Round the Sofa

By Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell

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Title: Round the Sofa

Author: Elizabeth Gaskell

Release Date: April 4, 2000 [eBook #2533]
[Most recently updated: December 22, 2021]

Language: English


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.




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