facings at every corner, and door, and window, such as +you see at Hampton Court. At the back are the gables, and arched doorways, and +stone mullions, which show (so Lady Ludlow used to tell us) that it was once a +priory. There was a prior’s parlour, I know—only we called it Mrs. +Medlicott’s room; and there was a tithe-barn as big as a church, and rows +of fish-ponds, all got ready for the monks’ fasting-days in old time. But +all this I did not see till afterwards. I hardly noticed, this first night, the +great Virginian Creeper (said to have been the first planted in England by one +of my lady’s ancestors) that half covered the front of the house. As I +had been unwilling to leave the guard of the coach, so did I now feel unwilling +to leave Randal, a known friend of three hours. But there was no help for it; +in I must go; past the grand-looking old gentleman holding the door open for +me, on into the great hall on the right hand, into which the sun’s last +rays were sending in glorious red light,—the gentleman was now walking +before me,—up a step on to the dais, as I afterwards learned that it was +called,—then again to the left, through a series of sitting-rooms, +opening one out of another, and all of them looking into a stately garden, +glowing, even in the twilight, with the bloom of flowers. We went up four steps +out of the last of these rooms, and then my guide lifted up a heavy silk +curtain and I was in the presence of my Lady Ludlow. +</p> + +<p> +She was very small of stature, and very upright. She wore a great lace cap, +nearly half her own height, I should think, that went round her head (caps +which tied under the chin, and which we called “mobs,” came in +later, and my lady held them in great contempt, saying people might as well +come down in their nightcaps). In front of my lady’s cap was a great bow +of white satin ribbon; and a broad band of the same ribbon was tied tight round +her head, and served to keep the cap straight. She had a fine Indian muslin +shawl folded over her shoulders and across her chest, and an apron of the same; +a black silk mode gown, made with short sleeves and ruffles, and with the tail +thereof pulled through the pocket-hole, so as to shorten it to a useful length: +beneath it she wore, as I could plainly see, a quilted lavender satin +petticoat. Her hair was snowy white, but I hardly saw it, it was so covered +with her cap: her skin, even at her age, was waxen in texture and tint; her +eyes were large and dark blue, and must have been her great beauty when she was +young, for there was nothing particular, as far as I can remember, either in +mouth or nose. She had a great gold-headed stick by her chair; but I think it +was more as a mark of state and dignity than for use; for she had as light and +brisk a step when she chose as any girl of fifteen, and, in her private early +walk of meditation in the mornings, would go as swiftly from garden alley to +garden alley as any one of us. +</p> + +<p> +She was standing up when I went in. I dropped my curtsey at the door, which my +mother had always taught me as a part of good manners, and went up +instinctively to my lady. She did not put out her hand, but raised herself a +little on tiptoe, and kissed me on both cheeks. +</p> + +<p> +“You are cold, my child. You shall have a dish of tea with me.” She +rang a little hand-bell on the table by her, and her waiting-maid came in from +a small anteroom; and, as if all had been prepared, and was awaiting my +arrival, brought with her a small china service with tea ready made, and a +plate of delicately-cut bread and butter, every morsel of which I could have +eaten, and been none the better for it, so hungry was I after my long ride. The +waiting-maid took off my cloak, and I sat down, sorely alarmed at the silence, +the hushed foot-falls of the subdued maiden over the thick carpet, and the soft +voice and clear pronunciation of my Lady Ludlow. My teaspoon fell against my +cup with a sharp noise, that seemed so out of place and season that I blushed +deeply. My lady caught my eye with hers,—both keen and sweet were those +dark-blue eyes of her ladyship’s:— +</p> + +<p> +“Your hands are very cold, my dear; take off those gloves” (I wore +thick serviceable doeskin, and had been too shy to take them off unbidden), +“and let me try and warm them—the evenings are very chilly.” +And she held my great red hands in hers,—soft, warm, white, ring-laden. +Looking at last a little wistfully into my face, she said—“Poor +child! And you’re the eldest of nine! I had a daughter who would have +been just your age; but I cannot fancy her the eldest of nine.” Then came +a pause of silence; and then she rang her bell, and desired her waiting-maid, +Adams, to show me to my room. +</p> + +<p> +It was so small that I think it must have been a cell. The walls were +whitewashed stone; the bed was of white dimity. There was a small piece of red +staircarpet on each side of the bed, and two chairs. In a closet adjoining were +my washstand and toilet-table. There was a text of Scripture painted on the +wall right opposite to my bed; and below hung a print, common enough in those +days, of King George and Queen Charlotte, with all their numerous children, +down to the little Princess Amelia in a go-cart. On each side hung a small +portrait, also engraved: on the left, it was Louis the Sixteenth; on the other, +Marie-Antoinette. On the chimney-piece there was a tinder-box and a +Prayer-book. I do not remember anything else in the room. Indeed, in those days +people did not dream of writing-tables, and inkstands, and portfolios, and easy +chairs, and what not. We were taught to go into our bed-rooms for the purposes +of dressing, and sleeping, and praying. +</p> + +<p> +Presently I was summoned to supper. I followed the young lady who had been sent +to call me, down the wide shallow stairs, into the great hall, through which I +had first passed on my way to my Lady Ludlow’s room. There were four +other young gentlewomen, all standing, and all silent, who curtsied to me when +I first came in. They were dressed in a kind of uniform: muslin caps bound +round their heads with blue ribbons, plain muslin handkerchiefs, lawn aprons, +and drab-coloured stuff gowns. They were all gathered together at a little +distance from the table, on which were placed a couple of cold chickens, a +salad, and a fruit tart. On the dais there was a smaller round table, on which +stood a silver jug filled with milk, and a small roll. Near that was set a +carved chair, with a countess’s coronet surmounting the back of it. I +thought that some one might have spoken to me; but they were shy, and I was +shy; or else there was some other reason; but, indeed, almost the minute after +I had come into the hall by the door at the lower hand, her ladyship entered by +the door opening upon the dais; whereupon we all curtsied very low; I because I +saw the others do it. She stood, and looked at us for a moment. +</p> + +<p> +“Young gentlewomen,” said she, “make Margaret Dawson welcome +among you;” and they treated me with the kind politeness due to a +stranger, but still without any talking beyond what was required for the +purposes of the meal. After it was over, and grace was said by one of our +party, my lady rang her hand-bell, and the servants came in and cleared away +the supper things: then they brought in a portable reading-desk, which was +placed on the dais, and, the whole household trooping in, my lady called to one +of my companions to come up and read the Psalms and Lessons for the day. I +remember thinking how afraid I should have been had I been in her place. There +were no prayers. My lady thought it schismatic to have any prayers excepting +those in the Prayer-book; and would as soon have preached a sermon herself in +the parish church, as have allowed any one not a deacon at the least to read +prayers in a private dwelling-house. I am not sure that even then she would +have approved of his reading them in an unconsecrated place. +</p> + +<p> +She had been maid-of-honour to Queen Charlotte: a Hanbury of that old stock +that flourished in the days of the Plantagenets, and heiress of all the land +that remained to the family, of the great estates which had once stretched into +four separate counties. Hanbury Court was hers by right. She had married Lord +Ludlow, and had lived for many years at his various seats, and away from her +ancestral home. She had lost all her children but one, and most of them had +died at these houses of Lord Ludlow’s; and, I dare say, that gave my lady +a distaste to the places, and a longing to come back to Hanbury Court, where +she had been so happy as a girl. I imagine her girlhood had been the happiest +time of her life; for, now I think of it, most of her opinions, when I knew her +in later life, were singular enough then, but had been universally prevalent +fifty years before. For instance, while I lived at Hanbury Court, the cry for +education was beginning to come up: Mr. Raikes had set up his Sunday Schools; +and some clergymen were all for teaching writing and arithmetic, as well as +reading. My lady would have none of this; it was levelling and revolutionary, +she said. When a young woman came to be hired, my lady would have her in, and +see if she liked her looks and her dress, and question her about her family. +Her ladyship laid great stress upon this latter point, saying that a girl who +did not warm up when any interest or curiosity was expressed about her mother, +or the “baby” (if there was one), was not likely to make a good +servant. Then she would make her put out her feet, to see if they were well and +neatly shod. Then she would bid her say the Lord’s Prayer and the Creed. +Then she inquired if she could write. If she could, and she had liked all that +had gone before, her face sank—it was a great disappointment, for it was +an all but inviolable rule with her never to engage a servant who could write. +But I have known her ladyship break through it, although in both cases in which +she did so she put the girl’s principles to a further and unusual test in +asking her to repeat the Ten Commandments. One pert young woman—and yet I +was sorry for her too, only she afterwards married a rich draper in +Shrewsbury—who had got through her trials pretty tolerably, considering +she could write, spoilt all, by saying glibly, at the end of the last +Commandment, “An’t please your ladyship, I can cast +accounts.” +</p> + +<p> +“Go away, wench,” said my lady in a hurry, “you’re only +fit for trade; you will not suit me for a servant.” The girl went away +crestfallen: in a minute, however, my lady sent me after her to see that she +had something to eat before leaving the house; and, indeed, she sent for her +once again, but it was only to give her a Bible, and to bid her beware of +French principles, which had led the French to cut off their king’s and +queen’s heads. +</p> + +<p> +The poor, blubbering girl said, “Indeed, my lady, I wouldn’t hurt a +fly, much less a king, and I cannot abide the French, nor frogs neither, for +that matter.” +</p> + +<p> +But my lady was inexorable, and took a girl who could neither read nor write, +to make up for her alarm about the progress of education towards addition and +subtraction; and afterwards, when the clergyman who was at Hanbury parish when +I came there, had died, and the bishop had appointed another, and a younger +man, in his stead, this was one of the points on which he and my lady did not +agree. While good old deaf Mr. Mountford lived, it was my lady’s custom, +when indisposed for a sermon, to stand up at the door of her large square +pew,—just opposite to the reading-desk,—and to say (at that part of +the morning service where it is decreed that, in quires and places where they +sing, here followeth the anthem): “Mr. Mountford, I will not trouble you +for a discourse this morning.” And we all knelt down to the Litany with +great satisfaction; for Mr. Mountford, though he could not hear, had always his +eyes open about this part of the service, for any of my lady’s movements. +But the new clergyman, Mr. Gray, was of a different stamp. He was very zealous +in all his parish work; and my lady, who was just as good as she could be to +the poor, was often crying him up as a godsend to the parish, and he never +could send amiss to the Court when he wanted broth, or wine, or jelly, or sago +for a sick person. But he needs must take up the new hobby of education; and I +could see that this put my lady sadly about one Sunday, when she suspected, I +know not how, that there was something to be said in his sermon about a +Sunday-school which he was planning. She stood up, as she had not done since +Mr. Mountford’s death, two years and better before this time, and +said— +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Gray, I will not trouble you for a discourse this morning.” +</p> + +<p> +But her voice was not well-assured and steady; and we knelt down with more of +curiosity than satisfaction in our minds. Mr. Gray preached a very rousing +sermon, on the necessity of establishing a Sabbath-school in the village. My +lady shut her eyes, and seemed to go to sleep; but I don’t believe she +lost a word of it, though she said nothing about it that I heard until the next +Saturday, when two of us, as was the custom, were riding out with her in her +carriage, and we went to see a poor bedridden woman, who lived some miles away +at the other end of the estate and of the parish: and as we came out of the +cottage we met Mr. Gray walking up to it, in a great heat, and looking very +tired. My lady beckoned him to her, and told him she should wait and take him +home with her, adding that she wondered to see him there, so far from his home, +for that it was beyond a Sabbath-day’s journey, and, from what she had +gathered from his sermon the last Sunday, he was all for Judaism against +Christianity. He looked as if he did not understand what she meant; but the +truth was that, besides the way in which he had spoken up for schools and +schooling, he had kept calling Sunday the Sabbath: and, as her ladyship said, +“The Sabbath is the Sabbath, and that’s one thing—it is +Saturday; and if I keep it, I’m a Jew, which I’m not. And Sunday is +Sunday; and that’s another thing; and if I keep it, I’m a +Christian, which I humbly trust I am.” +</p> + +<p> +But when Mr. Gray got an inkling of her meaning in talking about a +Sabbath-day’s journey, he only took notice of a part of it: he smiled and +bowed, and said no one knew better than her ladyship what were the duties that +abrogated all inferior laws regarding the Sabbath; and that he must go in and +read to old Betty Brown, so that he would not detain her ladyship. +</p> + +<p> +“But I shall wait for you, Mr. Gray,” said she. “Or I will +take a drive round by Oakfield, and be back in an hour’s time.” +For, you see, she would not have him feel hurried or troubled with a thought +that he was keeping her waiting, while he ought to be comforting and praying +with old Betty. +</p> + +<p> +“A very pretty young man, my dears,” said she, as we drove away. +“But I shall have my pew glazed all the same.” +</p> + +<p> +We did not know what she meant at the time; but the next Sunday but one we did. +She had the curtains all round the grand old Hanbury family seat taken down, +and, instead of them, there was glass up to the height of six or seven feet. We +entered by a door, with a window in it that drew up or down just like what you +see in carriages. This window was generally down, and then we could hear +perfectly; but if Mr. Gray used the word “Sabbath,” or spoke in +favour of schooling and education, my lady stepped out of her corner, and drew +up the window with a decided clang and clash. +</p> + +<p> +I must tell you something more about Mr. Gray. The presentation to the living +of Hanbury was vested in two trustees, of whom Lady Ludlow was one: Lord Ludlow +had exercised this right in the appointment of Mr. Mountford, who had won his +lordship’s favour by his excellent horsemanship. Nor was Mr. Mountford a +bad clergyman, as clergymen went in those days. He did not drink, though he +liked good eating as much as any one. And if any poor person was ill, and he +heard of it, he would send them plates from his own dinner of what he himself +liked best; sometimes of dishes which were almost as bad as poison to sick +people. He meant kindly to everybody except dissenters, whom Lady Ludlow and he +united in trying to drive out of the parish; and among dissenters he +particularly abhorred Methodists—some one said, because John Wesley had +objected to his hunting. But that must have been long ago for when I knew him +he was far too stout and too heavy to hunt; besides, the bishop of the diocese +disapproved of hunting, and had intimated his disapprobation to the clergy. For +my own part, I think a good run would not have come amiss, even in a moral +point of view, to Mr. Mountford. He ate so much, and took so little exercise, +that we young women often heard of his being in terrible passions with his +servants, and the sexton and clerk. But they none of them minded him much, for +he soon came to himself, and was sure to make them some present or +other—some said in proportion to his anger; so that the sexton, who was a +bit of a wag (as all sextons are, I think), said that the vicar’s saying, +“The Devil take you,” was worth a shilling any day, whereas +“The Deuce” was a shabby sixpenny speech, only fit for a curate. +</p> + +<p> +There was a great deal of good in Mr. Mountford, too. He could not bear to see +pain, or sorrow, or misery of any kind; and, if it came under his notice, he +was never easy till he had relieved it, for the time, at any rate. But he was +afraid of being made uncomfortable; so, if he possibly could, he would avoid +seeing any one who was ill or unhappy; and he did not thank any one for telling +him about them. +</p> + +<p> +“What would your ladyship have me to do?” he once said to my Lady +Ludlow, when she wished him to go and see a poor man who had broken his leg. +“I cannot piece the leg as the doctor can; I cannot nurse him as well as +his wife does; I may talk to him, but he no more understands me than I do the +language of the alchemists. My coming puts him out; he stiffens himself into an +uncomfortable posture, out of respect to the cloth, and dare not take the +comfort of kicking, and swearing, and scolding his wife, while I am there. I +hear him, with my figurative ears, my lady, heave a sigh of relief when my back +is turned, and the sermon that he thinks I ought to have kept for the pulpit, +and have delivered to his neighbours (whose case, as he fancies, it would just +have fitted, as it seemed to him to be addressed to the sinful), is all ended, +and done, for the day. I judge others as myself; I do to them as I would be +done to. That’s Christianity, at any rate. I should hate—saving +your ladyship’s presence—to have my Lord Ludlow coming and seeing +me, if I were ill. ’Twould be a great honour, no doubt; but I should have +to put on a clean nightcap for the occasion; and sham patience, in order to be +polite, and not weary his lordship with my complaints. I should be twice as +thankful to him if he would send me game, or a good fat haunch, to bring me up +to that pitch of health and strength one ought to be in, to appreciate the +honour of a visit from a nobleman. So I shall send Jerry Butler a good dinner +every day till he is strong again; and spare the poor old fellow my presence +and advice.” +</p> + +<p> +My lady would be puzzled by this, and by many other of Mr. Mountford’s +speeches. But he had been appointed by my lord, and she could not question her +dead husband’s wisdom; and she knew that the dinners were always sent, +and often a guinea or two to help to pay the doctor’s bills; and Mr. +Mountford was true blue, as we call it, to the back-bone; hated the dissenters +and the French; and could hardly drink a dish of tea without giving out the +toast of “Church and King, and down with the Rump.” Moreover, he +had once had the honour of preaching before the King and Queen, and two of the +Princesses, at Weymouth; and the King had applauded his sermon audibly +with,—“Very good; very good;” and that was a seal put upon +his merit in my lady’s eyes. +</p> + +<p> +Besides, in the long winter Sunday evenings, he would come up to the Court, and +read a sermon to us girls, and play a game of picquet with my lady afterwards; +which served to shorten the tedium of the time. My lady would, on those +occasions, invite him to sup with her on the dais; but as her meal was +invariably bread and milk only, Mr. Mountford preferred sitting down amongst +us, and made a joke about its being wicked and heterodox to eat meagre on +Sunday, a festival of the Church. We smiled at this joke just as much the +twentieth time we heard it as we did at the first; for we knew it was coming, +because he always coughed a little nervously before he made a joke, for fear my +lady should not approve: and neither she nor he seemed to remember that he had +ever hit upon the idea before. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Mountford died quite suddenly at last. We were all very sorry to lose him. +He left some of his property (for he had a private estate) to the poor of the +parish, to furnish them with an annual Christmas dinner of roast beef and plum +pudding, for which he wrote out a very good receipt in the codicil to his will. +</p> + +<p> +Moreover, he desired his executors to see that the vault, in which the vicars +of Hanbury were interred, was well aired, before his coffin was taken in; for, +all his life long, he had had a dread of damp, and latterly he kept his rooms +to such a pitch of warmth that some thought it hastened his end. +</p> + +<p> +Then the other trustee, as I have said, presented the living to Mr. Gray, +Fellow of Lincoln College, Oxford. It was quite natural for us all, as +belonging in some sort to the Hanbury family, to disapprove of the other +trustee’s choice. But when some ill-natured person circulated the report +that Mr. Gray was a Moravian Methodist, I remember my lady said, “She +could not believe anything so bad, without a great deal of evidence.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>CHAPTER II.</h2> + +<p> +Before I tell you about Mr. Gray, I think I ought to make you understand +something more of what we did all day long at Hanbury Court. There were five of +us at the time of which I am speaking, all young women of good descent, and +allied (however distantly) to people of rank. When we were not with my lady, +Mrs. Medlicott looked after us; a gentle little woman, who had been companion +to my lady for many years, and was indeed, I have been told, some kind of +relation to her. Mrs. Medlicott’s parents had lived in Germany, and the +consequence was, she spoke English with a very foreign accent. Another +consequence was, that she excelled in all manner of needlework, such as is not +known even by name in these days. She could darn either lace, table-linen, +India muslin, or stockings, so that no one could tell where the hole or rent +had been. Though a good Protestant, and never missing Guy Faux day at church, +she was as skilful at fine work as any nun in a Papist convent. She would take +a piece of French cambric, and by drawing out some threads, and working in +others, it became delicate lace in a very few hours. She did the same by +Hollands cloth, and made coarse strong lace, with which all my lady’s +napkins and table-linen were trimmed. We worked under her during a great part +of the day, either in the still-room, or at our sewing in a chamber that opened +out of the great hall. My lady despised every kind of work that would now be +called Fancy-work. She considered that the use of coloured threads or worsted +was only fit to amuse children; but that grown women ought not to be taken with +mere blues and reds, but to restrict their pleasure in sewing to making small +and delicate stitches. She would speak of the old tapestry in the hall as the +work of her ancestresses, who lived before the Reformation, and were +consequently unacquainted with pure and simple tastes in work, as well as in +religion. Nor would my lady sanction the fashion of the day, which, at the +beginning of this century, made all the fine ladies take to making shoes. She +said that such work was a consequence of the French Revolution, which had done +much to annihilate all distinctions of rank and class, and hence it was, that +she saw young ladies of birth and breeding handling lasts, and awls, and dirty +cobblers’-wax, like shoe’-makers’ daughters. +</p> + +<p> +Very frequently one of us would be summoned to my lady to read aloud to her, as +she sat in her small withdrawing-room, some improving book. It was generally +Mr. Addison’s “Spectator;” but one year, I remember, we had +to read “Sturm’s Reflections” translated from a German book +Mrs. Medlicott recommended. Mr. Sturm told us what to think about for every day +in the year; and very dull it was; but I believe Queen Charlotte had liked the +book very much, and the thought of her royal approbation kept my lady awake +during the reading. “Mrs. Chapone’s Letters” and “Dr. +Gregory’s Advice to Young Ladies” composed the rest of our library +for week-day reading. I, for one, was glad to leave my fine sewing, and even my +reading aloud (though this last did keep me with my dear lady) to go to the +still-room and potter about among the preserves and the medicated waters. There +was no doctor for many miles round, and with Mrs. Medlicott to direct us, and +Dr. Buchan to go by for recipes, we sent out many a bottle of physic, which, I +dare say, was as good as what comes out of the druggist’s shop. At any +rate, I do not think we did much harm; for if any of our physics tasted +stronger than usual, Mrs. Medlicott would bid us let it down with cochineal and +water, to make all safe, as she said. So our bottles of medicine had very +little real physic in them at last; but we were careful in putting labels on +them, which looked very mysterious to those who could not read, and helped the +medicine to do its work. I have sent off many a bottle of salt and water +coloured red; and whenever we had nothing else to do in the still-room, Mrs. +Medlicott would set us to making bread-pills, by way of practice; and, as far +as I can say, they were very efficacious, as before we gave out a box Mrs. +Medlicott always told the patient what symptoms to expect; and I hardly ever +inquired without hearing that they had produced their effect. There was one old +man, who took six pills a-night, of any kind we liked to give him, to make him +sleep; and if, by any chance, his daughter had forgotten to let us know that he +was out of his medicine, he was so restless and miserable that, as he said, he +thought he was like to die. I think ours was what would be called homoeopathic +practice now-a-days. Then we learnt to make all the cakes and dishes of the +season in the still-room. We had plum-porridge and mince-pies at Christmas, +fritters and pancakes on Shrove Tuesday, furmenty on Mothering Sunday, +violet-cakes in Passion Week, tansy-pudding on Easter Sunday, three-cornered +cakes on Trinity Sunday, and so on through the year: all made from good old +Church receipts, handed down from one of my lady’s earliest Protestant +ancestresses. Every one of us passed a portion of the day with Lady Ludlow; and +now and then we rode out with her in her coach and four. She did not like to go +out with a pair of horses, considering this rather beneath her rank; and, +indeed, four horses were very often needed to pull her heavy coach through the +stiff mud. But it was rather a cumbersome equipage through the narrow +Warwickshire lanes; and I used often to think it was well that countesses were +not plentiful, or else we might have met another lady of quality in another +coach and four, where there would have been no possibility of turning, or +passing each other, and very little chance of backing. Once when the idea of +this danger of meeting another countess in a narrow, deep-rutted lane was very +prominent in my mind I ventured to ask Mrs. Medlicott what would have to be +done on such an occasion; and she told me that “de latest creation must +back, for sure,” which puzzled me a good deal at the time, although I +understand it now. I began to find out the use of the “Peerage,” a +book which had seemed to me rather dull before; but, as I was always a coward +in a coach, I made myself well acquainted with the dates of creation of our +three Warwickshire earls, and was happy to find that Earl Ludlow ranked second, +the oldest earl being a hunting widower, and not likely to drive out in a +carriage. +</p> + +<p> +All this time I have wandered from Mr. Gray. Of course, we first saw him in +church when he read himself in. He was very red-faced, the kind of redness +which goes with light hair and a blushing complexion; he looked slight and +short, and his bright light frizzy hair had hardly a dash of powder in it. I +remember my lady making this observation, and sighing over it; for, though +since the famine in seventeen hundred and ninety-nine and eighteen hundred +there had been a tax on hair-powder, yet it was reckoned very revolutionary and +Jacobin not to wear a good deal of it. My lady hardly liked the opinions of any +man who wore his own hair; but this she would say was rather a prejudice: only +in her youth none but the mob had gone wigless, and she could not get over the +association of wigs with birth and breeding; a man’s own hair with that +class of people who had formed the rioters in seventeen hundred and eighty, +when Lord George Gordon had been one of the bugbears of my lady’s life. +Her husband and his brothers, she told us, had been put into breeches, and had +their heads shaved on their seventh birthday, each of them; a handsome little +wig of the newest fashion forming the old Lady Ludlow’s invariable +birthday present to her sons as they each arrived at that age; and afterwards, +to the day of their death, they never saw their own hair. To be without powder, +as some underbred people were talking of being now, was in fact to insult the +proprieties of life, by being undressed. It was English sans-culottism. But Mr. +Gray did wear a little powder, enough to save him in my lady’s good +opinion; but not enough to make her approve of him decidedly. +</p> + +<p> +The next time I saw him was in the great hall. Mary Mason and I were going to +drive out with my lady in her coach, and when we went down stairs with our best +hats and cloaks on, we found Mr. Gray awaiting my lady’s coming. I +believe he had paid his respects to her before, but we had never seen him; and +he had declined her invitation to spend Sunday evening at the Court (as Mr. +Mountford used to do pretty regularly—and play a game at picquet +too—), which, Mrs. Medlicott told us, had caused my lady to be not over +well pleased with him. +</p> + +<p> +He blushed redder than ever at the sight of us, as we entered the hall and +dropped him our curtsies. He coughed two or three times, as if he would have +liked to speak to us, if he could but have found something to say; and every +time he coughed he became hotter-looking than ever. I am ashamed to say, we +were nearly laughing at him; half because we, too, were so shy that we +understood what his awkwardness meant. +</p> + +<p> +My lady came in, with her quick active step—she always walked quickly +when she did not bethink herself of her cane—as if she was sorry to have +us kept waiting—and, as she entered, she gave us all round one of those +graceful sweeping curtsies, of which I think the art must have died out with +her,—it implied so much courtesy;—this time it said, as well as +words could do, “I am sorry to have kept you all waiting,—forgive +me.” +</p> + +<p> +She went up to the mantelpiece, near which Mr. Gray had been standing until her +entrance, and curtseying afresh to him, and pretty deeply this time, because of +his cloth, and her being hostess, and he, a new guest. She asked him if he +would not prefer speaking to her in her own private parlour, and looked as +though she would have conducted him there. But he burst out with his errand, of +which he was full even to choking, and which sent the glistening tears into his +large blue eyes, which stood farther and farther out with his excitement. +</p> + +<p> +“My lady, I want to speak to you, and to persuade you to exert your kind +interest with Mr. Lathom—Justice Lathom, of Hathaway Manor—” +</p> + +<p> +“Harry Lathom?” inquired my lady,—as Mr. Gray stopped to take +the breath he had lost in his hurry,—“I did not know he was in the +commission.” +</p> + +<p> +“He is only just appointed; he took the oaths not a month +ago,—more’s the pity!” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not understand why you should regret it. The Lathoms have held +Hathaway since Edward the First, and Mr. Lathom bears a good character, +although his temper is hasty—” +</p> + +<p> +“My lady! he has committed Job Gregson for stealing—a fault of +which he is as innocent as I—and all the evidence goes to prove it, now +that the case is brought before the Bench; only the Squires hang so together +that they can’t be brought to see justice, and are all for sending Job to +gaol, out of compliment to Mr. Lathom, saying it his first committal, and it +won’t be civil to tell him there is no evidence against his man. For +God’s sake, my lady, speak to the gentlemen; they will attend to you, +while they only tell me to mind my own business.” +</p> + +<p> +Now my lady was always inclined to stand by her order, and the Lathoms of +Hathaway Court were cousins to the Hanbury’s. Besides, it was rather a +point of honour in those days to encourage a young magistrate, by passing a +pretty sharp sentence on his first committals; and Job Gregson was the father +of a girl who had been lately turned away from her place as scullery-maid for +sauciness to Mrs. Adams, her ladyship’s own maid; and Mr. Gray had not +said a word of the reasons why he believed the man innocent,—for he was +in such a hurry, I believe he would have had my lady drive off to the Henley +Court-house then and there;—so there seemed a good deal against the man, +and nothing but Mr. Gray’s bare word for him; and my lady drew herself a +little up, and said— +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Gray! I do not see what reason either you or I have to interfere. +Mr. Harry Lathom is a sensible kind of young man, well capable of ascertaining +the truth without our help—” +</p> + +<p> +“But more evidence has come out since,” broke in Mr. Gray. My lady +went a little stiffer, and spoke a little more coldly:— +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose this additional evidence is before the justices: men of good +family, and of honour and credit, well known in the county. They naturally feel +that the opinion of one of themselves must have more weight than the words of a +man like Job Gregson, who bears a very indifferent character,—has been +strongly suspected of poaching, coming from no one knows where, squatting on +Hareman’s Common—which, by the way, is extra-parochial, I believe; +consequently you, as a clergyman, are not responsible for what goes on there; +and, although impolitic, there might be some truth in what the magistrates +said, in advising you to mind your own business,”—said her +ladyship, smiling,—“and they might be tempted to bid me mind mine, +if I interfered, Mr. Gray: might they not?” +</p> + +<p> +He looked extremely uncomfortable; half angry. Once or twice he began to speak, +but checked himself, as if his words would not have been wise or prudent. At +last he said—“It may seem presumptuous in me,—a stranger of +only a few weeks’ standing—to set up my judgment as to men’s +character against that of residents—” Lady Ludlow gave a little bow +of acquiescence, which was, I think, involuntary on her part, and which I +don’t think he perceived,—“but I am convinced that the man is +innocent of this offence,—and besides, the justices themselves allege +this ridiculous custom of paying a compliment to a newly-appointed magistrate +as their only reason.” +</p> + +<p> +That unlucky word “ridiculous!” It undid all the good his modest +beginning had done him with my lady. I knew as well as words could have told +me, that she was affronted at the expression being used by a man inferior in +rank to those whose actions he applied it to,—and truly, it was a great +want of tact, considering to whom he was speaking. +</p> + +<p> +Lady Ludlow spoke very gently and slowly; she always did so when she was +annoyed; it was a certain sign, the meaning of which we had all learnt. +</p> + +<p> +“I think, Mr. Gray, we will drop the subject. It is one on which we are +not likely to agree.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Gray’s ruddy colour grew purple and then faded away, and his face +became pale. I think both my lady and he had forgotten our presence; and we +were beginning to feel too awkward to wish to remind them of it. And yet we +could not help watching and listening with the greatest interest. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Gray drew himself up to his full height, with an unconscious feeling of +dignity. Little as was his stature, and awkward and embarrassed as he had been +only a few minutes before, I remember thinking he looked almost as grand as my +lady when he spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“Your ladyship must remember that it may be my duty to speak to my +parishioners on many subjects on which they do not agree with me. I am not at +liberty to be silent, because they differ in opinion from me.” +</p> + +<p> +Lady Ludlow’s great blue eyes dilated with surprise, and—I do +think—anger, at being thus spoken to. I am not sure whether it was very +wise in Mr. Gray. He himself looked afraid of the consequences but as if he was +determined to bear them without flinching. For a minute there was silence. Then +my lady replied—“Mr. Gray, I respect your plain-speaking, although +I may wonder whether a young man of your age and position has any right to +assume that he is a better judge than one with the experience which I have +naturally gained at my time of life, and in the station I hold.” +</p> + +<p> +“If I, madam, as the clergyman of this parish, am not to shrink from +telling what I believe to be the truth to the poor and lowly, no more am I to +hold my peace in the presence of the rich and titled.” Mr. Gray’s +face showed that he was in that state of excitement which in a child would have +ended in a good fit of crying. He looked as if he had nerved himself up to +doing and saying things, which he disliked above everything, and which nothing +short of serious duty could have compelled him to do and say. And at such times +every minute circumstance which could add to pain comes vividly before one. I +saw that he became aware of our presence, and that it added to his +discomfiture. +</p> + +<p> +My lady flushed up. “Are you aware, sir,” asked she, “that +you have gone far astray from the original subject of conversation? But as you +talk of your parish, allow me to remind you that Hareman’s Common is +beyond the bounds, and that you are really not responsible for the characters +and lives of the squatters on that unlucky piece of ground.” +</p> + +<p> +“Madam, I see I have only done harm in speaking to you about the affair +at all. I beg your pardon and take my leave.” +</p> + +<p> +He bowed, and looked very sad. Lady Ludlow caught the expression of his face. +</p> + +<p> +“Good morning!” she cried, in rather a louder and quicker way than +that in which she had been speaking. “Remember, Job Gregson is a +notorious poacher and evildoer, and you really are not responsible for what +goes on at Hareman’s Common.” +</p> + +<p> +He was near the hall door, and said something—half to himself, which we +heard (being nearer to him), but my lady did not; although she saw that he +spoke. “What did he say?” she asked in a somewhat hurried manner, +as soon as the door was closed—“I did not hear.” We looked at +each other, and then I spoke: +</p> + +<p> +“He said, my lady, that ‘God help him! he was responsible for all +the evil he did not strive to overcome.’” +</p> + +<p> +My lady turned sharp round away from us, and Mary Mason said afterwards she +thought her ladyship was much vexed with both of us, for having been present, +and with me for having repeated what Mr. Gray had said. But it was not our +fault that we were in the hall, and when my lady asked what Mr. Gray had said, +I thought it right to tell her. +</p> + +<p> +In a few minutes she bade us accompany her in her ride in the coach. +</p> + +<p> +Lady Ludlow always sat forwards by herself, and we girls backwards. Somehow +this was a rule, which we never thought of questioning. It was true that riding +backwards made some of us feel very uncomfortable and faint; and to remedy this +my lady always drove with both windows open, which occasionally gave her the +rheumatism; but we always went on in the old way. This day she did not pay any +great attention to the road by which we were going, and Coachman took his own +way. We were very silent, as my lady did not speak, and looked very serious. Or +else, in general, she made these rides very pleasant (to those who were not +qualmish with riding backwards), by talking to us in a very agreeable manner, +and telling us of the different things which had happened to her at various +places,—at Paris and Versailles, where she had been in her +youth,—at Windsor and Kew and Weymouth, where she had been with the +Queen, when maid-of-honour—and so on. But this day she did not talk at +all. All at once she put her head out of the window. +</p> + +<p> +“John Footman,” said she, “where are we? Surely this is +Hareman’s Common.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, an’t please my lady,” said John Footman, and waited for +further speech or orders. My lady thought a while, and then said she would have +the steps put down and get out. +</p> + +<p> +As soon as she was gone, we looked at each other, and then without a word began +to gaze after her. We saw her pick her dainty way in the little high-heeled +shoes she always wore (because they had been in fashion in her youth), among +the yellow pools of stagnant water that had gathered in the clayey soil. John +Footman followed, stately, after; afraid too, for all his stateliness, of +splashing his pure white stockings. Suddenly my lady turned round and said +something to him, and he returned to the carriage with a half-pleased, +half-puzzled air. +</p> + +<p> +My lady went on to a cluster of rude mud houses at the higher end of the +Common; cottages built, as they were occasionally at that day, of wattles and +clay, and thatched with sods. As far as we could make out from dumb show, Lady +Ludlow saw enough of the interiors of these places to make her hesitate before +entering, or even speaking to any of the children who were playing about in the +puddles. After a pause, she disappeared into one of the cottages. It seemed to +us a long time before she came out; but I dare say it was not more than eight +or ten minutes. She came back with her head hanging down, as if to choose her +way,—but we saw it was more in thought and bewilderment than for any such +purpose. +</p> + +<p> +She had not made up her mind where we should drive to when she got into the +carriage again. John Footman stood, bare-headed, waiting for orders. +</p> + +<p> +“To Hathaway. My dears, if you are tired, or if you have anything to do +for Mrs. Medlicott, I can drop you at Barford Corner, and it is but a quarter +of an hour’s brisk walk home.” +</p> + +<p> +But luckily we could safely say that Mrs. Medlicott did not want us; and as we +had whispered to each other, as we sat alone in the coach, that surely my lady +must have gone to Job Gregson’s, we were far too anxious to know the end +of it all to say that we were tired. So we all set off to Hathaway. Mr. Harry +Lathom was a bachelor squire, thirty or thirty-five years of age, more at home +in the field than in the drawing-room, and with sporting men than with ladies. +</p> + +<p> +My lady did not alight, of course; it was Mr. Lathom’s place to wait upon +her, and she bade the butler,—who had a smack of the gamekeeper in him, +very unlike our own powdered venerable fine gentleman at Hanbury,—tell +his master, with her compliments, that she wished to speak to him. You may +think how pleased we were to find that we should hear all that was said; +though, I think, afterwards we were half sorry when we saw how our presence +confused the squire, who would have found it bad enough to answer my +lady’s questions, even without two eager girls for audience. +</p> + +<p> +“Pray, Mr. Lathom,” began my lady, something abruptly for +her,—but she was very full of her subject,—“what is this I +hear about Job Gregson?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Lathom looked annoyed and vexed, but dared not show it in his words. +</p> + +<p> +“I gave out a warrant against him, my lady, for theft,—that is all. +You are doubtless aware of his character; a man who sets nets and springes in +long cover, and fishes wherever he takes a fancy. It is but a short step from +poaching to thieving.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is quite true,” replied Lady Ludlow (who had a horror of +poaching for this very reason): “but I imagine you do not send a man to +gaol on account of his bad character.” +</p> + +<p> +“Rogues and vagabonds,” said Mr. Lathom. “A man may be sent +to prison for being a vagabond; for no specific act, but for his general mode +of life.” +</p> + +<p> +He had the better of her ladyship for one moment; but then she answered— +</p> + +<p> +“But in this case, the charge on which you committed him is for theft; +now his wife tells me he can prove he was some miles distant from Holmwood, +where the robbery took place, all that afternoon; she says you had the evidence +before you.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Lathom here interrupted my lady, by saying, in a somewhat sulky +manner—“No such evidence was brought before me when I gave the +warrant. I am not answerable for the other magistrates’ decision, when +they had more evidence before them. It was they who committed him to gaol. I am +not responsible for that.” +</p> + +<p> +My lady did not often show signs of impatience; but we knew she was feeling +irritated, by the little perpetual tapping of her high-heeled shoe against the +bottom of the carriage. About the same time we, sitting backwards, caught a +glimpse of Mr. Gray through the open door, standing in the shadow of the hall. +Doubtless Lady Ludlow’s arrival had interrupted a conversation between +Mr. Lathom and Mr. Gray. The latter must have heard every word of what she was +saying; but of this she was not aware, and caught at Mr. Lathom’s +disclaimer of responsibility with pretty much the same argument which she had +heard (through our repetition) that Mr. Gray had used not two hours before. +</p> + +<p> +“And do you mean to say, Mr. Lathom, that you don’t consider +yourself responsible for all injustice or wrong-doing that you might have +prevented, and have not? Nay, in this case the first germ of injustice was your +own mistake. I wish you had been with me a little while ago, and seen the +misery in that poor fellow’s cottage.” She spoke lower, and Mr. +Gray drew near, in a sort of involuntary manner; as if to hear all she was +saying. We saw him, and doubtless Mr. Lathom heard his footstep, and knew who +it was that was listening behind him, and approving of every word that was +said. He grew yet more sullen in manner; but still my lady was my lady, and he +dared not speak out before her, as he would have done to Mr. Gray. Lady Ludlow, +however, caught the look of stubborness in his face, and it roused her as I had +never seen her roused. +</p> + +<p> +“I am sure you will not refuse, sir, to accept my bail. I offer to bail +the fellow out, and to be responsible for his appearance at the sessions. What +say you to that, Mr. Lathom?” +</p> + +<p> +“The offence of theft is not bailable, my lady.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not in ordinary cases, I dare say. But I imagine this is an +extraordinary case. The man is sent to prison out of compliment to you, and +against all evidence, as far as I can learn. He will have to rot in gaol for +two months, and his wife and children to starve. I, Lady Ludlow, offer to bail +him out, and pledge myself for his appearance at next quarter-sessions.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is against the law, my lady.” +</p> + +<p> +“Bah! Bah! Bah! Who makes laws? Such as I, in the House of +Lords—such as you, in the House of Commons. We, who make the laws in St. +Stephen’s, may break the mere forms of them, when we have right on our +sides, on our own land, and amongst our own people.” +</p> + +<p> +“The lord-lieutenant may take away my commission, if he heard of +it.” +</p> + +<p> +“And a very good thing for the county, Harry Lathom; and for you too, if +he did,—if you don’t go on more wisely than you have begun. A +pretty set you and your brother magistrates are to administer justice through +the land! I always said a good despotism was the best form of government; and I +am twice as much in favour of it now I see what a quorum is! My dears!” +suddenly turning round to us, “if it would not tire you to walk home, I +would beg Mr. Lathom to take a seat in my coach, and we would drive to Henley +Gaol, and have the poor man out at once.” +</p> + +<p> +“A walk over the fields at this time of day is hardly fitting for young +ladies to take alone,” said Mr. Lathom, anxious no doubt to escape from +his tête-à-tête drive with my lady, and possibly not quite +prepared to go to the illegal length of prompt measures, which she had in +contemplation. +</p> + +<p> +But Mr. Gray now stepped forward, too anxious for the release of the prisoner +to allow any obstacle to intervene which he could do away with. To see Lady +Ludlow’s face when she first perceived whom she had had for auditor and +spectator of her interview with Mr. Lathom, was as good as a play. She had been +doing and saying the very things she had been so much annoyed at Mr. +Gray’s saying and proposing only an hour or two ago. She had been setting +down Mr. Lathom pretty smartly, in the presence of the very man to whom she had +spoken of that gentleman as so sensible, and of such a standing in the county, +that it was presumption to question his doings. But before Mr. Gray had +finished his offer of escorting us back to Hanbury Court, my lady had recovered +herself. There was neither surprise nor displeasure in her manner, as she +answered—“I thank you, Mr. Gray. I was not aware that you were +here, but I think I can understand on what errand you came. And seeing you +here, recalls me to a duty I owe Mr. Lathom. Mr. Lathom, I have spoken to you +pretty plainly,—forgetting, until I saw Mr. Gray, that only this very +afternoon I differed from him on this very question; taking completely, at that +time, the same view of the whole subject which you have done; thinking that the +county would be well rid of such a man as Job Gregson, whether he had committed +this theft or not. Mr. Gray and I did not part quite friends,” she +continued, bowing towards him; “but it so happened that I saw Job +Gregson’s wife and home,—I felt that Mr. Gray had been right and I +had been wrong, so, with the famous inconsistency of my sex, I came hither to +scold you,” smiling towards Mr. Lathom, who looked half-sulky yet, and +did not relax a bit of his gravity at her smile, “for holding the same +opinions that I had done an hour before. Mr. Gray,” (again bowing towards +him) “these young ladies will be very much obliged to you for your +escort, and so shall I. Mr. Lathom, may I beg of you to accompany me to +Henley?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Gray bowed very low, and went very red; Mr. Lathom said something which we +none of us heard, but which was, I think, some remonstrance against the course +he was, as it were, compelled to take. Lady Ludlow, however, took no notice of +his murmur, but sat in an attitude of polite expectancy; and as we turned off +on our walk, I saw Mr. Lathom getting into the coach with the air of a whipped +hound. I must say, considering my lady’s feeling, I did not envy him his +ride—though, I believe, he was quite in the right as to the object of the +ride being illegal. +</p> + +<p> +Our walk home was very dull. We had no fears; and would far rather have been +without the awkward, blushing young man, into which Mr. Gray had sunk. At every +stile he hesitated,—sometimes he half got over it, thinking that he could +assist us better in that way; then he would turn back unwilling to go before +ladies. He had no ease of manner, as my lady once said of him, though on any +occasion of duty, he had an immense deal of dignity. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>CHAPTER III.</h2> + +<p> +As far as I can remember, it was very soon after this that I first began to +have the pain in my hip, which has ended in making me a cripple for life. I +hardly recollect more than one walk after our return under Mr. Gray’s +escort from Mr. Lathom’s. Indeed, at the time, I was not without +suspicions (which I never named) that the beginning of all the mischief was a +great jump I had taken from the top of one of the stiles on that very occasion. +</p> + +<p> +Well, it is a long while ago, and God disposes of us all, and I am not going to +tire you out with telling you how I thought and felt, and how, when I saw what +my life was to be, I could hardly bring myself to be patient, but rather wished +to die at once. You can every one of you think for yourselves what becoming all +at once useless and unable to move, and by-and-by growing hopeless of cure, and +feeling that one must be a burden to some one all one’s life long, would +be to an active, wilful, strong girl of seventeen, anxious to get on in the +world, so as, if possible, to help her brothers and sisters. So I shall only +say, that one among the blessings which arose out of what seemed at the time a +great, black sorrow was, that Lady Ludlow for many years took me, as it were, +into her own especial charge; and now, as I lie still and alone in my old age, +it is such a pleasure to think of her! +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Medlicott was great as a nurse, and I am sure I can never be grateful +enough to her memory for all her kindness. But she was puzzled to know how to +manage me in other ways. I used to have long, hard fits of crying; and, +thinking that I ought to go home—and yet what could they do with me +there?—and a hundred and fifty other anxious thoughts, some of which I +could tell to Mrs. Medlicott, and others I could not. Her way of comforting me +was hurrying away for some kind of tempting or strengthening food—a basin +of melted calves-foot jelly was, I am sure she thought, a cure for every woe. +</p> + +<p> +“There take it, dear, take it!” she would say; “and +don’t go on fretting for what can’t be helped.” +</p> + +<p> +But, I think, she got puzzled at length at the non-efficacy of good things to +eat; and one day, after I had limped down to see the doctor, in Mrs. +Medlicott’s sitting-room—a room lined with cupboards, containing +preserves and dainties of all kinds, which she perpetually made, and never +touched herself—when I was returning to my bed-room to cry away the +afternoon, under pretence of arranging my clothes, John Footman brought me a +message from my lady (with whom the doctor had been having a conversation) to +bid me go to her in that private sitting-room at the end of the suite of +apartments, about which I spoke in describing the day of my first arrival at +Hanbury. I had hardly been in it since; as, when we read to my lady, she +generally sat in the small withdrawing-room out of which this private room of +hers opened. I suppose great people do not require what we smaller people value +so much,—I mean privacy. I do not think that there was a room which my +lady occupied that had not two doors, and some of them had three or four. Then +my lady had always Adams waiting upon her in her bed-chamber; and it was Mrs. +Medlicott’s duty to sit within call, as it were, in a sort of anteroom +that led out of my lady’s own sitting-room, on the opposite side to the +drawing-room door. To fancy the house, you must take a great square and halve +it by a line: at one end of this line was the hall door, or public entrance; at +the opposite the private entrance from a terrace, which was terminated at one +end by a sort of postern door in an old gray stone wall, beyond which lay the +farm buildings and offices; so that people could come in this way to my lady on +business, while, if she were going into the garden from her own room, she had +nothing to do but to pass through Mrs. Medlicott’s apartment, out into +the lesser hall, and then turning to the right as she passed on to the terrace, +she could go down the flight of broad, shallow steps at the corner of the house +into the lovely garden, with stretching, sweeping lawns, and gay flower-beds, +and beautiful, bossy laurels, and other blooming or massy shrubs, with +full-grown beeches, or larches feathering down to the ground a little farther +off. The whole was set in a frame, as it were, by the more distant woodlands. +The house had been modernized in the days of Queen Anne, I think; but the money +had fallen short that was requisite to carry out all the improvements, so it +was only the suite of withdrawing-rooms and the terrace-rooms, as far as the +private entrance, that had the new, long, high windows put in, and these were +old enough by this time to be draped with roses, and honeysuckles, and +pyracanthus, winter and summer long. +</p> + +<p> +Well, to go back to that day when I limped into my lady’s sitting-room, +trying hard to look as if I had not been crying, and not to walk as if I was in +much pain. I do not know whether my lady saw how near my tears were to my eyes, +but she told me she had sent for me, because she wanted some help in arranging +the drawers of her bureau, and asked me—just as if it was a favour I was +to do her—if I could sit down in the easy-chair near the +window—(all quietly arranged before I came in, with a footstool, and a +table quite near)—and assist her. You will wonder, perhaps, why I was not +bidden to sit or lie on the sofa; but (although I found one there a morning or +two afterwards, when I came down) the fact was, that there was none in the room +at this time. I have even fancied that the easy-chair was brought in on purpose +for me; for it was not the chair in which I remembered my lady sitting the +first time I saw her. That chair was very much carved and gilded, with a +countess’ coronet at the top. I tried it one day, some time afterwards, +when my lady was out of the room, and I had a fancy for seeing how I could move +about, and very uncomfortable it was. Now my chair (as I learnt to call it, and +to think it) was soft and luxurious, and seemed somehow to give one’s +body rest just in that part where one most needed it. +</p> + +<p> +I was not at my ease that first day, nor indeed for many days afterwards, +notwithstanding my chair was so comfortable. Yet I forgot my sad pain in +silently wondering over the meaning of many of the things we turned out of +those curious old drawers. I was puzzled to know why some were kept at all; a +scrap of writing maybe, with only half a dozen common-place words written on +it, or a bit of broken riding-whip, and here and there a stone, of which I +thought I could have picked up twenty just as good in the first walk I took. +But it seems that was just my ignorance; for my lady told me they were pieces +of valuable marble, used to make the floors of the great Roman emperors palaces +long ago; and that when she had been a girl, and made the grand tour long ago, +her cousin Sir Horace Mann, the Ambassador or Envoy at Florence, had told her +to be sure to go into the fields inside the walls of ancient Rome, when the +farmers were preparing the ground for the onion-sowing, and had to make the +soil fine, and pick up what bits of marble she could find. She had done so, and +meant to have had them made into a table; but somehow that plan fell through, +and there they were with all the dirt out of the onion-field upon them; but +once when I thought of cleaning them with soap and water, at any rate, she bade +me not to do so, for it was Roman dirt—earth, I think, she called +it—but it was dirt all the same. +</p> + +<p> +Then, in this bureau, were many other things, the value of which I could +understand—locks of hair carefully ticketed, which my lady looked at very +sadly; and lockets and bracelets with miniatures in them,—very small +pictures to what they make now-a-days, and called miniatures: some of them had +even to be looked at through a microscope before you could see the individual +expression of the faces, or how beautifully they were painted. I don’t +think that looking at these made may lady seem so melancholy, as the seeing and +touching of the hair did. But, to be sure, the hair was, as it were, a part of +some beloved body which she might never touch and caress again, but which lay +beneath the turf, all faded and disfigured, except perhaps the very hair, from +which the lock she held had been dissevered; whereas the pictures were but +pictures after all—likenesses, but not the very things themselves. This +is only my own conjecture, mind. My lady rarely spoke out her feelings. For, to +begin with, she was of rank: and I have heard her say that people of rank do +not talk about their feelings except to their equals, and even to them they +conceal them, except upon rare occasions. Secondly,—and this is my own +reflection,—she was an only child and an heiress; and as such was more +apt to think than to talk, as all well-brought-up heiresses must be. I think. +Thirdly, she had long been a widow, without any companion of her own age with +whom it would have been natural for her to refer to old associations, past +pleasures, or mutual sorrows. Mrs. Medlicott came nearest to her as a companion +of this sort; and her ladyship talked more to Mrs. Medlicott, in a kind of +familiar way, than she did to all the rest of the household put together. But +Mrs. Medlicott was silent by nature, and did not reply at any great length. +Adams, indeed, was the only one who spoke much to Lady Ludlow. +</p> + +<p> +After we had worked away about an hour at the bureau, her ladyship said we had +done enough for one day; and as the time was come for her afternoon ride, she +left me, with a volume of engravings from Mr. Hogarth’s pictures on one +side of me (I don’t like to write down the names of them, though my lady +thought nothing of it, I am sure), and upon a stand her great prayer-book open +at the evening psalms for the day, on the other. But as soon as she was gone, I +troubled myself little with either, but amused myself with looking round the +room at my leisure. The side on which the fire-place stood was all +panelled,—part of the old ornaments of the house, for there was an Indian +paper with birds and beasts and insects on it, on all the other sides. There +were coats of arms, of the various families with whom the Hanburys had +intermarried, all over these panels, and up and down the ceiling as well. There +was very little looking-glass in the room, though one of the great +drawing-rooms was called the “Mirror Room,” because it was lined +with glass, which my lady’s great-grandfather had brought from Venice +when he was ambassador there. There were china jars of all shapes and sizes +round and about the room, and some china monsters, or idols, of which I could +never bear the sight, they were so ugly, though I think my lady valued them +more than all. There was a thick carpet on the middle of the floor, which was +made of small pieces of rare wood fitted into a pattern; the doors were +opposite to each other, and were composed of two heavy tall wings, and opened +in the middle, moving on brass grooves inserted into the floor—they would +not have opened over a carpet. There were two windows reaching up nearly to the +ceiling, but very narrow and with deep window-seats in the thickness of the +wall. The room was full of scent, partly from the flowers outside, and partly +from the great jars of pot-pourri inside. The choice of odours was what my lady +piqued herself upon, saying nothing showed birth like a keen susceptibility of +smell. We never named musk in her presence, her antipathy to it was so well +understood through the household: her opinion on the subject was believed to +be, that no scent derived from an animal could ever be of a sufficiently pure +nature to give pleasure to any person of good family, where, of course, the +delicate perception of the senses had been cultivated for generations. She +would instance the way in which sportsmen preserve the breed of dogs who have +shown keen scent; and how such gifts descend for generations amongst animals, +who cannot be supposed to have anything of ancestral pride, or hereditary +fancies about them. Musk, then, was never mentioned at Hanbury Court. No more +were bergamot or southern-wood, although vegetable in their nature. She +considered these two latter as betraying a vulgar taste in the person who chose +to gather or wear them. She was sorry to notice sprigs of them in the +button-hole of any young man in whom she took an interest, either because he +was engaged to a servant of hers or otherwise, as he came out of church on a +Sunday afternoon. She was afraid that he liked coarse pleasures; and I am not +sure if she did not think that his preference for these coarse sweetnesses did +not imply a probability that he would take to drinking. But she distinguished +between vulgar and common. Violets, pinks, and sweetbriar were common enough; +roses and mignionette, for those who had gardens, honeysuckle for those who +walked along the bowery lanes; but wearing them betrayed no vulgarity of taste: +the queen upon her throne might be glad to smell at a nosegay of the flowers. A +beau-pot (as we called it) of pinks and roses freshly gathered was placed every +morning that they were in bloom on my lady’s own particular table. For +lasting vegetable odours she preferred lavender and sweet woodroof to any +extract whatever. Lavender reminded her of old customs, she said, and of homely +cottage-gardens, and many a cottager made his offering to her of a bundle of +lavender. Sweet woodroof, again, grew in wild, woodland places where the soil +was fine and the air delicate: the poor children used to go and gather it for +her up in the woods on the higher lands; and for this service she always +rewarded them with bright new pennies, of which my lord, her son, used to send +her down a bagful fresh from the Mint in London every February. +</p> + +<p> +Attar of roses, again, she disliked. She said it reminded her of the city and +of merchants’ wives, over-rich, over-heavy in its perfume. And +lilies-of-the-valley somehow fell under the same condemnation. They were most +graceful and elegant to look at (my lady was quite candid about this), flower, +leaf, colour—everything was refined about them but the smell. That was +too strong. But the great hereditary faculty on which my lady piqued herself, +and with reason, for I never met with any person who possessed it, was the +power she had of perceiving the delicious odour arising from a bed of +strawberries in the late autumn, when the leaves were all fading and dying. +“Bacon’s Essays” was one of the few books that lay about in +my lady’s room; and if you took it up and opened it carelessly, it was +sure to fall apart at his “Essay on Gardens.” “Listen,” +her ladyship would say, “to what that great philosopher and statesman +says. ‘Next to that,’—he is speaking of violets, my +dear,—‘is the musk-rose,’—of which you remember the +great bush, at the corner of the south wall just by the Blue Drawing-room +windows; that is the old musk-rose, Shakespeare’s musk-rose, which is +dying out through the kingdom now. But to return to my Lord Bacon: ‘Then +the strawberry leaves, dying with a most excellent cordial smell.’ Now +the Hanburys can always smell this excellent cordial odour, and very delicious +and refreshing it is. You see, in Lord Bacon’s time, there had not been +so many intermarriages between the court and the city as there have been since +the needy days of his Majesty Charles the Second; and altogether in the time of +Queen Elizabeth, the great, old families of England were a distinct race, just +as a cart-horse is one creature, and very useful in its place, and Childers or +Eclipse is another creature, though both are of the same species. So the old +families have gifts and powers of a different and higher class to what the +other orders have. My dear, remember that you try if you can smell the scent of +dying strawberry-leaves in this next autumn. You have some of Ursula +Hanbury’s blood in you, and that gives you a chance.” +</p> + +<p> +But when October came, I sniffed and sniffed, and all to no purpose; and my +lady—who had watched the little experiment rather anxiously—had to +give me up as a hybrid. I was mortified, I confess, and thought that it was in +some ostentation of her own powers that she ordered the gardener to plant a +border of strawberries on that side of the terrace that lay under her windows. +</p> + +<p> +I have wandered away from time and place. I tell you all the remembrances I +have of those years just as they come up, and I hope that, in my old age, I am +not getting too like a certain Mrs. Nickleby, whose speeches were once read out +aloud to me. +</p> + +<p> +I came by degrees to be all day long in this room which I have been describing; +sometimes sitting in the easy-chair, doing some little piece of dainty work for +my lady, or sometimes arranging flowers, or sorting letters according to their +handwriting, so that she could arrange them afterwards, and destroy or keep, as +she planned, looking ever onward to her death. Then, after the sofa was brought +in, she would watch my face, and if she saw my colour change, she would bid me +lie down and rest. And I used to try to walk upon the terrace every day for a +short time: it hurt me very much, it is true, but the doctor had ordered it, +and I knew her ladyship wished me to obey. +</p> + +<p> +Before I had seen the background of a great lady’s life, I had thought it +all play and fine doings. But whatever other grand people are, my lady was +never idle. For one thing, she had to superintend the agent for the large +Hanbury estate. I believe it was mortgaged for a sum of money which had gone to +improve the late lord’s Scotch lands; but she was anxious to pay off this +before her death, and so to leave her own inheritance free of incumbrance to +her son, the present Earl; whom, I secretly think, she considered a greater +person, as being the heir of the Hanburys (though through a female line), than +as being my Lord Ludlow with half a dozen other minor titles. +</p> + +<p> +With this wish of releasing her property from the mortgage, skilful care was +much needed in the management of it; and as far as my lady could go, she took +every pains. She had a great book, in which every page was ruled into three +divisions; on the first column was written the date and the name of the tenant +who addressed any letter on business to her; on the second was briefly stated +the subject of the letter, which generally contained a request of some kind. +This request would be surrounded and enveloped in so many words, and often +inserted amidst so many odd reasons and excuses, that Mr. Horner (the steward) +would sometimes say it was like hunting through a bushel of chaff to find a +grain of wheat. Now, in the second column of this book, the grain of meaning +was placed, clean and dry, before her ladyship every morning. She sometimes +would ask to see the original letter; sometimes she simply answered the request +by a “Yes,” or a “No;” and often she would send for +lenses and papers, and examine them well, with Mr. Horner at her elbow, to see +if such petitions, as to be allowed to plough up pasture fields, were provided +for in the terms of the original agreement. On every Thursday she made herself +at liberty to see her tenants, from four to six in the afternoon. Mornings +would have suited my lady better, as far as convenience went, and I believe the +old custom had been to have these levées (as her ladyship used to call them) +held before twelve. But, as she said to Mr. Horner, when he urged returning to +the former hours, it spoilt a whole day for a farmer, if he had to dress +himself in his best and leave his work in the forenoon (and my lady liked to +see her tenants come in their Sunday clothes; she would not say a word, maybe, +but she would take her spectacles slowly out, and put them on with silent +gravity, and look at a dirty or raggedly-dressed man so solemnly and earnestly, +that his nerves must have been pretty strong if he did not wince, and resolve +that, however poor he might be, soap and water, and needle and thread, should +be used before he again appeared in her ladyship’s anteroom). The +outlying tenants had always a supper provided for them in the +servants’-hall on Thursdays, to which, indeed all comers were welcome to +sit down. For my lady said, though there were not many hours left of a working +man’s day when their business with her was ended, yet that they needed +food and rest, and that she should be ashamed if they sought either at the +Fighting Lion (called at this day the Hanbury Arms). They had as much beer as +they could drink while they were eating; and when the food was cleared away, +they had a cup a piece of good ale, in which the oldest tenant present, +standing up, gave Madam’s health; and after that was drunk, they were +expected to set off homewards; at any rate, no more liquor was given them. The +tenants one and all called her “Madam;” for they recognized in her +the married heiress of the Hanburys, not the widow of a Lord Ludlow, of whom +they and their forefathers knew nothing; and against whose memory, indeed, +there rankled a dim unspoken grudge, the cause of which was accurately known to +the very few who understood the nature of a mortgage, and were therefore aware +that Madam’s money had been taken to enrich my lord’s poor land in +Scotland. I am sure—for you can understand I was behind the scenes, as it +were, and had many an opportunity of seeing and hearing, as I lay or sat +motionless in my lady’s room with the double doors open between it and +the anteroom beyond, where Lady Ludlow saw her steward, and gave audience to +her tenants,—I am certain, I say, that Mr. Horner was silently as much +annoyed at the money that was swallowed up by this mortgage as any one; and, +some time or other, he had probably spoken his mind out to my lady; for there +was a sort of offended reference on her part, and respectful submission to +blame on his, while every now and then there was an implied +protest—whenever the payments of the interest became due, or whenever my +lady stinted herself of any personal expense, such as Mr. Horner thought was +only decorous and becoming in the heiress of the Hanburys. Her carriages were +old and cumbrous, wanting all the improvements which had been adopted by those +of her rank throughout the county. Mr. Horner would fain have had the ordering +of a new coach. The carriage-horses, too, were getting past their work; yet all +the promising colts bred on the estate were sold for ready money; and so on. My +lord, her son, was ambassador at some foreign place; and very proud we all were +of his glory and dignity; but I fancy it cost money, and my lady would have +lived on bread and water sooner than have called upon him to help her in paying +off the mortgage, although he was the one who was to benefit by it in the end. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Horner was a very faithful steward, and very respectful to my lady; +although sometimes, I thought she was sharper to him than to any one else; +perhaps because she knew that, although he never said anything, he disapproved +of the Hanburys being made to pay for the Earl Ludlow’s estates and +state. +</p> + +<p> +The late lord had been a sailor, and had been as extravagant in his habits as +most sailors are, I am told,—for I never saw the sea; and yet he had a +long sight to his own interests; but whatever he was, my lady loved him and his +memory, with about as fond and proud a love as ever wife gave husband, I should +think. +</p> + +<p> +For a part of his life Mr. Horner, who was born on the Hanbury property, had +been a clerk to an attorney in Birmingham; and these few years had given him a +kind of worldly wisdom, which, though always exerted for her benefit, was +antipathetic to her ladyship, who thought that some of her steward’s +maxims savoured of trade and commerce. I fancy that if it had been possible, +she would have preferred a return to the primitive system, of living on the +produce of the land, and exchanging the surplus for such articles as were +needed, without the intervention of money. +</p> + +<p> +But Mr. Horner was bitten with new-fangled notions, as she would say, though +his new-fangled notions were what folk at the present day would think sadly +behindhand; and some of Mr. Gray’s ideas fell on Mr. Horner’s mind +like sparks on tow, though they started from two different points. Mr. Horner +wanted to make every man useful and active in this world, and to direct as much +activity and usefulness as possible to the improvement of the Hanbury estates, +and the aggrandisement of the Hanbury family, and therefore he fell into the +new cry for education. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Gray did not care much,—Mr. Horner thought not enough,—for this +world, and where any man or family stood in their earthly position; but he +would have every one prepared for the world to come, and capable of +understanding and receiving certain doctrines, for which latter purpose, it +stands to reason, he must have heard of these doctrines; and therefore Mr. Gray +wanted education. The answer in the Catechism that Mr. Horner was most fond of +calling upon a child to repeat, was that to, “What is thy duty towards +thy neighbour?” The answer Mr. Gray liked best to hear repeated with +unction, was that to the question, “What is the inward and spiritual +grace?” The reply to which Lady Ludlow bent her head the lowest, as we +said our Catechism to her on Sundays, was to, “What is thy duty towards +God?” But neither Mr. Horner nor Mr. Gray had heard many answers to the +Catechism as yet. +</p> + +<p> +Up to this time there was no Sunday-school in Hanbury. Mr. Gray’s desires +were bounded by that object. Mr. Horner looked farther on: he hoped for a +day-school at some future time, to train up intelligent labourers for working +on the estate. My lady would hear of neither one nor the other: indeed, not the +boldest man whom she ever saw would have dared to name the project of a +day-school within her hearing. +</p> + +<p> +So Mr. Horner contented himself with quietly teaching a sharp, clever lad to +read and write, with a view to making use of him as a kind of foreman in +process of time. He had his pick of the farm-lads for this purpose; and, as the +brightest and sharpest, although by far the raggedest and dirtiest, singled out +Job Gregson’s son. But all this—as my lady never listened to +gossip, or indeed, was spoken to unless she spoke first—was quite unknown +to her, until the unlucky incident took place which I am going to relate. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>CHAPTER IV.</h2> + +<p> +I think my lady was not aware of Mr. Horner’s views on education (as +making men into more useful members of society), or the practice to which he +was putting his precepts in taking Harry Gregson as pupil and protégé; if, +indeed, she were aware of Harry’s distinct existence at all, until the +following unfortunate occasion. The anteroom, which was a kind of +business-place for my lady to receive her steward and tenants in, was +surrounded by shelves. I cannot call them book-shelves, though there were many +books on them; but the contents of the volumes were principally manuscript, and +relating to details connected with the Hanbury property. There were also one or +two dictionaries, gazetteers, works of reference on the management of property; +all of a very old date (the dictionary was Bailey’s, I remember; we had a +great Johnson in my lady’s room, but where lexicographers differed, she +generally preferred Bailey). +</p> + +<p> +In this antechamber a footman generally sat, awaiting orders from my lady; for +she clung to the grand old customs, and despised any bells, except her own +little hand-bell, as modern inventions; she would have her people always within +summons of this silvery bell, or her scarce less silvery voice. This man had +not the sinecure you might imagine. He had to reply to the private entrance; +what we should call the back door in a smaller house. As none came to the front +door but my lady, and those of the county whom she honoured by visiting, and +her nearest acquaintance of this kind lived eight miles (of bad road) off, the +majority of comers knocked at the nail-studded terrace-door; not to have it +opened (for open it stood, by my lady’s orders, winter and summer, so +that the snow often drifted into the back hall, and lay there in heaps when the +weather was severe), but to summon some one to receive their message, or carry +their request to be allowed to speak to my lady. I remember it was long before +Mr. Gray could be made to understand that the great door was only open on state +occasions, and even to the last he would as soon come in by that as the terrace +entrance. I had been received there on my first setting foot over my +lady’s threshold; every stranger was led in by that way the first time +they came; but after that (with the exceptions I have named) they went round by +the terrace, as it were by instinct. It was an assistance to this instinct to +be aware that from time immemorial, the magnificent and fierce Hanbury +wolf-hounds, which were extinct in every other part of the island, had been and +still were kept chained in the front quadrangle, where they bayed through a +great part of the day and night and were always ready with their deep, savage +growl at the sight of every person and thing, excepting the man who fed them, +my lady’s carriage and four, and my lady herself. It was pretty to see +her small figure go up to the great, crouching brutes thumping the flags with +their heavy, wagging tails, and slobbering in an ecstacy of delight, at her +light approach and soft caress. She had no fear of them; but she was a Hanbury +born, and the tale went, that they and their kind knew all Hanburys instantly, +and acknowledged their supremacy, ever since the ancestors of the breed had +been brought from the East by the great Sir Urian Hanbury, who lay with his +legs crossed on the altar-tomb in the church. Moreover, it was reported that, +not fifty years before, one of these dogs had eaten up a child, which had +inadvertently strayed within reach of its chain. So you may imagine how most +people preferred the terrace-door. Mr. Gray did not seem to care for the dogs. +It might be absence of mind, for I have heard of his starting away from their +sudden spring when he had unwittingly walked within reach of their chains: but +it could hardly have been absence of mind, when one day he went right up to one +of them, and patted him in the most friendly manner, the dog meanwhile looking +pleased, and affably wagging his tail, just as if Mr. Gray had been a Hanbury. +We were all very much puzzled by this, and to this day I have not been able to +account for it. +</p> + +<p> +But now let us go back to the terrace-door, and the footman sitting in the +antechamber. +</p> + +<p> +One morning we heard a parleying, which rose to such a vehemence, and lasted +for so long, that my lady had to ring her hand-bell twice before the footman +heard it. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the matter, John?” asked she, when he entered, +</p> + +<p> +“A little boy, my lady, who says he comes from Mr. Horner, and must see +your ladyship. Impudent little lad!” (This last to himself.) +</p> + +<p> +“What does he want?” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s just what I have asked him, my lady, but he won’t +tell me, please your ladyship.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is, probably, some message from Mr. Horner,” said Lady Ludlow, +with just a shade of annoyance in her manner; for it was against all etiquette +to send a message to her, and by such a messenger too! +</p> + +<p> +“No! please your ladyship, I asked him if he had any message, and he said +no, he had none; but he must see your ladyship for all that.” +</p> + +<p> +“You had better show him in then, without more words,” said her +ladyship, quietly, but still, as I have said, rather annoyed. +</p> + +<p> +As if in mockery of the humble visitor, the footman threw open both battants of +the door, and in the opening there stood a lithe, wiry lad, with a thick head +of hair, standing out in every direction, as if stirred by some electrical +current, a short, brown face, red now from affright and excitement, wide, +resolute mouth, and bright, deep-set eyes, which glanced keenly and rapidly +round the room, as if taking in everything (and all was new and strange), to be +thought and puzzled over at some future time. He knew enough of manners not to +speak first to one above him in rank, or else he was afraid. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you want with me?” asked my lady; in so gentle a tone that +it seemed to surprise and stun him. +</p> + +<p> +“An’t please your ladyship?” said he, as if he had been deaf. +</p> + +<p> +“You come from Mr. Horner’s: why do you want to see me?” +again asked she, a little more loudly. +</p> + +<p> +“An’t please your ladyship, Mr. Horner was sent for all on a sudden +to Warwick this morning.” +</p> + +<p> +His face began to work; but he felt it, and closed his lips into a resolute +form. +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” +</p> + +<p> +“And he went off all on a sudden like.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” +</p> + +<p> +“And he left a note for your ladyship with me, your ladyship.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is that all? You might have given it to the footman.” +</p> + +<p> +“Please your ladyship, I’ve clean gone and lost it.” +</p> + +<p> +He never took his eyes off her face. If he had not kept his look fixed, he +would have burst out crying. +</p> + +<p> +“That was very careless,” said my lady gently. “But I am sure +you are very sorry for it. You had better try and find it; it may have been of +consequence. +</p> + +<p> +“Please, mum—please your ladyship—I can say it off by +heart.” +</p> + +<p> +“You! What do you mean?” I was really afraid now. My lady’s +blue eyes absolutely gave out light, she was so much displeased, and, moreover, +perplexed. The more reason he had for affright, the more his courage rose. He +must have seen,—so sharp a lad must have perceived her displeasure; but +he went on quickly and steadily. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Horner, my lady, has taught me to read, write, and cast accounts, my +lady. And he was in a hurry, and he folded his paper up, but he did not seal +it; and I read it, my lady; and now, my lady, it seems like as if I had got it +off by heart;” and he went on with a high pitched voice, saying out very +loud what, I have no doubt, were the identical words of the letter, date, +signature and all: it was merely something about a deed, which required my +lady’s signature. +</p> + +<p> +When he had done, he stood almost as if he expected commendation for his +accurate memory. +</p> + +<p> +My lady’s eyes contracted till the pupils were as needle-points; it was a +way she had when much disturbed. She looked at me and said— +</p> + +<p> +“Margaret Dawson, what will this world come to?” And then she was +silent. +</p> + +<p> +The lad, beginning to perceive he had given deep offence, stood stock +still—as if his brave will had brought him into this presence, and +impelled him to confession, and the best amends he could make, but had now +deserted him, or was extinct, and left his body motionless, until some one else +with word or deed made him quit the room. My lady looked again at him, and saw +the frowning, dumb-foundering terror at his misdeed, and the manner in which +his confession had been received. +</p> + +<p> +“My poor lad!” said she, the angry look leaving her face, +“into whose hands have you fallen?” +</p> + +<p> +The boy’s lips began to quiver. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you know what tree we read of in Genesis?—No! I hope +you have not got to read so easily as that.” A pause. “Who has +taught you to read and write?” +</p> + +<p> +“Please, my lady, I meant no harm, my lady.” He was fairly +blubbering, overcome by her evident feeling of dismay and regret, the soft +repression of which was more frightening to him than any strong or violent +words would have been. +</p> + +<p> +“Who taught you, I ask?” +</p> + +<p> +“It were Mr. Horner’s clerk who learned me, my lady.” +</p> + +<p> +“And did Mr. Horner know of it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, my lady. And I am sure I thought for to please him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well! perhaps you were not to blame for that. But I wonder at Mr. +Horner. However, my boy, as you have got possession of edge-tools, you must +have some rules how to use them. Did you never hear that you were not to open +letters?” +</p> + +<p> +“Please, my lady, it were open. Mr. Horner forgot for to seal it, in his +hurry to be off.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you must not read letters that are not intended for you. You must +never try to read any letters that are not directed to you, even if they be +open before you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Please, may lady, I thought it were good for practice, all as one as a +book.” +</p> + +<p> +My lady looked bewildered as to what way she could farther explain to him the +laws of honour as regarded letters. +</p> + +<p> +“You would not listen, I am sure,” said she, “to anything you +were not intended to hear?” +</p> + +<p> +He hesitated for a moment, partly because he did not fully comprehend the +question. My lady repeated it. The light of intelligence came into his eager +eyes, and I could see that he was not certain if he could tell the truth. +</p> + +<p> +“Please, my lady, I always hearken when I hear folk talking secrets; but +I mean no harm.” +</p> + +<p> +My poor lady sighed: she was not prepared to begin a long way off in morals. +Honour was, to her, second nature, and she had never tried to find out on what +principle its laws were based. So, telling the lad that she wished to see Mr. +Horner when he returned from Warwick, she dismissed him with a despondent look; +he, meanwhile, right glad to be out of the awful gentleness of her presence. +</p> + +<p> +“What is to be done?” said she, half to herself and half to me. I +could not answer, for I was puzzled myself. +</p> + +<p> +“It was a right word,” she continued, “that I used, when I +called reading and writing ‘edge-tools.’ If our lower orders have +these edge-tools given to them, we shall have the terrible scenes of the French +Revolution acted over again in England. When I was a girl, one never heard of +the rights of men, one only heard of the duties. Now, here was Mr. Gray, only +last night, talking of the right every child had to instruction. I could hardly +keep my patience with him, and at length we fairly came to words; and I told +him I would have no such thing as a Sunday-school (or a Sabbath-school, as he +calls it, just like a Jew) in my village.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what did he say, my lady?” I asked; for the struggle that +seemed now to have come to a crisis, had been going on for some time in a quiet +way. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, he gave way to temper, and said he was bound to remember, he was +under the bishop’s authority, not under mine; and implied that he should +persevere in his designs, notwithstanding my expressed opinion.” +</p> + +<p> +“And your ladyship—” I half inquired. +</p> + +<p> +“I could only rise and curtsey, and civilly dismiss him. When two persons +have arrived at a certain point of expression on a subject, about which they +differ as materially as I do from Mr. Gray, the wisest course, if they wish to +remain friends, is to drop the conversation entirely and suddenly. It is one of +the few cases where abruptness is desirable.” +</p> + +<p> +I was sorry for Mr. Gray. He had been to see me several times, and had helped +me to bear my illness in a better spirit than I should have done without his +good advice and prayers. And I had gathered from little things he said, how +much his heart was set upon this new scheme. I liked him so much, and I loved +and respected my lady so well, that I could not bear them to be on the cool +terms to which they were constantly getting. Yet I could do nothing but keep +silence. +</p> + +<p> +I suppose my lady understood something of what was passing in my mind; for, +after a minute or two, she went on:— +</p> + +<p> +“If Mr. Gray knew all I know,—if he had my experience, he would not +be so ready to speak of setting up his new plans in opposition to my judgment. +Indeed,” she continued, lashing herself up with her own recollections, +“times are changed when the parson of a village comes to beard the liege +lady in her own house. Why, in my grandfather’s days, the parson was +family chaplain too, and dined at the Hall every Sunday. He was helped last, +and expected to have done first. I remember seeing him take up his plate and +knife and fork, and say with his mouth full all the time he was speaking: +‘If you please, Sir Urian, and my lady, I’ll follow the beef into +the housekeeper’s room;’ for you see, unless he did so, he stood no +chance of a second helping. A greedy man, that parson was, to be sure! I +recollect his once eating up the whole of some little bird at dinner, and by +way of diverting attention from his greediness, he told how he had heard that a +rook soaked in vinegar and then dressed in a particular way, could not be +distinguished from the bird he was then eating. I saw by the grim look of my +grandfather’s face that the parson’s doing and saying displeased +him; and, child as I was, I had some notion of what was coming, when, as I was +riding out on my little, white pony, by my grandfather’s side, the next +Friday, he stopped one of the gamekeepers, and bade him shoot one of the oldest +rooks he could find. I knew no more about it till Sunday, when a dish was set +right before the parson, and Sir Urian said: ‘Now, Parson Hemming, I have +had a rook shot, and soaked in vinegar, and dressed as you described last +Sunday. Fall to, man, and eat it with as good an appetite as you had last +Sunday. Pick the bones clean, or by—, no more Sunday dinners shall you +eat at my table!’ I gave one look at poor Mr. Hemming’s face, as he +tried to swallow the first morsel, and make believe as though he thought it +very good; but I could not look again, for shame, although my grandfather +laughed, and kept asking us all round if we knew what could have become of the +parson’s appetite.” +</p> + +<p> +“And did he finish it?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“O yes, my dear. What my grandfather said was to be done, was done +always. He was a terrible man in his anger! But to think of the difference +between Parson Hemming and Mr. Gray! or even of poor dear Mr. Mountford and Mr. +Gray. Mr. Mountford would never have withstood me as Mr. Gray did!” +</p> + +<p> +“And your ladyship really thinks that it would not be right to have a +Sunday-school?” I asked, feeling very timid as I put time question. +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly not. As I told Mr. Gray. I consider a knowledge of the Creed, +and of the Lord’s Prayer, as essential to salvation; and that any child +may have, whose parents bring it regularly to church. Then there are the Ten +Commandments, which teach simple duties in the plainest language. Of course, if +a lad is taught to read and write (as that unfortunate boy has been who was +here this morning) his duties become complicated, and his temptations much +greater, while, at the same time, he has no hereditary principles and +honourable training to serve as safeguards. I might take up my old simile of +the race-horse and cart-horse. I am distressed,” continued she, with a +break in her ideas, “about that boy. The whole thing reminds me so much +of a story of what happened to a friend of mine—Clément de Créquy. Did I +ever tell you about him?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, your ladyship,” I replied. +</p> + +<p> +“Poor Clément! More than twenty years ago, Lord Ludlow and I spent a +winter in Paris. He had many friends there; perhaps not very good or very wise +men, but he was so kind that he liked every one, and every one liked him. We +had an apartment, as they call it there, in the Rue de Lille; we had the +first-floor of a grand hôtel, with the basement for our servants. On the +floor above us the owner of the house lived, a Marquise de Créquy, a widow. +They tell me that the Créquy coat-of-arms is still emblazoned, after all these +terrible years, on a shield above the arched porte-cochère, just as it was +then, though the family is quite extinct. Madame de Créquy had only one son, +Clément, who was just the same age as my Urian—you may see his portrait +in the great hall—Urian’s, I mean.” I knew that Master Urian +had been drowned at sea; and often had I looked at the presentment of his bonny +hopeful face, in his sailor’s dress, with right hand outstretched to a +ship on the sea in the distance, as if he had just said, “Look at her! +all her sails are set, and I’m just off.” Poor Master Urian! he +went down in this very ship not a year after the picture was taken! But now I +will go back to my lady’s story. “I can see those two boys playing +now,” continued she, softly, shutting her eyes, as if the better to call +up the vision, “as they used to do five-and-twenty years ago in those +old-fashioned French gardens behind our hôtel. Many a time have I watched +them from my windows. It was, perhaps, a better play-place than an English +garden would have been, for there were but few flower-beds, and no lawn at all +to speak about; but, instead, terraces and balustrades and vases and flights of +stone steps more in the Italian style; and there were jets-d’eau, and +little fountains that could be set playing by turning water-cocks that were +hidden here and there. How Clément delighted in turning the water on to +surprise Urian, and how gracefully he did the honours, as it were, to my dear, +rough, sailor lad! Urian was as dark as a gipsy boy, and cared little for his +appearance, and resisted all my efforts at setting off his black eyes and +tangled curls; but Clément, without ever showing that he thought about himself +and his dress, was always dainty and elegant, even though his clothes were +sometimes but threadbare. He used to be dressed in a kind of hunter’s +green suit, open at the neck and half-way down the chest to beautiful old lace +frills; his long golden curls fell behind just like a girl’s, and his +hair in front was cut over his straight dark eyebrows in a line almost as +straight. Urian learnt more of a gentleman’s carefulness and propriety of +appearance from that lad in two months than he had done in years from all my +lectures. I recollect one day, when the two boys were in full romp—and, +my window being open, I could hear them perfectly—and Urian was daring +Clément to some scrambling or climbing, which Clément refused to undertake, but +in a hesitating way, as though he longed to do it if some reason had not stood +in the way; and at times, Urian, who was hasty and thoughtless, poor fellow, +told Clément that he was afraid. ‘Fear!’ said the French boy, +drawing himself up; ‘you do not know what you say. If you will be here at +six to-morrow morning, when it is only just light, I will take that +starling’s nest on the top of yonder chimney.’ ‘But why not +now, Clément?’ said Urian, putting his arm round Clément’s neck. +‘Why then, and not now, just when we are in the humour for it?’ +‘Because we De Créquys are poor, and my mother cannot afford me another +suit of clothes this year, and yonder stone carving is all jagged, and would +tear my coat and breeches. Now, to-morrow morning I could go up with nothing on +but an old shirt.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘But you would tear your legs.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘My race do not care for pain,’ said the boy, drawing +himself from Urian’s arm, and walking a few steps away, with a becoming +pride and reserve; for he was hurt at being spoken to as if he were afraid, and +annoyed at having to confess the true reason for declining the feat. But Urian +was not to be thus baffled. He went up to Clément, and put his arm once more +about his neck, and I could see the two lads as they walked down the terrace +away from the hotel windows: first Urian spoke eagerly, looking with imploring +fondness into Clément’s face, which sought the ground, till at last the +French boy spoke, and by-and-by his arm was round Urian too, and they paced +backwards and forwards in deep talk, but gravely, as became men, rather than +boys. +</p> + +<p> +“All at once, from the little chapel at the corner of the large garden +belonging to the Missions Etrangères, I heard the tinkle of the little bell, +announcing the elevation of the host. Down on his knees went Clément, hands +crossed, eyes bent down: while Urian stood looking on in respectful thought. +</p> + +<p> +“What a friendship that might have been! I never dream of Urian without +seeing Clément too—Urian speaks to me, or does something,—but +Clément only flits round Urian, and never seems to see any one else!” +</p> + +<p> +“But I must not forget to tell you, that the next morning, before he was +out of his room, a footman of Madame de Créquy’s brought Urian the +starling’s nest.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well! we came back to England, and the boys were to correspond; and +Madame de Créquy and I exchanged civilities; and Urian went to sea.” +</p> + +<p> +“After that, all seemed to drop away. I cannot tell you all. However, to +confine myself to the De Créquys. I had a letter from Clément; I knew he felt +his friend’s death deeply; but I should never have learnt it from the +letter he sent. It was formal, and seemed like chaff to my hungering heart. +Poor fellow! I dare say he had found it hard to write. What could he—or +any one—say to a mother who has lost her child? The world does not think +so, and, in general, one must conform to the customs of the world; but, judging +from my own experience, I should say that reverent silence at such times is the +tenderest balm. Madame de Créquy wrote too. But I knew she could not feel my +loss so much as Clément, and therefore her letter was not such a +disappointment. She and I went on being civil and polite in the way of +commissions, and occasionally introducing friends to each other, for a year or +two, and then we ceased to have any intercourse. Then the terrible Revolution +came. No one who did not live at those times can imagine the daily expectation +of news—the hourly terror of rumours affecting the fortunes and lives of +those whom most of us had known as pleasant hosts, receiving us with peaceful +welcome in their magnificent houses. Of course, there was sin enough and +suffering enough behind the scenes; but we English visitors to Paris had seen +little or nothing of that,—and I had sometimes thought, indeed, how even +death seemed loth to choose his victims out of that brilliant throng whom I had +known. Madame de Créquy’s one boy lived; while three out of my six were +gone since we had met! I do not think all lots are equal, even now that I know +the end of her hopes; but I do say that whatever our individual lot is, it is +our duty to accept it, without comparing it with that of others. +</p> + +<p> +“The times were thick with gloom and terror. ‘What next?’ was +the question we asked of every one who brought us news from Paris. Where were +these demons hidden when, so few years ago, we danced and feasted, and enjoyed +the brilliant salons and the charming friendships of Paris? +</p> + +<p> +“One evening, I was sitting alone in Saint James’s Square; my lord +off at the club with Mr. Fox and others: he had left me, thinking that I should +go to one of the many places to which I had been invited for that evening; but +I had no heart to go anywhere, for it was poor Urian’s birthday, and I +had not even rung for lights, though the day was fast closing in, but was +thinking over all his pretty ways, and on his warm affectionate nature, and how +often I had been too hasty in speaking to him, for all I loved him so dearly; +and how I seemed to have neglected and dropped his dear friend Clément, who +might even now be in need of help in that cruel, bloody Paris. I say I was +thinking reproachfully of all this, and particularly of Clément de Créquy in +connection with Urian, when Fenwick brought me a note, sealed with a +coat-of-arms I knew well, though I could not remember at the moment where I had +seen it. I puzzled over it, as one does sometimes, for a minute or more, before +I opened the letter. In a moment I saw it was from Clément de Créquy. ‘My +mother is here,’ he said: ‘she is very ill, and I am bewildered in +this strange country. May I entreat you to receive me for a few minutes?’ +The bearer of the note was the woman of the house where they lodged. I had her +brought up into the anteroom, and questioned her myself, while my carriage was +being brought round. They had arrived in London a fortnight or so before: she +had not known their quality, judging them (according to her kind) by their +dress and their luggage; poor enough, no doubt. The lady had never left her +bed-room since her arrival; the young man waited upon her, did everything for +her, never left her, in fact; only she (the messenger) had promised to stay +within call, as soon as she returned, while he went out somewhere. She could +hardly understand him, he spoke English so badly. He had never spoken it, I +dare say, since he had talked to my Urian.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>CHAPTER V.</h2> + +<p> +“In the hurry of the moment I scarce knew what I did. I bade the +housekeeper put up every delicacy she had, in order to tempt the invalid, whom +yet I hoped to bring back with me to our house. When the carriage was ready I +took the good woman with me to show us the exact way, which my coachman +professed not to know; for, indeed, they were staying at but a poor kind of +place at the back of Leicester Square, of which they had heard, as Clément told +me afterwards, from one of the fishermen who had carried them across from the +Dutch coast in their disguises as a Friesland peasant and his mother. They had +some jewels of value concealed round their persons; but their ready money was +all spent before I saw them, and Clément had been unwilling to leave his +mother, even for the time necessary to ascertain the best mode of disposing of +the diamonds. For, overcome with distress of mind and bodily fatigue, she had +reached London only to take to her bed in a sort of low, nervous fever, in +which her chief and only idea seemed to be that Clément was about to be taken +from her to some prison or other; and if he were out of her sight, though but +for a minute, she cried like a child, and could not be pacified or comforted. +The landlady was a kind, good woman, and though she but half understood the +case, she was truly sorry for them, as foreigners, and the mother sick in a +strange land. +</p> + +<p> +“I sent her forwards to request permission for my entrance. In a moment I +saw Clément—a tall, elegant young man, in a curious dress of coarse +cloth, standing at the open door of a room, and evidently—even before he +accosted me—striving to soothe the terrors of his mother inside. I went +towards him, and would have taken his hand, but he bent down and kissed mine. +</p> + +<p> +“‘May I come in, madame?’ I asked, looking at the poor sick +lady, lying in the dark, dingy bed, her head propped up on coarse and dirty +pillows, and gazing with affrighted eyes at all that was going on. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Clément! Clément! come to me!’ she cried; and when he went +to the bedside she turned on one side, and took his hand in both of hers, and +began stroking it, and looking up in his face. I could scarce keep back my +tears. +</p> + +<p> +“He stood there quite still, except that from time to time he spoke to +her in a low tone. At last I advanced into the room, so that I could talk to +him, without renewing her alarm. I asked for the doctor’s address; for I +had heard that they had called in some one, at their landlady’s +recommendation: but I could hardly understand Clément’s broken English, +and mispronunciation of our proper names, and was obliged to apply to the woman +herself. I could not say much to Clément, for his attention was perpetually +needed by his mother, who never seemed to perceive that I was there. But I told +him not to fear, however long I might be away, for that I would return before +night; and, bidding the woman take charge of all the heterogeneous things the +housekeeper had put up, and leaving one of my men in the house, who could +understand a few words of French, with directions that he was to hold himself +at Madame de Créquy’s orders until I sent or gave him fresh commands, I +drove off to the doctor’s. What I wanted was his permission to remove +Madame de Créquy to my own house, and to learn how it best could be done; for I +saw that every movement in the room, every sound except Clément’s voice, +brought on a fresh access of trembling and nervous agitation. +</p> + +<p> +“The doctor was, I should think, a clever man; but he had that kind of +abrupt manner which people get who have much to do with the lower orders. +</p> + +<p> +“I told him the story of his patient, the interest I had in her, and the +wish I entertained of removing her to my own house. +</p> + +<p> +“‘It can’t be done,’ said he. ‘Any change will +kill her.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘But it must be done,’ I replied. ‘And it shall not +kill her.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Then I have nothing more to say,’ said he, turning away +from the carriage door, and making as though he would go back into the house. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Stop a moment. You must help me; and, if you do, you shall have +reason to be glad, for I will give you fifty pounds down with pleasure. If you +won’t do it, another shall.’ +</p> + +<p> +“He looked at me, then (furtively) at the carriage, hesitated, and then +said: ‘You do not mind expense, apparently. I suppose you are a rich lady +of quality. Such folks will not stick at such trifles as the life or death of a +sick woman to get their own way. I suppose I must e’en help you, for if I +don’t, another will.’ +</p> + +<p> +“I did not mind what he said, so that he would assist me. I was pretty +sure that she was in a state to require opiates; and I had not forgotten +Christopher Sly, you may be sure, so I told him what I had in my head. That in +the dead of night—the quiet time in the streets,—she should be +carried in a hospital litter, softly and warmly covered over, from the +Leicester Square lodging-house to rooms that I would have in perfect readiness +for her. As I planned, so it was done. I let Clément know, by a note, of my +design. I had all prepared at home, and we walked about my house as though shod +with velvet, while the porter watched at the open door. At last, through the +darkness, I saw the lanterns carried by my men, who were leading the little +procession. The litter looked like a hearse; on one side walked the doctor, on +the other Clément; they came softly and swiftly along. I could not try any +farther experiment; we dared not change her clothes; she was laid in the bed in +the landlady’s coarse night-gear, and covered over warmly, and left in +the shaded, scented room, with a nurse and the doctor watching by her, while I +led Clément to the dressing-room adjoining, in which I had had a bed placed for +him. Farther than that he would not go; and there I had refreshments brought. +Meanwhile, he had shown his gratitude by every possible action (for we none of +us dared to speak): he had kneeled at my feet, and kissed my hand, and left it +wet with his tears. He had thrown up his arms to Heaven, and prayed earnestly, +as I could see by the movement of his lips. I allowed him to relieve himself by +these dumb expressions, if I may so call them,—and then I left him, and +went to my own rooms to sit up for my lord, and tell him what I had done. +</p> + +<p> +“Of course, it was all right; and neither my lord nor I could sleep for +wondering how Madame de Créquy would bear her awakening. I had engaged the +doctor, to whose face and voice she was accustomed, to remain with her all +night: the nurse was experienced, and Clément was within call. But it was with +the greatest relief that I heard from my own woman, when she brought me my +chocolate, that Madame de Créquy (Monsieur had said) had awakened more tranquil +than she had been for many days. To be sure, the whole aspect of the +bed-chamber must have been more familiar to her than the miserable place where +I had found her, and she must have intuitively felt herself among friends. +</p> + +<p> +“My lord was scandalized at Clément’s dress, which, after the first +moment of seeing him I had forgotten, in thinking of other things, and for +which I had not prepared Lord Ludlow. He sent for his own tailor, and bade him +bring patterns of stuffs, and engage his men to work night and day till Clément +could appear as became his rank. In short, in a few days so much of the traces +of their flight were removed, that we had almost forgotten the terrible causes +of it, and rather felt as if they had come on a visit to us than that they had +been compelled to fly their country. Their diamonds, too, were sold well by my +lord’s agents, though the London shops were stocked with jewellery, and +such portable valuables, some of rare and curious fashion, which were sold for +half their real value by emigrants who could not afford to wait. Madame de +Créquy was recovering her health, although her strength was sadly gone, and she +would never be equal to such another flight, as the perilous one which she had +gone through, and to which she could not bear the slightest reference. For some +time things continued in this state—the De Créquys still our honoured +visitors,—many houses besides our own, even among our own friends, open +to receive the poor flying nobility of France, driven from their country by the +brutal republicans, and every freshly-arrived emigrant bringing new tales of +horror, as if these revolutionists were drunk with blood, and mad to devise new +atrocities. One day Clément—I should tell you he had been presented to +our good King George and the sweet Queen, and they had accosted him most +graciously, and his beauty and elegance, and some of the circumstances +attendant on his flight, made him be received in the world quite like a hero of +romance; he might have been on intimate terms in many a distinguished house, +had he cared to visit much; but he accompanied my lord and me with an air of +indifference and languor, which I sometimes fancied made him be all the more +sought after: Monkshaven (that was the title my eldest son bore) tried in vain +to interest him in all young men’s sports. But no! it was the same +through all. His mother took far more interest in the on-dits of the London +world, into which she was far too great an invalid to venture, than he did in +the absolute events themselves, in which he might have been an actor. One day, +as I was saying, an old Frenchman of a humble class presented himself to our +servants, several of them, understood French; and through Medlicott, I learnt +that he was in some way connected with the De Créquys; not with their +Paris-life; but I fancy he had been intendant of their estates in the country; +estates which were more useful as hunting-grounds than as adding to their +income. However, there was the old man and with him, wrapped round his person, +he had brought the long parchment rolls, and deeds relating to their property. +These he would deliver up to none but Monsieur de Créquy, the rightful owner; +and Clément was out with Monkshaven, so the old man waited; and when Clément +came in, I told him of the steward’s arrival, and how he had been cared +for by my people. Clément went directly to see him. He was a long time away, +and I was waiting for him to drive out with me, for some purpose or another, I +scarce know what, but I remember I was tired of waiting, and was just in the +act of ringing the bell to desire that he might be reminded of his engagement +with me, when he came in, his face as white as the powder in his hair, his +beautiful eyes dilated with horror. I saw that he had heard something that +touched him even more closely than the usual tales which every fresh emigrant +brought. +</p> + +<p> +“‘What is it, Clément?’ I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“He clasped his hands, and looked as though he tried to speak, but could +not bring out the words. +</p> + +<p> +“‘They have guillotined my uncle!’ said he at last. Now, I +knew that there was a Count de Créquy; but I had always understood that the +elder branch held very little communication with him; in fact, that he was a +vaurien of some kind, and rather a disgrace than otherwise to the family. So, +perhaps, I was hard-hearted but I was a little surprised at this excess of +emotion, till I saw that peculiar look in his eyes that many people have when +there is more terror in their hearts than they dare put into words. He wanted +me to understand something without his saying it; but how could I? I had never +heard of a Mademoiselle de Créquy. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Virginie!’ at last he uttered. In an instant I understood +it all, and remembered that, if Urian had lived, he too might have been in +love. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Your uncle’s daughter?’ I inquired. +</p> + +<p> +“‘My cousin,’ he replied. +</p> + +<p> +“I did not say, ‘your betrothed,’ but I had no doubt of it. I +was mistaken, however. +</p> + +<p> +“‘O madame!’ he continued, ‘her mother died long +ago—her father now—and she is in daily fear,—alone, +deserted—’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Is she in the Abbaye?’ asked I. +</p> + +<p> +“‘No! she is in hiding with the widow of her father’s old +concierge. Any day they may search the house for aristocrats. They are seeking +them everywhere. Then, not her life alone, but that of the old woman, her +hostess, is sacrificed. The old woman knows this, and trembles with fear. Even +if she is brave enough to be faithful, her fears would betray her, should the +house be searched. Yet, there is no one to help Virginie to escape. She is +alone in Paris.’ +</p> + +<p> +“I saw what was in his mind. He was fretting and chafing to go to his +cousin’s assistance; but the thought of his mother restrained him. I +would not have kept back Urian from such on errand at such a time. How should I +restrain him? And yet, perhaps, I did wrong in not urging the chances of danger +more. Still, if it was danger to him, was it not the same or even greater +danger to her?—for the French spared neither age nor sex in those wicked +days of terror. So I rather fell in with his wish, and encouraged him to think +how best and most prudently it might be fulfilled; never doubting, as I have +said, that he and his cousin were troth-plighted. +</p> + +<p> +“But when I went to Madame de Créquy—after he had imparted his, or +rather our plan to her—I found out my mistake. She, who was in general +too feeble to walk across the room save slowly, and with a stick, was going +from end to end with quick, tottering steps; and, if now and then she sank upon +a chair, it seemed as if she could not rest, for she was up again in a moment, +pacing along, wringing her hands, and speaking rapidly to herself. When she saw +me, she stopped: ‘Madame,’ she said, ‘you have lost your own +boy. You might have left me mine.’ +</p> + +<p> +“I was so astonished—I hardly knew what to say. I had spoken to +Clément as if his mother’s consent were secure (as I had felt my own +would have been if Urian had been alive to ask it). Of coarse, both he and I +knew that his mother’s consent must be asked and obtained, before he +could leave her to go on such an undertaking; but, somehow, my blood always +rose at the sight or sound of danger; perhaps, because my life had been so +peaceful. Poor Madame de Créquy! it was otherwise with her; she despaired while +I hoped, and Clément trusted. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Dear Madame de Créquy,’ said I, ‘he will return +safely to us; every precaution shall be taken, that either he or you, or my +lord, or Monkshaven can think of; but he cannot leave a girl—his nearest +relation save you—his betrothed, is she not?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘His betrothed!’ cried she, now at the utmost pitch of her +excitement. ‘Virginie betrothed to Clément?—no! thank heaven, not +so bad as that! Yet it might have been. But mademoiselle scorned my son! She +would have nothing to do with him. Now is the time for him to have nothing to +do with her!” +</p> + +<p> +“Clément had entered at the door behind his mother as she thus spoke. His +face was set and pale, till it looked as gray and immovable as if it had been +carved in stone. He came forward and stood before his mother. She stopped her +walk, threw back her haughty head, and the two looked each other steadily in +the face. After a minute or two in this attitude, her proud and resolute gaze +never flinching or wavering, he went down upon one knee, and, taking her +hand—her hard, stony hand, which never closed on his, but remained +straight and stiff: +</p> + +<p> +“‘Mother,’ he pleaded, ‘withdraw your prohibition. Let +me go!’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘What were her words?’ Madame de Créquy replied, slowly, as +if forcing her memory to the extreme of accuracy. ‘My cousin,’ she +said, ‘when I marry, I marry a man, not a petit-maître. I marry a +man who, whatever his rank may be will add dignity to the human race by his +virtues, and not be content to live in an effeminate court on the traditions of +past grandeur.’ She borrowed her words from the infamous Jean-Jacques +Rousseau, the friend of her scarce less infamous father—nay! I will say +it,—if not her words, she borrowed her principles. And my son to request +her to marry him!’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘It was my father’s written wish,’ said Clément. +</p> + +<p> +“‘But did you not love her? You plead your father’s +words,—words written twelve years before,—and as if that were your +reason for being indifferent to my dislike to the alliance. But you requested +her to marry you,—and she refused you with insolent contempt; and now you +are ready to leave me,—leave me desolate in a foreign land—’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Desolate! my mother! and the Countess Ludlow stands there!’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Pardon, madame! But all the earth, though it were full of kind +hearts, is but a desolation and a desert place to a mother when her only child +is absent. And you, Clément, would leave me for this Virginie,—this +degenerate De Créquy, tainted with the atheism of the Encyclopédistes! She is +only reaping some of the fruit of the harvest whereof her friends have sown the +seed. Let her alone! Doubtless she has friends—it may be +lovers—among these demons, who, under the cry of liberty, commit every +licence. Let her alone, Clément! She refused you with scorn: be too proud to +notice her now.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Mother, I cannot think of myself; only of her.’ +</p> + +<p> +“’Think of me, then! I, your mother, forbid you to go.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Clément bowed low, and went out of the room instantly, as one blinded. +She saw his groping movement, and, for an instant, I think her heart was +touched. But she turned to me, and tried to exculpate her past violence by +dilating upon her wrongs, and they certainly were many. The Count, her +husband’s younger brother, had invariably tried to make mischief between +husband and wife. He had been the cleverer man of the two, and had possessed +extraordinary influence over her husband. She suspected him of having +instigated that clause in her husband’s will, by which the Marquis +expressed his wish for the marriage of the cousins. The Count had had some +interest in the management of the De Créquy property during her son’s +minority. Indeed, I remembered then, that it was through Count de Créquy that +Lord Ludlow had first heard of the apartment which we afterwards took in the +Hôtel de Créquy; and then the recollection of a past feeling came +distinctly out of the mist, as it were; and I called to mind how, when we first +took up our abode in the Hôtel de Créquy, both Lord Ludlow and I imagined +that the arrangement was displeasing to our hostess; and how it had taken us a +considerable time before we had been able to establish relations of friendship +with her. Years after our visit, she began to suspect that Clément (whom she +could not forbid to visit at his uncle’s house, considering the terms on +which his father had been with his brother; though she herself never set foot +over the Count de Créquy’s threshold) was attaching himself to +mademoiselle, his cousin; and she made cautious inquiries as to the appearance, +character, and disposition of the young lady. Mademoiselle was not handsome, +they said; but of a fine figure, and generally considered as having a very +noble and attractive presence. In character she was daring and wilful (said one +set); original and independent (said another). She was much indulged by her +father, who had given her something of a man’s education, and selected +for her intimate friend a young lady below her in rank, one of the +Bureaucracie, a Mademoiselle Necker, daughter of the Minister of Finance. +Mademoiselle de Créquy was thus introduced into all the free-thinking salons of +Paris; among people who were always full of plans for subverting society. +‘And did Clément affect such people?’ Madame de Créquy had asked +with some anxiety. No! Monsieur de Créquy had neither eyes nor ears, nor +thought for anything but his cousin, while she was by. And she? She hardly took +notice of his devotion, so evident to every one else. The proud creature! But +perhaps that was her haughty way of concealing what she felt. And so Madame de +Créquy listened, and questioned, and learnt nothing decided, until one day she +surprised Clément with the note in his hand, of which she remembered the +stinging words so well, in which Virginie had said, in reply to a proposal +Clément had sent her through her father, that ‘When she married she +married a man, not a petit-maître.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Clément was justly indignant at the insulting nature of the answer +Virginie had sent to a proposal, respectful in its tone, and which was, after +all, but the cool, hardened lava over a burning heart. He acquiesced in his +mother’s desire, that he should not again present himself in his +uncle’s salons; but he did not forget Virginie, though he never mentioned +her name. +</p> + +<p> +“Madame de Créquy and her son were among the earliest proscrits, as they +were of the strongest possible royalists, and aristocrats, as it was the custom +of the horrid Sansculottes to term those who adhered to the habits of +expression and action in which it was their pride to have been educated. They +had left Paris some weeks before they had arrived in England, and +Clément’s belief at the time of quitting the Hôtel de Créquy had +certainly been, that his uncle was not merely safe, but rather a popular man +with the party in power. And, as all communication having relation to private +individuals of a reliable kind was intercepted, Monsieur de Créquy had felt but +little anxiety for his uncle and cousin, in comparison with what he did for +many other friends of very different opinions in politics, until the day when +he was stunned by the fatal information that even his progressive uncle was +guillotined, and learnt that his cousin was imprisoned by the licence of the +mob, whose rights (as she called them) she was always advocating. +</p> + +<p> +“When I had heard all this story, I confess I lost in sympathy for +Clément what I gained for his mother. Virginie’s life did not seem to me +worth the risk that Clément’s would run. But when I saw him—sad, +depressed, nay, hopeless—going about like one oppressed by a heavy dream +which he cannot shake off; caring neither to eat, drink, nor sleep, yet bearing +all with silent dignity, and even trying to force a poor, faint smile when he +caught my anxious eyes; I turned round again, and wondered how Madame de Créquy +could resist this mute pleading of her son’s altered appearance. As for +my Lord Ludlow and Monkshaven, as soon as they understood the case, they were +indignant that any mother should attempt to keep a son out of honourable +danger; and it was honourable, and a clear duty (according to them) to try to +save the life of a helpless orphan girl, his next of kin. None but a Frenchman, +said my lord, would hold himself bound by an old woman’s whimsies and +fears, even though she were his mother. As it was, he was chafing himself to +death under the restraint. If he went, to be sure, the wretches might make an +end of him, as they had done of many a fine fellow: but my lord would take +heavy odds, that, instead of being guillotined, he would save the girl, and +bring her safe to England, just desperately in love with her preserver, and +then we would have a jolly wedding down at Monkshaven. My lord repeated his +opinion so often that it became a certain prophecy in his mind of what was to +take place; and, one day seeing Clément look even paler and thinner than he had +ever done before, he sent a message to Madame de Créquy, requesting permission +to speak to her in private. +</p> + +<p> +“‘For, by George!’ said he, ‘she shall hear my opinion, +and not let that lad of hers kill himself by fretting. He’s too good for +that, if he had been an English lad, he would have been off to his sweetheart +long before this, without saying with your leave or by your leave; but being a +Frenchman, he is all for Æneas and filial piety,—filial +fiddle-sticks!’ (My lord had run away to sea, when a boy, against his +father’s consent, I am sorry to say; and, as all had ended well, and he +had come back to find both his parents alive, I do not think he was ever as +much aware of his fault as he might have been under other circumstances.) +‘No, my lady,’ he went on, ‘don’t come with me. A woman +can manage a man best when he has a fit of obstinacy, and a man can persuade a +woman out of her tantrums, when all her own sex, the whole army of them, would +fail. Allow me to go alone to my tête-à-tête with +madame.” +</p> + +<p> +“What he said, what passed, he never could repeat; but he came back +graver than he went. However, the point was gained; Madame de Créquy withdrew +her prohibition, and had given him leave to tell Clément as much. +</p> + +<p> +“‘But she is an old Cassandra,’ said he. ‘Don’t +let the lad be much with her; her talk would destroy the courage of the bravest +man; she is so given over to superstition.’ Something that she had said +had touched a chord in my lord’s nature which he inherited from his +Scotch ancestors. Long afterwards, I heard what this was. Medlicott told me. +</p> + +<p> +“However, my lord shook off all fancies that told against the fulfilment +of Clément’s wishes. All that afternoon we three sat together, planning; +and Monkshaven passed in and out, executing our commissions, and preparing +everything. Towards nightfall all was ready for Clément’s start on his +journey towards the coast. +</p> + +<p> +“Madame had declined seeing any of us since my lord’s stormy +interview with her. She sent word that she was fatigued, and desired repose. +But, of course, before Clément set off, he was bound to wish her farewell, and +to ask for her blessing. In order to avoid an agitating conversation between +mother and son, my lord and I resolved to be present at the interview. Clément +was already in his travelling-dress, that of a Norman fisherman, which +Monkshaven had, with infinite trouble, discovered in the possession of one of +the emigrés who thronged London, and who had made his escape from the shores of +France in this disguise. Clément’s plan was, to go down to the coast of +Sussex, and get some of the fishing or smuggling boats to take him across to +the French coast near Dieppe. There again he would have to change his dress. +Oh, it was so well planned! His mother was startled by his disguise (of which +we had not thought to forewarn her) as he entered her apartment. And either +that, or the being suddenly roused from the heavy slumber into which she was +apt to fall when she was left alone, gave her manner an air of wildness that +was almost like insanity. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Go, go!’ she said to him, almost pushing him away as he +knelt to kiss her hand. ‘Virginie is beckoning to you, but you +don’t see what kind of a bed it is—’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Clément, make haste!’ said my lord, in a hurried manner, as +if to interrupt madame. ‘The time is later than I thought, and you must +not miss the morning’s tide. Bid your mother good-bye at once, and let us +be off.’ For my lord and Monkshaven were to ride with him to an inn near +the shore, from whence he was to walk to his destination. My lord almost took +him by the arm to pull him away; and they were gone, and I was left alone with +Madame de Créquy. When she heard the horses’ feet, she seemed to find out +the truth, as if for the first time. She set her teeth together. ‘He has +left me for her!’ she almost screamed. ‘Left me for her!’ she +kept muttering; and then, as the wild look came back into her eyes, she said, +almost with exultation, ‘But I did not give him my +blessing!’” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>CHAPTER VI.</h2> + +<p> +“All night Madame de Créquy raved in delirium. If I could I would have +sent for Clément back again. I did send off one man, but I suppose my +directions were confused, or they were wrong, for he came back after my +lord’s return, on the following afternoon. By this time Madame de Créquy +was quieter: she was, indeed, asleep from exhaustion when Lord Ludlow and +Monkshaven came in. They were in high spirits, and their hopefulness brought me +round to a less dispirited state. All had gone well: they had accompanied +Clément on foot along the shore, until they had met with a lugger, which my +lord had hailed in good nautical language. The captain had responded to these +freemason terms by sending a boat to pick up his passenger, and by an +invitation to breakfast sent through a speaking-trumpet. Monkshaven did not +approve of either the meal or the company, and had returned to the inn, but my +lord had gone with Clément and breakfasted on board, upon grog, biscuit, +fresh-caught fish—‘the best breakfast he ever ate,’ he said, +but that was probably owing to the appetite his night’s ride had given +him. However, his good fellowship had evidently won the captain’s heart, +and Clément had set sail under the best auspices. It was agreed that I should +tell all this to Madame de Créquy, if she inquired; otherwise, it would be +wiser not to renew her agitation by alluding to her son’s journey. +</p> + +<p> +“I sat with her constantly for many days; but she never spoke of Clément. +She forced herself to talk of the little occurrences of Parisian society in +former days: she tried to be conversational and agreeable, and to betray no +anxiety or even interest in the object of Clément’s journey; and, as far +as unremitting efforts could go, she succeeded. But the tones of her voice were +sharp and yet piteous, as if she were in constant pain; and the glance of her +eye hurried and fearful, as if she dared not let it rest on any object. +</p> + +<p> +“In a week we heard of Clément’s safe arrival on the French coast. +He sent a letter to this effect by the captain of the smuggler, when the latter +returned. We hoped to hear again; but week after week elapsed, and there was no +news of Clément. I had told Lord Ludlow, in Madame de Créquy’s presence, +as he and I had arranged, of the note I had received from her son, informing us +of his landing in France. She heard, but she took no notice, and evidently +began to wonder that we did not mention any further intelligence of him in the +same manner before her; and daily I began to fear that her pride would give +way, and that she would supplicate for news before I had any to give her. +</p> + +<p> +“One morning, on my awakening, my maid told me that Madame de Créquy had +passed a wretched night, and had bidden Medlicott (whom, as understanding +French, and speaking it pretty well, though with that horrid German accent, I +had put about her) request that I would go to madame’s room as soon as I +was dressed. +</p> + +<p> +“I knew what was coming, and I trembled all the time they were doing my +hair, and otherwise arranging me. I was not encouraged by my lord’s +speeches. He had heard the message, and kept declaring that he would rather be +shot than have to tell her that there was no news of her son; and yet he said, +every now and then, when I was at the lowest pitch of uneasiness, that he never +expected to hear again: that some day soon we should see him walking in and +introducing Mademoiselle de Créquy to us. +</p> + +<p> +“However at last I was ready, and go I must. +</p> + +<p> +“Her eyes were fixed on the door by which I entered. I went up to the +bedside. She was not rouged,—she had left it off now for several +days,—she no longer attempted to keep up the vain show of not feeling, +and loving, and fearing. +</p> + +<p> +“For a moment or two she did not speak, and I was glad of the respite. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Clément?’ she said at length, covering her mouth with a +handkerchief the minute she had spoken, that I might not see it quiver. +</p> + +<p> +“‘There has been no news since the first letter, saying how well +the voyage was performed, and how safely he had landed—near Dieppe, you +know,’ I replied as cheerfully as possible. ‘My lord does not +expect that we shall have another letter; he thinks that we shall see him +soon.’ +</p> + +<p> +“There was no answer. As I looked, uncertain whether to do or say more, +she slowly turned herself in bed, and lay with her face to the wall; and, as if +that did not shut out the light of day and the busy, happy world enough, she +put out her trembling hands, and covered her face with her handkerchief. There +was no violence: hardly any sound. +</p> + +<p> +“I told her what my lord had said about Clément’s coming in some +day, and taking us all by surprise. I did not believe it myself, but it was +just possible,—and I had nothing else to say. Pity, to one who was +striving so hard to conceal her feelings, would have been impertinent. She let +me talk; but she did not reply. She knew that my words were vain and idle, and +had no root in my belief; as well as I did myself. +</p> + +<p> +“I was very thankful when Medlicott came in with Madame’s +breakfast, and gave me an excuse for leaving. +</p> + +<p> +“But I think that conversation made me feel more anxious and impatient +than ever. I felt almost pledged to Madame de Créquy for the fulfilment of the +vision I had held out. She had taken entirely to her bed by this time: not from +illness, but because she had no hope within her to stir her up to the effort of +dressing. In the same way she hardly cared for food. She had no +appetite,—why eat to prolong a life of despair? But she let Medlicott +feed her, sooner than take the trouble of resisting. +</p> + +<p> +“And so it went on,—for weeks, months—I could hardly count +the time, it seemed so long. Medlicott told me she noticed a preternatural +sensitiveness of ear in Madame de Créquy, induced by the habit of listening +silently for the slightest unusual sound in the house. Medlicott was always a +minute watcher of any one whom she cared about; and, one day, she made me +notice by a sign madame’s acuteness of hearing, although the quick +expectation was but evinced for a moment in the turn of the eye, the hushed +breath—and then, when the unusual footstep turned into my lord’s +apartments, the soft quivering sigh, and the closed eyelids. +</p> + +<p> +“At length the intendant of the De Créquy estates—the old man, you +will remember, whose information respecting Virginie de Créquy first gave +Clément the desire to return to Paris,—came to St. James’s Square, +and begged to speak to me. I made haste to go down to him in the +housekeeper’s room, sooner than that he should be ushered into mine, for +fear of madame hearing any sound. +</p> + +<p> +“The old man stood—I see him now—with his hat held before him +in both his hands; he slowly bowed till his face touched it when I came in. +Such long excess of courtesy augured ill. He waited for me to speak. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Have you any intelligence?’ I inquired. He had been often +to the house before, to ask if we had received any news; and once or twice I +had seen him, but this was the first time he had begged to see me. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Yes, madame,’ he replied, still standing with his head bent +down, like a child in disgrace. +</p> + +<p> +“‘And it is bad!’ I exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +“‘It is bad.’ For a moment I was angry at the cold tone in +which my words were echoed; but directly afterwards I saw the large, slow, +heavy tears of age falling down the old man’s cheeks, and on to the +sleeves of his poor, threadbare coat. +</p> + +<p> +“I asked him how he had heard it: it seemed as though I could not all at +once bear to hear what it was. He told me that the night before, in crossing +Long Acre, he had stumbled upon an old acquaintance of his; one who, like +himself had been a dependent upon the De Créquy family, but had managed their +Paris affairs, while Fléchier had taken charge of their estates in the country. +Both were now emigrants, and living on the proceeds of such small available +talents as they possessed. Fléchier, as I knew, earned a very fair livelihood +by going about to dress salads for dinner parties. His compatriot, Le Fèbvre, +had begun to give a few lessons as a dancing-master. One of them took the other +home to his lodgings; and there, when their most immediate personal adventures +had been hastily talked over, came the inquiry from Fléchier as to Monsieur de +Créquy +</p> + +<p> +“‘Clément was dead—guillotined. Virginie was +dead—guillotined.’ +</p> + +<p> +“When Fléchier had told me thus much, he could not speak for sobbing; and +I, myself, could hardly tell how to restrain my tears sufficiently, until I +could go to my own room and be at liberty to give way. He asked my leave to +bring in his friend Le Fèbvre, who was walking in the square, awaiting a +possible summons to tell his story. I heard afterwards a good many details, +which filled up the account, and made me feel—which brings me back to the +point I started from—how unfit the lower orders are for being trusted +indiscriminately with the dangerous powers of education. I have made a long +preamble, but now I am coming to the moral of my story.” +</p> + +<p> +My lady was trying to shake off the emotion which she evidently felt in +recurring to this sad history of Monsieur de Créquy’s death. She came +behind me, and arranged my pillows, and then, seeing I had been +crying—for, indeed, I was weak-spirited at the time, and a little served +to unloose my tears—she stooped down, and kissed my forehead, and said +“Poor child!” almost as if she thanked me for feeling that old +grief of hers. +</p> + +<p> +“Being once in France, it was no difficult thing for Clément to get into +Paris. The difficulty in those days was to leave, not to enter. He came in +dressed as a Norman peasant, in charge of a load of fruit and vegetables, with +which one of the Seine barges was freighted. He worked hard with his companions +in landing and arranging their produce on the quays; and then, when they +dispersed to get their breakfasts at some of the estaminets near the old Marché +aux Fleurs, he sauntered up a street which conducted him, by many an odd turn, +through the Quartier Latin to a horrid back alley, leading out of the Rue +l’Ecole de Médécine; some atrocious place, as I have heard, not far from +the shadow of that terrible Abbaye, where so many of the best blood of France +awaited their deaths. But here some old man lived, on whose fidelity Clément +thought that he might rely. I am not sure if he had not been gardener in those +very gardens behind the Hôtel Créquy where Clément and Urian used to play +together years before. But whatever the old man’s dwelling might be, +Clément was only too glad to reach it, you may be sure, he had been kept in +Normandy, in all sorts of disguises, for many days after landing in Dieppe, +through the difficulty of entering Paris unsuspected by the many ruffians who +were always on the look-out for aristocrats. +</p> + +<p> +“The old gardener was, I believe, both faithful and tried, and sheltered +Clément in his garret as well as might be. Before he could stir out, it was +necessary to procure a fresh disguise, and one more in character with an +inhabitant of Paris than that of a Norman carter was procured; and after +waiting indoors for one or two days, to see if any suspicion was excited, +Clément set off to discover Virginie. +</p> + +<p> +“He found her at the old concièrge’s dwelling. Madame Babette was +the name of this woman, who must have been a less faithful—or rather, +perhaps, I should say, a more interested—friend to her guest than the old +gardener Jaques was to Clément. +</p> + +<p> +“I have seen a miniature of Virginie, which a French lady of quality +happened to have in her possession at the time of her flight from Paris, and +which she brought with her to England unwittingly; for it belonged to the Count +de Créquy, with whom she was slightly acquainted. I should fancy from it, that +Virginie was taller and of a more powerful figure for a woman than her cousin +Clément was for a man. Her dark-brown hair was arranged in short +curls—the way of dressing the hair announced the politics of the +individual, in those days, just as patches did in my grandmother’s time; +and Virginie’s hair was not to my taste, or according to my principles: +it was too classical. Her large, black eyes looked out at you steadily. One +cannot judge of the shape of a nose from a full-face miniature, but the +nostrils were clearly cut and largely opened. I do not fancy her nose could +have been pretty; but her mouth had a character all its own, and which would, I +think, have redeemed a plainer face. It was wide, and deep set into the cheeks +at the corners; the upper lip was very much arched, and hardly closed over the +teeth; so that the whole face looked (from the serious, intent look in the +eyes, and the sweet intelligence of the mouth) as if she were listening eagerly +to something to which her answer was quite ready, and would come out of those +red, opening lips as soon as ever you had done speaking, and you longed to know +what she would say. +</p> + +<p> +“Well: this Virginie de Créquy was living with Madame Babette in the +concièrgerie of an old French inn, somewhere to the north of Paris, so, far +enough from Clément’s refuge. The inn had been frequented by farmers from +Brittany and such kind of people, in the days when that sort of intercourse +went on between Paris and the provinces which had nearly stopped now. Few +Bretons came near it now, and the inn had fallen into the hands of Madame +Babette’s brother, as payment for a bad wine debt of the last proprietor. +He put his sister and her child in, to keep it open, as it were, and sent all +the people he could to occupy the half-furnished rooms of the house. They paid +Babette for their lodging every morning as they went out to breakfast, and +returned or not as they chose, at night. Every three days, the wine-merchant or +his son came to Madame Babette, and she accounted to them for the money she had +received. She and her child occupied the porter’s office (in which the +lad slept at nights) and a little miserable bed-room which opened out of it, +and received all the light and air that was admitted through the door of +communication, which was half glass. Madame Babette must have had a kind of +attachment for the De Créquys—her De Créquys, you +understand—Virginie’s father, the Count; for, at some risk to +herself, she had warned both him and his daughter of the danger impending over +them. But he, infatuated, would not believe that his dear Human Race could ever +do him harm; and, as long as he did not fear, Virginie was not afraid. It was +by some ruse, the nature of which I never heard, that Madame Babette induced +Virginie to come to her abode at the very hour in which the Count had been +recognized in the streets, and hurried off to the Lanterne. It was after +Babette had got her there, safe shut up in the little back den, that she told +her what had befallen her father. From that day, Virginie had never stirred out +of the gates, or crossed the threshold of the porter’s lodge. I do not +say that Madame Babette was tired of her continual presence, or regretted the +impulse which made her rush to the De Créquy’s well-known +house—after being compelled to form one of the mad crowds that saw the +Count de Créquy seized and hung—and hurry his daughter out, through +alleys and backways, until at length she had the orphan safe in her own dark +sleeping-room, and could tell her tale of horror: but Madame Babette was poorly +paid for her porter’s work by her avaricious brother; and it was hard +enough to find food for herself and her growing boy; and, though the poor girl +ate little enough, I dare say, yet there seemed no end to the burthen that +Madame Babette had imposed upon herself: the De Créquys were plundered, ruined, +had become an extinct race, all but a lonely friendless girl, in broken health +and spirits; and, though she lent no positive encouragement to his suit, yet, +at the time, when Clément reappeared in Paris, Madame Babette was beginning to +think that Virginie might do worse than encourage the attentions of Monsieur +Morin Fils, her nephew, and the wine merchant’s son. Of course, he and +his father had the entrée into the concièrgerie of the hotel that belonged to +them, in right of being both proprietors and relations. The son, Morin, had +seen Virginie in this manner. He was fully aware that she was far above him in +rank, and guessed from her whole aspect that she had lost her natural +protectors by the terrible guillotine; but he did not know her exact name or +station, nor could he persuade his aunt to tell him. However, he fell head over +ears in love with her, whether she were princess or peasant; and though at +first there was something about her which made his passionate love conceal +itself with shy, awkward reserve, and then made it only appear in the guise of +deep, respectful devotion; yet, by-and-by,—by the same process of +reasoning, I suppose, that his aunt had gone through even before him—Jean +Morin began to let Hope oust Despair from his heart. Sometimes he +thought—perhaps years hence—that solitary, friendless lady, pent up +in squalor, might turn to him as to a friend and comforter—and +then—and then—. Meanwhile Jean Morin was most attentive to his +aunt, whom he had rather slighted before. He would linger over the accounts; +would bring her little presents; and, above all, he made a pet and favourite of +Pierre, the little cousin, who could tell him about all the ways of going on of +Mam’selle Cannes, as Virginie was called. Pierre was thoroughly aware of +the drift and cause of his cousin’s inquiries; and was his ardent +partisan, as I have heard, even before Jean Morin had exactly acknowledged his +wishes to himself. +</p> + +<p> +“It must have required some patience and much diplomacy, before Clément +de Créquy found out the exact place where his cousin was hidden. The old +gardener took the cause very much to heart; as, judging from my recollections, +I imagine he would have forwarded any fancy, however wild, of Monsieur +Clément’s. (I will tell you afterwards how I came to know all these +particulars so well.) +</p> + +<p> +“After Clément’s return, on two succeeding days, from his dangerous +search, without meeting with any good result, Jacques entreated Monsieur de +Créquy to let him take it in hand. He represented that he, as gardener for the +space of twenty years and more at the Hôtel de Créquy, had a right to be +acquainted with all the successive concièrges at the Count’s house; that +he should not go among them as a stranger, but as an old friend, anxious to +renew pleasant intercourse; and that if the Intendant’s story, which he +had told Monsieur de Créquy in England, was true, that mademoiselle was in +hiding at the house of a former concièrge, why, something relating to her would +surely drop out in the course of conversation. So he persuaded Clément to +remain indoors, while he set off on his round, with no apparent object but to +gossip. +</p> + +<p> +“At night he came home,—having seen mademoiselle. He told Clément +much of the story relating to Madame Babette that I have told to you. Of +course, he had heard nothing of the ambitious hopes of Morin Fils,—hardly +of his existence, I should think. Madame Babette had received him kindly; +although, for some time, she had kept him standing in the carriage gateway +outside her door. But, on his complaining of the draught and his rheumatism, +she had asked him in: first looking round with some anxiety, to see who was in +the room behind her. No one was there when he entered and sat down. But, in a +minute or two, a tall, thin young lady, with great, sad eyes, and pale cheeks, +came from the inner room, and, seeing him, retired. ‘It is Mademoiselle +Cannes,’ said Madame Babette, rather unnecessarily; for, if he had not +been on the watch for some sign of Mademoiselle de Créquy, he would hardly have +noticed the entrance and withdrawal. +</p> + +<p> +“Clément and the good old gardener were always rather perplexed by Madame +Babette’s evident avoidance of all mention of the De Créquy family. If +she were so much interested in one member as to be willing to undergo the pains +and penalties of a domiciliary visit, it was strange that she never inquired +after the existence of her charge’s friends and relations from one who +might very probably have heard something of them. They settled that Madame +Babette must believe that the Marquise and Clément were dead; and admired her +for her reticence in never speaking of Virginie. The truth was, I suspect, that +she was so desirous of her nephews success by this time, that she did not like +letting any one into the secret of Virginie’s whereabouts who might +interfere with their plan. However, it was arranged between Clément and his +humble friend, that the former, dressed in the peasant’s clothes in which +he had entered Paris, but smartened up in one or two particulars, as if, +although a countryman, he had money to spare, should go and engage a +sleeping-room in the old Bréton Inn; where, as I told you, accommodation for +the night was to be had. This was accordingly done, without exciting Madame +Babette’s suspicions, for she was unacquainted with the Normandy accent, +and consequently did not perceive the exaggeration of it which Monsieur de +Créquy adopted in order to disguise his pure Parisian. But after he had for two +nights slept in a queer dark closet, at the end of one of the numerous short +galleries in the Hôtel Duguesclin, and paid his money for such +accommodation each morning at the little bureau under the window of the +concièrgerie, he found himself no nearer to his object. He stood outside in the +gateway: Madame Babette opened a pane in her window, counted out the change, +gave polite thanks, and shut to the pane with a clack, before he could ever +find out what to say that might be the means of opening a conversation. Once in +the streets, he was in danger from the bloodthirsty mob, who were ready in +those days to hunt to death every one who looked like a gentleman, as an +aristocrat: and Clément, depend upon it, looked a gentleman, whatever dress he +wore. Yet it was unwise to traverse Paris to his old friend the +gardener’s grénier, so he had to loiter about, where I hardly know. Only +he did leave the Hôtel Duguesclin, and he did not go to old Jacques, and +there was not another house in Paris open to him. At the end of two days, he +had made out Pierre’s existence; and he began to try to make friends with +the lad. Pierre was too sharp and shrewd not to suspect something from the +confused attempts at friendliness. It was not for nothing that the Norman +farmer lounged in the court and doorway, and brought home presents of galette. +Pierre accepted the galette, reciprocated the civil speeches, but kept his eyes +open. Once, returning home pretty late at night, he surprised the Norman +studying the shadows on the blind, which was drawn down when Madame +Babette’s lamp was lighted. On going in, he found Mademoiselle Cannes +with his mother, sitting by the table, and helping in the family mending. +</p> + +<p> +“Pierre was afraid that the Norman had some view upon the money which his +mother, as concièrge, collected for her brother. But the money was all safe +next evening, when his cousin, Monsieur Morin Fils, came to collect it. Madame +Babette asked her nephew to sit down, and skilfully barred the passage to the +inner door, so that Virginie, had she been ever so much disposed, could not +have retreated. She sat silently sewing. All at once the little party were +startled by a very sweet tenor voice, just close to the street window, singing +one of the airs out of Beaumarchais’ operas, which, a few years before, +had been popular all over Paris. But after a few moments of silence, and one or +two remarks, the talking went on again. Pierre, however, noticed an increased +air of abstraction in Virginie, who, I suppose, was recurring to the last time +that she had heard the song, and did not consider, as her cousin had hoped she +would have done, what were the words set to the air, which he imagined she +would remember, and which would have told her so much. For, only a few years +before, Adam’s opera of Richard le Roi had made the story of the minstrel +Blondel and our English Coeur de Lion familiar to all the opera-going part of +the Parisian public, and Clément had bethought him of establishing a +communication with Virginie by some such means. +</p> + +<p> +“The next night, about the same hour, the same voice was singing outside +the window again. Pierre, who had been irritated by the proceeding the evening +before, as it had diverted Virginie’s attention from his cousin, who had +been doing his utmost to make himself agreeable, rushed out to the door, just +as the Norman was ringing the bell to be admitted for the night. Pierre looked +up and down the street; no one else was to be seen. The next day, the Norman +mollified him somewhat by knocking at the door of the concièrgerie, and begging +Monsieur Pierre’s acceptance of some knee-buckles, which had taken the +country farmer’s fancy the day before, as he had been gazing into the +shops, but which, being too small for his purpose, he took the liberty of +offering to Monsieur Pierre. Pierre, a French boy, inclined to foppery, was +charmed, ravished by the beauty of the present and with monsieur’s +goodness, and he began to adjust them to his breeches immediately, as well as +he could, at least, in his mother’s absence. The Norman, whom Pierre kept +carefully on the outside of the threshold, stood by, as if amused at the +boy’s eagerness. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Take care,’ said he, clearly and distinctly; ‘take +care, my little friend, lest you become a fop; and, in that case, some day, +years hence, when your heart is devoted to some young lady, she may be inclined +to say to you’—here he raised his voice—‘No, thank you; +when I marry, I marry a man, not a petit-maître; I marry a man, who, +whatever his position may be, will add dignity to the human race by his +virtues.’ Farther than that in his quotation Clément dared not go. His +sentiments (so much above the apparent occasion) met with applause from Pierre, +who liked to contemplate himself in the light of a lover, even though it should +be a rejected one, and who hailed the mention of the words +‘virtues’ and ‘dignity of the human race’ as belonging +to the cant of a good citizen. +</p> + +<p> +“But Clément was more anxious to know how the invisible Lady took his +speech. There was no sign at the time. But when he returned at night, he heard +a voice, low singing, behind Madame Babette, as she handed him his candle, the +very air he had sung without effect for two nights past. As if he had caught it +up from her murmuring voice, he sang it loudly and clearly as he crossed the +court. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Here is our opera-singer!’ exclaimed Madame Babette. +‘Why, the Norman grazier sings like Boupré,’ naming a favourite +singer at the neighbouring theatre. +</p> + +<p> +“Pierre was struck by the remark, and quietly resolved to look after the +Norman; but again, I believe, it was more because of his mother’s deposit +of money than with any thought of Virginie. +</p> + +<p> +“However, the next morning, to the wonder of both mother and son, +Mademoiselle Cannes proposed, with much hesitation, to go out and make some +little purchase for herself. A month or two ago, this was what Madame Babette +had been never weary of urging. But now she was as much surprised as if she had +expected Virginie to remain a prisoner in her rooms all the rest of her life. I +suppose she had hoped that her first time of quitting it would be when she left +it for Monsieur Morin’s house as his wife. +</p> + +<p> +“A quick look from Madame Babette towards Pierre was all that was needed +to encourage the boy to follow her. He went out cautiously. She was at the end +of the street. She looked up and down, as if waiting for some one. No one was +there. Back she came, so swiftly that she nearly caught Pierre before he could +retreat through the porte-cochère. There he looked out again. The neighbourhood +was low and wild, and strange; and some one spoke to Virginie,—nay, laid +his hand upon her arm,—whose dress and aspect (he had emerged out of a +side-street) Pierre did not know; but, after a start, and (Pierre could fancy) +a little scream, Virginie recognised the stranger, and the two turned up the +side street whence the man had come. Pierre stole swiftly to the corner of this +street; no one was there: they had disappeared up some of the alleys. Pierre +returned home to excite his mother’s infinite surprise. But they had +hardly done talking, when Virginie returned, with a colour and a radiance in +her face, which they had never seen there since her father’s +death.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>CHAPTER VII.</h2> + +<p> +“I have told you that I heard much of this story from a friend of the +Intendant of the De Créquys, whom he met with in London. Some years +afterwards—the summer before my lord’s death—I was travelling +with him in Devonshire, and we went to see the French prisoners of war on +Dartmoor. We fell into conversation with one of them, whom I found out to be +the very Pierre of whom I had heard before, as having been involved in the +fatal story of Clément and Virginie, and by him I was told much of their last +days, and thus I learnt how to have some sympathy with all those who were +concerned in those terrible events; yes, even with the younger Morin himself, +on whose behalf Pierre spoke warmly, even after so long a time had elapsed. +</p> + +<p> +“For when the younger Morin called at the porter’s lodge, on the +evening of the day when Virginie had gone out for the first time after so many +months’ confinement to the concièrgerie, he was struck with the +improvement in her appearance. It seems to have hardly been that he thought her +beauty greater: for, in addition to the fact that she was not beautiful, Morin +had arrived at that point of being enamoured when it does not signify whether +the beloved one is plain or handsome—she has enchanted one pair of eyes, +which henceforward see her through their own medium. But Morin noticed the +faint increase of colour and light in her countenance. It was as though she had +broken through her thick cloud of hopeless sorrow, and was dawning forth into a +happier life. And so, whereas during her grief, he had revered and respected it +even to a point of silent sympathy, now that she was gladdened, his heart rose +on the wings of strengthened hopes. Even in the dreary monotony of this +existence in his Aunt Babette’s concièrgerie, Time had not failed in his +work, and now, perhaps, soon he might humbly strive to help Time. The very next +day he returned—on some pretence of business—to the Hôtel +Duguesclin, and made his aunt’s room, rather than his aunt herself, a +present of roses and geraniums tied up in a bouquet with a tricolor ribbon. +Virginie was in the room, sitting at the coarse sewing she liked to do for +Madame Babette. He saw her eyes brighten at the sight of the flowers: she asked +his aunt to let her arrange them; he saw her untie the ribbon, and with a +gesture of dislike, throw it on the ground, and give it a kick with her little +foot, and even in this girlish manner of insulting his dearest prejudices, he +found something to admire. +</p> + +<p> +“As he was coming out, Pierre stopped him. The lad had been trying to +arrest his cousin’s attention by futile grimaces and signs played off +behind Virginie’s back: but Monsieur Morin saw nothing but Mademoiselle +Cannes. However, Pierre was not to be baffled, and Monsieur Morin found him in +waiting just outside the threshold. With his finger on his lips, Pierre walked +on tiptoe by his companion’s side till they would have been long past +sight or hearing of the concièrgerie, even had the inhabitants devoted +themselves to the purposes of spying or listening. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Chut!’ said Pierre, at last. ‘She goes out +walking.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Well?’ said Monsieur Morin, half curious, half annoyed at +being disturbed in the delicious reverie of the future into which he longed to +fall. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Well! It is not well. It is bad.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Why? I do not ask who she is, but I have my ideas. She is an +aristocrat. Do the people about here begin to suspect her?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘No, no!’ said Pierre. ‘But she goes out walking. She +has gone these two mornings. I have watched her. She meets a man—she is +friends with him, for she talks to him as eagerly as he does to her—mamma +cannot tell who he is.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Has my aunt seen him?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘No, not so much as a fly’s wing of him. I myself have only +seen his back. It strikes me like a familiar back, and yet I cannot think who +it is. But they separate with sudden darts, like two birds who have been +together to feed their young ones. One moment they are in close talk, their +heads together chuchotting; the next he has turned up some bye-street, and +Mademoiselle Cannes is close upon me—has almost caught me.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘But she did not see you?’ inquired Monsieur Morin, in so +altered a voice that Pierre gave him one of his quick penetrating looks. He was +struck by the way in which his cousin’s features—always coarse and +common-place—had become contracted and pinched; struck, too, by the livid +look on his sallow complexion. But as if Morin was conscious of the manner in +which his face belied his feelings, he made an effort, and smiled, and patted +Pierre’s head, and thanked him for his intelligence, and gave him a +five-franc piece, and bade him go on with his observations of Mademoiselle +Cannes’ movements, and report all to him. +</p> + +<p> +“Pierre returned home with a light heart, tossing up his five-franc piece +as he ran. Just as he was at the concièrgerie door, a great tall man bustled +past him, and snatched his money away from him, looking back with a laugh, +which added insult to injury. Pierre had no redress; no one had witnessed the +impudent theft, and if they had, no one to be seen in the street was strong +enough to give him redress. Besides, Pierre had seen enough of the state of the +streets of Paris at that time to know that friends, not enemies, were required, +and the man had a bad air about him. But all these considerations did not keep +Pierre from bursting out into a fit of crying when he was once more under his +mother’s roof; and Virginie, who was alone there (Madame Babette having +gone out to make her daily purchases), might have imagined him pommeled to +death by the loudness of his sobs. +</p> + +<p> +“‘What is the matter?’ asked she. ‘Speak, my child. +What hast thou done?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘He has robbed me! he has robbed me!’ was all Pierre could +gulp out. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Robbed thee! and of what, my poor boy?’ said Virginie, +stroking his hair gently. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Of my five-franc piece—of a five-franc piece,’ said +Pierre, correcting himself, and leaving out the word my, half fearful lest +Virginie should inquire how he became possessed of such a sum, and for what +services it had been given him. But, of course, no such idea came into her +head, for it would have been impertinent, and she was gentle-born. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Wait a moment, my lad,’ and going to the one small drawer +in the inner apartment, which held all her few possessions, she brought back a +little ring—a ring just with one ruby in it—which she had worn in +the days when she cared to wear jewels. ‘Take this,’ said she, +‘and run with it to a jeweller’s. It is but a poor, valueless +thing, but it will bring you in your five francs, at any rate. Go! I desire +you.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘But I cannot,’ said the boy, hesitating; some dim sense of +honour flitting through his misty morals. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Yes, you must!’ she continued, urging him with her hand to +the door. ‘Run! if it brings in more than five francs, you shall return +the surplus to me.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Thus tempted by her urgency, and, I suppose, reasoning with himself to +the effect that he might as well have the money, and then see whether he +thought it right to act as a spy upon her or not—the one action did not +pledge him to the other, nor yet did she make any conditions with her +gift—Pierre went off with her ring; and, after repaying himself his five +francs, he was enabled to bring Virginie back two more, so well had he managed +his affairs. But, although the whole transaction did not leave him bound, in +any way, to discover or forward Virginie’s wishes, it did leave him +pledged, according to his code, to act according to her advantage, and he +considered himself the judge of the best course to be pursued to this end. And, +moreover, this little kindness attached him to her personally. He began to +think how pleasant it would be to have so kind and generous a person for a +relation; how easily his troubles might be borne if he had always such a ready +helper at hand; how much he should like to make her like him, and come to him +for the protection of his masculine power! First of all his duties, as her +self-appointed squire, came the necessity of finding out who her strange new +acquaintance was. Thus, you see, he arrived at the same end, via supposed duty, +that he was previously pledged to via interest. I fancy a good number of us, +when any line of action will promote our own interest, can make ourselves +believe that reasons exist which compel us to it as a duty. +</p> + +<p> +“In the course of a very few days, Pierre had so circumvented Virginie as +to have discovered that her new friend was no other than the Norman farmer in a +different dress. This was a great piece of knowledge to impart to Morin. But +Pierre was not prepared for the immediate physical effect it had on his cousin. +Morin sat suddenly down on one of the seats in the Boulevards—it was +there Pierre had met with him accidentally—when he heard who it was that +Virginie met. I do not suppose the man had the faintest idea of any +relationship or even previous acquaintanceship between Clément and Virginie. If +he thought of anything beyond the mere fact presented to him, that his idol was +in communication with another, younger, handsomer man than himself, it must +have been that the Norman farmer had seen her at the concièrgerie, and had been +attracted by her, and, as was but natural, had tried to make her acquaintance, +and had succeeded. But, from what Pierre told me, I should not think that even +this much thought passed through Morin’s mind. He seems to have been a +man of rare and concentrated attachments; violent, though restrained and +undemonstrative passions; and, above all, a capability of jealousy, of which +his dark oriental complexion must have been a type. I could fancy that if he +had married Virginie, he would have coined his life-blood for luxuries to make +her happy; would have watched over and petted her, at every sacrifice to +himself, as long as she would have been content to live with him alone. But, as +Pierre expressed it to me: ‘When I saw what my cousin was, when I learned +his nature too late, I perceived that he would have strangled a bird if she +whom he loved was attracted by it from him.’ +</p> + +<p> +“When Pierre had told Morin of his discovery, Morin sat down, as I said, +quite suddenly, as if he had been shot. He found out that the first meeting +between the Norman and Virginie was no accidental, isolated circumstance. +Pierre was torturing him with his accounts of daily rendezvous: if but for a +moment, they were seeing each other every day, sometimes twice a day. And +Virginie could speak to this man, though to himself she was coy and reserved as +hardly to utter a sentence. Pierre caught these broken words while his +cousin’s complexion grew more and more livid, and then purple, as if some +great effect were produced on his circulation by the news he had just heard. +Pierre was so startled by his cousin’s wandering, senseless eyes, and +otherwise disordered looks, that he rushed into a neighbouring cabaret for a +glass of absinthe, which he paid for, as he recollected afterwards, with a +portion of Virginie’s five francs. By-and-by Morin recovered his natural +appearance; but he was gloomy and silent; and all that Pierre could get out of +him was, that the Norman farmer should not sleep another night at the +Hôtel Duguesclin, giving him such opportunities of passing and repassing +by the concièrgerie door. He was too much absorbed in his own thoughts to repay +Pierre the half franc he had spent on the absinthe, which Pierre perceived, and +seems to have noted down in the ledger of his mind as on Virginie’s +balance of favour. +</p> + +<p> +“Altogether, he was much disappointed at his cousin’s mode of +receiving intelligence, which the lad thought worth another five-franc piece at +least; or, if not paid for in money, to be paid for in open-mouthed confidence +and expression of feeling, that he was, for a time, so far a partisan of +Virginie’s—unconscious Virginie—against his cousin, as to +feel regret when the Norman returned no more to his night’s lodging, and +when Virginie’s eager watch at the crevice of the closely-drawn blind +ended only with a sigh of disappointment. If it had not been for his +mother’s presence at the time, Pierre thought he should have told her +all. But how far was his mother in his cousin’s confidence as regarded +the dismissal of the Norman? +</p> + +<p> +“In a few days, however, Pierre felt almost sure that they had +established some new means of communication. Virginie went out for a short time +every day; but though Pierre followed her as closely as he could without +exciting her observation, he was unable to discover what kind of intercourse +she held with the Norman. She went, in general, the same short round among the +little shops in the neighbourhood; not entering any, but stopping at two or +three. Pierre afterwards remembered that she had invariably paused at the +nosegays displayed in a certain window, and studied them long: but, then, she +stopped and looked at caps, hats, fashions, confectionery (all of the humble +kind common in that quarter), so how should he have known that any particular +attraction existed among the flowers? Morin came more regularly than ever to +his aunt’s; but Virginie was apparently unconscious that she was the +attraction. She looked healthier and more hopeful than she had done for months, +and her manners to all were gentler and not so reserved. Almost as if she +wished to manifest her gratitude to Madame Babette for her long continuance of +kindness, the necessity for which was nearly ended, Virginie showed an unusual +alacrity in rendering the old woman any little service in her power, and +evidently tried to respond to Monsieur Morin’s civilities, he being +Madame Babette’s nephew, with a soft graciousness which must have made +one of her principal charms; for all who knew her speak of the fascination of +her manners, so winning and attentive to others, while yet her opinions, and +often her actions, were of so decided a character. For, as I have said, her +beauty was by no means great; yet every man who came near her seems to have +fallen into the sphere of her influence. Monsieur Morin was deeper than ever in +love with her during these last few days: he was worked up into a state capable +of any sacrifice, either of himself or others, so that he might obtain her at +last. He sat ‘devouring her with his eyes’ (to use Pierre’s +expression) whenever she could not see him; but, if she looked towards him, he +looked to the ground—anywhere—away from her and almost stammered in +his replies if she addressed any question to him.’ +</p> + +<p> +“He had been, I should think, ashamed of his extreme agitation on the +Boulevards, for Pierre thought that he absolutely shunned him for these few +succeeding days. He must have believed that he had driven the Norman (my poor +Clément!) off the field, by banishing him from his inn; and thought that the +intercourse between him and Virginie, which he had thus interrupted, was of so +slight and transient a character as to be quenched by a little difficulty. +</p> + +<p> +“But he appears to have felt that he had made but little way, and he +awkwardly turned to Pierre for help—not yet confessing his love, though; +he only tried to make friends again with the lad after their silent +estrangement. And Pierre for some time did not choose to perceive his +cousin’s advances. He would reply to all the roundabout questions Morin +put to him respecting household conversations when he was not present, or +household occupations and tone of thought, without mentioning Virginie’s +name any more than his questioner did. The lad would seem to suppose, that his +cousin’s strong interest in their domestic ways of going on was all on +account of Madame Babette. At last he worked his cousin up to the point of +making him a confidant: and then the boy was half frightened at the torrent of +vehement words he had unloosed. The lava came down with a greater rush for +having been pent up so long. Morin cried out his words in a hoarse, passionate +voice, clenched his teeth, his fingers, and seemed almost convulsed, as he +spoke out his terrible love for Virginie, which would lead him to kill her +sooner than see her another’s; and if another stepped in between him and +her!—and then he smiled a fierce, triumphant smile, but did not say any +more. +</p> + +<p> +“Pierre was, as I said, half frightened; but also half-admiring. This was +really love—a ‘grande passion,’—a really fine dramatic +thing,—like the plays they acted at the little theatre yonder. He had a +dozen times the sympathy with his cousin now that he had had before, and +readily swore by the infernal gods, for they were far too enlightened to +believe in one God, or Christianity, or anything of the kind,—that he +would devote himself, body and soul, to forwarding his cousin’s views. +Then his cousin took him to a shop, and bought him a smart second-hand watch, +on which they scratched the word Fidélité, and thus was the compact sealed. +Pierre settled in his own mind, that if he were a woman, he should like to be +beloved as Virginie was, by his cousin, and that it would be an extremely good +thing for her to be the wife of so rich a citizen as Morin Fils,—and for +Pierre himself, too, for doubtless their gratitude would lead them to give him +rings and watches ad infinitum. +</p> + +<p> +“A day or two afterwards, Virginie was taken ill. Madame Babette said it +was because she had persevered in going out in all weathers, after confining +herself to two warm rooms for so long; and very probably this was really the +cause, for, from Pierre’s account, she must have been suffering from a +feverish cold, aggravated, no doubt, by her impatience at Madame +Babette’s familiar prohibitions of any more walks until she was better. +Every day, in spite of her trembling, aching limbs, she would fain have +arranged her dress for her walk at the usual time; but Madame Babette was fully +prepared to put physical obstacles in her way, if she was not obedient in +remaining tranquil on the little sofa by the side of the fire. The third day, +she called Pierre to her, when his mother was not attending (having, in fact, +locked up Mademoiselle Cannes’ out-of-door things). +</p> + +<p> +“‘See, my child,’ said Virginie. ‘Thou must do me a +great favour. Go to the gardener’s shop in the Rue des Bons-Enfans, and +look at the nosegays in the window. I long for pinks; they are my favourite +flower. Here are two francs. If thou seest a nosegay of pinks displayed in the +window, if it be ever so faded—nay, if thou seest two or three nosegays +of pinks, remember, buy them all, and bring them to me, I have so great a +desire for the smell.’ She fell back weak and exhausted. Pierre hurried +out. Now was the time; here was the clue to the long inspection of the nosegay +in this very shop. +</p> + +<p> +“Sure enough, there was a drooping nosegay of pinks in the window. Pierre +went in, and, with all his impatience, he made as good a bargain as he could, +urging that the flowers were faded, and good for nothing. At last he purchased +them at a very moderate price. And now you will learn the bad consequences of +teaching the lower orders anything beyond what is immediately necessary to +enable them to earn their daily bread! The silly Count de Créquy,—he who +had been sent to his bloody rest, by the very canaille of whom he thought so +much,—he who had made Virginie (indirectly, it is true) reject such a man +as her cousin Clément, by inflating her mind with his bubbles of +theories,—this Count de Créquy had long ago taken a fancy to Pierre, as +he saw the bright sharp child playing about his court—Monsieur de Créquy +had even begun to educate the boy himself to try work out certain opinions of +his into practice,—but the drudgery of the affair wearied him, and, +beside, Babette had left his employment. Still the Count took a kind of +interest in his former pupil; and made some sort of arrangement by which Pierre +was to be taught reading and writing, and accounts, and Heaven knows what +besides,—Latin, I dare say. So Pierre, instead of being an innocent +messenger, as he ought to have been—(as Mr. Horner’s little lad +Gregson ought to have been this morning)—could read writing as well as +either you or I. So what does he do, on obtaining the nosegay, but examine it +well. The stalks of the flowers were tied up with slips of matting in wet moss. +Pierre undid the strings, unwrapped the moss, and out fell a piece of wet +paper, with the writing all blurred with moisture. It was but a torn piece of +writing-paper, apparently, but Pierre’s wicked mischievous eyes read what +was written on it,—written so as to look like a +fragment,—‘Ready, every and any night at nine. All is prepared. +Have no fright. Trust one who, whatever hopes he might once have had, is +content now to serve you as a faithful cousin;’ and a place was named, +which I forget, but which Pierre did not, as it was evidently the rendezvous. +After the lad had studied every word, till he could say it off by heart, he +placed the paper where he had found it, enveloped it in moss, and tied the +whole up again carefully. Virginie’s face coloured scarlet as she +received it. She kept smelling at it, and trembling: but she did not untie it, +although Pierre suggested how much fresher it would be if the stalks were +immediately put into water. But once, after his back had been turned for a +minute, he saw it untied when he looked round again, and Virginie was blushing, +and hiding something in her bosom. +</p> + +<p> +“Pierre was now all impatience to set off and find his cousin, But his +mother seemed to want him for small domestic purposes even more than usual; and +he had chafed over a multitude of errands connected with the Hôtel before +he could set off and search for his cousin at his usual haunts. At last the two +met and Pierre related all the events of the morning to Morin. He said the note +off word by word. (That lad this morning had something of the magpie look of +Pierre—it made me shudder to see him, and hear him repeat the note by +heart.) Then Morin asked him to tell him all over again. Pierre was struck by +Morin’s heavy sighs as he repeated the story. When he came the second +time to the note, Morin tried to write the words down; but either he was not a +good, ready scholar, or his fingers trembled too much. Pierre hardly +remembered, but, at any rate, the lad had to do it, with his wicked reading and +writing. When this was done, Morin sat heavily silent. Pierre would have +preferred the expected outburst, for this impenetrable gloom perplexed and +baffled him. He had even to speak to his cousin to rouse him; and when he +replied, what he said had so little apparent connection with the subject which +Pierre had expected to find uppermost in his mind, that he was half afraid that +his cousin had lost his wits. +</p> + +<p> +“‘My Aunt Babette is out of coffee.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘I am sure I do not know,’ said Pierre. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Yes, she is. I heard her say so. Tell her that a friend of mine +has just opened a shop in the Rue Saint Antoine, and that if she will join me +there in an hour, I will supply her with a good stock of coffee, just to give +my friend encouragement. His name is Antoine Meyer, Number One hundred and +Fifty at the sign of the Cap of Liberty.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘I could go with you now. I can carry a few pounds of coffee +better than my mother,’ said Pierre, all in good faith. He told me he +should never forget the look on his cousin’s face, as he turned round, +and bade him begone, and give his mother the message without another word. It +had evidently sent him home promptly to obey his cousins command. Morin’s +message perplexed Madame Babette. +</p> + +<p> +“‘How could he know I was out of coffee?’ said she. ‘I +am; but I only used the last up this morning. How could Victor know about +it?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘I am sure I can’t tell,’ said Pierre, who by this +time had recovered his usual self-possession. ‘All I know is, that +monsieur is in a pretty temper, and that if you are not sharp to your time at +this Antoine Meyer’s you are likely to come in for some of his black +looks.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Well, it is very kind of him to offer to give me some coffee, to +be sure! But how could he know I was out?’ +</p> + +<p> +“Pierre hurried his mother off impatiently, for he was certain that the +offer of the coffee was only a blind to some hidden purpose on his +cousin’s part; and he made no doubt that when his mother had been +informed of what his cousin’s real intention was, he, Pierre, could +extract it from her by coaxing or bullying. But he was mistaken. Madame Babette +returned home, grave, depressed, silent, and loaded with the best coffee. Some +time afterwards he learnt why his cousin had sought for this interview. It was +to extract from her, by promises and threats, the real name of Mam’selle +Cannes, which would give him a clue to the true appellation of The Faithful +Cousin. He concealed the second purpose from his aunt, who had been quite +unaware of his jealousy of the Norman farmer, or of his identification of him +with any relation of Virginie’s. But Madame Babette instinctively shrank +from giving him any information: she must have felt that, in the lowering mood +in which she found him, his desire for greater knowledge of Virginie’s +antecedents boded her no good. And yet he made his aunt his +confidante—told her what she had only suspected before—that he was +deeply enamoured of Mam’selle Cannes, and would gladly marry her. He +spoke to Madame Babette of his father’s hoarded riches; and of the share +which he, as partner, had in them at the present time; and of the prospect of +the succession to the whole, which he had, as only child. He told his aunt of +the provision for her (Madame Babette’s) life, which he would make on the +day when he married Mam’selle Cannes. And yet—and yet—Babette +saw that in his eye and look which made her more and more reluctant to confide +in him. By-and-by he tried threats. She should leave the concièrgerie, and find +employment where she liked. Still silence. Then he grew angry, and swore that +he would inform against her at the bureau of the Directory, for harbouring an +aristocrat; an aristocrat he knew Mademoiselle was, whatever her real name +might be. His aunt should have a domiciliary visit, and see how she liked that. +The officers of the Government were the people for finding out secrets. In vain +she reminded him that, by so doing, he would expose to imminent danger the lady +whom he had professed to love. He told her, with a sullen relapse into silence +after his vehement outpouring of passion, never to trouble herself about that. +At last he wearied out the old woman, and, frightened alike of herself and of +him, she told him all,—that Mam’selle Cannes was Mademoiselle +Virginie de Créquy, daughter of the Count of that name. Who was the Count? +Younger brother of the Marquis. Where was the Marquis? Dead long ago, leaving a +widow and child. A son? (eagerly). Yes, a son. Where was he? Parbleu! how +should she know?—for her courage returned a little as the talk went away +from the only person of the De Créquy family that she cared about. But, by dint +of some small glasses out of a bottle of Antoine Meyer’s, she told him +more about the De Créquys than she liked afterwards to remember. For the +exhilaration of the brandy lasted but a very short time, and she came home, as +I have said, depressed, with a presentiment of coming evil. She would not +answer Pierre, but cuffed him about in a manner to which the spoilt boy was +quite unaccustomed. His cousin’s short, angry words, and sudden +withdrawal of confidence,—his mother’s unwonted crossness and +fault-finding, all made Virginie’s kind, gentle treatment, more than ever +charming to the lad. He half resolved to tell her how he had been acting as a +spy upon her actions, and at whose desire he had done it. But he was afraid of +Morin, and of the vengeance which he was sure would fall upon him for any +breach of confidence. Towards half-past eight that evening—Pierre, +watching, saw Virginie arrange several little things—she was in the inner +room, but he sat where he could see her through the glazed partition. His +mother sat—apparently sleeping—in the great easy-chair; Virginie +moved about softly, for fear of disturbing her. She made up one or two little +parcels of the few things she could call her own: one packet she concealed +about herself—the others she directed, and left on the shelf. ‘She +is going,’ thought Pierre, and (as he said in giving me the account) his +heart gave a spring, to think that he should never see her again. If either his +mother or his cousin had been more kind to him, he might have endeavoured to +intercept her; but as it was, he held his breath, and when she came out he +pretended to read, scarcely knowing whether he wished her to succeed in the +purpose which he was almost sure she entertained, or not. She stopped by him, +and passed her hand over his hair. He told me that his eyes filled with tears +at this caress. Then she stood for a moment looking at the sleeping Madame +Babette, and stooped down and softly kissed her on the forehead. Pierre dreaded +lest his mother should awake (for by this time the wayward, vacillating boy +must have been quite on Virginie’s side), but the brandy she had drunk +made her slumber heavily. Virginie went. Pierre’s heart beat fast. He was +sure his cousin would try to intercept her; but how, he could not imagine. He +longed to run out and see the catastrophe,—but he had let the moment +slip; he was also afraid of reawakening his mother to her unusual state of +anger and violence.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>CHAPTER VIII.</h2> + +<p> +“Pierre went on pretending to read, but in reality listening with acute +tension of ear to every little sound. His perceptions became so sensitive in +this respect that he was incapable of measuring time, every moment had seemed +so full of noises, from the beating of his heart up to the roll of the heavy +carts in the distance. He wondered whether Virginie would have reached the +place of rendezvous, and yet he was unable to compute the passage of minutes. +His mother slept soundly: that was well. By this time Virginie must have met +the ‘faithful cousin:’ if, indeed, Morin had not made his +appearance. +</p> + +<p> +“At length, he felt as if he could no longer sit still, awaiting the +issue, but must run out and see what course events had taken. In vain his +mother, half-rousing herself, called after him to ask whither he was going: he +was already out of hearing before she had ended her sentence, and he ran on +until, stopped by the sight of Mademoiselle Cannes walking along at so swift a +pace that it was almost a run; while at her side, resolutely keeping by her, +Morin was striding abreast. Pierre had just turned the corner of the street, +when he came upon them. Virginie would have passed him without recognizing him, +she was in such passionate agitation, but for Morin’s gesture, by which +he would fain have kept Pierre from interrupting them. Then, when Virginie saw +the lad, she caught at his arm, and thanked God, as if in that boy of twelve or +fourteen she held a protector. Pierre felt her tremble from head to foot, and +was afraid lest she would fall, there where she stood, in the hard rough +street. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Begone, Pierre!’ said Morin. +</p> + +<p> +“‘I cannot,’ replied Pierre, who indeed was held firmly by +Virginie. ‘Besides, I won’t,’ he added. ‘Who has been +frightening mademoiselle in this way?’ asked he, very much inclined to +brave his cousin at all hazards. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Mademoiselle is not accustomed to walk in the streets +alone,’ said Morin, sulkily. ‘She came upon a crowd attracted by +the arrest of an aristocrat, and their cries alarmed her. I offered to take +charge of her home. Mademoiselle should not walk in these streets alone. We are +not like the cold-blooded people of the Faubourg Saint Germain.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Virginie did not speak. Pierre doubted if she heard a word of what they +were saying. She leant upon him more and more heavily. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Will mademoiselle condescend to take my arm?’ said Morin, +with sulky, and yet humble, uncouthness. I dare say he would have given worlds +if he might have had that little hand within his arm; but, though she still +kept silence, she shuddered up away from him, as you shrink from touching a +toad. He had said something to her during that walk, you may be sure, which had +made her loathe him. He marked and understood the gesture. He held himself +aloof while Pierre gave her all the assistance he could in their slow progress +homewards. But Morin accompanied her all the same. He had played too desperate +a game to be baulked now. He had given information against the ci-devant +Marquis de Créquy, as a returned emigré, to be met with at such a time, in such +a place. Morin had hoped that all sign of the arrest would have been cleared +away before Virginie reached the spot—so swiftly were terrible deeds done +in those days. But Clément defended himself desperately: Virginie was punctual +to a second; and, though the wounded man was borne off to the Abbaye, amid a +crowd of the unsympathising jeerers who mingled with the armed officials of the +Directory, Morin feared lest Virginie had recognized him; and he would have +preferred that she should have thought that the ‘faithful cousin’ +was faithless, than that she should have seen him in bloody danger on her +account. I suppose he fancied that, if Virginie never saw or heard more of him, +her imagination would not dwell on his simple disappearance, as it would do if +she knew what he was suffering for her sake. +</p> + +<p> +“At any rate, Pierre saw that his cousin was deeply mortified by the +whole tenor of his behaviour during their walk home. When they arrived at +Madame Babette’s, Virginie fell fainting on the floor; her strength had +but just sufficed for this exertion of reaching the shelter of the house. Her +first sign of restoring consciousness consisted in avoidance of Morin. He had +been most assiduous in his efforts to bring her round; quite tender in his way, +Pierre said; and this marked, instinctive repugnance to him evidently gave him +extreme pain. I suppose Frenchmen are more demonstrative than we are; for +Pierre declared that he saw his cousin’s eyes fill with tears, as she +shrank away from his touch, if he tried to arrange the shawl they had laid +under her head like a pillow, or as she shut her eyes when he passed before +her. Madame Babette was urgent with her to go and lie down on the bed in the +inner room; but it was some time before she was strong enough to rise and do +this. +</p> + +<p> +“When Madame Babette returned from arranging the girl comfortably, the +three relations sat down in silence; a silence which Pierre thought would never +be broken. He wanted his mother to ask his cousin what had happened. But Madame +Babette was afraid of her nephew, and thought it more discreet to wait for such +crumbs of intelligence as he might think fit to throw to her. But, after she +had twice reported Virginie to be asleep, without a word being uttered in reply +to her whispers by either of her companions, Morin’s powers of +self-containment gave way. +</p> + +<p> +“‘It is hard!’ he said. +</p> + +<p> +“‘What is hard?’ asked Madame Babette, after she had paused +for a time, to enable him to add to, or to finish, his sentence, if he pleased. +</p> + +<p> +“‘It is hard for a man to love a woman as I do,’ he went +on—‘I did not seek to love her, it came upon me before I was +aware—before I had ever thought about it at all, I loved her better than +all the world beside. All my life, before I knew her, seems a dull blank. I +neither know nor care for what I did before then. And now there are just two +lives before me. Either I have her, or I have not. That is all: but that is +everything. And what can I do to make her have me? Tell me, aunt,’ and he +caught at Madame Babette’s arm, and gave it so sharp a shake, that she +half screamed out, Pierre said, and evidently grew alarmed at her +nephew’s excitement. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Hush, Victor!’ said she. ‘There are other women in +the world, if this one will not have you.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘None other for me,’ he said, sinking back as if hopeless. +‘I am plain and coarse, not one of the scented darlings of the +aristocrats. Say that I am ugly, brutish; I did not make myself so, any more +than I made myself love her. It is my fate. But am I to submit to the +consequences of my fate without a struggle? Not I. As strong as my love is, so +strong is my will. It can be no stronger,’ continued he, gloomily. +‘Aunt Babette, you must help me—you must make her love me.’ +He was so fierce here, that Pierre said he did not wonder that his mother was +frightened. +</p> + +<p> +“‘I, Victor!’ she exclaimed. ‘I make her love you? How +can I? Ask me to speak for you to Mademoiselle Didot, or to Mademoiselle +Cauchois even, or to such as they, and I’ll do it, and welcome. But to +Mademoiselle de Créquy, why you don’t know the difference! Those +people—the old nobility I mean—why they don’t know a man from +a dog, out of their own rank! And no wonder, for the young gentlemen of quality +are treated differently to us from their very birth. If she had you to-morrow, +you would be miserable. Let me alone for knowing the aristocracy. I have not +been a concièrge to a duke and three counts for nothing. I tell you, all your +ways are different to her ways.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘I would change my “ways,” as you call them.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Be reasonable, Victor.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘No, I will not be reasonable, if by that you mean giving her up. +I tell you two lives are before me; one with her, one without her. But the +latter will be but a short career for both of us. You said, aunt, that the talk +went in the concièrgerie of her father’s hotel, that she would have +nothing to do with this cousin whom I put out of the way to-day?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘So the servants said. How could I know? All I know is, that he +left off coming to our hotel, and that at one time before then he had never +been two days absent.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘So much the better for him. He suffers now for having come +between me and my object—in trying to snatch her away out of my sight. +Take you warning, Pierre! I did not like your meddling to-night.’ And so +he went off, leaving Madam Babette rocking herself backwards and forwards, in +all the depression of spirits consequent upon the reaction after the brandy, +and upon her knowledge of her nephew’s threatened purpose combined. +</p> + +<p> +“In telling you most of this, I have simply repeated Pierre’s +account, which I wrote down at the time. But here what he had to say came to a +sudden break; for, the next morning, when Madame Babette rose, Virginie was +missing, and it was some time before either she, or Pierre, or Morin, could get +the slightest clue to the missing girl. +</p> + +<p> +“And now I must take up the story as it was told to the Intendant +Fléchier by the old gardener Jacques, with whom Clément had been lodging on his +first arrival in Paris. The old man could not, I dare say, remember half as +much of what had happened as Pierre did; the former had the dulled memory of +age, while Pierre had evidently thought over the whole series of events as a +story—as a play, if one may call it so—during the solitary hours in +his after-life, wherever they were passed, whether in lonely camp watches, or +in the foreign prison, where he had to drag out many years. Clément had, as I +said, returned to the gardener’s garret after he had been dismissed from +the Hôtel Duguesclin. There were several reasons for his thus doubling +back. One was, that he put nearly the whole breadth of Paris between him and an +enemy; though why Morin was an enemy, and to what extent he carried his dislike +or hatred, Clément could not tell, of course. The next reason for returning to +Jacques was, no doubt, the conviction that, in multiplying his residences, he +multiplied the chances against his being suspected and recognized. And then, +again, the old man was in his secret, and his ally, although perhaps but a +feeble kind of one. It was through Jacques that the plan of communication, by +means of a nosegay of pinks, had been devised; and it was Jacques who procured +him the last disguise that Clément was to use in Paris—as he hoped and +trusted. It was that of a respectable shopkeeper of no particular class; a +dress that would have seemed perfectly suitable to the young man who would +naturally have worn it; and yet, as Clément put it on, and adjusted +it—giving it a sort of finish and elegance which I always noticed about +his appearance and which I believed was innate in the wearer—I have no +doubt it seemed like the usual apparel of a gentleman. No coarseness of +texture, nor clumsiness of cut could disguise the nobleman of thirty descents, +it appeared; for immediately on arriving at the place of rendezvous, he was +recognized by the men placed there on Morin’s information to seize him. +Jacques, following at a little distance, with a bundle under his arm containing +articles of feminine disguise for Virginie, saw four men attempt +Clément’s arrest—saw him, quick as lightning, draw a sword hitherto +concealed in a clumsy stick—saw his agile figure spring to his +guard,—and saw him defend himself with the rapidity and art of a man +skilled in arms. But what good did it do? as Jacques piteously used to ask, +Monsieur Fléchier told me. A great blow from a heavy club on the sword-arm of +Monsieur de Créquy laid it helpless and immovable by his side. Jacques always +thought that that blow came from one of the spectators, who by this time had +collected round the scene of the affray. The next instant, his master—his +little marquis—was down among the feet of the crowd, and though he was up +again before he had received much damage—so active and light was my poor +Clément—it was not before the old gardener had hobbled forwards, and, +with many an old-fashioned oath and curse, proclaimed himself a partisan of the +losing side—a follower of a ci-devant aristocrat. It was quite enough. He +received one or two good blows, which were, in fact, aimed at his master; and +then, almost before he was aware, he found his arms pinioned behind him with a +woman’s garter, which one of the viragos in the crowd had made no scruple +of pulling off in public, as soon as she heard for what purpose it was wanted. +Poor Jacques was stunned and unhappy,—his master was out of sight, on +before; and the old gardener scarce knew whither they were taking him. His head +ached from the blows which had fallen upon it; it was growing dark—June +day though it was,—and when first he seems to have become exactly aware +of what had happened to him, it was when he was turned into one of the larger +rooms of the Abbaye, in which all were put who had no other allotted place +wherein to sleep. One or two iron lamps hung from the ceiling by chains, giving +a dim light for a little circle. Jacques stumbled forwards over a sleeping body +lying on the ground. The sleeper wakened up enough to complain; and the apology +of the old man in reply caught the ear of his master, who, until this time, +could hardly have been aware of the straits and difficulties of his faithful +Jacques. And there they sat,—against a pillar, the live-long night, +holding one another’s hands, and each restraining expressions of pain, +for fear of adding to the other’s distress. That night made them intimate +friends, in spite of the difference of age and rank. The disappointed hopes, +the acute suffering of the present, the apprehensions of the future, made them +seek solace in talking of the past. Monsieur de Créquy and the gardener found +themselves disputing with interest in which chimney of the stack the starling +used to build,—the starling whose nest Clément sent to Urian, you +remember, and discussing the merits of different espalier-pears which grew, and +may grow still, in the old garden of the Hôtel de Créquy. Towards morning +both fell asleep. The old man wakened first. His frame was deadened to +suffering, I suppose, for he felt relieved of his pain; but Clément moaned and +cried in feverish slumber. His broken arm was beginning to inflame his blood. +He was, besides, much injured by some kicks from the crowd as he fell. As the +old man looked sadly on the white, baked lips, and the flushed cheeks, +contorted with suffering even in his sleep, Clément gave a sharp cry which +disturbed his miserable neighbours, all slumbering around in uneasy attitudes. +They bade him with curses be silent; and then turning round, tried again to +forget their own misery in sleep. For you see, the bloodthirsty canaille had +not been sated with guillotining and hanging all the nobility they could find, +but were now informing, right and left, even against each other; and when +Clément and Jacques were in the prison, there were few of gentle blood in the +place, and fewer still of gentle manners. At the sound of the angry words and +threats, Jacques thought it best to awaken his master from his feverish +uncomfortable sleep, lest he should provoke more enmity; and, tenderly lifting +him up, he tried to adjust his own body, so that it should serve as a rest and +a pillow for the younger man. The motion aroused Clément, and he began to talk +in a strange, feverish way, of Virginie, too,—whose name he would not +have breathed in such a place had he been quite himself. But Jacques had as +much delicacy of feeling as any lady in the land, although, mind you, he knew +neither how to read nor write,—and bent his head low down, so that his +master might tell him in a whisper what messages he was to take to Mademoiselle +de Créquy, in case—Poor Clément, he knew it must come to that! No escape +for him now, in Norman disguise or otherwise! Either by gathering fever or +guillotine, death was sure of his prey. Well! when that happened, Jacques was +to go and find Mademoiselle de Créquy, and tell her that her cousin loved her +at the last as he had loved her at the first; but that she should never have +heard another word of his attachment from his living lips; that he knew he was +not good enough for her, his queen; and that no thought of earning her love by +his devotion had prompted his return to France, only that, if possible, he +might have the great privilege of serving her whom he loved. And then he went +off into rambling talk about petit-maîtres, and such kind of expressions, +said Jacques to Fléchier, the intendant, little knowing what a clue that one +word gave to much of the poor lad’s suffering. +</p> + +<p> +“The summer morning came slowly on in that dark prison, and when Jacques +could look round—his master was now sleeping on his shoulder, still the +uneasy, starting sleep of fever—he saw that there were many women among +the prisoners. (I have heard some of those who have escaped from the prisons +say, that the look of despair and agony that came into the faces of the +prisoners on first wakening, as the sense of their situation grew upon them, +was what lasted the longest in the memory of the survivors. This look, they +said, passed away from the women’s faces sooner than it did from those of +the men.) +</p> + +<p> +“Poor old Jacques kept falling asleep, and plucking himself up again for +fear lest, if he did not attend to his master, some harm might come to the +swollen, helpless arm. Yet his weariness grew upon him in spite of all his +efforts, and at last he felt as if he must give way to the irresistible desire, +if only for five minutes. But just then there was a bustle at the door. Jacques +opened his eyes wide to look. +</p> + +<p> +“‘The gaoler is early with breakfast,’ said some one, lazily. +</p> + +<p> +“‘It is the darkness of this accursed place that makes us think it +early,’ said another. +</p> + +<p> +“All this time a parley was going on at the door. Some one came in; not +the gaoler—a woman. The door was shut to and locked behind her. She only +advanced a step or two, for it was too sudden a change, out of the light into +that dark shadow, for any one to see clearly for the first few minutes. Jacques +had his eyes fairly open now, and was wide awake. It was Mademoiselle de +Créquy, looking bright, clear, and resolute. The faithful heart of the old man +read that look like an open page. Her cousin should not die there on her +behalf, without at least the comfort of her sweet presence. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Here he is,’ he whispered as her gown would have touched +him in passing, without her perceiving him, in the heavy obscurity of the +place. +</p> + +<p> +“‘The good God bless you, my friend!’ she murmured, as she +saw the attitude of the old man, propped against a pillar, and holding Clément +in his arms, as if the young man had been a helpless baby, while one of the +poor gardener’s hands supported the broken limb in the easiest position. +Virginie sat down by the old man, and held out her arms. Softly she moved +Clément’s head to her own shoulder; softly she transferred the task of +holding the arm to herself. Clément lay on the floor, but she supported him, +and Jacques was at liberty to arise and stretch and shake his stiff, weary old +body. He then sat down at a little distance, and watched the pair until he fell +asleep. Clément had muttered ‘Virginie,’ as they half-roused him by +their movements out of his stupor; but Jacques thought he was only dreaming; +nor did he seem fully awake when once his eyes opened, and he looked full at +Virginie’s face bending over him, and growing crimson under his gaze, +though she never stirred, for fear of hurting him if she moved. Clément looked +in silence, until his heavy eyelids came slowly down, and he fell into his +oppressive slumber again. Either he did not recognize her, or she came in too +completely as a part of his sleeping visions for him to be disturbed by her +appearance there. +</p> + +<p> +“When Jacques awoke it was full daylight—at least as full as it +would ever be in that place. His breakfast—the gaol-allowance of bread +and vin ordinaire—was by his side. He must have slept soundly. He looked +for his master. He and Virginie had recognized each other now,—hearts, as +well as appearance. They were smiling into each other’s faces, as if that +dull, vaulted room in the grim Abbaye were the sunny gardens of Versailles, +with music and festivity all abroad. Apparently they had much to say to each +other; for whispered questions and answers never ceased. +</p> + +<p> +“Virginie had made a sling for the poor broken arm; nay, she had obtained +two splinters of wood in some way, and one of their +fellow-prisoners—having, it appeared, some knowledge of surgery—had +set it. Jacques felt more desponding by far than they did, for he was suffering +from the night he had passed, which told upon his aged frame; while they must +have heard some good news, as it seemed to him, so bright and happy did they +look. Yet Clément was still in bodily pain and suffering, and Virginie, by her +own act and deed, was a prisoner in that dreadful Abbaye, whence the only issue +was the guillotine. But they were together: they loved: they understood each +other at length. +</p> + +<p> +“When Virginie saw that Jacques was awake, and languidly munching his +breakfast, she rose from the wooden stool on which she was sitting, and went to +him, holding out both hands, and refusing to allow him to rise, while she +thanked him with pretty eagerness for all his kindness to Monsieur. Monsieur +himself came towards him, following Virginie, but with tottering steps, as if +his head was weak and dizzy, to thank the poor old man, who now on his feet, +stood between them, ready to cry while they gave him credit for faithful +actions which he felt to have been almost involuntary on his part,—for +loyalty was like an instinct in the good old days, before your educational cant +had come up. And so two days went on. The only event was the morning call for +the victims, a certain number of whom were summoned to trial every day. And to +be tried was to be condemned. Every one of the prisoners became grave, as the +hour for their summons approached. Most of the victims went to their doom with +uncomplaining resignation, and for a while after their departure there was +comparative silence in the prison. But, by-and-by—so said +Jacques—the conversation or amusements began again. Human nature cannot +stand the perpetual pressure of such keen anxiety, without an effort to relieve +itself by thinking of something else. Jacques said that Monsieur and +Mademoiselle were for ever talking together of the past days,—it was +‘Do you remember this?’ or, ‘Do you remember that?’ +perpetually. He sometimes thought they forgot where they were, and what was +before them. But Jacques did not, and every day he trembled more and more as +the list was called over. +</p> + +<p> +“The third morning of their incarceration, the gaoler brought in a man +whom Jacques did not recognize, and therefore did not at once observe; for he +was waiting, as in duty bound, upon his master and his sweet young lady (as he +always called her in repeating the story). He thought that the new introduction +was some friend of the gaoler, as the two seemed well acquainted, and the +latter stayed a few minutes talking with his visitor before leaving him in +prison. So Jacques was surprised when, after a short time had elapsed, he +looked round, and saw the fierce stare with which the stranger was regarding +Monsieur and Mademoiselle de Créquy, as the pair sat at breakfast,—the +said breakfast being laid as well as Jacques knew how, on a bench fastened into +the prison wall,—Virginie sitting on her low stool, and Clément half +lying on the ground by her side, and submitting gladly to be fed by her pretty +white fingers; for it was one of her fancies, Jacques said, to do all she could +for him, in consideration of his broken arm. And, indeed, Clément was wasting +away daily; for he had received other injuries, internal and more serious than +that to his arm, during the mêlée which had ended in his capture. The +stranger made Jacques conscious of his presence by a sigh, which was almost a +groan. All three prisoners looked round at the sound. Clément’s face +expressed little but scornful indifference; but Virginie’s face froze +into stony hate. Jacques said he never saw such a look, and hoped that he never +should again. Yet after that first revelation of feeling, her look was steady +and fixed in another direction to that in which the stranger stood,—still +motionless—still watching. He came a step nearer at last. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Mademoiselle,’ he said. Not the quivering of an eyelash +showed that she heard him. ‘Mademoiselle!’ he said again, with an +intensity of beseeching that made Jacques—not knowing who he +was—almost pity him, when he saw his young lady’s obdurate face. +</p> + +<p> +“There was perfect silence for a space of time which Jacques could not +measure. Then again the voice, hesitatingly, saying, ‘Monsieur!’ +Clément could not hold the same icy countenance as Virginie; he turned his head +with an impatient gesture of disgust; but even that emboldened the man. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Monsieur, do ask mademoiselle to listen to me,—just two +words.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Mademoiselle de Créquy only listens to whom she chooses.’ +Very haughtily my Clément would say that, I am sure. +</p> + +<p> +“‘But, mademoiselle,’—lowering his voice, and coming a +step or two nearer. Virginie must have felt his approach, though she did not +see it; for she drew herself a little on one side, so as to put as much space +as possible between him and her.—‘Mademoiselle, it is not too late. +I can save you: but to-morrow your name is down on the list. I can save you, if +you will listen.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Still no word or sign. Jacques did not understand the affair. Why was +she so obdurate to one who might be ready to include Clément in the proposal, +as far as Jacques knew? +</p> + +<p> +“The man withdrew a little, but did not offer to leave the prison. He +never took his eyes off Virginie; he seemed to be suffering from some acute and +terrible pain as he watched her. +</p> + +<p> +“Jacques cleared away the breakfast-things as well as he could. +Purposely, as I suspect, he passed near the man. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Hist!’ said the stranger. ‘You are Jacques, the +gardener, arrested for assisting an aristocrat. I know the gaoler. You shall +escape, if you will. Only take this message from me to mademoiselle. You heard. +She will not listen to me: I did not want her to come here. I never knew she +was here, and she will die to-morrow. They will put her beautiful round throat +under the guillotine. Tell her, good old man, tell her how sweet life is; and +how I can save her; and how I will not ask for more than just to see her from +time to time. She is so young; and death is annihilation, you know. Why does +she hate me so? I want to save her; I have done her no harm. Good old man, tell +her how terrible death is; and that she will die to-morrow, unless she listens +to me.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Jacques saw no harm in repeating this message. Clément listened in +silence, watching Virginie with an air of infinite tenderness. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Will you not try him, my cherished one?’ he said. +‘Towards you he may mean well’ (which makes me think that Virginie +had never repeated to Clément the conversation which she had overheard that +last night at Madame Babette’s); ‘you would be in no worse a +situation than you were before!’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘No worse, Clément! and I should have known what you were, and +have lost you. My Clément!’ said she, reproachfully. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Ask him,’ said she, turning to Jacques, suddenly, ‘if +he can save Monsieur de Créquy as well,—if he can?—O Clément, we +might escape to England; we are but young.’ And she hid her face on his +shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“Jacques returned to the stranger, and asked him Virginie’s +question. His eyes were fixed on the cousins; he was very pale, and the +twitchings or contortions, which must have been involuntary whenever he was +agitated, convulsed his whole body. +</p> + +<p> +“He made a long pause. ‘I will save mademoiselle and monsieur, if +she will go straight from prison to the mairie, and be my wife.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Your wife!’ Jacques could not help exclaiming, ‘That +she will never be—never!’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Ask her!’ said Morin, hoarsely. +</p> + +<p> +“But almost before Jacques thought he could have fairly uttered the +words, Clément caught their meaning. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Begone!’ said he; ‘not one word more.’ Virginie +touched the old man as he was moving away. ‘Tell him he does not know how +he makes me welcome death.’ And smiling, as if triumphant, she turned +again to Clément. +</p> + +<p> +“The stranger did not speak as Jacques gave him the meaning, not the +words, of their replies. He was going away, but stopped. A minute or two +afterwards, he beckoned to Jacques. The old gardener seems to have thought it +undesirable to throw away even the chance of assistance from such a man as +this, for he went forward to speak to him. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Listen! I have influence with the gaoler. He shall let thee pass +out with the victims to-morrow. No one will notice it, or miss thee—. +They will be led to trial,—even at the last moment, I will save her, if +she sends me word she relents. Speak to her, as the time draws on. Life is very +sweet,—tell her how sweet. Speak to him; he will do more with her than +thou canst. Let him urge her to live. Even at the last, I will be at the Palais +de Justice,—at the Grève. I have followers,—I have interest. Come +among the crowd that follow the victims,—I shall see thee. It will be no +worse for him, if she escapes’— +</p> + +<p> +“‘Save my master, and I will do all,’ said Jacques. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Only on my one condition,’ said Morin, doggedly; and +Jacques was hopeless of that condition ever being fulfilled. But he did not see +why his own life might not be saved. By remaining in prison until the next day, +he should have rendered every service in his power to his master and the young +lady. He, poor fellow, shrank from death; and he agreed with Morin to escape, +if he could, by the means Morin had suggested, and to bring him word if +Mademoiselle de Créquy relented. (Jacques had no expectation that she would; +but I fancy he did not think it necessary to tell Morin of this conviction of +his.) This bargaining with so base a man for so slight a thing as life, was the +only flaw that I heard of in the old gardener’s behaviour. Of course, the +mere reopening of the subject was enough to stir Virginie to displeasure. +Clément urged her, it is true; but the light he had gained upon Morin’s +motions, made him rather try to set the case before her in as fair a manner as +possible than use any persuasive arguments. And, even as it was, what he said +on the subject made Virginie shed tears—the first that had fallen from +her since she entered the prison. So, they were summoned and went together, at +the fatal call of the muster-roll of victims the next morning. He, feeble from +his wounds and his injured health; she, calm and serene, only petitioning to be +allowed to walk next to him, in order that she might hold him up when he turned +faint and giddy from his extreme suffering. +</p> + +<p> +“Together they stood at the bar; together they were condemned. As the +words of judgment were pronounced, Virginie tuned to Clément, and embraced him +with passionate fondness. Then, making him lean on her, they marched out +towards the Place de la Grève. +</p> + +<p> +“Jacques was free now. He had told Morin how fruitless his efforts at +persuasion had been; and scarcely caring to note the effect of his information +upon the man, he had devoted himself to watching Monsieur and Mademoiselle de +Créquy. And now he followed them to the Place de la Grève. He saw them mount +the platform; saw them kneel down together till plucked up by the impatient +officials; could see that she was urging some request to the executioner; the +end of which seemed to be, that Clément advanced first to the guillotine, was +executed (and just at this moment there was a stir among the crowd, as of a man +pressing forward towards the scaffold). Then she, standing with her face to the +guillotine, slowly made the sign of the cross, and knelt down. +</p> + +<p> +“Jacques covered his eyes, blinded with tears. The report of a pistol +made him look up. She was gone—another victim in her place—and +where there had been a little stir in the crowd not five minutes before, some +men were carrying off a dead body. A man had shot himself, they said. Pierre +told me who that man was.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>CHAPTER IX.</h2> + +<p> +After a pause, I ventured to ask what became of Madame de Créquy, +Clément’s mother. +</p> + +<p> +“She never made any inquiry about him,” said my lady. “She +must have known that he was dead; though how, we never could tell. Medlicott +remembered afterwards that it was about, if not on—Medlicott to this day +declares that it was on the very Monday, June the nineteenth, when her son was +executed, that Madame de Créquy left off her rouge and took to her bed, as one +bereaved and hopeless. It certainly was about that time; and +Medlicott—who was deeply impressed by that dream of Madame de +Créquy’s (the relation of which I told you had had such an effect on my +lord), in which she had seen the figure of Virginie—as the only light +object amid much surrounding darkness as of night, smiling and beckoning +Clément on—on—till at length the bright phantom stopped, +motionless, and Madame de Créquy’s eyes began to penetrate the murky +darkness, and to see closing around her the gloomy dripping walls which she had +once seen and never forgotten—the walls of the vault of the chapel of the +De Créquys in Saint Germain l’Auxerrois; and there the two last of the +Créquys laid them down among their forefathers, and Madame de Créquy had +wakened to the sound of the great door, which led to the open air, being locked +upon her—I say Medlicott, who was predisposed by this dream to look out +for the supernatural, always declared that Madame de Créquy was made conscious +in some mysterious way, of her son’s death, on the very day and hour when +it occurred, and that after that she had no more anxiety, but was only +conscious of a kind of stupefying despair.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what became of her, my lady?” I again asked. +</p> + +<p> +“What could become of her?” replied Lady Ludlow. “She never +could be induced to rise again, though she lived more than a year after her +son’s departure. She kept her bed; her room darkened, her face turned +towards the wall, whenever any one besides Medlicott was in the room. She +hardly ever spoke, and would have died of starvation but for Medlicott’s +tender care, in putting a morsel to her lips every now and then, feeding her, +in fact, just as an old bird feeds her young ones. In the height of summer my +lord and I left London. We would fain have taken her with us into Scotland, but +the doctor (we had the old doctor from Leicester Square) forbade her removal; +and this time he gave such good reasons against it that I acquiesced. Medlicott +and a maid were left with her. Every care was taken of her. She survived till +our return. Indeed, I thought she was in much the same state as I had left her +in, when I came back to London. But Medlicott spoke of her as much weaker; and +one morning on awakening, they told me she was dead. I sent for Medlicott, who +was in sad distress, she had become so fond of her charge. She said that, about +two o’clock, she had been awakened by unusual restlessness on Madame de +Créquy’s part; that she had gone to her bedside, and found the poor lady +feebly but perpetually moving her wasted arm up and down—and saying to +herself in a wailing voice: ‘I did not bless him when he left me—I +did not bless him when he left me!’ Medlicott gave her a spoonful or two +of jelly, and sat by her, stroking her hand, and soothing her till she seemed +to fall asleep. But in the morning she was dead.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is a sad story, your ladyship,” said I, after a while. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes it is. People seldom arrive at my age without having watched the +beginning, middle, and end of many lives and many fortunes. We do not talk +about them, perhaps; for they are often so sacred to us, from having touched +into the very quick of our own hearts, as it were, or into those of others who +are dead and gone, and veiled over from human sight, that we cannot tell the +tale as if it was a mere story. But young people should remember that we have +had this solemn experience of life, on which to base our opinions and form our +judgments, so that they are not mere untried theories. I am not alluding to Mr. +Horner just now, for he is nearly as old as I am—within ten years, I dare +say—but I am thinking of Mr. Gray, with his endless plans for some new +thing—schools, education, Sabbaths, and what not. Now he has not seen +what all this leads to.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is a pity he has not heard your ladyship tell the story of poor +Monsieur de Créquy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all a pity, my dear. A young man like him, who, both by position +and age, must have had his experience confined to a very narrow circle, ought +not to set up his opinion against mine; he ought not to require reasons from +me, nor to need such explanation of my arguments (if I condescend to argue), as +going into relation of the circumstances on which my arguments are based in my +own mind, would be.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, my lady, it might convince him,” I said, with perhaps +injudicious perseverance. +</p> + +<p> +“And why should he be convinced?” she asked, with gentle inquiry in +her tone. “He has only to acquiesce. Though he is appointed by Mr. +Croxton, I am the lady of the manor, as he must know. But it is with Mr. Horner +that I must have to do about this unfortunate lad Gregson. I am afraid there +will be no method of making him forget his unlucky knowledge. His poor brains +will be intoxicated with the sense of his powers, without any counterbalancing +principles to guide him. Poor fellow! I am quite afraid it will end in his +being hanged!” +</p> + +<p> +The next day Mr. Horner came to apologize and explain. He was +evidently—as I could tell from his voice, as he spoke to my lady in the +next room—extremely annoyed at her ladyship’s discovery of the +education he had been giving to this boy. My lady spoke with great authority, +and with reasonable grounds of complaint. Mr. Horner was well acquainted with +her thoughts on the subject, and had acted in defiance of her wishes. He +acknowledged as much, and should on no account have done it, in any other +instance, without her leave. +</p> + +<p> +“Which I could never have granted you,” said my lady. +</p> + +<p> +But this boy had extraordinary capabilities; would, in fact, have taught +himself much that was bad, if he had not been rescued, and another direction +given to his powers. And in all Mr. Horner had done, he had had her +ladyship’s service in view. The business was getting almost beyond his +power, so many letters and so much account-keeping was required by the +complicated state in which things were. +</p> + +<p> +Lady Ludlow felt what was coming—a reference to the mortgage for the +benefit of my lord’s Scottish estates, which, she was perfectly aware, +Mr. Horner considered as having been a most unwise proceeding—and she +hastened to observe—“All this may be very true, Mr. Horner, and I +am sure I should be the last person to wish you to overwork or distress +yourself; but of that we will talk another time. What I am now anxious to +remedy is, if possible, the state of this poor little Gregson’s mind. +Would not hard work in the fields be a wholesome and excellent way of enabling +him to forget?” +</p> + +<p> +“I was in hopes, my lady, that you would have permitted me to bring him +up to act as a kind of clerk,” said Mr. Horner, jerking out his project +abruptly. +</p> + +<p> +“A what?” asked my lady, in infinite surprise. +</p> + +<p> +“A kind of—of assistant, in the way of copying letters and doing up +accounts. He is already an excellent penman and very quick at figures.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Horner,” said my lady, with dignity, “the son of a +poacher and vagabond ought never to have been able to copy letters relating to +the Hanbury estates; and, at any rate, he shall not. I wonder how it is that, +knowing the use he has made of his power of reading a letter, you should +venture to propose such an employment for him as would require his being in +your confidence, and you the trusted agent of this family. Why, every secret +(and every ancient and honourable family has its secrets, as you know, Mr. +Horner) would be learnt off by heart, and repeated to the first comer!” +</p> + +<p> +“I should have hoped to have trained him, my lady, to understand the +rules of discretion.” +</p> + +<p> +“Trained! Train a barn-door fowl to be a pheasant, Mr. Horner! That would +be the easier task. But you did right to speak of discretion rather than +honour. Discretion looks to the consequences of actions—honour looks to +the action itself, and is an instinct rather than a virtue. After all, it is +possible you might have trained him to be discreet.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Horner was silent. My lady was softened by his not replying, and began as +she always did in such cases, to fear lest she had been too harsh. I could tell +that by her voice and by her next speech, as well as if I had seen her face. +</p> + +<p> +“But I am sorry you are feeling the pressure of the affairs: I am quite +aware that I have entailed much additional trouble upon you by some of my +measures: I must try and provide you with some suitable assistance. Copying +letters and doing up accounts, I think you said?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Horner had certainly had a distant idea of turning the little boy, in +process of time, into a clerk; but he had rather urged this possibility of +future usefulness beyond what he had at first intended, in speaking of it to my +lady as a palliation of his offence, and he certainly was very much inclined to +retract his statement that the letter-writing, or any other business, had +increased, or that he was in the slightest want of help of any kind, when my +lady after a pause of consideration, suddenly said— +</p> + +<p> +“I have it. Miss Galindo will, I am sure, be glad to assist you. I will +speak to her myself. The payment we should make to a clerk would be of real +service to her!” +</p> + +<p> +I could hardly help echoing Mr. Horner’s tone of surprise as he +said— +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Galindo!” +</p> + +<p> +For, you must be told who Miss Galindo was; at least, told as much as I know. +Miss Galindo had lived in the village for many years, keeping house on the +smallest possible means, yet always managing to maintain a servant. And this +servant was invariably chosen because she had some infirmity that made her +undesirable to every one else. I believe Miss Galindo had had lame and blind +and hump-backed maids. She had even at one time taken in a girl hopelessly gone +in consumption, because if not she would have had to go to the workhouse, and +not have had enough to eat. Of course the poor creature could not perform a +single duty usually required of a servant, and Miss Galindo herself was both +servant and nurse. +</p> + +<p> +Her present maid was scarcely four feet high, and bore a terrible character for +ill-temper. Nobody but Miss Galindo would have kept her; but, as it was, +mistress and servant squabbled perpetually, and were, at heart, the best of +friends. For it was one of Miss Galindo’s peculiarities to do all manner +of kind and self-denying actions, and to say all manner of provoking things. +Lame, blind, deformed, and dwarf, all came in for scoldings without number: it +was only the consumptive girl that never had heard a sharp word. I don’t +think any of her servants liked her the worse for her peppery temper, and +passionate odd ways, for they knew her real and beautiful kindness of heart: +and, besides, she had so great a turn for humour that very often her speeches +amused as much or more than they irritated; and on the other side, a piece of +witty impudence from her servant would occasionally tickle her so much and so +suddenly, that she would burst out laughing in the middle of her passion. +</p> + +<p> +But the talk about Miss Galindo’s choice and management of her servants +was confined to village gossip, and had never reached my Lady Ludlow’s +ears, though doubtless Mr. Horner was well acquainted with it. What my lady +knew of her amounted to this. It was the custom in those days for the wealthy +ladies of the county to set on foot a repository, as it was called, in the +assize-town. The ostensible manager of this repository was generally a decayed +gentlewoman, a clergyman’s widow, or so forth. She was, however, +controlled by a committee of ladies; and paid by them in proportion to the +amount of goods she sold; and these goods were the small manufactures of ladies +of little or no fortune, whose names, if they chose it, were only signified by +initials. +</p> + +<p> +Poor water-colour drawings, indigo and Indian ink; screens, ornamented with +moss and dried leaves; paintings on velvet, and such faintly ornamental works +were displayed on one side of the shop. It was always reckoned a mark of +characteristic gentility in the repository, to have only common heavy-framed +sash-windows, which admitted very little light, so I never was quite certain of +the merit of these Works of Art as they were entitled. But, on the other side, +where the Useful Work placard was put up, there was a great variety of +articles, of whose unusual excellence every one might judge. Such fine sewing, +and stitching, and button-holing! Such bundles of soft delicate knitted +stockings and socks; and, above all, in Lady Ludlow’s eyes, such hanks of +the finest spun flaxen thread! +</p> + +<p> +And the most delicate dainty work of all was done by Miss Galindo, as Lady +Ludlow very well knew. Yet, for all their fine sewing, it sometimes happened +that Miss Galindo’s patterns were of an old-fashioned kind; and the dozen +nightcaps, maybe, on the materials for which she had expended bonâ-fide +money, and on the making-up, no little time and eyesight, would lie for months +in a yellow neglected heap; and at such times, it was said, Miss Galindo was +more amusing than usual, more full of dry drollery and humour; just as at the +times when an order came in to X. (the initial she had chosen) for a stock of +well-paying things, she sat and stormed at her servant as she stitched away. +She herself explained her practice in this way:— +</p> + +<p> +“When everything goes wrong, one would give up breathing if one could not +lighten ones heart by a joke. But when I’ve to sit still from morning +till night, I must have something to stir my blood, or I should go off into an +apoplexy; so I set to, and quarrel with Sally.” +</p> + +<p> +Such were Miss Galindo’s means and manner of living in her own house. Out +of doors, and in the village, she was not popular, although she would have been +sorely missed had she left the place. But she asked too many home questions +(not to say impertinent) respecting the domestic economies (for even the very +poor liked to spend their bit of money their own way), and would open cupboards +to find out hidden extravagances, and question closely respecting the weekly +amount of butter, till one day she met with what would have been a rebuff to +any other person, but which she rather enjoyed than otherwise. +</p> + +<p> +She was going into a cottage, and in the doorway met the good woman chasing out +a duck, and apparently unconscious of her visitor. +</p> + +<p> +“Get out, Miss Galindo!” she cried, addressing the duck. “Get +out! O, I ask your pardon,” she continued, as if seeing the lady for the +first time. “It’s only that weary duck will come in. Get out Miss +Gal—-” (to the duck). +</p> + +<p> +“And so you call it after me, do you?” inquired her visitor. +</p> + +<p> +“O, yes, ma’am; my master would have it so, for he said, sure +enough the unlucky bird was always poking herself where she was not +wanted.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ha, ha! very good! And so your master is a wit, is he? Well! tell him to +come up and speak to me to-night about my parlour chimney, for there is no one +like him for chimney doctoring.” +</p> + +<p> +And the master went up, and was so won over by Miss Galindo’s merry ways, +and sharp insight into the mysteries of his various kinds of business (he was a +mason, chimney-sweeper, and ratcatcher), that he came home and abused his wife +the next time she called the duck the name by which he himself had christened +her. +</p> + +<p> +But odd as Miss Galindo was in general, she could be as well-bred a lady as any +one when she chose. And choose she always did when my Lady Ludlow was by. +Indeed, I don’t know the man, woman, or child, that did not instinctively +turn out its best side to her ladyship. So she had no notion of the qualities +which, I am sure, made Mr. Horner think that Miss Galindo would be most +unmanageable as a clerk, and heartily wish that the idea had never come into my +lady’s head. But there it was; and he had annoyed her ladyship already +more than he liked to-day, so he could not directly contradict her, but only +urge difficulties which he hoped might prove insuperable. But every one of them +Lady Ludlow knocked down. Letters to copy? Doubtless. Miss Galindo could come +up to the Hall; she should have a room to herself; she wrote a beautiful hand; +and writing would save her eyesight. “Capability with regard to +accounts?” My lady would answer for that too; and for more than Mr. +Horner seemed to think it necessary to inquire about. Miss Galindo was by birth +and breeding a lady of the strictest honour, and would, if possible, forget the +substance of any letters that passed through her hands; at any rate, no one +would ever hear of them again from her. “Remuneration?” Oh! as for +that, Lady Ludlow would herself take care that it was managed in the most +delicate manner possible. She would send to invite Miss Galindo to tea at the +Hall that very afternoon, if Mr. Horner would only give her ladyship the +slightest idea of the average length of time that my lady was to request Miss +Galindo to sacrifice to her daily. “Three hours! Very well.” Mr. +Horner looked very grave as he passed the windows of the room where I lay. I +don’t think he liked the idea of Miss Galindo as a clerk. +</p> + +<p> +Lady Ludlow’s invitations were like royal commands. Indeed, the village +was too quiet to allow the inhabitants to have many evening engagements of any +kind. Now and then, Mr. and Mrs. Horner gave a tea and supper to the principal +tenants and their wives, to which the clergyman was invited, and Miss Galindo, +Mrs. Medlicott, and one or two other spinsters and widows. The glory of the +supper-table on these occasions was invariably furnished by her ladyship: it +was a cold roasted peacock, with his tail stuck out as if in life. Mrs. +Medlicott would take up the whole morning arranging the feathers in the proper +semicircle, and was always pleased with the wonder and admiration it excited. +It was considered a due reward and fitting compliment to her exertions that Mr. +Horner always took her in to supper, and placed her opposite to the magnificent +dish, at which she sweetly smiled all the time they were at table. But since +Mrs. Horner had had the paralytic stroke these parties had been given up; and +Miss Galindo wrote a note to Lady Ludlow in reply to her invitation, saying +that she was entirely disengaged, and would have great pleasure in doing +herself the honour of waiting upon her ladyship. +</p> + +<p> +Whoever visited my lady took their meals with her, sitting on the dais, in the +presence of all my former companions. So I did not see Miss Galindo until some +time after tea; as the young gentlewomen had had to bring her their sewing and +spinning, to hear the remarks of so competent a judge. At length her ladyship +brought her visitor into the room where I lay,—it was one of my bad days, +I remember,—in order to have her little bit of private conversation. Miss +Galindo was dressed in her best gown, I am sure, but I had never seen anything +like it except in a picture, it was so old-fashioned. She wore a white muslin +apron, delicately embroidered, and put on a little crookedly, in order, as she +told us, even Lady Ludlow, before the evening was over, to conceal a spot +whence the colour had been discharged by a lemon-stain. This crookedness had an +odd effect, especially when I saw that it was intentional; indeed, she was so +anxious about her apron’s right adjustment in the wrong place, that she +told us straight out why she wore it so, and asked her ladyship if the spot was +properly hidden, at the same time lifting up her apron and showing her how +large it was. +</p> + +<p> +“When my father was alive, I always took his right arm, so, and used to +remove any spotted or discoloured breadths to the left side, if it was a +walking-dress. That’s the convenience of a gentleman. But widows and +spinsters must do what they can. Ah, my dear (to me)! when you are reckoning up +the blessings in your lot,—though you may think it a hard one in some +respects,—don’t forget how little your stockings want darning, as +you are obliged to lie down so much! I would rather knit two pairs of stockings +than darn one, any day.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you been doing any of your beautiful knitting lately?” asked +my lady, who had now arranged Miss Galindo in the pleasantest chair, and taken +her own little wicker-work one, and, having her work in her hands, was ready to +try and open the subject. +</p> + +<p> +“No, and alas! your ladyship. It is partly the hot weather’s fault, +for people seem to forget that winter must come; and partly, I suppose, that +every one is stocked who has the money to pay four-and-sixpence a pair for +stockings.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then may I ask if you have any time in your active days at +liberty?” said my lady, drawing a little nearer to her proposal, which I +fancy she found it a little awkward to make. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, the village keeps me busy, your ladyship, when I have neither +knitting or sewing to do. You know I took X. for my letter at the repository, +because it stands for Xantippe, who was a great scold in old times, as I have +learnt. But I’m sure I don’t know how the world would get on +without scolding, your ladyship. It would go to sleep, and the sun would stand +still.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think I could bear to scold, Miss Galindo,” said her +ladyship, smiling. +</p> + +<p> +“No! because your ladyship has people to do it for you. Begging your +pardon, my lady, it seems to me the generality of people may be divided into +saints, scolds, and sinners. Now, your ladyship is a saint, because you have a +sweet and holy nature, in the first place; and have people to do your anger and +vexation for you, in the second place. And Jonathan Walker is a sinner, because +he is sent to prison. But here am I, half way, having but a poor kind of +disposition at best, and yet hating sin, and all that leads to it, such as +wasting, and extravagance, and gossiping,—and yet all this lies right +under my nose in the village, and I am not saint enough to be vexed at it; and +so I scold. And though I had rather be a saint, yet I think I do good in my +way.” +</p> + +<p> +“No doubt you do, dear Miss Galindo,” said Lady Ludlow. “But +I am sorry to hear that there is so much that is bad going on in the +village,—very sorry.” +</p> + +<p> +“O, your ladyship! then I am sorry I brought it out. It was only by way +of saying, that when I have no particular work to do at home, I take a turn +abroad, and set my neighbours to rights, just by way of steering clear of +Satan. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +For Satan finds some mischief still<br /> +For idle hands to do, +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +you know, my lady.” +</p> + +<p> +There was no leading into the subject by delicate degrees, for Miss Galindo was +evidently so fond of talking, that, if asked a question, she made her answer so +long, that before she came to an end of it, she had wandered far away from the +original starting point. So Lady Ludlow plunged at once into what she had to +say. +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Galindo, I have a great favour to ask of you.” +</p> + +<p> +“My lady, I wish I could tell you what a pleasure it is to hear you say +so,” replied Miss Galindo, almost with tears in her eyes; so glad were we +all to do anything for her ladyship, which could be called a free service and +not merely a duty. +</p> + +<p> +“It is this. Mr. Horner tells me that the business-letters, relating to +the estate, are multiplying so much that he finds it impossible to copy them +all himself, and I therefore require the services of some confidential and +discreet person to copy these letters, and occasionally to go through certain +accounts. Now, there is a very pleasant little sitting-room very near to Mr. +Horner’s office (you know Mr. Horner’s office—on the other +side of the stone hall?), and if I could prevail upon you to come here to +breakfast and afterwards sit there for three hours every morning, Mr. Horner +should bring or send you the papers—” +</p> + +<p> +Lady Ludlow stopped. Miss Galindo’s countenance had fallen. There was +some great obstacle in her mind to her wish for obliging Lady Ludlow. +</p> + +<p> +“What would Sally do?” she asked at length. Lady Ludlow had not a +notion who Sally was. Nor if she had had a notion, would she have had a +conception of the perplexities that poured into Miss Galindo’s mind, at +the idea of leaving her rough forgetful dwarf without the perpetual monitorship +of her mistress. Lady Ludlow, accustomed to a household where everything went +on noiselessly, perfectly, and by clockwork, conducted by a number of +highly-paid, well-chosen, and accomplished servants, had not a conception of +the nature of the rough material from which her servants came. Besides, in her +establishment, so that the result was good, no one inquired if the small +economies had been observed in the production. Whereas every penny—every +halfpenny, was of consequence to Miss Galindo; and visions of squandered drops +of milk and wasted crusts of bread filled her mind with dismay. But she +swallowed all her apprehensions down, out of her regard for Lady Ludlow, and +desire to be of service to her. No one knows how great a trial it was to her +when she thought of Sally, unchecked and unscolded for three hours every +morning. But all she said was— +</p> + +<p> +“‘Sally, go to the Deuce.’ I beg your pardon, my lady, if I +was talking to myself; it’s a habit I have got into of keeping my tongue +in practice, and I am not quite aware when I do it. Three hours every morning! +I shall be only too proud to do what I can for your ladyship; and I hope Mr. +Horner will not be too impatient with me at first. You know, perhaps, that I +was nearly being an authoress once, and that seems as if I was destined to +‘employ my time in writing.’” +</p> + +<p> +“No, indeed; we must return to the subject of the clerkship afterwards, +if you please. An authoress, Miss Galindo! You surprise me!” +</p> + +<p> +“But, indeed, I was. All was quite ready. Doctor Burney used to teach me +music: not that I ever could learn, but it was a fancy of my poor +father’s. And his daughter wrote a book, and they said she was but a very +young lady, and nothing but a music-master’s daughter; so why should not +I try?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well! I got paper and half-a-hundred good pens, a bottle of ink, all +ready—” +</p> + +<p> +“And then—” +</p> + +<p> +“O, it ended in my having nothing to say, when I sat down to write. But +sometimes, when I get hold of a book, I wonder why I let such a poor reason +stop me. It does not others.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I think it was very well it did, Miss Galindo,” said her +ladyship. “I am extremely against women usurping men’s employments, +as they are very apt to do. But perhaps, after all, the notion of writing a +book improved your hand. It is one of the most legible I ever saw.” +</p> + +<p> +“I despise z’s without tails,” said Miss Galindo, with a good +deal of gratified pride at my lady’s praise. Presently, my lady took her +to look at a curious old cabinet, which Lord Ludlow had picked up at the Hague; +and while they were out of the room on this errand, I suppose the question of +remuneration was settled, for I heard no more of it. +</p> + +<p> +When they came back, they were talking of Mr. Gray. Miss Galindo was unsparing +in her expressions of opinion about him: going much farther than my +lady—in her language, at least. +</p> + +<p> +“A little blushing man like him, who can’t say bo to a goose +without hesitating and colouring, to come to this village—which is as +good a village as ever lived—and cry us down for a set of sinners, as if +we had all committed murder and that other thing!—I have no patience with +him, my lady. And then, how is he to help us to heaven, by teaching us our, a +b, ab—b a, ba? And yet, by all accounts, that’s to save poor +children’s souls. O, I knew your ladyship would agree with me. I am sure +my mother was as good a creature as ever breathed the blessed air; and if +she’s not gone to heaven I don’t want to go there; and she could +not spell a letter decently. And does Mr. Gray think God took note of +that?” +</p> + +<p> +“I was sure you would agree with me, Miss Galindo,” said my lady. +“You and I can remember how this talk about education—Rousseau, and +his writings—stirred up the French people to their Reign of Terror, and +all those bloody scenes.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m afraid that Rousseau and Mr. Gray are birds of a +feather,” replied Miss Galindo, shaking her head. “And yet there is +some good in the young man too. He sat up all night with Billy Davis, when his +wife was fairly worn out with nursing him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did he, indeed!” said my lady, her face lighting up, as it always +did when she heard of any kind or generous action, no matter who performed it. +“What a pity he is bitten with these new revolutionary ideas, and is so +much for disturbing the established order of society!” +</p> + +<p> +When Miss Galindo went, she left so favourable an impression of her visit on my +lady, that she said to me with a pleased smile— +</p> + +<p> +“I think I have provided Mr. Horner with a far better clerk than he would +have made of that lad Gregson in twenty years. And I will send the lad to my +lord’s grieve, in Scotland, that he may be kept out of harm’s +way.” +</p> + +<p> +But something happened to the lad before this purpose could be accomplished. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>CHAPTER X.</h2> + +<p> +The next morning, Miss Galindo made her appearance, and, by some mistake, +unusual to my lady’s well-trained servants, was shown into the room where +I was trying to walk; for a certain amount of exercise was prescribed for me, +painful although the exertion had become. +</p> + +<p> +She brought a little basket along with her and while the footman was gone to +inquire my lady’s wishes (for I don’t think that Lady Ludlow +expected Miss Galindo so soon to assume her clerkship; nor, indeed, had Mr. +Horner any work of any kind ready for his new assistant to do), she launched +out into conversation with me. +</p> + +<p> +“It was a sudden summons, my dear! However, as I have often said to +myself, ever since an occasion long ago, if Lady Ludlow ever honours me by +asking for my right hand, I’ll cut it off, and wrap the stump up so +tidily she shall never find out it bleeds. But, if I had had a little more +time, I could have mended my pens better. You see, I have had to sit up pretty +late to get these sleeves made”—and she took out of her basket a +pail of brown-holland over-sleeves, very much such as a grocer’s +apprentice wears—“and I had only time to make seven or eight pens, +out of some quills Farmer Thomson gave me last autumn. As for ink, I’m +thankful to say, that’s always ready; an ounce of steel filings, an ounce +of nut-gall, and a pint of water (tea, if you’re extravagant, which, +thank Heaven! I’m not), put all in a bottle, and hang it up behind the +house door, so that the whole gets a good shaking every time you slam it +to—and even if you are in a passion and bang it, as Sally and I often do, +it is all the better for it—and there’s my ink ready for use; ready +to write my lady’s will with, if need be.” +</p> + +<p> +“O, Miss Galindo!” said I, “don’t talk so my +lady’s will! and she not dead yet.” +</p> + +<p> +“And if she were, what would be the use of talking of making her will? +Now, if you were Sally, I should say, ‘Answer me that, you goose!’ +But, as you’re a relation of my lady’s, I must be civil, and only +say, ‘I can’t think how you can talk so like a fool!’ To be +sure, poor thing, you’re lame!” +</p> + +<p> +I do not know how long she would have gone on; but my lady came in, and I, +released from my duty of entertaining Miss Galindo, made my limping way into +the next room. To tell the truth, I was rather afraid of Miss Galindo’s +tongue, for I never knew what she would say next. +</p> + +<p> +After a while my lady came, and began to look in the bureau for something: and +as she looked she said—“I think Mr. Horner must have made some +mistake, when he said he had so much work that he almost required a clerk, for +this morning he cannot find anything for Miss Galindo to do; and there she is, +sitting with her pen behind her ear, waiting for something to write. I am come +to find her my mother’s letters, for I should like to have a fair copy +made of them. O, here they are: don’t trouble yourself, my dear +child.” +</p> + +<p> +When my lady returned again, she sat down and began to talk of Mr. Gray. +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Galindo says she saw him going to hold a prayer-meeting in a +cottage. Now that really makes me unhappy, it is so like what Mr. Wesley used +to do in my younger days; and since then we have had rebellion in the American +colonies and the French Revolution. You may depend upon it, my dear, making +religion and education common—vulgarising them, as it were—is a bad +thing for a nation. A man who hears prayers read in the cottage where he has +just supped on bread and bacon, forgets the respect due to a church: he begins +to think that one place is as good as another, and, by-and-by, that one person +is as good as another; and after that, I always find that people begin to talk +of their rights, instead of thinking of their duties. I wish Mr. Gray had been +more tractable, and had left well alone. What do you think I heard this +morning? Why that the Home Hill estate, which niches into the Hanbury property, +was bought by a Baptist baker from Birmingham!” +</p> + +<p> +“A Baptist baker!” I exclaimed. I had never seen a Dissenter, to my +knowledge; but, having always heard them spoken of with horror, I looked upon +them almost as if they were rhinoceroses. I wanted to see a live Dissenter, I +believe, and yet I wished it were over. I was almost surprised when I heard +that any of them were engaged in such peaceful occupations as baking. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes! so Mr. Horner tells me. A Mr. Lambe, I believe. But, at any rate, +he is a Baptist, and has been in trade. What with his schismatism and Mr. +Gray’s methodism, I am afraid all the primitive character of this place +will vanish.” +</p> + +<p> +From what I could hear, Mr. Gray seemed to be taking his own way; at any rate, +more than he had done when he first came to the village, when his natural +timidity had made him defer to my lady, and seek her consent and sanction +before embarking in any new plan. But newness was a quality Lady Ludlow +especially disliked. Even in the fashions of dress and furniture, she clung to +the old, to the modes which had prevailed when she was young; and though she +had a deep personal regard for Queen Charlotte (to whom, as I have already +said, she had been maid-of-honour), yet there was a tinge of Jacobitism about +her, such as made her extremely dislike to hear Prince Charles Edward called +the young Pretender, as many loyal people did in those days, and made her fond +of telling of the thorn-tree in my lord’s park in Scotland, which had +been planted by bonny Queen Mary herself, and before which every guest in the +Castle of Monkshaven was expected to stand bare-headed, out of respect to the +memory and misfortunes of the royal planter. +</p> + +<p> +We might play at cards, if we so chose, on a Sunday; at least, I suppose we +might, for my lady and Mr. Mountford used to do so often when I first went. But +we must neither play cards, nor read, nor sew on the fifth of November and on +the thirtieth of January, but must go to church, and meditate all the rest of +the day—and very hard work meditating was. I would far rather have +scoured a room. That was the reason, I suppose, why a passive life was seen to +be better discipline for me than an active one. +</p> + +<p> +But I am wandering away from my lady, and her dislike to all innovation. Now, +it seemed to me, as far as I heard, that Mr. Gray was full of nothing but new +things, and that what he first did was to attack all our established +institutions, both in the village and the parish, and also in the nation. To be +sure, I heard of his ways of going on principally from Miss Galindo, who was +apt to speak more strongly than accurately. +</p> + +<p> +“There he goes,” she said, “clucking up the children just +like an old hen, and trying to teach them about their salvation and their +souls, and I don’t know what—things that it is just blasphemy to +speak about out of church. And he potters old people about reading their +Bibles. I am sure I don’t want to speak disrespectfully about the Holy +Scriptures, but I found old Job Horton busy reading his Bible yesterday. Says +I, ‘What are you reading, and where did you get it, and who gave it +you?’ So he made answer, ‘That he was reading Susannah and the +Elders, for that he had read Bel and the Dragon till he could pretty near say +it off by heart, and they were two as pretty stories as ever he had read, and +that it was a caution to him what bad old chaps there were in the world.’ +Now, as Job is bedridden, I don’t think he is likely to meet with the +Elders, and I say that I think repeating his Creed, the Commandments, and the +Lord’s Prayer, and, maybe, throwing in a verse of the Psalms, if he +wanted a bit of a change, would have done him far more good than his pretty +stories, as he called them. And what’s the next thing our young parson +does? Why he tries to make us all feel pitiful for the black slaves, and leaves +little pictures of negroes about, with the question printed below, ‘Am I +not a man and a brother?’ just as if I was to be hail-fellow-well-met +with every negro footman. They do say he takes no sugar in his tea, because he +thinks he sees spots of blood in it. Now I call that superstition.” +</p> + +<p> +The next day it was a still worse story. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, my dear! and how are you? My lady sent me in to sit a bit with +you, while Mr. Horner looks out some papers for me to copy. Between ourselves, +Mr. Steward Horner does not like having me for a clerk. It is all very well he +does not; for, if he were decently civil to me, I might want a chaperone, you +know, now poor Mrs. Horner is dead.” This was one of Miss Galindo’s +grim jokes. “As it is, I try to make him forget I’m a woman, I do +everything as ship-shape as a masculine man-clerk. I see he can’t find a +fault—writing good, spelling correct, sums all right. And then he squints +up at me with the tail of his eye, and looks glummer than ever, just because +I’m a woman—as if I could help that. I have gone good lengths to +set his mind at ease. I have stuck my pen behind my ear, I have made him a bow +instead of a curtsey, I have whistled—not a tune I can’t pipe up +that—nay, if you won’t tell my lady, I don’t mind telling you +that I have said ‘Confound it!’ and ‘Zounds!’ I +can’t get any farther. For all that, Mr. Horner won’t forget I am a +lady, and so I am not half the use I might be, and if it were not to please my +Lady Ludlow, Mr. Horner and his books might go hang (see how natural that came +out!). And there is an order for a dozen nightcaps for a bride, and I am so +afraid I shan’t have time to do them. Worst of all, there’s Mr. +Gray taking advantage of my absence to seduce Sally!” +</p> + +<p> +“To seduce Sally! Mr. Gray!” +</p> + +<p> +“Pooh, pooh, child! There’s many a kind of seduction. Mr. Gray is +seducing Sally to want to go to church. There has he been twice at my house, +while I have been away in the mornings, talking to Sally about the state of her +soul and that sort of thing. But when I found the meat all roasted to a cinder, +I said, ‘Come, Sally, let’s have no more praying when beef is down +at the fire. Pray at six o’clock in the morning and nine at night, and I +won’t hinder you.’ So she sauced me, and said something about +Martha and Mary, implying that, because she had let the beef get so overdone +that I declare I could hardly find a bit for Nancy Pole’s sick +grandchild, she had chosen the better part. I was very much put about, I own, +and perhaps you’ll be shocked at what I said—indeed, I don’t +know if it was right myself—but I told her I had a soul as well as she, +and if it was to be saved by my sitting still and thinking about salvation and +never doing my duty, I thought I had as good a right as she had to be Mary, and +save my soul. So, that afternoon I sat quite still, and it was really a +comfort, for I am often too busy, I know, to pray as I ought. There is first +one person wanting me, and then another, and the house and the food and the +neighbours to see after. So, when tea-time comes, there enters my maid with her +hump on her back, and her soul to be saved. ‘Please, ma’am, did you +order the pound of butter?’—‘No, Sally,’ I said, +shaking my head, ‘this morning I did not go round by Hale’s farm, +and this afternoon I have been employed in spiritual things.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Now, our Sally likes tea and bread-and-butter above everything, and dry +bread was not to her taste. +</p> + +<p> +“‘I’m thankful,’ said the impudent hussy, ‘that +you have taken a turn towards godliness. It will be my prayers, I trust, +that’s given it you.’ +</p> + +<p> +“I was determined not to give her an opening towards the carnal subject +of butter, so she lingered still, longing to ask leave to run for it. But I +gave her none, and munched my dry bread myself, thinking what a famous cake I +could make for little Ben Pole with the bit of butter we were saving; and when +Sally had had her butterless tea, and was in none of the best of tempers +because Martha had not bethought herself of the butter, I just quietly +said— +</p> + +<p> +“‘Now, Sally, to-morrow we’ll try to hash that beef well, and +to remember the butter, and to work out our salvation all at the same time, for +I don’t see why it can’t all be done, as God has set us to do it +all.’ But I heard her at it again about Mary and Martha, and I have no +doubt that Mr. Gray will teach her to consider me a lost sheep.” +</p> + +<p> +I had heard so many little speeches about Mr. Gray from one person or another, +all speaking against him, as a mischief-maker, a setter-up of new doctrines, +and of a fanciful standard of life (and you may be sure that, where Lady Ludlow +led, Mrs. Medlicott and Adams were certain to follow, each in their different +ways showing the influence my lady had over them), that I believe I had grown +to consider him as a very instrument of evil, and to expect to perceive in his +face marks of his presumption, and arrogance, and impertinent interference. It +was now many weeks since I had seen him, and when he was one morning shown into +the blue drawing-room (into which I had been removed for a change), I was quite +surprised to see how innocent and awkward a young man he appeared, confused +even more than I was at our unexpected tête-à-tête. He +looked thinner, his eyes more eager, his expression more anxious, and his +colour came and went more than it had done when I had seen him last. I tried to +make a little conversation, as I was, to my own surprise, more at my ease than +he was; but his thoughts were evidently too much preoccupied for him to do more +than answer me with monosyllables. +</p> + +<p> +Presently my lady came in. Mr. Gray twitched and coloured more than ever; but +plunged into the middle of his subject at once. +</p> + +<p> +“My lady, I cannot answer it to my conscience, if I allow the children of +this village to go on any longer the little heathens that they are. I must do +something to alter their condition. I am quite aware that your ladyship +disapproves of many of the plans which have suggested themselves to me; but +nevertheless I must do something, and I am come now to your ladyship to ask +respectfully, but firmly, what you would advise me to do.” +</p> + +<p> +His eyes were dilated, and I could almost have said they were full of tears +with his eagerness. But I am sure it is a bad plan to remind people of decided +opinions which they have once expressed, if you wish them to modify those +opinions. Now, Mr. Gray had done this with my lady; and though I do not mean to +say she was obstinate, yet she was not one to retract. +</p> + +<p> +She was silent for a moment or two before she replied. +</p> + +<p> +“You ask me to suggest a remedy for an evil of the existence of which I +am not conscious,” was her answer—very coldly, very gently given. +“In Mr. Mountford’s time I heard no such complaints: whenever I see +the village children (and they are not unfrequent visitors at this house, on +one pretext or another), they are well and decently behaved.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, madam, you cannot judge,” he broke in. “They are trained +to respect you in word and deed; you are the highest they ever look up to; they +have no notion of a higher.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, Mr. Gray,” said my lady, smiling, “they are as loyally +disposed as any children can be. They come up here every fourth of June, and +drink his Majesty’s health, and have buns, and (as Margaret Dawson can +testify) they take a great and respectful interest in all the pictures I can +show them of the royal family.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, madam, I think of something higher than any earthly +dignities.” +</p> + +<p> +My lady coloured at the mistake she had made; for she herself was truly pious. +Yet when she resumed the subject, it seemed to me as if her tone was a little +sharper than before. +</p> + +<p> +“Such want of reverence is, I should say, the clergyman’s fault. +You must excuse me, Mr. Gray, if I speak plainly.” +</p> + +<p> +“My Lady, I want plain-speaking. I myself am not accustomed to those +ceremonies and forms which are, I suppose, the etiquette in your +ladyship’s rank of life, and which seem to hedge you in from any power of +mine to touch you. Among those with whom I have passed my life hitherto, it has +been the custom to speak plainly out what we have felt earnestly. So, instead +of needing any apology from your ladyship for straightforward speaking, I will +meet what you say at once, and admit that it is the clergyman’s fault, in +a great measure, when the children of his parish swear, and curse, and are +brutal, and ignorant of all saving grace; nay, some of them of the very name of +God. And because this guilt of mine, as the clergyman of this parish, lies +heavy on my soul, and every day leads but from bad to worse, till I am utterly +bewildered how to do good to children who escape from me as if I were a +monster, and who are growing up to be men fit for and capable of any crime, but +those requiring wit or sense, I come to you, who seem to me all-powerful, as +far as material power goes—for your ladyship only knows the surface of +things, and barely that, that pass in your village—to help me with +advice, and such outward help as you can give.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Gray had stood up and sat down once or twice while he had been speaking, in +an agitated, nervous kind of way, and now he was interrupted by a violent fit +of coughing, after which he trembled all over. +</p> + +<p> +My lady rang for a glass of water, and looked much distressed. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Gray,” said she, “I am sure you are not well; and that +makes you exaggerate childish faults into positive evils. It is always the case +with us when we are not strong in health. I hear of your exerting yourself in +every direction: you overwork yourself, and the consequence is, that you +imagine us all worse people than we are.” +</p> + +<p> +And my lady smiled very kindly and pleasantly at him, as he sat, a little +panting, a little flushed, trying to recover his breath. I am sure that now +they were brought face to face, she had quite forgotten all the offence she had +taken at his doings when she heard of them from others; and, indeed, it was +enough to soften any one’s heart to see that young, almost boyish face, +looking in such anxiety and distress. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, my lady, what shall I do?” he asked, as soon as he could +recover breath, and with such an air of humility, that I am sure no one who had +seen it could have ever thought him conceited again. “The evil of this +world is too strong for me. I can do so little. It is all in vain. It was only +to-day—” and again the cough and agitation returned. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Mr. Gray,” said my lady (the day before I could never have +believed she could have called him My dear), “you must take the advice of +an old woman about yourself. You are not fit to do anything just now but attend +to your own health: rest, and see a doctor (but, indeed, I will take care of +that), and when you are pretty strong again, you will find that you have been +magnifying evils to yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, my lady, I cannot rest. The evils do exist, and the burden of their +continuance lies on my shoulders. I have no place to gather the children +together in, that I may teach them the things necessary to salvation. The rooms +in my own house are too small; but I have tried them. I have money of my own; +and, as your ladyship knows, I tried to get a piece of leasehold property, on +which to build a school-house at my own expense. Your ladyship’s lawyer +comes forward, at your instructions, to enforce some old feudal right, by which +no building is allowed on leasehold property without the sanction of the lady +of the manor. It may be all very true; but it was a cruel thing to +do,—that is, if your ladyship had known (which I am sure you do not) the +real moral and spiritual state of my poor parishioners. And now I come to you +to know what I am to do. Rest! I cannot rest, while children whom I could +possibly save are being left in their ignorance, their blasphemy, their +uncleanness, their cruelty. It is known through the village that your ladyship +disapproves of my efforts, and opposes all my plans. If you think them wrong, +foolish, ill-digested (I have been a student, living in a college, and +eschewing all society but that of pious men, until now: I may not judge for the +best, in my ignorance of this sinful human nature), tell me of better plans and +wiser projects for accomplishing my end; but do not bid me rest, with Satan +compassing me round, and stealing souls away.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Gray,” said my lady, “there may be some truth in what +you have said. I do not deny it, though I think, in your present state of +indisposition and excitement, you exaggerate it much. I believe—nay, the +experience of a pretty long life has convinced me—that education is a bad +thing, if given indiscriminately. It unfits the lower orders for their duties, +the duties to which they are called by God; of submission to those placed in +authority over them; of contentment with that state of life to which it has +pleased God to call them, and of ordering themselves lowly and reverently to +all their betters. I have made this conviction of mine tolerably evident to +you; and I have expressed distinctly my disapprobation of some of your ideas. +You may imagine, then, that I was not well pleased when I found that you had +taken a rood or more of Farmer Hale’s land, and were laying the +foundations of a school-house. You had done this without asking for my +permission, which, as Farmer Hale’s liege lady, ought to have been +obtained legally, as well as asked for out of courtesy. I put a stop to what I +believed to be calculated to do harm to a village, to a population in which, to +say the least of it, I may be disposed to take as much interest as you can do. +How can reading, and writing, and the multiplication-table (if you choose to go +so far) prevent blasphemy, and uncleanness, and cruelty? Really, Mr. Gray, I +hardly like to express myself so strongly on the subject in your present state +of health, as I should do at any other time. It seems to me that books do +little; character much; and character is not formed from books.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not think of character: I think of souls. I must get some hold upon +these children, or what will become of them in the next world? I must be found +to have some power beyond what they have, and which they are rendered capable +of appreciating, before they will listen to me. At present physical force is +all they look up to; and I have none.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, Mr. Gray, by your own admission, they look up to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“They would not do anything your ladyship disliked if it was likely to +come to your knowledge; but if they could conceal it from you, the knowledge of +your dislike to a particular line of conduct would never make them cease from +pursuing it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Gray”—surprise in her air, and some little +indignation—“they and their fathers have lived on the Hanbury lands +for generations!” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot help it, madam. I am telling you the truth, whether you believe +me or not.” There was a pause; my lady looked perplexed, and somewhat +ruffled; Mr. Gray as though hopeless and wearied out. “Then, my +lady,” said he, at last, rising as he spoke, “you can suggest +nothing to ameliorate the state of things which, I do assure you, does exist on +your lands, and among your tenants. Surely, you will not object to my using +Farmer Hale’s great barn every Sabbath? He will allow me the use of it, +if your ladyship will grant your permission.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are not fit for any extra work at present,” (and indeed he had +been coughing very much all through the conversation). “Give me time to +consider of it. Tell me what you wish to teach. You will be able to take care +of your health, and grow stronger while I consider. It shall not be the worse +for you, if you leave it in my hands for a time.” +</p> + +<p> +My lady spoke very kindly; but he was in too excited a state to recognize the +kindness, while the idea of delay was evidently a sore irritation. I heard him +say: “And I have so little time in which to do my work. Lord! lay not +this sin to my charge.” +</p> + +<p> +But my lady was speaking to the old butler, for whom, at her sign, I had rung +the bell some little time before. Now she turned round. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Gray, I find I have some bottles of Malmsey, of the vintage of +seventeen hundred and seventy-eight, yet left. Malmsey, as perhaps you know, +used to be considered a specific for coughs arising from weakness. You must +permit me to send you half a dozen bottles, and, depend upon it, you will take +a more cheerful view of life and its duties before you have finished them, +especially if you will be so kind as to see Dr. Trevor, who is coming to see me +in the course of the week. By the time you are strong enough to work, I will +try and find some means of preventing the children from using such bad +language, and otherwise annoying you.” +</p> + +<p> +“My lady, it is the sin, and not the annoyance. I wish I could make you +understand.” He spoke with some impatience; Poor fellow! he was too weak, +exhausted, and nervous. “I am perfectly well; I can set to work +to-morrow; I will do anything not to be oppressed with the thought of how +little I am doing. I do not want your wine. Liberty to act in the manner I +think right, will do me far more good. But it is of no use. It is preordained +that I am to be nothing but a cumberer of the ground. I beg your +ladyship’s pardon for this call.” +</p> + +<p> +He stood up, and then turned dizzy. My lady looked on, deeply hurt, and not a +little offended, he held out his hand to her, and I could see that she had a +little hesitation before she took it. He then saw me, I almost think, for the +first time; and put out his hand once more, drew it back, as if undecided, put +it out again, and finally took hold of mine for an instant in his damp, +listless hand, and was gone. +</p> + +<p> +Lady Ludlow was dissatisfied with both him and herself, I was sure. Indeed, I +was dissatisfied with the result of the interview myself. But my lady was not +one to speak out her feelings on the subject; nor was I one to forget myself, +and begin on a topic which she did not begin. She came to me, and was very +tender with me; so tender, that that, and the thoughts of Mr. Gray’s +sick, hopeless, disappointed look, nearly made me cry. +</p> + +<p> +“You are tired, little one,” said my lady. “Go and lie down +in my room, and hear what Medlicott and I can decide upon in the way of +strengthening dainties for that poor young man, who is killing himself with his +over-sensitive conscientiousness.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, my lady!” said I, and then I stopped. +</p> + +<p> +“Well. What?” asked she. +</p> + +<p> +“If you would but let him have Farmer Hale’s barn at once, it would +do him more good than all.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pooh, pooh, child!” though I don’t think she was displeased, +“he is not fit for more work just now. I shall go and write for Dr. +Trevor.” +</p> + +<p> +And for the next half-hour, we did nothing but arrange physical comforts and +cures for poor Mr. Gray. At the end of the time, Mrs. Medlicott said— +</p> + +<p> +“Has your ladyship heard that Harry Gregson has fallen from a tree, and +broken his thigh-bone, and is like to be a cripple for life?” +</p> + +<p> +“Harry Gregson! That black-eyed lad who read my letter? It all comes from +over-education!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>CHAPTER XI.</h2> + +<p> +But I don’t see how my lady could think it was over-education that made +Harry Gregson break his thigh, for the manner in which he met with the accident +was this:— +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Horner, who had fallen sadly out of health since his wife’s death, +had attached himself greatly to Harry Gregson. Now, Mr. Horner had a cold +manner to every one, and never spoke more than was necessary, at the best of +times. And, latterly, it had not been the best of times with him. I dare say, +he had had some causes for anxiety (of which I knew nothing) about my +lady’s affairs; and he was evidently annoyed by my lady’s whim (as +he once inadvertently called it) of placing Miss Galindo under him in the +position of a clerk. Yet he had always been friends, in his quiet way, with +Miss Galindo, and she devoted herself to her new occupation with diligence and +punctuality, although more than once she had moaned to me over the orders for +needlework which had been sent to her, and which, owing to her occupation in +the service of Lady Ludlow, she had been unable to fulfil. +</p> + +<p> +The only living creature to whom the staid Mr. Horner could be said to be +attached, was Harry Gregson. To my lady he was a faithful and devoted servant, +looking keenly after her interests, and anxious to forward them at any cost of +trouble to himself. But the more shrewd Mr. Horner was, the more probability +was there of his being annoyed at certain peculiarities of opinion which my +lady held with a quiet, gentle pertinacity; against which no arguments, based +on mere worldly and business calculations, made any way. This frequent +opposition to views which Mr. Horner entertained, although it did not interfere +with the sincere respect which the lady and the steward felt for each other, +yet prevented any warmer feeling of affection from coming in. It seems strange +to say it, but I must repeat it—the only person for whom, since his +wife’s death, Mr. Horner seemed to feel any love, was the little imp +Harry Gregson, with his bright, watchful eyes, his tangled hair hanging right +down to his eyebrows, for all the world like a Skye terrier. This lad, half +gipsy and whole poacher, as many people esteemed him, hung about the silent, +respectable, staid Mr. Horner, and followed his steps with something of the +affectionate fidelity of the dog which he resembled. I suspect, this +demonstration of attachment to his person on Harry Gregson’s part was +what won Mr. Horner’s regard. In the first instance, the steward had only +chosen the lad out as the cleverest instrument he could find for his purpose; +and I don’t mean to say that, if Harry had not been almost as shrewd as +Mr. Horner himself was, both by original disposition and subsequent experience, +the steward would have taken to him as he did, let the lad have shown ever so +much affection for him. +</p> + +<p> +But even to Harry Mr. Horner was silent. Still, it was pleasant to find himself +in many ways so readily understood; to perceive that the crumbs of knowledge he +let fall were picked up by his little follower, and hoarded like gold that here +was one to hate the persons and things whom Mr. Horner coldly disliked, and to +reverence and admire all those for whom he had any regard. Mr. Horner had never +had a child, and unconsciously, I suppose, something of the paternal feeling +had begun to develop itself in him towards Harry Gregson. I heard one or two +things from different people, which have always made me fancy that Mr. Horner +secretly and almost unconsciously hoped that Harry Gregson might be trained so +as to be first his clerk, and next his assistant, and finally his successor in +his stewardship to the Hanbury estates. +</p> + +<p> +Harry’s disgrace with my lady, in consequence of his reading the letter, +was a deeper blow to Mr. Horner than his quiet manner would ever have led any +one to suppose, or than Lady Ludlow ever dreamed of inflicting, I am sure. +</p> + +<p> +Probably Harry had a short, stern rebuke from Mr. Horner at the time, for his +manner was always hard even to those he cared for the most. But Harry’s +love was not to be daunted or quelled by a few sharp words. I dare say, from +what I heard of them afterwards, that Harry accompanied Mr. Horner in his walk +over the farm the very day of the rebuke; his presence apparently unnoticed by +the agent, by whom his absence would have been painfully felt nevertheless. +That was the way of it, as I have been told. Mr. Horner never bade Harry go +with him; never thanked him for going, or being at his heels ready to run on +any errands, straight as the crow flies to his point, and back to heel in as +short a time as possible. Yet, if Harry were away, Mr. Horner never inquired +the reason from any of the men who might be supposed to know whether he was +detained by his father, or otherwise engaged; he never asked Harry himself +where he had been. But Miss Galindo said that those labourers who knew Mr. +Horner well, told her that he was always more quick-eyed to shortcomings, more +savage-like in fault-finding, on those days when the lad was absent. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Galindo, indeed, was my great authority for most of the village news which +I heard. She it was who gave me the particulars of poor Harry’s accident. +</p> + +<p> +“You see, my dear,” she said, “the little poacher has taken +some unaccountable fancy to my master.” (This was the name by which Miss +Galindo always spoke of Mr. Horner to me, ever since she had been, as she +called it, appointed his clerk.) +</p> + +<p> +“Now if I had twenty hearts to lose, I never could spare a bit of one of +them for that good, gray, square, severe man. But different people have +different tastes, and here is that little imp of a gipsy-tinker ready to turn +slave for my master; and, odd enough, my master,—who, I should have said +beforehand, would have made short work of imp, and imp’s family, and have +sent Hall, the Bang-beggar, after them in no time—my master, as they tell +me, is in his way quite fond of the lad, and if he could, without vexing my +lady too much, he would have made him what the folks here call a Latiner. +However, last night, it seems that there was a letter of some importance +forgotten (I can’t tell you what it was about, my dear, though I know +perfectly well, but ‘<i>service oblige</i>,’ as well as +‘noblesse,’ and you must take my word for it that it was important, +and one that I am surprised my master could forget), till too late for the +post. (The poor, good, orderly man is not what he was before his wife’s +death.) Well, it seems that he was sore annoyed by his forgetfulness, and well +he might be. And it was all the more vexatious, as he had no one to blame but +himself. As for that matter, I always scold somebody else when I’m in +fault; but I suppose my master would never think of doing that, else it’s +a mighty relief. However, he could eat no tea, and was altogether put out and +gloomy. And the little faithful imp-lad, perceiving all this, I suppose, got up +like a page in an old ballad, and said he would run for his life across country +to Comberford, and see if he could not get there before the bags were made up. +So my master gave him the letter, and nothing more was heard of the poor fellow +till this morning, for the father thought his son was sleeping in Mr. +Horner’s barn, as he does occasionally, it seems, and my master, as was +very natural, that he had gone to his father’s.” +</p> + +<p> +“And he had fallen down the old stone quarry, had he not?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sure enough. Mr. Gray had been up here fretting my lady with some +of his new-fangled schemes, and because the young man could not have it all his +own way, from what I understand, he was put out, and thought he would go home +by the back lane, instead of through the village, where the folks would notice +if the parson looked glum. But, however, it was a mercy, and I don’t mind +saying so, ay, and meaning it too, though it may be like methodism; for, as Mr. +Gray walked by the quarry, he heard a groan, and at first he thought it was a +lamb fallen down; and he stood still, and then he heard it again; and then I +suppose, he looked down and saw Harry. So he let himself down by the boughs of +the trees to the ledge where Harry lay half-dead, and with his poor thigh +broken. There he had lain ever since the night before: he had been returning to +tell the master that he had safely posted the letter, and the first words he +said, when they recovered him from the exhausted state he was in, were” +(Miss Galindo tried hard not to whimper, as she said it), “‘It was +in time, sir. I see’d it put in the bag with my own eyes.’” +</p> + +<p> +“But where is he?” asked I. “How did Mr. Gray get him +out?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay! there it is, you see. Why the old gentleman (I daren’t say +Devil in Lady Ludlow’s house) is not so black as he is painted; and Mr. +Gray must have a deal of good in him, as I say at times; and then at others, +when he has gone against me, I can’t bear him, and think hanging too good +for him. But he lifted the poor lad, as if he had been a baby, I suppose, and +carried him up the great ledges that were formerly used for steps; and laid him +soft and easy on the wayside grass, and ran home and got help and a door, and +had him carried to his house, and laid on his bed; and then somehow, for the +first time either he or any one else perceived it, he himself was all over +blood—his own blood—he had broken a blood-vessel; and there he lies +in the little dressing-room, as white and as still as if he were dead; and the +little imp in Mr. Gray’s own bed, sound asleep, now his leg is set, just +as if linen sheets and a feather bed were his native element, as one may say. +Really, now he is doing so well, I’ve no patience with him, lying there +where Mr. Gray ought to be. It is just what my lady always prophesied would +come to pass, if there was any confusion of ranks.” +</p> + +<p> +“Poor Mr. Gray!” said I, thinking of his flushed face, and his +feverish, restless ways, when he had been calling on my lady not an hour before +his exertions on Harry’s behalf. And I told Miss Galindo how ill I had +thought him. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said she. “And that was the reason my lady had sent +for Doctor Trevor. Well, it has fallen out admirably, for he looked well after +that old donkey of a Prince, and saw that he made no blunders.” +</p> + +<p> +Now “that old donkey of a Prince” meant the village surgeon, Mr. +Prince, between whom and Miss Galindo there was war to the knife, as they often +met in the cottages, when there was illness, and she had her queer, odd +recipes, which he, with his grand pharmacopoeia, held in infinite contempt, and +the consequence of their squabbling had been, not long before this very time, +that he had established a kind of rule, that into whatever sick-room Miss +Galindo was admitted, there he refused to visit. But Miss Galindo’s +prescriptions and visits cost nothing and were often backed by kitchen-physic; +so, though it was true that she never came but she scolded about something or +other, she was generally preferred as medical attendant to Mr. Prince. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, the old donkey is obliged to tolerate me, and be civil to me; for, +you see, I got there first, and had possession, as it were, and yet my lord the +donkey likes the credit of attending the parson, and being in consultation with +so grand a county-town doctor as Doctor Trevor. And Doctor Trevor is an old +friend of mine” (she sighed a little, some time I may tell you why), +“and treats me with infinite bowing and respect; so the donkey, not to be +out of medical fashion, bows too, though it is sadly against the grain; and he +pulled a face as if he had heard a slate-pencil gritting against a slate, when +I told Doctor Trevor I meant to sit up with the two lads, for I call Mr. Gray +little more than a lad, and a pretty conceited one, too, at times.” +</p> + +<p> +“But why should you sit up, Miss Galindo? It will tire you sadly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not it. You see, there is Gregson’s mother to keep quiet for she +sits by her lad, fretting and sobbing, so that I’m afraid of her +disturbing Mr. Gray; and there’s Mr. Gray to keep quiet, for Doctor +Trevor says his life depends on it; and there is medicine to be given to the +one, and bandages to be attended to for the other; and the wild horde of gipsy +brothers and sisters to be turned out, and the father to be held in from +showing too much gratitude to Mr. Gray, who can’t hear it,—and who +is to do it all but me? The only servant is old lame Betty, who once lived with +me, and <i>would</i> leave me because she said I was always +bothering—(there was a good deal of truth in what she said, I grant, but +she need not have said it; a good deal of truth is best let alone at the bottom +of the well), and what can she do,—deaf as ever she can be, too?” +</p> + +<p> +So Miss Galindo went her ways; but not the less was she at her post in the +morning; a little crosser and more silent than usual; but the first was not to +be wondered at, and the last was rather a blessing. +</p> + +<p> +Lady Ludlow had been extremely anxious both about Mr. Gray and Harry Gregson. +Kind and thoughtful in any case of illness and accident, she always was; but +somehow, in this, the feeling that she was not quite—what shall I call +it?—“friends” seems hardly the right word to use, as to the +possible feeling between the Countess Ludlow and the little vagabond messenger, +who had only once been in her presence,—that she had hardly parted from +either as she could have wished to do, had death been near, made her more than +usually anxious. Doctor Trevor was not to spare obtaining the best medical +advice the county could afford: whatever he ordered in the way of diet, was to +be prepared under Mrs. Medlicott’s own eye, and sent down from the Hall +to the Parsonage. As Mr. Horner had given somewhat similar directions, in the +case of Harry Gregson at least, there was rather a multiplicity of counsellors +and dainties, than any lack of them. And, the second night, Mr. Horner insisted +on taking the superintendence of the nursing himself, and sat and snored by +Harry’s bedside, while the poor, exhausted mother lay by her +child,—thinking that she watched him, but in reality fast asleep, as Miss +Galindo told us; for, distrusting any one’s powers of watching and +nursing but her own, she had stolen across the quiet village street in cloak +and dressing-gown, and found Mr. Gray in vain trying to reach the cup of +barley-water which Mr. Horner had placed just beyond his reach. +</p> + +<p> +In consequence of Mr. Gray’s illness, we had to have a strange curate to +do duty; a man who dropped his h’s, and hurried through the service, and +yet had time enough to stand in my Lady’s way, bowing to her as she came +out of church, and so subservient in manner, that I believe that sooner than +remain unnoticed by a countess, he would have preferred being scolded, or even +cuffed. Now I found out, that great as was my lady’s liking and approval +of respect, nay, even reverence, being paid to her as a person of +quality,—a sort of tribute to her Order, which she had no individual +right to remit, or, indeed, not to exact,—yet she, being personally +simple, sincere, and holding herself in low esteem, could not endure anything +like the servility of Mr. Crosse, the temporary curate. She grew absolutely to +loathe his perpetual smiling and bowing; his instant agreement with the +slightest opinion she uttered; his veering round as she blew the wind. I have +often said that my lady did not talk much, as she might have done had she lived +among her equals. But we all loved her so much, that we had learnt to interpret +all her little ways pretty truly; and I knew what particular turns of her head, +and contractions of her delicate fingers meant, as well as if she had expressed +herself in words. I began to suspect that my lady would be very thankful to +have Mr. Gray about again, and doing his duty even with a conscientiousness +that might amount to worrying himself, and fidgeting others; and although Mr. +Gray might hold her opinions in as little esteem as those of any simple +gentlewoman, she was too sensible not to feel how much flavour there was in his +conversation, compared to that of Mr. Crosse, who was only her tasteless echo. +</p> + +<p> +As for Miss Galindo, she was utterly and entirely a partisan of Mr. +Gray’s, almost ever since she had begun to nurse him during his illness. +</p> + +<p> +“You know, I never set up for reasonableness, my lady. So I don’t +pretend to say, as I might do if I were a sensible woman and all +that,—that I am convinced by Mr. Gray’s arguments of this thing or +t’other. For one thing, you see, poor fellow! he has never been able to +argue, or hardly indeed to speak, for Doctor Trevor has been very peremptory. +So there’s been no scope for arguing! But what I mean is this:—When +I see a sick man thinking always of others, and never of himself; patient, +humble—a trifle too much at times, for I’ve caught him praying to +be forgiven for having neglected his work as a parish priest,” (Miss +Galindo was making horrible faces, to keep back tears, squeezing up her eyes in +a way which would have amused me at any other time, but when she was speaking +of Mr. Gray); “when I see a downright good, religious man, I’m apt +to think he’s got hold of the right clue, and that I can do no better +than hold on by the tails of his coat and shut my eyes, if we’ve got to +go over doubtful places on our road to Heaven. So, my lady, you must excuse me +if, when he gets about again, he is all agog about a Sunday-school, for if he +is, I shall be agog too, and perhaps twice as bad as him, for, you see, +I’ve a strong constitution compared to his, and strong ways of speaking +and acting. And I tell your ladyship this now, because I think from your +rank—and still more, if I may say so, for all your kindness to me long +ago, down to this very day—you’ve a right to be first told of +anything about me. Change of opinion I can’t exactly call it, for I +don’t see the good of schools and teaching A B C, any more than I did +before, only Mr. Gray does, so I’m to shut my eyes, and leap over the +ditch to the side of education. I’ve told Sally already, that if she does +not mind her work, but stands gossiping with Nelly Mather, I’ll teach her +her lessons; and I’ve never caught her with old Nelly since.” +</p> + +<p> +I think Miss Galindo’s desertion to Mr. Gray’s opinions in this +matter hurt my lady just a little bit; but she only said— +</p> + +<p> +“Of course, if the parishoners wish for it, Mr. Gray must have his +Sunday-school. I shall, in that case, withdraw my opposition. I am sorry I +cannot alter my opinions as easily as you.” +</p> + +<p> +My lady made herself smile as she said this. Miss Galindo saw it was an effort +to do so. She thought a minute before she spoke again. +</p> + +<p> +“Your ladyship has not seen Mr. Gray as intimately as I have done. +That’s one thing. But, as for the parishioners, they will follow your +ladyship’s lead in everything; so there is no chance of their wishing for +a Sunday-school.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have never done anything to make them follow my lead, as you call it, +Miss Galindo,” said my lady, gravely. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, you have,” replied Miss Galindo, bluntly. And then, +correcting herself, she said, “Begging your ladyship’s pardon, you +have. Your ancestors have lived here time out of mind, and have owned the land +on which their forefathers have lived ever since there were forefathers. You +yourself were born amongst them, and have been like a little queen to them ever +since, I might say, and they’ve never known your ladyship do anything but +what was kind and gentle; but I’ll leave fine speeches about your +ladyship to Mr. Crosse. Only you, my lady, lead the thoughts of the parish; and +save some of them a world of trouble, for they could never tell what was right +if they had to think for themselves. It’s all quite right that they +should be guided by you, my lady,—if only you would agree with Mr. +Gray.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said my lady, “I told him only the last day that he +was here, that I would think about it. I do believe I could make up my mind on +certain subjects better if I were left alone, than while being constantly +talked to about them.” +</p> + +<p> +My lady said this in her usual soft tones; but the words had a tinge of +impatience about them; indeed, she was more ruffled than I had often seen her; +but, checking herself in an instant she said— +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t know how Mr. Horner drags in this subject of education +apropos of everything. Not that he says much about it at any time: it is not +his way. But he cannot let the thing alone.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know why, my lady,” said Miss Galindo. “That poor lad, +Harry Gregson, will never be able to earn his livelihood in any active way, but +will be lame for life. Now, Mr. Horner thinks more of Harry than of any one +else in the world,—except, perhaps, your ladyship.” Was it not a +pretty companionship for my lady? “And he has schemes of his own for +teaching Harry; and if Mr. Gray could but have his school, Mr. Horner and he +think Harry might be schoolmaster, as your ladyship would not like to have him +coming to you as steward’s clerk. I wish your ladyship would fall into +this plan; Mr. Gray has it so at heart.” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Galindo looked wistfully at my lady, as she said this. But my lady only +said, drily, and rising at the same time, as if to end the conversation— +</p> + +<p> +“So Mr. Horner and Mr. Gray seem to have gone a long way in advance of my +consent to their plans.” +</p> + +<p> +“There!” exclaimed Miss Galindo, as my lady left the room, with an +apology for going away; “I have gone and done mischief with my long, +stupid tongue. To be sure, people plan a long way ahead of to-day; more +especially when one is a sick man, lying all through the weary day on a +sofa.” +</p> + +<p> +“My lady will soon get over her annoyance,” said I, as it were +apologetically. I only stopped Miss Galindo’s self-reproaches to draw +down her wrath upon myself. +</p> + +<p> +“And has not she a right to be annoyed with me, if she likes, and to keep +annoyed as long as she likes? Am I complaining of her, that you need tell me +that? Let me tell you, I have known my lady these thirty years; and if she were +to take me by the shoulders, and turn me out of the house, I should only love +her the more. So don’t you think to come between us with any little +mincing, peace-making speeches. I have been a mischief-making parrot, and I +like her the better for being vexed with me. So good-bye to you, Miss; and wait +till you know Lady Ludlow as well as I do, before you next think of telling me +she will soon get over her annoyance!” And off Miss Galindo went. +</p> + +<p> +I could not exactly tell what I had done wrong; but I took care never again to +come in between my lady and her by any remark about the one to the other; for I +saw that some most powerful bond of grateful affection made Miss Galindo almost +worship my lady. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, Harry Gregson was limping a little about in the village, still +finding his home in Mr. Gray’s house; for there he could most +conveniently be kept under the doctor’s eye, and receive the requisite +care, and enjoy the requisite nourishment. As soon as he was a little better, +he was to go to Mr. Horner’s house; but, as the steward lived some +distance out of the way, and was much from home, he had agreed to leave Harry +at the house; to which he had first been taken, until he was quite strong +again; and the more willingly, I suspect, from what I heard afterwards, because +Mr. Gray gave up all the little strength of speaking which he had, to teaching +Harry in the very manner which Mr. Horner most desired. +</p> + +<p> +As for Gregson the father—he—wild man of the woods, poacher, +tinker, jack-of-all trades—was getting tamed by this kindness to his +child. Hitherto his hand had been against every man, as every man’s had +been against him. That affair before the justice, which I told you about, when +Mr. Gray and even my lady had interested themselves to get him released from +unjust imprisonment, was the first bit of justice he had ever met with; it +attracted him to the people, and attached him to the spot on which he had but +squatted for a time. I am not sure if any of the villagers were grateful to him +for remaining in their neighbourhood, instead of decamping as he had often done +before, for good reasons, doubtless, of personal safety. Harry was only one out +of a brood of ten or twelve children, some of whom had earned for themselves no +good character in service: one, indeed, had been actually transported, for a +robbery committed in a distant part of the county; and the tale was yet told in +the village of how Gregson the father came back from the trial in a state of +wild rage, striding through the place, and uttering oaths of vengeance to +himself, his great black eyes gleaming out of his matted hair, and his arms +working by his side, and now and then tossed up in his impotent despair. As I +heard the account, his wife followed him, child-laden and weeping. After this, +they had vanished from the country for a time, leaving their mud hovel locked +up, and the door-key, as the neighbours said, buried in a hedge bank. The +Gregsons had reappeared much about the same time that Mr. Gray came to Hanbury. +He had either never heard of their evil character, or considered that it gave +them all the more claims upon his Christian care; and the end of it was, that +this rough, untamed, strong giant of a heathen was loyal slave to the weak, +hectic, nervous, self-distrustful parson. Gregson had also a kind of grumbling +respect for Mr. Horner: he did not quite like the steward’s monopoly of +his Harry: the mother submitted to that with a better grace, swallowing down +her maternal jealousy in the prospect of her child’s advancement to a +better and more respectable position than that in which his parents had +struggled through life. But Mr. Horner, the steward, and Gregson, the poacher +and squatter, had come into disagreeable contact too often in former days for +them to be perfectly cordial at any future time. Even now, when there was no +immediate cause for anything but gratitude for his child’s sake on +Gregson’s part, he would skulk out of Mr. Horner’s way, if he saw +him coming; and it took all Mr. Horner’s natural reserve and acquired +self-restraint to keep him from occasionally holding up his father’s life +as a warning to Harry. Now Gregson had nothing of this desire for avoidance +with regard to Mr. Gray. The poacher had a feeling of physical protection +towards the parson; while the latter had shown the moral courage, without which +Gregson would never have respected him, in coming right down upon him more than +once in the exercise of unlawful pursuits, and simply and boldly telling him he +was doing wrong, with such a quiet reliance upon Gregson’s better +feeling, at the same time, that the strong poacher could not have lifted a +finger against Mr. Gray, though it had been to save himself from being +apprehended and taken to the lock-ups the very next hour. He had rather +listened to the parson’s bold words with an approving smile, much as Mr. +Gulliver might have hearkened to a lecture from a Lilliputian. But when brave +words passed into kind deeds, Gregson’s heart mutely acknowledged its +master and keeper. And the beauty of it all was, that Mr. Gray knew nothing of +the good work he had done, or recognized himself as the instrument which God +had employed. He thanked God, it is true, fervently and often, that the work +was done; and loved the wild man for his rough gratitude; but it never occurred +to the poor young clergyman, lying on his sick-bed, and praying, as Miss +Galindo had told us he did, to be forgiven for his unprofitable life, to think +of Gregson’s reclaimed soul as anything with which he had had to do. It +was now more than three months since Mr. Gray had been at Hanbury Court. During +all that time he had been confined to his house, if not to his sick-bed, and he +and my lady had never met since their last discussion and difference about +Farmer Hale’s barn. +</p> + +<p> +This was not my dear lady’s fault; no one could have been more attentive +in every way to the slightest possible want of either of the invalids, +especially of Mr. Gray. And she would have gone to see him at his own house, as +she sent him word, but that her foot had slipped upon the polished oak +staircase, and her ankle had been sprained. +</p> + +<p> +So we had never seen Mr. Gray since his illness, when one November day he was +announced as wishing to speak to my lady. She was sitting in her room—the +room in which I lay now pretty constantly—and I remember she looked +startled, when word was brought to her of Mr. Gray’s being at the Hall. +</p> + +<p> +She could not go to him, she was too lame for that, so she bade him be shown +into where she sat. +</p> + +<p> +“Such a day for him to go out!” she exclaimed, looking at the fog +which had crept up to the windows, and was sapping the little remaining life in +the brilliant Virginian creeper leaves that draperied the house on the terrace +side. +</p> + +<p> +He came in white, trembling, his large eyes wild and dilated. He hastened up to +Lady Ludlow’s chair, and, to my surprise, took one of her hands and +kissed it, without speaking, yet shaking all over. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Gray!” said she, quickly, with sharp, tremulous apprehension +of some unknown evil. “What is it? There is something unusual about +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Something unusual has occurred,” replied he, forcing his words to +be calm, as with a great effort. “A gentleman came to my house, not half +an hour ago—a Mr. Howard. He came straight from Vienna.” +</p> + +<p> +“My son!” said my dear lady, stretching out her arms in dumb +questioning attitude. +</p> + +<p> +“The Lord gave and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the +Lord.” +</p> + +<p> +But my poor lady could not echo the words. He was the last remaining child. And +once she had been the joyful mother of nine. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>CHAPTER XII.</h2> + +<p> +I am ashamed to say what feeling became strongest in my mind about this time; +next to the sympathy we all of us felt for my dear lady in her deep sorrow, I +mean; for that was greater and stronger than anything else, however +contradictory you may think it, when you hear all. +</p> + +<p> +It might arise from my being so far from well at the time, which produced a +diseased mind in a diseased body; but I was absolutely jealous for my +father’s memory, when I saw how many signs of grief there were for my +lord’s death, he having done next to nothing for the village and parish, +which now changed, as it were, its daily course of life, because his lordship +died in a far-off city. My father had spent the best years of his manhood in +labouring hard, body and soul, for the people amongst whom he lived. His +family, of course, claimed the first place in his heart; he would have been +good for little, even in the way of benevolence, if they had not. But close +after them he cared for his parishioners, and neighbours. And yet, when he +died, though the church bells tolled, and smote upon our hearts with hard, +fresh pain at every beat, the sounds of every-day life still went on, close +pressing around us,—carts and carriages, street-cries, distant +barrel-organs (the kindly neighbours kept them out of our street): life, +active, noisy life, pressed on our acute consciousness of Death, and jarred +upon it as on a quick nerve. +</p> + +<p> +And when we went to church,—my father’s own church,—though +the pulpit cushions were black, and many of the congregation had put on some +humble sign of mourning, yet it did not alter the whole material aspect of the +place. And yet what was Lord Ludlow’s relation to Hanbury, compared to my +father’s work and place in—? +</p> + +<p> +O! it was very wicked in me! I think if I had seen my lady,—if I had +dared to ask to go to her, I should not have felt so miserable, so +discontented. But she sat in her own room, hung with black, all, even over the +shutters. She saw no light but that which was artificial—candles, lamps, +and the like—for more than a month. Only Adams went near her. Mr. Gray +was not admitted, though he called daily. Even Mrs. Medlicott did not see her +for near a fortnight. The sight of my lady’s griefs, or rather the +recollection of it, made Mrs. Medlicott talk far more than was her wont. She +told us, with many tears, and much gesticulation, even speaking German at +times, when her English would not flow, that my lady sat there, a white figure +in the middle of the darkened room; a shaded lamp near her, the light of which +fell on an open Bible,—the great family Bible. It was not open at any +chapter or consoling verse; but at the page whereon were registered the births +of her nine children. Five had died in infancy,—sacrificed to the cruel +system which forbade the mother to suckle her babies. Four had lived longer; +Urian had been the first to die, Ughtred-Mortimar, Earl Ludlow, the last. +</p> + +<p> +My lady did not cry, Mrs. Medlicott said. She was quite composed; very still, +very silent. She put aside everything that savoured of mere business: sent +people to Mr. Horner for that. But she was proudly alive to every possible form +which might do honour to the last of her race. +</p> + +<p> +In those days, expresses were slow things, and forms still slower. Before my +lady’s directions could reach Vienna, my lord was buried. There was some +talk (so Mrs. Medlicott said) about taking the body up, and bringing him to +Hanbury. But his executors,—connections on the Ludlow +side,—demurred to this. If he were removed to England, he must be carried +on to Scotland, and interred with his Monkshaven forefathers. My lady, deeply +hurt, withdrew from the discussion, before it degenerated to an unseemly +contest. But all the more, for this understood mortification of my +lady’s, did the whole village and estate of Hanbury assume every outward +sign of mourning. The church bells tolled morning and evening. The church +itself was draped in black inside. Hatchments were placed everywhere, where +hatchments could be put. All the tenantry spoke in hushed voices for more than +a week, scarcely daring to observe that all flesh, even that of an Earl Ludlow, +and the last of the Hanburys, was but grass after all. The very Fighting Lion +closed its front door, front shutters it had none, and those who needed drink +stole in at the back, and were silent and maudlin over their cups, instead of +riotous and noisy. Miss Galindo’s eyes were swollen up with crying, and +she told me, with a fresh burst of tears, that even hump-backed Sally had been +found sobbing over her Bible, and using a pocket-handkerchief for the first +time in her life; her aprons having hitherto stood her in the necessary stead, +but not being sufficiently in accordance with etiquette to be used when +mourning over an earl’s premature decease. +</p> + +<p> +If it was this way out of the Hall, “you might work it by the rule of +three,” as Miss Galindo used to say, and judge what it was in the Hall. +We none of us spoke but in a whisper: we tried not to eat; and indeed the shock +had been so really great, and we did really care so much for my lady, that for +some days we had but little appetite. But after that, I fear our sympathy grew +weaker, while our flesh grew stronger. But we still spoke low, and our hearts +ached whenever we thought of my lady sitting there alone in the darkened room, +with the light ever falling on that one solemn page. +</p> + +<p> +We wished, O how I wished that she would see Mr. Gray! But Adams said, she +thought my lady ought to have a bishop come to see her. Still no one had +authority enough to send for one. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Horner all this time was suffering as much as any one. He was too faithful +a servant of the great Hanbury family, though now the family had dwindled down +to a fragile old lady, not to mourn acutely over its probable extinction. He +had, besides, a deeper sympathy and reverence with, and for, my lady, in all +things, than probably he ever cared to show, for his manners were always +measured and cold. He suffered from sorrow. He also suffered from wrong. My +lord’s executors kept writing to him continually. My lady refused to +listen to mere business, saying she intrusted all to him. But the +“all” was more complicated than I ever thoroughly understood. As +far as I comprehended the case, it was something of this kind:—There had +been a mortgage raised on my lady’s property of Hanbury, to enable my +lord, her husband, to spend money in cultivating his Scotch estates, after some +new fashion that required capital. As long as my lord, her son, lived, who was +to succeed to both the estates after her death, this did not signify; so she +had said and felt; and she had refused to take any steps to secure the +repayment of capital, or even the payment of the interest of the mortgage from +the possible representatives and possessors of the Scotch estates, to the +possible owner of the Hanbury property; saying it ill became her to calculate +on the contingency of her son’s death. +</p> + +<p> +But he had died childless, unmarried. The heir of the Monkshaven property was +an Edinburgh advocate, a far-away kinsman of my lord’s: the Hanbury +property, at my lady’s death, would go to the descendants of a third son +of the Squire Hanbury in the days of Queen Anne. +</p> + +<p> +This complication of affairs was most grievous to Mr. Horner. He had always +been opposed to the mortgage; had hated the payment of the interest, as +obliging my lady to practise certain economies which, though she took care to +make them as personal as possible, he disliked as derogatory to the family. +Poor Mr. Horner! He was so cold and hard in his manner, so curt and decisive in +his speech, that I don’t think we any of us did him justice. Miss Galindo +was almost the first, at this time, to speak a kind word of him, or to take +thought of him at all, any farther than to get out of his way when we saw him +approaching. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think Mr. Horner is well,” she said one day; about +three weeks after we had heard of my lord’s death. “He sits resting +his head on his hand, and hardly hears me when I speak to him.” +</p> + +<p> +But I thought no more of it, as Miss Galindo did not name it again. My lady +came amongst us once more. From elderly she had become old; a little, frail, +old lady, in heavy black drapery, never speaking about nor alluding to her +great sorrow; quieter, gentler, paler than ever before; and her eyes dim with +much weeping, never witnessed by mortal. +</p> + +<p> +She had seen Mr. Gray at the expiration of the month of deep retirement. But I +do not think that even to him she had said one word of her own particular +individual sorrow. All mention of it seemed buried deep for evermore. One day, +Mr. Horner sent word that he was too much indisposed to attend to his usual +business at the Hall; but he wrote down some directions and requests to Miss +Galindo, saying that he would be at his office early the next morning. The next +morning he was dead. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Galindo told my lady. Miss Galindo herself cried plentifully, but my lady, +although very much distressed, could not cry. It seemed a physical +impossibility, as if she had shed all the tears in her power. Moreover, I +almost think her wonder was far greater that she herself lived than that Mr. +Horner died. It was almost natural that so faithful a servant should break his +heart, when the family he belonged to lost their stay, their heir, and their +last hope. +</p> + +<p> +Yes! Mr. Horner was a faithful servant. I do not think there are many so +faithful now; but perhaps that is an old woman’s fancy of mine. When his +will came to be examined, it was discovered that, soon after Harry +Gregson’s accident, Mr. Horner had left the few thousands (three, I +think,) of which he was possessed, in trust for Harry’s benefit, desiring +his executors to see that the lad was well educated in certain things, for +which Mr. Horner had thought that he had shown especial aptitude; and there was +a kind of implied apology to my lady in one sentence where he stated that +Harry’s lameness would prevent his being ever able to gain his living by +the exercise of any mere bodily faculties, “as had been wished by a lady +whose wishes” he, the testator, “was bound to regard.” +</p> + +<p> +But there was a codicil in the will, dated since Lord Ludlow’s +death—feebly written by Mr. Horner himself, as if in preparation only for +some more formal manner of bequest: or, perhaps, only as a mere temporary +arrangement till he could see a lawyer, and have a fresh will made. In this he +revoked his previous bequest to Harry Gregson. He only left two hundred pounds +to Mr. Gray to be used, as that gentleman thought best, for Henry +Gregson’s benefit. With this one exception, he bequeathed all the rest of +his savings to my lady, with a hope that they might form a nest-egg, as it +were, towards the paying off of the mortgage which had been such a grief to him +during his life. I may not repeat all this in lawyer’s phrase; I heard it +through Miss Galindo, and she might make mistakes. Though, indeed, she was very +clear-headed, and soon earned the respect of Mr. Smithson, my lady’s +lawyer from Warwick. Mr. Smithson knew Miss Galindo a little before, both +personally and by reputation; but I don’t think he was prepared to find +her installed as steward’s clerk, and, at first, he was inclined to treat +her, in this capacity, with polite contempt. But Miss Galindo was both a lady +and a spirited, sensible woman, and she could put aside her self-indulgence in +eccentricity of speech and manner whenever she chose. Nay more; she was usually +so talkative, that if she had not been amusing and warm-hearted, one might have +thought her wearisome occasionally. But to meet Mr. Smithson she came out daily +in her Sunday gown; she said no more than was required in answer to his +questions; her books and papers were in thorough order, and methodically kept; +her statements of matters-of-fact accurate, and to be relied on. She was +amusingly conscious of her victory over his contempt of a woman-clerk and his +preconceived opinion of her unpractical eccentricity. +</p> + +<p> +“Let me alone,” said she, one day when she came in to sit awhile +with me. “That man is a good man—a sensible man—and I have no +doubt he is a good lawyer; but he can’t fathom women yet. I make no doubt +he’ll go back to Warwick, and never give credit again to those people who +made him think me half-cracked to begin with. O, my dear, he did! He showed it +twenty times worse than my poor dear master ever did. It was a form to be gone +through to please my lady, and, for her sake, he would hear my statements and +see my books. It was keeping a woman out of harm’s way, at any rate, to +let her fancy herself useful. I read the man. And, I am thankful to say, he +cannot read me. At least, only one side of me. When I see an end to be gained, +I can behave myself accordingly. Here was a man who thought that a woman in a +black silk gown was a respectable, orderly kind of person; and I was a woman in +a black silk gown. He believed that a woman could not write straight lines, and +required a man to tell her that two and two made four. I was not above ruling +my books, and had Cocker a little more at my fingers’ ends than he had. +But my greatest triumph has been holding my tongue. He would have thought +nothing of my books, or my sums, or my black silk gown, if I had spoken +unasked. So I have buried more sense in my bosom these ten days than ever I +have uttered in the whole course of my life before. I have been so curt, so +abrupt, so abominably dull, that I’ll answer for it he thinks me worthy +to be a man. But I must go back to him, my dear, so good-bye to conversation +and you.” +</p> + +<p> +But though Mr. Smithson might be satisfied with Miss Galindo, I am afraid she +was the only part of the affair with which he was content. Everything else went +wrong. I could not say who told me so—but the conviction of this seemed +to pervade the house. I never knew how much we had all looked up to the silent, +gruff Mr. Horner for decisions, until he was gone. My lady herself was a pretty +good woman of business, as women of business go. Her father, seeing that she +would be the heiress of the Hanbury property, had given her a training which +was thought unusual in those days, and she liked to feel herself queen regnant, +and to have to decide in all cases between herself and her tenantry. But, +perhaps, Mr. Horner would have done it more wisely; not but what she always +attended to him at last. She would begin by saying, pretty clearly and +promptly, what she would have done, and what she would not have done. If Mr. +Horner approved of it, he bowed, and set about obeying her directly; if he +disapproved of it, he bowed, and lingered so long before he obeyed her, that +she forced his opinion out of him with her “Well, Mr. Horner! and what +have you to say against it?” For she always understood his silence as +well as if he had spoken. But the estate was pressed for ready money, and Mr. +Horner had grown gloomy and languid since the death of his wife, and even his +own personal affairs were not in the order in which they had been a year or two +before, for his old clerk had gradually become superannuated, or, at any rate, +unable by the superfluity of his own energy and wit to supply the spirit that +was wanting in Mr. Horner. +</p> + +<p> +Day after day Mr. Smithson seemed to grow more fidgety, more annoyed at the +state of affairs. Like every one else employed by Lady Ludlow, as far as I +could learn, he had an hereditary tie to the Hanbury family. As long as the +Smithsons had been lawyers, they had been lawyers to the Hanburys; always +coming in on all great family occasions, and better able to understand the +characters, and connect the links of what had once been a large and scattered +family, than any individual thereof had ever been. +</p> + +<p> +As long as a man was at the head of the Hanburys, the lawyers had simply acted +as servants, and had only given their advice when it was required. But they had +assumed a different position on the memorable occasion of the mortgage: they +had remonstrated against it. My lady had resented this remonstrance, and a +slight, unspoken coolness had existed between her and the father of this Mr. +Smithson ever since. +</p> + +<p> +I was very sorry for my lady. Mr. Smithson was inclined to blame Mr. Horner for +the disorderly state in which he found some of the outlying farms, and for the +deficiencies in the annual payment of rents. Mr. Smithson had too much good +feeling to put this blame into words; but my lady’s quick instinct led +her to reply to a thought, the existence of which she perceived; and she +quietly told the truth, and explained how she had interfered repeatedly to +prevent Mr. Horner from taking certain desirable steps, which were discordant +to her hereditary sense of right and wrong between landlord and tenant. She +also spoke of the want of ready money as a misfortune that could be remedied, +by more economical personal expenditure on her own part; by which individual +saving, it was possible that a reduction of fifty pounds a year might have been +accomplished. But as soon as Mr. Smithson touched on larger economies, such as +either affected the welfare of others, or the honour and standing of the great +House of Hanbury, she was inflexible. Her establishment consisted of somewhere +about forty servants, of whom nearly as many as twenty were unable to perform +their work properly, and yet would have been hurt if they had been dismissed; +so they had the credit of fulfilling duties, while my lady paid and kept their +substitutes. Mr. Smithson made a calculation, and would have saved some +hundreds a year by pensioning off these old servants. But my lady would not +hear of it. Then, again, I know privately that he urged her to allow some of us +to return to our homes. Bitterly we should have regretted the separation from +Lady Ludlow; but we would have gone back gladly, had we known at the time that +her circumstances required it: but she would not listen to the proposal for a +moment. +</p> + +<p> +“If I cannot act justly towards every one, I will give up a plan which +has been a source of much satisfaction; at least, I will not carry it out to +such an extent in future. But to these young ladies, who do me the favour to +live with me at present, I stand pledged. I cannot go back from my word, Mr. +Smithson. We had better talk no more of this.” +</p> + +<p> +As she spoke, she entered the room where I lay. She and Mr. Smithson were +coming for some papers contained in the bureau. They did not know I was there, +and Mr. Smithson started a little when he saw me, as he must have been aware +that I had overheard something. But my lady did not change a muscle of her +face. All the world might overhear her kind, just, pure sayings, and she had no +fear of their misconstruction. She came up to me, and kissed me on the +forehead, and then went to search for the required papers. +</p> + +<p> +“I rode over the Connington farms yesterday, my lady. I must say I was +quite grieved to see the condition they are in; all the land that is not waste +is utterly exhausted with working successive white crops. Not a pinch of manure +laid on the ground for years. I must say that a greater contrast could never +have been presented than that between Harding’s farm and the next +fields—fences in perfect order, rotation crops, sheep eating down the +turnips on the waste lands—everything that could be desired.” +</p> + +<p> +“Whose farm is that?” asked my lady. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, I am sorry to say, it was on none of your ladyship’s that I +saw such good methods adopted. I hoped it was, I stopped my horse to inquire. A +queer-looking man, sitting on his horse like a tailor, watching his men with a +couple of the sharpest eyes I ever saw, and dropping his h’s at every +word, answered my question, and told me it was his. I could not go on asking +him who he was; but I fell into conversation with him, and I gathered that he +had earned some money in trade in Birmingham, and had bought the estate (five +hundred acres, I think he said,) on which he was born, and now was setting +himself to cultivate it in downright earnest, going to Holkham and Woburn, and +half the country over, to get himself up on the subject.” +</p> + +<p> +“It would be Brooke, that dissenting baker from Birmingham,” said +my lady in her most icy tone. “Mr. Smithson, I am sorry I have been +detaining you so long, but I think these are the letters you wished to +see.” +</p> + +<p> +If her ladyship thought by this speech to quench Mr. Smithson she was mistaken. +Mr. Smithson just looked at the letters, and went on with the old subject. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, my lady, it struck me that if you had such a man to take poor +Horner’s place, he would work the rents and the land round most +satisfactorily. I should not despair of inducing this very man to undertake the +work. I should not mind speaking to him myself on the subject, for we got +capital friends over a snack of luncheon that he asked me to share with +him.” +</p> + +<p> +Lady Ludlow fixed her eyes on Mr. Smithson as he spoke, and never took them off +his face until he had ended. She was silent a minute before she answered. +</p> + +<p> +“You are very good, Mr. Smithson, but I need not trouble you with any +such arrangements. I am going to write this afternoon to Captain James, a +friend of one of my sons, who has, I hear, been severely wounded at Trafalgar, +to request him to honour me by accepting Mr. Horner’s situation.” +</p> + +<p> +“A Captain James! A captain in the navy! going to manage your +ladyship’s estate!” +</p> + +<p> +“If he will be so kind. I shall esteem it a condescension on his part; +but I hear that he will have to resign his profession, his state of health is +so bad, and a country life is especially prescribed for him. I am in some hopes +of tempting him here, as I learn he has but little to depend on if he gives up +his profession.” +</p> + +<p> +“A Captain James! an invalid captain!” +</p> + +<p> +“You think I am asking too great a favour,” continued my lady. (I +never could tell how far it was simplicity, or how far a kind of innocent +malice, that made her misinterpret Mr. Smithson’s words and looks as she +did.) “But he is not a post-captain, only a commander, and his pension +will be but small. I may be able, by offering him country air and a healthy +occupation, to restore him to health.” +</p> + +<p> +“Occupation! My lady, may I ask how a sailor is to manage land? Why, your +tenants will laugh him to scorn.” +</p> + +<p> +“My tenants, I trust, will not behave so ill as to laugh at any one I +choose to set over them. Captain James has had experience in managing men. He +has remarkable practical talents, and great common-sense, as I hear from every +one. But, whatever he may be, the affair rests between him and myself. I can +only say I shall esteem myself fortunate if he comes.” +</p> + +<p> +There was no more to be said, after my lady spoke in this manner. I had heard +her mention Captain James before, as a middy who had been very kind to her son +Urian. I thought I remembered then, that she had mentioned that his family +circumstances were not very prosperous. But, I confess, that little as I knew +of the management of land, I quite sided with Mr. Smithson. He, silently +prohibited from again speaking to my lady on the subject, opened his mind to +Miss Galindo, from whom I was pretty sure to hear all the opinions and news of +the household and village. She had taken a great fancy to me, because she said +I talked so agreeably. I believe it was because I listened so well. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, have you heard the news,” she began, “about this +Captain James? A sailor,—with a wooden leg, I have no doubt. What would +the poor, dear, deceased master have said to it, if he had known who was to be +his successor! My dear, I have often thought of the postman’s bringing me +a letter as one of the pleasures I shall miss in heaven. But, really, I think +Mr. Horner may be thankful he has got out of the reach of news; or else he +would hear of Mr. Smithson’s having made up to the Birmingham baker, and +of his one-legged captain, coming to dot-and-go-one over the estate. I suppose +he will look after the labourers through a spy-glass. I only hope he +won’t stick in the mud with his wooden leg; for I, for one, won’t +help him out. Yes, I would,” said she, correcting herself; “I +would, for my lady’s sake.” +</p> + +<p> +“But are you sure he has a wooden leg?” asked I. “I heard +Lady Ludlow tell Mr. Smithson about him, and she only spoke of him as +wounded.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sailors are almost always wounded in the leg. Look at Greenwich +Hospital! I should say there were twenty one-legged pensioners to one without +an arm there. But say he has got half a dozen legs: what has he to do with +managing land? I shall think him very impudent if he comes, taking advantage of +my lady’s kind heart.” +</p> + +<p> +However, come he did. In a month from that time, the carriage was sent to meet +Captain James; just as three years before it had been sent to meet me. His +coming had been so much talked about that we were all as curious as possible to +see him, and to know how so unusual an experiment, as it seemed to us, would +answer. But, before I tell you anything about our new agent, I must speak of +something quite as interesting, and I really think quite as important. And this +was my lady’s making friends with Harry Gregson. I do believe she did it +for Mr. Horner’s sake; but, of course, I can only conjecture why my lady +did anything. But I heard one day, from Mary Legard, that my lady had sent for +Harry to come and see her, if he was well enough to walk so far; and the next +day he was shown into the room he had been in once before under such unlucky +circumstances. +</p> + +<p> +The lad looked pale enough, as he stood propping himself up on his crutch, and +the instant my lady saw him, she bade John Footman place a stool for him to sit +down upon while she spoke to him. It might be his paleness that gave his whole +face a more refined and gentle look; but I suspect it was that the boy was apt +to take impressions, and that Mr. Horner’s grave, dignified ways, and Mr. +Gray’s tender and quiet manners, had altered him; and then the thoughts +of illness and death seem to turn many of us into gentlemen, and gentlewomen, +as long as such thoughts are in our minds. We cannot speak loudly or angrily at +such times; we are not apt to be eager about mere worldly things, for our very +awe at our quickened sense of the nearness of the invisible world, makes us +calm and serene about the petty trifles of to-day. At least, I know that was +the explanation Mr. Gray once gave me of what we all thought the great +improvement in Harry Gregson’s way of behaving. +</p> + +<p> +My lady hesitated so long about what she had best say, that Harry grew a little +frightened at her silence. A few months ago it would have surprised me more +than it did now; but since my lord her son’s death, she had seemed +altered in many ways,—more uncertain and distrustful of herself, as it +were. +</p> + +<p> +At last she said, and I think the tears were in her eyes: “My poor little +fellow, you have had a narrow escape with your life since I saw you +last.” +</p> + +<p> +To this there was nothing to be said but “Yes;” and again there was +silence. +</p> + +<p> +“And you have lost a good, kind friend, in Mr. Horner.” +</p> + +<p> +The boy’s lips worked, and I think he said, “Please, +don’t.” But I can’t be sure; at any rate, my lady went on: +</p> + +<p> +“And so have I,—a good, kind friend, he was to both of us; and to +you he wished to show his kindness in even a more generous way than he has +done. Mr. Gray has told you about his legacy to you, has he not?” +</p> + +<p> +There was no sign of eager joy on the lad’s face, as if he realised the +power and pleasure of having what to him must have seemed like a fortune. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Gray said as how he had left me a matter of money.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, he has left you two hundred pounds.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I would rather have had him alive, my lady,” he burst out, +sobbing as if his heart would break. +</p> + +<p> +“My lad, I believe you. We would rather have had our dead alive, would we +not? and there is nothing in money that can comfort us for their loss. But you +know—Mr. Gray has told you—who has appointed all our times to die. +Mr. Horner was a good, just man; and has done well and kindly, both by me and +you. You perhaps do not know” (and now I understood what my lady had been +making up her mind to say to Harry, all the time she was hesitating how to +begin) “that Mr. Horner, at one time, meant to leave you a great deal +more; probably all he had, with the exception of a legacy to his old clerk, +Morrison. But he knew that this estate—on which my forefathers had lived +for six hundred years—was in debt, and that I had no immediate chance of +paying off this debt; and yet he felt that it was a very sad thing for an old +property like this to belong in part to those other men, who had lent the +money. You understand me, I think, my little man?” said she, questioning +Harry’s face. +</p> + +<p> +He had left off crying, and was trying to understand, with all his might and +main; and I think he had got a pretty good general idea of the state of +affairs; though probably he was puzzled by the term “the estate being in +debt.” But he was sufficiently interested to want my lady to go on; and +he nodded his head at her, to signify this to her. +</p> + +<p> +“So Mr. Horner took the money which he once meant to be yours, and has +left the greater part of it to me, with the intention of helping me to pay off +this debt I have told you about. It will go a long way, and I shall try hard to +save the rest, and then I shall die happy in leaving the land free from +debt.” She paused. “But I shall not die happy in thinking of you. I +do not know if having money, or even having a great estate and much honour, is +a good thing for any of us. But God sees fit that some of us should be called +to this condition, and it is our duty then to stand by our posts, like brave +soldiers. Now, Mr. Horner intended you to have this money first. I shall only +call it borrowing from you, Harry Gregson, if I take it and use it to pay off +the debt. I shall pay Mr. Gray interest on this money, because he is to stand +as your guardian, as it were, till you come of age; and he must fix what ought +to be done with it, so as to fit you for spending the principal rightly when +the estate can repay it you. I suppose, now, it will be right for you to be +educated. That will be another snare that will come with your money. But have +courage, Harry. Both education and money may be used rightly, if we only pray +against the temptations they bring with them.” +</p> + +<p> +Harry could make no answer, though I am sure he understood it all. My lady +wanted to get him to talk to her a little, by way of becoming acquainted with +what was passing in his mind; and she asked him what he would like to have done +with his money, if he could have part of it now? To such a simple question, +involving no talk about feelings, his answer came readily enough. +</p> + +<p> +“Build a cottage for father, with stairs in it, and give Mr. Gray a +school-house. O, father does so want Mr. Gray for to have his wish! Father saw +all the stones lying quarried and hewn on Farmer Hale’s land; Mr. Gray +had paid for them all himself. And father said he would work night and day, and +little Tommy should carry mortar, if the parson would let him, sooner than that +he should be fretted and frabbed as he was, with no one giving him a helping +hand or a kind word.” +</p> + +<p> +Harry knew nothing of my lady’s part in the affair; that was very clear. +My lady kept silence. +</p> + +<p> +“If I might have a piece of my money, I would buy land from Mr. Brooks; +he has got a bit to sell just at the corner of Hendon Lane, and I would give it +to Mr. Gray; and, perhaps, if your ladyship thinks I may be learned again, I +might grow up into the schoolmaster.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are a good boy,” said my lady. “But there are more +things to be thought of, in carrying out such a plan, than you are aware of. +However, it shall be tried.” +</p> + +<p> +“The school, my lady?” I exclaimed, almost thinking she did not +know what she was saying. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, the school. For Mr. Horner’s sake, for Mr. Gray’s sake, +and last, not least, for this lad’s sake, I will give the new plan a +trial. Ask Mr. Gray to come up to me this afternoon about the land he wants. He +need not go to a Dissenter for it. And tell your father he shall have a good +share in the building of it, and Tommy shall carry the mortar.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I may be schoolmaster?” asked Harry, eagerly. +</p> + +<p> +“We’ll see about that,” said my lady, amused. “It will +be some time before that plan comes to pass, my little fellow.” +</p> + +<p> +And now to return to Captain James. My first account of him was from Miss +Galindo. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s not above thirty; and I must just pack up my pens and my +paper, and be off; for it would be the height of impropriety for me to be +staying here as his clerk. It was all very well in the old master’s days. +But here am I, not fifty till next May, and this young, unmarried man, who is +not even a widower! O, there would be no end of gossip. Besides he looks as +askance at me as I do at him. My black silk gown had no effect. He’s +afraid I shall marry him. But I won’t; he may feel himself quite safe +from that. And Mr. Smithson has been recommending a clerk to my lady. She would +far rather keep me on; but I can’t stop. I really could not think it +proper.” +</p> + +<p> +“What sort of a looking man is he?” +</p> + +<p> +“O, nothing particular. Short, and brown, and sunburnt. I did not think +it became me to look at him. Well, now for the nightcaps. I should have grudged +any one else doing them, for I have got such a pretty pattern!” +</p> + +<p> +But when it came to Miss Galindo’s leaving, there was a great +misunderstanding between her and my lady. Miss Galindo had imagined that my +lady had asked her as a favour to copy the letters, and enter the accounts, and +had agreed to do the work without the notion of being paid for so doing. She +had, now and then, grieved over a very profitable order for needlework passing +out of her hands on account of her not having time to do it, because of her +occupation at the Hall; but she had never hinted this to my lady, but gone on +cheerfully at her writing as long as her clerkship was required. My lady was +annoyed that she had not made her intention of paying Miss Galindo more clear, +in the first conversation she had had with her; but I suppose that she had been +too delicate to be very explicit with regard to money matters; and now Miss +Galindo was quite hurt at my lady’s wanting to pay her for what she had +done in such right-down good-will. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” Miss Galindo said; “my own dear lady, you may be as +angry with me as you like, but don’t offer me money. Think of +six-and-twenty years ago, and poor Arthur, and as you were to me then! Besides, +I wanted money—I don’t disguise it—for a particular purpose; +and when I found that (God bless you for asking me!) I could do you a service, +I turned it over in my mind, and I gave up one plan and took up another, and +it’s all settled now. Bessy is to leave school and come and live with me. +Don’t, please, offer me money again. You don’t know how glad I have +been to do anything for you. Have not I, Margaret Dawson? Did you not hear me +say, one day, I would cut off my hand for my lady; for am I a stick or a stone, +that I should forget kindness? O, I have been so glad to work for you. And now +Bessy is coming here; and no one knows anything about her—as if she had +done anything wrong, poor child!” +</p> + +<p> +“Dear Miss Galindo,” replied my lady, “I will never ask you +to take money again. Only I thought it was quite understood between us. And you +know you have taken money for a set of morning wrappers, before now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, my lady; but that was not confidential. Now I was so proud to have +something to do for you confidentially.” +</p> + +<p> +“But who is Bessy?” asked my lady. “I do not understand who +she is, or why she is to come and live with you. Dear Miss Galindo, you must +honour me by being confidential with me in your turn!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>CHAPTER XIII.</h2> + +<p> +I had always understood that Miss Galindo had once been in much better +circumstances, but I had never liked to ask any questions respecting her. But +about this time many things came out respecting her former life, which I will +try and arrange: not however, in the order in which I heard them, but rather as +they occurred. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Galindo was the daughter of a clergyman in Westmoreland. Her father was +the younger brother of a baronet, his ancestor having been one of those of +James the First’s creation. This baronet-uncle of Miss Galindo was one of +the queer, out-of-the-way people who were bred at that time, and in that +northern district of England. I never heard much of him from any one, besides +this one great fact: that he had early disappeared from his family, which +indeed only consisted of a brother and sister who died unmarried, and lived no +one knew where,—somewhere on the Continent, it was supposed, for he had +never returned from the grand tour which he had been sent to make, according to +the general fashion of the day, as soon as he had left Oxford. He corresponded +occasionally with his brother the clergyman; but the letters passed through a +banker’s hands; the banker being pledged to secrecy, and, as he told Mr. +Galindo, having the penalty, if he broke his pledge, of losing the whole +profitable business, and of having the management of the baronet’s +affairs taken out of his hands, without any advantage accruing to the inquirer, +for Sir Lawrence had told Messrs. Graham that, in case his place of residence +was revealed by them, not only would he cease to bank with them, but instantly +take measures to baffle any future inquiries as to his whereabouts, by removing +to some distant country. +</p> + +<p> +Sir Lawrence paid a certain sum of money to his brother’s account every +year; but the time of this payment varied, and it was sometimes eighteen or +nineteen months between the deposits; then, again, it would not be above a +quarter of the time, showing that he intended it to be annual, but, as this +intention was never expressed in words, it was impossible to rely upon it, and +a great deal of this money was swallowed up by the necessity Mr. Galindo felt +himself under of living in the large, old, rambling family mansion, which had +been one of Sir Lawrence’s rarely expressed desires. Mr. and Mrs. Galindo +often planned to live upon their own small fortune and the income derived from +the living (a vicarage, of which the great tithes went to Sir Lawrence as lay +impropriator), so as to put-by the payments made by the baronet, for the +benefit of Laurentia—our Miss Galindo. But I suppose they found it +difficult to live economically in a large house, even though they had it rent +free. They had to keep up with hereditary neighbours and friends, and could +hardly help doing it in the hereditary manner. +</p> + +<p> +One of these neighbours, a Mr. Gibson, had a son a few years older than +Laurentia. The families were sufficiently intimate for the young people to see +a good deal of each other: and I was told that this young Mr. Mark Gibson was +an unusually prepossessing man (he seemed to have impressed every one who spoke +of him to me as being a handsome, manly, kind-hearted fellow), just what a girl +would be sure to find most agreeable. The parents either forgot that their +children were growing up to man’s and woman’s estate, or thought +that the intimacy and probable attachment would be no bad thing, even if it did +lead to a marriage. Still, nothing was ever said by young Gibson till later on, +when it was too late, as it turned out. He went to and from Oxford; he shot and +fished with Mr. Galindo, or came to the Mere to skate in winter-time; was asked +to accompany Mr. Galindo to the Hall, as the latter returned to the quiet +dinner with his wife and daughter; and so, and so, it went on, nobody much knew +how, until one day, when Mr. Galindo received a formal letter from his +brother’s bankers, announcing Sir Lawrence’s death, of malaria +fever, at Albano, and congratulating Sir Hubert on his accession to the estates +and the baronetcy. The king is dead—“Long live the king!” as +I have since heard that the French express it. +</p> + +<p> +Sir Hubert and his wife were greatly surprised. Sir Lawrence was but two years +older than his brother; and they had never heard of any illness till they heard +of his death. They were sorry; very much shocked; but still a little elated at +the succession to the baronetcy and estates. The London bankers had managed +everything well. There was a large sum of ready money in their hands, at Sir +Hubert’s service, until he should touch his rents, the rent-roll being +eight thousand a-year. And only Laurentia to inherit it all! Her mother, a poor +clergyman’s daughter, began to plan all sorts of fine marriages for her; +nor was her father much behind his wife in his ambition. They took her up to +London, when they went to buy new carriages, and dresses, and furniture. And it +was then and there she made my lady’s acquaintance. How it was that they +came to take a fancy to each other, I cannot say. My lady was of the old +nobility,—grand, compose, gentle, and stately in her ways. Miss Galindo +must always have been hurried in her manner, and her energy must have shown +itself in inquisitiveness and oddness even in her youth. But I don’t +pretend to account for things: I only narrate them. And the fact was +this:—that the elegant, fastidious countess was attracted to the country +girl, who on her part almost worshipped my lady. My lady’s notice of +their daughter made her parents think, I suppose, that there was no match that +she might not command; she, the heiress of eight thousand a-year, and visiting +about among earls and dukes. So when they came back to their old Westmoreland +Hall, and Mark Gibson rode over to offer his hand and his heart, and +prospective estate of nine hundred a-year, to his old companion and playfellow, +Laurentia, Sir Hubert and Lady Galindo made very short work of it. They refused +him plumply themselves; and when he begged to be allowed to speak to Laurentia, +they found some excuse for refusing him the opportunity of so doing, until they +had talked to her themselves, and brought up every argument and fact in their +power to convince her—a plain girl, and conscious of her +plainness—that Mr. Mark Gibson had never thought of her in the way of +marriage till after her father’s accession to his fortune; and that it +was the estate—not the young lady—that he was in love with. I +suppose it will never be known in this world how far this supposition of theirs +was true. My Lady Ludlow had always spoken as if it was; but perhaps events, +which came to her knowledge about this time, altered her opinion. At any rate, +the end of it was, Laurentia refused Mark, and almost broke her heart in doing +so. He discovered the suspicions of Sir Hubert and Lady Galindo, and that they +had persuaded their daughter to share in them. So he flung off with high words, +saying that they did not know a true heart when they met with one; and that +although he had never offered till after Sir Lawrence’s death, yet that +his father knew all along that he had been attached to Laurentia, only that he, +being the eldest of five children, and having as yet no profession, had had to +conceal, rather than to express, an attachment, which, in those days, he had +believed was reciprocated. He had always meant to study for the bar, and the +end of all he had hoped for had been to earn a moderate income, which he might +ask Laurentia to share. This, or something like it, was what he said. But his +reference to his father cut two ways. Old Mr. Gibson was known to be very keen +about money. It was just as likely that he would urge Mark to make love to the +heiress, now she was an heiress, as that he would have restrained him +previously, as Mark said he had done. When this was repeated to Mark, he became +proudly reserved, or sullen, and said that Laurentia, at any rate, might have +known him better. He left the country, and went up to London to study law soon +afterwards; and Sir Hubert and Lady Galindo thought they were well rid of him. +But Laurentia never ceased reproaching herself, and never did to her dying day, +as I believe. The words, “She might have known me better,” told to +her by some kind friend or other, rankled in her mind, and were never +forgotten. Her father and mother took her up to London the next year; but she +did not care to visit—dreaded going out even for a drive, lest she should +see Mark Gibson’s reproachful eyes—pined and lost her health. Lady +Ludlow saw this change with regret, and was told the cause by Lady Galindo, who +of course, gave her own version of Mark’s conduct and motives. My lady +never spoke to Miss Galindo about it, but tried constantly to interest and +please her. It was at this time that my lady told Miss Galindo so much about +her own early life, and about Hanbury, that Miss Galindo resolved, if ever she +could, she would go and see the old place which her friend loved so well. The +end of it all was, that she came to live there, as we know. +</p> + +<p> +But a great change was to come first. Before Sir Hubert and Lady Galindo had +left London on this, their second visit, they had a letter from the lawyer, +whom they employed, saying that Sir Lawrence had left an heir, his legitimate +child by an Italian woman of low rank; at least, legal claims to the title and +property had been sent into him on the boy’s behalf. Sir Lawrence had +always been a man of adventurous and artistic, rather than of luxurious tastes; +and it was supposed, when all came to be proved at the trial, that he was +captivated by the free, beautiful life they lead in Italy, and had married this +Neapolitan fisherman’s daughter, who had people about her shrewd enough +to see that the ceremony was legally performed. She and her husband had +wandered about the shores of the Mediterranean for years, leading a happy, +careless, irresponsible life, unencumbered by any duties except those connected +with a rather numerous family. It was enough for her that they never wanted +money, and that her husband’s love was always continued to her. She hated +the name of England—wicked, cold, heretic England—and avoided the +mention of any subjects connected with her husband’s early life. So that, +when he died at Albano, she was almost roused out of her vehement grief to +anger with the Italian doctor, who declared that he must write to a certain +address to announce the death of Lawrence Galindo. For some time, she feared +lest English barbarians might come down upon her, making a claim to the +children. She hid herself and them in the Abruzzi, living upon the sale of what +furniture and jewels Sir Lawrence had died possessed of. When these failed, she +returned to Naples, which she had not visited since her marriage. Her father +was dead; but her brother inherited some of his keenness. He interested the +priests, who made inquiries and found that the Galindo succession was worth +securing to an heir of the true faith. They stirred about it, obtained advice +at the English Embassy; and hence that letter to the lawyers, calling upon Sir +Hubert to relinquish title and property, and to refund what money he had +expended. He was vehement in his opposition to this claim. He could not bear to +think of his brother having married a foreigner—a papist, a +fisherman’s daughter; nay, of his having become a papist himself. He was +in despair at the thought of his ancestral property going to the issue of such +a marriage. He fought tooth and nail, making enemies of his relations, and +losing almost all his own private property; for he would go on against the +lawyer’s advice, long after every one was convinced except himself and +his wife. At last he was conquered. He gave up his living in gloomy despair. He +would have changed his name if he could, so desirous was he to obliterate all +tie between himself and the mongrel papist baronet and his Italian mother, and +all the succession of children and nurses who came to take possession of the +Hall soon after Mr. Hubert Galindo’s departure, stayed there one winter, +and then flitted back to Naples with gladness and delight. Mr. and Mrs. Hubert +Galindo lived in London. He had obtained a curacy somewhere in the city. They +would have been thankful now if Mr. Mark Gibson had renewed his offer. No one +could accuse him of mercenary motives if he had done so. Because he did not +come forward, as they wished, they brought his silence up as a justification of +what they had previously attributed to him. I don’t know what Miss +Galindo thought herself; but Lady Ludlow has told me how she shrank from +hearing her parents abuse him. Lady Ludlow supposed that he was aware that they +were living in London. His father must have known the fact, and it was curious +if he had never named it to his son. Besides, the name was very uncommon; and +it was unlikely that it should never come across him, in the advertisements of +charity sermons which the new and rather eloquent curate of Saint Mark’s +East was asked to preach. All this time Lady Ludlow never lost sight of them, +for Miss Galindo’s sake. And when the father and mother died, it was my +lady who upheld Miss Galindo in her determination not to apply for any +provision to her cousin, the Italian baronet, but rather to live upon the +hundred a-year which had been settled on her mother and the children of his son +Hubert’s marriage by the old grandfather, Sir Lawrence. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Mark Gibson had risen to some eminence as a barrister on the Northern +Circuit, but had died unmarried in the lifetime of his father, a victim (so +people said) to intemperance. Doctor Trevor, the physician who had been called +in to Mr. Gray and Harry Gregson, had married a sister of his. And that was all +my lady knew about the Gibson family. But who was Bessy? +</p> + +<p> +That mystery and secret came out, too, in process of time. Miss Galindo had +been to Warwick, some years before I arrived at Hanbury, on some kind of +business or shopping, which can only be transacted in a county town. There was +an old Westmoreland connection between her and Mrs. Trevor, though I believe +the latter was too young to have been made aware of her brother’s offer +to Miss Galindo at the time when it took place; and such affairs, if they are +unsuccessful, are seldom spoken about in the gentleman’s family +afterwards. But the Gibsons and Galindos had been county neighbours too long +for the connection not to be kept up between two members settled far away from +their early homes. Miss Galindo always desired her parcels to be sent to Dr. +Trevor’s, when she went to Warwick for shopping purchases. If she were +going any journey, and the coach did not come through Warwick as soon as she +arrived (in my lady’s coach or otherwise) from Hanbury, she went to +Doctor Trevor’s to wait. She was as much expected to sit down to the +household meals as if she had been one of the family: and in after-years it was +Mrs. Trevor who managed her repository business for her. +</p> + +<p> +So, on the day I spoke of, she had gone to Doctor Trevor’s to rest, and +possibly to dine. The post in those times, came in at all hours of the morning: +and Doctor Trevor’s letters had not arrived until after his departure on +his morning round. Miss Galindo was sitting down to dinner with Mrs. Trevor and +her seven children, when the Doctor came in. He was flurried and uncomfortable, +and hurried the children away as soon as he decently could. Then (rather +feeling Miss Galindo’s presence an advantage, both as a present restraint +on the violence of his wife’s grief, and as a consoler when he was absent +on his afternoon round), he told Mrs. Trevor of her brother’s death. He +had been taken ill on circuit, and had hurried back to his chambers in London +only to die. She cried terribly; but Doctor Trevor said afterwards, he never +noticed that Miss Galindo cared much about it one way or another. She helped +him to soothe his wife, promised to stay with her all the afternoon instead of +returning to Hanbury, and afterwards offered to remain with her while the +Doctor went to attend the funeral. When they heard of the old love-story +between the dead man and Miss Galindo,—brought up by mutual friends in +Westmoreland, in the review which we are all inclined to take of the events of +a man’s life when he comes to die,—they tried to remember Miss +Galindo’s speeches and ways of going on during this visit. She was a +little pale, a little silent; her eyes were sometimes swollen, and her nose +red; but she was at an age when such appearances are generally attributed to a +bad cold in the head, rather than to any more sentimental reason. They felt +towards her as towards an old friend, a kindly, useful, eccentric old maid. She +did not expect more, or wish them to remember that she might once have had +other hopes, and more youthful feelings. Doctor Trevor thanked her very warmly +for staying with his wife, when he returned home from London (where the funeral +had taken place). He begged Miss Galindo to stay with them, when the children +were gone to bed, and she was preparing to leave the husband and wife by +themselves. He told her and his wife many particulars—then +paused—then went on—“And Mark has left a child—a little +girl— +</p> + +<p> +“But he never was married!” exclaimed Mrs. Trevor. +</p> + +<p> +“A little girl,” continued her husband, “whose mother, I +conclude, is dead. At any rate, the child was in possession of his chambers; +she and an old nurse, who seemed to have the charge of everything, and has +cheated poor Mark, I should fancy, not a little.” +</p> + +<p> +“But the child!” asked Mrs. Trevor, still almost breathless with +astonishment. “How do you know it is his?” +</p> + +<p> +“The nurse told me it was, with great appearance of indignation at my +doubting it. I asked the little thing her name, and all I could get was +‘Bessy!’ and a cry of ‘Me wants papa!’ The nurse said +the mother was dead, and she knew no more about it than that Mr. Gibson had +engaged her to take care of the little girl, calling it his child. One or two +of his lawyer friends, whom I met with at the funeral, told me they were aware +of the existence of the child.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is to be done with her?” asked Mrs. Gibson. +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, I don’t know,” replied he. “Mark has hardly left +assets enough to pay his debts, and your father is not inclined to come +forward.” +</p> + +<p> +That night, as Doctor Trevor sat in his study, after his wife had gone to bed, +Miss Galindo knocked at his door. She and he had a long conversation. The +result was that he accompanied Miss Galindo up to town the next day; that they +took possession of the little Bessy, and she was brought down, and placed at +nurse at a farm in the country near Warwick, Miss Galindo undertaking to pay +one-half of the expense, and to furnish her with clothes, and Dr. Trevor +undertaking that the remaining half should be furnished by the Gibson family, +or by himself in their default. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Galindo was not fond of children; and I dare say she dreaded taking this +child to live with her for more reasons than one. My Lady Ludlow could not +endure any mention of illegitimate children. It was a principle of hers that +society ought to ignore them. And I believe Miss Galindo had always agreed with +her until now, when the thing came home to her womanly heart. Still she shrank +from having this child of some strange woman under her roof. She went over to +see it from time to time; she worked at its clothes long after every one +thought she was in bed; and, when the time came for Bessy to be sent to school, +Miss Galindo laboured away more diligently than ever, in order to pay the +increased expense. For the Gibson family had, at first, paid their part of the +compact, but with unwillingness and grudging hearts; then they had left it off +altogether, and it fell hard on Dr. Trevor with his twelve children; and, +latterly, Miss Galindo had taken upon herself almost all the burden. One can +hardly live and labour, and plan and make sacrifices, for any human creature, +without learning to love it. And Bessy loved Miss Galindo, too, for all the +poor girl’s scanty pleasures came from her, and Miss Galindo had always a +kind word, and, latterly, many a kind caress, for Mark Gibson’s child; +whereas, if she went to Dr. Trevor’s for her holiday, she was overlooked +and neglected in that bustling family, who seemed to think that if she had +comfortable board and lodging under their roof, it was enough. +</p> + +<p> +I am sure, now, that Miss Galindo had often longed to have Bessy to live with +her; but, as long as she could pay for her being at school, she did not like to +take so bold a step as bringing her home, knowing what the effect of the +consequent explanation would be on my lady. And as the girl was now more than +seventeen, and past the age when young ladies are usually kept at school, and +as there was no great demand for governesses in those days, and as Bessy had +never been taught any trade by which to earn her own living, why I don’t +exactly see what could have been done but for Miss Galindo to bring her to her +own home in Hanbury. For, although the child had grown up lately, in a kind of +unexpected manner, into a young woman, Miss Galindo might have kept her at +school for a year longer, if she could have afforded it; but this was +impossible when she became Mr. Horner’s clerk, and relinquished all the +payment of her repository work; and perhaps, after all, she was not sorry to be +compelled to take the step she was longing for. At any rate, Bessy came to live +with Miss Galindo, in a very few weeks from the time when Captain James set +Miss Galindo free to superintend her own domestic economy again. +</p> + +<p> +For a long time, I knew nothing about this new inhabitant of Hanbury. My lady +never mentioned her in any way. This was in accordance with Lady Ludlow’s +well-known principles. She neither saw nor heard, nor was in any way cognisant +of the existence of those who had no legal right to exist at all. If Miss +Galindo had hoped to have an exception made in Bessy’s favour, she was +mistaken. My lady sent a note inviting Miss Galindo herself to tea one evening, +about a month after Bessy came; but Miss Galindo “had a cold and could +not come.” The next time she was invited, she “had an engagement at +home”—a step nearer to the absolute truth. And the third time, she +“had a young friend staying with her whom she was unable to leave.” +My lady accepted every excuse as bonâ fide, and took no further notice. I +missed Miss Galindo very much; we all did; for, in the days when she was clerk, +she was sure to come in and find the opportunity of saying something amusing to +some of us before she went away. And I, as an invalid, or perhaps from natural +tendency, was particularly fond of little bits of village gossip. There was no +Mr. Horner—he even had come in, now and then, with formal, stately pieces +of intelligence—and there was no Miss Galindo in these days. I missed her +much. And so did my lady, I am sure. Behind all her quiet, sedate manner, I am +certain her heart ached sometimes for a few words from Miss Galindo, who seemed +to have absented herself altogether from the Hall now Bessy was come. +</p> + +<p> +Captain James might be very sensible, and all that; but not even my lady could +call him a substitute for the old familiar friends. He was a thorough sailor, +as sailors were in those days—swore a good deal, drank a good deal +(without its ever affecting him in the least), and was very prompt and +kind-hearted in all his actions; but he was not accustomed to women, as my lady +once said, and would judge in all things for himself. My lady had expected, I +think, to find some one who would take his notions on the management of her +estate from her ladyship’s own self; but he spoke as if he were +responsible for the good management of the whole, and must, consequently, be +allowed full liberty of action. He had been too long in command over men at sea +to like to be directed by a woman in anything he undertook, even though that +woman was my lady. I suppose this was the common-sense my lady spoke of; but +when common-sense goes against us, I don’t think we value it quite so +much as we ought to do. +</p> + +<p> +Lady Ludlow was proud of her personal superintendence of her own estate. She +liked to tell us how her father used to take her with him in his rides, and bid +her observe this and that, and on no account to allow such and such things to +be done. But I have heard that the first time she told all this to Captain +James, he told her point-blank that he had heard from Mr. Smithson that the +farms were much neglected and the rents sadly behindhand, and that he meant to +set to in good earnest and study agriculture, and see how he could remedy the +state of things. My lady would, I am sure, be greatly surprised, but what could +she do? Here was the very man she had chosen herself, setting to with all his +energy to conquer the defect of ignorance, which was all that those who had +presumed to offer her ladyship advice had ever had to say against him. Captain +James read Arthur Young’s “Tours” in all his spare time, as +long as he was an invalid; and shook his head at my lady’s accounts as to +how the land had been cropped or left fallow from time immemorial. Then he set +to, and tried too many new experiments at once. My lady looked on in dignified +silence; but all the farmers and tenants were in an uproar, and prophesied a +hundred failures. Perhaps fifty did occur; they were only half as many as Lady +Ludlow had feared; but they were twice as many, four, eight times as many as +the captain had anticipated. His openly-expressed disappointment made him +popular again. The rough country people could not have understood silent and +dignified regret at the failure of his plans, but they sympathized with a man +who swore at his ill success—sympathized, even while they chuckled over +his discomfiture. Mr. Brooke, the retired tradesman, did not cease blaming him +for not succeeding, and for swearing. “But what could you expect from a +sailor?” Mr. Brooke asked, even in my lady’s hearing; though he +might have known Captain James was my lady’s own personal choice, from +the old friendship Mr. Urian had always shown for him. I think it was this +speech of the Birmingham baker’s that made my lady determine to stand by +Captain James, and encourage him to try again. For she would not allow that her +choice had been an unwise one, at the bidding (as it were) of a dissenting +tradesman; the only person in the neighbourhood, too, who had flaunted about in +coloured clothes, when all the world was in mourning for my lady’s only +son. +</p> + +<p> +Captain James would have thrown the agency up at once, if my lady had not felt +herself bound to justify the wisdom of her choice, by urging him to stay. He +was much touched by her confidence in him, and swore a great oath, that the +next year he would make the land such as it had never been before for produce. +It was not my lady’s way to repeat anything she had heard, especially to +another person’s disadvantage. So I don’t think she ever told +Captain James of Mr. Brooke’s speech about a sailor’s being likely +to mismanage the property; and the captain was too anxious to succeed in this, +the second year of his trial, to be above going to the flourishing, shrewd Mr. +Brooke, and asking for his advice as to the best method of working the estate. +I dare say, if Miss Galindo had been as intimate as formerly at the Hall, we +should all of us have heard of this new acquaintance of the agent’s long +before we did. As it was, I am sure my lady never dreamed that the captain, who +held opinions that were even more Church and King than her own, could ever have +made friends with a Baptist baker from Birmingham, even to serve her +ladyship’s own interests in the most loyal manner. +</p> + +<p> +We heard of it first from Mr. Gray, who came now often to see my lady, for +neither he nor she could forget the solemn tie which the fact of his being the +person to acquaint her with my lord’s death had created between them. For +true and holy words spoken at that time, though having no reference to aught +below the solemn subjects of life and death, had made her withdraw her +opposition to Mr. Gray’s wish about establishing a village school. She +had sighed a little, it is true, and was even yet more apprehensive than +hopeful as to the result; but almost as if as a memorial to my lord, she had +allowed a kind of rough school-house to be built on the green, just by the +church; and had gently used the power she undoubtedly had, in expressing her +strong wish that the boys might only be taught to read and write, and the first +four rules of arithmetic; while the girls were only to learn to read, and to +add up in their heads, and the rest of the time to work at mending their own +clothes, knitting stockings and spinning. My lady presented the school with +more spinning-wheels than there were girls, and requested that there might be a +rule that they should have spun so many hanks of flax, and knitted so many +pairs of stockings, before they ever were taught to read at all. After all, it +was but making the best of a bad job with my poor lady—but life was not +what it had been to her. I remember well the day that Mr. Gray pulled some +delicately fine yarn (and I was a good judge of those things) out of his +pocket, and laid it and a capital pair of knitted stockings before my lady, as +the first-fruits, so to say, of his school. I recollect seeing her put on her +spectacles, and carefully examine both productions. Then she passed them to me. +</p> + +<p> +“This is well, Mr. Gray. I am much pleased. You are fortunate in your +schoolmistress. She has had both proper knowledge of womanly things and much +patience. Who is she? One out of our village?” +</p> + +<p> +“My lady,” said Mr. Gray, stammering and colouring in his old +fashion, “Miss Bessy is so very kind as to teach all those sorts of +things—Miss Bessy, and Miss Galindo, sometimes.” +</p> + +<p> +My lady looked at him over her spectacles: but she only repeated the words +“Miss Bessy,” and paused, as if trying to remember who such a +person could be; and he, if he had then intended to say more, was quelled by +her manner, and dropped the subject. He went on to say, that he had thought it +his duty to decline the subscription to his school offered by Mr. Brooke, +because he was a Dissenter; that he (Mr. Gray) feared that Captain James, +through whom Mr. Brooke’s offer of money had been made, was offended at +his refusing to accept it from a man who held heterodox opinions; nay, whom Mr. +Gray suspected of being infected by Dodwell’s heresy. +</p> + +<p> +“I think there must be some mistake,” said my lady, “or I +have misunderstood you. Captain James would never be sufficiently with a +schismatic to be employed by that man Brooke in distributing his charities. I +should have doubted, until now, if Captain James knew him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, my lady, he not only knows him, but is intimate with him, I +regret to say. I have repeatedly seen the captain and Mr. Brooke walking +together; going through the fields together; and people do say—” +</p> + +<p> +My lady looked up in interrogation at Mr. Gray’s pause. +</p> + +<p> +“I disapprove of gossip, and it may be untrue; but people do say that +Captain James is very attentive to Miss Brooke.” +</p> + +<p> +“Impossible!” said my lady, indignantly. “Captain James is a +loyal and religious man. I beg your pardon Mr. Gray, but it is +impossible.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>CHAPTER XIV.</h2> + +<p> +Like many other things which have been declared to be impossible, this report +of Captain James being attentive to Miss Brooke turned out to be very true. +</p> + +<p> +The mere idea of her agent being on the slightest possible terms of +acquaintance with the Dissenter, the tradesman, the Birmingham democrat, who +had come to settle in our good, orthodox, aristocratic, and agricultural +Hanbury, made my lady very uneasy. Miss Galindo’s misdemeanour in having +taken Miss Bessy to live with her, faded into a mistake, a mere error of +judgment, in comparison with Captain James’s intimacy at Yeast House, as +the Brookes called their ugly square-built farm. My lady talked herself quite +into complacency with Miss Galindo, and even Miss Bessy was named by her, the +first time I had ever been aware that my lady recognized her existence; +but—I recollect it was a long rainy afternoon, and I sat with her +ladyship, and we had time and opportunity for a long uninterrupted +talk—whenever we had been silent for a little while she began again, with +something like a wonder how it was that Captain James could ever have commenced +an acquaintance with “that man Brooke.” My lady recapitulated all +the times she could remember, that anything had occurred, or been said by +Captain James which she could now understand as throwing light upon the +subject. +</p> + +<p> +“He said once that he was anxious to bring in the Norfolk system of +cropping, and spoke a good deal about Mr. Coke of Holkham (who, by the way, was +no more a Coke than I am—collateral in the female line—which counts +for little or nothing among the great old commoners’ families of pure +blood), and his new ways of cultivation; of course new men bring in new ways, +but it does not follow that either are better than the old ways. However, +Captain James has been very anxious to try turnips and bone manure, and he +really is a man of such good sense and energy, and was so sorry last year about +the failure, that I consented; and now I begin to see my error. I have always +heard that town bakers adulterate their flour with bone-dust; and, of course, +Captain James would be aware of this, and go to Brooke to inquire where the +article was to be purchased.” +</p> + +<p> +My lady always ignored the fact which had sometimes, I suspect, been brought +under her very eyes during her drives, that Mr. Brooke’s few fields were +in a state of far higher cultivation than her own; so she could not, of course, +perceive that there was any wisdom to be gained from asking the advice of the +tradesman turned farmer. +</p> + +<p> +But by-and-by this fact of her agent’s intimacy with the person whom in +the whole world she most disliked (with that sort of dislike in which a large +amount of uncomfortableness is combined—the dislike which conscientious +people sometimes feel to another without knowing why, and yet which they cannot +indulge in with comfort to themselves without having a moral reason why), came +before my lady in many shapes. For, indeed I am sure that Captain James was not +a man to conceal or be ashamed of one of his actions. I cannot fancy his ever +lowering his strong loud clear voice, or having a confidental conversation with +any one. When his crops had failed, all the village had known it. He +complained, he regretted, he was angry, or owned himself a —- fool, all +down the village street; and the consequence was that, although he was a far +more passionate man than Mr. Horner, all the tenants liked him far better. +People, in general, take a kindlier interest in any one, the workings of whose +mind and heart they can watch and understand, than in a man who only lets you +know what he has been thinking about and feeling, by what he does. But Harry +Gregson was faithful to the memory of Mr. Horner. Miss Galindo has told me that +she used to watch him hobble out of the way of Captain James, as if to accept +his notice, however good-naturedly given, would have been a kind of treachery +to his former benefactor. But Gregson (the father) and the new agent rather +took to each other; and one day, much to my surprise, I heard that the +“poaching, tinkering vagabond,” as the people used to call Gregson +when I first had come to live at Hanbury, had been appointed gamekeeper; Mr. +Gray standing godfather, as it were, to his trustworthiness, if he were trusted +with anything; which I thought at the time was rather an experiment, only it +answered, as many of Mr. Gray’s deeds of daring did. It was curious how +he was growing to be a kind of autocrat in the village; and how unconscious he +was of it. He was as shy and awkward and nervous as ever in any affair that was +not of some moral consequence to him. But as soon as he was convinced that a +thing was right, he “shut his eyes and ran and butted at it like a +ram,” as Captain James once expressed it, in talking over something Mr. +Gray had done. People in the village said, “they never knew what the +parson would be at next;” or they might have said, “where his +reverence would next turn up.” For I have heard of his marching right +into the middle of a set of poachers, gathered together for some desperate +midnight enterprise, or walking into a public-house that lay just beyond the +bounds of my lady’s estate, and in that extra-parochial piece of ground I +named long ago, and which was considered the rendezvous of all the +ne’er-do-weel characters for miles round, and where a parson and a +constable were held in much the same kind of esteem as unwelcome visitors. And +yet Mr. Gray had his long fits of depression, in which he felt as if he were +doing nothing, making no way in his work, useless and unprofitable, and better +out of the world than in it. In comparison with the work he had set himself to +do, what he did seemed to be nothing. I suppose it was constitutional, those +attacks of lowness of spirits which he had about this time; perhaps a part of +the nervousness which made him always so awkward when he came to the Hall. Even +Mrs. Medlicott, who almost worshipped the ground he trod on, as the saying is, +owned that Mr. Gray never entered one of my lady’s rooms without knocking +down something, and too often breaking it. He would much sooner have faced a +desperate poacher than a young lady any day. At least so we thought. +</p> + +<p> +I do not know how it was that it came to pass that my lady became reconciled to +Miss Galindo about this time. Whether it was that her ladyship was weary of the +unspoken coolness with her old friend; or that the specimens of delicate sewing +and fine spinning at the school had mollified her towards Miss Bessy; but I was +surprised to learn one day that Miss Galindo and her young friend were coming +that very evening to tea at the Hall. This information was given me by Mrs. +Medlicott, as a message from my lady, who further went on to desire that +certain little preparations should be made in her own private sitting-room, in +which the greater part of my days were spent. From the nature of these +preparations, I became quite aware that my lady intended to do honour to her +expected visitors. Indeed, Lady Ludlow never forgave by halves, as I have known +some people do. Whoever was coming as a visitor to my lady, peeress, or poor +nameless girl, there was a certain amount of preparation required in order to +do them fitting honour. I do not mean to say that the preparation was of the +same degree of importance in each case. I dare say, if a peeress had come to +visit us at the Hall, the covers would have been taken off the furniture in the +white drawing-room (they never were uncovered all the time I stayed at the +Hall), because my lady would wish to offer her the ornaments and luxuries which +this grand visitor (who never came—I wish she had! I did so want to see +that furniture uncovered!) was accustomed to at home, and to present them to +her in the best order in which my lady could. The same rule, mollified, held +good with Miss Galindo. Certain things, in which my lady knew she took an +interest, were laid out ready for her to examine on this very day; and, what +was more, great books of prints were laid out, such as I remembered my lady had +had brought forth to beguile my own early days of illness,—Mr. +Hogarth’s works, and the like,—which I was sure were put out for +Miss Bessy. +</p> + +<p> +No one knows how curious I was to see this mysterious Miss Bessy—twenty +times more mysterious, of course, for want of her surname. And then again (to +try and account for my great curiosity, of which in recollection I am more than +half ashamed), I had been leading the quiet monotonous life of a crippled +invalid for many years,—shut up from any sight of new faces; and this was +to be the face of one whom I had thought about so much and so long,—Oh! I +think I might be excused. +</p> + +<p> +Of course they drank tea in the great hall, with the four young gentlewomen, +who, with myself, formed the small bevy now under her ladyship’s charge. +Of those who were at Hanbury when first I came, none remained; all were +married, or gone once more to live at some home which could be called their +own, whether the ostensible head were father or brother. I myself was not +without some hopes of a similar kind. My brother Harry was now a curate in +Westmoreland, and wanted me to go and live with him, as eventually I did for a +time. But that is neither here nor there at present. What I am talking about is +Miss Bessy. +</p> + +<p> +After a reasonable time had elapsed, occupied as I well knew by the meal in the +great hall,—the measured, yet agreeable conversation +afterwards,—and a certain promenade around the hall, and through the +drawing-rooms, with pauses before different pictures, the history or subject of +each of which was invariably told by my lady to every new visitor,—a sort +of giving them the freedom of the old family-seat, by describing the kind and +nature of the great progenitors who had lived there before the +narrator,—I heard the steps approaching my lady’s room, where I +lay. I think I was in such a state of nervous expectation, that if I could have +moved easily, I should have got up and run away. And yet I need not have been, +for Miss Galindo was not in the least altered (her nose a little redder, to be +sure, but then that might only have had a temporary cause in the private crying +I know she would have had before coming to see her dear Lady Ludlow once +again). But I could almost have pushed Miss Galindo away, as she intercepted me +in my view of the mysterious Miss Bessy. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Bessy was, as I knew, only about eighteen, but she looked older. Dark +hair, dark eyes, a tall, firm figure, a good, sensible face, with a serene +expression, not in the least disturbed by what I had been thinking must be such +awful circumstances as a first introduction to my lady, who had so disapproved +of her very existence: those are the clearest impressions I remember of my +first interview with Miss Bessy. She seemed to observe us all, in her quiet +manner, quite as much as I did her; but she spoke very little; occupied +herself, indeed, as my lady had planned, with looking over the great books of +engravings. I think I must have (foolishly) intended to make her feel at her +ease, by my patronage; but she was seated far away from my sofa, in order to +command the light, and really seemed so unconcerned at her unwonted +circumstances, that she did not need my countenance or kindness. One thing I +did like—her watchful look at Miss Galindo from time to time: it showed +that her thoughts and sympathy were ever at Miss Galindo’s service, as +indeed they well might be. When Miss Bessy spoke, her voice was full and clear, +and what she said, to the purpose, though there was a slight provincial accent +in her way of speaking. After a while, my lady set us two to play at chess, a +game which I had lately learnt at Mr. Gray’s suggestion. Still we did not +talk much together, though we were becoming attracted towards each other, I +fancy. +</p> + +<p> +“You will play well,” said she. “You have only learnt about +six months, have you? And yet you can nearly beat me, who have been at it as +many years.” +</p> + +<p> +“I began to learn last November. I remember Mr. Gray’s bringing me +‘Philidor on Chess,’ one very foggy, dismal day.” +</p> + +<p> +What made her look up so suddenly, with bright inquiry in her eyes? What made +her silent for a moment as if in thought, and then go on with something, I know +not what, in quite an altered tone? +</p> + +<p> +My lady and Miss Galindo went on talking, while I sat thinking. I heard Captain +James’s name mentioned pretty frequently; and at last my lady put down +her work, and said, almost with tears in her eyes: +</p> + +<p> +“I could not—I cannot believe it. He must be aware she is a +schismatic; a baker’s daughter; and he is a gentleman by virtue and +feeling, as well as by his profession, though his manners may be at times a +little rough. My dear Miss Galindo, what will this world come to?” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Galindo might possibly be aware of her own share in bringing the world to +the pass which now dismayed my lady,—for of course, though all was now +over and forgiven, yet Miss, Bessy’s being received into a respectable +maiden lady’s house, was one of the portents as to the world’s +future which alarmed her ladyship; and Miss Galindo knew this,—but, at +any rate, she had too lately been forgiven herself not to plead for mercy for +the next offender against my lady’s delicate sense of fitness and +propriety,—so she replied: +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, my lady, I have long left off trying to conjecture what makes +Jack fancy Gill, or Gill Jack. It’s best to sit down quiet under the +belief that marriages are made for us, somewhere out of this world, and out of +the range of this world’s reason and laws. I’m not so sure that I +should settle it down that they were made in heaven; t’other place seems +to me as likely a workshop; but at any rate, I’ve given up troubling my +head as to why they take place. Captain James is a gentleman; I make no doubt +of that ever since I saw him stop to pick up old Goody Blake (when she tumbled +down on the slide last winter) and then swear at a little lad who was laughing +at her, and cuff him till he tumbled down crying; but we must have bread +somehow, and though I like it better baked at home in a good sweet brick oven, +yet, as some folks never can get it to rise, I don’t see why a man may +not be a baker. You see, my lady, I look upon baking as a simple trade, and as +such lawful. There is no machine comes in to take away a man’s or +woman’s power of earning their living, like the spinning-jenny (the old +busybody that she is), to knock up all our good old women’s livelihood, +and send them to their graves before their time. There’s an invention of +the enemy, if you will!” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s very true!” said my lady, shaking her head. +</p> + +<p> +“But baking bread is wholesome, straightforward elbow-work. They have not +got to inventing any contrivance for that yet, thank Heaven! It does not seem +to me natural, nor according to Scripture, that iron and steel (whose brows +can’t sweat) should be made to do man’s work. And so I say, all +those trades where iron and steel do the work ordained to man at the Fall, are +unlawful, and I never stand up for them. But say this baker Brooke did knead +his bread, and make it rise, and then that people, who had, perhaps, no good +ovens, came to him, and bought his good light bread, and in this manner he +turned an honest penny and got rich; why, all I say, my lady, is this,—I +dare say he would have been born a Hanbury, or a lord if he could; and if he +was not, it is no fault of his, that I can see, that he made good bread (being +a baker by trade), and got money, and bought his land. It was his misfortune, +not his fault, that he was not a person of quality by birth.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s very true,” said my lady, after a moment’s +pause for consideration. “But, although he was a baker, he might have +been a Churchman. Even your eloquence, Miss Galindo, shan’t convince me +that that is not his own fault.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t see even that, begging your pardon, my lady,” said +Miss Galindo, emboldened by the first success of her eloquence. “When a +Baptist is a baby, if I understand their creed aright, he is not baptized; and, +consequently, he can have no godfathers and godmothers to do anything for him +in his baptism; you agree to that, my lady?” +</p> + +<p> +My lady would rather have known what her acquiescence would lead to, before +acknowledging that she could not dissent from this first proposition; still she +gave her tacit agreement by bowing her head. +</p> + +<p> +“And, you know, our godfathers and godmothers are expected to promise and +vow three things in our name, when we are little babies, and can do nothing but +squall for ourselves. It is a great privilege, but don’t let us be hard +upon those who have not had the chance of godfathers and godmothers. Some +people, we know, are born with silver spoons,—that’s to say, a +godfather to give one things, and teach one’s catechism, and see that +we’re confirmed into good church-going Christians,—and others with +wooden ladles in their mouths. These poor last folks must just be content to be +godfatherless orphans, and Dissenters, all their lives; and if they are +tradespeople into the bargain, so much the worse for them; but let us be humble +Christians, my dear lady, and not hold our heads too high because we were born +orthodox quality.” +</p> + +<p> +“You go on too fast, Miss Galindo! I can’t follow you. Besides, I +do believe dissent to be an invention of the Devil’s. Why can’t +they believe as we do? It’s very wrong. Besides, its schism and heresy, +and, you know, the Bible says that’s as bad as witchcraft.” +</p> + +<p> +My lady was not convinced, as I could see. After Miss Galindo had gone, she +sent Mrs. Medlicott for certain books out of the great old library up stairs, +and had them made up into a parcel under her own eye. +</p> + +<p> +“If Captain James comes to-morrow, I will speak to him about these +Brookes. I have not hitherto liked to speak to him, because I did not wish to +hurt him, by supposing there could be any truth in the reports about his +intimacy with them. But now I will try and do my duty by him and them. Surely +this great body of divinity will bring them back to the true church.” +</p> + +<p> +I could not tell, for though my lady read me over the titles, I was not any the +wiser as to their contents. Besides, I was much more anxious to consult my lady +as to my own change of place. I showed her the letter I had that day received +from Harry; and we once more talked over the expediency of my going to live +with him, and trying what entire change of air would do to re-establish my +failing health. I could say anything to my lady, she was so sure to understand +me rightly. For one thing, she never thought of herself, so I had no fear of +hurting her by stating the truth. I told her how happy my years had been while +passed under her roof; but that now I had begun to wonder whether I had not +duties elsewhere, in making a home for Harry,—and whether the fulfilment +of these duties, quiet ones they must needs be in the case of such a cripple as +myself, would not prevent my sinking into the querulous habit of thinking and +talking, into which I found myself occasionally falling. Add to which, there +was the prospect of benefit from the more bracing air of the north. +</p> + +<p> +It was then settled that my departure from Hanbury, my happy home for so long, +was to take place before many weeks had passed. And as, when one period of life +is about to be shut up for ever, we are sure to look back upon it with fond +regret, so I, happy enough in my future prospects, could not avoid recurring to +all the days of my life in the Hall, from the time when I came to it, a shy +awkward girl, scarcely past childhood, to now, when a grown woman,—past +childhood—almost, from the very character of my illness, past +youth,—I was looking forward to leaving my lady’s house (as a +residence) for ever. As it has turned out, I never saw either her or it again. +Like a piece of sea-wreck, I have drifted away from those days: quiet, happy, +eventless days,—very happy to remember! +</p> + +<p> +I thought of good, jovial Mr. Mountford,—and his regrets that he might +not keep a pack, “a very small pack,” of harriers, and his merry +ways, and his love of good eating; of the first coming of Mr. Gray, and my +lady’s attempt to quench his sermons, when they tended to enforce any +duty connected with education. And now we had an absolute school-house in the +village; and since Miss Bessy’s drinking tea at the Hall, my lady had +been twice inside it, to give directions about some fine yarn she was having +spun for table-napery. And her ladyship had so outgrown her old custom of +dispensing with sermon or discourse, that even during the temporary preaching +of Mr. Crosse, she had never had recourse to it, though I believe she would +have had all the congregation on her side if she had. +</p> + +<p> +And Mr. Horner was dead, and Captain James reigned in his stead. Good, steady, +severe, silent Mr. Horner! with his clock-like regularity, and his +snuff-coloured clothes, and silver buckles! I have often wondered which one +misses most when they are dead and gone,—the bright creatures full of +life, who are hither and thither and everywhere, so that no one can reckon upon +their coming and going, with whom stillness and the long quiet of the grave, +seems utterly irreconcilable, so full are they of vivid motion and +passion,—or the slow, serious people, whose movements—nay, whose +very words, seem to go by clockwork; who never appear much to affect the course +of our life while they are with us, but whose methodical ways show themselves, +when they are gone, to have been intertwined with our very roots of daily +existence. I think I miss these last the most, although I may have loved the +former best. Captain James never was to me what Mr. Horner was, though the +latter had hardly changed a dozen words with me at the day of his death. Then +Miss Galindo! I remembered the time as if it had been only yesterday, when she +was but a name—and a very odd one—to me; then she was a queer, +abrupt, disagreeable, busy old maid. Now I loved her dearly, and I found out +that I was almost jealous of Miss Bessy. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Gray I never thought of with love; the feeling was almost reverence with +which I looked upon him. I have not wished to speak much of myself, or else I +could have told you how much he had been to me during these long, weary years +of illness. But he was almost as much to every one, rich and poor, from my lady +down to Miss Galindo’s Sally. +</p> + +<p> +The village, too, had a different look about it. I am sure I could not tell you +what caused the change; but there were no more lounging young men to form a +group at the cross-road, at a time of day when young men ought to be at work. I +don’t say this was all Mr. Gray’s doing, for there really was so +much to do in the fields that there was but little time for lounging +now-a-days. And the children were hushed up in school, and better behaved out +of it, too, than in the days when I used to be able to go my lady’s +errands in the village. I went so little about now, that I am sure I +can’t tell who Miss Galindo found to scold; and yet she looked so well +and so happy that I think she must have had her accustomed portion of that +wholesome exercise. +</p> + +<p> +Before I left Hanbury, the rumour that Captain James was going to marry Miss +Brooke, Baker Brooke’s eldest daughter, who had only a sister to share +his property with her, was confirmed. He himself announced it to my lady; nay, +more, with a courage, gained, I suppose, in his former profession, where, as I +have heard, he had led his ship into many a post of danger, he asked her +ladyship, the Countess Ludlow, if he might bring his bride elect, (the Baptist +baker’s daughter!) and present her to my lady! +</p> + +<p> +I am glad I was not present when he made this request; I should have felt so +much ashamed for him, and I could not have helped being anxious till I heard my +lady’s answer, if I had been there. Of course she acceded; but I can +fancy the grave surprise of her look. I wonder if Captain James noticed it. +</p> + +<p> +I hardly dared ask my lady, after the interview had taken place, what she +thought of the bride elect; but I hinted my curiosity, and she told me, that if +the young person had applied to Mrs. Medlicott, for the situation of cook, and +Mrs. Medlicott had engaged her, she thought that it would have been a very +suitable arrangement. I understood from this how little she thought a marriage +with Captain James, R.N., suitable. +</p> + +<p> +About a year after I left Hanbury, I received a letter from Miss Galindo; I +think I can find it.—Yes, this is it. +</p> + +<p class="right"> +‘Hanbury, May 4, 1811. +</p> + +<blockquote> + +<p> +D<small>EAR</small> M<small>ARGARET</small>, +</p> + +<p> +‘You ask for news of us all. Don’t you know there is no news in +Hanbury? Did you ever hear of an event here? Now, if you have answered +“Yes,” in your own mind to these questions, you have fallen into my +trap, and never were more mistaken in your life. Hanbury is full of news; and +we have more events on our hands than we know what to do with. I will take them +in the order of the newspapers—births, deaths, and marriages. In the +matter of births, Jenny Lucas has had twins not a week ago. Sadly too much of a +good thing, you’ll say. Very true: but then they died; so their birth did +not much signify. My cat has kittened, too; she has had three kittens, which +again you may observe is too much of a good thing; and so it would be, if it +were not for the next item of intelligence I shall lay before you. Captain and +Mrs. James have taken the old house next Pearson’s; and the house is +overrun with mice, which is just as fortunate for me as the King of +Egypt’s rat-ridden kingdom was to Dick Whittington. For my cat’s +kittening decided me to go and call on the bride, in hopes she wanted a cat; +which she did like a sensible woman, as I do believe she is, in spite of +Baptism, Bakers, Bread, and Birmingham, and something worse than all, which you +shall hear about, if you’ll only be patient. As I had got my best bonnet +on, the one I bought when poor Lord Ludlow was last at Hanbury in +’99—I thought it a great condescension in myself (always +remembering the date of the Galindo baronetcy) to go and call on the bride; +though I don’t think so much of myself in my every-day clothes, as you +know. But who should I find there but my Lady Ludlow! She looks as frail and +delicate as ever, but is, I think, in better heart ever since that old city +merchant of a Hanbury took it into his head that he was a cadet of the Hanburys +of Hanbury, and left her that handsome legacy. I’ll warrant you that the +mortgage was paid off pretty fast; and Mr. Horner’s money—or my +lady’s money, or Harry Gregson’s money, call it which you +will—is invested in his name, all right and tight; and they do talk of +his being captain of his school, or Grecian, or something, and going to +college, after all! Harry Gregson the poacher’s son! Well! to be sure, we +are living in strange times! +</p> + +<p> +‘But I have not done with the marriages yet. Captain James’s is all +very well, but no one cares for it now, we are so full of Mr. Gray’s. +Yes, indeed, Mr. Gray is going to be married, and to nobody else but my little +Bessy! I tell her she will have to nurse him half the days of her life, he is +such a frail little body. But she says she does not care for that; so that his +body holds his soul, it is enough for her. She has a good spirit and a brave +heart, has my Bessy! It is a great advantage that she won’t have to mark +her clothes over again: for when she had knitted herself her last set of +stockings, I told her to put G for Galindo, if she did not choose to put it for +Gibson, for she should be my child if she was no one else’s. And now you +see it stands for Gray. So there are two marriages, and what more would you +have? And she promises to take another of my kittens. +</p> + +<p> +‘Now, as to deaths, old Farmer Hale is dead—poor old man, I should +think his wife thought it a good riddance, for he beat her every day that he +was drunk, and he was never sober, in spite of Mr. Gray. I don’t think +(as I tell him) that Mr. Gray would ever have found courage to speak to Bessy +as long as Farmer Hale lived, he took the old gentleman’s sins so much to +heart, and seemed to think it was all his fault for not being able to make a +sinner into a saint. The parish bull is dead too. I never was so glad in my +life. But they say we are to have a new one in his place. In the meantime I +cross the common in peace, which is very convenient just now, when I have so +often to go to Mr. Gray’s to see about furnishing. +</p> + +<p> +‘Now you think I have told you all the Hanbury news, don’t you? Not +so. The very greatest thing of all is to come. I won’t tantalize you, but +just out with it, for you would never guess it. My Lady Ludlow has given a +party, just like any plebeian amongst us. We had tea and toast in the blue +drawing-room, old John Footman waiting with Tom Diggles, the lad that used to +frighten away crows in Farmer Hale’s fields, following in my lady’s +livery, hair powdered and everything. Mrs. Medlicott made tea in my +lady’s own room. My lady looked like a splendid fairy queen of mature +age, in black velvet, and the old lace, which I have never seen her wear before +since my lord’s death. But the company? you’ll say. Why, we had the +parson of Clover, and the parson of Headleigh, and the parson of Merribank, and +the three parsonesses; and Farmer Donkin, and two Miss Donkins; and Mr. Gray +(of course), and myself and Bessy; and Captain and Mrs. James; yes, and Mr. and +Mrs. Brooke; think of that! I am not sure the parsons liked it; but he was +there. For he has been helping Captain James to get my lady’s land into +order; and then his daughter married the agent; and Mr. Gray (who ought to +know) says that, after all, Baptists are not such bad people; and he was right +against them at one time, as you may remember. Mrs. Brooke is a rough diamond, +to be sure. People have said that of me, I know. But, being a Galindo, I learnt +manners in my youth and can take them up when I choose. But Mrs. Brooke never +learnt manners, I’ll be bound. When John Footman handed her the tray with +the tea-cups, she looked up at him as if she were sorely puzzled by that way of +going on. I was sitting next to her, so I pretended not to see her perplexity, +and put her cream and sugar in for her, and was all ready to pop it into her +hands,—when who should come up, but that impudent lad Tom Diggles (I call +him lad, for all his hair is powdered, for you know that it is not natural gray +hair), with his tray full of cakes and what not, all as good as Mrs. Medlicott +could make them. By this time, I should tell you, all the parsonesses were +looking at Mrs. Brooke, for she had shown her want of breeding before; and the +parsonesses, who were just a step above her in manners, were very much inclined +to smile at her doings and sayings. Well! what does she do, but pull out a +clean Bandanna pocket-handkerchief all red and yellow silk, spread it over her +best silk gown; it was, like enough, a new one, for I had it from Sally, who +had it from her cousin Molly, who is dairy-woman at the Brookes’, that +the Brookes were mighty set-up with an invitation to drink tea at the Hall. +There we were, Tom Diggles even on the grin (I wonder how long it is since he +was own brother to a scarecrow, only not so decently dressed) and Mrs. +Parsoness of Headleigh,—I forget her name, and it’s no matter, for +she’s an ill-bred creature, I hope Bessy will behave herself +better—was right-down bursting with laughter, and as near a hee-haw as +ever a donkey was, when what does my lady do? Ay! there’s my own dear +Lady Ludlow, God bless her! She takes out her own pocket-handkerchief, all +snowy cambric, and lays it softly down on her velvet lap, for all the world as +if she did it every day of her life, just like Mrs. Brooke, the baker’s +wife; and when the one got up to shake the crumbs into the fire-place, the +other did just the same. But with such a grace! and such a look at us all! Tom +Diggles went red all over; and Mrs. Parsoness of Headleigh scarce spoke for the +rest of the evening; and the tears came into my old silly eyes; and Mr. Gray, +who was before silent and awkward in a way which I tell Bessy she must cure him +of, was made so happy by this pretty action of my lady’s, that he talked +away all the rest of the evening, and was the life of the company. +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh, Margaret Dawson! I sometimes wonder if you’re the better off +for leaving us. To be sure you’re with your brother, and blood is blood. +But when I look at my lady and Mr. Gray, for all they’re so different, I +would not change places with any in England.’ +</p> + +</blockquote> + +<p> +Alas! alas! I never saw my dear lady again. She died in eighteen hundred and +fourteen, and Mr. Gray did not long survive her. As I dare say you know, the +Reverend Henry Gregson is now vicar of Hanbury, and his wife is the daughter of +Mr. Gray and Miss Bessy. +</p> + +<hr /> + + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p> +As any one may guess, it had taken Mrs. Dawson several Monday evenings to +narrate all this history of the days of her youth. Miss Duncan thought it would +be a good exercise for me, both in memory and composition, to write out on +Tuesday mornings all that I had heard the night before; and thus it came to +pass that I have the manuscript of “My Lady Ludlow” now lying by +me. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p> +Mr. Dawson had often come in and out of the room during the time that his +sister had been telling us about Lady Ludlow. He would stop, and listen a +little, and smile or sigh as the case might be. The Monday after the dear old +lady had wound up her tale (if tale it could be called), we felt rather at a +loss what to talk about, we had grown so accustomed to listen to Mrs. Dawson. I +remember I was saying, “Oh, dear! I wish some one would tell us another +story!” when her brother said, as if in answer to my speech, that he had +drawn up a paper all ready for the Philosophical Society, and that perhaps we +might care to hear it before it was sent off: it was in a great measure +compiled from a French book, published by one of the Academies, and rather dry +in itself; but to which Mr. Dawson’s attention had been directed, after a +tour he had made in England during the past year, in which he had noticed small +walled-up doors in unusual parts of some old parish churches, and had been told +that they had formerly been appropriated to the use of some half-heathen race, +who, before the days of gipsies, held the same outcast pariah position in most +of the countries of western Europe. Mr. Dawson had been recommended to the +French book which he named, as containing the fullest and most authentic +account of this mysterious race, the Cagots. I did not think I should like +hearing this paper as much as a story; but, of course, as he meant it kindly, +we were bound to submit, and I found it, on the whole, more interesting than I +anticipated. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap02"></a>AN ACCURSED RACE</h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p> +We have our prejudices in England. Or, if that assertion offends any of my +readers, I will modify it: we have had our prejudices in England. We have +tortured Jews; we have burnt Catholics and Protestants, to say nothing of a few +witches and wizards. We have satirized Puritans, and we have dressed-up Guys. +But, after all, I do not think we have been so bad as our Continental friends. +To be sure, our insular position has kept us free, to a certain degree, from +the inroads of alien races; who, driven from one land of refuge, steal into +another equally unwilling to receive them; and where, for long centuries, their +presence is barely endured, and no pains is taken to conceal the repugnance +which the natives of “pure blood” experience towards them. +</p> + +<p> +There yet remains a remnant of the miserable people called Cagots in the +valleys of the Pyrenees; in the Landes near Bourdeaux; and, stretching up on +the west side of France, their numbers become larger in Lower Brittany. Even +now, the origin of these families is a word of shame to them among their +neighbours; although they are protected by the law, which confirmed them in the +equal rights of citizens about the end of the last century. Before then they +had lived, for hundreds of years, isolated from all those who boasted of pure +blood, and they had been, all this time, oppressed by cruel local edicts. They +were truly what they were popularly called, The Accursed Race. +</p> + +<p> +All distinct traces of their origin are lost. Even at the close of that period +which we call the Middle Ages, this was a problem which no one could solve; and +as the traces, which even then were faint and uncertain, have vanished away one +by one, it is a complete mystery at the present day. Why they were accursed in +the first instance, why isolated from their kind, no one knows. From the +earliest accounts of their state that are yet remaining to us, it seems that +the names which they gave each other were ignored by the population they lived +amongst, who spoke of them as Crestiaa, or Cagots, just as we speak of animals +by their generic names. Their houses or huts were always placed at some +distance out of the villages of the country-folk, who unwillingly called in the +services of the Cagots as carpenters, or tilers, or slaters—trades which +seemed appropriated by this unfortunate race—who were forbidden to occupy +land, or to bear arms, the usual occupations of those times. They had some +small right of pasturage on the common lands, and in the forests: but the +number of their cattle and live-stock was strictly limited by the earliest laws +relating to the Cagots. They were forbidden by one act to have more than twenty +sheep, a pig, a ram, and six geese. The pig was to be fattened and killed for +winter food; the fleece of the sheep was to clothe them; but if the said sheep +had lambs, they were forbidden to eat them. Their only privilege arising from +this increase was, that they might choose out the strongest and finest in +preference to keeping the old sheep. At Martinmas the authorities of the +commune came round, and counted over the stock of each Cagot. If he had more +than his appointed number, they were forfeited; half went to the commune, half +to the baillie, or chief magistrate of the commune. The poor beasts were +limited as to the amount of common which they might stray over in search of +grass. While the cattle of the inhabitants of the commune might wander hither +and thither in search of the sweetest herbage, the deepest shade, or the +coolest pool in which to stand on the hot days, and lazily switch their dappled +sides, the Cagot sheep and pig had to learn imaginary bounds, beyond which if +they strayed, any one might snap them up, and kill them, reserving a part of +the flesh for his own use, but graciously restoring the inferior parts to their +original owner. Any damage done by the sheep was, however, fairly appraised, +and the Cagot paid no more for it than any other man would have done. +</p> + +<p> +Did a Cagot leave his poor cabin, and venture into the towns, even to render +services required of him in the way of his trade, he was bidden, by all the +municipal laws, to stand by and remember his rude old state. In all the towns +and villages the large districts extending on both sides of the +Pyrenees—in all that part of Spain—they were forbidden to buy or +sell anything eatable, to walk in the middle (esteemed the better) part of the +streets, to come within the gates before sunrise, or to be found after sunset +within the walls of the town. But still, as the Cagots were good-looking men, +and (although they bore certain natural marks of their caste, of which I shall +speak by-and-by) were not easily distinguished by casual passers-by from other +men, they were compelled to wear some distinctive peculiarity which should +arrest the eye; and, in the greater number of towns, it was decreed that the +outward sign of a Cagot should be a piece of red cloth sewed conspicuously on +the front of his dress. In other towns, the mark of Cagoterie was the foot of a +duck or a goose hung over their left shoulder, so as to be seen by any one +meeting them. After a time, the more convenient badge of a piece of yellow +cloth cut out in the shape of a duck’s foot, was adopted. If any Cagot +was found in any town or village without his badge, he had to pay a fine of +five sous, and to lose his dress. He was expected to shrink away from any +passer-by, for fear that their clothes should touch each other; or else to +stand still in some corner or by-place. If the Cagots were thirsty during the +days which they passed in those towns where their presence was barely suffered, +they had no means of quenching their thirst, for they were forbidden to enter +into the little cabarets or taverns. Even the water gushing out of the common +fountain was prohibited to them. Far away, in their own squalid village, there +was the Cagot fountain, and they were not allowed to drink of any other water. +A Cagot woman having to make purchases in the town, was liable to be flogged +out of it if she went to buy anything except on a Monday—a day on which +all other people who could, kept their houses for fear of coming in contact +with the accursed race. +</p> + +<p> +In the Pays Basque, the prejudices—and for some time the laws—ran +stronger against them than any which I have hitherto mentioned. The Basque +Cagot was not allowed to possess sheep. He might keep a pig for provision, but +his pig had no right of pasturage. He might cut and carry grass for the ass, +which was the only other animal he was permitted to own; and this ass was +permitted, because its existence was rather an advantage to the oppressor, who +constantly availed himself of the Cagot’s mechanical skill, and was glad +to have him and his tools easily conveyed from one place to another. +</p> + +<p> +The race was repulsed by the State. Under the small local governments they +could hold no post whatsoever. And they were barely tolerated by the Church, +although they were good Catholics, and zealous frequenters of the mass. They +might only enter the churches by a small door set apart for them, through which +no one of the pure race ever passed. This door was low, so as to compel them to +make an obeisance. It was occasionally surrounded by sculpture, which +invariably represented an oak-branch with a dove above it. When they were once +in, they might not go to the holy water used by others. They had a bénitier of +their own; nor were they allowed to share in the consecrated bread when that +was handed round to the believers of the pure race. The Cagots stood afar off, +near the door. There were certain boundaries—imaginary lines on the nave +and in the aisles which they might not pass. In one or two of the more tolerant +of the Pyrenean villages, the blessed bread was offered to the Cagots, the +priest standing on one side of the boundary, and giving the pieces of bread on +a long wooden fork to each person successively. +</p> + +<p> +When the Cagot died, he was interred apart, in a plot burying-ground on the +north side of the cemetery. Under such laws and prescriptions as I have +described, it is no wonder that he was generally too poor to have much property +for his children to inherit; but certain descriptions of it were forfeited to +the commune. The only possession which all who were not of his own race refused +to touch, was his furniture. That was tainted, infectious, unclean—fit +for none but Cagots. +</p> + +<p> +When such were, for at least three centuries, the prevalent usages and opinions +with regard to this oppressed race, it is not surprising that we read of +occasional outbursts of ferocious violence on their part. In the +Basses-Pyrenées, for instance it is only about a hundred years since, that the +Cagots of Rehouilhes rose up against the inhabitants of the neighbouring town +of Lourdes, and got the better of them, by their magical powers as it is said. +The people of Lourdes were conquered and slain, and their ghastly, bloody heads +served the triumphant Cagots for balls to play at ninepins with! The local +parliaments had begun, by this time, to perceive how oppressive was the ban of +public opinion under which the Cagots lay, and were not inclined to enforce too +severe a punishment. Accordingly, the decree of the parliament of Toulouse +condemned only the leading Cagots concerned in this affray to be put to death, +and that henceforward and for ever no Cagot was to be permitted to enter the +town of Lourdes by any gate but that called Capdet-pourtet: they were only to +be allowed to walk under the rain-gutters, and neither to sit, eat, nor drink +in the town. If they failed in observing any of these rules, the parliament +decreed, in the spirit of Shylock, that the disobedient Cagots should have two +strips of flesh, weighing never more than two ounces a-piece, cut out from each +side of their spines. +</p> + +<p> +In the fourteenth, fifteenth, and sixteenth centuries it was considered no more +a crime to kill a Cagot than to destroy obnoxious vermin. A “nest of +Cagots,” as the old accounts phrase it, had assembled in a deserted +castle of Mauvezin, about the year sixteen hundred; and, certainly, they made +themselves not very agreeable neighbours, as they seemed to enjoy their +reputation of magicians; and, by some acoustic secrets which were known to +them, all sorts of moanings and groanings were heard in the neighbouring +forests, very much to the alarm of the good people of the pure race; who could +not cut off a withered branch for firewood, but some unearthly sound seemed to +fill the air, nor drink water which was not poisoned, because the Cagots would +persist in filling their pitchers at the same running stream. Added to these +grievances, the various pilferings perpetually going on in the neighbourhood +made the inhabitants of the adjacent towns and hamlets believe that they had a +very sufficient cause for wishing to murder all the Cagots in the Château +de Mauvezin. But it was surrounded by a moat, and only accessible by a +drawbridge; besides which, the Cagots were fierce and vigilant. Some one, +however, proposed to get into their confidence; and for this purpose he +pretended to fall ill close to their path, so that on returning to their +stronghold they perceived him, and took him in, restored him to health, and +made a friend of him. One day, when they were all playing at ninepins in the +woods, their treacherous friend left the party on pretence of being thirsty, +and went back into the castle, drawing up the bridge after he had passed over +it, and so cutting off their means of escape into safety. Them, going up to the +highest part of the castle, he blew a horn, and the pure race, who were lying +in wait on the watch for some such signal, fell upon the Cagots at their games, +and slew them all. For this murder I find no punishment decreed in the +parliament of Toulouse, or elsewhere. +</p> + +<p> +As any intermarriage with the pure race was strictly forbidden, and as there +were books kept in every commune in which the names and habitations of the +reputed Cagots were written, these unfortunate people had no hope of ever +becoming blended with the rest of the population. Did a Cagot marriage take +place, the couple were serenaded with satirical songs. They also had minstrels, +and many of their romances are still current in Brittany; but they did not +attempt to make any reprisals of satire or abuse. Their disposition was +amiable, and their intelligence great. Indeed, it required both these +qualities, and their great love of mechanical labour, to make their lives +tolerable. +</p> + +<p> +At last, they began to petition that they might receive some protection from +the laws; and, towards the end of the seventeenth century, the judicial power +took their side. But they gained little by this. Law could not prevail against +custom: and, in the ten or twenty years just preceding the first French +revolution, the prejudice in France against the Cagots amounted to fierce and +positive abhorrence. +</p> + +<p> +At the beginning of the sixteenth century, the Cagots of Navarre complained to +the Pope, that they were excluded from the fellowship of men, and accursed by +the Church, because their ancestors had given help to a certain Count Raymond +of Toulouse in his revolt against the Holy See. They entreated his holiness not +to visit upon them the sins of their fathers. The Pope issued a bull on the +thirteenth of May, fifteen hundred and fifteen—ordering them to be +well-treated and to be admitted to the same privileges as other men. He charged +Don Juan de Santa Maria of Pampeluna to see to the execution of this bull. But +Don Juan was slow to help, and the poor Spanish Cagots grew impatient, and +resolved to try the secular power. They accordingly applied to the Cortes of +Navarre, and were opposed on a variety of grounds. First, it was stated that +their ancestors had had “nothing to do with Raymond Count of Toulouse, or +with any such knightly personage; that they were in fact descendants of Gehazi, +servant of Elisha (second book of Kings, fifth chapter, twenty-seventh verse), +who had been accursed by his master for his fraud upon Naaman, and doomed, he +and his descendants, to be lepers for evermore. Name, Cagots or Gahets; Gahets, +Gehazites. What can be more clear? And if that is not enough, and you tell us +that the Cagots are not lepers now; we reply that there are two kinds of +leprosy, one perceptible and the other imperceptible, even to the person +suffering from it. Besides, it is the country talk, that where the Cagot +treads, the grass withers, proving the unnatural heat of his body. Many +credible and trustworthy witnesses will also tell you that, if a Cagot holds a +freshly-gathered apple in his hand, it will shrivel and wither up in an +hour’s time as much as if it had been kept for a whole winter in a dry +room. They are born with tails; although the parents are cunning enough to +pinch them off immediately. Do you doubt this? If it is not true, why do the +children of the pure race delight in sewing on sheep’s tails to the dress +of any Cagot who is so absorbed in his work as not to perceive them? And their +bodily smell is so horrible and detestable that it shows that they must be +heretics of some vile and pernicious description, for do we not read of the +incense of good workers, and the fragrance of holiness?” +</p> + +<p> +Such were literally the arguments by which the Cagots were thrown back into a +worse position than ever, as far as regarded their rights as citizens. The Pope +insisted that they should receive all their ecclesiastical privileges. The +Spanish priests said nothing; but tacitly refused to allow the Cagots to mingle +with the rest of the faithful, either dead or alive. The accursed race obtained +laws in their favour from the Emperor Charles the Fifth; which, however, there +was no one to carry into effect. As a sort of revenge for their want of +submission, and for their impertinence in daring to complain, their tools were +all taken away from them by the local authorities: an old man and all his +family died of starvation, being no longer allowed to fish. +</p> + +<p> +They could not emigrate. Even to remove their poor mud habitations, from one +spot to another, excited anger and suspicion. To be sure, in sixteen hundred +and ninety-five, the Spanish government ordered the alcaldes to search out all +the Cagots, and to expel them before two months had expired, under pain of +having fifty ducats to pay for every Cagot remaining in Spain at the expiration +of that time. The inhabitants of the villages rose up and flogged out any of +the miserable race who might be in their neighbourhood; but the French were on +their guard against this enforced irruption, and refused to permit them to +enter France. Numbers were hunted up into the inhospitable Pyrenees, and there +died of starvation, or became a prey to wild beasts. They were obliged to wear +both gloves and shoes when they were thus put to flight, otherwise the stones +and herbage they trod upon and the balustrades of the bridges that they handled +in crossing, would, according to popular belief, have become poisonous. +</p> + +<p> +And all this time, there was nothing remarkable or disgusting in the outward +appearance of this unfortunate people. There was nothing about them to +countenance the idea of their being lepers—the most natural mode of +accounting for the abhorrence in which they were held. They were repeatedly +examined by learned doctors, whose experiments, although singular and rude, +appear to have been made in a spirit of humanity. For instance, the surgeons of +the king of Navarre, in sixteen hundred, bled twenty-two Cagots, in order to +examine and analyze their blood. They were young and healthy people of both +sexes; and the doctors seem to have expected that they should have been able to +extract some new kind of salt from their blood which might account for the +wonderful heat of their bodies. But their blood was just like that of other +people. Some of these medical men have left us a description of the general +appearance of this unfortunate race, at a time when they were more numerous and +less intermixed than they are now. The families existing in the south and west +of France, who are reputed to be of Cagot descent at this day, are, like their +ancestors, tall, largely made, and powerful in frame; fair and ruddy in +complexion, with gray-blue eyes, in which some observers see a pensive +heaviness of look. Their lips are thick, but well-formed. Some of the reports +name their sad expression of countenance with surprise and +suspicion—“They are not gay, like other folk.” The wonder +would be if they were. Dr. Guyon, the medical man of the last century who has +left the clearest report on the health of the Cagots, speaks of the vigorous +old age they attain to. In one family alone, he found a man of seventy-four +years of age; a woman as old, gathering cherries; and another woman, aged +eighty-three, was lying on the grass, having her hair combed by her +great-grandchildren. Dr. Guyon and other surgeons examined into the subject of +the horribly infectious smell which the Cagots were said to leave behind them, +and upon everything they touched; but they could perceive nothing unusual on +this head. They also examined their ears, which according to common belief (a +belief existing to this day), were differently shaped from those of other +people; being round and gristly, without the lobe of flesh into which the +ear-ring is inserted. They decided that most of the Cagots whom they examined +had the ears of this round shape; but they gravely added, that they saw no +reason why this should exclude them from the good-will of men, and from the +power of holding office in Church and State. They recorded the fact, that the +children of the towns ran baaing after any Cagot who had been compelled to come +into the streets to make purchases, in allusion to this peculiarity of the +shape of the ear, which bore some resemblance to the ears of the sheep as they +are cut by the shepherds in this district. Dr. Guyon names the case of a +beautiful Cagot girl, who sang most sweetly, and prayed to be allowed to sing +canticles in the organ-loft. The organist, more musician than bigot, allowed +her to come, but the indignant congregation, finding out whence proceeded that +clear, fresh voice, rushed up to the organ-loft, and chased the girl out, +bidding her “remember her ears,” and not commit the sacrilege of +singing praises to God along with the pure race. +</p> + +<p> +But this medical report of Dr. Guyon’s—bringing facts and arguments +to confirm his opinion, that there was no physical reason why the Cagots should +not be received on terms of social equality by the rest of the world—did +no more for his clients than the legal decrees promulgated two centuries before +had done. The French proved the truth of the saying in Hudibras— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +He that’s convinced against his will<br /> +Is of the same opinion still. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +And, indeed, the being convinced by Dr. Guyon that they ought to receive Cagots +as fellow-creatures, only made them more rabid in declaring that they would +not. One or two little occurrences which are recorded, show that the bitterness +of the repugnance to the Cagots was in full force at the time just preceding +the first French revolution. There was a M. d’Abedos, the curate of +Lourdes, and brother to the seigneur of the neighbouring castle, who was living +in seventeen hundred and eighty; he was well-educated for the time, a travelled +man, and sensible and moderate in all respects but that of his abhorrence of +the Cagots: he would insult them from the very altar, calling out to them, as +they stood afar off, “Oh! ye Cagots, damned for evermore!” One day, +a half-blind Cagot stumbled and touched the censer borne before this Abbé de +Lourdes. He was immediately turned out of the church, and forbidden ever to +re-enter it. One does not know how to account for the fact, that the very +brother of this bigoted abbé, the seigneur of the village, went and married a +Cagot girl; but so it was, and the abbé brought a legal process against him, +and had his estates taken from him, solely on account of his marriage, which +reduced him to the condition of a Cagot, against whom the old law was still in +force. The descendants of this Seigneur de Lourdes are simple peasants at this +very day, working on the lands which belonged to their grandfather. +</p> + +<p> +This prejudice against mixed marriages remained prevalent until very lately. +The tradition of the Cagot descent lingered among the people, long after the +laws against the accursed race were abolished. A Breton girl, within the last +few years, having two lovers each of reputed Cagot descent, employed a notary +to examine their pedigrees, and see which of the two had least Cagot in him; +and to that one she gave her hand. In Brittany the prejudice seems to have been +more virulent than anywhere else. M. Emile Souvestre records proofs of the +hatred borne to them in Brittany so recently as in eighteen hundred and +thirty-five. Just lately a baker at Hennebon, having married a girl of Cagot +descent, lost all his custom. The godfather and godmother of a Cagot child +became Cagots themselves by the Breton laws, unless, indeed, the poor little +baby died before attaining a certain number of days. They had to eat the +butchers’ meat condemned as unhealthy; but, for some unknown reason, they +were considered to have a right to every cut loaf turned upside down, with its +cut side towards the door, and might enter any house in which they saw a loaf +in this position, and carry it away with them. About thirty years ago, there +was the skeleton of a hand hanging up as an offering in a Breton church near +Quimperle, and the tradition was, that it was the hand of a rich Cagot who had +dared to take holy water out of the usual bénitier, some time at the beginning +of the reign of Louis the Sixteenth; which an old soldier witnessing, he lay in +wait, and the next time the offender approached the bénitier he cut off his +hand, and hung it up, dripping with blood, as an offering to the patron saint +of the church. The poor Cagots in Brittany petitioned against their opprobrious +name, and begged to be distinguished by the appelation of Malandrins. To +English ears one is much the same as the other, as neither conveys any meaning; +but, to this day, the descendants of the Cagots do not like to have this name +applied to them, preferring that of Malandrin. +</p> + +<p> +The French Cagots tried to destroy all the records of their pariah descent, in +the commotions of seventeen hundred and eighty-nine; but if writings have +disappeared, the tradition yet remains, and points out such and such a family +as Cagot, or Malandrin, or Oiselier, according to the old terms of abhorrence. +</p> + +<p> +There are various ways in which learned men have attempted to account for the +universal repugnance in which this well-made, powerful race are held. Some say +that the antipathy to them took its rise in the days when leprosy was a +dreadfully prevalent disease; and that the Cagots are more liable than any +other men to a kind of skin disease, not precisely leprosy, but resembling it +in some of its symptoms; such as dead whiteness of complexion, and swellings of +the face and extremities. There was also some resemblance to the ancient Jewish +custom in respect to lepers, in the habit of the people; who on meeting a Cagot +called out, “Cagote? Cagote?” to which they were bound to reply, +“Perlute! perlute!” Leprosy is not properly an infectious +complaint, in spite of the horror in which the Cagot furniture, and the cloth +woven by them, are held in some places; the disorder is hereditary, and hence +(say this body of wise men, who have troubled themselves to account for the +origin of Cagoterie) the reasonableness and the justice of preventing any mixed +marriages, by which this terrible tendency to leprous complaints might be +spread far and wide. Another authority says, that though the Cagots are +fine-looking men, hard-working, and good mechanics, yet they bear in their +faces, and show in their actions, reasons for the detestation in which they are +held: their glance, if you meet it, is the jettatura, or evil-eye, and they are +spiteful, and cruel, and deceitful above all other men. All these qualities +they derive from their ancestor Gehazi, the servant of Elisha, together with +their tendency to leprosy. +</p> + +<p> +Again, it is said that they are descended from the Arian Goths who were +permitted to live in certain places in Guienne and Languedoc, after their +defeat by King Clovis, on condition that they abjured their heresy, and kept +themselves separate from all other men for ever. The principal reason alleged +in support of this supposition of their Gothic descent, is the specious one of +derivation,—Chiens Gots, Cans Gets, Cagots, equivalent to Dogs of Goths. +</p> + +<p> +Again, they were thought to be Saracens, coming from Syria. In confirmation of +this idea, was the belief that all Cagots were possessed by a horrible smell. +The Lombards, also, were an unfragrant race, or so reputed among the Italians: +witness Pope Stephen’s letter to Charlemagne, dissuading him from +marrying Bertha, daughter of Didier, King of Lombardy. The Lombards boasted of +Eastern descent, and were noisome. The Cagots were noisome, and therefore must +be of Eastern descent. What could be clearer? In addition, there was the proof +to be derived from the name Cagot, which those maintaining the opinion of their +Saracen descent held to be Chiens, or Chasseurs des Gots, because the Saracens +chased the Goths out of Spain. Moreover, the Saracens were originally +Mahometans, and as such obliged to bathe seven times a-day: whence the badge of +the duck’s foot. A duck was a water-bird: Mahometans bathed in the water. +Proof upon proof! +</p> + +<p> +In Brittany the common idea was, they were of Jewish descent. Their unpleasant +smell was again pressed into service. The Jews, it was well known, had this +physical infirmity, which might be cured either by bathing in a certain +fountain in Egypt—which was a long way from Brittany—or by +anointing themselves with the blood of a Christian child. Blood gushed out of +the body of every Cagot on Good Friday. No wonder, if they were of Jewish +descent. It was the only way of accounting for so portentous a fact. Again; the +Cagots were capital carpenters, which gave the Bretons every reason to believe +that their ancestors were the very Jews who made the cross. When first the tide +of emigration set from Brittany to America, the oppressed Cagots crowded to the +ports, seeking to go to some new country, where their race might be unknown. +Here was another proof of their descent from Abraham and his nomadic people: +and, the forty years’ wandering in the wilderness and the Wandering Jew +himself, were pressed into the service to prove that the Cagots derived their +restlessness and love of change from their ancestors, the Jews. The Jews, also, +practised arts-magic, and the Cagots sold bags of wind to the Breton sailors, +enchanted maidens to love them—maidens who never would have cared for +them, unless they had been previously enchanted—made hollow rocks and +trees give out strange and unearthly noises, and sold the magical herb called +<i>bon-succès</i>. It is true enough that, in all the early acts of the +fourteenth century, the same laws apply to Jews as to Cagots, and the +appellations seem used indiscriminately; but their fair complexions, their +remarkable devotion to all the ceremonies of the Catholic Church, and many +other circumstances, conspire to forbid our believing them to be of Hebrew +descent. +</p> + +<p> +Another very plausible idea is, that they are the descendants of unfortunate +individuals afflicted with goitres, which is, even to this day, not an uncommon +disorder in the gorges and valleys of the Pyrenees. Some have even derived the +word goitre from Got, or Goth; but their name, Crestia, is not unlike Cretin, +and the same symptoms of idiotism were not unusual among the Cagots; although +sometimes, if old tradition is to be credited, their malady of the brain took +rather the form of violent delirium, which attacked them at new and full moons. +Then the workmen laid down their tools, and rushed off from their labour to +play mad pranks up and down the country. Perpetual motion was required to +alleviate the agony of fury that seized upon the Cagots at such times. In this +desire for rapid movement, the attack resembled the Neapolitan tarantella; +while in the mad deeds they performed during such attacks, they were not unlike +the northern Berserker. In Béarn especially, those suffering from this madness +were dreaded by the pure race; the Béarnais, going to cut their wooden clogs in +the great forests that lay around the base of the Pyrenées, feared above all +things to go too near the periods when the Cagoutelle seized on the oppressed +and accursed people; from whom it was then the oppressors’ turn to fly. A +man was living within the memory of some, who married a Cagot wife; he used to +beat her right soundly when he saw the first symptoms of the Cagoutelle, and, +having reduced her to a wholesome state of exhaustion and insensibility, he +locked her up until the moon had altered her shape in the heavens. If he had +not taken such decided steps, say the oldest inhabitants, there is no knowing +what might have happened. +</p> + +<p> +From the thirteenth to the end of the nineteenth century, there are facts +enough to prove the universal abhorrence in which this unfortunate race was +held; whether called Cagots, or Gahets in Pyrenean districts, Caqueaux in +Brittany, or Yaqueros Asturias. The great French revolution brought some good +out of its fermentation of the people: the more intelligent among them tried to +overcome the prejudice against the Cagots. +</p> + +<p> +In seventeen hundred and eighteen, there was a famous cause tried at Biarritz +relating to Cagot rights and privileges. There was a wealthy miller, Etienne +Arnauld by name, of the race of Gotz, Quagotz, Bisigotz, Astragotz, or Gahetz, +as his people are described in the legal document. He married an heiress, a +Gotte (or Cagot) of Biarritz; and the newly-married well-to-do couple saw no +reason why they should stand near the door in the church, nor why he should not +hold some civil office in the commune, of which he was the principal +inhabitant. Accordingly, he petitioned the law that he and his wife might be +allowed to sit in the gallery of the church, and that he might be relieved from +his civil disabilities. This wealthy white miller, Etienne Arnauld, pursued his +rights with some vigour against the Baillie of Labourd, the dignitary of the +neighbourhood. Whereupon the inhabitants of Biarritz met in the open air, on +the eighth of May, to the number of one hundred and fifty; approved of the +conduct of the Baillie in rejecting Arnauld, made a subscription, and gave all +power to their lawyers to defend the cause of the pure race against Etienne +Arnauld—“that stranger,” who, having married a girl of Cagot +blood, ought also to be expelled from the holy places. This lawsuit was carried +through all the local courts, and ended by an appeal to the highest court in +Paris; where a decision was given against Basque superstitions; and Etienne +Arnauld was thenceforward entitled to enter the gallery of the church. +</p> + +<p> +Of course, the inhabitants of Biarritz were all the more ferocious for having +been conquered; and, four years later, a carpenter, named Miguel Legaret, +suspected of Cagot descent, having placed himself in the church among other +people, was dragged out by the abbé and two of the jurets of the parish. +Legaret defended himself with a sharp knife at the time, and went to law +afterwards; the end of which was, that the abbé and his two accomplices were +condemned to a public confession of penitence, to be uttered while on their +knees at the church door, just after high-mass. They appealed to the parliament +of Bourdeaux against this decision, but met with no better success than the +opponents of the miller Arnauld. Legaret was confirmed in his right of standing +where he would in the parish church. That a living Cagot had equal rights with +other men in the town of Biarritz seemed now ceded to them; but a dead Cagot +was a different thing. The inhabitants of pure blood struggled long and hard to +be interred apart from the abhorred race. The Cagots were equally persistent in +claiming to have a common burying-ground. Again the texts of the Old Testament +were referred to, and the pure blood quoted triumphantly the precedent of +Uzziah the leper (twenty-sixth chapter of the second book of Chronicles), who +was buried in the field of the Sepulchres of the Kings, not in the sepulchres +themselves. The Cagots pleaded that they were healthy and able-bodied; with no +taint of leprosy near them. They were met by the strong argument so difficult +to be refuted, which I quoted before. Leprosy was of two kinds, perceptible and +imperceptible. If the Cagots were suffering from the latter kind, who could +tell whether they were free from it or not? That decision must be left to the +judgment of others. +</p> + +<p> +One sturdy Cagot family alone, Belone by name, kept up a lawsuit, claiming the +privilege of common sepulture, for forty-two years; although the curé of +Biarritz had to pay one hundred livres for every Cagot not interred in the +right place. The inhabitants indemnified the curate for all these fines. +</p> + +<p> +M. de Romagne, Bishop of Tarbes, who died in seventeen hundred and sixty-eight, +was the first to allow a Cagot to fill any office in the Church. To be sure, +some were so spiritless as to reject office when it was offered to them, +because, by so claiming their equality, they had to pay the same taxes as other +men, instead of the Rancale or pole-tax levied on the Cagots; the collector of +which had also a right to claim a piece of bread of a certain size for his dog +at every Cagot dwelling. +</p> + +<p> +Even in the present century, it has been necessary in some churches for the +archdeacon of the district, followed by all his clergy, to pass out of the +small door previously appropriated to the Cagots, in order to mitigate the +superstition which, even so lately, made the people refuse to mingle with them +in the house of God. A Cagot once played the congregation at Larroque a trick +suggested by what I have just named. He slily locked the great parish-door of +the church, while the greater part of the inhabitants were assisting at mass +inside; put gravel into the lock itself, so as to prevent the use of any +duplicate key,—and had the pleasure of seeing the proud pure-blooded +people file out with bended head, through the small low door used by the +abhorred Cagots. +</p> + +<p> +We are naturally shocked at discovering, from facts such as these, the +causeless rancour with which innocent and industrious people were so recently +persecuted. The moral of the history of the accursed race may, perhaps, be best +conveyed in the words of an epitaph on Mrs. Mary Hand, who lies buried in the +churchyard of Stratford-on-Avon:— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +What faults you saw in me,<br /> + Pray strive to shun;<br /> +And look at home; there’s<br /> + Something to be done. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p> +For some time past I had observed that Miss Duncan made a good deal of +occupation for herself in writing, but that she did not like me to notice her +employment. Of course this made me all the more curious; and many were my +silent conjectures—some of them so near the truth that I was not much +surprised when, after Mr. Dawson had finished reading his Paper to us, she +hesitated, coughed, and abruptly introduced a little formal speech, to the +effect that she had noted down an old Welsh story the particulars of which had +often been told her in her youth, as she lived close to the place where the +events occurred. Everybody pressed her to read the manuscript, which she now +produced from her reticule; but, when on the point of beginning, her +nervousness seemed to overcome her, and she made so many apologies for its +being the first and only attempt she had ever made at that kind of composition, +that I began to wonder if we should ever arrive at the story at all. At length, +in a high-pitched, ill-assured voice, she read out the title: +</p> + +<p class="center"> +“T<small>HE</small> D<small>OOM OF THE</small> G<small>RIFFITHS</small>.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap03"></a>THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS</h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>CHAPTER I.</h2> + +<p> +I have always been much interested by the traditions which are scattered up and +down North Wales relating to Owen Glendower (Owain Glendwr is the national +spelling of the name), and I fully enter into the feeling which makes the Welsh +peasant still look upon him as the hero of his country. There was great joy +among many of the inhabitants of the principality, when the subject of the +Welsh prize poem at Oxford, some fifteen or sixteen years ago, was announced to +be “Owain Glendwr.” It was the most proudly national subject that +had been given for years. +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps, some may not be aware that this redoubted chieftain is, even in the +present days of enlightenment, as famous among his illiterate countrymen for +his magical powers as for his patriotism. He says himself—or Shakespeare +says it for him, which is much the same thing— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + ‘At my nativity<br/> +The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes<br/> +Of burning cressets . . . .<br/> +. . . . I can call spirits from the vasty deep.’ +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +And few among the lower orders in the principality would think of asking +Hotspur’s irreverent question in reply. +</p> + +<p> +Among other traditions preserved relative to this part of the Welsh +hero’s character, is the old family prophecy which gives title to this +tale. When Sir David Gam, “as black a traitor as if he had been born in +Builth,” sought to murder Owen at Machynlleth, there was one with him +whose name Glendwr little dreamed of having associated with his enemies. Rhys +ap Gryfydd, his “old familiar friend,” his relation, his more than +brother, had consented unto his blood. Sir David Gam might be forgiven, but one +whom he had loved, and who had betrayed him, could never be forgiven. Glendwr +was too deeply read in the human heart to kill him. No, he let him live on, the +loathing and scorn of his compatriots, and the victim of bitter remorse. The +mark of Cain was upon him. +</p> + +<p> +But before he went forth—while he yet stood a prisoner, cowering beneath +his conscience before Owain Glendwr—that chieftain passed a doom upon him +and his race: +</p> + +<p> +“I doom thee to live, because I know thou wilt pray for death. Thou shalt +live on beyond the natural term of the life of man, the scorn of all good men. +The very children shall point to thee with hissing tongue, and say, +‘There goes one who would have shed a brother’s blood!’ For I +loved thee more than a brother, oh Rhys ap Gryfydd! Thou shalt live on to see +all of thy house, except the weakling in arms, perish by the sword. Thy race +shall be accursed. Each generation shall see their lands melt away like snow; +yea their wealth shall vanish, though they may labour night and day to heap up +gold. And when nine generations have passed from the face of the earth, thy +blood shall no longer flow in the veins of any human being. In those days the +last male of thy race shall avenge me. The son shall slay the father.” +</p> + +<p> +Such was the traditionary account of Owain Glendwr’s speech to his +once-trusted friend. And it was declared that the doom had been fulfilled in +all things; that live in as miserly a manner as they would, the Griffiths never +were wealthy and prosperous—indeed that their worldly stock diminished +without any visible cause. +</p> + +<p> +But the lapse of many years had almost deadened the wonder-inspiring power of +the whole curse. It was only brought forth from the hoards of Memory when some +untoward event happened to the Griffiths family; and in the eighth generation +the faith in the prophecy was nearly destroyed, by the marriage of the +Griffiths of that day, to a Miss Owen, who, unexpectedly, by the death of a +brother, became an heiress—to no considerable amount, to be sure, but +enough to make the prophecy appear reversed. The heiress and her husband +removed from his small patrimonial estate in Merionethshire, to her heritage in +Caernarvonshire, and for a time the prophecy lay dormant. +</p> + +<p> +If you go from Tremadoc to Criccaeth, you pass by the parochial church of +Ynysynhanarn, situated in a boggy valley running from the mountains, which +shoulder up to the Rivals, down to Cardigan Bay. This tract of land has every +appearance of having been redeemed at no distant period of time from the sea, +and has all the desolate rankness often attendant upon such marshes. But the +valley beyond, similar in character, had yet more of gloom at the time of which +I write. In the higher part there were large plantations of firs, set too +closely to attain any size, and remaining stunted in height and scrubby in +appearance. Indeed, many of the smaller and more weakly had died, and the bark +had fallen down on the brown soil neglected and unnoticed. These trees had a +ghastly appearance, with their white trunks, seen by the dim light which +struggled through the thick boughs above. Nearer to the sea, the valley assumed +a more open, though hardly a more cheerful character; it looked dark and +overhung by sea-fog through the greater part of the year, and even a +farm-house, which usually imparts something of cheerfulness to a landscape, +failed to do so here. This valley formed the greater part of the estate to +which Owen Griffiths became entitled by right of his wife. In the higher part +of the valley was situated the family mansion, or rather dwelling-house, for +“mansion” is too grand a word to apply to the clumsy, but +substantially-built Bodowen. It was square and heavy-looking, with just that +much pretension to ornament necessary to distinguish it from the mere +farm-house. +</p> + +<p> +In this dwelling Mrs. Owen Griffiths bore her husband two sons—Llewellyn, +the future Squire, and Robert, who was early destined for the Church. The only +difference in their situation, up to the time when Robert was entered at Jesus +College, was, that the elder was invariably indulged by all around him, while +Robert was thwarted and indulged by turns; that Llewellyn never learned +anything from the poor Welsh parson, who was nominally his private tutor; while +occasionally Squire Griffiths made a great point of enforcing Robert’s +diligence, telling him that, as he had his bread to earn, he must pay attention +to his learning. There is no knowing how far the very irregular education he +had received would have carried Robert through his college examinations; but, +luckily for him in this respect, before such a trial of his learning came +round, he heard of the death of his elder brother, after a short illness, +brought on by a hard drinking-bout. Of course, Robert was summoned home, and it +seemed quite as much of course, now that there was no necessity for him to +“earn his bread by his learning,” that he should not return to +Oxford. So the half-educated, but not unintelligent, young man continued at +home, during the short remainder of his parent’s lifetime. +</p> + +<p> +His was not an uncommon character. In general he was mild, indolent, and easily +managed; but once thoroughly roused, his passions were vehement and fearful. He +seemed, indeed, almost afraid of himself, and in common hardly dared to give +way to justifiable anger—so much did he dread losing his self-control. +Had he been judiciously educated, he would, probably, have distinguished +himself in those branches of literature which call for taste and imagination, +rather than any exertion of reflection or judgment. As it was, his literary +taste showed itself in making collections of Cambrian antiquities of every +description, till his stock of Welsh MSS. would have excited the envy of Dr. +Pugh himself, had he been alive at the time of which I write. +</p> + +<p> +There is one characteristic of Robert Griffiths which I have omitted to note, +and which was peculiar among his class. He was no hard drinker; whether it was +that his head was easily affected, or that his partially-refined taste led him +to dislike intoxication and its attendant circumstances, I cannot say; but at +five-and-twenty Robert Griffiths was habitually sober—a thing so rare in +Llyn, that he was almost shunned as a churlish, unsociable being, and paused +much of his time in solitude. +</p> + +<p> +About this time, he had to appear in some case that was tried at the Caernarvon +assizes; and while there, was a guest at the house of his agent, a shrewd, +sensible Welsh attorney, with one daughter, who had charms enough to captivate +Robert Griffiths. Though he remained only a few days at her father’s +house, they were sufficient to decide his affections, and short was the period +allowed to elapse before he brought home a mistress to Bodowen. The new Mrs. +Griffiths was a gentle, yielding person, full of love toward her husband, of +whom, nevertheless, she stood something in awe, partly arising from the +difference in their ages, partly from his devoting much time to studies of +which she could understand nothing. +</p> + +<p> +She soon made him the father of a blooming little daughter, called Augharad +after her mother. Then there came several uneventful years in the household of +Bodowen; and when the old women had one and all declared that the cradle would +not rock again, Mrs. Griffiths bore the son and heir. His birth was soon +followed by his mother’s death: she had been ailing and low-spirited +during her pregnancy, and she seemed to lack the buoyancy of body and mind +requisite to bring her round after her time of trial. Her husband, who loved +her all the more from having few other claims on his affections, was deeply +grieved by her early death, and his only comforter was the sweet little boy +whom she had left behind. That part of the squire’s character, which was +so tender, and almost feminine, seemed called forth by the helpless situation +of the little infant, who stretched out his arms to his father with the same +earnest cooing that happier children make use of to their mother alone. +Augharad was almost neglected, while the little Owen was king of the house; +still next to his father, none tended him so lovingly as his sister. She was so +accustomed to give way to him that it was no longer a hardship. By night and by +day Owen was the constant companion of his father, and increasing years seemed +only to confirm the custom. It was an unnatural life for the child, seeing no +bright little faces peering into his own (for Augharad was, as I said before, +five or six years older, and her face, poor motherless girl! was often anything +but bright), hearing no din of clear ringing voices, but day after day sharing +the otherwise solitary hours of his father, whether in the dim room, surrounded +by wizard-like antiquities, or pattering his little feet to keep up with his +“tada” in his mountain rambles or shooting excursions. When the +pair came to some little foaming brook, where the stepping-stones were far and +wide, the father carried his little boy across with the tenderest care; when +the lad was weary, they rested, he cradled in his father’s arms, or the +Squire would lift him up and carry him to his home again. The boy was indulged +(for his father felt flattered by the desire) in his wish of sharing his meals +and keeping the same hours. All this indulgence did not render Owen unamiable, +but it made him wilful, and not a happy child. He had a thoughtful look, not +common to the face of a young boy. He knew no games, no merry sports; his +information was of an imaginative and speculative character. His father +delighted to interest him in his own studies, without considering how far they +were healthy for so young a mind. +</p> + +<p> +Of course Squire Griffiths was not unaware of the prophecy which was to be +fulfilled in his generation. He would occasionally refer to it when among his +friends, with sceptical levity; but in truth it lay nearer to his heart than he +chose to acknowledge. His strong imagination rendered him peculiarly +impressible on such subjects; while his judgment, seldom exercised or fortified +by severe thought, could not prevent his continually recurring to it. He used +to gaze on the half-sad countenance of the child, who sat looking up into his +face with his large dark eyes, so fondly yet so inquiringly, till the old +legend swelled around his heart, and became too painful for him not to require +sympathy. Besides, the overpowering love he bore to the child seemed to demand +fuller vent than tender words; it made him like, yet dread, to upbraid its +object for the fearful contrast foretold. Still Squire Griffiths told the +legend, in a half-jesting manner, to his little son, when they were roaming +over the wild heaths in the autumn days, “the saddest of the year,” +or while they sat in the oak-wainscoted room, surrounded by mysterious relics +that gleamed strangely forth by the flickering fire-light. The legend was +wrought into the boy’s mind, and he would crave, yet tremble, to hear it +told over and over again, while the words were intermingled with caresses and +questions as to his love. Occasionally his loving words and actions were cut +short by his father’s light yet bitter speech—“Get thee away, +my lad; thou knowest not what is to come of all this love.” +</p> + +<p> +When Augharad was seventeen, and Owen eleven or twelve, the rector of the +parish in which Bodowen was situated, endeavoured to prevail on Squire +Griffiths to send the boy to school. Now, this rector had many congenial tastes +with his parishioner, and was his only intimate; and, by repeated arguments, he +succeeded in convincing the Squire that the unnatural life Owen was leading was +in every way injurious. Unwillingly was the father wrought to part from his +son; but he did at length send him to the Grammar School at Bangor, then under +the management of an excellent classic. Here Owen showed that he had more +talents than the rector had given him credit for, when he affirmed that the lad +had been completely stupefied by the life he led at Bodowen. He bade fair to do +credit to the school in the peculiar branch of learning for which it was +famous. But he was not popular among his schoolfellows. He was wayward, though, +to a certain degree, generous and unselfish; he was reserved but gentle, except +when the tremendous bursts of passion (similar in character to those of his +father) forced their way. +</p> + +<p> +On his return from school one Christmas-time, when he had been a year or so at +Bangor, he was stunned by hearing that the undervalued Augharad was about to be +married to a gentleman of South Wales, residing near Aberystwith. Boys seldom +appreciate their sisters; but Owen thought of the many slights with which he +had requited the patient Augharad, and he gave way to bitter regrets, which, +with a selfish want of control over his words, he kept expressing to his +father, until the Squire was thoroughly hurt and chagrined at the repeated +exclamations of “What shall we do when Augharad is gone?” +“How dull we shall be when Augharad is married!” Owen’s +holidays were prolonged a few weeks, in order that he might be present at the +wedding; and when all the festivities were over, and the bride and bridegroom +had left Bodowen, the boy and his father really felt how much they missed the +quiet, loving Augharad. She had performed so many thoughtful, noiseless little +offices, on which their daily comfort depended; and now she was gone, the +household seemed to miss the spirit that peacefully kept it in order; the +servants roamed about in search of commands and directions, the rooms had no +longer the unobtrusive ordering of taste to make them cheerful, the very fires +burned dim, and were always sinking down into dull heaps of gray ashes. +Altogether Owen did not regret his return to Bangor, and this also the +mortified parent perceived. Squire Griffiths was a selfish parent. +</p> + +<p> +Letters in those days were a rare occurrence. Owen usually received one during +his half-yearly absences from home, and occasionally his father paid him a +visit. This half-year the boy had no visit, nor even a letter, till very near +the time of his leaving school, and then he was astounded by the intelligence +that his father was married again. +</p> + +<p> +Then came one of his paroxysms of rage; the more disastrous in its effects upon +his character because it could find no vent in action. Independently of slight +to the memory of the first wife which children are so apt to fancy such an +action implies, Owen had hitherto considered himself (and with justice) the +first object of his father’s life. They had been so much to each other; +and now a shapeless, but too real something had come between him and his father +there for ever. He felt as if his permission should have been asked, as if he +should have been consulted. Certainly he ought to have been told of the +intended event. So the Squire felt, and hence his constrained letter which had +so much increased the bitterness of Owen’s feelings. +</p> + +<p> +With all this anger, when Owen saw his stepmother, he thought he had never seen +so beautiful a woman for her age; for she was no longer in the bloom of youth, +being a widow when his father married her. Her manners, to the Welsh lad, who +had seen little of female grace among the families of the few antiquarians with +whom his father visited, were so fascinating that he watched her with a sort of +breathless admiration. Her measured grace, her faultless movements, her tones +of voice, sweet, till the ear was sated with their sweetness, made Owen less +angry at his father’s marriage. Yet he felt, more than ever, that the +cloud was between him and his father; that the hasty letter he had sent in +answer to the announcement of his wedding was not forgotten, although no +allusion was ever made to it. He was no longer his father’s +confidant—hardly ever his father’s companion, for the newly-married +wife was all in all to the Squire, and his son felt himself almost a cipher, +where he had so long been everything. The lady herself had ever the softest +consideration for her stepson; almost too obtrusive was the attention paid to +his wishes, but still he fancied that the heart had no part in the winning +advances. There was a watchful glance of the eye that Owen once or twice caught +when she had imagined herself unobserved, and many other nameless little +circumstances, that gave him a strong feeling of want of sincerity in his +stepmother. Mrs. Owen brought with her into the family her little child by her +first husband, a boy nearly three years old. He was one of those elfish, +observant, mocking children, over whose feelings you seem to have no control: +agile and mischievous, his little practical jokes, at first performed in +ignorance of the pain he gave, but afterward proceeding to a malicious pleasure +in suffering, really seemed to afford some ground to the superstitious notion +of some of the common people that he was a fairy changeling. +</p> + +<p> +Years passed on; and as Owen grew older he became more observant. He saw, even +in his occasional visits at home (for from school he had passed on to college), +that a great change had taken place in the outward manifestations of his +father’s character; and, by degrees, Owen traced this change to the +influence of his stepmother; so slight, so imperceptible to the common +observer, yet so resistless in its effects. Squire Griffiths caught up his +wife’s humbly advanced opinions, and, unawares to himself, adopted them +as his own, defying all argument and opposition. It was the same with her +wishes; they met their fulfilment, from the extreme and delicate art with which +she insinuated them into her husband’s mind, as his own. She sacrificed +the show of authority for the power. At last, when Owen perceived some +oppressive act in his father’s conduct toward his dependants, or some +unaccountable thwarting of his own wishes, he fancied he saw his +stepmother’s secret influence thus displayed, however much she might +regret the injustice of his father’s actions in her conversations with +him when they were alone. His father was fast losing his temperate habits, and +frequent intoxication soon took its usual effect upon the temper. Yet even here +was the spell of his wife upon him. Before her he placed a restraint upon his +passion, yet she was perfectly aware of his irritable disposition, and directed +it hither and thither with the same apparent ignorance of the tendency of her +words. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile Owen’s situation became peculiarly mortifying to a youth whose +early remembrances afforded such a contrast to his present state. As a child, +he had been elevated to the consequence of a man before his years gave any +mental check to the selfishness which such conduct was likely to engender; he +could remember when his will was law to the servants and dependants, and his +sympathy necessary to his father: now he was as a cipher in his father’s +house; and the Squire, estranged in the first instance by a feeling of the +injury he had done his son in not sooner acquainting him with his purposed +marriage, seemed rather to avoid than to seek him as a companion, and too +frequently showed the most utter indifference to the feelings and wishes which +a young man of a high and independent spirit might be supposed to indulge. +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps Owen was not fully aware of the force of all these circumstances; for +an actor in a family drama is seldom unimpassioned enough to be perfectly +observant. But he became moody and soured; brooding over his unloved existence, +and craving with a human heart after sympathy. +</p> + +<p> +This feeling took more full possession of his mind when he had left college, +and returned home to lead an idle and purposeless life. As the heir, there was +no worldly necessity for exertion: his father was too much of a Welsh squire to +dream of the moral necessity, and he himself had not sufficient strength of +mind to decide at once upon abandoning a place and mode of life which abounded +in daily mortifications; yet to this course his judgment was slowly tending, +when some circumstances occurred to detain him at Bodowen. +</p> + +<p> +It was not to be expected that harmony would long be preserved, even in +appearance, between an unguarded and soured young man, such as Owen, and his +wary stepmother, when he had once left college, and come, not as a visitor, but +as the heir to his father’s house. Some cause of difference occurred, +where the woman subdued her hidden anger sufficiently to become convinced that +Owen was not entirely the dupe she had believed him to be. Henceforward there +was no peace between them. Not in vulgar altercations did this show itself; but +in moody reserve on Owen’s part, and in undisguised and contemptuous +pursuance of her own plans by his stepmother. Bodowen was no longer a place +where, if Owen was not loved or attended to, he could at least find peace, and +care for himself: he was thwarted at every step, and in every wish, by his +father’s desire, apparently, while the wife sat by with a smile of +triumph on her beautiful lips. +</p> + +<p> +So Owen went forth at the early day dawn, sometimes roaming about on the shore +or the upland, shooting or fishing, as the season might be, but oftener +“stretched in indolent repose” on the short, sweet grass, indulging +in gloomy and morbid reveries. He would fancy that this mortified state of +existence was a dream, a horrible dream, from which he should awake and find +himself again the sole object and darling of his father. And then he would +start up and strive to shake off the incubus. There was the molten sunset of +his childish memory; the gorgeous crimson piles of glory in the west, fading +away into the cold calm light of the rising moon, while here and there a cloud +floated across the western heaven, like a seraph’s wing, in its flaming +beauty; the earth was the same as in his childhood’s days, full of gentle +evening sounds, and the harmonies of twilight—the breeze came sweeping +low over the heather and blue-bells by his side, and the turf was sending up +its evening incense of perfume. But life, and heart, and hope were changed for +ever since those bygone days! +</p> + +<p> +Or he would seat himself in a favourite niche of the rocks on Moel Gêst, +hidden by a stunted growth of the whitty, or mountain-ash, from general +observation, with a rich-tinted cushion of stone-crop for his feet, and a +straight precipice of rock rising just above. Here would he sit for hours, +gazing idly at the bay below with its back-ground of purple hills, and the +little fishing-sail on its bosom, showing white in the sunbeam, and gliding on +in such harmony with the quiet beauty of the glassy sea; or he would pull out +an old school-volume, his companion for years, and in morbid accordance with +the dark legend that still lurked in the recesses of his mind—a shape of +gloom in those innermost haunts awaiting its time to come forth in distinct +outline—would he turn to the old Greek dramas which treat of a family +foredoomed by an avenging Fate. The worn page opened of itself at the play of +the Œdipus Tyrannus, and Owen dwelt with the craving disease upon the +prophecy so nearly resembling that which concerned himself. With his +consciousness of neglect, there was a sort of self-flattery in the consequence +which the legend gave him. He almost wondered how they durst, with slights and +insults, thus provoke the Avenger. +</p> + +<p> +The days drifted onward. Often he would vehemently pursue some sylvan sport, +till thought and feeling were lost in the violence of bodily exertion. +Occasionally his evenings were spent at a small public-house, such as stood by +the unfrequented wayside, where the welcome, hearty, though bought, seemed so +strongly to contrast with the gloomy negligence of home—unsympathising +home. +</p> + +<p> +One evening (Owen might be four or five-and-twenty), wearied with a day’s +shooting on the Clenneny Moors, he passed by the open door of “The +Goat” at Penmorfa. The light and the cheeriness within tempted him, poor +self-exhausted man! as it has done many a one more wretched in worldly +circumstances, to step in, and take his evening meal where at least his +presence was of some consequence. It was a busy day in that little hostel. A +flock of sheep, amounting to some hundreds, had arrived at Penmorfa, on their +road to England, and thronged the space before the house. Inside was the +shrewd, kind-hearted hostess, bustling to and fro, with merry greetings for +every tired drover who was to pass the night in her house, while the sheep were +penned in a field close by. Ever and anon, she kept attending to the second +crowd of guests, who were celebrating a rural wedding in her house. It was busy +work to Martha Thomas, yet her smile never flagged; and when Owen Griffiths had +finished his evening meal she was there, ready with a hope that it had done him +good, and was to his mind, and a word of intelligence that the wedding-folk +were about to dance in the kitchen, and the harper was the famous Edward of +Corwen. +</p> + +<p> +Owen, partly from good-natured compliance with his hostess’s implied +wish, and partly from curiosity, lounged to the passage which led to the +kitchen—not the every-day, working, cooking kitchen, which was behind, +but a good-sized room, where the mistress sat, when her work was done, and +where the country people were commonly entertained at such merry-makings as the +present. The lintels of the door formed a frame for the animated picture which +Owen saw within, as he leaned against the wall in the dark passage. The red +light of the fire, with every now and then a falling piece of turf sending +forth a fresh blaze, shone full upon four young men who were dancing a measure +something like a Scotch reel, keeping admirable time in their rapid movements +to the capital tune the harper was playing. They had their hats on when Owen +first took his stand, but as they grew more and more animated they flung them +away, and presently their shoes were kicked off with like disregard to the spot +where they might happen to alight. Shouts of applause followed any remarkable +exertion of agility, in which each seemed to try to excel his companions. At +length, wearied and exhausted, they sat down, and the harper gradually changed +to one of those wild, inspiring national airs for which he was so famous. The +thronged audience sat earnest and breathless, and you might have heard a pin +drop, except when some maiden passed hurriedly, with flaring candle and busy +look, through to the real kitchen beyond. When he had finished his beautiful +theme on “The March of the men of Harlech,” he changed the measure +again to “Tri chant o’ bunnan” (Three hundred pounds), and +immediately a most unmusical-looking man began chanting +“Pennillion,” or a sort of recitative stanzas, which were soon +taken up by another, and this amusement lasted so long that Owen grew weary, +and was thinking of retreating from his post by the door, when some little +bustle was occasioned, on the opposite side of the room, by the entrance of a +middle-aged man, and a young girl, apparently his daughter. The man advanced to +the bench occupied by the seniors of the party, who welcomed him with the usual +pretty Welsh greeting, “Pa sut mae dy galon?” (“How is thy +heart?”) and drinking his health passed on to him the cup of excellent +<i>cwrw</i>. The girl, evidently a village belle, was as warmly greeted by the +young men, while the girls eyed her rather askance with a half-jealous look, +which Owen set down to the score of her extreme prettiness. Like most Welsh +women, she was of middle size as to height, but beautifully made, with the most +perfect yet delicate roundness in every limb. Her little mob-cap was carefully +adjusted to a face which was excessively pretty, though it never could be +called handsome. It also was round, with the slightest tendency to the oval +shape, richly coloured, though somewhat olive in complexion, with dimples in +cheek and chin, and the most scarlet lips Owen had ever seen, that were too +short to meet over the small pearly teeth. The nose was the most defective +feature; but the eyes were splendid. They were so long, so lustrous, yet at +times so very soft under their thick fringe of eyelash! The nut-brown hair was +carefully braided beneath the border of delicate lace: it was evident the +little village beauty knew how to make the most of all her attractions, for the +gay colours which were displayed in her neckerchief were in complete harmony +with the complexion. +</p> + +<p> +Owen was much attracted, while yet he was amused, by the evident coquetry the +girl displayed, collecting around her a whole bevy of young fellows, for each +of whom she seemed to have some gay speech, some attractive look or action. In +a few minutes young Griffiths of Bodowen was at her side, brought thither by a +variety of idle motives, and as her undivided attention was given to the Welsh +heir, her admirers, one by one, dropped off, to seat themselves by some less +fascinating but more attentive fair one. The more Owen conversed with the girl, +the more he was taken; she had more wit and talent than he had fancied +possible; a self-abandon and thoughtfulness, to boot, that seemed full of +charms; and then her voice was so clear and sweet, and her actions so full of +grace, that Owen was fascinated before he was well aware, and kept looking into +her bright, blushing face, till her uplifted flashing eye fell beneath his +earnest gaze. +</p> + +<p> +While it thus happened that they were silent—she from confusion at the +unexpected warmth of his admiration, he from an unconsciousness of anything but +the beautiful changes in her flexile countenance—the man whom Owen took +for her father came up and addressed some observation to his daughter, from +whence he glided into some commonplace though respectful remark to Owen, and at +length engaging him in some slight, local conversation, he led the way to the +account of a spot on the peninsula of Penthryn, where teal abounded, and +concluded with begging Owen to allow him to show him the exact place, saying +that whenever the young Squire felt so inclined, if he would honour him by a +call at his house, he would take him across in his boat. While Owen listened, +his attention was not so much absorbed as to be unaware that the little beauty +at his side was refusing one or two who endeavoured to draw her from her place +by invitations to dance. Flattered by his own construction of her refusals, he +again directed all his attention to her, till she was called away by her +father, who was leaving the scene of festivity. Before he left he reminded Owen +of his promise, and added— +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps, sir, you do not know me. My name is Ellis Pritchard, and I live +at Ty Glas, on this side of Moel Gêst; anyone can point it out to +you.” +</p> + +<p> +When the father and daughter had left, Owen slowly prepared for his ride home; +but encountering the hostess, he could not resist asking a few questions +relative to Ellis Pritchard and his pretty daughter. She answered shortly but +respectfully, and then said, rather hesitatingly— +</p> + +<p> +“Master Griffiths, you know the triad, ‘Tri pheth tebyg y naill +i’r llall, ysgnbwr heb yd, mail deg heb ddiawd, a merch deg heb ei +geirda’ (Three things are alike: a fine barn without corn, a fine cup +without drink, a fine woman without her reputation).” She hastily quitted +him, and Owen rode slowly to his unhappy home. +</p> + +<p> +Ellis Pritchard, half farmer and half fisherman, was shrewd, and keen, and +worldly; yet he was good-natured, and sufficiently generous to have become +rather a popular man among his equals. He had been struck with the young +Squire’s attention to his pretty daughter, and was not insensible to the +advantages to be derived from it. Nest would not be the first peasant girl, by +any means, who had been transplanted to a Welsh manor-house as its mistress; +and, accordingly, her father had shrewdly given the admiring young man some +pretext for further opportunities of seeing her. +</p> + +<p> +As for Nest herself, she had somewhat of her father’s worldliness, and +was fully alive to the superior station of her new admirer, and quite prepared +to slight all her old sweethearts on his account. But then she had something +more of feeling in her reckoning; she had not been insensible to the earnest +yet comparatively refined homage which Owen paid her; she had noticed his +expressive and occasionally handsome countenance with admiration, and was +flattered by his so immediately singling her out from her companions. As to the +hint which Martha Thomas had thrown out, it is enough to say that Nest was very +giddy, and that she was motherless. She had high spirits and a great love of +admiration, or, to use a softer term, she loved to please; men, women, and +children, all, she delighted to gladden with her smile and voice. She +coquetted, and flirted, and went to the extreme lengths of Welsh courtship, +till the seniors of the village shook their heads, and cautioned their +daughters against her acquaintance. If not absolutely guilty, she had too +frequently been on the verge of guilt. +</p> + +<p> +Even at the time, Martha Thomas’s hint made but little impression on +Owen, for his senses were otherwise occupied; but in a few days the +recollection thereof had wholly died away, and one warm glorious summer’s +day, he bent his steps toward Ellis Pritchard’s with a beating heart; +for, except some very slight flirtations at Oxford, Owen had never been +touched; his thoughts, his fancy, had been otherwise engaged. +</p> + +<p> +Ty Glas was built against one of the lower rocks of Moel Gêst, which, +indeed, formed a side to the low, lengthy house. The materials of the cottage +were the shingly stones which had fallen from above, plastered rudely together, +with deep recesses for the small oblong windows. Altogether, the exterior was +much ruder than Owen had expected; but inside there seemed no lack of comforts. +The house was divided into two apartments, one large, roomy, and dark, into +which Owen entered immediately; and before the blushing Nest came from the +inner chamber (for she had seen the young Squire coming, and hastily gone to +make some alteration in her dress), he had had time to look around him, and +note the various little particulars of the room. Beneath the window (which +commanded a magnificent view) was an oaken dresser, replete with drawers and +cupboards, and brightly polished to a rich dark colour. In the farther part of +the room Owen could at first distinguish little, entering as he did from the +glaring sunlight, but he soon saw that there were two oaken beds, closed up +after the manner of the Welsh: in fact, the domitories of Ellis Pritchard and +the man who served under him, both on sea and on land. There was the large +wheel used for spinning wool, left standing on the middle of the floor, as if +in use only a few minutes before; and around the ample chimney hung flitches of +bacon, dried kids’-flesh, and fish, that was in process of smoking for +winter’s store. +</p> + +<p> +Before Nest had shyly dared to enter, her father, who had been mending his nets +down below, and seen Owen winding up to the house, came in and gave him a +hearty yet respectful welcome; and then Nest, downcast and blushing, full of +the consciousness which her father’s advice and conversation had not +failed to inspire, ventured to join them. To Owen’s mind this reserve and +shyness gave her new charms. +</p> + +<p> +It was too bright, too hot, too anything to think of going to shoot teal till +later in the day, and Owen was delighted to accept a hesitating invitation to +share the noonday meal. Some ewe-milk cheese, very hard and dry, oat-cake, +slips of the dried kids’-flesh broiled, after having been previously +soaked in water for a few minutes, delicious butter and fresh butter-milk, with +a liquor called “diod griafol” (made from the berries of the +<i>Sorbus aucuparia</i>, infused in water and then fermented), composed the +frugal repast; but there was something so clean and neat, and withal such a +true welcome, that Owen had seldom enjoyed a meal so much. Indeed, at that time +of day the Welsh squires differed from the farmers more in the plenty and rough +abundance of their manner of living than in the refinement of style of their +table. +</p> + +<p> +At the present day, down in Llyn, the Welsh gentry are not a wit behind their +Saxon equals in the expensive elegances of life; but then (when there was but +one pewter-service in all Northumberland) there was nothing in Ellis +Pritchard’s mode of living that grated on the young Squire’s sense +of refinement. +</p> + +<p> +Little was said by that young pair of wooers during the meal; the father had +all the conversation to himself, apparently heedless of the ardent looks and +inattentive mien of his guest. As Owen became more serious in his feelings, he +grew more timid in their expression, and at night, when they returned from +their shooting-excursion, the caress he gave Nest was almost as bashfully +offered as received. +</p> + +<p> +This was but the first of a series of days devoted to Nest in reality, though +at first he thought some little disguise of his object was necessary. The past, +the future, was all forgotten in those happy days of love. +</p> + +<p> +And every worldly plan, every womanly wile was put in practice by Ellis +Pritchard and his daughter, to render his visits agreeable and alluring. +Indeed, the very circumstance of his being welcome was enough to attract the +poor young man, to whom the feeling so produced was new and full of charms. He +left a home where the certainty of being thwarted made him chary in expressing +his wishes; where no tones of love ever fell on his ear, save those addressed +to others; where his presence or absence was a matter of utter indifference; +and when he entered Ty Glas, all, down to the little cur which, with clamorous +barkings, claimed a part of his attention, seemed to rejoice. His account of +his day’s employment found a willing listener in Ellis; and when he +passed on to Nest, busy at her wheel or at her churn, the deepened colour, the +conscious eye, and the gradual yielding of herself up to his lover-like caress, +had worlds of charms. Ellis Pritchard was a tenant on the Bodowen estate, and +therefore had reasons in plenty for wishing to keep the young Squire’s +visits secret; and Owen, unwilling to disturb the sunny calm of these halcyon +days by any storm at home, was ready to use all the artifice which Ellis +suggested as to the mode of his calls at Ty Glas. Nor was he unaware of the +probable, nay, the hoped-for termination of these repeated days of happiness. +He was quite conscious that the father wished for nothing better than the +marriage of his daughter to the heir of Bodowen; and when Nest had hidden her +face in his neck, which was encircled by her clasping arms, and murmured into +his ear her acknowledgment of love, he felt only too desirous of finding some +one to love him for ever. Though not highly principled, he would not have tried +to obtain Nest on other terms save those of marriage: he did so pine after +enduring love, and fancied he should have bound her heart for evermore to his, +when they had taken the solemn oaths of matrimony. +</p> + +<p> +There was no great difficulty attending a secret marriage at such a place and +at such a time. One gusty autumn day, Ellis ferried them round Penthryn to +Llandutrwyn, and there saw his little Nest become future Lady of Bodowen. +</p> + +<p> +How often do we see giddy, coquetting, restless girls become sobered by +marriage? A great object in life is decided; one on which their thoughts have +been running in all their vagaries, and they seem to verify the beautiful fable +of Undine. A new soul beams out in the gentleness and repose of their future +lives. An indescribable softness and tenderness takes place of the wearying +vanity of their former endeavours to attract admiration. Something of this sort +took place in Nest Pritchard. If at first she had been anxious to attract the +young Squire of Bodowen, long before her marriage this feeling had merged into +a truer love than she had ever felt before; and now that he was her own, her +husband, her whole soul was bent toward making him amends, as far as in her +lay, for the misery which, with a woman’s tact, she saw that he had to +endure at his home. Her greetings were abounding in delicately-expressed love; +her study of his tastes unwearying, in the arrangement of her dress, her time, +her very thoughts. +</p> + +<p> +No wonder that he looked back on his wedding-day with a thankfulness which is +seldom the result of unequal marriages. No wonder that his heart beat aloud as +formerly when he wound up the little path to Ty Glas, and saw—keen though +the winter’s wind might be—that Nest was standing out at the door +to watch for his dimly-seen approach, while the candle flared in the little +window as a beacon to guide him aright. +</p> + +<p> +The angry words and unkind actions of home fell deadened on his heart; he +thought of the love that was surely his, and of the new promise of love that a +short time would bring forth, and he could almost have smiled at the impotent +efforts to disturb his peace. +</p> + +<p> +A few more months, and the young father was greeted by a feeble little cry, +when he hastily entered Ty Glas, one morning early, in consequence of a summons +conveyed mysteriously to Bodowen; and the pale mother, smiling, and feebly +holding up her babe to its father’s kiss, seemed to him even more lovely +than the bright gay Nest who had won his heart at the little inn of Penmorfa. +</p> + +<p> +But the curse was at work! The fulfilment of the prophecy was nigh at hand! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>CHAPTER II.</h2> + +<p> +It was the autumn after the birth of their boy; it had been a glorious summer, +with bright, hot, sunny weather; and now the year was fading away as seasonably +into mellow days, with mornings of silver mists and clear frosty nights. The +blooming look of the time of flowers, was past and gone; but instead there were +even richer tints abroad in the sun-coloured leaves, the lichens, the golden +blossomed furze; if it was the time of fading, there was a glory in the decay. +</p> + +<p> +Nest, in her loving anxiety to surround her dwelling with every charm for her +husband’s sake, had turned gardener, and the little corners of the rude +court before the house were filled with many a delicate mountain-flower, +transplanted more for its beauty than its rarity. The sweetbrier bush may even +yet be seen, old and gray, which she and Owen planted a green slipling beneath +the window of her little chamber. In those moments Owen forgot all besides the +present; all the cares and griefs he had known in the past, and all that might +await him of woe and death in the future. The boy, too, was as lovely a child +as the fondest parent was ever blessed with; and crowed with delight, and +clapped his little hands, as his mother held him in her arms at the +cottage-door to watch his father’s ascent up the rough path that led to +Ty Glas, one bright autumnal morning; and when the three entered the house +together, it was difficult to say which was the happiest. Owen carried his boy, +and tossed and played with him, while Nest sought out some little article of +work, and seated herself on the dresser beneath the window, where now busily +plying the needle, and then again looking at her husband, she eagerly told him +the little pieces of domestic intelligence, the winning ways of the child, the +result of yesterday’s fishing, and such of the gossip of Penmorfa as came +to the ears of the now retired Nest. She noticed that, when she mentioned any +little circumstance which bore the slightest reference to Bodowen, her husband +appeared chafed and uneasy, and at last avoided anything that might in the +least remind him of home. In truth, he had been suffering much of late from the +irritability of his father, shown in trifles to be sure, but not the less +galling on that account. +</p> + +<p> +While they were thus talking, and caressing each other and the child, a shadow +darkened the room, and before they could catch a glimpse of the object that had +occasioned it, it vanished, and Squire Griffiths lifted the door-latch and +stood before them. He stood and looked—first on his son, so different, in +his buoyant expression of content and enjoyment, with his noble child in his +arms, like a proud and happy father, as he was, from the depressed, moody young +man he too often appeared at Bodowen; then on Nest—poor, trembling, +sickened Nest!—who dropped her work, but yet durst not stir from her +seat, on the dresser, while she looked to her husband as if for protection from +his father. +</p> + +<p> +The Squire was silent, as he glared from one to the other, his features white +with restrained passion. When he spoke, his words came most distinct in their +forced composure. It was to his son he addressed himself: +</p> + +<p> +“That woman! who is she?” +</p> + +<p> +Owen hesitated one moment, and then replied, in a steady, yet quiet voice: +</p> + +<p> +“Father, that woman is my wife.” +</p> + +<p> +He would have added some apology for the long concealment of his marriage; have +appealed to his father’s forgiveness; but the foam flew from Squire +Owen’s lips as he burst forth with invective against Nest:— +</p> + +<p> +“You have married her! It is as they told me! Married Nest Pritchard yr +buten! And you stand there as if you had not disgraced yourself for ever and +ever with your accursed wiving! And the fair harlot sits there, in her mocking +modesty, practising the mimming airs that will become her state as future Lady +of Bodowen. But I will move heaven and earth before that false woman darken the +doors of my father’s house as mistress!” +</p> + +<p> +All this was said with such rapidity that Owen had no time for the words that +thronged to his lips. “Father!” (he burst forth at length) +“Father, whosoever told you that Nest Pritchard was a harlot told you a +lie as false as hell! Ay! a lie as false as hell!” he added, in a voice +of thunder, while he advanced a step or two nearer to the Squire. And then, in +a lower tone, he said— +</p> + +<p> +“She is as pure as your own wife; nay, God help me! as the dear, precious +mother who brought me forth, and then left me—with no refuge in a +mother’s heart—to struggle on through life alone. I tell you Nest +is as pure as that dear, dead mother!” +</p> + +<p> +“Fool—poor fool!” +</p> + +<p> +At this moment the child—the little Owen—who had kept gazing from +one angry countenance to the other, and with earnest look, trying to understand +what had brought the fierce glare into the face where till now he had read +nothing but love, in some way attracted the Squire’s attention, and +increased his wrath. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he continued, “poor, weak fool that you are, hugging +the child of another as if it were your own offspring!” Owen +involuntarily caressed the affrighted child, and half smiled at the implication +of his father’s words. This the Squire perceived, and raising his voice +to a scream of rage, he went on: +</p> + +<p> +“I bid you, if you call yourself my son, to cast away that miserable, +shameless woman’s offspring; cast it away this instant—this +instant!” +</p> + +<p> +In this ungovernable rage, seeing that Owen was far from complying with his +command, he snatched the poor infant from the loving arms that held it, and +throwing it to his mother, left the house inarticulate with fury. +</p> + +<p> +Nest—who had been pale and still as marble during this terrible dialogue, +looking on and listening as if fascinated by the words that smote her +heart—opened her arms to receive and cherish her precious babe; but the +boy was not destined to reach the white refuge of her breast. The furious +action of the Squire had been almost without aim, and the infant fell against +the sharp edge of the dresser down on to the stone floor. +</p> + +<p> +Owen sprang up to take the child, but he lay so still, so motionless, that the +awe of death came over the father, and he stooped down to gaze more closely. At +that moment, the upturned, filmy eyes rolled convulsively—a spasm passed +along the body—and the lips, yet warm with kissing, quivered into +everlasting rest. +</p> + +<p> +A word from her husband told Nest all. She slid down from her seat, and lay by +her little son as corpse-like as he, unheeding all the agonizing endearments +and passionate adjurations of her husband. And that poor, desolate husband and +father! Scarce one little quarter of an hour, and he had been so blessed in his +consciousness of love! the bright promise of many years on his infant’s +face, and the new, fresh soul beaming forth in its awakened intelligence. And +there it was; the little clay image, that would never more gladden up at the +sight of him, nor stretch forth to meet his embrace; whose inarticulate, yet +most eloquent cooings might haunt him in his dreams, but would never more be +heard in waking life again! And by the dead babe, almost as utterly insensate, +the poor mother had fallen in a merciful faint—the slandered, +heart-pierced Nest! Owen struggled against the sickness that came over him, and +busied himself in vain attempts at her restoration. +</p> + +<p> +It was now near noon-day, and Ellis Pritchard came home, little dreaming of the +sight that awaited him; but though stunned, he was able to take more effectual +measures for his poor daughter’s recovery than Owen had done. +</p> + +<p> +By-and-by she showed symptoms of returning sense, and was placed in her own +little bed in a darkened room, where, without ever waking to complete +consciousness, she fell asleep. Then it was that her husband, suffocated by +pressure of miserable thought, gently drew his hand from her tightened clasp, +and printing one long soft kiss on her white waxen forehead, hastily stole out +of the room, and out of the house. +</p> + +<p> +Near the base of Moel Gêst—it might be a quarter of a mile from Ty +Glas—was a little neglected solitary copse, wild and tangled with the +trailing branches of the dog-rose and the tendrils of the white bryony. Toward +the middle of this thicket a deep crystal pool—a clear mirror for the +blue heavens above—and round the margin floated the broad green leaves of +the water-lily, and when the regal sun shone down in his noonday glory the +flowers arose from their cool depths to welcome and greet him. The copse was +musical with many sounds; the warbling of birds rejoicing in its shades, the +ceaseless hum of the insects that hovered over the pool, the chime of the +distant waterfall, the occasional bleating of the sheep from the mountaintop, +were all blended into the delicious harmony of nature. +</p> + +<p> +It had been one of Owen’s favourite resorts when he had been a lonely +wanderer—a pilgrim in search of love in the years gone by. And thither he +went, as if by instinct, when he left Ty Glas; quelling the uprising agony till +he should reach that little solitary spot. +</p> + +<p> +It was the time of day when a change in the aspect of the weather so frequently +takes place; and the little pool was no longer the reflection of a blue and +sunny sky: it sent back the dark and slaty clouds above, and, every now and +then, a rough gust shook the painted autumn leaves from their branches, and all +other music was lost in the sound of the wild winds piping down from the +moorlands, which lay up and beyond the clefts in the mountain-side. Presently +the rain came on and beat down in torrents. +</p> + +<p> +But Owen heeded it not. He sat on the dank ground, his face buried in his +hands, and his whole strength, physical and mental, employed in quelling the +rush of blood, which rose and boiled and gurgled in his brain as if it would +madden him. +</p> + +<p> +The phantom of his dead child rose ever before him, and seemed to cry aloud for +vengeance. And when the poor young man thought upon the victim whom he required +in his wild longing for revenge, he shuddered, for it was his father! +</p> + +<p> +Again and again he tried not to think; but still the circle of thought came +round, eddying through his brain. At length he mastered his passions, and they +were calm; then he forced himself to arrange some plan for the future. +</p> + +<p> +He had not, in the passionate hurry of the moment, seen that his father had +left the cottage before he was aware of the fatal accident that befell the +child. Owen thought he had seen all; and once he planned to go to the Squire +and tell him of the anguish of heart he had wrought, and awe him, as it were, +by the dignity of grief. But then again he durst not—he distrusted his +self-control—the old prophecy rose up in its horror—he dreaded his +doom. +</p> + +<p> +At last he determined to leave his father for ever; to take Nest to some +distant country where she might forget her firstborn, and where he himself +might gain a livelihood by his own exertions. +</p> + +<p> +But when he tried to descend to the various little arrangements which were +involved in the execution of this plan, he remembered that all his money (and +in this respect Squire Griffiths was no niggard) was locked up in his +escritoire at Bodowen. In vain he tried to do away with this matter-of-fact +difficulty; go to Bodowen he must: and his only hope—nay his +determination—was to avoid his father. +</p> + +<p> +He rose and took a by-path to Bodowen. The house looked even more gloomy and +desolate than usual in the heavy down-pouring rain, yet Owen gazed on it with +something of regret—for sorrowful as his days in it had been, he was +about to leave it for many many years, if not for ever. He entered by a side +door opening into a passage that led to his own room, where he kept his books, +his guns, his fishing-tackle, his writing materials, et cetera. +</p> + +<p> +Here he hurriedly began to select the few articles he intended to take; for, +besides the dread of interruption, he was feverishly anxious to travel far that +very night, if only Nest was capable of performing the journey. As he was thus +employed, he tried to conjecture what his father’s feelings would be on +finding that his once-loved son was gone away for ever. Would he then awaken to +regret for the conduct which had driven him from home, and bitterly think on +the loving and caressing boy who haunted his footsteps in former days? Or, +alas! would he only feel that an obstacle to his daily happiness—to his +contentment with his wife, and his strange, doting affection for the +child—was taken away? Would they make merry over the heir’s +departure? Then he thought of Nest—the young childless mother, whose +heart had not yet realized her fulness of desolation. Poor Nest! so loving as +she was, so devoted to her child—how should he console her? He pictured +her away in a strange land, pining for her native mountains, and refusing to be +comforted because her child was not. +</p> + +<p> +Even this thought of the home-sickness that might possibly beset Nest hardly +made him hesitate in his determination; so strongly had the idea taken +possession of him that only by putting miles and leagues between him and his +father could he avert the doom which seemed blending itself with the very +purposes of his life as long as he stayed in proximity with the slayer of his +child. +</p> + +<p> +He had now nearly completed his hasty work of preparation, and was full of +tender thoughts of his wife, when the door opened, and the elfish Robert peered +in, in search of some of his brother’s possessions. On seeing Owen he +hesitated, but then came boldly forward, and laid his hand on Owen’s arm, +saying, +</p> + +<p> +“Nesta yr buten! How is Nest yr buten?” +</p> + +<p> +He looked maliciously into Owen’s face to mark the effect of his words, +but was terrified at the expression he read there. He started off and ran to +the door, while Owen tried to check himself, saying continually, “He is +but a child. He does not understand the meaning of what he says. He is but a +child!” Still Robert, now in fancied security, kept calling out his +insulting words, and Owen’s hand was on his gun, grasping it as if to +restrain his rising fury. +</p> + +<p> +But when Robert passed on daringly to mocking words relating to the poor dead +child, Owen could bear it no longer; and before the boy was well aware, Owen +was fiercely holding him in an iron clasp with one hand, while he struck him +hard with the other. +</p> + +<p> +In a minute he checked himself. He paused, relaxed his grasp, and, to his +horror, he saw Robert sink to the ground; in fact, the lad was half-stunned, +half-frightened, and thought it best to assume insensibility. +</p> + +<p> +Owen—miserable Owen—seeing him lie there prostrate, was bitterly +repentant, and would have dragged him to the carved settle, and done all he +could to restore him to his senses, but at this instant the Squire came in. +</p> + +<p> +Probably, when the household at Bodowen rose that morning, there was but one +among them ignorant of the heir’s relation to Nest Pritchard and her +child; for secret as he tried to make his visits to Ty Glas, they had been too +frequent not to be noticed, and Nest’s altered conduct—no longer +frequenting dances and merry-makings—was a strongly corroborative +circumstance. But Mrs. Griffiths’ influence reigned paramount, if +unacknowledged, at Bodowen, and till she sanctioned the disclosure, none would +dare to tell the Squire. +</p> + +<p> +Now, however, the time drew near when it suited her to make her husband aware +of the connection his son had formed; so, with many tears, and much seeming +reluctance, she broke the intelligence to him—taking good care, at the +same time, to inform him of the light character Nest had borne. Nor did she +confine this evil reputation to her conduct before her marriage, but insinuated +that even to this day she was a “woman of the grove and +brake”—for centuries the Welsh term of opprobrium for the loosest +female characters. +</p> + +<p> +Squire Griffiths easily tracked Owen to Ty Glas; and without any aim but the +gratification of his furious anger, followed him to upbraid as we have seen. +But he left the cottage even more enraged against his son than he had entered +it, and returned home to hear the evil suggestions of the stepmother. He had +heard a slight scuffle in which he caught the tones of Robert’s voice, as +he passed along the hall, and an instant afterwards he saw the apparently +lifeless body of his little favourite dragged along by the culprit +Owen—the marks of strong passion yet visible on his face. Not loud, but +bitter and deep were the evil words which the father bestowed on the son; and +as Owen stood proudly and sullenly silent, disdaining all exculpation of +himself in the presence of one who had wrought him so much graver—so +fatal an injury—Robert’s mother entered the room. At sight of her +natural emotion the wrath of the Squire was redoubled, and his wild suspicions +that this violence of Owen’s to Robert was a premeditated act appeared +like the proven truth through the mists of rage. He summoned domestics as if to +guard his own and his wife’s life from the attempts of his son; and the +servants stood wondering around—now gazing at Mrs. Griffiths, alternately +scolding and sobbing, while she tried to restore the lad from his really +bruised and half-unconscious state; now at the fierce and angry Squire; and now +at the sad and silent Owen. And he—he was hardly aware of their looks of +wonder and terror; his father’s words fell on a deadened ear; for before +his eyes there rose a pale dead babe, and in that lady’s violent sounds +of grief he heard the wailing of a more sad, more hopeless mother. For by this +time the lad Robert had opened his eyes, and though evidently suffering a good +deal from the effects of Owen’s blows, was fully conscious of all that +was passing around him. +</p> + +<p> +Had Owen been left to his own nature, his heart would have worked itself to +doubly love the boy whom he had injured; but he was stubborn from injustice, +and hardened by suffering. He refused to vindicate himself; he made no effort +to resist the imprisonment the Squire had decreed, until a surgeon’s +opinion of the real extent of Robert’s injuries was made known. It was +not until the door was locked and barred, as if upon some wild and furious +beast, that the recollection of poor Nest, without his comforting presence, +came into his mind. Oh! thought he, how she would be wearying, pining for his +tender sympathy; if, indeed, she had recovered the shock of mind sufficiently +to be sensible of consolation! What would she think of his absence? Could she +imagine he believed his father’s words, and had left her, in this her +sore trouble and bereavement? The thought madened him, and he looked around for +some mode of escape. +</p> + +<p> +He had been confined in a small unfurnished room on the first floor, +wainscoted, and carved all round, with a massy door, calculated to resist the +attempts of a dozen strong men, even had he afterward been able to escape from +the house unseen, unheard. The window was placed (as is common in old Welsh +houses) over the fire-place; with branching chimneys on either hand, forming a +sort of projection on the outside. By this outlet his escape was easy, even had +he been less determined and desperate than he was. And when he had descended, +with a little care, a little winding, he might elude all observation and pursue +his original intention of going to Ty Glas. +</p> + +<p> +The storm had abated, and watery sunbeams were gilding the bay, as Owen +descended from the window, and, stealing along in the broad afternoon shadows, +made his way to the little plateau of green turf in the garden at the top of a +steep precipitous rock, down the abrupt face of which he had often dropped, by +means of a well-secured rope, into the small sailing-boat (his father’s +present, alas! in days gone by) which lay moored in the deep sea-water below. +He had always kept his boat there, because it was the nearest available spot to +the house; but before he could reach the place—unless, indeed, he crossed +a broad sun-lighted piece of ground in full view of the windows on that side of +the house, and without the shadow of a single sheltering tree or shrub—he +had to skirt round a rude semicircle of underwood, which would have been +considered as a shrubbery had any one taken pains with it. Step by step he +stealthily moved along—hearing voices now, again seeing his father and +stepmother in no distant walk, the Squire evidently caressing and consoling his +wife, who seemed to be urging some point with great vehemence, again forced to +crouch down to avoid being seen by the cook, returning from the rude +kitchen-garden with a handful of herbs. This was the way the doomed heir of +Bodowen left his ancestral house for ever, and hoped to leave behind him his +doom. At length he reached the plateau—he breathed more freely. He +stooped to discover the hidden coil of rope, kept safe and dry in a hole under +a great round flat piece of rock: his head was bent down; he did not see his +father approach, nor did he hear his footstep for the rush of blood to his head +in the stooping effort of lifting the stone; the Squire had grappled with him +before he rose up again, before he fully knew whose hands detained him, now, +when his liberty of person and action seemed secure. He made a vigorous +struggle to free himself; he wrestled with his father for a moment—he +pushed him hard, and drove him on to the great displaced stone, all unsteady in +its balance. +</p> + +<p> +Down went the Squire, down into the deep waters below—down after him went +Owen, half consciously, half unconsciously, partly compelled by the sudden +cessation of any opposing body, partly from a vehement irrepressible impulse to +rescue his father. But he had instinctively chosen a safer place in the deep +seawater pool than that into which his push had sent his father. The Squire had +hit his head with much violence against the side of the boat, in his fall; it +is, indeed, doubtful whether he was not killed before ever he sank into the +sea. But Owen knew nothing save that the awful doom seemed even now present. He +plunged down, he dived below the water in search of the body which had none of +the elasticity of life to buoy it up; he saw his father in those depths, he +clutched at him, he brought him up and cast him, a dead weight, into the boat, +and exhausted by the effort, he had begun himself to sink again before he +instinctively strove to rise and climb into the rocking boat. There lay his +father, with a deep dent in the side of his head where the skull had been +fractured by his fall; his face blackened by the arrested course of the blood. +Owen felt his pulse, his heart—all was still. He called him by his name. +</p> + +<p> +“Father, father!” he cried, “come back! come back! You never +knew how I loved you! how I could love you still—if—Oh God!” +</p> + +<p> +And the thought of his little child rose before him. “Yes, father,” +he cried afresh, “you never knew how he fell—how he died! Oh, if I +had but had patience to tell you! If you would but have borne with me and +listened! And now it is over! Oh father! father!” +</p> + +<p> +Whether she had heard this wild wailing voice, or whether it was only that she +missed her husband and wanted him for some little every-day question, or, as +was perhaps more likely, she had discovered Owen’s escape, and come to +inform her husband of it, I do not know, but on the rock, right above his head, +as it seemed, Owen heard his stepmother calling her husband. +</p> + +<p> +He was silent, and softly pushed the boat right under the rock till the sides +grated against the stones, and the overhanging branches concealed him and it +from all not on a level with the water. Wet as he was, he lay down by his dead +father the better to conceal himself; and, somehow, the action recalled those +early days of childhood—the first in the Squire’s +widowhood—when Owen had shared his father’s bed, and used to waken +him in the morning to hear one of the old Welsh legends. How long he lay +thus—body chilled, and brain hard-working through the heavy pressure of a +reality as terrible as a nightmare—he never knew; but at length he roused +himself up to think of Nest. +</p> + +<p> +Drawing out a great sail, he covered up the body of his father with it where he +lay in the bottom of the boat. Then with his numbed hands he took the oars, and +pulled out into the more open sea toward Criccaeth. He skirted along the coast +till he found a shadowed cleft in the dark rocks; to that point he rowed, and +anchored his boat close in land. Then he mounted, staggering, half longing to +fall into the dark waters and be at rest—half instinctively finding out +the surest foot-rests on that precipitous face of rock, till he was high up, +safe landed on the turfy summit. He ran off, as if pursued, toward Penmorfa; he +ran with maddened energy. Suddenly he paused, turned, ran again with the same +speed, and threw himself prone on the summit, looking down into his boat with +straining eyes to see if there had been any movement of life—any +displacement of a fold of sail-cloth. It was all quiet deep down below, but as +he gazed the shifting light gave the appearance of a slight movement. Owen ran +to a lower part of the rock, stripped, plunged into the water, and swam to the +boat. When there, all was still—awfully still! For a minute or two, he +dared not lift up the cloth. Then reflecting that the same terror might beset +him again—of leaving his father unaided while yet a spark of life +lingered—he removed the shrouding cover. The eyes looked into his with a +dead stare! He closed the lids and bound up the jaw. Again he looked. This time +he raised himself out of the water and kissed the brow. +</p> + +<p> +“It was my doom, father! It would have been better if I had died at my +birth!” +</p> + +<p> +Daylight was fading away. Precious daylight! He swam back, dressed, and set off +afresh for Penmorfa. When he opened the door of Ty Glas, Ellis Pritchard looked +at him reproachfully, from his seat in the darkly-shadowed chimney-corner. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re come at last,” said he. “One of our kind +(<i>i.e.</i>, station) would not have left his wife to mourn by herself over +her dead child; nor would one of our kind have let his father kill his own true +son. I’ve a good mind to take her from you for ever.” +</p> + +<p> +“I did not tell him,” cried Nest, looking piteously at her husband; +“he made me tell him part, and guessed the rest.” +</p> + +<p> +She was nursing her babe on her knee as if it was alive. Owen stood before +Ellis Pritchard. +</p> + +<p> +“Be silent,” said he, quietly. “Neither words nor deeds but +what are decreed can come to pass. I was set to do my work, this hundred years +and more. The time waited for me, and the man waited for me. I have done what +was foretold of me for generations!” +</p> + +<p> +Ellis Pritchard knew the old tale of the prophecy, and believed in it in a +dull, dead kind of way, but somehow never thought it would come to pass in his +time. Now, however, he understood it all in a moment, though he mistook +Owen’s nature so much as to believe that the deed was intentionally done, +out of revenge for the death of his boy; and viewing it in this light, Ellis +thought it little more than a just punishment for the cause of all the wild +despairing sorrow he had seen his only child suffer during the hours of this +long afternoon. But he knew the law would not so regard it. Even the lax Welsh +law of those days could not fail to examine into the death of a man of Squire +Griffith’s standing. So the acute Ellis thought how he could conceal the +culprit for a time. +</p> + +<p> +“Come,” said he; “don’t look so scared! It was your +doom, not your fault;” and he laid a hand on Owen’s shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re wet,” said he, suddenly. “Where have you been? +Nest, your husband is dripping, drookit wet. That’s what makes him look +so blue and wan.” +</p> + +<p> +Nest softly laid her baby in its cradle; she was half stupefied with crying, +and had not understood to what Owen alluded, when he spoke of his doom being +fulfilled, if indeed she had heard the words. +</p> + +<p> +Her touch thawed Owen’s miserable heart. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Nest!” said he, clasping her in his arms; “do you love +me still—can you love me, my own darling?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not?” asked she, her eyes filling with tears. “I only +love you more than ever, for you were my poor baby’s father!” +</p> + +<p> +“But, Nest—Oh, tell her, Ellis! <i>you</i> know.” +</p> + +<p> +“No need, no need!” said Ellis. “She’s had enough to +think on. Bustle, my girl, and get out my Sunday clothes.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t understand,” said Nest, putting her hand up to her +head. “What is to tell? and why are you so wet? God help me for a poor +crazed thing, for I cannot guess at the meaning of your words and your strange +looks! I only know my baby is dead!” and she burst into tears. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, Nest! go and fetch him a change, quick!” and as she meekly +obeyed, too languid to strive further to understand, Ellis said rapidly to +Owen, in a low, hurried voice— +</p> + +<p> +“Are you meaning that the Squire is dead? Speak low, lest she hear. Well, +well, no need to talk about how he died. It was sudden, I see; and we must all +of us die; and he’ll have to be buried. It’s well the night is +near. And I should not wonder now if you’d like to travel for a bit; it +would do Nest a power of good; and then—there’s many a one goes out +of his own house and never comes back again; and—I trust he’s not +lying in his own house—and there’s a stir for a bit, and a search, +and a wonder—and, by-and-by, the heir just steps in, as quiet as can be. +And that’s what you’ll do, and bring Nest to Bodowen after all. +Nay, child, better stockings nor those; find the blue woollens I bought at +Llanrwst fair. Only don’t lose heart. It’s done now and can’t +be helped. It was the piece of work set you to do from the days of the Tudors, +they say. And he deserved it. Look in yon cradle. So tell us where he is, and +I’ll take heart of grace and see what can be done for him.” +</p> + +<p> +But Owen sat wet and haggard, looking into the peat fire as if for visions of +the past, and never heeding a word Ellis said. Nor did he move when Nest +brought the armful of dry clothes. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, rouse up, man!” said Ellis, growing impatient. But he +neither spoke nor moved. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the matter, father?” asked Nest, bewildered. +</p> + +<p> +Ellis kept on watching Owen for a minute or two, till on his daughter’s +repetition of the question, he said— +</p> + +<p> +“Ask him yourself, Nest.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, husband, what is it?” said she, kneeling down and bringing her +face to a level with his. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you know?” said he, heavily. “You won’t +love me when you do know. And yet it was not my doing: it was my doom.” +</p> + +<p> +“What does he mean, father?” asked Nest, looking up; but she caught +a gesture from Ellis urging her to go on questioning her husband. +</p> + +<p> +“I will love you, husband, whatever has happened. Only let me know the +worst.” +</p> + +<p> +A pause, during which Nest and Ellis hung breathless. +</p> + +<p> +“My father is dead, Nest.” +</p> + +<p> +Nest caught her breath with a sharp gasp. +</p> + +<p> +“God forgive him!” said she, thinking on her babe. +</p> + +<p> +“God forgive <i>me</i>!” said Owen. +</p> + +<p> +“You did not—” Nest stopped. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I did. Now you know it. It was my doom. How could I help it? The +devil helped me—he placed the stone so that my father fell. I jumped into +the water to save him. I did, indeed, Nest. I was nearly drowned myself. But he +was dead—dead—killed by the fall!” +</p> + +<p> +“Then he is safe at the bottom of the sea?” said Ellis, with hungry +eagerness. +</p> + +<p> +“No, he is not; he lies in my boat,” said Owen, shivering a little, +more at the thought of his last glimpse at his father’s face than from +cold. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, husband, change your wet clothes!” pleaded Nest, to whom the +death of the old man was simply a horror with which she had nothing to do, +while her husband’s discomfort was a present trouble. +</p> + +<p> +While she helped him to take off the wet garments which he would never have had +energy enough to remove of himself, Ellis was busy preparing food, and mixing a +great tumbler of spirits and hot water. He stood over the unfortunate young man +and compelled him to eat and drink, and made Nest, too, taste some +mouthfuls—all the while planning in his own mind how best to conceal what +had been done, and who had done it; not altogether without a certain feeling of +vulgar triumph in the reflection that Nest, as she stood there, carelessly +dressed, dishevelled in her grief, was in reality the mistress of Bodowen, than +which Ellis Pritchard had never seen a grander house, though he believed such +might exist. +</p> + +<p> +By dint of a few dexterous questions he found out all he wanted to know from +Owen, as he ate and drank. In fact, it was almost a relief to Owen to dilute +the horror by talking about it. Before the meal was done, if meal it could be +called, Ellis knew all he cared to know. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Nest, on with your cloak and haps. Pack up what needs to go with +you, for both you and your husband must be half way to Liverpool by +to-morrow’s morn. I’ll take you past Rhyl Sands in my fishing-boat, +with yours in tow; and, once over the dangerous part, I’ll return with my +cargo of fish, and learn how much stir there is at Bodowen. Once safe hidden in +Liverpool, no one will know where you are, and you may stay quiet till your +time comes for returning.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will never come home again,” said Owen, doggedly. “The +place is accursed!” +</p> + +<p> +“Hoot! be guided by me, man. Why, it was but an accident, after all! And +we’ll land at the Holy Island, at the Point of Llyn; there is an old +cousin of mine, the parson, there—for the Pritchards have known better +days, Squire—and we’ll bury him there. It was but an accident, man. +Hold up your head! You and Nest will come home yet and fill Bodowen with +children, and I’ll live to see it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never!” said Owen. “I am the last male of my race, and the +son has murdered his father!” +</p> + +<p> +Nest came in laden and cloaked. Ellis was for hurrying them off. The fire was +extinguished, the door was locked. +</p> + +<p> +“Here, Nest, my darling, let me take your bundle while I guide you down +the steps.” But her husband bent his head, and spoke never a word. Nest +gave her father the bundle (already loaded with such things as he himself had +seen fit to take), but clasped another softly and tightly. +</p> + +<p> +“No one shall help me with this,” said she, in a low voice. +</p> + +<p> +Her father did not understand her; her husband did, and placed his strong +helping arm round her waist, and blessed her. +</p> + +<p> +“We will all go together, Nest,” said he. “But where?” +and he looked up at the storm-tossed clouds coming up from windward. +</p> + +<p> +“It is a dirty night,” said Ellis, turning his head round to speak +to his companions at last. “But never fear, we’ll weather +it?” And he made for the place where his vessel was moored. Then he +stopped and thought a moment. +</p> + +<p> +“Stay here!” said he, addressing his companions. “I may meet +folk, and I shall, maybe, have to hear and to speak. You wait here till I come +back for you.” So they sat down close together in a corner of the path. +</p> + +<p> +“Let me look at him, Nest!” said Owen. +</p> + +<p> +She took her little dead son out from under her shawl; they looked at his waxen +face long and tenderly; kissed it, and covered it up reverently and softly. +</p> + +<p> +“Nest,” said Owen, at last, “I feel as though my +father’s spirit had been near us, and as if it had bent over our poor +little one. A strange chilly air met me as I stooped over him. I could fancy +the spirit of our pure, blameless child guiding my father’s safe over the +paths of the sky to the gates of heaven, and escaping those accursed dogs of +hell that were darting up from the north in pursuit of souls not five minutes +since. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t talk so, Owen,” said Nest, curling up to him in the +darkness of the copse. “Who knows what may be listening?” +</p> + +<p> +The pair were silent, in a kind of nameless terror, till they heard Ellis +Pritchard’s loud whisper. “Where are ye? Come along, soft and +steady. There were folk about even now, and the Squire is missed, and madam in +a fright.” +</p> + +<p> +They went swiftly down to the little harbour, and embarked on board +Ellis’s boat. The sea heaved and rocked even there; the torn clouds went +hurrying overhead in a wild tumultuous manner. +</p> + +<p> +They put out into the bay; still in silence, except when some word of command +was spoken by Ellis, who took the management of the vessel. They made for the +rocky shore, where Owen’s boat had been moored. It was not there. It had +broken loose and disappeared. +</p> + +<p> +Owen sat down and covered his face. This last event, so simple and natural in +itself, struck on his excited and superstitious mind in an extraordinary +manner. He had hoped for a certain reconciliation, so to say, by laying his +father and his child both in one grave. But now it appeared to him as if there +was to be no forgiveness; as if his father revolted even in death against any +such peaceful union. Ellis took a practical view of the case. If the +Squire’s body was found drifting about in a boat known to belong to his +son, it would create terrible suspicion as to the manner of his death. At one +time in the evening, Ellis had thought of persuading Owen to let him bury the +Squire in a sailor’s grave; or, in other words, to sew him up in a spare +sail, and weighting it well, sink it for ever. He had not broached the subject, +from a certain fear of Owen’s passionate repugnance to the plan; +otherwise, if he had consented, they might have returned to Penmorfa, and +passively awaited the course of events, secure of Owen’s succession to +Bodowen, sooner or later; or if Owen was too much overwhelmed by what had +happened, Ellis would have advised him to go away for a short time, and return +when the buzz and the talk was over. +</p> + +<p> +Now it was different. It was absolutely necessary that they should leave the +country for a time. Through those stormy waters they must plough their way that +very night. Ellis had no fear—would have had no fear, at any rate, with +Owen as he had been a week, a day ago; but with Owen wild, despairing, +helpless, fate-pursued, what could he do? +</p> + +<p> +They sailed into the tossing darkness, and were never more seen of men. +</p> + +<p> +The house of Bodowen has sunk into damp, dark ruins; and a Saxon stranger holds +the lands of the Griffiths. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p> +You cannot think how kindly Mrs. Dawson thanked Miss Duncan for writing and +reading this story. She shook my poor, pale governess so tenderly by the hand +that the tears came into her eyes, and the colour to her checks. +</p> + +<p> +“I though you had been so kind; I liked hearing about Lady Ludlow; I +fancied, perhaps, I could do something to give a little pleasure,” were +the half-finished sentences Miss Duncan stammered out. I am sure it was the +wish to earn similar kind words from Mrs. Dawson, that made Mrs. Preston try +and rummage through her memory to see if she could not recollect some fact, or +event, or history, which might interested Mrs. Dawson and the little party that +gathered round her sofa. Mrs. Preston it was who told us the following tale: +</p> + +<p class="center"> +“H<small>ALF A</small> L<small>IFE-TIME AGO</small>.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap04"></a>HALF A LIFE-TIME AGO</h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>CHAPTER I.</h2> + +<p> +Half a life-time ago, there lived in one of the Westmoreland dales a single +woman, of the name of Susan Dixon. She was owner of the small farm-house where +she resided, and of some thirty or forty acres of land by which it was +surrounded. She had also an hereditary right to a sheep-walk, extending to the +wild fells that overhang Blea Tarn. In the language of the country she was a +Stateswoman. Her house is yet to be seen on the Oxenfell road, between Skelwith +and Coniston. You go along a moorland track, made by the carts that +occasionally came for turf from the Oxenfell. A brook babbles and brattles by +the wayside, giving you a sense of companionship, which relieves the deep +solitude in which this way is usually traversed. Some miles on this side of +Coniston there is a farmstead—a gray stone house, and a square of +farm-buildings surrounding a green space of rough turf, in the midst of which +stands a mighty, funereal umbrageous yew, making a solemn shadow, as of death, +in the very heart and centre of the light and heat of the brightest summer day. +On the side away from the house, this yard slopes down to a dark-brown pool, +which is supplied with fresh water from the overflowings of a stone cistern, +into which some rivulet of the brook before-mentioned continually and +melodiously falls bubbling. The cattle drink out of this cistern. The household +bring their pitchers and fill them with drinking-water by a dilatory, yet +pretty, process. The water-carrier brings with her a leaf of the +hound’s-tongue fern, and, inserting it in the crevice of the gray rock, +makes a cool, green spout for the sparkling stream. +</p> + +<p> +The house is no specimen, at the present day, of what it was in the lifetime of +Susan Dixon. Then, every small diamond pane in the windows glittered with +cleanliness. You might have eaten off the floor; you could see yourself in the +pewter plates and the polished oaken awmry, or dresser, of the state kitchen +into which you entered. Few strangers penetrated further than this room. Once +or twice, wandering tourists, attracted by the lonely picturesqueness of the +situation, and the exquisite cleanliness of the house itself, made their way +into this house-place, and offered money enough (as they thought) to tempt the +hostess to receive them as lodgers. They would give no trouble, they said; they +would be out rambling or sketching all day long; would be perfectly content +with a share of the food which she provided for herself; or would procure what +they required from the Waterhead Inn at Coniston. But no liberal sum—no +fair words—moved her from her stony manner, or her monotonous tone of +indifferent refusal. No persuasion could induce her to show any more of the +house than that first room; no appearance of fatigue procured for the weary an +invitation to sit down and rest; and if one more bold and less delicate did so +without being asked, Susan stood by, cold and apparently deaf, or only replying +by the briefest monosyllables, till the unwelcome visitor had departed. Yet +those with whom she had dealings, in the way of selling her cattle or her farm +produce, spoke of her as keen after a bargain—a hard one to have to do +with; and she never spared herself exertion or fatigue, at market or in the +field, to make the most of her produce. She led the hay-makers with her swift, +steady rake, and her noiseless evenness of motion. She was about among the +earliest in the market, examining samples of oats, pricing them, and then +turning with grim satisfaction to her own cleaner corn. +</p> + +<p> +She was served faithfully and long by those who were rather her +fellow-labourers than her servants. She was even and just in her dealings with +them. If she was peculiar and silent, they knew her, and knew that she might be +relied on. Some of them had known her from her childhood; and deep in their +hearts was an unspoken—almost unconscious—pity for her, for they +knew her story, though they never spoke of it. +</p> + +<p> +Yes; the time had been when that tall, gaunt, hard-featured, angular +woman—who never smiled, and hardly ever spoke an unnecessary +word—had been a fine-looking girl, bright-spirited and rosy; and when the +hearth at the Yew Nook had been as bright as she, with family love and youthful +hope and mirth. Fifty or fifty-one years ago, William Dixon and his wife +Margaret were alive; and Susan, their daughter, was about eighteen years +old—ten years older than the only other child, a boy named after his +father. William and Margaret Dixon were rather superior people, of a character +belonging—as far as I have seen—exclusively to the class of +Westmoreland and Cumberland statesmen—just, independent, upright; not +given to much speaking; kind-hearted, but not demonstrative; disliking change, +and new ways, and new people; sensible and shrewd; each household +self-contained, and its members having little curiosity as to their neighbours, +with whom they rarely met for any social intercourse, save at the stated times +of sheep-shearing and Christmas; having a certain kind of sober pleasure in +amassing money, which occasionally made them miserable (as they call miserly +people up in the north) in their old age; reading no light or ephemeral +literature, but the grave, solid books brought round by the pedlars (such as +the “Paradise Lost” and “Regained,’” “The +Death of Abel,” “The Spiritual Quixote,” and “The +Pilgrim’s Progress”), were to be found in nearly every house: the +men occasionally going off laking, <i>i.e.</i> playing, <i>i.e.</i> drinking +for days together, and having to be hunted up by anxious wives, who dared not +leave their husbands to the chances of the wild precipitous roads, but walked +miles and miles, lantern in hand, in the dead of night, to discover and guide +the solemnly-drunken husband home; who had a dreadful headache the next day, +and the day after that came forth as grave, and sober, and virtuous looking as +if there were no such thing as malt and spirituous liquors in the world; and +who were seldom reminded of their misdoings by their wives, to whom such +occasional outbreaks were as things of course, when once the immediate anxiety +produced by them was over. Such were—such are—the characteristics +of a class now passing away from the face of the land, as their compeers, the +yeomen, have done before them. Of such was William Dixon. He was a shrewd +clever farmer, in his day and generation, when shrewdness was rather shown in +the breeding and rearing of sheep and cattle than in the cultivation of land. +Owing to this character of his, statesmen from a distance from beyond Kendal, +or from Borrowdale, of greater wealth than he, would send their sons to be +farm-servants for a year or two with him, in order to learn some of his methods +before setting up on land of their own. When Susan, his daughter, was about +seventeen, one Michael Hurst was farm-servant at Yew Nook. He worked with the +master, and lived with the family, and was in all respects treated as an equal, +except in the field. His father was a wealthy statesman at Wythburne, up beyond +Grasmere; and through Michael’s servitude the families had become +acquainted, and the Dixons went over to the High Beck sheep-shearing, and the +Hursts came down by Red Bank and Loughrig Tarn and across the Oxenfell when +there was the Christmas-tide feasting at Yew Nook. The fathers strolled round +the fields together, examined cattle and sheep, and looked knowing over each +other’s horses. The mothers inspected the dairies and household +arrangements, each openly admiring the plans of the other, but secretly +preferring their own. Both fathers and mothers cast a glance from time to time +at Michael and Susan, who were thinking of nothing less than farm or dairy, but +whose unspoken attachment was, in all ways, so suitable and natural a thing +that each parent rejoiced over it, although with characteristic reserve it was +never spoken about—not even between husband and wife. +</p> + +<p> +Susan had been a strong, independent, healthy girl; a clever help to her +mother, and a spirited companion to her father; more of a man in her (as he +often said) than her delicate little brother ever would have. He was his +mother’s darling, although she loved Susan well. There was no positive +engagement between Michael and Susan—I doubt whether even plain words of +love had been spoken; when one winter-time Margaret Dixon was seized with +inflammation consequent upon a neglected cold. She had always been strong and +notable, and had been too busy to attend to the early symptoms of illness. It +would go off, she said to the woman who helped in the kitchen; or if she did +not feel better when they had got the hams and bacon out of hand, she would +take some herb-tea and nurse up a bit. But Death could not wait till the hams +and bacon were cured: he came on with rapid strides, and shooting arrows of +portentous agony. Susan had never seen illness—never knew how much she +loved her mother till now, when she felt a dreadful, instinctive certainty that +she was losing her. Her mind was thronged with recollections of the many times +she had slighted her mother’s wishes; her heart was full of the echoes of +careless and angry replies that she had spoken. What would she not now give to +have opportunities of service and obedience, and trials of her patience and +love, for that dear mother who lay gasping in torture! And yet Susan had been a +good girl and an affectionate daughter. +</p> + +<p> +The sharp pain went off, and delicious ease came on; yet still her mother sunk. +In the midst of this languid peace she was dying. She motioned Susan to her +bedside, for she could only whisper; and then, while the father was out of the +room, she spoke as much to the eager, hungering eyes of her daughter by the +motion of her lips, as by the slow, feeble sounds of her voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Susan, lass, thou must not fret. It is God’s will, and thou wilt +have a deal to do. Keep father straight if thou canst; and if he goes out +Ulverstone ways, see that thou meet him before he gets to the Old Quarry. +It’s a dree bit for a man who has had a drop. As for lile +Will”—Here the poor woman’s face began to work and her +fingers to move nervously as they lay on the bed-quilt—“lile Will +will miss me most of all. Father’s often vexed with him because +he’s not a quick strong lad; he is not, my poor lile chap. And father +thinks he’s saucy, because he cannot always stomach oat-cake and +porridge. There’s better than three pound in th’ old black tea-pot +on the top shelf of the cupboard. Just keep a piece of loaf-bread by you, Susan +dear, for Will to come to when he’s not taken his breakfast. I have, may +be, spoilt him; but there’ll be no one to spoil him now.” +</p> + +<p> +She began to cry a low, feeble cry, and covered up her face that Susan might +not see her. That dear face! those precious moments while yet the eyes could +look out with love and intelligence. Susan laid her head down close by her +mother’s ear. +</p> + +<p> +“Mother I’ll take tent of Will. Mother, do you hear? He shall not +want ought I can give or get for him, least of all the kind words which you had +ever ready for us both. Bless you! bless you! my own mother.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thou’lt promise me that, Susan, wilt thou? I can die easy if +thou’lt take charge of him. But he’s hardly like other folk; he +tries father at times, though I think father’ll be tender of him when +I’m gone, for my sake. And, Susan, there’s one thing more. I never +spoke on it for fear of the bairn being called a tell-tale, but I just +comforted him up. He vexes Michael at times, and Michael has struck him before +now. I did not want to make a stir; but he’s not strong, and a word from +thee, Susan, will go a long way with Michael.” +</p> + +<p> +Susan was as red now as she had been pale before; it was the first time that +her influence over Michael had been openly acknowledged by a third person, and +a flash of joy came athwart the solemn sadness of the moment. Her mother had +spoken too much, and now came on the miserable faintness. She never spoke again +coherently; but when her children and her husband stood by her bedside, she +took lile Will’s hand and put it into Susan’s, and looked at her +with imploring eyes. Susan clasped her arms round Will, and leaned her head +upon his little curly one, and vowed within herself to be as a mother to him. +</p> + +<p> +Henceforward she was all in all to her brother. She was a more spirited and +amusing companion to him than his mother had been, from her greater activity, +and perhaps, also, from her originality of character, which often prompted her +to perform her habitual actions in some new and racy manner. She was tender to +lile Will when she was prompt and sharp with everybody else—with Michael +most of all; for somehow the girl felt that, unprotected by her mother, she +must keep up her own dignity, and not allow her lover to see how strong a hold +he had upon her heart. He called her hard and cruel, and left her so; and she +smiled softly to herself, when his back was turned, to think how little he +guessed how deeply he was loved. For Susan was merely comely and fine looking; +Michael was strikingly handsome, admired by all the girls for miles round, and +quite enough of a country coxcomb to know it and plume himself accordingly. He +was the second son of his father; the eldest would have High Beck farm, of +course, but there was a good penny in the Kendal bank in store for Michael. +When harvest was over, he went to Chapel Langdale to learn to dance; and at +night, in his merry moods, he would do his steps on the flag floor of the Yew +Nook kitchen, to the secret admiration of Susan, who had never learned dancing, +but who flouted him perpetually, even while she admired, in accordance with the +rule she seemed to have made for herself about keeping him at a distance so +long as he lived under the same roof with her. One evening he sulked at some +saucy remark of hers; he sitting in the chimney corner with his arms on his +knees, and his head bent forwards, lazily gazing into the wood-fire on the +hearth, and luxuriating in rest after a hard day’s labour; she sitting +among the geraniums on the long, low window-seat, trying to catch the last +slanting rays of the autumnal light to enable her to finish stitching a +shirt-collar for Will, who lounged full length on the flags at the other side +of the hearth to Michael, poking the burning wood from time to time with a long +hazel-stick to bring out the leap of glittering sparks. +</p> + +<p> +“And if you can dance a threesome reel, what good does it do ye?” +asked Susan, looking askance at Michael, who had just been vaunting his +proficiency. “Does it help you plough, reap, or even climb the rocks to +take a raven’s nest? If I were a man, I’d be ashamed to give in to +such softness.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you were a man, you’d be glad to do anything which made the +pretty girls stand round and admire.” +</p> + +<p> +“As they do to you, eh! Ho, Michael, that would not be my way o’ +being a man!” +</p> + +<p> +“What would then?” asked he, after a pause, during which he had +expected in vain that she would go on with her sentence. No answer. +</p> + +<p> +“I should not like you as a man, Susy; you’d be too hard and +headstrong.” +</p> + +<p> +“Am I hard and headstrong?” asked she, with as indifferent a tone +as she could assume, but which yet had a touch of pique in it. His quick ear +detected the inflexion. +</p> + +<p> +“No, Susy! You’re wilful at times, and that’s right enough. I +don’t like a girl without spirit. There’s a mighty pretty girl +comes to the dancing class; but she is all milk and water. Her eyes never flash +like yours when you’re put out; why, I can see them flame across the +kitchen like a cat’s in the dark. Now, if you were a man, I should feel +queer before those looks of yours; as it is, I rather like them, +because—” +</p> + +<p> +“Because what?” asked she, looking up and perceiving that he had +stolen close up to her. +</p> + +<p> +“Because I can make all right in this way,” said he, kissing her +suddenly. +</p> + +<p> +“Can you?” said she, wrenching herself out of his grasp and +panting, half with rage. “Take that, by way of proof that making right is +none so easy.” And she boxed his ears pretty sharply. He went back to his +seat discomfited and out of temper. She could no longer see to look, even if +her face had not burnt and her eyes dazzled, but she did not choose to move her +seat, so she still preserved her stooping attitude and pretended to go on +sewing. +</p> + +<p> +“Eleanor Hebthwaite may be milk-and-water,” muttered he, +“but—Confound thee, lad! what art thou doing?” exclaimed +Michael, as a great piece of burning wood was cast into his face by an unlucky +poke of Will’s. “Thou great lounging, clumsy chap, I’ll teach +thee better!” and with one or two good round kicks he sent the lad +whimpering away into the back-kitchen. When he had a little recovered himself +from his passion, he saw Susan standing before him, her face looking strange +and almost ghastly by the reversed position of the shadows, arising from the +firelight shining upwards right under it. +</p> + +<p> +“I tell thee what, Michael,” said she, “that lad’s +motherless, but not friendless.” +</p> + +<p> +“His own father leathers him, and why should not I, when he’s given +me such a burn on my face?” said Michael, putting up his hand to his +cheek as if in pain. +</p> + +<p> +“His father’s his father, and there is nought more to be said. But +if he did burn thee, it was by accident, and not o’ purpose; as thou +kicked him, it’s a mercy if his ribs are not broken.” +</p> + +<p> +“He howls loud enough, I’m sure. I might ha’ kicked many a +lad twice as hard, and they’d ne’er ha’ said ought but +‘damn ye;’ but yon lad must needs cry out like a stuck pig if one +touches him;” replied Michael, sullenly. +</p> + +<p> +Susan went back to the window-seat, and looked absently out of the window at +the drifting clouds for a minute or two, while her eyes filled with tears. Then +she got up and made for the outer door which led into the back-kitchen. Before +she reached it, however, she heard a low voice, whose music made her thrill, +say— +</p> + +<p> +“Susan, Susan!” +</p> + +<p> +Her heart melted within her, but it seemed like treachery to her poor boy, like +faithlessness to her dead mother, to turn to her lover while the tears which he +had caused to flow were yet unwiped on Will’s cheeks. So she seemed to +take no heed, but passed into the darkness, and, guided by the sobs, she found +her way to where Willie sat crouched among the disused tubs and churns. +</p> + +<p> +“Come out wi’ me, lad;” and they went out into the orchard, +where the fruit-trees were bare of leaves, but ghastly in their tattered +covering of gray moss: and the soughing November wind came with long sweeps +over the fells till it rattled among the crackling boughs, underneath which the +brother and sister sat in the dark; he in her lap, and she hushing his head +against her shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“Thou should’st na’ play wi’ fire. It’s a naughty +trick. Thoul’t suffer for it in worse ways nor this before thou’st +done, I’m afeared. I should ha’ hit thee twice as lungeous kicks as +Mike, if I’d been in his place. He did na’ hurt thee, I am +sure,” she assumed, half as a question. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes but he did. He turned me quite sick.” And he let his head fall +languidly down on his sister’s breast. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, lad! come, lad!” said she anxiously. “Be a man. It was +not much that I saw. Why, when first the red cow came she kicked me far harder +for offering to milk her before her legs were tied. See thee! here’s a +peppermint-drop, and I’ll make thee a pasty to-night; only don’t +give way so, for it hurts me sore to think that Michael has done thee any harm, +my pretty.” +</p> + +<p> +Willie roused himself up, and put back the wet and ruffled hair from his heated +face; and he and Susan rose up, and hand-in-hand went towards the house, +walking slowly and quietly except for a kind of sob which Willie could not +repress. Susan took him to the pump and washed his tear-stained face, till she +thought she had obliterated all traces of the recent disturbance, arranging his +curls for him, and then she kissed him tenderly, and led him in, hoping to find +Michael in the kitchen, and make all straight between them. But the blaze had +dropped down into darkness; the wood was a heap of gray ashes in which the +sparks ran hither and thither; but even in the groping darkness Susan knew by +the sinking at her heart that Michael was not there. She threw another brand on +the hearth and lighted the candle, and sat down to her work in silence. Willie +cowered on his stool by the side of the fire, eyeing his sister from time to +time, and sorry and oppressed, he knew not why, by the sight of her grave, +almost stern face. No one came. They two were in the house alone. The old woman +who helped Susan with the household work had gone out for the night to some +friend’s dwelling. William Dixon, the father, was up on the fells seeing +after his sheep. Susan had no heart to prepare the evening meal. +</p> + +<p> +“Susy, darling, are you angry with me?” said Willie, in his little +piping, gentle voice. He had stolen up to his sister’s side. “I +won’t never play with the fire again; and I’ll not cry if Michael +does kick me. Only don’t look so like dead +mother—don’t—don’t—please don’t!” he +exclaimed, hiding his face on her shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m not angry, Willie,” said she. “Don’t be +feared on me. You want your supper, and you shall have it; and don’t you +be feared on Michael. He shall give reason for every hair of your head that he +touches—he shall.” +</p> + +<p> +When William Dixon came home he found Susan and Willie sitting together, +hand-in-hand, and apparently pretty cheerful. He bade them go to bed, for that +he would sit up for Michael; and the next morning, when Susan came down, she +found that Michael had started an hour before with the cart for lime. It was a +long day’s work; Susan knew it would be late, perhaps later than on the +preceding night, before he returned—at any rate, past her usual bed-time; +and on no account would she stop up a minute beyond that hour in the kitchen, +whatever she might do in her bed-room. Here she sat and watched till past +midnight; and when she saw him coming up the brow with the carts, she knew full +well, even in that faint moonlight, that his gait was the gait of a man in +liquor. But though she was annoyed and mortified to find in what way he had +chosen to forget her, the fact did not disgust or shock her as it would have +done many a girl, even at that day, who had not been brought up as Susan had, +among a class who considered it no crime, but rather a mark of spirit, in a man +to get drunk occasionally. Nevertheless, she chose to hold herself very high +all the next day when Michael was, perforce, obliged to give up any attempt to +do heavy work, and hung about the out-buildings and farm in a very disconsolate +and sickly state. Willie had far more pity on him than Susan. Before evening, +Willie and he were fast, and, on his side, ostentatious friends. Willie rode +the horses down to water; Willie helped him to chop wood. Susan sat gloomily at +her work, hearing an indistinct but cheerful conversation going on in the +shippon, while the cows were being milked. She almost felt irritated with her +little brother, as if he were a traitor, and had gone over to the enemy in the +very battle that she was fighting in his cause. She was alone with no one to +speak to, while they prattled on regardless if she were glad or sorry. +</p> + +<p> +Soon Willie burst in. “Susan! Susan! come with me; I’ve something +so pretty to show you. Round the corner of the barn—run! run!” (He +was dragging her along, half reluctant, half desirous of some change in that +weary day.) Round the corner of the barn; and caught hold of by Michael, who +stood there awaiting her. +</p> + +<p> +“O Willie!” cried she “you naughty boy. There is nothing +pretty—what have you brought me here for? Let me go; I won’t be +held.” +</p> + +<p> +“Only one word. Nay, if you wish it so much, you may go,” said +Michael, suddenly loosing his hold as she struggled. But now she was free, she +only drew off a step or two, murmuring something about Willie. +</p> + +<p> +“You are going, then?” said Michael, with seeming sadness. +“You won’t hear me say a word of what is in my heart.” +</p> + +<p> +“How can I tell whether it is what I should like to hear?” replied +she, still drawing back. +</p> + +<p> +“That is just what I want you to tell me; I want you to hear it and then +to tell me whether you like it or not.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you may speak,” replied she, turning her back, and beginning +to plait the hem of her apron. +</p> + +<p> +He came close to her ear. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m sorry I hurt Willie the other night. He has forgiven me. Can +you?” +</p> + +<p> +“You hurt him very badly,” she replied. “But you are right to +be sorry. I forgive you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Stop, stop!” said he, laying his hand upon her arm. “There +is something more I’ve got to say. I want you to be my—what is it +they call it, Susan?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know,” said she, half-laughing, but trying to get +away with all her might now; and she was a strong girl, but she could not +manage it. +</p> + +<p> +“You do. My—what is it I want you to be?” +</p> + +<p> +“I tell you I don’t know, and you had best be quiet, and just let +me go in, or I shall think you’re as bad now as you were last +night.” +</p> + +<p> +“And how did you know what I was last night? It was past twelve when I +came home. Were you watching? Ah, Susan! be my wife, and you shall never have +to watch for a drunken husband. If I were your husband, I would come straight +home, and count every minute an hour till I saw your bonny face. Now you know +what I want you to be. I ask you to be my wife. Will you, my own dear +Susan?” +</p> + +<p> +She did not speak for some time. Then she only said “Ask father.” +And now she was really off like a lapwing round the corner of the barn, and up +in her own little room, crying with all her might, before the triumphant smile +had left Michael’s face where he stood. +</p> + +<p> +The “Ask father” was a mere form to be gone though. Old Daniel +Hurst and William Dixon had talked over what they could respectively give their +children before this; and that was the parental way of arranging such matters. +When the probable amount of worldly gear that he could give his child had been +named by each father, the young folk, as they said, might take their own time +in coming to the point which the old men, with the prescience of experience, +saw they were drifting to; no need to hurry them, for they were both young, and +Michael, though active enough, was too thoughtless, old Daniel said, to be +trusted with the entire management of a farm. Meanwhile, his father would look +about him, and see after all the farms that were to be let. +</p> + +<p> +Michael had a shrewd notion of this preliminary understanding between the +fathers, and so felt less daunted than he might otherwise have done at making +the application for Susan’s hand. It was all right, there was not an +obstacle; only a deal of good advice, which the lover thought might have as +well been spared, and which it must be confessed he did not much attend to, +although he assented to every part of it. Then Susan was called down stairs, +and slowly came dropping into view down the steps which led from the two family +apartments into the house-place. She tried to look composed and quiet, but it +could not be done. She stood side by side with her lover, with her head +drooping, her cheeks burning, not daring to look up or move, while her father +made the newly-betrothed a somewhat formal address in which he gave his +consent, and many a piece of worldly wisdom beside. Susan listened as well as +she could for the beating of her heart; but when her father solemnly and sadly +referred to his own lost wife, she could keep from sobbing no longer; but +throwing her apron over her face, she sat down on the bench by the dresser, and +fairly gave way to pent-up tears. Oh, how strangely sweet to be comforted as +she was comforted, by tender caress, and many a low-whispered promise of love! +Her father sat by the fire, thinking of the days that were gone; Willie was +still out of doors; but Susan and Michael felt no one’s presence or +absence—they only knew they were together as betrothed husband and wife. +</p> + +<p> +In a week, or two, they were formally told of the arrangements to be made in +their favour. A small farm in the neighbourhood happened to fall vacant; and +Michael’s father offered to take it for him, and be responsible for the +rent for the first year, while William Dixon was to contribute a certain amount +of stock, and both fathers were to help towards the furnishing of the house. +Susan received all this information in a quiet, indifferent way; she did not +care much for any of these preparations, which were to hurry her through the +happy hours; she cared least of all for the money amount of dowry and of +substance. It jarred on her to be made the confidante of occasional slight +repinings of Michael’s, as one by one his future father-in-law set aside +a beast or a pig for Susan’s portion, which were not always the best +animals of their kind upon the farm. But he also complained of his own +father’s stinginess, which somewhat, though not much, alleviated +Susan’s dislike to being awakened out of her pure dream of love to the +consideration of worldly wealth. +</p> + +<p> +But in the midst of all this bustle, Willie moped and pined. He had the same +chord of delicacy running through his mind that made his body feeble and weak. +He kept out of the way, and was apparently occupied in whittling and carving +uncouth heads on hazel-sticks in an out-house. But he positively avoided +Michael, and shrunk away even from Susan. She was too much occupied to notice +this at first. Michael pointed it out to her, saying, with a laugh,— +</p> + +<p> +“Look at Willie! he might be a cast-off lover and jealous of me, he looks +so dark and downcast at me.” Michael spoke this jest out loud, and Willie +burst into tears, and ran out of the house. +</p> + +<p> +“Let me go. Let me go!” said Susan (for her lover’s arm was +round her waist). “I must go to him if he’s fretting. I promised +mother I would!” She pulled herself away, and went in search of the boy. +She sought in byre and barn, through the orchard, where indeed in this leafless +winter-time there was no great concealment; up into the room where the wool was +usually stored in the later summer, and at last she found him, sitting at bay, +like some hunted creature, up behind the wood-stack. +</p> + +<p> +“What are ye gone for, lad, and me seeking you everywhere?” asked +she, breathless. +</p> + +<p> +“I did not know you would seek me. I’ve been away many a time, and +no one has cared to seek me,” said he, crying afresh. +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense,” replied Susan, “don’t be so foolish, ye +little good-for-nought.” But she crept up to him in the hole he had made +underneath the great, brown sheafs of wood, and squeezed herself down by him. +“What for should folk seek after you, when you get away from them +whenever you can?” asked she. +</p> + +<p> +“They don’t want me to stay. Nobody wants me. If I go with father, +he says I hinder more than I help. You used to like to have me with you. But +now, you’ve taken up with Michael, and you’d rather I was away; and +I can just bide away; but I cannot stand Michael jeering at me. He’s got +you to love him and that might serve him.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I love you, too, dearly, lad!” said she, putting her arm round +his neck. +</p> + +<p> +“Which one of us do you like best?” said he, wistfully, after a +little pause, putting her arm away, so that he might look in her face, and see +if she spoke truth. +</p> + +<p> +She went very red. +</p> + +<p> +“You should not ask such questions. They are not fit for you to ask, nor +for me to answer.” +</p> + +<p> +“But mother bade you love me!” said he, plaintively. +</p> + +<p> +“And so I do. And so I ever will do. Lover nor husband shall come betwixt +thee and me, lad—ne’er a one of them. That I promise thee (as I +promised mother before), in the sight of God and with her hearkening now, if +ever she can hearken to earthly word again. Only I cannot abide to have thee +fretting, just because my heart is large enough for two.” +</p> + +<p> +“And thou’lt love me always?” +</p> + +<p> +“Always, and ever. And the more—the more thou’lt love +Michael,” said she, dropping her voice. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll try,” said the boy, sighing, for he remembered many a +harsh word and blow of which his sister knew nothing. She would have risen up +to go away, but he held her tight, for here and now she was all his own, and he +did not know when such a time might come again. So the two sat crouched up and +silent, till they heard the horn blowing at the field-gate, which was the +summons home to any wanderers belonging to the farm, and at this hour of the +evening, signified that supper was ready. Then the two went in. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>CHAPTER II.</h2> + +<p> +Susan and Michael were to be married in April. He had already gone to take +possession of his new farm, three or four miles away from Yew Nook—but +that is neighbouring, according to the acceptation of the word in that +thinly-populated district,—when William Dixon fell ill. He came home one +evening, complaining of head-ache and pains in his limbs, but seemed to loathe +the posset which Susan prepared for him; the treacle-posset which was the +homely country remedy against an incipient cold. He took to his bed with a +sensation of exceeding weariness, and an odd, unusual looking-back to the days +of his youth, when he was a lad living with his parents, in this very house. +</p> + +<p> +The next morning he had forgotten all his life since then, and did not know his +own children; crying, like a newly-weaned baby, for his mother to come and +soothe away his terrible pain. The doctor from Coniston said it was the +typhus-fever, and warned Susan of its infectious character, and shook his head +over his patient. There were no near friends to come and share her anxiety; +only good, kind old Peggy, who was faithfulness itself, and one or two +labourers’ wives, who would fain have helped her, had not their hands +been tied by their responsibility to their own families. But, somehow, Susan +neither feared nor flagged. As for fear, indeed, she had no time to give way to +it, for every energy of both body and mind was required. Besides, the young +have had too little experience of the danger of infection to dread it much. She +did indeed wish, from time to time, that Michael had been at home to have taken +Willie over to his father’s at High Beck; but then, again, the lad was +docile and useful to her, and his fecklessness in many things might make him +harshly treated by strangers; so, perhaps, it was as well that Michael was away +at Appleby fair, or even beyond that—gone into Yorkshire after horses. +</p> + +<p> +Her father grew worse; and the doctor insisted on sending over a nurse from +Coniston. Not a professed nurse—Coniston could not have supported such a +one; but a widow who was ready to go where the doctor sent her for the sake of +the payment. When she came, Susan suddenly gave way; she was felled by the +fever herself, and lay unconscious for long weeks. Her consciousness returned +to her one spring afternoon; early spring: April,—her wedding-month. +There was a little fire burning in the small corner-grate, and the flickering +of the blaze was enough for her to notice in her weak state. She felt that +there was some one sitting on the window-side of her bed, behind the curtain, +but she did not care to know who it was; it was even too great a trouble for +her languid mind to consider who it was likely to be. She would rather shut her +eyes, and melt off again into the gentle luxury of sleep. The next time she +wakened, the Coniston nurse perceived her movement, and made her a cup of tea, +which she drank with eager relish; but still they did not speak, and once more +Susan lay motionless—not asleep, but strangely, pleasantly conscious of +all the small chamber and household sounds; the fall of a cinder on the hearth, +the fitful singing of the half-empty kettle, the cattle tramping out to field +again after they had been milked, the aged step on the creaking stair—old +Peggy’s, as she knew. It came to her door; it stopped; the person outside +listened for a moment, and then lifted the wooden latch, and looked in. The +watcher by the bedside arose, and went to her. Susan would have been glad to +see Peggy’s face once more, but was far too weak to turn, so she lay and +listened. +</p> + +<p> +“How is she?” whispered one trembling, aged voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Better,” replied the other. “She’s been awake, and had +a cup of tea. She’ll do now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Has she asked after him?” +</p> + +<p> +“Hush! No; she has not spoken a word.” +</p> + +<p> +“Poor lass! poor lass!” +</p> + +<p> +The door was shut. A weak feeling of sorrow and self-pity came over Susan. What +was wrong? Whom had she loved? And dawning, dawning, slowly rose the sun of her +former life, and all particulars were made distinct to her. She felt that some +sorrow was coming to her, and cried over it before she knew what it was, or had +strength enough to ask. In the dead of night,—and she had never slept +again,—she softly called to the watcher, and asked— +</p> + +<p> +“Who?” +</p> + +<p> +“Who what?” replied the woman, with a conscious affright, +ill-veiled by a poor assumption of ease. “Lie still, there’s a +darling, and go to sleep. Sleep’s better for you than all the +doctor’s stuff.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who?” repeated Susan. “Something is wrong. Who?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, dear!” said the woman. “There’s nothing wrong. +Willie has taken the turn, and is doing nicely.” +</p> + +<p> +“Father?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well! he’s all right now,” she answered, looking another +way, as if seeking for something. +</p> + +<p> +“Then it’s Michael! Oh, me! oh, me!” She set up a succession +of weak, plaintive, hysterical cries before the nurse could pacify her, by +declaring that Michael had been at the house not three hours before to ask +after her, and looked as well and as hearty as ever man did. +</p> + +<p> +“And you heard of no harm to him since?” inquired Susan. +</p> + +<p> +“Bless the lass, no, for sure! I’ve ne’er heard his name +named since I saw him go out of the yard as stout a man as ever trod +shoe-leather.” +</p> + +<p> +It was well, as the nurse said afterwards to Peggy, that Susan had been so +easily pacified by the equivocating answer in respect to her father. If she had +pressed the questions home in his case as she did in Michael’s, she would +have learnt that he was dead and buried more than a month before. It was well, +too, that in her weak state of convalescence (which lasted long after this +first day of consciousness) her perceptions were not sharp enough to observe +the sad change that had taken place in Willie. His bodily strength returned, +his appetite was something enormous, but his eyes wandered continually; his +regard could not be arrested; his speech became slow, impeded, and incoherent. +People began to say that the fever had taken away the little wit Willie Dixon +had ever possessed and that they feared that he would end in being a +“natural,” as they call an idiot in the Dales. +</p> + +<p> +The habitual affection and obedience to Susan lasted longer than any other +feeling that the boy had had previous to his illness; and, perhaps, this made +her be the last to perceive what every one else had long anticipated. She felt +the awakening rude when it did come. It was in this wise:— +</p> + +<p> +One June evening, she sat out of doors under the yew-tree, knitting. She was +pale still from her recent illness; and her languor, joined to the fact of her +black dress, made her look more than usually interesting. She was no longer the +buoyant self-sufficient Susan, equal to every occasion. The men were bringing +in the cows to be milked, and Michael was about in the yard giving orders and +directions with somewhat the air of a master, for the farm belonged of right to +Willie, and Susan had succeeded to the guardianship of her brother. Michael and +she were to be married as soon as she was strong enough—so, perhaps, his +authoritative manner was justified; but the labourers did not like it, although +they said little. They remembered a stripling on the farm, knowing far less +than they did, and often glad to shelter his ignorance of all agricultural +matters behind their superior knowledge. They would have taken orders from +Susan with far more willingness; nay, Willie himself might have commanded them; +and from the old hereditary feeling toward the owners of land, they would have +obeyed him with far greater cordiality than they now showed to Michael. But +Susan was tired with even three rounds of knitting, and seemed not to notice, +or to care, how things went on around her; and Willie—poor +Willie!—there he stood lounging against the door-sill, enormously grown +and developed, to be sure, but with restless eyes and ever-open mouth, and +every now and then setting up a strange kind of howling cry, and then smiling +vacantly to himself at the sound he had made. As the two old labourers passed +him, they looked at each other ominously, and shook their heads. +</p> + +<p> +“Willie, darling,” said Susan, “don’t make that +noise—it makes my head ache.” +</p> + +<p> +She spoke feebly, and Willie did not seem to hear; at any rate, he continued +his howl from time to time. +</p> + +<p> +“Hold thy noise, wilt’a?” said Michael, roughly, as he passed +near him, and threatening him with his fist. Susan’s back was turned to +the pair. The expression of Willie’s face changed from vacancy to fear, +and he came shambling up to Susan, who put her arm round him, and, as if +protected by that shelter, he began making faces at Michael. Susan saw what was +going on, and, as if now first struck by the strangeness of her brother’s +manner, she looked anxiously at Michael for an explanation. Michael was +irritated at Willie’s defiance of him, and did not mince the matter. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s just that the fever has left him silly—he never was as +wise as other folk, and now I doubt if he will ever get right.” +</p> + +<p> +Susan did not speak, but she went very pale, and her lip quivered. She looked +long and wistfully at Willie’s face, as he watched the motion of the +ducks in the great stable-pool. He laughed softly to himself every now and +then. +</p> + +<p> +“Willie likes to see the ducks go overhead,” said Susan, +instinctively adopting the form of speech she would have used to a young child. +</p> + +<p> +“Willie, boo! Willie, boo!” he replied, clapping his hands, and +avoiding her eye. +</p> + +<p> +“Speak properly, Willie,” said Susan, making a strong effort at +self-control, and trying to arrest his attention. +</p> + +<p> +“You know who I am—tell me my name!” She grasped his arm +almost painfully tight to make him attend. Now he looked at her, and, for an +instant, a gleam of recognition quivered over his face; but the exertion was +evidently painful, and he began to cry at the vainness of the effort to recall +her name. He hid his face upon her shoulder with the old affectionate trick of +manner. She put him gently away, and went into the house into her own little +bedroom. She locked the door, and did not reply at all to Michael’s calls +for her, hardly spoke to old Peggy, who tried to tempt her out to receive some +homely sympathy, and through the open easement there still came the idiotic +sound of “Willie, boo! Willie, boo!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>CHAPTER III.</h2> + +<p> +After the stun of the blow came the realization of the consequences. Susan +would sit for hours trying patiently to recall and piece together fragments of +recollection and consciousness in her brother’s mind. She would let him +go and pursue some senseless bit of play, and wait until she could catch his +eye or his attention again, when she would resume her self-imposed task. +Michael complained that she never had a word for him, or a minute of time to +spend with him now; but she only said she must try, while there was yet a +chance, to bring back her brother’s lost wits. As for marriage in this +state of uncertainty, she had no heart to think of it. Then Michael stormed, +and absented himself for two or three days; but it was of no use. When he came +back, he saw that she had been crying till her eyes were all swollen up, and he +gathered from Peggy’s scoldings (which she did not spare him) that Susan +had eaten nothing since he went away. But she was as inflexible as ever. +</p> + +<p> +“Not just yet. Only not just yet. And don’t say again that I do not +love you,” said she, suddenly hiding herself in his arms. +</p> + +<p> +And so matters went on through August. The crop of oats was gathered in; the +wheat-field was not ready as yet, when one fine day Michael drove up in a +borrowed shandry, and offered to take Willie a ride. His manner, when Susan +asked him where he was going to, was rather confused; but the answer was +straight and clear enough. +</p> + +<p> +He had business in Ambleside. He would never lose sight of the lad, and have +him back safe and sound before dark. So Susan let him go. +</p> + +<p> +Before night they were at home again: Willie in high delight at a little +rattling paper windmill that Michael had bought for him in the street, and +striving to imitate this new sound with perpetual buzzings. Michael, too, +looked pleased. Susan knew the look, although afterwards she remembered that he +had tried to veil it from her, and had assumed a grave appearance of sorrow +whenever he caught her eye. He put up his horse; for, although he had three +miles further to go, the moon was up—the bonny harvest-moon—and he +did not care how late he had to drive on such a road by such a light. After the +supper which Susan had prepared for the travellers was over, Peggy went +up-stairs to see Willie safe in bed; for he had to have the same care taken of +him that a little child of four years old requires. +</p> + +<p> +Michael drew near to Susan. +</p> + +<p> +“Susan,” said he, “I took Will to see Dr. Preston, at Kendal. +He’s the first doctor in the county. I thought it were better for +us—for you—to know at once what chance there were for him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well!” said Susan, looking eagerly up. She saw the same strange +glance of satisfaction, the same instant change to apparent regret and pain. +“What did he say?” said she. “Speak! can’t you?” +</p> + +<p> +“He said he would never get better of his weakness.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never!” +</p> + +<p> +“No; never. It’s a long word, and hard to bear. And there’s +worse to come, dearest. The doctor thinks he will get badder from year to year. +And he said, if he was us—you—he would send him off in time to +Lancaster Asylum. They’ve ways there both of keeping such people in order +and making them happy. I only tell you what he said,” continued he, +seeing the gathering storm in her face. +</p> + +<p> +“There was no harm in his saying it,” she replied, with great +self-constraint, forcing herself to speak coldly instead of angrily. +“Folk is welcome to their opinions.” +</p> + +<p> +They sat silent for a minute or two, her breast heaving with suppressed +feeling. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s counted a very clever man,” said Michael at length. +</p> + +<p> +“He may be. He’s none of my clever men, nor am I going to be guided +by him, whatever he may think. And I don’t thank them that went and took +my poor lad to have such harsh notions formed about him. If I’d been +there, I could have called out the sense that is in him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well! I’ll not say more to-night, Susan. You’re not taking +it rightly, and I’d best be gone, and leave you to think it over. +I’ll not deny they are hard words to hear, but there’s sense in +them, as I take it; and I reckon you’ll have to come to ’em. +Anyhow, it’s a bad way of thanking me for my pains, and I don’t +take it well in you, Susan,” said he, getting up, as if offended. +</p> + +<p> +“Michael, I’m beside myself with sorrow. Don’t blame me if I +speak sharp. He and me is the only ones, you see. And mother did so charge me +to have a care of him! And this is what he’s come to, poor lile +chap!” She began to cry, and Michael to comfort her with caresses. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t,” said she. “It’s no use trying to make me +forget poor Willie is a natural. I could hate myself for being happy with you, +even for just a little minute. Go away, and leave me to face it out.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you’ll think it over, Susan, and remember what the doctor +says?” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t forget,” said she. She meant she could not forget +what the doctor had said about the hopelessness of her brother’s case; +Michael had referred to the plan of sending Willie to an asylum, or madhouse, +as they were called in that day and place. The idea had been gathering force in +Michael’s mind for some time; he had talked it over with his father, and +secretly rejoiced over the possession of the farm and land which would then be +his in fact, if not in law, by right of his wife. He had always considered the +good penny her father could give her in his catalogue of Susan’s charms +and attractions. But of late he had grown to esteem her as the heiress of Yew +Nook. He, too, should have land like his brother—land to possess, to +cultivate, to make profit from, to bequeath. For some time he had wondered that +Susan had been so much absorbed in Willie’s present, that she had never +seemed to look forward to his future, state. Michael had long felt the boy to +be a trouble; but of late he had absolutely loathed him. His gibbering, his +uncouth gestures, his loose, shambling gait, all irritated Michael +inexpressibly. He did not come near the Yew Nook for a couple of days. He +thought that he would leave her time to become anxious to see him and +reconciled to his plan. They were strange lonely days to Susan. They were the +first she had spent face to face with the sorrows that had turned her from a +girl into a woman; for hitherto Michael had never let twenty-four hours pass by +without coming to see her since she had had the fever. Now that he was absent, +it seemed as though some cause of irritation was removed from Will, who was +much more gentle and tractable than he had been for many weeks. Susan thought +that she observed him making efforts at her bidding, and there was something +piteous in the way in which he crept up to her, and looked wistfully in her +face, as if asking her to restore him the faculties that he felt to be wanting. +</p> + +<p> +“I never will let thee go, lad. Never! There’s no knowing where +they would take thee to, or what they would do with thee. As it says in the +Bible, ‘Nought but death shall part thee and me!’” +</p> + +<p> +The country-side was full, in those days, of stories of the brutal treatment +offered to the insane; stories that were, in fact, but too well founded, and +the truth of one of which only would have been a sufficient reason for the +strong prejudice existing against all such places. Each succeeding hour that +Susan passed, alone, or with the poor affectionate lad for her sole companion, +served to deepen her solemn resolution never to part with him. So, when Michael +came, he was annoyed and surprised by the calm way in which she spoke, as if +following Dr. Preston’s advice was utterly and entirely out of the +question. He had expected nothing less than a consent, reluctant it might be, +but still a consent; and he was extremely irritated. He could have repressed +his anger, but he chose rather to give way to it; thinking that he could thus +best work upon Susan’s affection, so as to gain his point. But, somehow, +he over-reached himself; and now he was astonished in his turn at the passion +of indignation that she burst into. +</p> + +<p> +“Thou wilt not bide in the same house with him, say’st thou? +There’s no need for thy biding, as far as I can tell. There’s +solemn reason why I should bide with my own flesh and blood and keep to the +word I pledged my mother on her death-bed; but, as for thee, there’s no +tie that I know on to keep thee fro’ going to America or Botany Bay this +very night, if that were thy inclination. I will have no more of your threats +to make me send my bairn away. If thou marry me, thou’lt help me to take +charge of Willie. If thou doesn’t choose to marry me on those +terms—why, I can snap my fingers at thee, never fear. I’m not so +far gone in love as that. But I will not have thee, if thou say’st in +such a hectoring way that Willie must go out of the house—and the house +his own too—before thoul’t set foot in it. Willie bides here, and I +bide with him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thou hast may-be spoken a word too much,” said Michael, pale with +rage. “If I am free, as thou say’st, to go to Canada, or Botany +Bay, I reckon I’m free to live where I like, and that will not be with a +natural who may turn into a madman some day, for aught I know. Choose between +him and me, Susy, for I swear to thee, thou shan’t have both.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have chosen,” said Susan, now perfectly composed and still. +“Whatever comes of it, I bide with Willie.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well,” replied Michael, trying to assume an equal composure +of manner. “Then I’ll wish you a very good night.” He went +out of the house door, half-expecting to be called back again; but, instead, he +heard a hasty step inside, and a bolt drawn. +</p> + +<p> +“Whew!” said he to himself, “I think I must leave my lady +alone for a week or two, and give her time to come to her senses. She’ll +not find it so easy as she thinks to let me go.” +</p> + +<p> +So he went past the kitchen-window in nonchalant style, and was not seen again +at Yew Nook for some weeks. How did he pass the time? For the first day or two, +he was unusually cross with all things and people that came athwart him. Then +wheat-harvest began, and he was busy, and exultant about his heavy crop. Then a +man came from a distance to bid for the lease of his farm, which, by his +father’s advice, had been offered for sale, as he himself was so soon +likely to remove to the Yew Nook. He had so little idea that Susan really would +remain firm to her determination, that he at once began to haggle with the man +who came after his farm, showed him the crop just got in, and managed skilfully +enough to make a good bargain for himself. Of course, the bargain had to be +sealed at the public-house; and the companions he met with there soon became +friends enough to tempt him into Langdale, where again he met with Eleanor +Hebthwaite. +</p> + +<p> +How did Susan pass the time? For the first day or so, she was too angry and +offended to cry. She went about her household duties in a quick, sharp, +jerking, yet absent way; shrinking one moment from Will, overwhelming him with +remorseful caresses the next. The third day of Michael’s absence, she had +the relief of a good fit of crying; and after that, she grew softer and more +tender; she felt how harshly she had spoken to him, and remembered how angry +she had been. She made excuses for him. “It was no wonder,” she +said to herself, “that he had been vexed with her; and no wonder he would +not give in, when she had never tried to speak gently or to reason with him. +She was to blame, and she would tell him so, and tell him once again all that +her mother had bade her to be to Willie, and all the horrible stories she had +heard about madhouses, and he would be on her side at once.” +</p> + +<p> +And so she watched for his coming, intending to apologise as soon as ever she +saw him. She hurried over her household work, in order to sit quietly at her +sewing, and hear the first distant sound of his well-known step or whistle. But +even the sound of her flying needle seemed too loud—perhaps she was +losing an exquisite instant of anticipation; so she stopped sewing, and looked +longingly out through the geranium leaves, in order that her eye might catch +the first stir of the branches in the wood-path by which he generally came. Now +and then a bird might spring out of the covert; otherwise the leaves were +heavily still in the sultry weather of early autumn. Then she would take up her +sewing, and, with a spasm of resolution, she would determine that a certain +task should be fulfilled before she would again allow herself the poignant +luxury of expectation. Sick at heart was she when the evening closed in, and +the chances of that day diminished. Yet she stayed up longer than usual, +thinking that if he were coming—if he were only passing along the distant +road—the sight of a light in the window might encourage him to make his +appearance even at that late hour, while seeing the house all darkened and shut +up might quench any such intention. +</p> + +<p> +Very sick and weary at heart, she went to bed; too desolate and despairing to +cry, or make any moan. But in the morning hope came afresh. Another +day—another chance! And so it went on for weeks. Peggy understood her +young mistress’s sorrow full well, and respected it by her silence on the +subject. Willie seemed happier now that the irritation of Michael’s +presence was removed; for the poor idiot had a sort of antipathy to Michael, +which was a kind of heart’s echo to the repugnance in which the latter +held him. Altogether, just at this time, Willie was the happiest of the three. +</p> + +<p> +As Susan went into Coniston, to sell her butter, one Saturday, some +inconsiderate person told her that she had seen Michael Hurst the night before. +I said inconsiderate, but I might rather have said unobservant; for any one who +had spent half-an-hour in Susan Dixon’s company might have seen that she +disliked having any reference made to the subjects nearest her heart, were they +joyous or grievous. Now she went a little paler than usual (and she had never +recovered her colour since she had had the fever), and tried to keep silence. +But an irrepressible pang forced out the question— +</p> + +<p> +“Where?” +</p> + +<p> +“At Thomas Applethwaite’s, in Langdale. They had a kind of +harvest-home, and he were there among the young folk, and very thick wi’ +Nelly Hebthwaite, old Thomas’s niece. Thou’lt have to look after +him a bit, Susan!” +</p> + +<p> +She neither smiled nor sighed. The neighbour who had been speaking to her was +struck with the gray stillness of her face. Susan herself felt how well her +self-command was obeyed by every little muscle, and said to herself in her +Spartan manner, “I can bear it without either wincing or +blenching.” She went home early, at a tearing, passionate pace, trampling +and breaking through all obstacles of briar or bush. Willie was moping in her +absence—hanging listlessly on the farm-yard gate to watch for her. When +he saw her, he set up one of his strange, inarticulate cries, of which she was +now learning the meaning, and came towards her with his loose, galloping run, +head and limbs all shaking and wagging with pleasant excitement. Suddenly she +turned from him, and burst into tears. She sat down on a stone by the wayside, +not a hundred yards from home, and buried her face in her hands, and gave way +to a passion of pent-up sorrow; so terrible and full of agony were her low +cries, that the idiot stood by her, aghast and silent. All his joy gone for the +time, but not, like her joy, turned into ashes. Some thought struck him. Yes! +the sight of her woe made him think, great as the exertion was. He ran, and +stumbled, and shambled home, buzzing with his lips all the time. She never +missed him. He came back in a trice, bringing with him his cherished paper +windmill, bought on that fatal day when Michael had taken him into Kendal to +have his doom of perpetual idiocy pronounced. He thrust it into Susan’s +face, her hands, her lap, regardless of the injury his frail plaything thereby +received. He leapt before her to think how he had cured all heart-sorrow, +buzzing louder than ever. Susan looked up at him, and that glance of her sad +eyes sobered him. He began to whimper, he knew not why: and she now, comforter +in her turn, tried to soothe him by twirling his windmill. But it was broken; +it made no noise; it would not go round. This seemed to afflict Susan more than +him. She tried to make it right, although she saw the task was hopeless; and +while she did so, the tears rained down unheeded from her bent head on the +paper toy. +</p> + +<p> +“It won’t do,” said she, at last. “It will never do +again.” And, somehow, she took the accident and her words as omens of the +love that was broken, and that she feared could never be pieced together more. +She rose up and took Willie’s hand, and the two went slowly into the +house. +</p> + +<p> +To her surprise, Michael Hurst sat in the house-place. House-place is a sort of +better kitchen, where no cookery is done, but which is reserved for state +occasions. Michael had gone in there because he was accompanied by his only +sister, a woman older than himself, who was well married beyond Keswick, and +who now came for the first time to make acquaintance with Susan. Michael had +primed his sister with his wishes regarding Will, and the position in which he +stood with Susan; and arriving at Yew Nook in the absence of the latter, he had +not scrupled to conduct his sister into the guest-room, as he held Mrs. +Gale’s worldly position in respect and admiration, and therefore wished +her to be favourably impressed with all the signs of property which he was +beginning to consider as Susan’s greatest charms. He had secretly said to +himself, that if Eleanor Hebthwaite and Susan Dixon were equal in point of +riches, he would sooner have Eleanor by far. He had begun to consider Susan as +a termagant; and when he thought of his intercourse with her, recollections of +her somewhat warm and hasty temper came far more readily to his mind than any +remembrance of her generous, loving nature. +</p> + +<p> +And now she stood face to face with him; her eyes tear-swollen, her garments +dusty, and here and there torn in consequence of her rapid progress through the +bushy by-paths. She did not make a favourable impression on the well-clad Mrs. +Gale, dressed in her best silk gown, and therefore unusually susceptible to the +appearance of another. Nor were Susan’s manners gracious or cordial. How +could they be, when she remembered what had passed between Michael and herself +the last time they met? For her penitence had faded away under the daily +disappointment of these last weary weeks. +</p> + +<p> +But she was hospitable in substance. She bade Peggy hurry on the kettle, and +busied herself among the tea-cups, thankful that the presence of Mrs. Gale, as +a stranger, would prevent the immediate recurrence to the one subject which she +felt must be present in Michael’s mind as well as in her own. But Mrs. +Gale was withheld by no such feelings of delicacy. She had come ready-primed +with the case, and had undertaken to bring the girl to reason. There was no +time to be lost. It had been prearranged between the brother and sister that he +was to stroll out into the farm-yard before his sister introduced the subject; +but she was so confident in the success of her arguments, that she must needs +have the triumph of a victory as soon as possible; and, accordingly, she +brought a hail-storm of good reasons to bear upon Susan. Susan did not reply +for a long time; she was so indignant at this intermeddling of a stranger in +the deep family sorrow and shame. Mrs. Gale thought she was gaining the day, +and urged her arguments more pitilessly. Even Michael winced for Susan, and +wondered at her silence. He shrank out of sight, and into the shadow, hoping +that his sister might prevail, but annoyed at the hard way in which she kept +putting the case. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly Susan turned round from the occupation she had pretended to be engaged +in, and said to him in a low voice, which yet not only vibrated itself, but +made its hearers thrill through all their obtuseness: +</p> + +<p> +“Michael Hurst! does your sister speak truth, think you?” +</p> + +<p> +Both women looked at him for his answer; Mrs. Gale without anxiety, for had she +not said the very words they had spoken together before? had she not used the +very arguments that he himself had suggested? Susan, on the contrary, looked to +his answer as settling her doom for life; and in the gloom of her eyes you +might have read more despair than hope. +</p> + +<p> +He shuffled his position. He shuffled in his words. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it you ask? My sister has said many things.” +</p> + +<p> +“I ask you,” said Susan, trying to give a crystal clearness both to +her expressions and her pronunciation, “if, knowing as you do how Will is +afflicted, you will help me to take that charge of him which I promised my +mother on her death-bed that I would do; and which means, that I shall keep him +always with me, and do all in my power to make his life happy. If you will do +this, I will be your wife; if not, I remain unwed.” +</p> + +<p> +“But he may get dangerous; he can be but a trouble; his being here is a +pain to you, Susan, not a pleasure.” +</p> + +<p> +“I ask you for either yes or no,” said she, a little contempt at +his evading her question mingling with her tone. He perceived it, and it +nettled him. +</p> + +<p> +“And I have told you. I answered your question the last time I was here. +I said I would ne’er keep house with an idiot; no more I will. So now +you’ve gotten your answer.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have,” said Susan. And she sighed deeply. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, now,” said Mrs. Gale, encouraged by the sigh; “one +would think you don’t love Michael, Susan, to be so stubborn in yielding +to what I’m sure would be best for the lad.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! she does not care for me,” said Michael. “I don’t +believe she ever did.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t I? Haven’t I?” asked Susan, her eyes blazing out +fire. She left the room directly, and sent Peggy in to make the tea; and +catching at Will, who was lounging about in the kitchen, she went up-stairs +with him and bolted herself in, straining the boy to her heart, and keeping +almost breathless, lest any noise she made might cause him to break out into +the howls and sounds which she could not bear that those below should hear. +</p> + +<p> +A knock at the door. It was Peggy. +</p> + +<p> +“He wants for to see you, to wish you good-bye.” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot come. Oh, Peggy, send them away.” +</p> + +<p> +It was her only cry for sympathy; and the old servant understood it. She sent +them away, somehow; not politely, as I have been given to understand. +</p> + +<p> +“Good go with them,” said Peggy, as she grimly watched their +retreating figures. “We’re rid of bad rubbish, anyhow.” And +she turned into the house, with the intention of making ready some refreshment +for Susan, after her hard day at the market, and her harder evening. But in the +kitchen, to which she passed through the empty house-place, making a face of +contemptuous dislike at the used tea-cups and fragments of a meal yet standing +there, she found Susan, with her sleeves tucked up and her working apron on, +busied in preparing to make clap-bread, one of the hardest and hottest domestic +tasks of a Daleswoman. She looked up, and first met, and then avoided +Peggy’s eye; it was too full of sympathy. Her own cheeks were flushed, +and her own eyes were dry and burning. +</p> + +<p> +“Where’s the board, Peggy? We need clap-bread; and, I reckon, +I’ve time to get through with it to-night.” Her voice had a sharp, +dry tone in it, and her motions a jerking angularity about them. +</p> + +<p> +Peggy said nothing, but fetched her all that she needed. Susan beat her cakes +thin with vehement force. As she stooped over them, regardless even of the task +in which she seemed so much occupied, she was surprised by a touch on her mouth +of something—what she did not see at first. It was a cup of tea, +delicately sweetened and cooled, and held to her lips, when exactly ready, by +the faithful old woman. Susan held it off a hand’s breath, and looked +into Peggy’s eyes, while her own filled with the strange relief of tears. +</p> + +<p> +“Lass!” said Peggy, solemnly, “thou hast done well. It is not +long to bide, and then the end will come.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you are very old, Peggy,” said Susan, quivering. +</p> + +<p> +“It is but a day sin’ I were young,” replied Peggy; but she +stopped the conversation by again pushing the cup with gentle force to +Susan’s dry and thirsty lips. When she had drunken she fell again to her +labour, Peggy heating the hearth, and doing all that she knew would be +required, but never speaking another word. Willie basked close to the fire, +enjoying the animal luxury of warmth, for the autumn evenings were beginning to +be chilly. It was one o’clock before they thought of going to bed on that +memorable night. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>CHAPTER IV.</h2> + +<p> +The vehemence with which Susan Dixon threw herself into occupation could not +last for ever. Times of languor and remembrance would come—times when she +recurred with a passionate yearning to bygone days, the recollection of which +was so vivid and delicious, that it seemed as though it were the reality, and +the present bleak bareness the dream. She smiled anew at the magical sweetness +of some touch or tone which in memory she felt and heard, and drank the +delicious cup of poison, although at the very time she knew what the +consequences of racking pain would be. +</p> + +<p> +“This time, last year,” thought she, “we went nutting +together—this very day last year; just such a day as to-day. Purple and +gold were the lights on the hills; the leaves were just turning brown; here and +there on the sunny slopes the stubble-fields looked tawny; down in a cleft of +yon purple slate-rock the beck fell like a silver glancing thread; all just as +it is to-day. And he climbed the slender, swaying nut-trees, and bent the +branches for me to gather; or made a passage through the hazel copses, from +time to time claiming a toll. Who could have thought he loved me so +little?—who?—who?” +</p> + +<p> +Or, as the evening closed in, she would allow herself to imagine that she heard +his coming step, just that she might recall time feeling of exquisite delight +which had passed by without the due and passionate relish at the time. Then she +would wonder how she could have had strength, the cruel, self-piercing +strength, to say what she had done; to stab himself with that stern resolution, +of which the sear would remain till her dying day. It might have been right; +but, as she sickened, she wished she had not instinctively chosen the right. +How luxurious a life haunted by no stern sense of duty must be! And many led +this kind of life; why could not she? O, for one hour again of his sweet +company! If he came now, she would agree to whatever he proposed. +</p> + +<p> +It was a fever of the mind. She passed through it, and came out healthy, if +weak. She was capable once more of taking pleasure in following an unseen guide +through briar and brake. She returned with tenfold affection to her protecting +care of Willie. She acknowledged to herself that he was to be her all-in-all in +life. She made him her constant companion. For his sake, as the real owner of +Yew Nook, and she as his steward and guardian, she began that course of careful +saving, and that love of acquisition, which afterwards gained for her the +reputation of being miserly. She still thought that he might regain a scanty +portion of sense—enough to require some simple pleasures and excitement, +which would cost money. And money should not be wanting. Peggy rather assisted +her in the formation of her parsimonious habits than otherwise; economy was the +order of the district, and a certain degree of respectable avarice the +characteristic of her age. Only Willie was never stinted nor hindered of +anything that the two women thought could give him pleasure, for want of money. +</p> + +<p> +There was one gratification which Susan felt was needed for the restoration of +her mind to its more healthy state, after she had passed through the whirling +fever, when duty was as nothing, and anarchy reigned; a gratification that, +somehow, was to be her last burst of unreasonableness; of which she knew and +recognised pain as the sure consequence. She must see him once +more,—herself unseen. +</p> + +<p> +The week before the Christmas of this memorable year, she went out in the dusk +of the early winter evening, wrapped close in shawl and cloak. She wore her +dark shawl under her cloak, putting it over her head in lieu of a bonnet; for +she knew that she might have to wait long in concealment. Then she tramped over +the wet fell-path, shut in by misty rain for miles and miles, till she came to +the place where he was lodging; a farm-house in Langdale, with a steep, stony +lane leading up to it: this lane was entered by a gate out of the main road, +and by the gate were a few bushes—thorns; but of them the leaves had +fallen, and they offered no concealment: an old wreck of a yew-tree grew among +them, however, and underneath that Susan cowered down, shrouding her face, of +which the colour might betray her, with a corner of her shawl. Long did she +wait; cold and cramped she became, too damp and stiff to change her posture +readily. And after all, he might never come! But, she would wait till daylight, +if need were; and she pulled out a crust, with which she had providently +supplied herself. The rain had ceased,—a dull, still, brooding weather +had succeeded; it was a night to hear distant sounds. She heard horses’ +hoofs striking and splashing in the stones, and in the pools of the road at her +back. Two horses; not well-ridden, or evenly guided, as she could tell. +</p> + +<p> +Michael Hurst and a companion drew near: not tipsy, but not sober. They stopped +at the gate to bid each other a maudlin farewell. Michael stooped forward to +catch the latch with the hook of the stick which he carried; he dropped the +stick, and it fell with one end close to Susan,—indeed, with the +slightest change of posture she could have opened the gate for him. He swore a +great oath, and struck his horse with his closed fist, as if that animal had +been to blame; then he dismounted, opened the gate, and fumbled about for his +stick. When he had found it (Susan had touched the other end) his first use of +it was to flog his horse well, and she had much ado to avoid its kicks and +plunges. Then, still swearing, he staggered up the lane, for it was evident he +was not sober enough to remount. +</p> + +<p> +By daylight Susan was back and at her daily labours at Yew Nook. When the +spring came, Michael Hurst was married to Eleanor Hebthwaite. Others, too, were +married, and christenings made their firesides merry and glad; or they +travelled, and came back after long years with many wondrous tales. More +rarely, perhaps, a Dalesman changed his dwelling. But to all households more +change came than to Yew Nook. There the seasons came round with monotonous +sameness; or, if they brought mutation, it was of a slow, and decaying, and +depressing kind. Old Peggy died. Her silent sympathy, concealed under much +roughness, was a loss to Susan Dixon. Susan was not yet thirty when this +happened, but she looked a middle-aged, not to say an elderly woman. People +affirmed that she had never recovered her complexion since that fever, a dozen +years ago, which killed her father, and left Will Dixon an idiot. But besides +her gray sallowness, the lines in her face were strong, and deep, and hard. The +movements of her eyeballs were slow and heavy; the wrinkles at the corners of +her mouth and eyes were planted firm and sure; not an ounce of unnecessary +flesh was there on her bones—every muscle started strong and ready for +use. She needed all this bodily strength, to a degree that no human creature, +now Peggy was dead, knew of: for Willie had grown up large and strong in body, +and, in general, docile enough in mind; but, every now and then, he became +first moody, and then violent. These paroxysms lasted but a day or two; and it +was Susan’s anxious care to keep their very existence hidden and unknown. +It is true, that occasional passers-by on that lonely road heard sounds at +night of knocking about of furniture, blows, and cries, as of some tearing +demon within the solitary farm-house; but these fits of violence usually +occurred in the night; and whatever had been their consequence, Susan had +tidied and redded up all signs of aught unusual before the morning. For, above +all, she dreaded lest some one might find out in what danger and peril she +occasionally was, and might assume a right to take away her brother from her +care. The one idea of taking charge of him had deepened and deepened with +years. It was graven into her mind as the object for which she lived. The +sacrifice she had made for this object only made it more precious to her. +Besides, she separated the idea of the docile, affectionate, loutish, indolent +Will, and kept it distinct from the terror which the demon that occasionally +possessed him inspired her with. The one was her flesh and her blood—the +child of her dead mother; the other was some fiend who came to torture and +convulse the creature she so loved. She believed that she fought her +brother’s battle in holding down those tearing hands, in binding whenever +she could those uplifted restless arms prompt and prone to do mischief. All the +time she subdued him with her cunning or her strength, she spoke to him in +pitying murmurs, or abused the third person, the fiendish enemy, in no +unmeasured tones. Towards morning the paroxysm was exhausted, and he would fall +asleep, perhaps only to waken with evil and renewed vigour. But when he was +laid down, she would sally out to taste the fresh air, and to work off her wild +sorrow in cries and mutterings to herself. The early labourers saw her gestures +at a distance, and thought her as crazed as the idiot-brother who made the +neighbourhood a haunted place. But did any chance person call at Yew Nook later +on in the day, he would find Susan Dixon cold, calm, collected; her manner +curt, her wits keen. +</p> + +<p> +Once this fit of violence lasted longer than usual. Susan’s strength both +of mind and body was nearly worn out; she wrestled in prayer that somehow it +might end before she, too, was driven mad; or, worse, might be obliged to give +up life’s aim, and consign Willie to a madhouse. From that moment of +prayer (as she afterwards superstitiously thought) Willie calmed—and then +he drooped—and then he sank—and, last of all, he died in reality +from physical exhaustion. +</p> + +<p> +But he was so gentle and tender as he lay on his dying bed; such strange, +child-like gleams of returning intelligence came over his face, long after the +power to make his dull, inarticulate sounds had departed, that Susan was +attracted to him by a stronger tie than she had ever felt before. It was +something to have even an idiot loving her with dumb, wistful, animal +affection; something to have any creature looking at her with such beseeching +eyes, imploring protection from the insidious enemy stealing on. And yet she +knew that to him death was no enemy, but a true friend, restoring light and +health to his poor clouded mind. It was to her that death was an enemy; to her, +the survivor, when Willie died; there was no one to love her. +</p> + +<p> +Worse doom still, there was no one left on earth for her to love. +</p> + +<p> +You now know why no wandering tourist could persuade her to receive him as a +lodger; why no tired traveller could melt her heart to afford him rest and +refreshment; why long habits of seclusion had given her a moroseness of manner, +and how care for the interests of another had rendered her keen and miserly. +</p> + +<p> +But there was a third act in the drama of her life. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>CHAPTER V.</h2> + +<p> +In spite of Peggy’s prophecy that Susan’s life should not seem +long, it did seem wearisome and endless, as the years slowly uncoiled their +monotonous circles. To be sure, she might have made change for herself, but she +did not care to do it. It was, indeed, more than “not caring,” +which merely implies a certain degree of <i>vis inertiæ</i> to be subdued +before an object can be attained, and that the object itself does not seem to +be of sufficient importance to call out the requisite energy. On the contrary, +Susan exerted herself to avoid change and variety. She had a morbid dread of +new faces, which originated in her desire to keep poor dead Willie’s +state a profound secret. She had a contempt for new customs; and, indeed, her +old ways prospered so well under her active hand and vigilant eye, that it was +difficult to know how they could be improved upon. She was regularly present in +Coniston market with the best butter and the earliest chickens of the season. +Those were the common farm produce that every farmer’s wife about had to +sell; but Susan, after she had disposed of the more feminine articles, turned +to on the man’s side. A better judge of a horse or cow there was not in +all the country round. Yorkshire itself might have attempted to jockey her, and +would have failed. Her corn was sound and clean; her potatoes well preserved to +the latest spring. People began to talk of the hoards of money Susan Dixon must +have laid up somewhere; and one young ne’er-do-weel of a farmer’s +son undertook to make love to the woman of forty, who looked fifty-five, if a +day. He made up to her by opening a gate on the road-path home, as she was +riding on a bare-backed horse, her purchase not an hour ago. She was off before +him, refusing his civility; but the remounting was not so easy, and rather than +fail she did not choose to attempt it. She walked, and he walked alongside, +improving his opportunity, which, as he vainly thought, had been consciously +granted to him. As they drew near Yew Nook, he ventured on some expression of a +wish to keep company with her. His words were vague and clumsily arranged. +Susan turned round and coolly asked him to explain himself, he took courage, as +he thought of her reputed wealth, and expressed his wishes this second time +pretty plainly. To his surprise, the reply she made was in a series of smart +strokes across his shoulders, administered through the medium of a supple +hazel-switch. +</p> + +<p> +“Take that!” said she, almost breathless, “to teach thee how +thou darest make a fool of an honest woman old enough to be thy mother. If thou +com’st a step nearer the house, there’s a good horse-pool, and +there’s two stout fellows who’ll like no better fun than ducking +thee. Be off wi’ thee!” +</p> + +<p> +And she strode into her own premises, never looking round to see whether he +obeyed her injunction or not. +</p> + +<p> +Sometimes three or four years would pass over without her hearing Michael +Hurst’s name mentioned. She used to wonder at such times whether he were +dead or alive. She would sit for hours by the dying embers of her fire on a +winter’s evening, trying to recall the scenes of her youth; trying to +bring up living pictures of the faces she had then known—Michael’s +most especially. She thought it was possible, so long had been the lapse of +years, that she might now pass by him in the street unknowing and unknown. His +outward form she might not recognize, but himself she should feel in the thrill +of her whole being. He could not pass her unawares. +</p> + +<p> +What little she did hear about him, all testified a downward tendency. He +drank—not at stated times when there was no other work to be done, but +continually, whether it was seed-time or harvest. His children were all ill at +the same time; then one died, while the others recovered, but were poor sickly +things. No one dared to give Susan any direct intelligence of her former lover; +many avoided all mention of his name in her presence; but a few spoke out +either in indifference to, or ignorance of, those bygone days. Susan heard +every word, every whisper, every sound that related to him. But her eye never +changed, nor did a muscle of her face move. +</p> + +<p> +Late one November night she sat over her fire; not a human being besides +herself in the house; none but she had ever slept there since Willie’s +death. The farm-labourers had foddered the cattle and gone home hours before. +There were crickets chirping all round the warm hearth-stones; there was the +clock ticking with the peculiar beat Susan had known from her childhood, and +which then and ever since she had oddly associated within the idea of a mother +and child talking together, one loud tick, and quick—a feeble, sharp one +following. +</p> + +<p> +The day had been keen, and piercingly cold. The whole lift of heaven seemed a +dome of iron. Black and frost-bound was the earth under the cruel east wind. +Now the wind had dropped, and as the darkness had gathered in, the weather-wise +old labourers prophesied snow. The sounds in the air arose again, as Susan sat +still and silent. They were of a different character to what they had been +during the prevalence of the east wind. Then they had been shrill and piping; +now they were like low distant growling; not unmusical, but strangely +threatening. Susan went to the window, and drew aside the little curtain. The +whole world was white—the air was blinded with the swift and heavy fall +of snow. At present it came down straight, but Susan knew those distant sounds +in the hollows and gulleys of the hills portended a driving wind and a more +cruel storm. She thought of her sheep; were they all folded? the new-born calf, +was it bedded well? Before the drifts were formed too deep for her to pass in +and out—and by the morning she judged that they would be six or seven +feet deep—she would go out and see after the comfort of her beasts. She +took a lantern, and tied a shawl over her head, and went out into the open air. +She had tenderly provided for all her animals, and was returning, when, borne +on the blast as if some spirit-cry—for it seemed to come rather down from +the skies than from any creature standing on earth’s level—she +heard a voice of agony; she could not distinguish words; it seemed rather as if +some bird of prey was being caught in the whirl of the icy wind, and torn and +tortured by its violence. Again up high above! Susan put down her lantern, and +shouted loud in return; it was an instinct, for if the creature were not human, +which she had doubted but a moment before, what good could her responding cry +do? And her cry was seized on by the tyrannous wind, and borne farther away in +the opposite direction to that from which the call of agony had proceeded. +Again she listened; no sound: then again it rang through space; and this time +she was sure it was human. She turned into the house, and heaped turf and wood +on the fire, which, careless of her own sensations, she had allowed to fade and +almost die out. She put a new candle in her lantern; she changed her shawl for +a maud, and leaving the door on latch, she sallied out. Just at the moment when +her ear first encountered the weird noises of the storm, on issuing forth into +the open air, she thought she heard the words, “O God! O help!” +They were a guide to her, if words they were, for they came straight from a +rock not a quarter of a mile from Yew Nook, but only to be reached, on account +of its precipitous character, by a round-about path. Thither she steered, +defying wind and snow; guided by here a thorn-tree, there an old, doddered oak, +which had not quite lest their identity under the whelming mask of snow. Now +and then she stopped to listen; but never a word or sound heard she, till right +from where the copse-wood grew thick and tangled at the base of the rock, round +which she was winding, she heard a moan. Into the brake—all snow in +appearance—almost a plain of snow looked on from the little eminence +where she stood—she plunged, breaking down the bush, stumbling, bruising +herself, fighting her way; her lantern held between her teeth, and she herself +using head as well as hands to butt away a passage, at whatever cost of bodily +injury. As she climbed or staggered, owing to the unevenness of the +snow-covered ground, where the briars and weeds of years were tangled and +matted together, her foot felt something strangely soft and yielding. She +lowered her lantern; there lay a man, prone on his face, nearly covered by the +fast-falling flakes; he must have fallen from the rock above, as, not knowing +of the circuitous path, he had tried to descend its steep, slippery face. Who +could tell? it was no time for thinking. Susan lifted him up with her wiry +strength; he gave no help—no sign of life; but for all that he might be +alive: he was still warm; she tied her maud round him; she fastened the lantern +to her apron-string; she held him tight: half-carrying, +half-dragging—what did a few bruises signify to him, compared to dear +life, to precious life! She got him through the brake, and down the path. +There, for an instant, she stopped to take breath; but, as if stung by the +Furies, she pushed on again with almost superhuman strength. Clasping him round +the waist, and leaning his dead weight against the lintel of the door, she +tried to undo the latch; but now, just at this moment, a trembling faintness +came over her, and a fearful dread took possession of her—that here, on +the very threshold of her home, she might be found dead, and buried under the +snow, when the farm-servants came in the morning. This terror stirred her up to +one more effort. Then she and her companion were in the warmth of the quiet +haven of that kitchen; she laid him on the settle, and sank on the floor by his +side. How long she remained in this swoon she could not tell; not very long she +judged by the fire, which was still red and sullenly glowing when she came to +herself. She lighted the candle, and bent over her late burden to ascertain if +indeed he were dead. She stood long gazing. The man lay dead. There could be no +doubt about it. His filmy eyes glared at her, unshut. But Susan was not one to +be affrighted by the stony aspect of death. It was not that; it was the bitter, +woeful recognition of Michael Hurst! +</p> + +<p> +She was convinced he was dead; but after a while she refused to believe in her +conviction. She stripped off his wet outer-garments with trembling, hurried +hands. She brought a blanket down from her own bed; she made up the fire. She +swathed him in fresh, warm wrappings, and laid him on the flags before the +fire, sitting herself at his head, and holding it in her lap, while she +tenderly wiped his loose, wet hair, curly still, although its colour had +changed from nut-brown to iron-gray since she had seen it last. From time to +time she bent over the face afresh, sick, and fain to believe that the flicker +of the fire-light was some slight convulsive motion. But the dim, staring eyes +struck chill to her heart. At last she ceased her delicate, busy cares: but she +still held the head softly, as if caressing it. She thought over all the +possibilities and chances in the mingled yarn of their lives that might, by so +slight a turn, have ended far otherwise. If her mother’s cold had been +early tended, so that the responsibility as to her brother’s weal or woe +had not fallen upon her; if the fever had not taken such rough, cruel hold on +Will; nay, if Mrs. Gale, that hard, worldly sister, had not accompanied him on +his last visit to Yew Nook—his very last before this fatal, stormy might; +if she had heard his cry,—cry uttered by these pale, dead lips with such +wild, despairing agony, not yet three hours ago!—O! if she had but heard +it sooner, he might have been saved before that blind, false step had +precipitated him down the rock! In going over this weary chain of unrealized +possibilities, Susan learnt the force of Peggy’s words. Life was short, +looking back upon it. It seemed but yesterday since all the love of her being +had been poured out, and run to waste. The intervening years—the long +monotonous years that had turned her into an old woman before her +time—were but a dream. +</p> + +<p> +The labourers coming in the dawn of the winter’s day were surprised to +see the fire-light through the low kitchen-window. They knocked, and hearing a +moaning answer, they entered, fearing that something had befallen their +mistress. For all explanation they got these words +</p> + +<p> +“It is Michael Hurst. He was belated, and fell down the Raven’s +Crag. Where does Eleanor, his wife, live?” +</p> + +<p> +How Michael Hurst got to Yew Nook no one but Susan ever knew. They thought he +had dragged himself there, with some sore internal bruise sapping away his +minuted life. They could not have believed the superhuman exertion which had +first sought him out, and then dragged him hither. Only Susan knew of that. +</p> + +<p> +She gave him into the charge of her servants, and went out and saddled her +horse. Where the wind had drifted the snow on one side, and the road was clear +and bare, she rode, and rode fast; where the soft, deceitful heaps were massed +up, she dismounted and led her steed, plunging in deep, with fierce energy, the +pain at her heart urging her onwards with a sharp, digging spur. +</p> + +<p> +The gray, solemn, winter’s noon was more night-like than the depth of +summer’s night; dim-purple brooded the low skies over the white earth, as +Susan rode up to what had been Michael Hurst’s abode while living. It was +a small farm-house carelessly kept outside, slatternly tended within. The +pretty Nelly Hebthwaite was pretty still; her delicate face had never suffered +from any long-enduring feeling. If anything, its expression was that of +plaintive sorrow; but the soft, light hair had scarcely a tinge of gray; the +wood-rose tint of complexion yet remained, if not so brilliant as in youth; the +straight nose, the small mouth were untouched by time. Susan felt the contrast +even at that moment. She knew that her own skin was weather-beaten, furrowed, +brown,—that her teeth were gone, and her hair gray and ragged. And yet +she was not two years older than Nelly,—she had not been, in youth, when +she took account of these things. Nelly stood wondering at the strange-enough +horse-woman, who stopped and panted at the door, holding her horse’s +bridle, and refusing to enter. +</p> + +<p> +“Where is Michael Hurst?” asked Susan, at last. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I can’t rightly say. He should have been at home last night, +but he was off, seeing after a public-house to be let at Ulverstone, for our +farm does not answer, and we were thinking—” +</p> + +<p> +“He did not come home last night?” said Susan, cutting short the +story, and half-affirming, half-questioning, by way of letting in a ray of the +awful light before she let it full in, in its consuming wrath. +</p> + +<p> +“No! he’ll be stopping somewhere out Ulverstone ways. I’m +sure we’ve need of him at home, for I’ve no one but lile Tommy to +help me tend the beasts. Things have not gone well with us, and we don’t +keep a servant now. But you’re trembling all over, ma’am. +You’d better come in, and take something warm, while your horse rests. +That’s the stable-door, to your left.” +</p> + +<p> +Susan took her horse there; loosened his girths, and rubbed him down with a +wisp of straw. Then she hooked about her for hay; but the place was bare of +feed, and smelt damp and unused. She went to the house, thankful for the +respite, and got some clap-bread, which she mashed up in a pailful of lukewarm +water. Every moment was a respite, and yet every moment made her dread the more +the task that lay before her. It would be longer than she thought at first. She +took the saddle off, and hung about her horse, which seemed, somehow, more like +a friend than anything else in the world. She laid her cheek against its neck, +and rested there, before returning to the house for the last time. +</p> + +<p> +Eleanor had brought down one of her own gowns, which hung on a chair against +the fire, and had made her unknown visitor a cup of hot tea. Susan could hardly +bear all these little attentions: they choked her, and yet she was so wet, so +weak with fatigue and excitement, that she could neither resist by voice or by +action. Two children stood awkwardly about, puzzled at the scene, and even +Eleanor began to wish for some explanation of who her strange visitor was. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve, maybe, heard him speaking of me? I’m called Susan +Dixon.” +</p> + +<p> +Nelly coloured, and avoided meeting Susan’s eye. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve heard other folk speak of you. He never named your +name.” +</p> + +<p> +This respect of silence came like balm to Susan: balm not felt or heeded at the +time it was applied, but very grateful in its effects for all that. +</p> + +<p> +“He is at my house,” continued Susan, determined not to stop or +quaver in the operation—the pain which must be inflicted. +</p> + +<p> +“At your house? Yew Nook?” questioned Eleanor, surprised. +“How came he there?”—half jealously. “Did he take +shelter from the coming storm? Tell me,—there is something—tell me, +woman!” +</p> + +<p> +“He took no shelter. Would to God he had!” +</p> + +<p> +“O! would to God! would to God!” shrieked out Eleanor, learning all +from the woful import of those dreary eyes. Her cries thrilled through the +house; the children’s piping wailings and passionate cries on +“Daddy! Daddy!” pierced into Susan’s very marrow. But she +remained as still and tearless as the great round face upon the clock. +</p> + +<p> +At last, in a lull of crying, she said,—not exactly questioning, but as +if partly to herself— +</p> + +<p> +“You loved him, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Loved him! he was my husband! He was the father of three bonny bairns +that lie dead in Grasmere churchyard. I wish you’d go, Susan Dixon, and +let me weep without your watching me! I wish you’d never come near the +place.” +</p> + +<p> +“Alas! alas! it would not have brought him to life. I would have laid +down my own to save his. My life has been so very sad! No one would have cared +if I had died. Alas! alas!” +</p> + +<p> +The tone in which she said this was so utterly mournful and despairing that it +awed Nelly into quiet for a time. But by-and-by she said, “I would not +turn a dog out to do it harm; but the night is clear, and Tommy shall guide you +to the Red Cow. But, oh, I want to be alone! If you’ll come back +to-morrow, I’ll be better, and I’ll hear all, and thank you for +every kindness you have shown him,—and I do believe you’ve showed +him kindness,—though I don’t know why.” +</p> + +<p> +Susan moved heavily and strangely. +</p> + +<p> +She said something—her words came thick and unintelligible. She had had a +paralytic stroke since she had last spoken. She could not go, even if she +would. Nor did Eleanor, when she became aware of the state of the case, wish +her to leave. She had her laid on her own bed, and weeping silently all the +while for her last husband, she nursed Susan like a sister. She did not know +what her guest’s worldly position might be; and she might never be +repaid. But she sold many a little trifle to purchase such small comforts as +Susan needed. Susan, lying still and motionless, learnt much. It was not a +severe stroke; it might be the forerunner of others yet to come, but at some +distance of time. But for the present she recovered, and regained much of her +former health. On her sick-bed she matured her plans. When she returned to Yew +Nook, she took Michael Hurst’s widow and children with her to live there, +and fill up the haunted hearth with living forms that should banish the ghosts. +</p> + +<p> +And so it fell out that the latter days of Susan Dixon’s life were better +than the former. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p> +When this narrative was finished, Mrs. Dawson called on our two gentlemen, +Signor Sperano and Mr. Preston, and told them that they had hitherto been +amused or interested, but that it was now their turn to amuse or interest. They +looked at each other as if this application of hers took them by surprise, and +seemed altogether as much abashed as well-grown men can ever be. Signor Sperano +was the first to recover himself: after thinking a little, he said— +</p> + +<p> +“Your will, dear lady, is law. Next Monday evening, I will bring you an +old, old story, which I found among the papers of the good old priest who first +welcomed me to England. It was but a poor return for his generous kindness; but +I had the opportunity of nursing him through the cholera, of which he died. He +left me all that he had—no money—but his scanty furniture, his book +of prayers, his crucifix and rosary, and his papers. How some of those papers +came into his hands I know not. They had evidently been written many years +before the venerable man was born; and I doubt whether he had ever examined the +bundles, which had come down to him from some old ancestor, or in some strange +bequest. His life was too busy to leave any time for the gratification of mere +curiosity; I, alas! have only had too much leisure.” +</p> + +<p> +Next Monday, Signor Sperano read to us the story which I will call +</p> + +<p class="center"> +“T<small>HE</small> P<small>OOR</small> C<small>LARE</small>.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap05"></a>THE POOR CLARE</h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>CHAPTER I.</h2> + +<p> +December 12th, 1747.—My life has been strangely bound up with +extraordinary incidents, some of which occurred before I had any connection +with the principal actors in them, or indeed, before I even knew of their +existence. I suppose, most old men are, like me, more given to looking back +upon their own career with a kind of fond interest and affectionate +remembrance, than to watching the events—though these may have far more +interest for the multitude—immediately passing before their eyes. If this +should be the case with the generality of old people, how much more so with me! +. . . If I am to enter upon that strange story connected with poor Lucy, I must +begin a long way back. I myself only came to the knowledge of her family +history after I knew her; but, to make the tale clear to any one else, I must +arrange events in the order in which they occurred—not that in which I +became acquainted with them. +</p> + +<p> +There is a great old hall in the north-east of Lancashire, in a part they +called the Trough of Bolland, adjoining that other district named Craven. +Starkey Manor-house is rather like a number of rooms clustered round a gray, +massive, old keep than a regularly-built hall. Indeed, I suppose that the house +only consisted of a great tower in the centre, in the days when the Scots made +their raids terrible as far south as this; and that after the Stuarts came in, +and there was a little more security of property in those parts, the Starkeys +of that time added the lower building, which runs, two stories high, all round +the base of the keep. There has been a grand garden laid out in my days, on the +southern slope near the house; but when I first knew the place, the +kitchen-garden at the farm was the only piece of cultivated ground belonging to +it. The deer used to come within sight of the drawing-room windows, and might +have browsed quite close up to the house if they had not been too wild and shy. +Starkey Manor-house itself stood on a projection or peninsula of high land, +jutting out from the abrupt hills that form the sides of the Trough of Bolland. +These hills were rocky and bleak enough towards their summit; lower down they +were clothed with tangled copsewood and green depths of fern, out of which a +gray giant of an ancient forest-tree would tower here and there, throwing up +its ghastly white branches, as if in imprecation, to the sky. These trees, they +told me, were the remnants of that forest which existed in the days of the +Heptarchy, and were even then noted as landmarks. No wonder that their upper +and more exposed branches were leafless, and that the dead bark had peeled +away, from sapless old age. +</p> + +<p> +Not far from the house there were a few cottages, apparently, of the same date +as the keep; probably built for some retainers of the family, who sought +shelter—they and their families and their small flocks and herds—at +the hands of their feudal lord. Some of them had pretty much fallen to decay. +They were built in a strange fashion. Strong beams had been sunk firm in the +ground at the requisite distance, and their other ends had been fastened +together, two and two, so as to form the shape of one of those rounded +waggon-headed gipsy-tents, only very much larger. The spaces between were +filled with mud, stones, osiers, rubbish, mortar—anything to keep out the +weather. The fires were made in the centre of these rude dwellings, a hole in +the roof forming the only chimney. No Highland hut or Irish cabin could be of +rougher construction. +</p> + +<p> +The owner of this property, at the beginning of the present century, was a Mr. +Patrick Byrne Starkey. His family had kept to the old faith, and were stanch +Roman Catholics, esteeming it even a sin to marry any one of Protestant +descent, however willing he or she might have been to embrace the Romish +religion. Mr. Patrick Starkey’s father had been a follower of James the +Second; and, during the disastrous Irish campaign of that monarch he had fallen +in love with an Irish beauty, a Miss Byrne, as zealous for her religion and for +the Stuarts as himself. He had returned to Ireland after his escape to France, +and married her, bearing her back to the court at St. Germains. But some +licence on the part of the disorderly gentlemen who surrounded King James in +his exile, had insulted his beautiful wife, and disgusted him; so he removed +from St. Germains to Antwerp, whence, in a few years’ time, he quietly +returned to Starkey Manor-house—some of his Lancashire neighbours having +lent their good offices to reconcile him to the powers that were. He was as +firm a Catholic as ever, and as stanch an advocate for the Stuarts and the +divine rights of kings; but his religion almost amounted to asceticism, and the +conduct of these with whom he had been brought in such close contact at St. +Germains would little bear the inspection of a stern moralist. So he gave his +allegiance where he could not give his esteem, and learned to respect sincerely +the upright and moral character of one whom he yet regarded as an usurper. King +William’s government had little need to fear such a one. So he returned, +as I have said, with a sobered heart and impoverished fortunes, to his +ancestral house, which had fallen sadly to ruin while the owner had been a +courtier, a soldier, and an exile. The roads into the Trough of Bolland were +little more than cart-ruts; indeed, the way up to the house lay along a +ploughed field before you came to the deer-park. Madam, as the country-folk +used to call Mrs. Starkey, rode on a pillion behind her husband, holding on to +him with a light hand by his leather riding-belt. Little master (he that was +afterwards Squire Patrick Byrne Starkey) was held on to his pony by a +serving-man. A woman past middle age walked, with a firm and strong step, by +the cart that held much of the baggage; and high up on the mails and boxes, sat +a girl of dazzling beauty, perched lightly on the topmost trunk, and swaying +herself fearlessly to and fro, as the cart rocked and shook in the heavy roads +of late autumn. The girl wore the Antwerp faille, or black Spanish mantle over +her head, and altogether her appearance was such that the old cottager, who +described the possession to me many years after, said that all the country-folk +took her for a foreigner. Some dogs, and the boy who held them in charge, made +up the company. They rode silently along, looking with grave, serious eyes at +the people, who came out of the scattered cottages to bow or curtsy to the real +Squire, “come back at last,” and gazed after the little procession +with gaping wonder, not deadened by the sound of the foreign language in which +the few necessary words that passed among them were spoken. One lad, called +from his staring by the Squire to come and help about the cart, accompanied +them to the Manor-house. He said that when the lady had descended from her +pillion, the middle-aged woman whom I have described as walking while the +others rode, stepped quickly forward, and taking Madam Starkey (who was of a +slight and delicate figure) in her arms, she lifted her over the threshold, and +set her down in her husband’s house, at the same time uttering a +passionate and outlandish blessing. The Squire stood by, smiling gravely at +first; but when the words of blessing were pronounced, he took off his fine +feathered hat, and bent his head. The girl with the black mantle stepped onward +into the shadow of the dark hall, and kissed the lady’s hand; and that +was all the lad could tell to the group that gathered round him on his return, +eager to hear everything, and to know how much the Squire had given him for his +services. +</p> + +<p> +From all I could gather, the Manor-house, at the time of the Squire’s +return, was in the most dilapidated state. The stout gray walls remained firm +and entire; but the inner chambers had been used for all kinds of purposes. The +great withdrawing-room had been a barn; the state tapestry-chamber had held +wool, and so on. But, by-and-by, they were cleared out; and if the Squire had +no money to spend on new furniture, he and his wife had the knack of making the +best of the old. He was no despicable joiner; she had a kind of grace in +whatever she did, and imparted an air of elegant picturesqueness to whatever +she touched. Besides, they had brought many rare things from the Continent; +perhaps I should rather say, things that were rare in that part of +England—carvings, and crosses, and beautiful pictures. And then, again, +wood was plentiful in the Trough of Bolland, and great log-fires danced and +glittered in all the dark, old rooms, and gave a look of home and comfort to +everything. +</p> + +<p> +Why do I tell you all this? I have little to do with the Squire and Madame +Starkey; and yet I dwell upon them, as if I were unwilling to come to the real +people with whom my life was so strangely mixed up. Madam had been nursed in +Ireland by the very woman who lifted her in her arms, and welcomed her to her +husband’s home in Lancashire. Excepting for the short period of her own +married life, Bridget Fitzgerald had never left her nursling. Her +marriage—to one above her in rank—had been unhappy. Her husband had +died, and left her in even greater poverty than that in which she was when he +had first met with her. She had one child, the beautiful daughter who came +riding on the waggon-load of furniture that was brought to the Manor-house. +Madame Starkey had taken her again into her service when she became a widow. +She and her daughter had followed “the mistress” in all her +fortunes; they had lived at St. Germains and at Antwerp, and were now come to +her home in Lancashire. As soon as Bridget had arrived there, the Squire gave +her a cottage of her own, and took more pains in furnishing it for her than he +did in anything else out of his own house. It was only nominally her residence. +She was constantly up at the great house; indeed, it was but a short cut across +the woods from her own home to the home of her nursling. Her daughter Mary, in +like manner, moved from one house to the other at her own will. Madam loved +both mother and child dearly. They had great influence over her, and, through +her, over her husband. Whatever Bridget or Mary willed was sure to come to +pass. They were not disliked; for, though wild and passionate, they were also +generous by nature. But the other servants were afraid of them, as being in +secret the ruling spirits of the household. The Squire had lost his interest in +all secular things; Madam was gentle, affectionate, and yielding. Both husband +and wife were tenderly attached to each other and to their boy; but they grew +more and more to shun the trouble of decision on any point; and hence it was +that Bridget could exert such despotic power. But if everyone else yielded to +her “magic of a superior mind,” her daughter not unfrequently +rebelled. She and her mother were too much alike to agree. There were wild +quarrels between them, and wilder reconciliations. There were times when, in +the heat of passion, they could have stabbed each other. At all other times +they both—Bridget especially—would have willingly laid down their +lives for one another. Bridget’s love for her child lay very +deep—deeper than that daughter ever knew; or I should think she would +never have wearied of home as she did, and prayed her mistress to obtain for +her some situation—as waiting maid—beyond the seas, in that more +cheerful continental life, among the scenes of which so many of her happiest +years had been spent. She thought, as youth thinks, that life would last for +ever, and that two or three years were but a small portion of it to pass away +from her mother, whose only child she was. Bridget thought differently, but was +too proud ever to show what she felt. If her child wished to leave her, +why—she should go. But people said Bridget became ten years older in the +course of two months at this time. She took it that Mary wanted to leave her. +The truth was, that Mary wanted for a time to leave the place, and to seek some +change, and would thankfully have taken her mother with her. Indeed when Madam +Starkey had gotten her a situation with some grand lady abroad, and the time +drew near for her to go, it was Mary who clung to her mother with passionate +embrace, and, with floods of tears, declared that she would never leave her; +and it was Bridget, who at last loosened her arms, and, grave and tearless +herself, bade her keep her word, and go forth into the wide world. Sobbing +aloud, and looking back continually, Mary went away. Bridget was still as +death, scarcely drawing her breath, or closing her stony eyes; till at last she +turned back into her cottage, and heaved a ponderous old settle against the +door. There she sat, motionless, over the gray ashes of her extinguished fire, +deaf to Madam’s sweet voice, as she begged leave to enter and comfort her +nurse. Deaf, stony, and motionless, she sat for more than twenty hours; till, +for the third time, Madam came across the snowy path from the great house, +carrying with her a young spaniel, which had been Mary’s pet up at the +hall; and which had not ceased all night long to seek for its absent mistress, +and to whine and moan after her. With tears Madam told this story, through the +closed door—tears excited by the terrible look of anguish, so steady, so +immovable—so the same to-day as it was yesterday—on her +nurse’s face. The little creature in her arms began to utter its piteous +cry, as it shivered with the cold. Bridget stirred; she moved—she +listened. Again that long whine; she thought it was for her daughter; and what +she had denied to her nursling and mistress she granted to the dumb creature +that Mary had cherished. She opened the door, and took the dog from +Madam’s arms. Then Madam came in, and kissed and comforted the old woman, +who took but little notice of her or anything. And sending up Master Patrick to +the hall for fire and food, the sweet young lady never left her nurse all that +night. Next day, the Squire himself came down, carrying a beautiful foreign +picture—Our Lady of the Holy Heart, the Papists call it. It is a picture +of the Virgin, her heart pierced with arrows, each arrow representing one of +her great woes. That picture hung in Bridget’s cottage when I first saw +her; I have that picture now. +</p> + +<p> +Years went on. Mary was still abroad. Bridget was still and stern, instead of +active and passionate. The little dog, Mignon, was indeed her darling. I have +heard that she talked to it continually; although, to most people, she was so +silent. The Squire and Madam treated her with the greatest consideration, and +well they might; for to them she was as devoted and faithful as ever. Mary +wrote pretty often, and seemed satisfied with her life. But at length the +letters ceased—I hardly know whether before or after a great and terrible +sorrow came upon the house of the Starkeys. The Squire sickened of a putrid +fever; and Madam caught it in nursing him, and died. You may be sure, Bridget +let no other woman tend her but herself; and in the very arms that had received +her at her birth, that sweet young woman laid her head down, and gave up her +breath. The Squire recovered, in a fashion. He was never strong—he had +never the heart to smile again. He fasted and prayed more than ever; and people +did say that he tried to cut off the entail, and leave all the property away to +found a monastery abroad, of which he prayed that some day little Squire +Patrick might be the reverend father. But he could not do this, for the +strictness of the entail and the laws against the Papists. So he could only +appoint gentlemen of his own faith as guardians to his son, with many charges +about the lad’s soul, and a few about the land, and the way it was to be +held while he was a minor. Of course, Bridget was not forgotten. He sent for +her as he lay on his death-bed, and asked her if she would rather have a sum +down, or have a small annuity settled upon her. She said at once she would have +a sum down; for she thought of her daughter, and how she could bequeath the +money to her, whereas an annuity would have died with her. So the Squire left +her her cottage for life, and a fair sum of money. And then he died, with as +ready and willing a heart as, I suppose, ever any gentleman took out of this +world with him. The young Squire was carried off by his guardians, and Bridget +was left alone. +</p> + +<p> +I have said that she had not heard from Mary for some time. In her last letter, +she had told of travelling about with her mistress, who was the English wife of +some great foreign officer, and had spoken of her chances of making a good +marriage, without naming the gentleman’s name, keeping it rather back as +a pleasant surprise to her mother; his station and fortune being, as I had +afterwards reason to know, far superior to anything she had a right to expect. +Then came a long silence; and Madam was dead, and the Squire was dead; and +Bridget’s heart was gnawed by anxiety, and she knew not whom to ask for +news of her child. She could not write, and the Squire had managed her +communication with her daughter. She walked off to Hurst; and got a good priest +there—one whom she had known at Antwerp—to write for her. But no +answer came. It was like crying into the’ awful stillness of night. +</p> + +<p> +One day, Bridget was missed by those neighbours who had been accustomed to mark +her goings-out and comings-in. She had never been sociable with any of them; +but the sight of her had become a part of their daily lives, and slow wonder +arose in their minds, as morning after morning came, and her house-door +remained closed, her window dead from any glitter, or light of fire within. At +length, some one tried the door; it was locked. Two or three laid their heads +together, before daring to look in through the blank unshuttered window. But, +at last, they summoned up courage; and then saw that Bridget’s absence +from their little world was not the result of accident or death, but of +premeditation. Such small articles of furniture as could be secured from the +effects of time and damp by being packed up, were stowed away in boxes. The +picture of the Madonna was taken down, and gone. In a word, Bridget had stolen +away from her home, and left no trace whither she was departed. I knew +afterwards, that she and her little dog had wandered off on the long search for +her lost daughter. She was too illiterate to have faith in letters, even had +she had the means of writing and sending many. But she had faith in her own +strong love, and believed that her passionate instinct would guide her to her +child. Besides, foreign travel was no new thing to her, and she could speak +enough of French to explain the object of her journey, and had, moreover, the +advantage of being, from her faith, a welcome object of charitable hospitality +at many a distant convent. But the country people round Starkey Manor-house +knew nothing of all this. They wondered what had become of her, in a torpid, +lazy fashion, and then left off thinking of her altogether. Several years +passed. Both Manor-house and cottage were deserted. The young Squire lived far +away under the direction of his guardians. There were inroads of wool and corn +into the sitting-rooms of the Hall; and there was some low talk, from time to +time, among the hinds and country people whether it would not be as well to +break into old Bridget’s cottage, and save such of her goods as were left +from the moth and rust which must be making sad havoc. But this idea was always +quenched by the recollection of her strong character and passionate anger; and +tales of her masterful spirit, and vehement force of will, were whispered +about, till the very thought of offending her, by touching any article of hers, +became invested with a kind of horror: it was believed that, dead or alive, she +would not fail to avenge it. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly she came home; with as little noise or note of preparation as she had +departed. One day some one noticed a thin, blue curl of smoke ascending from +her chimney. Her door stood open to the noonday sun; and, ere many hours had +elapsed, some one had seen an old travel-and-sorrow-stained woman dipping her +pitcher in the well; and said, that the dark, solemn eyes that looked up at him +were more like Bridget Fitzgerald’s than any one else’s in this +world; and yet, if it were she, she looked as if she had been scorched in the +flames of hell, so brown, and scared, and fierce a creature did she seem. +By-and-by many saw her; and those who met her eye once cared not to be caught +looking at her again. She had got into the habit of perpetually talking to +herself; nay, more, answering herself, and varying her tones according to the +side she took at the moment. It was no wonder that those who dared to listen +outside her door at night believed that she held converse with some spirit; in +short, she was unconsciously earning for herself the dreadful reputation of a +witch. +</p> + +<p> +Her little dog, which had wandered half over the Continent with her, was her +only companion; a dumb remembrancer of happier days. Once he was ill; and she +carried him more than three miles, to ask about his management from one who had +been groom to the last Squire, and had then been noted for his skill in all +diseases of animals. Whatever this man did, the dog recovered; and they who +heard her thanks, intermingled with blessings (that were rather promises of +good fortune than prayers), looked grave at his good luck when, next year, his +ewes twinned, and his meadow-grass was heavy and thick. +</p> + +<p> +Now it so happened that, about the year seventeen hundred and eleven, one of +the guardians of the young squire, a certain Sir Philip Tempest, bethought him +of the good shooting there must be on his ward’s property; and in +consequence he brought down four or five gentlemen, of his friends, to stay for +a week or two at the Hall. From all accounts, they roystered and spent pretty +freely. I never heard any of their names but one, and that was Squire +Gisborne’s. He was hardly a middle-aged man then; he had been much +abroad, and there, I believe, he had known Sir Philip Tempest, and done him +some service. He was a daring and dissolute fellow in those days: careless and +fearless, and one who would rather be in a quarrel than out of it. He had his +fits of ill-temper besides, when he would spare neither man nor beast. +Otherwise, those who knew him well, used to say he had a good heart, when he +was neither drunk, nor angry, nor in any way vexed. He had altered much when I +came to know him. +</p> + +<p> +One day, the gentlemen had all been out shooting, and with but little success, +I believe; anyhow, Mr. Gisborne had none, and was in a black humour +accordingly. He was coming home, having his gun loaded, sportsman-like, when +little Mignon crossed his path, just as he turned out of the wood by +Bridget’s cottage. Partly for wantonness, partly to vent his spleen upon +some living creature. Mr. Gisborne took his gun, and fired—he had better +have never fired gun again, than aimed that unlucky shot, he hit Mignon, and at +the creature’s sudden cry, Bridget came out, and saw at a glance what had +been done. She took Mignon up in her arms, and looked hard at the wound; the +poor dog looked at her with his glazing eyes, and tried to wag his tail and +lick her hand, all covered with blood. Mr. Gisborne spoke in a kind of sullen +penitence: +</p> + +<p> +“You should have kept the dog out of my way—a little poaching +varmint.” +</p> + +<p> +At this very moment, Mignon stretched out his legs, and stiffened in her +arms—her lost Mary’s dog, who had wandered and sorrowed with her +for years. She walked right into Mr. Gisborne’s path, and fixed his +unwilling, sullen look, with her dark and terrible eye. +</p> + +<p> +“Those never throve that did me harm,” said she. “I’m +alone in the world, and helpless; the more do the saints in heaven hear my +prayers. Hear me, ye blessed ones! hear me while I ask for sorrow on this bad, +cruel man. He has killed the only creature that loved me—the dumb beast +that I loved. Bring down heavy sorrow on his head for it, O ye saints! He +thought that I was helpless, because he saw me lonely and poor; but are not the +armies of heaven for the like of me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Come, come,” said he, half remorseful, but not one whit afraid. +“Here’s a crown to buy thee another dog. Take it, and leave off +cursing! I care none for thy threats.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you?” said she, coming a step closer, and changing her +imprecatory cry for a whisper which made the gamekeeper’s lad, following +Mr. Gisborne, creep all over. “You shall live to see the creature you +love best, and who alone loves you—ay, a human creature, but as innocent +and fond as my poor, dead darling—you shall see this creature, for whom +death would be too happy, become a terror and a loathing to all, for this +blood’s sake. Hear me, O holy saints, who never fail them that have no +other help!” +</p> + +<p> +She threw up her right hand, filled with poor Mignon’s life-drops; they +spirted, one or two of them, on his shooting-dress,—an ominous sight to +the follower. But the master only laughed a little, forced, scornful laugh, and +went on to the Hall. Before he got there, however, he took out a gold piece, +and bade the boy carry it to the old woman on his return to the village. The +lad was “afeared,” as he told me in after years; he came to the +cottage, and hovered about, not daring to enter. He peeped through the window +at last; and by the flickering wood-flame, he saw Bridget kneeling before the +picture of Our Lady of the Holy Heart, with dead Mignon lying between her and +the Madonna. She was praying wildly, as her outstretched arms betokened. The +lad shrunk away in redoubled terror; and contented himself with slipping the +gold piece under the ill-fitting door. The next day it was thrown out upon the +midden; and there it lay, no one daring to touch it. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile Mr. Gisborne, half curious, half uneasy, thought to lessen his +uncomfortable feelings by asking Sir Philip who Bridget was? He could only +describe her—he did not know her name. Sir Philip was equally at a loss. +But an old servant of the Starkeys, who had resumed his livery at the Hall on +this occasion—a scoundrel whom Bridget had saved from dismissal more than +once during her palmy days—said:— +</p> + +<p> +“It will be the old witch, that his worship means. She needs a ducking, +if ever a woman did, does that Bridget Fitzgerald.” +</p> + +<p> +“Fitzgerald!” said both the gentlemen at once. But Sir Philip was +the first to continue:— +</p> + +<p> +“I must have no talk of ducking her, Dickon. Why, she must be the very +woman poor Starkey bade me have a care of; but when I came here last she was +gone, no one knew where. I’ll go and see her to-morrow. But mind you, +sirrah, if any harm comes to her, or any more talk of her being a +witch—I’ve a pack of hounds at home, who can follow the scent of a +lying knave as well as ever they followed a dog-fox; so take care how you talk +about ducking a faithful old servant of your dead master’s.” +</p> + +<p> +“Had she ever a daughter?” asked Mr. Gisborne, after a while. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know—yes! I’ve a notion she had; a kind of +waiting woman to Madam Starkey.” +</p> + +<p> +“Please your worship,” said humbled Dickon, “Mistress Bridget +had a daughter—one Mistress Mary—who went abroad, and has never +been heard on since; and folk do say that has crazed her mother.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Gisborne shaded his eyes with his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“I could wish she had not cursed me,” he muttered. “She may +have power—no one else could.” After a while, he said aloud, no one +understanding rightly what he meant, “Tush! it is +impossible!”—and called for claret; and he and the other gentlemen +set-to to a drinking-bout. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>CHAPTER II.</h2> + +<p> +I now come to the time in which I myself was mixed up with the people that I +have been writing about. And to make you understand how I became connected with +them, I must give you some little account of myself. My father was the younger +son of a Devonshire gentleman of moderate property; my eldest uncle succeeded +to the estate of his forefathers, my second became an eminent attorney in +London, and my father took orders. Like most poor clergymen, he had a large +family; and I have no doubt was glad enough when my London uncle, who was a +bachelor, offered to take charge of me, and bring me up to be his successor in +business. +</p> + +<p> +In this way I came to live in London, in my uncle’s house, not far from +Gray’s Inn, and to be treated and esteemed as his son, and to labour with +him in his office. I was very fond of the old gentleman. He was the +confidential agent of many country squires, and had attained to his present +position as much by knowledge of human nature as by knowledge of law; though he +was learned enough in the latter. He used to say his business was law, his +pleasure heraldry. From his intimate acquaintance with family history, and all +the tragic courses of life therein involved, to hear him talk, at leisure +times, about any coat of arms that came across his path was as good as a play +or a romance. Many cases of disputed property, dependent on a love of +genealogy, were brought to him, as to a great authority on such points. If the +lawyer who came to consult him was young, he would take no fee, only give him a +long lecture on the importance of attending to heraldry; if the lawyer was of +mature age and good standing, he would mulct him pretty well, and abuse him to +me afterwards as negligent of one great branch of the profession. His house was +in a stately new street called Ormond Street, and in it he had a handsome +library; but all the books treated of things that were past; none of them +planned or looked forward into the future. I worked away—partly for the +sake of my family at home, partly because my uncle had really taught me to +enjoy the kind of practice in which he himself took such delight. I suspect I +worked too hard; at any rate, in seventeen hundred and eighteen I was far from +well, and my good uncle was disturbed by my ill looks. +</p> + +<p> +One day, he rang the bell twice into the clerk’s room at the dingy office +in Grey’s Inn Lane. It was the summons for me, and I went into his +private room just as a gentleman—whom I knew well enough by sight as an +Irish lawyer of more reputation than he deserved—was leaving. +</p> + +<p> +My uncle was slowly rubbing his hands together and considering. I was there two +or three minutes before he spoke. Then he told me that I must pack up my +portmanteau that very afternoon, and start that night by post-horse for West +Chester. I should get there, if all went well, at the end of five days’ +time, and must then wait for a packet to cross over to Dublin; from thence I +must proceed to a certain town named Kildoon, and in that neighbourhood I was +to remain, making certain inquiries as to the existence of any descendants of +the younger branch of a family to whom some valuable estates had descended in +the female line. The Irish lawyer whom I had seen was weary of the case, and +would willingly have given up the property, without further ado, to a man who +appeared to claim them; but on laying his tables and trees before my uncle, the +latter had foreseen so many possible prior claimants, that the lawyer had +begged him to undertake the management of the whole business. In his youth, my +uncle would have liked nothing better than going over to Ireland himself, and +ferreting out every scrap of paper or parchment, and every word of tradition +respecting the family. As it was, old and gouty, he deputed me. +</p> + +<p> +Accordingly, I went to Kildoon. I suspect I had something of my uncle’s +delight in following up a genealogical scent, for I very soon found out, when +on the spot, that Mr. Rooney, the Irish lawyer, would have got both himself and +the first claimant into a terrible scrape, if he had pronounced his opinion +that the estates ought to be given up to him. There were three poor Irish +fellows, each nearer of kin to the last possessor; but, a generation before, +there was a still nearer relation, who had never been accounted for, nor his +existence ever discovered by the lawyers, I venture to think, till I routed him +out from the memory of some of the old dependants of the family. What had +become of him? I travelled backwards and forwards; I crossed over to France, +and came back again with a slight clue, which ended in my discovering that, +wild and dissipated himself, he had left one child, a son, of yet worse +character than his father; that this same Hugh Fitzgerald had married a very +beautiful serving-woman of the Byrnes—a person below him in hereditary +rank, but above him in character; that he had died soon after his marriage, +leaving one child, whether a boy or a girl I could not learn, and that the +mother had returned to live in the family of the Byrnes. Now, the chief of this +latter family was serving in the Duke of Berwick’s regiment, and it was +long before I could hear from him; it was more than a year before I got a +short, haughty letter—I fancy he had a soldier’s contempt for a +civilian, an Irishman’s hatred for an Englishman, an exiled +Jacobite’s jealousy of one who prospered and lived tranquilly under the +government he looked upon as an usurpation. “Bridget Fitzgerald,” +he said, “had been faithful to the fortunes of his sister—had +followed her abroad, and to England when Mrs. Starkey had thought fit to +return. Both his sister and her husband were dead, he knew nothing of Bridget +Fitzgerald at the present time: probably Sir Philip Tempest, his nephew’s +guardian, might be able to give me some information.” I have not given +the little contemptuous terms; the way in which faithful service was meant to +imply more than it said—all that has nothing to do with my story. Sir +Philip, when applied to, told me that he paid an annuity regularly to an old +woman named Fitzgerald, living at Coldholme (the village near Starkey +Manor-house). Whether she had any descendants he could not say. +</p> + +<p> +One bleak March evening, I came in sight of the places described at the +beginning of my story. I could hardly understand the rude dialect in which the +direction to old Bridget’s house was given. +</p> + +<p> +“Yo’ see yon furleets,” all run together, gave me no idea +that I was to guide myself by the distant lights that shone in the windows of +the Hall, occupied for the time by a farmer who held the post of steward, while +the Squire, now four or five and twenty, was making the grand tour. However, at +last, I reached Bridget’s cottage—a low, moss-grown place: the +palings that had once surrounded it were broken and gone; and the underwood of +the forest came up to the walls, and must have darkened the windows. It was +about seven o’clock—not late to my London notions—but, after +knocking for some time at the door and receiving no reply, I was driven to +conjecture that the occupant of the house was gone to bed. So I betook myself +to the nearest church I had seen, three miles back on the road I had come, sure +that close to that I should find an inn of some kind; and early the next +morning I set off back to Coldholme, by a field-path which my host assured me I +should find a shorter cut than the road I had taken the night before. It was a +cold, sharp morning; my feet left prints in the sprinkling of hoar-frost that +covered the ground; nevertheless, I saw an old woman, whom I instinctively +suspected to be the object of my search, in a sheltered covert on one side of +my path. I lingered and watched her. She must have been considerably above the +middle size in her prime, for when she raised herself from the stooping +position in which I first saw her, there was something fine and commanding in +the erectness of her figure. She drooped again in a minute or two, and seemed +looking for something on the ground, as, with bent head, she turned off from +the spot where I gazed upon her, and was lost to my sight. I fancy I missed my +way, and made a round in spite of the landlord’s directions; for by the +time I had reached Bridget’s cottage she was there, with no semblance of +hurried walk or discomposure of any kind. The door was slightly ajar. I +knocked, and the majestic figure stood before me, silently awaiting the +explanation of my errand. Her teeth were all gone, so the nose and chin were +brought near together; the gray eyebrows were straight, and almost hung over +her deep, cavernous eyes, and the thick white hair lay in silvery masses over +the low, wide, wrinkled forehead. For a moment, I stood uncertain how to shape +my answer to the solemn questioning of her silence. +</p> + +<p> +“Your name is Bridget Fitzgerald, I believe?” +</p> + +<p> +She bowed her head in assent. +</p> + +<p> +“I have something to say to you. May I come in? I am unwilling to keep +you standing.” +</p> + +<p> +“You cannot tire me,” she said, and at first she seemed inclined to +deny me the shelter of her roof. But the next moment—she had searched the +very soul in me with her eyes during that instant—she led me in, and +dropped the shadowing hood of her gray, draping cloak, which had previously hid +part of the character of her countenance. The cottage was rude and bare enough. +But before the picture of the Virgin, of which I have made mention, there stood +a little cup filled with fresh primroses. While she paid her reverence to the +Madonna, I understood why she had been out seeking through the clumps of green +in the sheltered copse. Then she turned round, and bade me be seated. The +expression of her face, which all this time I was studying, was not bad, as the +stories of my last night’s landlord had led me to expect; it was a wild, +stern, fierce, indomitable countenance, seamed and scarred by agonies of +solitary weeping; but it was neither cunning nor malignant. +</p> + +<p> +“My name is Bridget Fitzgerald,” said she, by way of opening our +conversation. +</p> + +<p> +“And your husband was Hugh Fitzgerald, of Knock Mahon, near Kildoon, in +Ireland?” +</p> + +<p> +A faint light came into the dark gloom of her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“He was.” +</p> + +<p> +“May I ask if you had any children by him?” +</p> + +<p> +The light in her eyes grew quick and red. She tried to speak, I could see; but +something rose in her throat, and choked her, and until she could speak calmly, +she would fain not speak at all before a stranger. In a minute or so she +said—“I had a daughter—one Mary Fitzgerald,”—then +her strong nature mastered her strong will, and she cried out, with a trembling +wailing cry: “Oh, man! what of her?—what of her?” +</p> + +<p> +She rose from her seat, and came and clutched at my arm, and looked in my eyes. +There she read, as I suppose, my utter ignorance of what had become of her +child; for she went blindly back to her chair, and sat rocking herself and +softly moaning, as if I were not there; I not daring to speak to the lone and +awful woman. After a little pause, she knelt down before the picture of Our +Lady of the Holy Heart, and spoke to her by all the fanciful and poetic names +of the Litany. +</p> + +<p> +“O Rose of Sharon! O Tower of David! O Star of the Sea! have ye no +comfort for my sore heart? Am I for ever to hope? Grant me at least +despair!”—and so on she went, heedless of my presence. Her prayers +grew wilder and wilder, till they seemed to me to touch on the borders of +madness and blasphemy. Almost involuntarily, I spoke as if to stop her. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you any reason to think that your daughter is dead?” +</p> + +<p> +She rose from her knees, and came and stood before me. +</p> + +<p> +“Mary Fitzgerald is dead,” said she. “I shall never see her +again in the flesh. No tongue ever told me; but I know she is dead. I have +yearned so to see her, and my heart’s will is fearful and strong: it +would have drawn her to me before now, if she had been a wanderer on the other +side of the world. I wonder often it has not drawn her out of the grave to come +and stand before me, and hear me tell her how I loved her. For, sir, we parted +unfriends.” +</p> + +<p> +I knew nothing but the dry particulars needed for my lawyer’s quest, but +I could not help feeling for the desolate woman; and she must have read the +unusual sympathy with her wistful eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir, we did. She never knew how I loved her; and we parted +unfriends; and I fear me that I wished her voyage might not turn out well, only +meaning,—O, blessed Virgin! you know I only meant that she should come +home to her mother’s arms as to the happiest place on earth; but my +wishes are terrible—their power goes beyond my thought—and there is +no hope for me, if my words brought Mary harm.” +</p> + +<p> +“But,” I said, “you do not know that she is dead. Even now, +you hoped she might be alive. Listen to me,” and I told her the tale I +have already told you, giving it all in the driest manner, for I wanted to +recall the clear sense that I felt almost sure she had possessed in her younger +days, and by keeping up her attention to details, restrain the vague wildness +of her grief. +</p> + +<p> +She listened with deep attention, putting from time to time such questions as +convinced me I had to do with no common intelligence, however dimmed and shorn +by solitude and mysterious sorrow. Then she took up her tale; and in few brief +words, told me of her wanderings abroad in vain search after her daughter; +sometimes in the wake of armies, sometimes in camp, sometimes in city. The +lady, whose waiting-woman Mary had gone to be, had died soon after the date of +her last letter home; her husband, the foreign officer, had been serving in +Hungary, whither Bridget had followed him, but too late to find him. Vague +rumours reached her that Mary had made a great marriage: and this sting of +doubt was added,—whether the mother might not be close to her child under +her new name, and even hearing of her every day; and yet never recognizing the +lost one under the appellation she then bore. At length the thought took +possession of her, that it was possible that all this time Mary might be at +home at Coldholme, in the Trough of Bolland, in Lancashire, in England; and +home came Bridget, in that vain hope, to her desolate hearth, and empty +cottage. Here she had thought it safest to remain; if Mary was in life, it was +here she would seek for her mother. +</p> + +<p> +I noted down one or two particulars out of Bridget’s narrative that I +thought might be of use to me: for I was stimulated to further search in a +strange and extraordinary manner. It seemed as if it were impressed upon me, +that I must take up the quest where Bridget had laid it down; and this for no +reason that had previously influenced me (such as my uncle’s anxiety on +the subject, my own reputation as a lawyer, and so on), but from some strange +power which had taken possession of my will only that very morning, and which +forced it in the direction it chose. +</p> + +<p> +“I will go,” said I. “I will spare nothing in the search. +Trust to me. I will learn all that can be learnt. You shall know all that +money, or pains, or wit can discover. It is true she may be long dead: but she +may have left a child.” +</p> + +<p> +“A child!” she cried, as if for the first time this idea had struck +her mind. “Hear him, Blessed Virgin! he says she may have left a child. +And you have never told me, though I have prayed so for a sign, waking or +sleeping!” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay,” said I, “I know nothing but what you tell me. You say +you heard of her marriage.” +</p> + +<p> +But she caught nothing of what I said. She was praying to the Virgin in a kind +of ecstasy, which seemed to render her unconscious of my very presence. +</p> + +<p> +From Coldholme I went to Sir Philip Tempest’s. The wife of the foreign +officer had been a cousin of his father’s, and from him I thought I might +gain some particulars as to the existence of the Count de la Tour +d’Auvergne, and where I could find him; for I knew questions <i>de vive +voix</i> aid the flagging recollection, and I was determined to lose no chance +for want of trouble. But Sir Philip had gone abroad, and it would be some time +before I could receive an answer. So I followed my uncle’s advice, to +whom I had mentioned how wearied I felt, both in body and mind, by my +will-o’-the-wisp search. He immediately told me to go to Harrogate, there +to await Sir Philip’s reply. I should be near to one of the places +connected with my search, Coldholme; not far from Sir Philip Tempest, in case +he returned, and I wished to ask him any further questions; and, in conclusion, +my uncle bade me try to forget all about my business for a time. +</p> + +<p> +This was far easier said than done. I have seen a child on a common blown along +by a high wind, without power of standing still and resisting the tempestuous +force. I was somewhat in the same predicament as regarded my mental state. +Something resistless seemed to urge my thoughts on, through every possible +course by which there was a chance of attaining to my object. I did not see the +sweeping moors when I walked out: when I held a book in my hand, and read the +words, their sense did not penetrate to my brain. If I slept, I went on with +the same ideas, always flowing in the same direction. This could not last long +without having a bad effect on the body. I had an illness, which, although I +was racked with pain, was a positive relief to me, as it compelled me to live +in the present suffering, and not in the visionary researches I had been +continually making before. My kind uncle came to nurse me; and after the +immediate danger was over, my life seemed to slip away in delicious languor for +two or three months. I did not ask—so much did I dread falling into the +old channel of thought—whether any reply had been received to my letter +to Sir Philip. I turned my whole imagination right away from all that subject. +My uncle remained with me until nigh midsummer, and then returned to his +business in London; leaving me perfectly well, although not completely strong. +I was to follow him in a fortnight; when, as he said, “we would look over +letters, and talk about several things.” I knew what this little speech +alluded to, and shrank from the train of thought it suggested, which was so +intimately connected with my first feelings of illness. However, I had a +fortnight more to roam on those invigorating Yorkshire moors. +</p> + +<p> +In those days, there was one large, rambling inn, at Harrogate, close to the +Medicinal Spring; but it was already becoming too small for the accommodation +of the influx of visitors, and many lodged round about, in the farm-houses of +the district. It was so early in the season, that I had the inn pretty much to +myself; and, indeed, felt rather like a visitor in a private house, so intimate +had the landlord and landlady become with me during my long illness. She would +chide me for being out so late on the moors, or for having been too long +without food, quite in a motherly way; while he consulted me about vintages and +wines, and taught me many a Yorkshire wrinkle about horses. In my walks I met +other strangers from time to time. Even before my uncle had left me, I had +noticed, with half-torpid curiosity, a young lady of very striking appearance, +who went about always accompanied by an elderly companion,—hardly a +gentlewoman, but with something in her look that prepossessed me in her favour. +The younger lady always put her veil down when any one approached; so it had +been only once or twice, when I had come upon her at a sudden turn in the path, +that I had even had a glimpse at her face. I am not sure if it was beautiful, +though in after-life I grew to think it so. But it was at this time +overshadowed by a sadness that never varied: a pale, quiet, resigned look of +intense suffering, that irresistibly attracted me,—not with love, but +with a sense of infinite compassion for one so young yet so hopelessly unhappy. +The companion wore something of the same look: quiet melancholy, hopeless, yet +resigned. I asked my landlord who they were. He said they were called Clarke, +and wished to be considered as mother and daughter; but that, for his part, he +did not believe that to be their right name, or that there was any such +relationship between them. They had been in the neighbourhood of Harrogate for +some time, lodging in a remote farm-house. The people there would tell nothing +about them; saying that they paid handsomely, and never did any harm; so why +should they be speaking of any strange things that might happen? That, as the +landlord shrewdly observed, showed there was something out of the common way he +had heard that the elderly woman was a cousin of the farmer’s where they +lodged, and so the regard existing between relations might help to keep them +quiet. +</p> + +<p> +“What did he think, then, was the reason for their extreme +seclusion?” asked I. +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, he could not tell,—not he. He had heard that the young lady, +for all as quiet as she seemed, played strange pranks at times.” He shook +his head when I asked him for more particulars, and refused to give them, which +made me doubt if he knew any, for he was in general a talkative and +communicative man. In default of other interests, after my uncle left, I set +myself to watch these two people. I hovered about their walks drawn towards +them with a strange fascination, which was not diminished by their evident +annoyance at so frequently meeting me. One day, I had the sudden good fortune +to be at hand when they were alarmed by the attack of a bull, which, in those +unenclosed grazing districts, was a particularly dangerous occurrence. I have +other and more important things to relate, than to tell of the accident which +gave me an opportunity of rescuing them, it is enough to say, that this event +was the beginning of an acquaintance, reluctantly acquiesced in by them, but +eagerly prosecuted by me. I can hardly tell when intense curiosity became +merged in love, but in less than ten days after my uncle’s departure I +was passionately enamoured of Mistress Lucy, as her attendant called her; +carefully—for this I noted well—avoiding any address which appeared +as if there was an equality of station between them. I noticed also that Mrs. +Clarke, the elderly woman, after her first reluctance to allow me to pay them +any attentions had been overcome, was cheered by my evident attachment to the +young girl; it seemed to lighten her heavy burden of care, and she evidently +favoured my visits to the farmhouse where they lodged. It was not so with Lucy. +A more attractive person I never saw, in spite of her depression of manner, and +shrinking avoidance of me. I felt sure at once, that whatever was the source of +her grief, it rose from no fault of her own. It was difficult to draw her into +conversation; but when at times, for a moment or two, I beguiled her into talk, +I could see a rare intelligence in her face, and a grave, trusting look in the +soft, gray eyes that were raised for a minute to mine. I made every excuse I +possibly could for going there. I sought wild flowers for Lucy’s sake; I +planned walks for Lucy’s sake; I watched the heavens by night, in hopes +that some unusual beauty of sky would justify me in tempting Mrs. Clarke and +Lucy forth upon the moors, to gaze at the great purple dome above. +</p> + +<p> +It seemed to me that Lucy was aware of my love; but that, for some motive which +I could not guess, she would fain have repelled me; but then again I saw, or +fancied I saw, that her heart spoke in my favour, and that there was a struggle +going on in her mind, which at times (I loved so dearly) I could have begged +her to spare herself, even though the happiness of my whole life should have +been the sacrifice; for her complexion grew paler, her aspect of sorrow more +hopeless, her delicate frame yet slighter. During this period I had written, I +should say, to my uncle, to beg to be allowed to prolong my stay at Harrogate, +not giving any reason; but such was his tenderness towards me, that in a few +days I heard from him, giving me a willing permission, and only charging me to +take care of myself, and not use too much exertion during the hot weather. +</p> + +<p> +One sultry evening I drew near the farm. The windows of their parlour were +open, and I heard voices when I turned the corner of the house, as I passed the +first window (there were two windows in their little ground-floor room). I saw +Lucy distinctly; but when I had knocked at their door—the house-door +stood always ajar—she was gone, and I saw only Mrs. Clarke, turning over +the work-things lying on the table, in a nervous and purposeless manner. I felt +by instinct that a conversation of some importance was coming on, in which I +should be expected to say what was my object in paying these frequent visits. I +was glad of the opportunity. My uncle had several times alluded to the pleasant +possibility of my bringing home a young wife, to cheer and adorn the old house +in Ormond Street. He was rich, and I was to succeed him, and had, as I knew, a +fair reputation for so young a lawyer. So on my side I saw no obstacle. It was +true that Lucy was shrouded in mystery; her name (I was convinced it was not +Clarke), birth, parentage, and previous life were unknown to me. But I was sure +of her goodness and sweet innocence, and although I knew that there must be +something painful to be told, to account for her mournful sadness, yet I was +willing to bear my share in her grief, whatever it might be. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Clarke began, as if it was a relief to her to plunge into the subject. +</p> + +<p> +“We have thought, sir—at least I have thought—that you knew +very little of us, nor we of you, indeed; not enough to warrant the intimate +acquaintance we have fallen into. I beg your pardon, sir,” she went on, +nervously; “I am but a plain kind of woman, and I mean to use no +rudeness; but I must say straight out that I—we—think it would be +better for you not to come so often to see us. She is very unprotected, +and—” +</p> + +<p> +“Why should I not come to see you, dear madam?” asked I, eagerly, +glad of the opportunity of explaining myself. “I come, I own, because I +have learnt to love Mistress Lucy, and wish to teach her to love me.” +</p> + +<p> +Mistress Clarke shook her head, and sighed. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t, sir—neither love her, nor, for the sake of all you +hold sacred, teach her to love you! If I am too late, and you love her already, +forget her,—forget these last few weeks. O! I should never have allowed +you to come!” she went on passionately; “but what am I to do? We +are forsaken by all, except the great God, and even He permits a strange and +evil power to afflict us—what am I to do! Where is it to end?” She +wrung her hands in her distress; then she turned to me: “Go away, sir! go +away, before you learn to care any more for her. I ask it for your own +sake—I implore! You have been good and kind to us, and we shall always +recollect you with gratitude; but go away now, and never come back to cross our +fatal path!” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, madam,” said I, “I shall do no such thing. You urge +it for my own sake. I have no fear, so urged—nor wish, except to hear +more—all. I cannot have seen Mistress Lucy in all the intimacy of this +last fortnight, without acknowledging her goodness and innocence; and without +seeing—pardon me, madam—that for some reason you are two very +lonely women, in some mysterious sorrow and distress. Now, though I am not +powerful myself, yet I have friends who are so wise and kind that they may be +said to possess power. Tell me some particulars. Why are you in +grief—what is your secret—why are you here? I declare solemnly that +nothing you have said has daunted me in my wish to become Lucy’s husband; +nor will I shrink from any difficulty that, as such an aspirant, I may have to +encounter. You say you are friendless—why cast away an honest friend? I +will tell you of people to whom you may write, and who will answer any +questions as to my character and prospects. I do not shun inquiry.” +</p> + +<p> +She shook her head again. “You had better go away, sir. You know nothing +about us.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know your names,” said I, “and I have heard you allude to +the part of the country from which you came, which I happen to know as a wild +and lonely place. There are so few people living in it that, if I chose to go +there, I could easily ascertain all about you; but I would rather hear it from +yourself.” You see I wanted to pique her into telling me something +definite. +</p> + +<p> +“You do not know our true names, sir,” said she, hastily. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I may have conjectured as much. But tell me, then, I conjure you. +Give me your reasons for distrusting my willingness to stand by what I have +said with regard to Mistress Lucy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, what can I do?” exclaimed she. “If I am turning away a +true friend, as he says?—Stay!” coming to a sudden +decision—“I will tell you something—I cannot tell you +all—you would not believe it. But, perhaps, I can tell you enough to +prevent your going on in your hopeless attachment. I am not Lucy’s +mother.” +</p> + +<p> +“So I conjectured,” I said. “Go on.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not even know whether she is the legitimate or illegitimate child +of her father. But he is cruelly turned against her; and her mother is long +dead; and for a terrible reason, she has no other creature to keep constant to +her but me. She—only two years ago—such a darling and such a pride +in her father’s house! Why, sir, there is a mystery that might happen in +connection with her any moment; and then you would go away like all the rest; +and, when you next heard her name, you would loathe her. Others, who have loved +her longer, have done so before now. My poor child! whom neither God nor man +has mercy upon—or, surely, she would die!” +</p> + +<p> +The good woman was stopped by her crying. I confess, I was a little stunned by +her last words; but only for a moment. At any rate, till I knew definitely what +was this mysterious stain upon one so simple and pure, as Lucy seemed, I would +not desert her, and so I said; and she made me answer:— +</p> + +<p> +“If you are daring in your heart to think harm of my child, sir, after +knowing her as you have done, you are no good man yourself; but I am so foolish +and helpless in my great sorrow, that I would fain hope to find a friend in +you. I cannot help trusting that, although you may no longer feel toward her as +a lover, you will have pity upon us; and perhaps, by your learning you can tell +us where to go for aid.” +</p> + +<p> +“I implore you to tell me what this mystery is,” I cried, almost +maddened by this suspense. +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot,” said she, solemnly. “I am under a deep vow of +secrecy. If you are to be told, it must be by her.” She left the room, +and I remained to ponder over this strange interview. I mechanically turned +over the few books, and with eyes that saw nothing at the time, examined the +tokens of Lucy’s frequent presence in that room. +</p> + +<p> +When I got home at night, I remembered how all these trifles spoke of a pure +and tender heart and innocent life. Mistress Clarke returned; she had been +crying sadly. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said she, “it is as I feared: she loves you so much +that she is willing to run the fearful risk of telling you all +herself—she acknowledges it is but a poor chance; but your sympathy will +be a balm, if you give it. To-morrow, come here at ten in the morning; and, as +you hope for pity in your hour of agony, repress all show of fear or repugnance +you may feel towards one so grievously afflicted.” +</p> + +<p> +I half smiled. “Have no fear,” I said. It seemed too absurd to +imagine my feeling dislike to Lucy. +</p> + +<p> +“Her father loved her well,” said she, gravely, “yet he drove +her out like some monstrous thing.” +</p> + +<p> +Just at this moment came a peal of ringing laughter from the garden. It was +Lucy’s voice; it sounded as if she were standing just on one side of the +open casement—and as though she were suddenly stirred to +merriment—merriment verging on boisterousness, by the doings or sayings +of some other person. I can scarcely say why, but the sound jarred on me +inexpressibly. She knew the subject of our conversation, and must have been at +least aware of the state of agitation her friend was in; she herself usually so +gentle and quiet. I half rose to go to the window, and satisfy my instinctive +curiosity as to what had provoked this burst of, ill-timed laughter; but Mrs. +Clarke threw her whole weight and power upon the hand with which she pressed +and kept me down. +</p> + +<p> +“For God’s sake!” she said, white and trembling all over, +“sit still; be quiet. Oh! be patient. To-morrow you will know all. Leave +us, for we are all sorely afflicted. Do not seek to know more about us.” +</p> + +<p> +Again that laugh—so musical in sound, yet so discordant to my heart. She +held me tight—tighter; without positive violence I could not have risen. +I was sitting with my back to the window, but I felt a shadow pass between the +sun’s warmth and me, and a strange shudder ran through my frame. In a +minute or two she released me. +</p> + +<p> +“Go,” repeated she. “Be warned, I ask you once more. I do not +think you can stand this knowledge that you seek. If I had had my own way, Lucy +should never have yielded, and promised to tell you all. Who knows what may +come of it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am firm in my wish to know all. I return at ten to-morrow morning, and +then expect to see Mistress Lucy herself.” +</p> + +<p> +I turned away; having my own suspicions, I confess, as to Mistress +Clarke’s sanity. +</p> + +<p> +Conjectures as to the meaning of her hints, and uncomfortable thoughts +connected with that strange laughter, filled my mind. I could hardly sleep. I +rose early; and long before the hour I had appointed, I was on the path over +the common that led to the old farm-house where they lodged. I suppose that +Lucy had passed no better a night than I; for there she was also, slowly pacing +with her even step, her eyes bent down, her whole look most saintly and pure. +She started when I came close to her, and grew paler as I reminded her of my +appointment, and spoke with something of the impatience of obstacles that, +seeing her once more, had called up afresh in my mind. All strange and terrible +hints, and giddy merriment were forgotten. My heart gave forth words of fire, +and my tongue uttered them. Her colour went and came, as she listened; but, +when I had ended my passionate speeches, she lifted her soft eyes to me, and +said— +</p> + +<p> +“But you know that you have something to learn about me yet. I only want +to say this: I shall not think less of you—less well of you, I +mean—if you, too, fall away from me when you know all. Stop!” said +she, as if fearing another burst of mad words. “Listen to me. My father +is a man of great wealth. I never knew my mother; she must have died when I was +very young. When first I remember anything, I was living in a great, lonely +house, with my dear and faithful Mistress Clarke. My father, even, was not +there; he was—he is—a soldier, and his duties lie aboard. But he +came from time to time, and every time I think he loved me more and more. He +brought me rarities from foreign lands, which prove to me now how much he must +have thought of me during his absences. I can sit down and measure the depth of +his lost love now, by such standards as these. I never thought whether he loved +me or not, then; it was so natural, that it was like the air I breathed. Yet he +was an angry man at times, even then; but never with me. He was very reckless, +too; and, once or twice, I heard a whisper among the servants that a doom was +over him, and that he knew it, and tried to drown his knowledge in wild +activity, and even sometimes, sir, in wine. So I grew up in this grand mansion, +in that lonely place. Everything around me seemed at my disposal, and I think +every one loved me; I am sure I loved them. Till about two years ago—I +remember it well—my father had come to England, to us; and he seemed so +proud and so pleased with me and all I had done. And one day his tongue seemed +loosened with wine, and he told me much that I had not known till +then,—how dearly he had loved my mother, yet how his wilful usage had +caused her death; and then he went on to say how he loved me better than any +creature on earth, and how, some day, he hoped to take me to foreign places, +for that he could hardly bear these long absences from his only child. Then he +seemed to change suddenly, and said, in a strange, wild way, that I was not to +believe what he said; that there was many a thing he loved better—his +horse—his dog—I know not what. +</p> + +<p> +“And ’twas only the next morning that, when I came into his room to +ask his blessing as was my wont, he received me with fierce and angry words. +‘Why had I,’ so he asked, ‘been delighting myself in such +wanton mischief—dancing over the tender plants in the flower-beds, all +set with the famous Dutch bulbs he had brought from Holland?’ I had never +been out of doors that morning, sir, and I could not conceive what he meant, +and so I said; and then he swore at me for a liar, and said I was of no true +blood, for he had seen me doing all that mischief himself—with his own +eyes. What could I say? He would not listen to me, and even my tears seemed +only to irritate him. That day was the beginning of my great sorrows. Not long +after, he reproached me for my undue familiarity—all unbecoming a +gentlewoman—with his grooms. I had been in the stable-yard, laughing and +talking, he said. Now, sir, I am something of a coward by nature, and I had +always dreaded horses; be-sides that, my father’s servants—those +whom he brought with him from foreign parts—were wild fellows, whom I had +always avoided, and to whom I had never spoken, except as a lady must needs +from time to time speak to her father’s people. Yet my father called me +by names of which I hardly know the meaning, but my heart told me they were +such as shame any modest woman; and from that day he turned quite against +me;—nay, sir, not many weeks after that, he came in with a riding-whip in +his hand; and, accusing me harshly of evil doings, of which I knew no more than +you, sir, he was about to strike me, and I, all in bewildering tears, was ready +to take his stripes as great kindness compared to his harder words, when +suddenly he stopped his arm mid-way, gasped and staggered, crying out, +‘The curse—the curse!’ I looked up in terror. In the great +mirror opposite I saw myself, and right behind, another wicked, fearful self, +so like me that my soul seemed to quiver within me, as though not knowing to +which similitude of body it belonged. My father saw my double at the same +moment, either in its dreadful reality, whatever that might be, or in the +scarcely less terrible reflection in the mirror; but what came of it at that +moment I cannot say, for I suddenly swooned away; and when I came to myself I +was lying in my bed, and my faithful Clarke sitting by me. I was in my bed for +days; and even while I lay there my double was seen by all, flitting about the +house and gardens, always about some mischievous or detestable work. What +wonder that every one shrank from me in dread—that my father drove me +forth at length, when the disgrace of which I was the cause was past his +patience to bear. Mistress Clarke came with me; and here we try to live such a +life of piety and prayer as may in time set me free from the curse.” +</p> + +<p> +All the time she had been speaking, I had been weighing her story in my mind. I +had hitherto put cases of witchcraft on one side, as mere superstitions; and my +uncle and I had had many an argument, he supporting himself by the opinion of +his good friend Sir Matthew Hale. Yet this sounded like the tale of one +bewitched; or was it merely the effect of a life of extreme seclusion telling +on the nerves of a sensitive girl? My scepticism inclined me to the latter +belief, and when she paused I said: +</p> + +<p> +“I fancy that some physician could have disabused your father of his +belief in visions—” +</p> + +<p> +Just at that instant, standing as I was opposite to her in the full and perfect +morning light, I saw behind her another figure—a ghastly resemblance, +complete in likeness, so far as form and feature and minutest touch of dress +could go, but with a loathsome demon soul looking out of the gray eyes, that +were in turns mocking and voluptuous. My heart stood still within me; every +hair rose up erect; my flesh crept with horror. I could not see the grave and +tender Lucy—my eyes were fascinated by the creature beyond. I know not +why, but I put out my hand to clutch it; I grasped nothing but empty air, and +my whole blood curdled to ice. For a moment I could not see; then my sight came +back, and I saw Lucy standing before me, alone, deathly pale, and, I could have +fancied, almost, shrunk in size. +</p> + +<p> +“I<small>T</small> has been near me?” she said, as if asking a +question. +</p> + +<p> +The sound seemed taken out of her voice; it was husky as the notes on an old +harpsichord when the strings have ceased to vibrate. She read her answer in my +face, I suppose, for I could not speak. Her look was one of intense fear, but +that died away into an aspect of most humble patience. At length she seemed to +force herself to face behind and around her: she saw the purple moors, the blue +distant hills, quivering in the sunlight, but nothing else. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you take me home?” she said, meekly. +</p> + +<p> +I took her by the hand, and led her silently through the budding +heather—we dared not speak; for we could not tell but that the dread +creature was listening, although unseen,—but that <small>IT</small> might +appear and push us asunder. I never loved her more fondly than now +when—and that was the unspeakable misery—the idea of her was +becoming so inextricably blended with the shuddering thought of +<small>IT</small>. She seemed to understand what I must be feeling. She let go +my hand, which she had kept clasped until then, when we reached the garden +gate, and went forwards to meet her anxious friend, who was standing by the +window looking for her. I could not enter the house: I needed silence, society, +leisure, change—I knew not what—to shake off the sensation of that +creature’s presence. Yet I lingered about the garden—I hardly know +why; I partly suppose, because I feared to encounter the resemblance again on +the solitary common, where it had vanished, and partly from a feeling of +inexpressible compassion for Lucy. In a few minutes Mistress Clarke came forth +and joined me. We walked some paces in silence. +</p> + +<p> +“You know all now,” said she, solemnly. +</p> + +<p> +“I saw <small>IT</small>,” said I, below my breath. +</p> + +<p> +“And you shrink from us, now,” she said, with a hopelessness which +stirred up all that was brave or good in me. +</p> + +<p> +“Not a whit,” said I. “Human flesh shrinks from encounter +with the powers of darkness: and, for some reason unknown to me, the pure and +holy Lucy is their victim.” +</p> + +<p> +“The sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the children,” she +said. +</p> + +<p> +“Who is her father?” asked I. “Knowing as much as I do, I may +surely know more—know all. Tell me, I entreat you, madam, all that you +can conjecture respecting this demoniac persecution of one so good.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will; but not now. I must go to Lucy now. Come this afternoon, I will +see you alone; and oh, sir! I will trust that you may yet find some way to help +us in our sore trouble!” +</p> + +<p> +I was miserably exhausted by the swooning affright which had taken possession +of me. When I reached the inn, I staggered in like one overcome by wine. I went +to my own private room. It was some time before I saw that the weekly post had +come in, and brought me my letters. There was one from my uncle, one from my +home in Devonshire, and one, re-directed over the first address, sealed with a +great coat of arms, It was from Sir Philip Tempest: my letter of inquiry +respecting Mary Fitzgerald had reached him at Liége, where it so +happened that the Count de la Tour d’Auvergne was quartered at the very +time. He remembered his wife’s beautiful attendant; she had had high +words with the deceased countess, respecting her intercourse with an English +gentleman of good standing, who was also in the foreign service. The countess +augured evil of his intentions; while Mary, proud and vehement, asserted that +he would soon marry her, and resented her mistress’s warnings as an +insult. The consequence was, that she had left Madame de la Tour +d’Auvergne’s service, and, as the Count believed, had gone to live +with the Englishman; whether he had married her, or not, he could not say. +“But,” added Sir Philip Tempest, “you may easily hear what +particulars you wish to know respecting Mary Fitzgerald from the Englishman +himself, if, as I suspect, he is no other than my neighbour and former +acquaintance, Mr. Gisborne, of Skipford Hall, in the West Riding. I am led to +the belief that he is no other, by several small particulars, none of which are +in themselves conclusive, but which, taken together, furnish a mass of +presumptive evidence. As far as I could make out from the Count’s foreign +pronunciation, Gisborne was the name of the Englishman: I know that Gisborne of +Skipford was abroad and in the foreign service at that time—he was a +likely fellow enough for such an exploit, and, above all, certain expressions +recur to my mind which he used in reference to old Bridget Fitzgerald, of +Coldholme, whom he once encountered while staying with me at Starkey +Manor-house. I remember that the meeting seemed to have produced some +extraordinary effect upon his mind, as though he had suddenly discovered some +connection which she might have had with his previous life. I beg you to let me +know if I can be of any further service to you. Your uncle once rendered me a +good turn, and I will gladly repay it, so far as in me lies, to his +nephew.” +</p> + +<p> +I was now apparently close on the discovery which I had striven so many months +to attain. But success had lost its zest. I put my letters down, and seemed to +forget them all in thinking of the morning I had passed that very day. Nothing +was real but the unreal presence, which had come like an evil blast across my +bodily eyes, and burnt itself down upon my brain. Dinner came, and went away +untouched. Early in the afternoon I walked to the farm-house. I found Mistress +Clarke alone, and I was glad and relieved. She was evidently prepared to tell +me all I might wish to hear. +</p> + +<p> +“You asked me for Mistress Lucy’s true name; it is Gisborne,” +she began. +</p> + +<p> +“Not Gisborne of Skipford?” I exclaimed, breathless with +anticipation. +</p> + +<p> +“The same,” said she, quietly, not regarding my manner. “Her +father is a man of note; although, being a Roman Catholic, he cannot take that +rank in this country to which his station entitles him. The consequence is that +he lives much abroad—has been a soldier, I am told.” +</p> + +<p> +“And Lucy’s mother?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +She shook her head. “I never knew her,” said she. “Lucy was +about three years old when I was engaged to take charge of her. Her mother was +dead.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you know her name?—you can tell if it was Mary +Fitzgerald?” +</p> + +<p> +She looked astonished. “That was her name. But, sir, how came you to be +so well acquainted with it? It was a mystery to the whole household at Skipford +Court. She was some beautiful young woman whom he lured away from her +protectors while he was abroad. I have heard said he practised some terrible +deceit upon her, and when she came to know it, she was neither to have nor to +hold, but rushed off from his very arms, and threw herself into a rapid stream +and was drowned. It stung him deep with remorse, but I used to think the +remembrance of the mother’s cruel death made him love the child yet +dearer.” +</p> + +<p> +I told her, as briefly as might be, of my researches after the descendant and +heir of the Fitzgeralds of Kildoon, and added—something of my old lawyer +spirit returning into me for the moment—that I had no doubt but that we +should prove Lucy to be by right possessed of large estates in Ireland. +</p> + +<p> +No flush came over her gray face; no light into her eyes. “And what is +all the wealth in the whole world to that poor girl?” she said. “It +will not free her from the ghastly bewitchment which persecutes her. As for +money, what a pitiful thing it is! it cannot touch her.” +</p> + +<p> +“No more can the Evil Creature harm her,” I said. “Her holy +nature dwells apart, and cannot be defiled or stained by all the devilish arts +in the whole world.” +</p> + +<p> +“True! but it is a cruel fate to know that all shrink from her, sooner or +later, as from one possessed—accursed.” +</p> + +<p> +“How came it to pass?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, I know not. Old rumours there are, that were bruited through the +household at Skipford.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me,” I demanded. +</p> + +<p> +“They came from servants, who would fain account for every thing. They +say that, many years ago, Mr. Gisborne killed a dog belonging to an old witch +at Coldholme; that she cursed, with a dreadful and mysterious curse, the +creature, whatever it might be, that he should love best; and that it struck so +deeply into his heart that for years he kept himself aloof from any temptation +to love aught. But who could help loving Lucy?” +</p> + +<p> +“You never heard the witch’s name?” I gasped. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes—they called her Bridget: they said he would never go near the +spot again for terror of her. Yet he was a brave man!” +</p> + +<p> +“Listen,” said I, taking hold of her arm, the better to arrest her +full attention: “if what I suspect holds true, that man stole +Bridget’s only child—the very Mary Fitzgerald who was Lucy’s +mother; if so, Bridget cursed him in ignorance of the deeper wrong he had done +her. To this hour she yearns after her lost child, and questions the saints +whether she be living or not. The roots of that curse lie deeper than she +knows: she unwittingly banned him for a deeper guilt than that of killing a +dumb beast. The sins of the fathers are indeed visited upon the +children.” +</p> + +<p> +“But,” said Mistress Clarke, eagerly, “she would never let +evil rest on her own grandchild? Surely, sir, if what you say be true, there +are hopes for Lucy. Let us go—go at once, and tell this fearful woman all +that you suspect, and beseech her to take off the spell she has put upon her +innocent grandchild.” +</p> + +<p> +It seemed to me, indeed, that something like this was the best course we could +pursue. But first it was necessary to ascertain more than what mere rumour or +careless hearsay could tell. My thoughts turned to my uncle—he could +advise me wisely—he ought to know all. I resolved to go to him without +delay; but I did not choose to tell Mistress Clarke of all the visionary plans +that flitted through my mind. I simply declared my intention of proceeding +straight to London on Lucy’s affairs. I bade her believe that my interest +on the young lady’s behalf was greater than ever, and that my whole time +should be given up to her cause. I saw that Mistress Clarke distrusted me, +because my mind was too full of thoughts for my words to flow freely. She +sighed and shook her head, and said, “Well, it is all right!” in +such a tone that it was an implied reproach. But I was firm and constant in my +heart, and I took confidence from that. +</p> + +<p> +I rode to London. I rode long days drawn out into the lovely summer nights: I +could not rest. I reached London. I told my uncle all, though in the stir of +the great city the horror had faded away, and I could hardly imagine that he +would believe the account I gave him of the fearful double of Lucy which I had +seen on the lonely moor-side. But my uncle had lived many years, and learnt +many things; and, in the deep secrets of family history that had been confided +to him, he had heard of cases of innocent people bewitched and taken possession +of by evil spirits yet more fearful than Lucy’s. For, as he said, to +judge from all I told him, that resemblance had no power over her—she was +too pure and good to be tainted by its evil, haunting presence. It had, in all +probability, so my uncle conceived, tried to suggest wicked thoughts and to +tempt to wicked actions but she, in her saintly maidenhood, had passed on +undefiled by evil thought or deed. It could not touch her soul: but true, it +set her apart from all sweet love or common human intercourse. My uncle threw +himself with an energy more like six-and-twenty than sixty into the +consideration of the whole case. He undertook the proving Lucy’s descent, +and volunteered to go and find out Mr. Gisborne, and obtain, firstly, the legal +proofs of her descent from the Fitzgeralds of Kildoon, and, secondly, to try +and hear all that he could respecting the working of the curse, and whether any +and what means had been taken to exorcise that terrible appearance. For he told +me of instances where, by prayers and long fasting, the evil possessor had been +driven forth with howling and many cries from the body which it had come to +inhabit; he spoke of those strange New England cases which had happened not so +long before; of Mr. Defoe, who had written a book, wherein he had named many +modes of subduing apparitions, and sending them back whence they came; and, +lastly, he spoke low of dreadful ways of compelling witches to undo their +witchcraft. But I could not endure to hear of those tortures and burnings. I +said that Bridget was rather a wild and savage woman than a malignant witch; +and, above all, that Lucy was of her kith and kin; and that, in putting her to +the trial, by water or by fire, we should be torturing—it might be to the +death—the ancestress of her we sought to redeem. +</p> + +<p> +My uncle thought awhile, and then said, that in this last matter I was +right—at any rate, it should not be tried, with his consent, till all +other modes of remedy had failed; and he assented to my proposal that I should +go myself and see Bridget, and tell her all. +</p> + +<p> +In accordance with this, I went down once more to the wayside inn near +Coldholme. It was late at night when I arrived there; and, while I supped, I +inquired of the landlord more particulars as to Bridget’s ways. Solitary +and savage had been her life for many years. Wild and despotic were her words +and manner to those few people who came across her path. The country-folk did +her imperious bidding, because they feared to disobey. If they pleased her, +they prospered; if, on the contrary, they neglected or traversed her behests, +misfortune, small or great, fell on them and theirs. It was not detestation so +much as an indefinable terror that she excited. +</p> + +<p> +In the morning I went to see her. She was standing on the green outside her +cottage, and received me with the sullen grandeur of a throneless queen. I read +in her face that she recognized me, and that I was not unwelcome; but she stood +silent till I had opened my errand. +</p> + +<p> +“I have news of your daughter,” said I, resolved to speak straight +to all that I knew she felt of love, and not to spare her. “She is +dead!” +</p> + +<p> +The stern figure scarcely trembled, but her hand sought the support of the +door-post. +</p> + +<p> +“I knew that she was dead,” said she, deep and low, and then was +silent for an instant. “My tears that should have flowed for her were +burnt up long years ago. Young man, tell me about her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not yet,” said I, having a strange power given me of confronting +one, whom, nevertheless, in my secret soul I dreaded. +</p> + +<p> +“You had once a little dog,” I continued. The words called out in +her more show of emotion than the intelligence of her daughter’s death. +She broke in upon my speech:— +</p> + +<p> +“I had! It was hers—the last thing I had of hers—and it was +shot for wantonness! It died in my arms. The man who killed that dog rues it to +this day. For that dumb beast’s blood, his best-beloved stands +accursed.” +</p> + +<p> +Her eyes distended, as if she were in a trance and saw the working of her +curse. Again I spoke:— +</p> + +<p> +“O, woman!” I said, “that best-beloved, standing accursed +before men, is your dead daughter’s child.” +</p> + +<p> +The life, the energy, the passion, came back to the eyes with which she pierced +through me, to see if I spoke truth; then, without another question or word, +she threw herself on the ground with fearful vehemence, and clutched at the +innocent daisies with convulsed hands. +</p> + +<p> +“Bone of my bone! flesh of my flesh! have I cursed thee—and art +thou accursed?” +</p> + +<p> +So she moaned, as she lay prostrate in her great agony. I stood aghast at my +own work. She did not hear my broken sentences; she asked no more, but the dumb +confirmation which my sad looks had given that one fact, that her curse rested +on her own daughter’s child. The fear grew on me lest she should die in +her strife of body and soul; and then might not Lucy remain under the spell as +long as she lived? +</p> + +<p> +Even at this moment, I saw Lucy coming through the woodland path that led to +Bridget’s cottage; Mistress Clarke was with her: I felt at my heart that +it was she, by the balmy peace which the look of her sent over me, as she +slowly advanced, a glad surprise shining out of her soft quiet eyes. That was +as her gaze met mine. As her looks fell on the woman lying stiff, convulsed on +the earth, they became full of tender pity; and she came forward to try and +lift her up. Seating herself on the turf, she took Bridget’s head into +her lap; and, with gentle touches, she arranged the dishevelled gray hair +streaming thick and wild from beneath her mutch. +</p> + +<p> +“God help her!” murmured Lucy. “How she suffers!” +</p> + +<p> +At her desire we sought for water; but when we returned, Bridget had recovered +her wandering senses, and was kneeling with clasped hands before Lucy, gazing +at that sweet sad face as though her troubled nature drank in health and peace +from every moment’s contemplation. A faint tinge on Lucy’s pale +cheeks showed me that she was aware of our return; otherwise it appeared as if +she was conscious of her influence for good over the passionate and troubled +woman kneeling before her, and would not willingly avert her grave and loving +eyes from that wrinkled and careworn countenance. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly—in the twinkling of an eye—the creature appeared, there, +behind Lucy; fearfully the same as to outward semblance, but kneeling exactly +as Bridget knelt, and clasping her hands in jesting mimicry as Bridget clasped +hers in her ecstasy that was deepening into a prayer. Mistress Clarke cried +out—Bridget arose slowly, her gaze fixed on the creature beyond: drawing +her breath with a hissing sound, never moving her terrible eyes, that were +steady as stone, she made a dart at the phantom, and caught, as I had done, a +mere handful of empty air. We saw no more of the creature—it vanished as +suddenly as it came, but Bridget looked slowly on, as if watching some receding +form. Lucy sat still, white, trembling, drooping—I think she would have +swooned if I had not been there to uphold her. While I was attending to her, +Bridget passed us, without a word to any one, and, entering her cottage, she +barred herself in, and left us without. +</p> + +<p> +All our endeavours were now directed to get Lucy back to the house where she +had tarried the night before. Mistress Clarke told me that, not hearing from me +(some letter must have miscarried), she had grown impatient and despairing, and +had urged Lucy to the enterprise of coming to seek her grandmother; not telling +her, indeed, of the dread reputation she possessed, or how we suspected her of +having so fearfully blighted that innocent girl; but, at the same time, hoping +much from the mysterious stirring of blood, which Mistress Clarke trusted in +for the removal of the curse. They had come, by a different route from that +which I had taken, to a village inn not far from Coldholme, only the night +before. This was the first interview between ancestress and descendant. +</p> + +<p> +All through the sultry noon I wandered along the tangled brush-wood of the old +neglected forest, thinking where to turn for remedy in a matter so complicated +and mysterious. Meeting a countryman, I asked my way to the nearest clergyman, +and went, hoping to obtain some counsel from him. But he proved to be a coarse +and common-minded man, giving no time or attention to the intricacies of a +case, but dashing out a strong opinion involving immediate action. For +instance, as soon as I named Bridget Fitzgerald, he exclaimed:— +</p> + +<p> +“The Coldholme witch! the Irish papist! I’d have had her ducked +long since but for that other papist, Sir Philip Tempest. He has had to +threaten honest folk about here over and over again, or they’d have had +her up before the justices for her black doings. And it’s the law of the +land that witches should be burnt! Ay, and of Scripture, too, sir! Yet you see +a papist, if he’s a rich squire, can overrule both law and Scripture. +I’d carry a faggot myself to rid the country of her!” +</p> + +<p> +Such a one could give me no help. I rather drew back what I had already said; +and tried to make the parson forget it, by treating him to several pots of +beer, in the village inn, to which we had adjourned for our conference at his +suggestion. I left him as soon as I could, and returned to Coldholme, shaping +my way past deserted Starkey Manor-house, and coming upon it by the back. At +that side were the oblong remains of the old moat, the waters of which lay +placid and motionless under the crimson rays of the setting sun; with the +forest-trees lying straight along each side, and their deep-green foliage +mirrored to blackness in the burnished surface of the moat below—and the +broken sun-dial at the end nearest the hall—and the heron, standing on +one leg at the water’s edge, lazily looking down for fish—the +lonely and desolate house scarce needed the broken windows, the weeds on the +door-sill, the broken shutter softly flapping to and fro in the twilight +breeze, to fill up the picture of desertion and decay. I lingered about the +place until the growing darkness warned me on. And then I passed along the +path, cut by the orders of the last lady of Starkey Manor-House, that led me to +Bridget’s cottage. I resolved at once to see her; and, in spite of closed +doors—it might be of resolved will—she should see me. So I knocked +at her door, gently, loudly, fiercely. I shook it so vehemently that a length +the old hinges gave way, and with a crash it fell inwards, leaving me suddenly +face to face with Bridget—I, red, heated, agitated with my so long +baffled efforts—she, stiff as any stone, standing right facing me, her +eyes dilated with terror, her ashen lips trembling, but her body motionless. In +her hands she held her crucifix, as if by that holy symbol she sought to oppose +my entrance. At sight of me, her whole frame relaxed, and she sank back upon a +chair. Some mighty tension had given way. Still her eyes looked fearfully into +the gloom of the outer air, made more opaque by the glimmer of the lamp inside, +which she had placed before the picture of the Virgin. +</p> + +<p> +“Is she there?” asked Bridget, hoarsely. +</p> + +<p> +“No! Who? I am alone. You remember me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” replied she, still terror stricken. “But +she—that creature—has been looking in upon me through that window +all day long. I closed it up with my shawl; and then I saw her feet below the +door, as long as it was light, and I knew she heard my very +breathing—nay, worse, my very prayers; and I could not pray, for her +listening choked the words ere they rose to my lips. Tell me, who is +she?—what means that double girl I saw this morning? One had a look of my +dead Mary; but the other curdled my blood, and yet it was the same!” +</p> + +<p> +She had taken hold of my arm, as if to secure herself some human companionship. +She shook all over with the slight, never-ceasing tremor of intense terror. I +told her my tale as I have told it you, sparing none of the details. +</p> + +<p> +How Mistress Clarke had informed me that the resemblance had driven Lucy forth +from her father’s house—how I had disbelieved, until, with mine own +eyes, I had seen another Lucy standing behind my Lucy, the same in form and +feature, but with the demon-soul looking out of the eyes. I told her all, I +say, believing that she—whose curse was working so upon the life of her +innocent grandchild—was the only person who could find the remedy and the +redemption. When I had done, she sat silent for many minutes. +</p> + +<p> +“You love Mary’s child?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I do, in spite of the fearful working of the curse—I love her. Yet +I shrink from her ever since that day on the moor-side. And men must shrink +from one so accompanied; friends and lovers must stand afar off. Oh, Bridget +Fitzgerald! loosen the curse! Set her free!” +</p> + +<p> +“Where is she?” +</p> + +<p> +I eagerly caught at the idea that her presence was needed, in order that, by +some strange prayer or exorcism, the spell might be reversed. +</p> + +<p> +“I will go and bring her to you,” I exclaimed. Bridget tightened +her hold upon my arm. +</p> + +<p> +“Not so,” said she, in a low, hoarse voice. “It would kill me +to see her again as I saw her this morning. And I must live till I have worked +my work. Leave me!” said she, suddenly, and again taking up the cross. +“I defy the demon I have called up. Leave me to wrestle with it!” +</p> + +<p> +She stood up, as if in an ecstasy of inspiration, from which all fear was +banished. I lingered—why I can hardly tell—until once more she bade +me begone. As I went along the forest way, I looked back, and saw her planting +the cross in the empty threshold, where the door had been. +</p> + +<p> +The next morning Lucy and I went to seek her, to bid her join her prayers with +ours. The cottage stood open and wide to our gaze. No human being was there: +the cross remained on the threshold, but Bridget was gone. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>CHAPTER III.</h2> + +<p> +What was to be done next? was the question that I asked myself. As for Lucy, +she would fain have submitted to the doom that lay upon her. Her gentleness and +piety, under the pressure of so horrible a life, seemed over-passive to me. She +never complained. Mrs. Clarke complained more than ever. As for me, I was more +in love with the real Lucy than ever; but I shrunk from the false similitude +with an intensity proportioned to my love. I found out by instinct that Mrs. +Clarke had occasional temptations to leave Lucy. The good lady’s nerves +were shaken, and, from what she said, I could almost have concluded that the +object of the Double was to drive away from Lucy this last, and almost earliest +friend. At times, I could scarcely bear to own it, but I myself felt inclined +to turn recreant; and I would accuse Lucy of being too patient—too +resigned. One after another, she won the little children of Coldholme. (Mrs. +Clarke and she had resolved to stay there, for was it not as good a place as +any other, to such as they? and did not all our faint hopes rest on +Bridget—never seen or heard of now, but still we trusted to come back, or +give some token?) So, as I say, one after another, the little children came +about my Lucy, won by her soft tones, and her gentle smiles, and kind actions. +Alas! one after another they fell away, and shrunk from her path with blanching +terror; and we too surely guessed the reason why. It was the last drop. I could +bear it no longer. I resolved no more to linger around the spot, but to go back +to my uncle, and among the learned divines of the city of London, seek for some +power whereby to annul the curse. +</p> + +<p> +My uncle, meanwhile, had obtained all the requisite testimonials relating to +Lucy’s descent and birth, from the Irish lawyers, and from Mr. Gisborne. +The latter gentleman had written from abroad (he was again serving in the +Austrian army), a letter alternately passionately self-reproachful and +stoically repellant. It was evident that when he thought of Mary—her +short life—how he had wronged her, and of her violent death, he could +hardly find words severe enough for his own conduct; and from this point of +view, the curse that Bridget had laid upon him and his, was regarded by him as +a prophetic doom, to the utterance of which she was moved by a Higher Power, +working for the fulfilment of a deeper vengeance than for the death of the poor +dog. But then, again, when he came to speak of his daughter, the repugnance +which the conduct of the demoniac creature had produced in his mind, was but +ill-disguised under a show of profound indifference as to Lucy’s fate. +One almost felt as if he would have been as content to put her out of +existence, as he would have been to destroy some disgusting reptile that had +invaded his chamber or his couch. +</p> + +<p> +The great Fitzgerald property was Lucy’s; and that was all—was +nothing. +</p> + +<p> +My uncle and I sat in the gloom of a London November evening, in our house in +Ormond Street. I was out of health, and felt as if I were in an inextricable +coil of misery. Lucy and I wrote to each other, but that was little; and we +dared not see each other for dread of the fearful Third, who had more than once +taken her place at our meetings. My uncle had, on the day I speak of, bidden +prayers to be put up on the ensuing Sabbath in many a church and meeting-house +in London, for one grievously tormented by an evil spirit. He had faith in +prayers—I had none; I was fast losing faith in all things. So we sat, he +trying to interest me in the old talk of other days, I oppressed by one +thought—when our old servant, Anthony, opened the door, and, without +speaking, showed in a very gentlemanly and prepossessing man, who had something +remarkable about his dress, betraying his profession to be that of the Roman +Catholic priesthood. He glanced at my uncle first, then at me. It was to me he +bowed. +</p> + +<p> +“I did not give my name,” said he, “because you would hardly +have recognised it; unless, sir, when, in the north, you heard of Father +Bernard, the chaplain at Stoney Hurst?” +</p> + +<p> +I remembered afterwards that I had heard of him, but at the time I had utterly +forgotten it; so I professed myself a complete stranger to him; while my +ever-hospitable uncle, although hating a papist as much as it was in his nature +to hate anything, placed a chair for the visitor, and bade Anthony bring +glasses, and a fresh jug of claret. +</p> + +<p> +Father Bernard received this courtesy with the graceful ease and pleasant +acknowledgement which belongs to a man of the world. Then he turned to scan me +with his keen glance. After some alight conversation, entered into on his part, +I am certain, with an intention of discovering on what terms of confidence I +stood with my uncle, he paused, and said gravely— +</p> + +<p> +“I am sent here with a message to you, sir, from a woman to whom you have +shown kindness, and who is one of my penitents, in Antwerp—one Bridget +Fitzgerald.” +</p> + +<p> +“Bridget Fitzgerald!” exclaimed I. “In Antwerp? Tell me, sir, +all that you can about her.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is much to be said,” he replied. “But may I inquire if +this gentleman—if your uncle is acquainted with the particulars of which +you and I stand informed?” +</p> + +<p> +“All that I know, he knows,” said I, eagerly laying my hand on my +uncle’s arm, as he made a motion as if to quit the room. +</p> + +<p> +“Then I have to speak before two gentlemen who, however they may differ +from me in faith, are yet fully impressed with the fact that there are evil +powers going about continually to take cognizance of our evil thoughts: and, if +their Master gives them power, to bring them into overt action. Such is my +theory of the nature of that sin, which I dare not disbelieve—as some +sceptics would have us do—the sin of witchcraft. Of this deadly sin, you +and I are aware, Bridget Fitzgerald has been guilty. Since you saw her last, +many prayers have been offered in our churches, many masses sung, many penances +undergone, in order that, if God and the holy saints so willed it, her sin +might be blotted out. But it has not been so willed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Explain to me,” said I, “who you are, and how you come +connected with Bridget. Why is she at Antwerp? I pray you, sir, tell me more. +If I am impatient, excuse me; I am ill and feverish, and in consequence +bewildered.” +</p> + +<p> +There was something to me inexpressibly soothing in the tone of voice with +which he began to narrate, as it were from the beginning, his acquaintance with +Bridget. +</p> + +<p> +“I had known Mr. and Mrs. Starkey during their residence abroad, and so +it fell out naturally that, when I came as chaplain to the Sherburnes at Stoney +Hurst, our acquaintance was renewed; and thus I became the confessor of the +whole family, isolated as they were from the offices of the Church, Sherburne +being their nearest neighbour who professed the true faith. Of course, you are +aware that facts revealed in confession are sealed as in the grave; but I +learnt enough of Bridget’s character to be convinced that I had to do +with no common woman; one powerful for good as for evil. I believe that I was +able to give her spiritual assistance from time to time, and that she looked +upon me as a servant of that Holy Church, which has such wonderful power of +moving men’s hearts, and relieving them of the burden of their sins. I +have known her cross the moors on the wildest nights of storm, to confess and +be absolved; and then she would return, calmed and subdued, to her daily work +about her mistress, no one witting where she had been during the hours that +most passed in sleep upon their beds. After her daughter’s +departure—after Mary’s mysterious disappearance—I had to +impose many a long penance, in order to wash away the sin of impatient repining +that was fast leading her into the deeper guilt of blasphemy. She set out on +that long journey of which you have possibly heard—that fruitless journey +in search of Mary—and during her absence, my superiors ordered my return +to my former duties at Antwerp, and for many years I heard no more of Bridget. +</p> + +<p> +“Not many months ago, as I was passing homewards in the evening, along +one of the streets near St. Jacques, leading into the Meer Straet, I saw a +woman sitting crouched up under the shrine of the Holy Mother of Sorrows. Her +hood was drawn over her head, so that the shadow caused by the light of the +lamp above fell deep over her face; her hands were clasped round her knees. It +was evident that she was some one in hopeless trouble, and as such it was my +duty to stop and speak. I naturally addressed her first in Flemish, believing +her to be one of the lower class of inhabitants. She shook her head, but did +not look up. Then I tried French, and she replied in that language, but +speaking it so indifferently, that I was sure she was either English or Irish, +and consequently spoke to her in my own native tongue. She recognized my voice; +and, starting up, caught at my robes, dragging me before the blessed shrine, +and throwing herself down, and forcing me, as much by her evident desire as by +her action, to kneel beside her, she exclaimed: +</p> + +<p> +“‘O Holy Virgin! you will never hearken to me again, but hear him; +for you know him of old, that he does your bidding, and strives to heal broken +hearts. Hear him!’ +</p> + +<p> +“She turned to me. +</p> + +<p> +“‘She will hear you, if you will only pray. She never hears +<i>me</i>: she and all the saints in heaven cannot hear my prayers, for the +Evil One carries them off, as he carried that first away. O, Father Bernard, +pray for me!’ +</p> + +<p> +“I prayed for one in sore distress, of what nature I could not say; but +the Holy Virgin would know. Bridget held me fast, gasping with eagerness at the +sound of my words. When I had ended, I rose, and, making the sign of the Cross +over her, I was going to bless her in the name of the Holy Church, when she +shrank away like some terrified creature, and said— +</p> + +<p> +“‘I am guilty of deadly sin, and am not shriven.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Arise, my daughter,’ said I, ‘and come with +me.’ And I led the way into one of the confessionals of St. Jaques. +</p> + +<p> +“She knelt; I listened. No words came. The evil powers had stricken her +dumb, as I heard afterwards they had many a time before, when she approached +confession. +</p> + +<p> +“She was too poor to pay for the necessary forms of exorcism; and +hitherto those priests to whom she had addressed herself were either so +ignorant of the meaning of her broken French, or her Irish-English, or else +esteemed her to be one crazed—as, indeed, her wild and excited manner +might easily have led any one to think—that they had neglected the sole +means of loosening her tongue, so that she might confess her deadly sin, and, +after due penance, obtain absolution. But I knew Bridget of old, and felt that +she was a penitent sent to me. I went through those holy offices appointed by +our Church for the relief of such a case. I was the more bound to do this, as I +found that she had come to Antwerp for the sole purpose of discovering me, and +making confession to me. Of the nature of that fearful confession I am +forbidden to speak. Much of it you know; possibly all. +</p> + +<p> +“It now remains for her to free herself from mortal guilt, and to set +others free from the consequences thereof. No prayers, no masses, will ever do +it, although they may strengthen her with that strength by which alone acts of +deepest love and purest self-devotion may be performed. Her words of passion, +and cries for revenge—her unholy prayers could never reach the ears of +the holy saints! Other powers intercepted them, and wrought so that the curses +thrown up to heaven have fallen on her own flesh and blood; and so, through her +very strength of love, have brused and crushed her heart. Henceforward her +former self must be buried,—yea, buried quick, if need be,—but +never more to make sign, or utter cry on earth! She has become a Poor Clare, in +order that, by perpetual penance and constant service of others, she may at +length so act as to obtain final absolution and rest for her soul. Until then, +the innocent must suffer. It is to plead for the innocent that I come to you; +not in the name of the witch, Bridget Fitzgerald, but of the penitent and +servant of all men, the Poor Clare, Sister Magdalen.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sir,” said I, “I listen to your request with respect; only I +may tell you it is not needed to urge me to do all that I can on behalf of one, +love for whom is part of my very life. If for a time I have absented myself +from her, it is to think and work for her redemption. I, a member of the +English Church—my uncle, a Puritan—pray morning and night for her +by name: the congregations of London, on the next Sabbath, will pray for one +unknown, that she may be set free from the Powers of Darkness. Moreover, I must +tell you, sir, that those evil ones touch not the great calm of her soul. She +lives her own pure and loving life, unharmed and untainted, though all men fall +off from her. I would I could have her faith!” +</p> + +<p> +My uncle now spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“Nephew,” said he, “it seems to me that this gentleman, +although professing what I consider an erroneous creed, has touched upon the +right point in exhorting Bridget to acts of love and mercy, whereby to wipe out +her sin of hate and vengeance. Let us strive after our fashion, by almsgiving +and visiting of the needy and fatherless, to make our prayers acceptable. +Meanwhile, I myself will go down into the north, and take charge of the maiden. +I am too old to be daunted by man or demon. I will bring her to this house as +to a home; and let the Double come if it will! A company of godly divines shall +give it the meeting, and we will try issue.” +</p> + +<p> +The kindly, brave old man! But Father Bernard sat on musing. +</p> + +<p> +“All hate,” said he, “cannot be quenched in her heart; all +Christian forgiveness cannot have entered into her soul, or the demon would +have lost its power. You said, I think, that her grandchild was still +tormented?” +</p> + +<p> +“Still tormented!” I replied, sadly, thinking of Mistress +Clarke’s last letter—He rose to go. We afterwards heard that the +occasion of his coming to London was a secret political mission on behalf of +the Jacobites. Nevertheless, he was a good and a wise man. +</p> + +<p> +Months and months passed away without any change. Lucy entreated my uncle to +leave her where she was,—dreading, as I learnt, lest if she came, with +her fearful companion, to dwell in the same house with me, that my love could +not stand the repeated shocks to which I should be doomed. And this she thought +from no distrust of the strength of my affection, but from a kind of pitying +sympathy for the terror to the nerves which she clearly observed that the +demoniac visitation caused in all. +</p> + +<p> +I was restless and miserable. I devoted myself to good works; but I performed +them from no spirit of love, but solely from the hope of reward and payment, +and so the reward was never granted. At length, I asked my uncle’s leave +to travel; and I went forth, a wanderer, with no distincter end than that of +many another wanderer—to get away from myself. A strange impulse led me +to Antwerp, in spite of the wars and commotions then raging in the Low +Countries—or rather, perhaps, the very craving to become interested in +something external, led me into the thick of the struggle then going on with +the Austrians. The cities of Flanders were all full at that time of civil +disturbances and rebellions, only kept down by force, and the presence of an +Austrian garrison in every place. +</p> + +<p> +I arrived in Antwerp, and made inquiry for Father Bernard. He was away in the +country for a day or two. Then I asked my way to the Convent of Poor Clares; +but, being healthy and prosperous, I could only see the dim, pent-up, gray +walls, shut closely in by narrow streets, in the lowest part of the town. My +landlord told me, that had I been stricken by some loathsome disease, or in +desperate case of any kind, the Poor Clares would have taken me, and tended me. +He spoke of them as an order of mercy of the strictest kind, dressing scantily +in the coarsest materials, going barefoot, living on what the inhabitants of +Antwerp chose to bestow, and sharing even those fragments and crumbs with the +poor and helpless that swarmed all around; receiving no letters or +communication with the outer world; utterly dead to everything but the +alleviation of suffering. He smiled at my inquiring whether I could get speech +of one of them; and told me that they were even forbidden to speak for the +purposes of begging their daily food; while yet they lived, and fed others upon +what was given in charity. +</p> + +<p> +“But,” exclaimed I, “supposing all men forgot them! Would +they quietly lie down and die, without making sign of their extremity?” +</p> + +<p> +“If such were the rule the Poor Clares would willingly do it; but their +founder appointed a remedy for such extreme cases as you suggest. They have a +bell—’tis but a small one, as I have heard, and has yet never been +rung in the memory man: when the Poor Clares have been without food for +twenty-four hours, they may ring this bell, and then trust to our good people +of Antwerp for rushing to the rescue of the Poor Clares, who have taken such +blessed care of us in all our straits.” +</p> + +<p> +It seemed to me that such rescue would be late in the day; but I did not say +what I thought. I rather turned the conversation, by asking my landlord if he +knew, or had ever heard, anything of a certain Sister Magdalen. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said he, rather under his breath, “news will creep +out, even from a convent of Poor Clares. Sister Magdalen is either a great +sinner or a great saint. She does more, as I have heard, than all the other +nuns put together; yet, when last month they would fain have made her +mother-superior, she begged rather that they would place her below all the +rest, and make her the meanest servant of all.” +</p> + +<p> +“You never saw her?” asked I. +</p> + +<p> +“Never,” he replied. +</p> + +<p> +I was weary of waiting for Father Bernard, and yet I lingered in Antwerp. The +political state of things became worse than ever, increased to its height by +the scarcity of food consequent on many deficient harvests. I saw groups of +fierce, squalid men, at every corner of the street, glaring out with wolfish +eyes at my sleek skin and handsome clothes. +</p> + +<p> +At last Father Bernard returned. We had a long conversation, in which he told +me that, curiously enough, Mr. Gisborne, Lucy’s father, was serving in +one of the Austrian regiments, then in garrison at Antwerp. I asked Father +Bernard if he would make us acquainted; which he consented to do. But, a day or +two afterwards, he told me that, on hearing my name, Mr. Gisborne had declined +responding to any advances on my part, saying he had adjured his country, and +hated his countrymen. +</p> + +<p> +Probably he recollected my name in connection with that of his daughter Lucy. +Anyhow, it was clear enough that I had no chance of making his acquaintance. +Father Bernard confirmed me in my suspicions of the hidden fermentation, for +some coming evil, working among the “blouses” of Antwerp, and he +would fain have had me depart from out the city; but I rather craved the +excitement of danger, and stubbornly refused to leave. +</p> + +<p> +One day, when I was walking with him in the Place Verte, he bowed to an +Austrian officer, who was crossing towards the cathedral. +</p> + +<p> +“That is Mr. Gisborne,” said he, as soon as the gentleman was past. +</p> + +<p> +I turned to look at the tall, slight figure of the officer. He carried himself +in a stately manner, although he was past middle age, and from his years might +have had some excuse for a slight stoop. As I looked at the man, he turned +round, his eyes met mine, and I saw his face. Deeply lined, sallow, and scathed +was that countenance; scarred by passion as well as by the fortunes of war. +’Twas but a moment our eyes met. We each turned round, and went on our +separate way. +</p> + +<p> +But his whole appearance was not one to be easily forgotten; the thorough +appointment of the dress, and evident thought bestowed on it, made but an +incongruous whole with the dark, gloomy expression of his countenance. Because +he was Lucy’s father, I sought instinctively to meet him everywhere. At +last he must have become aware of my pertinacity, for he gave me a haughty +scowl whenever I passed him. In one of these encounters, however, I chanced to +be of some service to him. He was turning the corner of a street, and came +suddenly on one of the groups of discontented Flemings of whom I have spoken. +Some words were exchanged, when my gentleman out with his sword, and with a +slight but skilful cut drew blood from one of those who had insulted him, as he +fancied, though I was too far off to hear the words. They would all have fallen +upon him had I not rushed forwards and raised the cry, then well known in +Antwerp, of rally, to the Austrian soldiers who were perpetually patrolling the +streets, and who came in numbers to the rescue. I think that neither Mr. +Gisborne nor the mutinous group of plebeians owed me much gratitude for my +interference. He had planted himself against a wall, in a skilful attitude of +fence, ready with his bright glancing rapier to do battle with all the heavy, +fierce, unarmed men, some six or seven in number. But when his own soldiers +came up, he sheathed his sword; and, giving some careless word of command, sent +them away again, and continued his saunter all alone down the street, the +workmen snarling in his rear, and more than half-inclined to fall on me for my +cry for rescue. I cared not if they did, my life seemed so dreary a burden just +then; and, perhaps, it was this daring loitering among them that prevented +their attacking me. Instead, they suffered me to fall into conversation with +them; and I heard some of their grievances. Sore and heavy to be borne were +they, and no wonder the sufferers were savage and desperate. +</p> + +<p> +The man whom Gisborne had wounded across his face would fain have got out of me +the name of his aggressor, but I refused to tell it. Another of the group heard +his inquiry, and made answer—“I know the man. He is one Gisborne, +aide-de-camp to the General-Commandant. I know him well.” +</p> + +<p> +He began to tell some story in connection with Gisborne in a low and muttering +voice; and while he was relating a tale, which I saw excited their evil blood, +and which they evidently wished me not to hear, I sauntered away and back to my +lodgings. +</p> + +<p> +That night Antwerp was in open revolt. The inhabitants rose in rebellion +against their Austrian masters. The Austrians, holding the gates of the city, +remained at first pretty quiet in the citadel; only, from time to time, the +boom of the great cannon swept sullenly over the town. But if they expected the +disturbance to die away, and spend itself in a few hours’ fury, they were +mistaken. In a day or two, the rioters held possession of the principal +municipal buildings. Then the Austrians poured forth in bright flaming array, +calm and smiling, as they marched to the posts assigned, as if the fierce mob +were no more to them then the swarms of buzzing summer flies. Their practised +manœuvres, their well-aimed shot, told with terrible effect; but in the +place of one slain rioter, three sprang up of his blood to avenge his loss. But +a deadly foe, a ghastly ally of the Austrians, was at work. Food, scarce and +dear for months, was now hardly to be obtained at any price. Desperate efforts +were being made to bring provisions into the city, for the rioters had friends +without. Close to the city port, nearest to the Scheldt, a great struggle took +place. I was there, helping the rioters, whose cause I had adopted. We had a +savage encounter with the Austrians. Numbers fell on both sides: I saw them lie +bleeding for a moment: then a volley of smoke obscured them; and when it +cleared away, they were dead—trampled upon or smothered, pressed down and +hidden by the freshly-wounded whom those last guns had brought low. And then a +gray-robed and grey-veiled figure came right across the flashing guns and +stooped over some one, whose life-blood was ebbing away; sometimes it was to +give him drink from cans which they carried slung at their sides; sometimes I +saw the cross held above a dying man, and rapid prayers were being uttered, +unheard by men in that hellish din and clangour, but listened to by One above. +I saw all this as in a dream: the reality of that stern time was battle and +carnage. But I knew that these gray figures, their bare feet all wet with +blood, and their faces hidden by their veils, were the Poor Clares—sent +forth now because dire agony was abroad and imminent danger at hand. Therefore, +they left their cloistered shelter, and came into that thick and evil +mêlée. +</p> + +<p> +Close to me—driven past me by the struggle of many fighters—came +the Antwerp burgess with the scarce-healed scar upon his face; and in an +instant more, he was thrown by the press upon the Austrian officer Gisborne, +and ere either had recovered the shock, the burgess had recognized his +opponent. +</p> + +<p> +“Ha! the Englishman Gisborne!” he cried, and threw himself upon him +with redoubled fury. He had struck him hard—the Englishman was down; when +out of the smoke came a dark-gray figure, and threw herself right under the +uplifted flashing sword. The burgess’s arm stood arrested. Neither +Austrians nor Anversois willingly harmed the Poor Clares. +</p> + +<p> +“Leave him to me!” said a low stern voice. “He is mine +enemy—mine for many years.” +</p> + +<p> +Those words were the last I heard. I myself was struck down by a bullet. I +remember nothing more for days. When I came to myself, I was at the extremity +of weakness, and was craving for food to recruit my strength. My landlord sat +watching me. He, too, looked pinched and shrunken; he had heard of my wounded +state, and sought me out. Yes! the struggle still continued, but the famine was +sore: and some, he had heard, had died for lack of food. The tears stood in his +eyes as he spoke. But soon he shook off his weakness, and his natural +cheerfulness returned. Father Bernard had been to see me—no one else. +(Who should, indeed?) Father Bernard would come back that afternoon—he +had promised. But Father Bernard never came, although I was up and dressed, and +looking eagerly for him. +</p> + +<p> +My landlord brought me a meal which he had cooked himself: of what it was +composed he would not say, but it was most excellent, and with every mouthful I +seemed to gain strength. The good man sat looking at my evident enjoyment with +a happy smile of sympathy; but, as my appetite became satisfied, I began to +detect a certain wistfulness in his eyes, as if craving for the food I had so +nearly devoured—for, indeed, at that time I was hardly aware of the +extent of the famine. Suddenly, there was a sound of many rushing feet past our +window. My landlord opened one of the sides of it, the better to learn what was +going on. Then we heard a faint, cracked, tinkling bell, coming shrill upon the +air, clear and distinct from all other sounds. “Holy Mother!” +exclaimed my landlord, “the Poor Clares!” +</p> + +<p> +He snatched up the fragments of my meal, and crammed them into my hands, +bidding me follow. Down stairs he ran, clutching at more food, as the women of +his house eagerly held it out to him; and in a moment we were in the street, +moving along with the great current, all tending towards the Convent of the +Poor Clares. And still, as if piercing our ears with its inarticulate cry, came +the shrill tinkle of the bell. In that strange crowd were old men trembling and +sobbing, as they carried their little pittance of food; women with tears +running down their cheeks, who had snatched up what provisions they had in the +vessels in which they stood, so that the burden of these was in many cases much +greater than that which they contained; children, with flushed faces, grasping +tight the morsel of bitten cake or bread, in their eagerness to carry it safe +to the help of the Poor Clares; strong men—yea, both Anversois and +Austrians—pressing onward with set teeth, and no word spoken; and over +all, and through all, came that sharp tinkle—that cry for help in +extremity. +</p> + +<p> +We met the first torrent of people returning with blanched and piteous faces: +they were issuing out of the convent to make way for the offerings of others. +“Haste, haste!” said they. “A Poor Clare is dying! A Poor +Clare is dead for hunger! God forgive us and our city!” +</p> + +<p> +We pressed on. The stream bore us along where it would. We were carried through +refectories, bare and crumbless; into cells over whose doors the conventual +name of the occupant was written. Thus it was that I, with others, was forced +into Sister Magdalen’s cell. On her couch lay Gisborne, pale unto death, +but not dead. By his side was a cup of water, and a small morsel of mouldy +bread, which he had pushed out of his reach, and could not move to obtain. Over +against his bed were these words, copied in the English version +“Therefore, if thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him +drink.” +</p> + +<p> +Some of us gave him of our food, and left him eating greedily, like some +famished wild animal. For now it was no longer the sharp tinkle, but that one +solemn toll, which in all Christian countries tells of the passing of the +spirit out of earthly life into eternity; and again a murmur gathered and grew, +as of many people speaking with awed breath, “A Poor Clare is dying! a +Poor Clare is dead!” +</p> + +<p> +Borne along once more by the motion of the crowd, we were carried into the +chapel belonging to the Poor Clares. On a bier before the high altar, lay a +woman—lay Sister Magdalen—lay Bridget Fitzgerald. By her side stood +Father Bernard, in his robes of office, and holding the crucifix on high while +he pronounced the solemn absolution of the Church, as to one who had newly +confessed herself of deadly sin. I pushed on with passionate force, till I +stood close to the dying woman, as she received extreme unction amid the +breathless and awed hush of the multitude around. Her eyes were glazing, her +limbs were stiffening; but when the rite was over and finished, she raised her +gaunt figure slowly up, and her eyes brightened to a strange intensity of joy, +as, with the gesture of her finger and the trance-like gleam of her eye, she +seemed like one who watched the disappearance of some loathed and fearful +creature. +</p> + +<p> +“She is freed from the curse!” said she, as she fell back dead. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p> +Now, of all our party who had first listened to my Lady Ludlow, Mr. Preston was +the only one who had not told us something, either of information, tradition, +history, or legend. We naturally turned to him; but we did not like asking him +directly for his contribution, for he was a grave, reserved, and silent man. +</p> + +<p> +He understood us, however, and, rousing himself as it were, he said— +</p> + +<p> +“I know you wish me to tell you, in my turn, of something which I have +learnt during my life. I could tell you something of my own life, and of a life +dearer still to my memory; but I have shunk from narrating anything so purely +personal. Yet, shrink as I will, no other but those sad recollections will +present themselves to my mind. I call them sad when I think of the end of it +all. However, I am not going to moralize. If my dear brother’s life and +death does not speak for itself, no words of mine will teach you what may be +learnt from it.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap06"></a>THE HALF-BROTHERS</h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p> +My mother was twice married. She never spoke of her first husband, and it is +only from other people that I have learnt what little I know about him. I +believe she was scarcely seventeen when she was married to him: and he was +barely one-and-twenty. He rented a small farm up in Cumberland, somewhere +towards the sea-coast; but he was perhaps too young and inexperienced to have +the charge of land and cattle: anyhow, his affairs did not prosper, and he fell +into ill health, and died of consumption before they had been three years man +and wife, leaving my mother a young widow of twenty, with a little child only +just able to walk, and the farm on her hands for four years more by the lease, +with half the stock on it dead, or sold off one by one to pay the more pressing +debts, and with no money to purchase more, or even to buy the provisions needed +for the small consumption of every day. There was another child coming, too; +and sad and sorry, I believe, she was to think of it. A dreary winter she must +have had in her lonesome dwelling, with never another near it for miles around; +her sister came to bear her company, and they two planned and plotted how to +make every penny they could raise go as far as possible. I can’t tell you +how it happened that my little sister, whom I never saw, came to sicken and +die; but, as if my poor mother’s cup was not full enough, only a +fortnight before Gregory was born the little girl took ill of scarlet fever, +and in a week she lay dead. My mother was, I believe, just stunned with this +last blow. My aunt has told me that she did not cry; aunt Fanny would have been +thankful if she had; but she sat holding the poor wee lassie’s hand and +looking in her pretty, pale, dead face, without so much as shedding a tear. And +it was all the same, when they had to take her away to be buried. She just +kissed the child, and sat her down in the window-seat to watch the little black +train of people (neighbours—my aunt, and one far-off cousin, who were all +the friends they could muster) go winding away amongst the snow, which had +fallen thinly over the country the night before. When my aunt came back from +the funeral, she found my mother in the same place, and as dry-eyed as ever. So +she continued until after Gregory was born; and, somehow, his coming seemed to +loosen the tears, and she cried day and night, till my aunt and the other +watcher looked at each other in dismay, and would fain have stopped her if they +had but known how. But she bade them let her alone, and not be over-anxious, +for every drop she shed eased her brain, which had been in a terrible state +before for want of the power to cry. She seemed after that to think of nothing +but her new little baby; she had hardly appeared to remember either her husband +or her little daughter that lay dead in Brigham churchyard—at least so +aunt Fanny said, but she was a great talker, and my mother was very silent by +nature, and I think aunt Fanny may have been mistaken in believing that my +mother never thought of her husband and child just because she never spoke +about them. Aunt Fanny was older than my mother, and had a way of treating her +like a child; but, for all that, she was a kind, warm-hearted creature, who +thought more of her sister’s welfare than she did of her own and it was +on her bit of money that they principally lived, and on what the two could earn +by working for the great Glasgow sewing-merchants. But by-and-by my +mother’s eye-sight began to fail. It was not that she was exactly blind, +for she could see well enough to guide herself about the house, and to do a +good deal of domestic work; but she could no longer do fine sewing and earn +money. It must have been with the heavy crying she had had in her day, for she +was but a young creature at this time, and as pretty a young woman, I have +heard people say, as any on the country side. She took it sadly to heart that +she could no longer gain anything towards the keep of herself and her child. My +aunt Fanny would fain have persuaded her that she had enough to do in managing +their cottage and minding Gregory; but my mother knew that they were pinched, +and that aunt Fanny herself had not as much to eat, even of the commonest kind +of food, as she could have done with; and as for Gregory, he was not a strong +lad, and needed, not more food—for he always had enough, whoever went +short—but better nourishment, and more flesh-meat. One day—it was +aunt Fanny who told me all this about my poor mother, long after her +death—as the sisters were sitting together, aunt Fanny working, and my +mother hushing Gregory to sleep, William Preston, who was afterwards my father, +came in. He was reckoned an old bachelor; I suppose he was long past forty, and +he was one of the wealthiest farmers thereabouts, and had known my grandfather +well, and my mother and my aunt in their more prosperous days. He sat down, and +began to twirl his hat by way of being agreeable; my aunt Fanny talked, and he +listened and looked at my mother. But he said very little, either on that +visit, or on many another that he paid before he spoke out what had been the +real purpose of his calling so often all along, and from the very first time he +came to their house. One Sunday, however, my aunt Fanny stayed away from +church, and took care of the child, and my mother went alone. When she came +back, she ran straight upstairs, without going into the kitchen to look at +Gregory or speak any word to her sister, and aunt Fanny heard her cry as if her +heart was breaking; so she went up and scolded her right well through the +bolted door, till at last she got her to open it. And then she threw herself on +my aunt’s neck, and told her that William Preston had asked her to marry +him, and had promised to take good charge of her boy, and to let him want for +nothing, neither in the way of keep nor of education, and that she had +consented. Aunt Fanny was a good deal shocked at this; for, as I have said, she +had often thought that my mother had forgotten her first husband very quickly, +and now here was proof positive of it, if she could so soon think of marrying +again. Besides as aunt Fanny used to say, she herself would have been a far +more suitable match for a man of William Preston’s age than Helen, who, +though she was a widow, had not seen her four-and-twentieth summer. However, as +aunt Fanny said, they had not asked her advice; and there was much to be said +on the other side of the question. Helen’s eyesight would never be good +for much again, and as William Preston’s wife she would never need to do +anything, if she chose to sit with her hands before her; and a boy was a great +charge to a widowed mother; and now there would be a decent steady man to see +after him. So, by-and-by, aunt Fanny seemed to take a brighter view of the +marriage than did my mother herself, who hardly ever looked up, and never +smiled after the day when she promised William Preston to be his wife. But much +as she had loved Gregory before, she seemed to love him more now. She was +continually talking to him when they were alone, though he was far too young to +understand her moaning words, or give her any comfort, except by his caresses. +</p> + +<p> +At last William Preston and she were wed; and she went to be mistress of a +well-stocked house, not above half-an-hour’s walk from where aunt Fanny +lived. I believe she did all that she could to please my father; and a more +dutiful wife, I have heard him himself say, could never have been. But she did +not love him, and he soon found it out. She loved Gregory, and she did not love +him. Perhaps, love would have come in time, if he had been patient enough to +wait; but it just turned him sour to see how her eye brightened and her colour +came at the sight of that little child, while for him who had given her so +much, she had only gentle words as cold as ice. He got to taunt her with the +difference in her manner, as if that would bring love: and he took a positive +dislike to Gregory,—he was so jealous of the ready love that always +gushed out like a spring of fresh water when he came near. He wanted her to +love him more, and perhaps that was all well and good; but he wanted her to +love her child less, and that was an evil wish. One day, he gave way to his +temper, and cursed and swore at Gregory, who had got into some mischief, as +children will; my mother made some excuse for him; my father said it was hard +enough to have to keep another man’s child, without having it perpetually +held up in its naughtiness by his wife, who ought to be always in the same mind +that he was; and so from little they got to more; and the end of it was, that +my mother took to her bed before her time, and I was born that very day. My +father was glad, and proud, and sorry, all in a breath; glad and proud that a +son was born to him; and sorry for his poor wife’s state, and to think +how his angry words had brought it on. But he was a man who liked better to be +angry than sorry, so he soon found out that it was all Gregory’s fault, +and owed him an additional grudge for having hastened my birth. He had another +grudge against him before long. My mother began to sink the day after I was +born. My father sent to Carlisle for doctors, and would have coined his +heart’s blood into gold to save her, if that could have been; but it +could not. My aunt Fanny used to say sometimes, that she thought that Helen did +not wish to live, and so just let herself die away without trying to take hold +on life; but when I questioned her, she owned that my mother did all the +doctors bade her do, with the same sort of uncomplaining patience with which +she had acted through life. One of her last requests was to have Gregory laid +in her bed by my side, and then she made him take hold of my little hand. Her +husband came in while she was looking at us so, and when he bent tenderly over +her to ask her how she felt now, and seemed to gaze on us two little +half-brothers, with a grave sort of kindness, she looked up in his face and +smiled, almost her first smile at him; and such a sweet smile! as more besides +aunt Fanny have said. In an hour she was dead. Aunt Fanny came to live with us. +It was the best thing that could be done. My father would have been glad to +return to his old mode of bachelor life, but what could he do with two little +children? He needed a woman to take care of him, and who so fitting as his +wife’s elder sister? So she had the charge of me from my birth; and for a +time I was weakly, as was but natural, and she was always beside me, night and +day watching over me, and my father nearly as anxious as she. For his land had +come down from father to son for more than three hundred years, and he would +have cared for me merely as his flesh and blood that was to inherit the land +after him. But he needed something to love, for all that, to most people, he +was a stern, hard man, and he took to me as, I fancy, he had taken to no human +being before—as he might have taken to my mother, if she had had no +former life for him to be jealous of. I loved him back again right heartily. I +loved all around me, I believe, for everybody was kind to me. After a time, I +overcame my original weakness of constitution, and was just a bonny, +strong-looking lad whom every passer-by noticed, when my father took me with +him to the nearest town. +</p> + +<p> +At home I was the darling of my aunt, the tenderly-beloved of my father, the +pet and plaything of the old domestics, the “young master” of the +farm-labourers, before whom I played many a lordly antic, assuming a sort of +authority which sat oddly enough, I doubt not, on such a baby as I was. +</p> + +<p> +Gregory was three years older than I. Aunt Fanny was always kind to him in deed +and in action, but she did not often think about him, she had fallen so +completely into the habit of being engrossed by me, from the fact of my having +come into her charge as a delicate baby. My father never got over his grudging +dislike to his stepson, who had so innocently wrestled with him for the +possession of my mother’s heart. I mistrust me, too, that my father +always considered him as the cause of my mother’s death and my early +delicacy; and utterly unreasonable as this may seem, I believe my father rather +cherished his feeling of alienation to my brother as a duty, than strove to +repress it. Yet not for the world would my father have grudged him anything +that money could purchase. That was, as it were, in the bond when he had wedded +my mother. Gregory was lumpish and loutish, awkward and ungainly, marring +whatever he meddled in, and many a hard word and sharp scolding did he get from +the people about the farm, who hardly waited till my father’s back was +turned before they rated the stepson. I am ashamed—my heart is sore to +think how I fell into the fashion of the family, and slighted my poor orphan +step-brother. I don’t think I ever scouted him, or was wilfully +ill-natured to him; but the habit of being considered in all things, and being +treated as something uncommon and superior, made me insolent in my prosperity, +and I exacted more than Gregory was always willing to grant, and then, +irritated, I sometimes repeated the disparaging words I had heard others use +with regard to him, without fully understanding their meaning. Whether he did +or not I cannot tell. I am afraid he did. He used to turn silent and +quiet—sullen and sulky, my father thought it: stupid, aunt Fanny used to +call it. But every one said he was stupid and dull, and this stupidity and +dullness grew upon him. He would sit without speaking a word, sometimes, for +hours; then my father would bid him rise and do some piece of work, maybe, +about the farm. And he would take three or four tellings before he would go. +When we were sent to school, it was all the same. He could never be made to +remember his lessons; the school-master grew weary of scolding and flogging, +and at last advised my father just to take him away, and set him to some +farm-work that might not be above his comprehension. I think he was more gloomy +and stupid than ever after this, yet he was not a cross lad; he was patient and +good-natured, and would try to do a kind turn for any one, even if they had +been scolding or cuffing him not a minute before. But very often his attempts +at kindness ended in some mischief to the very people he was trying to serve, +owing to his awkward, ungainly ways. I suppose I was a clever lad; at any rate, +I always got plenty of praise; and was, as we called it, the cock of the +school. The schoolmaster said I could learn anything I chose, but my father, +who had no great learning himself, saw little use in much for me, and took me +away betimes, and kept me with him about the farm. Gregory was made into a kind +of shepherd, receiving his training under old Adam, who was nearly past his +work. I think old Adam was almost the first person who had a good opinion of +Gregory. He stood to it that my brother had good parts, though he did not +rightly know how to bring them out; and, for knowing the bearings of the Fells, +he said he had never seen a lad like him. My father would try to bring Adam +round to speak of Gregory’s faults and shortcomings; but, instead of +that, he would praise him twice as much, as soon as he found out what was my +father’s object. +</p> + +<p> +One winter-time, when I was about sixteen, and Gregory nineteen, I was sent by +my father on an errand to a place about seven miles distant by the road, but +only about four by the Fells. He bade me return by the road, whichever way I +took in going, for the evenings closed in early, and were often thick and +misty; besides which, old Adam, now paralytic and bedridden, foretold a +downfall of snow before long. I soon got to my journey’s end, and soon +had done my business; earlier by an hour, I thought, than my father had +expected, so I took the decision of the way by which I would return into my own +hands, and set off back again over the Fells, just as the first shades of +evening began to fall. It looked dark and gloomy enough; but everything was so +still that I thought I should have plenty of time to get home before the snow +came down. Off I set at a pretty quick pace. But night came on quicker. The +right path was clear enough in the day-time, although at several points two or +three exactly similar diverged from the same place; but when there was a good +light, the traveller was guided by the sight of distant objects,—a piece +of rock,—a fall in the ground—which were quite invisible to me now. +I plucked up a brave heart, however, and took what seemed to me the right road. +It was wrong, nevertheless, and led me whither I knew not, but to some wild +boggy moor where the solitude seemed painful, intense, as if never footfall of +man had come thither to break the silence. I tried to shout—with the +dimmest possible hope of being heard—rather to reassure myself by the +sound of my own voice; but my voice came husky and short, and yet it dismayed +me; it seemed so weird and strange, in that noiseless expanse of black +darkness. Suddenly the air was filled thick with dusky flakes, my face and +hands were wet with snow. It cut me off from the slightest knowledge of where I +was, for I lost every idea of the direction from which I had come, so that I +could not even retrace my steps; it hemmed me in, thicker, thicker, with a +darkness that might be felt. The boggy soil on which I stood quaked under me if +I remained long in one place, and yet I dared not move far. All my youthful +hardiness seemed to leave me at once. I was on the point of crying, and only +very shame seemed to keep it down. To save myself from shedding tears, I +shouted—terrible, wild shouts for bare life they were. I turned sick as I +paused to listen; no answering sound came but the unfeeling echoes. Only the +noiseless, pitiless snow kept falling thicker, thicker—faster, faster! I +was growing numb and sleepy. I tried to move about, but I dared not go far, for +fear of the precipices which, I knew, abounded in certain places on the Fells. +Now and then, I stood still and shouted again; but my voice was getting choked +with tears, as I thought of the desolate helpless death I was to die, and how +little they at home, sitting round the warm, red, bright fire, wotted what was +become of me,—and how my poor father would grieve for me—it would +surely kill him—it would break his heart, poor old man! Aunt Fanny +too—was this to be the end of all her cares for me? I began to review my +life in a strange kind of vivid dream, in which the various scenes of my few +boyish years passed before me like visions. In a pang of agony, caused by such +remembrance of my short life, I gathered up my strength and called out once +more, a long, despairing, wailing cry, to which I had no hope of obtaining any +answer, save from the echoes around, dulled as the sound might be by the +thickened air. To my surprise I heard a cry—almost as long, as wild as +mine—so wild that it seemed unearthly, and I almost thought it must be +the voice of some of the mocking spirits of the Fells, about whom I had heard +so many tales. My heart suddenly began to beat fast and loud. I could not reply +for a minute or two. I nearly fancied I had lost the power of utterance. Just +at this moment a dog barked. Was it Lassie’s bark—my +brother’s collie?—an ugly enough brute, with a white, ill-looking +face, that my father always kicked whenever he saw it, partly for its own +demerits, partly because it belonged to my brother. On such occasions, Gregory +would whistle Lassie away, and go off and sit with her in some outhouse. My +father had once or twice been ashamed of himself, when the poor collie had +yowled out with the suddenness of the pain, and had relieved himself of his +self-reproach by blaming my brother, who, he said, had no notion of training a +dog, and was enough to ruin any collie in Christendom with his stupid way of +allowing them to lie by the kitchen fire. To all which Gregory would answer +nothing, nor even seem to hear, but go on looking absent and moody. +</p> + +<p> +Yes! there again! It was Lassie’s bark! Now or never! I lifted up my +voice and shouted “Lassie! Lassie! for God’s sake, Lassie!” +Another moment, and the great white-faced Lassie was curving and gambolling +with delight round my feet and legs, looking, however, up in my face with her +intelligent, apprehensive eyes, as if fearing lest I might greet her with a +blow, as I had done oftentimes before. But I cried with gladness, as I stooped +down and patted her. My mind was sharing in my body’s weakness, and I +could not reason, but I knew that help was at hand. A gray figure came more and +more distinctly out of the thick, close-pressing darkness. It was Gregory +wrapped in his maud. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Gregory!” said I, and I fell upon his neck, unable to speak +another word. He never spoke much, and made me no answer for some little time. +Then he told me we must move, we must walk for the dear life—we must find +our road home, if possible; but we must move, or we should be frozen to death. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you know the way home?” asked I. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought I did when I set out, but I am doubtful now. The snow blinds +me, and I am feared that in moving about just now, I have lost the right gait +homewards.” +</p> + +<p> +He had his shepherd’s staff with him, and by dint of plunging it before +us at every step we took—clinging close to each other, we went on safely +enough, as far as not falling down any of the steep rocks, but it was slow, +dreary work. My brother, I saw, was more guided by Lassie and the way she took +than anything else, trusting to her instinct. It was too dark to see far before +us; but he called her back continually, and noted from what quarter she +returned, and shaped our slow steps accordingly. But the tedious motion +scarcely kept my very blood from freezing. Every bone, every fibre in my body +seemed first to ache, and then to swell, and then to turn numb with the intense +cold. My brother bore it better than I, from having been more out upon the +hills. He did not speak, except to call Lassie. I strove to be brave, and not +complain; but now I felt the deadly fatal sleep stealing over me. +</p> + +<p> +“I can go no farther,” I said, in a drowsy tone. I remember I +suddenly became dogged and resolved. Sleep I would, were it only for five +minutes. If death were to be the consequence, sleep I would. Gregory stood +still. I suppose, he recognized the peculiar phase of suffering to which I had +been brought by the cold. +</p> + +<p> +“It is of no use,” said he, as if to himself. “We are no +nearer home than we were when we started, as far as I can tell. Our only chance +is in Lassie. Here! roll thee in my maud, lad, and lay thee down on this +sheltered side of this bit of rock. Creep close under it, lad, and I’ll +lie by thee, and strive to keep the warmth in us. Stay! hast gotten aught about +thee they’ll know at home?” +</p> + +<p> +I felt him unkind thus to keep me from slumber, but on his repeating the +question, I pulled out my pocket-handkerchief, of some showy pattern, which +Aunt Fanny had hemmed for me—Gregory took it, and tied it round +Lassie’s neck. +</p> + +<p> +“Hie thee, Lassie, hie thee home!” And the white-faced ill-favoured +brute was off like a shot in the darkness. Now I might lie down—now I +might sleep. In my drowsy stupor I felt that I was being tenderly covered up by +my brother; but what with I neither knew nor cared—I was too dull, too +selfish, too numb to think and reason, or I might have known that in that bleak +bare place there was nought to wrap me in, save what was taken off another. I +was glad enough when he ceased his cares and lay down by me. I took his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Thou canst not remember, lad, how we lay together thus by our dying +mother. She put thy small, wee hand in mine—I reckon she sees us now; and +belike we shall soon be with her. Anyhow, God’s will be done.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dear Gregory,” I muttered, and crept nearer to him for warmth. He +was talking still, and again about our mother, when I fell asleep. In an +instant—or so it seemed—there were many voices about me—many +faces hovering round me—the sweet luxury of warmth was stealing into +every part of me. I was in my own little bed at home. I am thankful to say, my +first word was “Gregory?” +</p> + +<p> +A look passed from one to another—my father’s stern old face strove +in vain to keep its sternness; his mouth quivered, his eyes filled slowly with +unwonted tears. +</p> + +<p> +“I would have given him half my land—I would have blessed him as my +son,—oh God! I would have knelt at his feet, and asked him to forgive my +hardness of heart.” +</p> + +<p> +I heard no more. A whirl came through my brain, catching me back to death. +</p> + +<p> +I came slowly to my consciousness, weeks afterwards. My father’s hair was +white when I recovered, and his hands shook as he looked into my face. +</p> + +<p> +We spoke no more of Gregory. We could not speak of him; but he was strangely in +our thoughts. Lassie came and went with never a word of blame; nay, my father +would try to stroke her, but she shrank away; and he, as if reproved by the +poor dumb beast, would sigh, and be silent and abstracted for a time. +</p> + +<p> +Aunt Fanny—always a talker—told me all. How, on that fatal night, +my father,—irritated by my prolonged absence, and probably more anxious +than he cared to show, had been fierce and imperious, even beyond his wont, to +Gregory; had upbraided him with his father’s poverty, his own stupidity +which made his services good for nothing—for so, in spite of the old +shepherd, my father always chose to consider them. At last, Gregory had risen +up, and whistled Lassie out with him—poor Lassie, crouching underneath +his chair for fear of a kick or a blow. Some time before, there had been some +talk between my father and my aunt respecting my return; and when aunt Fanny +told me all this, she said she fancied that Gregory might have noticed the +coming storm, and gone out silently to meet me. Three hours afterwards, when +all were running about in wild alarm, not knowing whither to go in search of +me—not even missing Gregory, or heeding his absence, poor +fellow—poor, poor fellow!—Lassie came home, with my handkerchief +tied round her neck. They knew and understood, and the whole strength of the +farm was turned out to follow her, with wraps, and blankets, and brandy, and +every thing that could be thought of. I lay in chilly sleep, but still alive, +beneath the rock that Lassie guided them to. I was covered over with my +brother’s plaid, and his thick shepherd’s coat was carefully +wrapped round my feet. He was in his shirt-sleeves—his arm thrown over +me—a quiet smile (he had hardly ever smiled in life) upon his still, cold +face. +</p> + +<p> +My father’s last words were, “God forgive me my hardness of heart +towards the fatherless child!” +</p> + +<p> +And what marked the depth of his feeling of repentance, perhaps more than all, +considering the passionate love he bore my mother, was this: we found a paper +of directions after his death, in which he desired that he might lie at the +foot of the grave, in which, by his desire, poor Gregory had been laid with OUR +MOTHER. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROUND THE SOFA ***</div> +<div style='text-align:left'> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* + + + + +ROUND THE SOFA. + + + + +[Project Gutenberg note: Elizabeth Gaskell wrote the following story +to join together a number of her other, previously published, short +stories. Project Gutenberg has already released the other stories +and so they are not repeated here--however, notes are given at the +appropriate places.--DP.] + +Long ago I was placed by my parents under the medical treatment of a +certain Mr. Dawson, a surgeon in Edinburgh, who had obtained a +reputation for the cure of a particular class of diseases. I was +sent with my governess into lodgings near his house, in the Old Town. +I was to combine lessons from the excellent Edinburgh masters, with +the medicines and exercises needed for my indisposition. It was at +first rather dreary to leave my brothers and sisters, and to give up +our merry out-of-doors life with our country home, for dull lodgings, +with only poor grave Miss Duncan for a companion; and to exchange our +romps in the garden and rambles through the fields for stiff walks in +the streets, the decorum of which obliged me to tie my bonnet-strings +neatly, and put on my shawl with some regard to straightness. + +The evenings were the worst. It was autumn, and of course they daily +grew longer: they were long enough, I am sure, when we first settled +down in those gray and drab lodgings. For, you must know, my father +and mother were not rich, and there were a great many of us, and the +medical expenses to be incurred by my being placed under Mr. Dawson's +care were expected to be considerable; therefore, one great point in +our search after lodgings was economy. My father, who was too true a +gentleman to feel false shame, had named this necessity for cheapness +to Mr. Dawson; and in return, Mr. Dawson had told him of those at No. +6 Cromer Street, in which we were finally settled. The house +belonged to an old man, at one time a tutor to young men preparing +for the University, in which capacity he had become known to Mr. +Dawson. But his pupils had dropped off; and when we went to lodge +with him, I imagine that his principal support was derived from a few +occasional lessons which he gave, and from letting the rooms that we +took, a drawing-room opening into a bed-room, out of which a smaller +chamber led. His daughter was his housekeeper: a son, whom we never +saw, supposed to be leading the same life that his father had done +before him, only we never saw or heard of any pupils; and there was +one hard-working, honest little Scottish maiden, square, stumpy, +neat, and plain, who might have been any age from eighteen to forty. + +Looking back on the household now, there was perhaps much to admire +in their quiet endurance of decent poverty; but at this time, their +poverty grated against many of my tastes, for I could not recognize +the fact, that in a town the simple graces of fresh flowers, clean +white muslin curtains, pretty bright chintzes, all cost money, which +is saved by the adoption of dust-coloured moreen, and mud-coloured +carpets. There was not a penny spent on mere elegance in that room; +yet there was everything considered necessary to comfort: but after +all, such mere pretences of comfort! a hard, slippery, black horse- +hair sofa, which was no place of rest; an old piano, serving as a +sideboard; a grate, narrowed by an inner supplement, till it hardly +held a handful of the small coal which could scarcely ever be stirred +up into a genial blaze. But there were two evils worse than even +this coldness and bareness of the rooms: one was that we were +provided with a latch-key, which allowed us to open the front door +whenever we came home from a walk, and go upstairs without meeting +any face of welcome, or hearing the sound of a human voice in the +apparently deserted house--Mr. Mackenzie piqued himself on the +noiselessness of his establishment; and the other, which might almost +seem to neutralize the first, was the danger we were always exposed +to on going out, of the old man--sly, miserly, and intelligent-- +popping out upon us from his room, close to the left hand of the +door, with some civility which we learned to distrust as a mere +pretext for extorting more money, yet which it was difficult to +refuse: such as the offer of any books out of his library, a great +temptation, for we could see into the shelf-lined room; but just as +we were on the point of yielding, there was a hint of the +"consideration" to be expected for the loan of books of so much +higher a class than any to be obtained at the circulating library, +which made us suddenly draw back. Another time he came out of his +den to offer us written cards, to distribute among our acquaintance, +on which he undertook to teach the very things I was to learn; but I +would rather have been the most ignorant woman that ever lived than +tried to learn anything from that old fox in breeches. When we had +declined all his proposals, he went apparently into dudgeon. Once +when we had forgotten our latch-key we rang in vain for many times at +the door, seeing our landlord standing all the time at the window to +the right, looking out of it in an absent and philosophical state of +mind, from which no signs and gestures of ours could arouse him. + +The women of the household were far better, and more really +respectable, though even on them poverty had laid her heavy left +hand, instead of her blessing right. Miss Mackenzie kept us as short +in our food as she decently could--we paid so much a week for our +board, be it observed; and if one day we had less appetite than +another our meals were docked to the smaller standard, until Miss +Duncan ventured to remonstrate. The sturdy maid-of-all-work was +scrupulously honest, but looked discontented, and scarcely vouchsafed +us thanks, when on leaving we gave her what Mrs. Dawson had told us +would be considered handsome in most lodgings. I do not believe +Phenice ever received wages from the Mackenzies. + +But that dear Mrs. Dawson! The mention of her comes into my mind +like the bright sunshine into our dingy little drawing room came on +those days;--as a sweet scent of violets greets the sorrowful passer +among the woodlands. + +Mrs. Dawson was not Mr. Dawson's wife, for he was a bachelor. She +was his crippled sister, an old maid, who had, what she called, taken +her brevet rank. + +After we had been about a fortnight in Edinburgh, Mr. Dawson said, in +a sort of half doubtful manner to Miss Duncan - + +"My sister bids me say, that every Monday evening a few friends come +in to sit round her sofa for an hour or so,--some before going to +gayer parties--and that if you and Miss Greatorex would like a little +change, she would only be too glad to see you. Any time from seven +to eight to-night; and I must add my injunctions, both for her sake, +and for that of my little patient's, here, that you leave at nine +o'clock. After all, I do not know if you will care to come; but +Margaret bade me ask you;" and he glanced up suspiciously and sharply +at us. If either of us had felt the slightest reluctance, however +well disguised by manner, to accept this invitation, I am sure he +would have at once detected our feelings, and withdrawn it; so +jealous and chary was he of anything pertaining to the appreciation +of this beloved sister. + +But if it had been to spend an evening at the dentist's, I believe I +should have welcomed the invitation, so weary was I of the monotony +of the nights in our lodgings; and as for Miss Duncan, an invitation +to tea was of itself a pure and unmixed honour, and one to be +accepted with all becoming form and gratitude: so Mr. Dawson's sharp +glances over his spectacles failed to detect anything but the truest +pleasure, and he went on. + +"You'll find it very dull, I dare say. Only a few old fogies like +myself, and one or two good sweet young women: I never know who'll +come. Margaret is obliged to lie in a darkened room--only half- +lighted I mean,--because her eyes are weak,--oh, it will be very +stupid, I dare say: don't thank me till you've been once and tried +it, and then if you like it, your best thanks will be to come again +every Monday, from half-past seven to nine, you know. Good-bye, +good-bye." + +Hitherto I had never been out to a party of grown-up people; and no +court ball to a London young lady could seem more redolent of honour +and pleasure than this Monday evening to me. + +Dressed out in new stiff book-muslin, made up to my throat,--a frock +which had seemed to me and my sisters the height of earthly grandeur +and finery--Alice, our old nurse, had been making it at home, in +contemplation of the possibility of such an event during my stay in +Edinburgh, but which had then appeared to me a robe too lovely and +angelic to be ever worn short of heaven--I went with Miss Duncan to +Mr. Dawson's at the appointed time. We entered through one small +lofty room, perhaps I ought to call it an antechamber, for the house +was old-fashioned, and stately and grand, the large square drawing- +room, into the centre of which Mrs. Dawson's sofa was drawn. Behind +her a little was placed a table with a great cluster candlestick upon +it, bearing seven or eight wax-lights; and that was all the light in +the room, which looked to me very vast and indistinct after our +pinched-up apartment at the Mackenzie's. Mrs. Dawson must have been +sixty; and yet her face looked very soft and smooth and child-like. +Her hair was quite gray: it would have looked white but for the +snowiness of her cap, and satin ribbon. She was wrapped in a kind of +dressing-gown of French grey merino: the furniture of the room was +deep rose-colour, and white and gold,--the paper which covered the +walls was Indian, beginning low down with a profusion of tropical +leaves and birds and insects, and gradually diminishing in richness +of detail till at the top it ended in the most delicate tendrils and +most filmy insects. + +Mr. Dawson had acquired much riches in his profession, and his house +gave one this impression. In the corners of the rooms were great +jars of Eastern china, filled with flower-leaves and spices; and in +the middle of all this was placed the sofa, which poor Margaret +Dawson passed whole days, and months, and years, without the power of +moving by herself. By-and-by Mrs. Dawson's maid brought in tea and +macaroons for us, and a little cup of milk and water and a biscuit +for her. Then the door opened. We had come very early, and in came +Edinburgh professors, Edinburgh beauties, and celebrities, all on +their way to some other gayer and later party, but coming first to +see Mrs. Dawson, and tell her their bon-mots, or their interests, or +their plans. By each learned man, by each lovely girl, she was +treated as a dear friend, who knew something more about their own +individual selves, independent of their reputation and general +society-character, than any one else. + +It was very brilliant and very dazzling, and gave enough to think +about and wonder about for many days. + +Monday after Monday we went, stationary, silent; what could we find +to say to any one but Mrs. Margaret herself? Winter passed, summer +was coming, still I was ailing, and weary of my life; but still Mr. +Dawson gave hopes of my ultimate recovery. My father and mother came +and went; but they could not stay long, they had so many claims upon +them. Mrs. Margaret Dawson had become my dear friend, although, +perhaps, I had never exchanged as many words with her as I had with +Miss Mackenzie, but then with Mrs. Dawson every word was a pearl or a +diamond. + +People began to drop off from Edinburgh, only a few were left, and I +am not sure if our Monday evenings were not all the pleasanter. + +There was Mr. Sperano, the Italian exile, banished even from France, +where he had long resided, and now teaching Italian with meek +diligence in the northern city; there was Mr. Preston, the +Westmoreland squire, or, as he preferred to be called, statesman, +whose wife had come to Edinburgh for the education of their numerous +family, and who, whenever her husband had come over on one of his +occasional visits, was only too glad to accompany him to Mrs. +Dawson's Monday evenings, he and the invalid lady having been friends +from long ago. These and ourselves kept steady visitors, and enjoyed +ourselves all the more from having the more of Mrs. Dawson's society. + +One evening I had brought the little stool close to her sofa, and was +caressing her thin white hand, when the thought came into my head and +out I spoke it. + +"Tell me, dear Mrs. Dawson," said I, "how long you have been in +Edinburgh; you do not speak Scotch, and Mr. Dawson says he is not +Scotch." + +"No, I am Lancashire--Liverpool-born," said she, smiling. "Don't you +hear it in my broad tongue?" + +"I hear something different to other people, but I like it because it +is just you; is that Lancashire?" + +"I dare say it is; for, though I am sure Lady Ludlow took pains +enough to correct me in my younger days, I never could get rightly +over the accent." + +"Lady Ludlow," said I, "what had she to do with you? I heard you +talking about her to Lady Madeline Stuart the first evening I ever +came here; you and she seemed so fond of Lady Ludlow; who is she?" + +"She is dead, my child; dead long ago." + +I felt sorry I had spoken about her, Mrs. Dawson looked so grave and +sad. I suppose she perceived my sorrow, for she went on and said-- +"My dear, I like to talk and to think of Lady Ludlow: she was my +true, kind friend and benefactress for many years; ask me what you +like about her, and do not think you give me pain." + +I grew bold at this. + +"Will you tell me all about her, then, please, Mrs. Dawson?" + +"Nay," said she, smiling, "that would be too long a story. Here are +Signor Sperano, and Miss Duncan, and Mr. and Mrs. Preston are coming +to-night, Mr. Preston told me; how would they like to hear an old- +world story which, after all, would be no story at all, neither +beginning, nor middle, nor end, only a bundle of recollections?" + +"If you speak of me, madame," said Signor Sperano, "I can only say +you do me one great honour by recounting in my presence anything +about any person that has ever interested you." + +Miss Duncan tried to say something of the same kind. In the middle +of her confused speech, Mr. and Mrs. Preston came in. I sprang up; I +went to meet them. + +"Oh," said I, "Mrs. Dawson is just going to tell us all about Lady +Ludlow, and a great deal more, only she is afraid it won't interest +anybody: do say you would like to hear it!" + +Mrs. Dawson smiled at me, and in reply to their urgency she promised +to tell us all about Lady Ludlow, on condition that each one of us +should, after she had ended, narrate something interesting, which we +had either heard, or which had fallen within our own experience. We +all promised willingly, and then gathered round her sofa to hear what +she could tell us about my Lady Ludlow. + +[At this point comes "My Lady Ludlow"--already released by Project +Gutenberg] + +As any one may guess, it had taken Mrs. Dawson several Monday +evenings to narrate all this history of the days of her youth. Miss +Duncan thought it would be a good exercise for me, both in memory and +composition, to write out on Tuesday mornings all that I had heard +the night before; and thus it came to pass that I have the manuscript +of "My Lady Ludlow" now lying by me. + + +Mr. Dawson had often come in and out of the room during the time that +his sister had been telling us about Lady Ludlow. He would stop, and +listen a little, and smile or sigh as the case might be. The Monday +after the dear old lady had wound up her tale (if tale it could be +called), we felt rather at a loss what to talk about, we had grown so +accustomed to listen to Mrs. Dawson. I remember I was saying, "Oh, +dear! I wish some one would tell us another story!" when her brother +said, as if in answer to my speech, that he had drawn up a paper all +ready for the Philosophical Society, and that perhaps we might care +to hear it before it was sent off: it was in a great measure +compiled from a French book, published by one of the Academies, and +rather dry in itself; but to which Mr. Dawson's attention had been +directed, after a tour he had made in England during the past year, +in which he had noticed small walled-up doors in unusual parts of +some old parish churches, and had been told that they had formerly +been appropriated to the use of some half-heathen race, who, before +the days of gipsies, held the same outcast pariah position in most of +the countries of western Europe. Mr. Dawson had been recommended to +the French book which he named, as containing the fullest and most +authentic account of this mysterious race, the Cagots. I did not +think I should like hearing this paper as much as a story; but, of +course, as he meant it kindly, we were bound to submit, and I found +it, on the whole, more interesting than I anticipated. + +[At this point comes "An Accursed Race"--already released by Project +Gutenberg] + +For some time past I had observed that Miss Duncan made a good deal +of occupation for herself in writing, but that she did not like me to +notice her employment. Of course this made me all the more curious; +and many were my silent conjectures--some of them so near the truth +that I was not much surprised when, after Mr. Dawson had finished +reading his Paper to us, she hesitated, coughed, and abruptly +introduced a little formal speech, to the effect that she had noted +down an old Welsh story the particulars of which had often been told +her in her youth, as she lived close to the place where the events +occurred. Everybody pressed her to read the manuscript, which she +now produced from her reticule; but, when on the point of beginning, +her nervousness seemed to overcome her, and she made so many +apologies for its being the first and only attempt she had ever made +at that kind of composition, that I began to wonder if we should ever +arrive at the story at all. At length, in a high-pitched, ill- +assured voice, she read out the title: + +"THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS." + +[At this point comes "The Doom of the Griffiths"--already released by +Project Gutenberg] + +You cannot think how kindly Mrs. Dawson thanked Miss Duncan for +writing and reading this story. She shook my poor, pale governess so +tenderly by the hand that the tears came into her eyes, and the +colour to her checks. + +"I though you had been so kind; I liked hearing about Lady Ludlow; I +fancied, perhaps, I could do something to give a little pleasure," +were the half-finished sentences Miss Duncan stammered out. I am +sure it was the wish to earn similar kind words from Mrs. Dawson, +that made Mrs. Preston try and rummage through her memory to see if +she could not recollect some fact, or event, or history, which might +interested Mrs. Dawson and the little party that gathered round her +sofa. Mrs. Preston it was who told us the following tale: + +"HALF A LIFE-TIME AGO." + +[At this point comes "Half a Life-Time Ago"--already released by +Project Gutenberg] + +When this narrative was finished, Mrs. Dawson called on our two +gentlemen, Signor Sperano and Mr. Preston, and told them that they +had hitherto been amused or interested, but that it was now their +turn to amuse or interest. They looked at each other as if this +application of hers took them by surprise, and seemed altogether as +much abashed as well-grown men can ever be. Signor Sperano was the +first to recover himself: after thinking a little, he said - + +"Your will, dear lady, is law. Next Monday evening, I will bring you +an old, old story, which I found among the papers of the good old +priest who first welcomed me to England. It was but a poor return +for his generous kindness; but I had the opportunity of nursing him +through the cholera, of which he died. He left me all that he had-- +no money--but his scanty furniture, his book of prayers, his crucifix +and rosary, and his papers. How some of those papers came into his +hands I know not. They had evidently been written many years before +the venerable man was born; and I doubt whether he had ever examined +the bundles, which had come down to him from some old ancestor, or in +some strange bequest. His life was too busy to leave any time for +the gratification of mere curiosity; I, alas! have only had too much +leisure." + +Next Monday, Signor Sperano read to us the story which I will call + +"THE POOR CLARE." + +[At this point comes "The Poor Clare"--already released by Project +Gutenberg] + +Now, of all our party who had first listened to my Lady Ludlow, Mr. +Preston was the only one who had not told us something, either of +information, tradition, history, or legend. We naturally turned to +him; but we did not like asking him directly for his contribution, +for he was a grave, reserved, and silent man. + +He understood us, however, and, rousing himself as it were, he said - + +"I know you wish me to tell you, in my turn, of something which I +have learnt during my life. I could tell you something of my own +life, and of a life dearer still to my memory; but I have shunk from +narrating anything so purely personal. Yet, shrink as I will, no +other but those sad recollections will present themselves to my mind. +I call them sad when I think of the end of it all. However, I am not +going to moralize. If my dear brother's life and death does not +speak for itself, no words of mine will teach you what may be learnt +from it." + +[At this point comes the final story "The Half-Brothers"--already +released by Project Gutenberg] + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg eText Round the Sofa diff --git a/old/rndsf10.zip b/old/rndsf10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..a9f74c8 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/rndsf10.zip |