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Title: The Old Nurse's Story and other talesAuthor: Elizabeth Gaskell* A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook *eBook No.: 0605581h.htmlLanguage: EnglishDate first posted: August 2006Date most recently updated: August 2006This eBook was produced by: Richard ScottProject Gutenberg of Australia eBooks are created from printed editionswhich are in the public domain in Australia, unless a copyright noticeis included. We do NOT keep any eBooks in compliance with a particularpaper edition.Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check thecopyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing thisfile.This eBook is made available at no cost and with almost no restrictionswhatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the termsof the Project Gutenberg of Australia License which may be viewed online athttp://gutenberg.net.au/licence.htmlTo contact Project Gutenberg of Australia go to http://gutenberg.net.au
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Table of Contents
YOU know, my dears, that your mother was an orphan, and an onlychild; and I dare say you have heard that your grandfather was aclergyman up in Westmoreland, where I come from. I was just a girl inthe village school, when, one day, your grandmother came in to askthe mistress if there was any scholar there who would do for anurse-maid; and mighty proud I was, I can tell ye, when the mistresscalled me up, and spoke to my being a good girl at my needle, and asteady, honest girl, and one whose parents were very respectable,though they might be poor. I thought I should like nothing betterthan to serve the pretty young lady, who was blushing as deep as Iwas, as she spoke of the coming baby, and what I should have to dowith it. However, I see you don't care so much for this part of mystory, as for what you think is to come, so I'll tell you at once. Iwas engaged and settled at the parsonage before Miss Rosamond (thatwas the baby, who is now your mother) was born. To be sure, I hadlittle enough to do with her when she came, for she was never out ofher mother's arms, and slept by her all night long; and proud enoughwas I sometimes when missis trusted her to me. There never was such ababy before or since, though you've all of you been fine enough inyour turns; but for sweet, winning ways, you've none of you come upto your mother. She took after her mother, who was a real lady born;a Miss Furnivall, a grand-daughter of Lord Furnivall's, inNorthumberland. I believe she had neither brother nor sister, and hadbeen brought up in my lord's family till she had married yourgrandfather, who was just a curate, son to a shopkeeper inCarlisle--but a clever, fine gentleman as ever was--and one who was aright-down hard worker in his parish, which was very wide, andscattered all abroad over the Westmoreland Fells. When your mother,little Miss Rosamond, was about four or five years old, both herparents died in a fortnight--one after the other. Ah! that was a sadtime. My pretty young mistress and me was looking for another baby,when my master came home from one of his long rides, wet and tired,and took the fever he died of; and then she never held up her headagain, but just lived to see her dead baby, and have it laid on herbreast, before she sighed away her life. My mistress had asked me, onher death-bed, never to leave Miss Rosamond; but if she had neverspoken a word, I would have gone with the little child to the end ofthe world.
The next thing, and before we had well stilled our sobs, theexecutors and guardians came to settle the affairs. They were my pooryoung mistress's own cousin, Lord Furnivall, and Mr. Esthwaite, mymaster's brother, a shopkeeper in Manchester; not so well-to-do thenas he was afterwards, and with a large family rising about him. Well!I don't know if it were their settling, or because of a letter mymistress wrote on her death-bed to her cousin, my lord; but somehowit was settled that Miss Rosamond and me were to go to FurnivallManor House, in Northumberland; and my lord spoke as if it had beenher mother's wish that she should live with his family, and as if hehad no objections, for that one or two more or less could make nodifference in so grand a household. So, though that was not the wayin which I should have wished the coming of my bright and pretty petto have been looked at--who was like a sunbeam in any family, be itnever so grand--I was well pleased that all the folks in the Daleshould stare and admire, when they heard I was going to be younglady's maid at my Lord Furnivall's at Furnivall Manor.
But I made a mistake in thinking we were to go and live where mylord did. It turned out that the family had left Furnivall ManorHouse fifty years or more. I could not hear that my poor youngmistress had ever been there, though she had been brought up in thefamily; and I was sorry for that, for I should have liked MissRosamond's youth to have passed where her mother's had been.
My lord's gentleman, from whom I asked as many questions as Idurst, said that the Manor House was at the foot of the CumberlandFells, and a very grand place; that an old Miss Furnivall, agreat-aunt of my lord's, lived there, with only a few servants; butthat it was a very healthy place, and my lord had thought that itwould suit Miss Rosamond very well for a few years, and that herbeing there might perhaps amuse his old aunt.
I was bidden by my lord to have Miss Rosamond's things ready by acertain day. He was a stern, proud man, as they say all the LordsFurnivall were; and he never spoke a word more than was necessary.Folk did say he had loved my young mistress; but that, because sheknew that his father would object, she would never listen to him, andmarried Mr. Esthwaite; but I don't know. He never married, at anyrate. But he never took much notice of Miss Rosamond; which I thoughthe might have done if he had cared for her dead mother. He sent hisgentleman with us to the Manor House, telling him to join him atNewcastle that same evening; so there was no great length of time forhim to make us known to all the strangers before he, too, shook usoff; and we were left, two lonely young things (I was not eighteen)in the great old Manor House. It seems like yesterday that we drovethere. We had left our own dear parsonage very early, and we had bothcried as if our hearts would break, though we were travelling in mylord's carriage, which I thought so much of once. And now it was longpast noon on a September day, and we stopped to change horses for thelast time at a little smoky town, all full of colliers and miners.Miss Rosamond had fallen asleep, but Mr. Henry told me to waken her,that she might see the park and the Manor House as we drove up. Ithought it rather a pity; but I did what he bade me, for fear heshould complain of me to my lord. We had left all signs of a town, oreven a village, and were then inside the gates of a large wildpark--not like the parks here in the south, but with rocks, and thenoise of running water, and gnarled thorn-trees, and old oaks, allwhite and peeled with age.
The road went up about two miles, and then we saw a great andstately house, with many trees close around it, so close that in someplaces their branches dragged against the walls when the wind blew,and some hung broken down; for no one seemed to take much charge ofthe place;--to lop the wood, or to keep the moss-covered carriage-wayin order. Only in front of the house all was clear. The great ovaldrive was without a weed; and neither tree nor creeper was allowed togrow over the long, many-windowed front; at both sides of which awing projected, which were each the ends of other side fronts; forthe house, although it was so desolate, was even grander than Iexpected. Behind it rose the Fells, which seemed unenclosed and bareenough; and on the left hand of the house, as you stood facing it,was a little, old-fashioned flower-garden, as I found out afterwards.A door opened out upon it from the west front; it had been scoopedout of the thick, dark wood for some old Lady Furnivall; but thebranches of the great forest-trees had grown and overshadowed itagain, and there were very few flowers that would live there at thattime.
When we drove up to the great front entrance, and went into thehall, I thought we should be lost--it was so large, and vast, andgrand. There was a chandelier all of bronze, hung down from themiddle of the ceiling; and I had never seen one before, and looked atit all in amaze. Then, at one end of the hall, was a great fireplace,as large as the sides of the houses in my country, with massyandirons and dogs to hold the wood; and by it were heavy,old-fashioned sofas. At the opposite end of the hall, to the left asyou went in--on the western side--was an organ built into the wall,and so large that it filled up the best part of that end. Beyond it,on the same side, was a door; and opposite, on each side of thefireplace, were also doors leading to the east front; but those Inever went through as long as I stayed in the house, so I can't tellyou what lay beyond.
The afternoon was closing in, and the hall, which had no firelighted in it, looked dark and gloomy; but we did not stay there amoment. The old servant, who had opened the door for us, bowed to Mr.Henry, and took us in through the door at the further side of thegreat organ, and led us through several smaller halls and passagesinto the west drawing-room, where he said that Miss Furnivall wassitting. Poor little Miss Rosamond held very tight to me, as if shewere scared and lost in that great place; and as for myself, I wasnot much better. The west drawing-room was very cheerful-looking,with a warm fire in it, and plenty of good, comfortable furnitureabout. Miss Furnivall was an old lady not far from eighty, I shouldthink, but I do not know. She was thin and tall, and had a face asfull of fine wrinkles as if they had been drawn all over it with aneedle's point. Her eyes were very watchful, to make up, I suppose,for her being so deaf as to be obliged to use a trumpet. Sitting withher, working at the same great piece of tapestry, was Mrs. Stark, hermaid and companion, and almost as old as she was. She had lived withMiss Furnivall ever since they both were young, and now she seemedmore like a friend than a servant; she looked so cold, and grey, andstony, as if she had never loved or cared for any one; and I don'tsuppose she did care for any one, except her mistress; and, owing tothe great deafness of the latter, Mrs. Stark treated her very much asif she were a child. Mr. Henry gave some message from my lord, andthen he bowed good-bye to us all--taking no notice of my sweet littleMiss Rosamond's outstretched hand--and left us standing there, beinglooked at by the two old ladies through their spectacles.
I was right glad when they rung for the old footman who had shownus in at first, and told him to take us to our rooms. So we went outof that great drawing-room, and into another sitting-room, and out ofthat, and then up a great flight of stairs, and along a broadgallery--which was something like a library, having books all downone side, and windows and writing-tables all down the other--till wecame to our rooms, which I was not sorry to hear were just over thekitchens; for I began to think I should be lost in that wilderness ofa house. There was an old nursery, that had been used for all thelittle lords and ladies long ago, with a pleasant fire burning in thegrate, and the kettle boiling on the hob, and tea-things spread outon the table; and out of that room was the night-nursery, with alittle crib for Miss Rosamond close to my bed. And old James calledup Dorothy, his wife, to bid us welcome; and both he and she were sohospitable and kind, that by-and-by Miss Rosamond and me felt quiteat home; and by the time tea was over, she was sitting on Dorothy'sknee, and chattering away as fast as her little tongue could go. Isoon found out that Dorothy was from Westmoreland, and that bound herand me together, as it were; and I would never wish to meet withkinder people than were old James and his wife. James had livedpretty nearly all his life in my lord's family, and thought there wasno one so grand as they. He even looked down a little on his wife;because, till he had married her, she had never lived in any but afarmer's household. But he was very fond of her, as well he might be.They had one servant under them, to do all the rough work. Agnes theycalled her; and she and me, and James and Dorothy, with MissFurnivall and Mrs. Stark, made up the family; always remembering mysweet little Miss Rosamond! I used to wonder what they had donebefore she came, they thought so much of her now. Kitchen anddrawing-room, it was all the same. The hard, sad Miss Furnivall, andthe cold Mrs. Stark, looked pleased when she came fluttering in likea bird, playing and pranking hither and thither, with a continualmurmur, and pretty prattle of gladness. I am sure, they were sorrymany a time when she flitted away into the kitchen, though they weretoo proud to ask her to stay with them, and were a little surprisedat her taste; though to be sure, as Mrs. Stark said, it was not to bewondered at, remembering what stock her father had come of. Thegreat, old rambling house was a famous place for little MissRosamond. She made expeditions all over it, with me at her heels:all, except the east wing, which was never opened, and whither wenever thought of going. But in the western and northern part was manya pleasant room; full of things that were curiosities to us, thoughthey might not have been to people who had seen more. The windowswere darkened by the sweeping boughs of the trees, and the ivy whichhad overgrown them; but, in the green gloom, we could manage to seeold china jars and carved ivory boxes, and great heavy books, and,above all, the old pictures!
Once, I remember, my darling would have Dorothy go with us to tellus who they all were; for they were all portraits of some of mylord's family, though Dorothy could not tell us the names of everyone. We had gone through most of the rooms, when we came to the oldstate drawing-room over the hall, and there was a picture of MissFurnivall; or, as she was called in those days, Miss Grace, for shewas the younger sister. Such a beauty she must have been! but withsuch a set, proud look, and such scorn looking out of her handsomeeyes, with her eyebrows just a little raised, as if she wondered howany one could have the impertinence to look at her, and her lipcurled at us, as we stood there gazing. She had a dress on, the likeof which I had never seen before, but it was all the fashion when shewas young: a hat of some soft white stuff like beaver, pulled alittle over her brows, and a beautiful plume of feathers sweepinground it on one side; and her gown of blue satin was open in front toa quilted white stomacher.
"Well, to be sure!" said I, when I had gazed my fill. "Flesh isgrass, they do say; but who would have thought that Miss Furnivallhad been such an out-and-out beauty, to see her now?"
"Yes," said Dorothy. "Folks change sadly. But if what my master'sfather used to say was true, Miss Furnivall, the elder sister, washandsomer than Miss Grace. Her picture is here somewhere; but, if Ishow it you, you must never let on, even to James, that you have seenit Can the little lady hold her tongue, think you?" asked she.
I was not so sure, for she was such a little sweet, bold,open-spoken child, so I set her to hide herself; and then I helpedDorothy to turn a great picture, that leaned with its face towardsthe wall, and was not hung up as the others were. To be sure, it beatMiss Grace for beauty; and I think, for scornful pride, too, thoughin that matter it might be hard to choose. I could have looked at itan hour but Dorothy seemed half frightened at having shown it to me,and hurried it back again, and bade me run and find Miss Rosamond,for that there were some ugly places about the house, where sheshould like ill for the child to go. I was a brave, high-spiritedgirl, and thought little of what the old woman said, for I likedhide-and-seek as well as any child in the parish; so off I ran tofind my little one.
As winter drew on, and the days grew shorter, I was sometimesalmost certain that I heard a noise as if some one was playing on thegreat organ in the hall. I did not hear it every evening; but,certainly, I did very often, usually when I was sitting with MissRosamond, after I had put her to bed, and keeping quite still andsilent in the bedroom. Then I used to hear it booming and swellingaway in the distance. The first night, when I went down to my supper,I asked Dorothy who had been playing music, and James said veryshortly that I was a gowk to take the wind soughing among the treesfor music; but I saw Dorothy look at him very fearfully, and Bessy,the kitchen-maid, said something beneath her breath, and went quitewhite. I saw they did not like my question, so I held my peace till Iwas with Dorothy alone, when I knew I could get a good deal out ofher. So, the next day, I watched my time, and I coaxed and asked herwho it was that played the organ; for I knew that it was the organand not the wind well enough, for all I had kept silence beforeJames. But Dorothy had had her lesson, I'll warrant, and never a wordcould I get from her. So then I tried Bessy, though I had always heldmy head rather above her, as I was evened to James and Dorothy, andshe was little better than their servant So she said I must never,never tell; and if ever told, I was never to say she had told me; butit was a very strange noise, and she had heard it many a time, butmost of all on winter nights, and before storms; and folks did say itwas the old lord playing on the great organ in the hall, just as heused to do when he was alive; but who the old lord was, or why heplayed, and why he played on stormy winter evenings in particular,she either could not or would not tell me. Well! I told you I had abrave heart; and I thought it was rather pleasant to have that grandmusic rolling about the house, let who would be the player; for nowit rose above the great gusts of wind, and wailed and triumphed justlike a living creature, and then it fell to a softness most complete,only it was always music, and tunes, so it was nonsense to call itthe wind. I thought at first, that it might be Miss Furnivall whoplayed, unknown to Bessy; but one day, when I was in the hall bymyself, I opened the organ and peeped all about it and around it, asI had done to the organ in Crosthwaite Church once before, and I sawit was all broken and destroyed inside, though it looked so brave andfine; and then, though it was noon-day, my flesh began to creep alittle, and I shut it up, and run away pretty quickly to my ownbright nursery; and I did not like hearing the music for some timeafter that, any more than James and Dorothy did. All this time MissRosamond was making herself more and more beloved. The old ladiesliked her to dine with them at their early dinner James stood behindMiss Furnivall's chair, and I behind Miss Rosamond's all in state;and, after dinner, she would play about in a corner of the greatdrawing-room as still as any mouse, while Miss Furnivall slept, and Ihad my dinner in the kitchen. But she was glad enough to come to mein the nursery afterwards; for, as she said Miss Furnivall was sosad, and Mrs. Stark so dull; but she and were merry enough; and,by-and-by, I got not to care for that weird rolling music, which didone no harm, if we did not know where it came from.
That winter was very cold. In the middle of October the frostsbegan, and lasted many, many weeks. I remember one day, at dinner,Miss Furnivall lifted up her sad, heavy eyes, and said to Mrs. Stark,"I am afraid we shall have a terrible winter," in a strange kind ofmeaning way But Mrs. Stark pretended not to hear, and talked veryloud of something else. My little lady and I did not care for thefrost; not we! As long as it was dry, we climbed up the steep browsbehind the house, and went up on the Fells which were bleak and bareenough, and there we ran races in the fresh, sharp air; and once wecame down by a new path, that took us past the two old gnarledholly-trees, which grew about half-way down by the east side of thehouse. But the days grew shorter and shorter, and the old lord, if itwas he, played away, more and more stormily and sadly, on the greatorgan. One Sunday afternoon--it must have been towards the end ofNovember--I asked Dorothy to take charge of little missy when shecame out of the drawing-room, after Miss Furnivall had had her nap;for it was too cold to take her with me to church, and yet I wantedto go, And Dorothy was glad enough to promise and was so fond of thechild, that all seemed well; and Bessy and I set off very briskly,though the sky hung heavy and black over the white earth, as if thenight had never fully gone away, and the air, though still, was verybiting.
"We shall have a fall of snow," said Bessy to me. And sure enough,even while we were in church, it came down thick, in great largeflakes--so thick, it almost darkened the windows. It had stoppedsnowing before we came out, but it lay soft, thick, and deep beneathour feet, as we tramped home. Before we got to the hall, the moonrose, and I think it was lighter then--what with the moon, and whatwith the white dazzling snow--than it had been when we went tochurch, between two and three o'clock. I have not told you that MissFurnivall and Mrs. Stark never went to church; they used to read theprayers together, in their quiet, gloomy way; they seemed to feel theSunday very long without their tapestry-work to be busy at. So when Iwent to Dorothy in the kitchen, to fetch Miss Rosamond and take herupstairs with me, I did not much wonder when the old woman told methat the ladies had kept the child with them, and that she had nevercome to the kitchen, as I had bidden her, when she was tired ofbehaving pretty in the drawing-room. So I took off my things and wentto find her, and bring her to her supper in the nursery. But when Iwent into the best drawing-room, there sat the two old ladies, verystill and quiet, dropping out a word now and then, but looking as ifnothing so bright and merry as Miss Rosamond had ever been near them.Still I thought she might be hiding from me; it was one of her prettyways,--and that she had persuaded them to look as if they knewnothing about her; so I went softly peeping under this sofa andbehind that chair, making believe I was sadly frightened at notfinding her.
"What's the matter, Hester?" said Mrs. Stark sharply. I don't knowif Miss Furnivall had seen me for, as I told you, she was very deaf,and she sat quite still, idly staring into the fire, with herhopeless face. "I'm only looking for my little Rosy Posy," replied I,still thinking that the child was there, and near me, though I couldnot see her.
"Miss Rosamond is not here," said Mrs. Stark. "She went away, morethan an hour ago, to find Dorothy." And she, too, turned and went onlooking into the fire.
My heart sank at this, and I began to wish I had never left mydarling. I went back to Dorothy and told her. James was gone out forthe day, but she, and me, and Bessy took lights, and went up into thenursery first; and then we roamed over the great, large house,calling and entreating Miss Rosamond to come out of her hiding-place,and not frighten us to death in that way. But there was no answer; nosound.
"Oh!" said I, at last, "can she have got into the east wing andhidden there?"
But Dorothy said it was not possible, for that she herself hadnever been in there; that the doors were always locked, and my lord'ssteward had the keys, she believed; at any rate, neither she norJames had ever seen them: so I said I would go back, and see if,after all, she was not hidden in the drawing-room, unknown to the oldladies; and if I found her there, I said, I would whip her well forthe fright she had given me; but I never meant to do it. Well, I wentback to the west drawing-room, and I told Mrs. Stark we could notfind her anywhere, and asked for leave to look all about thefurniture there, for I thought now that she might have fallen asleepin some warm, hidden corner; but no! we looked--Miss Furnivall got upand looked, trembling all over--and she was nowhere there; then weset off again, every one in the house, and looked in all the placeswe had searched before, but we could not find her. Miss Furnivallshivered and shook so much, that Mrs. Stark took her back into thewarm drawing-room; but not before they had made me promise to bringher to them when she was found. Well-a-day! I began to think shenever would be found, when I bethought me to look into the greatfront court, all covered with snow. I was upstairs when I looked out;but, it was such clear moonlight, I could see, quite plain, twolittle footprints, which might be traced from the hall-door and roundthe corner of the east wing. I don't know how I got down, but Itugged open the great stiff hall-door, and, throwing the skirt of mygown over my head for a cloak, I ran out. I turned the east corner,and there a black shadow fell on the snow but when I came again intothe moonlight, there were the little footmarks going up--up to theFells. It was bitter cold; so cold, that the air almost took the skinoff my face as I ran; but I ran on, crying to think how my poorlittle darling must be perished and frightened. I was within sight ofthe holly-trees, when I saw a shepherd coming down the hill, bearingsomething in his arms wrapped in his maud. He shouted to me, andasked me if I had lost a bairn; and, when I could not speak forcrying, he bore towards me, and I saw my wee bairnie, lying still,and white, and stiff in his arms, as if she had been dead. He told mehe had been up the Fells to gather in his sheep, before the deep coldof night came on, and that under the holly-trees (black marks on thehill-side, where no other bush was for miles around) he had found mylittle lady--my lamb--my queen--my darling--stiff and cold in theterrible sleep which is frost-begotten. Oh! the joy and the tears ofhaving her in my arms once again I for I would not let him carry her;but took her, maud and all, into my own arms, and held her near myown warm neck and heart, and felt the life stealing slowly back againinto her little gentle limbs. But she was still insensible when wereached the hall, and I had no breath for speech. We went in by thekitchen-door.
"Bring the warming-pan," said I; and I carried her upstairs, andbegan undressing her by the nursery fire, which Bessy had kept up. Icalled my little lammie all the sweet and playful names I could thinkof,--even while my eyes were blinded by my tears; and at last, oh! atlength she opened her large blue eyes. Then I put her into her warmbed, and sent Dorothy down to tell Miss Furnivall that all was well;and I made up my mind to sit by my darling's bedside the live-longnight. She fell away into a soft sleep as soon as her pretty head hadtouched the pillow, and I watched by her till morning light; when shewakened up bright and clear--or so I thought at first--and, my dears,so I think now.
She said, that she had fancied that she should like to go toDorothy, for that both the old ladies were asleep, and it was verydull in the drawing-room; and that, as she was going through the westlobby, she saw the snow through the high windowfalling--falling--soft and steady; but she wanted to see it lyingpretty and white on the ground; so she made her way into the greathall: and then, going to the window, she saw it bright and soft uponthe drive; but while she stood there, she saw a little girl, not soold as she was, "but so pretty," said my darling; "and this littlegirl beckoned to me to come out; and oh, she was so pretty and sosweet, I could not choose but go." And then this other little girlhad taken her by the hand, and side by side the two had gone roundthe east corner.
"Now you are a naughty little girl, and telling stories," said I."What would your good mamma, that is in heaven, and never told astory in her life, say to her little Rosamond, if she heard her--andI dare say she does--telling stories!"
"Indeed, Hester," sobbed out my child, "I'm telling you true.Indeed I am."
"Don't tell me!" said I, very stern. "I tracked you by yourfoot-marks through the snow; there were only yours to be seen: and ifyou had had a little girl to go hand-in-hand with you up the hill,don't you think the footprints would have gone along with yours?"
"I can't help it, dear, dear Hester," said she, crying, "if theydid not; I never looked at her feet, but she held my hand fast andtight in her little one, and it was very, very cold. She took me upthe Fell-path, up to the holly-trees; and there I saw a lady weepingand crying; but when she saw me, she hushed her weeping, and smiledvery proud and grand, and took me on her knee, and began to lull meto sleep, and that's all, Hester--but that is true; and my dear mammaknows it is," said she, crying. So I thought the child was in afever, and pretended to believe her, as she went over her story--overand over again, and always the same. At last Dorothy knocked at thedoor with Miss Rosamond's breakfast; and she told me the old ladieswere down in the eating parlour, and that they wanted to speak to me.They had both been into the night-nursery the evening before, but itwas after Miss Rosamond was asleep; so they had only looked ather--not asked me any questions.
"I shall catch it," thought I to myself, as I went along the northgallery. "And yet," I thought, taking courage, "it was in theircharge I left her; and it's they that's to blame for letting hersteal away unknown and unwatched." So I went in boldly, and told mystory. I told it all to Miss Furnivall, shouting it close to her ear;but when I came to the mention of the other little girl out in thesnow, coaxing and tempting her out, and wiling her up to the grandand beautiful lady by the holly-tree, she threw her arms up--her oldand withered arms--and cried aloud, "Oh! Heaven forgive! Havemercy!"
Mrs. Stark took hold of her; roughly enough, I thought; but shewas past Mrs. Stark's management, and spoke to me, in a kind of wildwarning and authority.
"Hester! keep her from that child! It will lure her to her death!That evil child! Tell her it is a wicked, naughty child." Then, Mrs.Stark hurried me out of the room; where, indeed, I was glad enough togo; but Miss Furnivall kept shrieking out, "Oh, have mercy! Wilt Thounever forgive! It is many a long year ago"--
I was very uneasy in my mind after that. I durst never leave MissRosamond, night or day, for fear lest she might slip off again, aftersome fancy or other; and all the more, because I thought I could makeout that Miss Furnivall was crazy, from their odd ways about her; andI was afraid lest something of the same kind (which might be in thefamily, you know) hung over my darling. And the great frost neverceased all this time; and, whenever it was a more stormy night thanusual, between the gusts, and through the wind we heard the old lordplaying on the great organ. But, old lord, or not, wherever MissRosamond went, there I followed; for my love for her, pretty,helpless orphan, was stronger than my fear for the grand and terriblesound. Besides, it rested with me to keep her cheerful and merry, asbeseemed her age. So we played together, and wandered together, hereand there, and everywhere; for I never dared to lose sight of heragain in that large and rambling house. And so it happened, that oneafternoon, not long before Christmas-day, we were playing together onthe billiard-table in the great hall (not that we knew the right wayof playing, but she liked to roll the smooth ivory balls with herpretty hands, and I liked to do whatever she did); and, by-and-by,without our noticing it, it grew dusk indoors, though it was stilllight in the open air, and I was thinking of taking her back into thenursery, when, all of a sudden, she cried out--
"Look, Hester! look! there is my poor little girl out in thesnow!"
I turned towards the long narrow windows, and there, sure enough,I saw a little girl, less than my Miss Rosamond--dressed all unfit tobe out-of-doors such a bitter night--crying, and beating against thewindow panes, as if she wanted to be let in. She seemed to sob andwail, till Miss Rosamond could bear it no longer, and was flying tothe door to open it, when, all of a sudden, and close upon us, thegreat organ pealed out so loud and thundering, it fairly made metremble; and all the more, when I remembered me that, even in thestillness of that dead-cold weather, I had heard no sound of littlebattering hands upon the window-glass, although the phantom child hadseemed to put forth all its force; and, although I had seen it wailand cry, no faintest touch of sound had fallen upon my ears. WhetherI remembered all this at the very moment, I do not know; the greatorgan sound had so stunned me into terror; but this I know, I caughtup Miss Rosamond before she got the hall-door opened, and clutchedher, and carried her away, kicking and screaming, into the large,bright kitchen, where Dorothy and Agnes were busy with theirmince-pies.
"What is the matter with my sweet one?" cried Dorothy, as I borein Miss Rosamond, who was sobbing as if her heart would break.
"She won't let me open the door for my little girl to come in; andshe'll die if she is out on the Fells all night. Cruel, naughtyHester," she said, slapping me; but she might have struck harder, forI had seen a look of ghastly terror on Dorothy's face, which made myvery blood run cold.
"Shut the back-kitchen door fast, and bolt it well," said she toAgues. She said no more; she gave me raisins and almonds to quietMiss Rosamond; but she sobbed about the little girl in the snow, andwould not touch any of the good things. I was thankful when she criedherself to sleep in bed. Then I stole down to the kitchen, and toldDorothy I had made up my mind. I would carry my darling back to myfather's house in Applethwaite; where, if we lived humbly, we livedat peace. I said I had been frightened enough with the old lord'sorgan-playing; but now that I had seen for myself this little moaningchild, all decked out as no child in the neighbourhood could be,beating and battering to get in, yet always without any sound ornoise--with the dark wound on its right shoulder; and that MissRosamond had known it again for the phantom that had nearly lured herto death (which Dorothy knew was true); I would stand it nolonger.
I saw Dorothy change colour once or twice. When I had done, shetold me she did not think I could take Miss Rosamond with me, forthat she was my lord's ward, and I had no right over her; and sheasked me would I leave the child that I was so fond of just forsounds and sights that could do me no harm; and that they had all hadto get used to in their turns? I was all in a hot, trembling passion;and I said it was very well for her to talk, that knew what thesesights and noises betokened, and that had, perhaps, had something todo with the spectre child while it was alive. And I taunted her so,that she told me all she knew at last; and then I wished I had neverbeen told, for it only made me more afraid than ever.
She said she had heard the tale from old neighbours that werealive when she was first married; when folks used to come to the hallsometimes, before it had got such a bad name on the country side: itmight not be true, or it might, what she had been told.
The old lord was Miss Furnivall's father--Miss Grace, as Dorothycalled her, for Miss Maude was the elder, and Miss Furnivall bylights. The old lord was eaten up with pride. Such a proud man wasnever seen or heard of; and his daughters were like him. No one wasgood enough to wed them, although they had choice enough; for theywere the great beauties of their day, as I had seen by theirportraits, where they hung in the state drawing-room. But, as the oldsaying is, "Pride will have a fall;" and these two haughty beautiesfell in love with the same man, and he no better than a foreignmusician, whom their father had down from London to play music withhim at the Manor House. For, above all things, next to his pride, theold lord loved music. He could play`on nearly every instrument thatever was heard of; and it was a strange thing it did not soften him;but he was a fierce, dour old man, and had broken his poor wife'sheart with his cruelty, they said. He was mad after music, and wouldpay any money for it. So he got this foreigner to come; who made suchbeautiful music, that they said the very birds on the trees stoppedtheir singing to listen. And, by degrees, this foreign gentleman gotsuch a hold over the old lord, that nothing would serve him but thathe must come every year; and it was he that had the great organbrought from Holland, and built up in the hall, where it stood now.He taught the old lord to play on it; but many and many a time, whenLord Furnivall was thinking of nothing but his fine organ, and hisfiner music, the dark foreigner was walking abroad in the woods, withone of the young ladies: now Miss Maude, and then Miss Grace.
Miss Maude won the day and carried off the prize, such as it was;and he and she were married, all unknown to any one; and, before hemade his next yearly visit, she had been confined of a little girl ata farm-house on the Moors, while her father and Miss Grace thoughtshe was away at Doncaster Races. But though she was a wife and amother, she was not a bit softened, but as haughty and as passionateas ever; and perhaps more so, for she was jealous of Miss Grace, towhom her foreign husband paid a deal of court--by way of blindingher--as he told his wife. But Miss Grace triumphed over Miss Maude,and Miss Maude grew fiercer and fiercer, both with her husband andwith her sister; and the former--who could easily shake off what wasdisagreeable, and hide himself in foreign countries--went away amonth before his usual time that summer, and half-threatened that hewould never come back again. Meanwhile, the little girl was left atthe farm-house, and her mother used to have her horse saddled andgallop wildly over the hills to see her once every week, at the veryleast; for where she loved she loved, and where she hated she hated.And the old lord went on playing--playing on his organ; and theservants thought the sweet music he made had soothed down his awfultemper, of which (Dorothy said) some terrible tales could be told. Hegrew infirm too, and had to walk with a crutch; and his son--that wasthe present Lord Furnivall's father--was with the army in America,and the other son at sea; so Miss Maude had it pretty much her ownway, and she and Miss Grace grew colder and bitterer to each otherevery day; till at last they hardly ever spoke, except when the oldlord was by. The foreign musician came again the next summer, but itwas for the last time; for they led him such a life with theirjealousy and their passions, that he grew weary, and went away, andnever was heard of again. And Miss Maude, who had always meant tohave her marriage acknowledged when her father should be dead, wasleft now a deserted wife, whom nobody knew to have been married, witha child that she dared not own, although she loved it to distraction;living with a father whom she feared, and a sister whom she hated.When the next summer passed over, and the dark foreigner never came,both Miss Maude and Miss Grace grew gloomy and sad; they had ahaggard look about them, though they looked handsome as ever. But,by-and-by, Miss Maude brightened; for her father grew more and moreinfirm, and more than ever carried away by his music, and she andMiss Grace lived almost entirely apart, having separate rooms, theone on the west side, Miss Maude on the east--those very rooms whichwere now shut up. So she thought she might have her little girl withher, and no one need ever know except those who dared not speak aboutit, and were bound to believe that it was, as she said, a cottager'schild she had taken a fancy to. All this, Dorothy said, was prettywell known; but what came afterwards no one knew, except Miss Graceand Mrs. Stark, who was even then her maid, and much more of a friendto her than ever her sister had been. But the servants supposed, fromwords that were dropped, that Miss Maude had triumphed over MissGrace, and told her that all the time the dark foreigner had beenmocking her with pretended love--he was her own husband. The colourleft Miss Grace's cheek and lips that very day for ever, and she washeard to say many a time that sooner or later she would have herrevenge; and Mrs. Stark was for ever spying about the east rooms.
One fearful night, just after the New Year had come in, when thesnow was lying thick and deep; and the flakes were stillfalling--fast enough to blind any one who might be out andabroad--there was a great and violent noise heard, and the old lord'svoice above all, cursing and swearing awfully, and the cries of alittle child, and the proud defiance of a fierce woman, and the soundof a blow, and a dead stillness, and moans and wailings, dying awayon the hill-side! Then the old lord summoned all his servants, andtold them, with terrible oaths, and words more terrible, that hisdaughter had disgraced herself, and that he had turned her out ofdoors--her, and her child--and that if ever they gave her help, orfood, or shelter, he prayed that they might never enter heaven. And,all the while, Miss Grace stood by him, white and still as any stone;and, when he had ended, she heaved a great sigh, as much as to sayher work was done, and her end was accomplished. But the old lordnever touched his organ again, and died within the year; and nowonder I for, on the morrow of that wild and fearful night, theshepherds, coming down the Fell side, found Miss Maude sitting, allcrazy and smiling, under the holly-trees, nursing a dead child, witha terrible mark on its right shoulder. "But that was not what killedit," said Dorothy: "it was the frost and the cold. Every wildcreature was in its hole, and every beast in its fold, while thechild and its mother were turned out to wander on the Fells! And nowyou know all! and I wonder if you are less frightened now?"
I was more frightened than ever; but I said I was not. I wishedMiss Rosamond and myself well out of that dreadful house for ever;but I would not leave her, and I dared not take her away. But oh, howI watched her, and guarded her! We bolted the doors, and shut thewindow-shutters fast, an hour or more before dark, rather than leavethem open five minutes too late. But my little lady still heard theweird child crying and mourning; and not all we could do or say couldkeep her from wanting to go to her, and let her in from the cruelwind and snow. All this time I kept away from Miss Furnivall and Mrs.Stark, as much as ever I could; for I feared them--I knew no goodcould be about them, with their grey, hard faces, and their dreamyeyes, looking back into the ghastly years that were gone. But, evenin my fear, I had a kind of pity for Miss Furnivall, at least. Thosegone down to the pit can hardly have a more hopeless look than thatwhich was ever on her face. At last I even got so sorry for her--whonever said a word but what was quite forced from her--that I prayedfor her; and I taught Miss Rosamond to pray for one who had done adeadly sin; but often, when she came to those words, she wouldlisten, and start up from her knees, and say, "I hear my little girlplaining and crying, very sad,--oh, let her in, or she will die!"
One night--just after New Year's Day had come at last, and thelong winter had taken a turn, as I hoped--I heard the westdrawing-room bell ring three times, which was the signal for me. Iwould not leave Miss Rosamond alone, for all she was asleep--for theold lord had been playing wilder than ever--and I feared lest mydarling should waken to hear the spectre child; see her I knew shecould not. I had fastened the windows too well for that. So I tookher out of her bed, and wrapped her up in such outer clothes as weremost handy, and carried her down to the drawing-room, where the oldladies sat at their tapestry-work as usual. They looked up when Icame in, and Mrs. Stark asked, quite astounded, "Why did I bring MissRosamond there, out of her warm bed?" I had begun to whisper,"Because I was afraid of her being tempted out while I was away, bythe wild child in the snow," when she stopped me short (with a glanceat Miss Furnivall), and said Miss Furnivall wanted me to undo somework she had done wrong, and which neither of them could see tounpick. So I laid my pretty dear on the sofa, and sat down on a stoolby them, and hardened my heart against them, as I heard the windrising and howling.
Miss Rosamond slept on sound, for all the wind blew so; and MissFurnivall said never a word, nor looked round when the gusts shookthe windows. All at once she started up to her full height, and putup one hand, as if to bid us listen.
"I hear voices!" said she. "I hear terrible screams--I hear myfather's voice!"
Just at that moment my darling wakened with a sudden start: "Mylittle girl is crying, oh, how she is crying!" and she tried to getup and go to her, but she got her feet entangled in the blanket, andI caught her up; for my flesh had begun to creep at these noises,which they heard while we could catch no sound. In a minute or twothe noises came, and gathered fast, and filled our ears; we, too,heard voices and screams, and no longer heard the winter's wind thatraged abroad. Mrs. Stark looked at me, and I at her, but we dared notspeak. Suddenly Miss Furnivall, went towards the door, out into theante-room, through the west lobby, and opened the door into the greathall. Mrs. Stark followed, and I durst not be left, though my heartalmost stopped beating for fear. I wrapped my darling tight in myarms, and went out with them. In the hall the screams were louderthan ever; they seemed to come from the east wing--nearer andnearer--close on the other side of the locked-up doors--close behindthem. Then I noticed that the great bronze chandelier seemed allalight, though the hall was dim, and that a fire was blazing in thevast hearth-place, though it gave no heat; and I shuddered up withterror, and folded my darling closer to me. But as I did so the eastdoor shook, and she, suddenly struggling to get free from me, cried,"Hester! I must go. My little girl is there I hear her; she iscoming! Hester, I must go!"
I held her tight with all my strength; with a set will, I heldher. If I had died, my hands would have grasped her still, I was soresolved in my mind. Miss Furnivall stood listening, and paid noregard to my darling, who had got down to the ground, and whom I,upon my knees now, was holding with both my arms clasped round herneck; she still striving and crying to get free.
All at once, the east door gave way with a thundering crash, as iftorn open in a violent passion, and there came into that broad andmysterious light, the figure of a tall old man, with grey hair andgleaming eyes. He drove before him, with many a relentless gesture ofabhorrence, a stern and beautiful woman, with a little child clingingto her dress.
"O Hester! Hester!" cried Miss Rosamond; "it's the lady! the ladybelow the holly-trees; and my little girl is with her. Hester!Hester! let me go to her; they are drawing me to them. I feel them--Ifeel them. I must go!"
Again she was almost convulsed by her efforts to get away; but Iheld her tighter and tighter, till I feared I should do her a hurt;but rather that than let her go towards those terrible phantoms. Theypassed along towards the great hall-door, where the winds howled andravened for their prey; but before they reached that, the ladyturned; and I could see that she defied the old man with a fierce andproud defiance; but then she quailed--and then she threw up her armswildly and piteously to save her child--her little child--from a blowfrom his uplifted crutch.
And Miss Rosamond was torn as by a power stronger than mine, andwrithed in my arms, and sobbed (for by this time the poor darling wasgrowing faint).
"They want me to go with them on to the Fells--they are drawing meto them. Oh, my little girl! I would come, but cruel, wicked Hesterholds me very tight." But when she saw the uplifted crutch, sheswooned away, and I thanked God for it. Just at this moment--when thetall old man, his hair streaming as in the blast of a furnace, wasgoing to strike the little shrinking child--Miss Furnivall, the oldwoman by my side, cried out, "O father! father! spare the littleinnocent child!" But just then I saw--we all saw--another phantomshape itself, and grow clear out of the blue and misty light thatfilled the hall; we had not seen her till now, for it was anotherlady who stood by the old man, with a look of relentless hate andtriumphant scorn. That figure was very beautiful to look upon, with asoft, white hat drawn down over the proud brows, and a red andcurling lip. It was dressed in an open robe of blue satin. I had seenthat figure before. It was the likeness of Miss Furnivall in heryouth; and the terrible phantoms moved on, regardless of old MissFurnivall's wild entreaty,--and the uplifted crutch fell on the rightshoulder of the little child, and the younger sister looked on,stony, and deadly serene. But at that moment, the dim lights, and thefire that gave no heat, went out of themselves, and Miss Furnivalllay at our feet stricken down by the palsy--death-stricken.
Yes! she was carried to her bed that night never to rise again.She lay with her face to the wall, muttering low, but mutteringalways: "Alas! alas! what is done in youth can never be undone inage! What is done in youth can never be undone in age!"
"I wonder if you know Clopton Hall, about a mile fromStratford-on-Avon. Will you allow me to tell you of a very happy dayI once spent there? I was at school in the neighbourhood, and one ofmy schoolfellows was the daughter of a Mr. W---, who then lived atClopton. Mrs. W--asked a party of the girls to go and spend a longafternoon, and we set off one beautiful autumn day, full of delightand wonder respecting the place we were going to see. We passedthrough desolate half-cultivated fields, till we came within sight ofthe house--a large, heavy, compact, square brick building, of thatdeep, dead red almost approaching to purple. In front was a largeformal court, with the massy pillars surmounted with two grimmonsters; but the walls of the court were broken down, and the grassgrew as rank and wild within the enclosure as in the raised avenuewalk down which we had come. The flowers were tangled with nettles,and it was only as we approached the house that we saw the singleyellow rose and the Austrian briar trained into something like orderround the deep-set diamond-paned windows. We trooped into the hall,with its tesselated marble floor, hung round with strange portraitsof people who had been in their graves two hundred years at least;yet the colours were so fresh, and in some instances they were solife-like, that looking merely at the faces, I almost fancied theoriginals might be sitting in the parlour beyond. More completely tocarry us back, as it were, to the days of the civil wars, there was asort of military map hung up, well finished with pen and ink, shewingthe stations of the respective armies, and with old-fashioned writingbeneath, the names of the principal towns, setting forth the strengthof the garrison, etc. In this hall we were met by our kind hostess,and told we might ramble where we liked, in the house or out of thehouse, taking care to be in the 'recessed parlour' by tea-time. Ipreferred to wander up the wide shelving oak staircase, with itsmassy balustrade all crumbling and worm-eaten. The family thenresiding at the hall did not occupy one-half--no, not one-third ofthe rooms; and the old-fashioned furniture was undisturbed in thegreater part of them. In one of the bed-rooms (said to be haunted),and which, with its close pent-up atmosphere and the long-shadows ofevening creeping on, gave me an 'eirie' feeling, hung a portrait sosingularly beautiful! a sweet-looking girl, with paly gold haircombed back from her forehead and falling in wavy ringlets on herneck, and with eyes that 'looked like violets filled with dew,' forthere was the glittering of unshed tears before their deep darkblue--and that was the likeness of Charlotte Clopton, about whomthere was so fearful a legend told at Stratford church. In the timeof some epidemic, the sweating-sickness or the plague, this younggirl had sickened, and to all appearance died. She was buried withfearful haste in the vaults of Clopton chapel, attached to Stratfordchurch, but the sickness was not stayed. In a few days another of theCloptons died, and him they bore to the ancestral vault; but as theydescended the gloomy stairs, they saw by the torchlight, CharlotteClopton in her grave-clothes leaning against the wall; and when theylooked nearer, she was indeed dead, but not before, in the agonies ofdespair and hunger, she had bitten a piece from her white roundshoulder! Of course, she had walked ever since. This was 'Charlotte'schamber,' and beyond Charlotte's chamber was a state-chamber carpetedwith the dust of many years, and darkened by the creepers which hadcovered up the windows, and even forced themselves in luxuriantdaring through the broken panes. Beyond, again, there was an oldCatholic chapel, with a chaplain's room, which had been walled up andforgotten till within the last few years. I went in on my hands andknees, for the entrance was very low. I recollect little in thechapel; but in the chaplain's room were old, and I should think rare,editions of many books, mostly folios. A large yellow-paper copy ofDryden's 'All for Love, or the World Well Lost,' date 1686, caught myeye, and is the only one I particularly remember. Every here andthere, as I wandered, I came upon a fresh branch of a staircase, andso numerous were the crooked, half-lighted passages, that I wonderedif I could find my way back again. There was a curious carved oldchest in one of these passages, and with girlish curiosity I tried toopen it; but the lid was too heavy, till I persuaded one of mycompanions to help me, and when it was opened, what do you think wesaw?--BONES!--but whether human, whether the remains of the lostbride, we did not stay to see, but ran off in partly feigned, andpartly real terror.
"The last of these deserted rooms that I remember, the last, themost deserted, and the saddest, was the Nursery,--a nursery withoutchildren, without singing voices, without merry chiming footsteps! Anursery hung round with its once inhabitants, bold, gallant boys, andfair, arch-looking girls, and one or two nurses with round, fatbabies in their arms. Who were they all? What was their lot in life?Sunshine, or storm? or had they been 'loved by the gods, and diedyoung?' The very echoes knew not. Behind the house, in a hollow nowwild, damp, and overgrown with elder-bushes, was a well calledMargaret's Well, for there had a maiden of the house of that namedrowned herself.
"I tried to obtain any information I could as to the family ofClopton of Clopton. They had been decaying ever since the civil wars;had for a generation or two been unable to live in the old house oftheir fathers, but had toiled in London, or abroad, for a livelihood;and the last of the old family, a bachelor, eccentric, miserly, old,and of most filthy habits, if report said true, had died at CloptonHall but a few months before, a sort of boarder in Mr. W---'s family.He was buried in the gorgeous chapel of the Cloptons in Stratfordchurch, where you see the banners waving, and the armour hung overone or two splendid monuments. Mr. W--had been the old man'ssolicitor, and completely in his confidence, and to him he left theestate, encumbered and in bad condition. A year or two afterwards,the heir-at-law, a very distant relation living in Ireland, claimedand obtained the estate, on the plea of undue influence, if not offorgery, on Mr. W---'s part; and the last I heard of our kindentertainers on that day, was that they were outlawed, and living atBrussels."
Not many years after the beginning of this century, a worthycouple of the name of Huntroyd occupied a small farm in the NorthRiding of Yorkshire. They had married late in life, although theywere very young when they first began to 'keep company' with eachother. Nathan Huntroyd had been farm-servant to Hester Rose's father,and had made up to her at a time when her parents thought she mightdo better; and so, without much consultation of her feelings, theyhad dismissed Nathan in somewhat cavalier fashion. He had drifted faraway from his former connections, when an uncle of his died, leavingNathan--by this time upwards of forty years of age--enough money tostock a small farm, and yet have something over, to put in the bankagainst bad times. One of the consequences of this bequest was, thatNathan was looking out for a wife and housekeeper, in a kind ofdiscreet and leisurely way, when one day he heard that his old love,Hester, was not married and flourishing, as he had always supposedher to be, but a poor maid-of-all-work, in the town of Ripon. For herfather had had a succession of misfortunes, which had brought him inhis old age to the workhouse; her mother was dead; her only brotherstruggling to bring up a large family; and Hester herself ahard-working, homely-looking (at thirty-seven) servant. Nathan had akind of growling satisfaction (which only lasted a minute or two,however) in hearing of these turns of fortune's wheel. He did notmake many intelligible remarks to his informant, and to no one elsedid he say a word. But, a few days afterwards, he presented himself,dressed in his Sunday best, at Mrs Thompson's back-door in Ripon.
Hester stood there, in answer to the good sound knock his goodsound oak-stick made: she, with the light full upon her, he inshadow. For a moment there was silence. He was scanning the face andfigure of his old love, for twenty years unseen. The comely beauty ofyouth had faded away entirely; she was, as I have said,homely-looking, plain-featured, but with a clean skin, and pleasantfrank eyes. Her figure was no longer round, but tidily draped in ablue and white bed-gown, tied round her waist by her whiteapron-strings, and her short red linsey petticoat showed her tidyfeet and ankles. Her former lover fell into no ecstasies. He simplysaid to himself, 'She'll do'; and forthwith began upon hisbusiness.
'Hester, thou dost not mind me. I am Nathan, as thy father turnedoff at a minute's notice, for thinking of thee for a wife, twentyyear come Michaelmas next. I have not thought much upon matrimonysince. But Uncle Ben has died leaving me a small matter in the bank;and I have taken Nab-End Farm, and put in a bit of stock, and shallwant a missus to see after it. Wilt like to come? I'll not misleadthee. It's dairy, and it might have been arable. But arable takesmore horses nor it suited me to buy, and I'd the offer of a tidy lotof kine. That's all. If thou'll have me, I'll come for thee as soonas the hay is gotten in'.
Hester only said, 'Come in, and sit thee down'.
He came in, and sat down. For a time, she took no more notice ofhim than of his stick, bustling about to get dinner ready for thefamily whom she served. He meanwhile watched her brisk sharpmovements, and repeated to himself, 'She'll do!' After about twentyminutes of silence thus employed, he got up, saying--
'Well, Hester, I'm going. When shall I come back again?'
'Please thysel', and thou'll please me,' said Hester, in a tonethat she tried to make light and indifferent; but he saw that hercolour came and went, and that she trembled while she moved about. Inanother moment Hester was soundly kissed; but, when she looked roundto scold the middle-aged farmer, he appeared so entirely composedthat she hesitated. He said--
'I have pleased mysel', and thee too, I hope. Is it a month'swage, and a month's warning? To-day is the eighth. July eighth is ourwedding-day. I have no time to spend a-wooing before then, andwedding must na take long. Two days is enough to throw away, at ourtime o' life.'
It was like a dream; but Hester resolved not to think more aboutit till her work was done. And when all was cleaned up for theevening, she went and gave her mistress warning, telling her all thehistory of her life in a very few words. That day month she wasmarried from Mrs Thompson's house.
The issue of the marriage was one boy, Benjamin. A few years afterhis birth, Hester's brother died at Leeds, leaving ten or twelvechildren. Hester sorrowed bitterly over this loss; and Nathan showedher much quiet sympathy, although he could not but remember that JackRose had added insult to the bitterness of his youth. He helped hiswife to make ready to go by the waggon to Leeds. He made light of thehousehold difficulties, which came thronging into her mind after allwas fixed for her departure. He filled her purse, that she might havewherewithal to alleviate the immediate wants of her brother's family.And, as she was leaving, he ran after the waggon. 'Stop, stop!' hecried. 'Hetty, if thou wilt--if it wunnot be too much for thee--bringback one of Jack's wenches for company, like. We've enough and tospare; and a lass will make the house winsome, as a man may say.'
The waggon moved on; while Hester had such a silent swelling ofgratitude in her heart, as was both thanks to her husband andthanksgiving to God.
And that was the way that little Bessy Rose came to be an inmateof the Nab's-End Farm.
Virtue met with its own reward in this instance, and in a clearand tangible shape, too; which need not delude people in general intothinking that such is the usual nature of virtue's rewards! Bessygrew up a bright affectionate, active girl; a daily comfort to heruncle and aunt. She was so much a darling in the household that theyeven thought her worthy of their only son Benjamin, who wasperfection in their eyes. It is not often the case that two plain,homely people have a child of uncommon beauty; but it is sosometimes, and Benjamin Huntroyd was one of these exceptional cases.The hard-working, labour-and-care-marked farmer, and the mother, whocould never have been more than tolerably comely in her best days,produced a boy who might have been an earl's son for grace andbeauty. Even the hunting squires of the neighbourhood reined up theirhorses to admire him, as he opened the gates for them. He had noshyness, he was so accustomed from his earliest years to admirationfrom strangers and adoration from his parents. As for Bessy Rose, heruled imperiously over her heart from the time she first set eyes onhim. And, as she grew older, she grew on in loving, persuadingherself that what her uncle and aunt loved so dearly it was her dutyto love dearest of all. At every unconscious symptom of the younggirl's love for her cousin, his parents smiled and winked: all wasgoing on as they wished; no need to go far a-field for Benjamin'swife. The household could go on as it was now; Nathan and Hestersinking into the rest of years, and relinquishing care and authorityto those dear ones, who, in the process of time, might bring otherdear ones to share their love.
But Benjamin took it all very coolly. He had been sent to aday-school in the neighbouring town--a grammar-school in the highstate of neglect in which the majority of such schools were thirtyyears ago. Neither his father nor his mother knew much of learning.All they knew (and that directed their choice of a school) was thatthey could not, by any possibility, part with their darling to aboarding-school; that some schooling he must have, and that SquirePollard's son went to Highminster Grammar School. Squire Pollard'sson, and many another son destined to make his parents' hearts ache,went to this school. If it had not been so utterly a bad place ofeducation, the simple farmer and his wife might have found it outsooner. But not only did the pupils there learn vice, they alsolearnt deceit. Benjamin was naturally too clever to remain a dunce;or else, if he had chosen so to be, there was nothing in HighminsterGrammar School to hinder his being a dunce of the first water. But,to all appearance, he grew clever and gentleman-like. His father andmother were even proud of his airs and graces, when he came home forthe holidays; taking them for proofs of his refinement, although thepractical effect of such refinement was to make him express hiscontempt for his parents' homely ways and simple ignorance. By thetime he was eighteen, an articled clerk in an attorney's office atHighminster,--for he had quite declined becoming a 'mereclod-hopper,' that is to say, a hard-working, honest farmer like hisfather--Bessy Rose was the only person who was dissatisfied with him.The little girl of fourteen instinctively felt there was somethingwrong about him. Alas! two years more, and the girl of sixteenworshipped his very shadow, and would not see that aught could bewrong with one so soft-spoken, so handsome, so kind as CousinBenjamin. For Benjamin had discovered that the way to cajole hisparents out of money for every indulgence he fancied, was to pretendto forward their innocent scheme, and make love to his pretty cousin,Bessy Rose. He cared just enough for her to make this work ofnecessity not disagreeable at the time he was performing it. But hefound it tiresome to remember her little claims upon him, when shewas no longer present. The letters he had promised her during hisweekly absence at Highminster, the trifling commissions she had askedhim to do for her, were all considered in the light of troubles; and,even when he was with her, he resented the inquiries she made as tohis mode of passing his time, or what female acquaintances he had inHighminster.
When his apprenticeship was ended, nothing would serve him butthat he must go up to London for a year or two. Poor Farmer Huntroydwas beginning to repent of his ambition of making his son Benjamin agentleman. But it was too late to repine now. Both father and motherfelt this; and, however sorrowful they might be, they were silent,neither demurring nor assenting to Benjamin's proposition when firsthe made it. But Bessy, through her tears, noticed that both her uncleand aunt seemed unusually tired that night, and sat hand-in-hand onthe fireside settle, idly gazing into the bright flame, as if theysaw in it pictures of what they had once hoped their lives would havebeen. Bessy rattled about among the supper-things, as she put themaway after Benjamin's departure, making more noise than usual--as ifnoise and bustle was what she needed to keep her from bursting outcrying--and, having at one keen glance taken in the position andlooks of Nathan and Hester, she avoided looking in that directionagain, for fear the sight of their wistful faces should make her owntears overflow.
'Sit thee down, lass--sit thee down! Bring the creepie-stool tothe fireside, and let's have a bit of talk over the lad's plans,'said Nathan, at last rousing himself to speak. Bessy came and satdown in front of the fire, and threw her apron over her face, as sherested her head on both hands. Nathan felt as if it was a chancewhich of the two women burst out crying first. So he thought he wouldspeak, in hopes of keeping off the infection of tears.
'Didst ever hear of this mad plan afore, Bessy?'
'No, never!' Her voice came muffled and changed from under herapron. Hester felt as if the tone, both of question and answer,implied blame; and this she could not bear.
'We should ha' looked to it when we bound him; for of necessity itwould ha' come to this. There's examins, and catechizes, and I dunnowhat all for him to be put through in London. It's not hisfault.'
'Which on us said it were?' asked Nathan, rather put out. 'Tho',for that matter, a few weeks would carry him over the mire, and makehim as good a lawyer as any judge among 'em. Oud Lawson the attorneytold me that, in a talk I had wi' him a bit sin. Na, na! it's thelad's own hankering after London that makes him want for to staythere for a year, let alone two.'
Nathan shook his head.
'And if it be his own hankering,' said Bessy, putting down herapron, her face all flame, and her eyes swollen up, 'I dunnot seeharm in it. Lads aren't like lasses, to be teed to their own firesidelike th' crook yonder. It's fitting for a young man to go abroad andsee the world, afore he settles down.'
Hester's hand sought Bessy's; and the two women sat in sympatheticdefiance of any blame that should be thrown on the beloved absent.Nathan only said--
'Nay, wench, dunnot wax up so; whatten's done's done; and worse,it's my doing. I mun needs make my bairn a gentleman; and we mun payfor it.'
'Dear Uncle! he wunna spend much, I'll answer for it; and I'llscrimp and save i' the house, to make it good.'
'Wench!' said Nathan Solemnly, 'it were not paying in cash I werespeaking on: it were paying in heart's care, and heaviness of soul.Lunnon is a place where the devil keeps court as well as King George;and my poor chap has more nor once welly fallen into his clutcheshere. I dunno what he'll do, when he gets close within sniff ofhim.'
'Don't let him go, father!' said Hester, for the first time takingthis view. Hitherto she had only thought of her own grief at partingwith him. 'Father, if you think so, keep him here, safe under yourown eye!'
'Nay!' said Nathan, 'he's past time o' life for that. Why, there'snot one on us knows where he is at this present time, and he not goneout of our sight an hour. He's too big to be put back i' th' go-cart,mother, or to keep within doors, with the chair turnedbottom-upwards.'
'I wish he were a wee bairn lying in my arms again! It were a soreday when I weaned him; and I think life's been gettin' sorer andsorer at every turn he's ta'en towards manhood.'
'Coom, lass; that's noan the way to be talking. Be thankful toMarcy that thou'st getten a man for thy son as stands five footeleven in's stockings, and never a sick piece about him. We wunnotgrudge him his fling, will we, Bess, my wench? He'll be coming backin a year, or, may be, a bit more, and be a' for settling in a quiettown like, wi' a wife that's noan so fur fra' me at this very minute.An' we oud folk, as we get into years, must gi' up farm, and tak abit on a house near Lawyer Benjamin.'
And so the good Nathan, his own heart heavy enough, tried tosoothe his women-kind. But, of the three, his eyes were longest inclosing, his apprehensions the deepest founded.
'I misdoubt me I hanna done well by th' lad. I misdoubt me sore,'was the thought that kept him awake till day began to dawn. 'Summat'swrong about him, or folk would na look me wi' such piteous-like een,when they speak on him. I can see th' meaning of it, thof I'm tooproud to let on. And Lawson, too, he holds his tongue more nor heshould do, when I ax him how my lad's getting on, and whatten sort ofa lawyer he'll mak. God be marciful to Hester an' me, if th' lad'sgone away! God be marciful! But, may be, it's this lying waking a'the night through, that maks me so fearfu'. Why, when I were his age,I daur be bound I should ha' spent money fast enoof, i' I could ha'come by iy. But I had to arn it; that maks a great differ'. Well! Itwere hard to thwart th' child of our old age, and we waitin' so longfor to have 'un!' Next morning, Nathan rode Moggy, the cart-horse,into Highminster to see Mr Lawson. Anybody who saw him ride out ofhis own yard would have been struck with the change in him which wasvisible when he returned: a change greater than a day's unusualexercise should have made in a man of his years. He scarcely held thereins at all. One jerk of Moggy's head would have plucked them out ofhis hands. His head was bent forward, his eyes looking on some unseenthing, with long, unwinking gaze. But, as he drew near home on hisreturn, he made an effort to recover himself.
'No need fretting them,' he said; 'lads will be lads. But I didnathink he had it in him to be so thowtless, young as he is. Well,well! he'll, may be, get more wisdom i' Lunnon. Anyways, it's best tocut him off fra such evil lads as Will Hawker, and such-like. It'sthey as have led my boy astray. He were a good chap till he knowedthem--a good chap till he knowed them.' But he put all his cares inthe background, when he came into the house-place, where both Bessyand his wife met him at the door, and both would fain lend a hand totake off his great-coat.
'Theer, wenches, theer! ye might let a man alone for to get outon's clothes! Why, I might ha' struck thee, lass. 'And he went ontalking, trying to keep them off for a time from the subject that allhad at heart. But there was no putting them off for ever; and, bydint of repeated questioning on his wife's part, more was got outthan he had ever meant to tell--enough to grieve both his hearerssorely: and yet the brave old man still kept the worst in his ownbreast.
The next day, Benjamin came home for a week or two, before makinghis great start to London. His father kept him at a distance, and wassolemn and quiet in his manner to the young man. Bessy, who had shownanger enough at first, and had uttered many a sharp speech, began torelent, and then to feel hurt and displeased that her uncle shouldpersevere so long in his cold, reserved manner--and Benjamin justgoing to leave them! Her aunt went, tremblingly busy, about theclothes-presses and drawers, as if afraid of letting herself thinkeither of the past or the future; only once or twice, coming behindher son, she suddenly stopped over his sitting figure, and kissed hischeek, and stroked his hair. Bessy remembered afterwards--long yearsafterwards--how he had tossed his head away with nervous irritabilityon one of these occasions, and had muttered--her aunt did not hearit, but Bessy did--
'Can't you leave a man alone?'
Towards Bessy herself he was pretty gracious. No other wordsexpress his manner.. it was not warm, nor tender, nor cousinly, butthere was an assumption of underbred politeness towards her as ayoung, pretty woman; which politeness was neglected in hisauthoritative or grumbling manner towards his mother, or his sullensilence before his father. He once or twice ventured on a complimentto Bessy on her personal appearance. She stood still, and looked athim with astonishment.
'Have my eyes changed sin' last thou saw'st them,' she asked,'that thou must be telling me about 'em i' that fashion? I'd raytherby a deal see thee helping thy mother, when she's dropped herknitting-needle and canna see i' th' dusk for to pick it up.'
But Bessy thought of his pretty speech about her eyes, long afterhe had forgotten making it, and when he would have been puzzled totell the colour of them. Many a day, after he was gone, did she lookearnestly in the little oblong looking-glass, which hung up againstthe wall of her little sleeping-chamber, but which she used to takedown in order to examine the eyes he had praised, murmuring toherself, 'Pretty, soft grey eyes! Pretty, soft grey eyes!' until shewould hang up the glass again, with a sudden laugh and a rosyblush.
In the days when he had gone away to the vague distance and vaguerplace--the city called London--Bessy tried to forget all that hadgone against her feeling of the affection and duty that a son owed tohis parents; and she had many things to forget of this kind thatwould keep surging up into her mind. For instance, she wished that hehad not objected to the home-spun, home-made shirts which his motherand she had had such pleasure in getting ready for him. He might notknow, it was true--and so her love urged--how carefully and evenlythe thread had been spun: how, not content with bleaching the yarn inthe sunniest meadow, the linen, on its return from the weaver's, hadbeen spread out afresh on the sweet summer grass, and wateredcarefully, night after night, when there was no dew to perform thekindly office. He did not know--for no one but Bessy herself did--howmany false or large stitches, made large and false by her aunt'sfailing eyes (who yet liked to do the choicest part of the stitchingall by herself), Bessy had unpicked at night in her own room, andwith dainty fingers had re-stitched; sewing eagerly in the dead ofnight. All this he did not know; or he could never have complained ofthe coarse texture, the old-fashioned make of these shirts, and urgedon his mother to give him part of her little store of egg--andbutter-money, in order to buy newer-fashioned linen inHighminster.
When once that little precious store of his mother's wasdiscovered, it was well for Bessy's peace of mind that she did notknow how loosely her aunt counted up the coins, mistaking guineas forshillings, or just the other way, so that the amount was seldom thesame in the old black spoutless teapot. Yet this son, this hope, thislove, had still a strange power of fascination over the household.The evening before he left, he sat between his parents, a hand intheirs on either side, and Bessy on the old creepie-stool, her headlying on her aunt's knee, and looking up at him from time to time, asif to learn his face off by heart; till his glances, meeting hers,made her drop her eyes, and only sigh.
He stopped up late that night with his father, long after thewomen had gone to bed. But not to sleep; for I will answer for it thegrey-haired mother never slept a wink till the late dawn of theautumn day; and Bessy heard her uncle come upstairs with heavy,deliberate footsteps, and go to the old stocking which served him forbank, and count out the golden guineas; once he stopped, but again hewent on afresh, as if resolved to crown his gift with liberality.Another long pause--in which she could but indistinctly hearcontinued words, it might have been advice, it might be a prayer, forit was in her uncle's voice--and then father and son came up to bed.Bessy's room was but parted from her cousin's by a thin woodenpartition; and the last sound she distinctly heard, before her eyes,tired out with crying, closed themselves in sleep, was the guineasclinking down upon each other at regular intervals, as if Benjaminwere playing at pitch and toss with his father's present.
After he was gone, Bessy wished that he had asked her to walk partof the way with him into Highminster. She was all ready, her thingslaid out on the bed; but she could not accompany him withoutinvitation.
The little household tried to close over the gap as best theymight. They seemed to set themselves to their daily work with unusualvigour; but somehow, when evening came there had been little done.Heavy hearts never make light work, and there was no telling how muchcare and anxiety each had had to bear in secret in the field, at thewheel, or in the dairy. Formerly, he was looked for everySaturday--looked for, though he might not come; or, if he came, therewere things to be spoken about that made his visit anything but apleasure: still, he might come, and all things might go right; andthen what sunshine, what gladness to those humble people! But now hewas away, and dreary winter was come on; old folks' sight fails, andthe evenings were long and sad, in spite of all Bessy could do orsay. And he did not write so often as he might--so each one thought;though each one would have been ready to defend him from either ofthe others who had expressed such a thought aloud. 'Surely,' saidBessy to herself, when the first primroses peeped out in a shelteredand sunny hedge-bank, and she gathered them as she passed home fromafternoon church--surely, there never will be such a dreary,miserable winter again as this has been.' There had been a greatchange in Nathan and Hester Huntroyd during this last year. Thespring before, when Benjamin was yet the subject of more hopes thanfears, his father and mother looked what I may call an elderlymiddle-aged couple: people who had a good deal of hearty work in themyet. Now--it was not his absence alone that caused the change--theylooked frail and old, as if each day's natural trouble was a burdenmore than they could bear. For Nathan had heard sad reports about hisonly child, and had told them solemnly to his wife--as things too badto be believed, and yet, 'God help us if he is indeed such a lad asthis!' Their eyes were become too dry and hollow for many tears; theysat together, hand in hand; and shivered, and sighed, and did notspeak many words, or dare to look at each other: and then Hester hadsaid--
'We mauna tell th' lass. Young folks' hearts break wi' a little,and she'd be apt to fancy it were true.' Here the old woman's voicebroke into a kind of piping cry; but she struggled, and her nextwords were all right. 'We mauna tell her: he's bound to be fond onher, and, may be, if she thinks well on him, and loves him, it willbring him straight!'
'God grant it!' said Nathan.
'God shall grant it!' said Hester, passionately moaning out herwords; and then repeating them, alas! with a vain repetition.
'It's a bad place for lying, is Highminster,' said she at length,as if impatient of the silence. 'I never knowed such a place forgetting up stories. But Bessy knows nought on 'em and nother you norme belie'es 'em, that's one blessing.'
But, if they did not in their hearts believe them, how came theyto look so sad and worn, beyond what mere age could make them?
Then came round another year, another winter, yet more miserablethan the last. This year, with the primroses, came Benjamin; a bad,hard, flippant young man, with yet enough of specious manners andhandsome countenance to make his appearance striking at first tothose to whom the aspect of a London fast young man of the lowestorder is strange and new. Just at first, as he sauntered in with aswagger and an air of indifference, which was partly assumed, partlyreal, his old parents felt a simple kind of awe of him, as if he werenot their son, but a real gentleman; but they had too much fineinstinct in their homely natures not to know, after a very fewminutes had passed, that this was not a true prince.
'Whatten ever does he mean,' said Hester to her niece, as soon asthey were alone, 'by a' them maks and wear-locks? And he minces hiswords, as if his tongue were clipped short, or split like a magpie's.Hech! London is as bad as a hot day i' August for spoiling goodflesh; for he were a good-looking lad when he went up; and now, lookat him, with his skin gone into lines and flourishes, just like thefirst page on a copybook.'
'I think he looks a good deal better, aunt, for them new-fashionedwhiskers!' said Bessy, blushing still at the remembrance of the kisshe had given her on first seeing her--a pledge, she thought, poorgirl, that, in spite of his long silence in letter-writing, he stilllooked upon her as his troth-plight wife. There were things about himwhich none of them liked, although they never spoke of them; yetthere was also something to gratify them in the way in which heremained quiet at Nab-End, instead of seeking variety, as he hadformerly done, by constantly stealing off to the neighbouring town.His father had paid all the debts that he knew of, soon afterBenjamin had gone up to London; so there were no duns that hisparents knew of to alarm him, and keep him at home. And he went outin the morning with the old man, his father, and lounged by his side,as Nathan went round his fields, with busy yet infirm gait; havingheart, as he would have expressed it, in all that was going on,because at length his son seemed to take an interest in the farmingaffairs, and stood patiently by his side, while he compared his ownsmall galloways with the great shorthorns looming over hisneighbour's hedge.
'It's a slovenly way, thou seest, that of selling th' milk; folkdon't care whether its good or not, so that they get theirpint-measure of stuff that's watered afore it leaves th' beast,instead o' honest cheating by the help o' th' pump. But look atBessy's butter, what skill it shows! part her own manner o' making,and part good choice o' cattle. It's a pleasure to see her basket, a'packed ready to go to market; and it's noan o' a pleasure for to seethe buckets fu' of their blue starch-water as yon beasts give. I'mthinking they crossed th' breed wi' a pump not long sin'. Hech! butour Bessy's a clever canny wench! I sometimes think thou'lt be forgie'ing up th' law, and taking to th' oud trade, when thou wedst wi'her!' This was intended to be a skilful way of ascertaining whetherthere was any ground for the old farmer's wish and prayer, thatBenjamin might give up the law and return to the primitive occupationof his father. Nathan dared to hope it now, since his son had nevermade much by his profession, owing, as he had said, to his want of aconnection; and the farm, and the stock, and the clean wife, too,were ready to his hand; and Nathan could safely rely on himselfnever, in his most unguarded moments, to reproach his son with thehardly-earned hundreds that had been spent on his education. So theold man listened with painful interest to the answer which his sonwas evidently struggling to make, coughing a little and blowing hisnose before he spoke.
'Well, you see, father, law is a precarious livelihood; a man, asI may express myself, has no chanes in the profession unless he isknown--known to the judges, and tip-top barristers, and that sort ofthing. Now, you see, my mother and you have no acquaintance that youmay call exactly in that line. But luckily I have met with a man, afriend, as I may say, who is really a first-rate fellow, knowingeverybody, from the Lord Chancellor downwards; and he has offered mea share in his business--a partnership, in short'--He hesitated alittle.
'I'm sure that's uncommon kind of the gentleman,' said Nathan. Ishould like for to thank him mysen; for it's not many as would pickup a young chap out o' th' dirt, as it were, and say "Here's hauf mygood fortune for you, sir, and your very good health!" Most on 'emwhen they're gettin' a bit o' luck, run off wi' it to keep it a' tothemselves, and gobble it down in a corner. What may be his name? forI should like to know it.'
'You don't quite apprehend me, father. A great deal of what you'vesaid is true to the letter. People don't like to share their goodluck, as you say.'
'The more credit to them as does,' broke in Nathan.
'Ay, but, you see, even such a fine fellow as my friend Cavendishdoes not like to give away half his good practice for nothing. Heexpects an equivalent.'
'"An equivalent?"' said Nathan; his voice had dropped down anoctave.' And what may that be? There's always some meaning in grandwords, I take it; though I am not book-larned enough to find itout.'
'Why, in this case, the equivalent he demands for taking me intopartnership, and afterwards relinquishing the whole business to me,is three hundred pounds down.'
Benjamin looked sideways from under his eyes, to see how hisfather took the proposition. His father struck his stick deep down inthe ground; and, leaning one hand upon it, faced round at him.
'Then thy fine friend may go and be hanged. Three hunder pounds!I'll be darned an' danged too, if I know where to get 'em, if I'd bemaking a fool o' thee an' mysen too.'
He was out of breath by this time. His son took his father's firstwords in dogged silence; it was but the burst of surprise he had ledhimself to expect, and did not daunt him for long.
'I should think, sir'--
'"Sir"--whatten for dost thou "sir" me? Is them your manners? I'mplain Nathan Huntroyd, who never took on to be a gentleman; but Ihave paid my way up to this time, which I shannot do much longer, ifI'm to have a son coming an' asking me for three hundred pound, justmeet same as if I were a cow, and had nothing to do but let down mymilk to the first person as strokes me.'
'Well, father,' said Benjamin, with an affectation of frankness;'then there's nothing for me but to do as I have often plannedbefore--go and emigrate.'
'And what?' said his father, looking sharply and steadily athim.
'Emigrate. Go to America, or India, or some colony where therewould be an opening for a young man of spirit.'
Benjamin had reserved this proposition for his trump card,expecting by means of it to carry all before him. But, to hissurprise, his father plucked his stick out of the hole he had madewhen he so vehemently thrust it into the ground, and walked on fouror five steps in advance; there he stood still again, and there was adead silence for a few minutes.
'It 'ud, may be, be the best thing thou couldst do,' the fatherbegan. Benjamin set his teeth hard to keep in curses. It was well forpoor Nathan he did not look round then, and see the look his son gavehim. 'But it would come hard like upon us, upon Hester and me; for,whether thou'rt a good 'un or not, thou'rt our flesh and blood, ouronly bairn; and, if thou'rt not all as a man could wish, it's may be,been the fault on our pride i' the--It 'ud kill the missus, if hewent off to Amerikay, and Bess, too, the lass as thinks so much onhim!' The speech, originally addressed to his son, had wandered offinto a monologue--as keenly listened to by Benjamin, however, as ifit had all been spoken to him. After a pause of consideration, hisfather turned round:
'Yon man--I wunnot call him a friend o' yourn, to think of askingyou for such a mint o' money--is not th' only one, I'll be bound, ascould give ye a start i' the law? Other folks 'ud, may be, do it forless?'
'Not one of 'em; to give me equal advantages,' said Benjamin,thinking he perceived signs of relenting.
'Well, then, thou may'st tell him that it's nother he nor thee as'll see th' sight o' three hundred pound o' my money. I'll not denyas I've a bit laid up again' a rainy day; it's not so much asthatten, though; and a part on it is for Bessy, as has been like adaughter to us.'
'But Bessy is to be your real daughter some day, when I've a hometo take her to,' said Benjamin; for he played very fast and loose,even in his own mind, with his engagement with Bessy. Present withher, when she was looking her brightest and best, he behaved to heras if they were engaged lovers; absent from her, he looked upon herrather as a good wedge, to be driven into his parents' favour on hisbehalf Now, however, he was not exactly untrue in speaking as if hemeant to make her his wife; for the thought was in his mind, thoughhe made use of it to work upon his father.
'It will be a dree day for us, then,' said the old man. 'ButGod'll have us in His keeping, and'll, may-happen, be taking morecare on us i' heaven by that time than Bess, good lass as she is, hashad on us at Nab-End. Her heart is set on thee, too. But, lad, Ihanna gotten the three hunder; I keeps my cash i' th' stocking, thousknow'st, till it reaches fifty pound, and then I takes it to RiponBank. Now the last scratch they'n gi'en me made it just two-hunder,and I hanna but on to fifteen pound yet i' the stockin', and I meantone hunder an' the red cow's calf to be for Bess, she's ta'en suchpleasure like i' rearing it'.
Benjamin gave a sharp glance at his father, to see if he wastelling the truth; and, that a suspicion of the old man, his father,had entered into the son's head, tells enough of his owncharacter.
'I canna do it, I canna do it, for sure; although I shall like tothink as I had helped on the wedding. There's the black heifer to besold yet, and she'll fetch a matter of ten pound; but a deal on'twill be needed for seed-corn, for the arable did but bad last year,and I thought I would try--I'll tell thee what, lad! I'll make it asthough Bess lent thee her hunder, only thou must give her a writ ofhand for it; and thou shalt have a' the money i' Ripon Bank, and seeif the lawyer wunnot let thee have a share of what he offered thee atthree hunder for two. I dunnot mean for to wrong him; but thou mustget a fair share for the money. At times, I think thou'rt done byfolk; now I wadna have you cheat a bairn of a brass farthing; sametime, I wadna have thee so soft as to be cheated.'
To explain this, it should be told that some of the bills, whichBenjamin had received money from his father to pay, had been alteredso as to cover other and less creditable expenses which the young manhad incurred; and the simple old farmer, who had still much faithleft in him for his boy, was acute enough to perceive that he hadpaid above the usual price for the articles he had purchased.
After some hesitation, Benjamin agreed to receive the two hundred,and promised to employ it to the best advantage in setting himself upin business. He had, nevertheless, a strange hankering after theadditional fifteen pounds that was left to accumulate in thestocking. It was his, he thought, as heir to his father; and he soonlost some of his usual complaisance for Bessy that evening, as hedwelt on the idea that there was money being laid by for her, andgrudged it to her even in imagination. He thought more of thisfifteen pounds that he was not to have than of all the hardly-earnedand humbly-saved two hundred that he was to come into possession of.Meanwhile, Nathan was in unusual spirits that evening. He was sogenerous and affectionate at heart, that he had an unconscioussatisfaction in having helped two people on the road to happiness bythe sacrifice of the greater part of his property. The very fact ofhaving trusted his son so largely seemed to make Benjamin more worthyof trust in his father's estimation. The sole idea he tried to banishwas, that, if all came to pass as he hoped, both Benjamin and Bessywould be settled far away from Nab-End; but then he had a child-likereliance that 'God would take care of him and his missus, somehow oranodder. It wur o' no use looking too far ahead.'
Bessy had to hear many unintelligible jokes from her uncle thatnight, for he made no doubt that Benjamin had told her all that hadpassed.' whereas the truth was, his son had said never a word to hiscousin on the subject.
When the old couple were in bed, Nathan told his wife of thepromise he had made to his son, and the plan in life which theadvance of the two hundred was to promote. Poor Hester was a littlestartled at the sudden change in the destination of the sum, whichshe had long thought of with secret pride as money i' th' bank'. Butshe was willing enough to part with it, if necessary, for Benjamin.Only, how such a sum could be necessary, was the puzzle. But even theperplexity was jostled out of her mind by the overwhelming idea, notonly of 'our Ben' settling in London, but of Bessy going there too ashis wife. This great trouble swallowed up all care about money, andHester shivered and sighed all the night through with distress. Inthe morning, as Bessy was kneading the bread, her aunt, who had beensitting by the fire in an unusual manner, for one of her activehabits, said--
'I reckon we maun go to th' shop for our bread; an' that's a thingI never thought to come to so long as I lived.'
Bessy looked up from her kneading, surprised.
'I'm sure, I'm noan going to cat their nasty stuff. What for do yewant to get baker's bread, aunt? This dough will rise as high as akite in a south wind.'
'I'm not up to kneading as I could do once; it welly breaks myback; and, when tou'rt off in London, I reckon we maun buy our bread,first time in my life.'
'I'm not a-goin to London,' said Bessy, kneading away with freshresolution, and growing very red, either with the idea or theexertion.
'But our Ben is going partner wi' a great London lawyer; and thouknow'st he'll not tarry long but what he'll fetch thee.'
'Now, aunt,' said Bessy, stripping her arms of the dough, butstill not looking up, 'if that's all, don't fret yourself Ben willhave twenty minds in his head, afore he settles, eyther in businessor in wedlock. I sometimes wonder,' she said, with increasingvehemence, 'why I go on thinking on him; for I dunnot think he thinkson me, when I'm out o' sight. I've a month's mind to try and forgethim this time, when he leaves us--that I have!'
'For shame, wench! and he to be planning and purposing, all forthy sake! It wur only yesterday as he wur talking to thy uncle, andmapping it out so clever; only, thou seest, wench, it'll be dree workfor us when both thee and him is gone.'
The old woman began to cry the kind of tearless cry of the aged.Bessy hastened to comfort her; and the two talked, and grieved, andhoped, and planned for the days that now were to be, till they ended,the one in being consoled, the other in being secretly happy.
Nathan and his son came back from Highminster that evening, withtheir business transacted in the round-about way which was mostsatisfactory to the old man. If he had thought it necessary to takehalf as much pains in ascertaining the truth of the plausible detailsby which his son bore out the story of the offered partnership, as hedid in trying to get his money conveyed to London in the most securemanner, it would have been well for him. But he knew nothing of allthis, and acted in the way which satisfied his anxiety best. Hecamehome tired, but content; not in such high spirits as on the nightbefore, but as easy in his mind as he could be on the eve of hisson's departure. Bessy, pleasantly agitated by her aunt's tale of themorning of her cousin's true love for her ('what ardently we wish welong believe') and the plan which was to end in their marriage--endto her, the woman, at least--looked almost pretty in her bright,blushing comeliness, and more than once, as she moved about fromkitchen to dairy, Benjamin pulled her towards him, and gave her akiss. To all such proceedings the old couple were wilfully blind;and, as night drew on, every one became sadder and quieter, thinkingof the parting that was to be on the morrow. As the hours slippedaway, Bessy too became subdued; and, by and by, her simple cunningwas exerted to get Benjamin to sit down next his mother, whose veryheart was yearning after him, as Bessy saw. When once her child wasplaced by her side, and she had got possession of his hand, the oldwoman kept stroking it, and murmuring long unused words ofendearment, such as she had spoken to him while he was yet a littlechild. But all this was wearisome to him. As long as he might playwith, and plague, and caress Bessy, he had not been sleepy; but nowhe yawned loudly. Bessy could have boxed his cars for not curbingthis gaping; at any rate, he need not have done it so openly--soalmost ostentatiously. His mother was more pitiful.
'Thou'rt tired, my lad!' said she, putting her hand fondly on hisshoulder; but it fell off, as he stood up suddenly, and said--
'Yes, deuced tired! I'm off to bed.' And with a rough, carelesskiss all round, even to Bessy, as if he was 'deuced tired' of playingthe lover, he was gone; leaving the three to gather up their thoughtsslowly, and follow him upstairs.
He seemed almost impatient at them for rising betimes to see himoff the next morning, and made no more of a good-bye than some suchspeech as this: 'Well, good folk, when next I see you, I hope you'llhave merrier faces than you have to-day. Why, you might be going to afuneral; it's enough to scare a man from the place; you look quiteugly to what you did last night, Bess.'
He was gone; and they turned into the house, and settled to thelong day's work without many words about their loss. They had no timefor unnecessary talking, indeed; for much had been left undone,during his short visit, that ought to have been done, and they hadnow to work double tides. Hard work was their comfort for many a longday.
For some time Benjamin's letters, if not frequent, were full ofexultant accounts of his well-doing. It is true that the details ofhis prosperity were somewhat vague; but the fact was broadly andunmistakenly stated. Then came longer pauses; shorter letters,altered in tone. About a year after he had left them, Nathan receiveda letter which bewildered and irritated him exceedingly. Somethinghad gone wrong--what, Benjamin did not say--but the letter ended witha request that was almost a demand, for the remainder of his father'ssavings, whether in the stocking or in the bank. Now, the year hadnot been prosperous with Nathan; there had been an epidemic amongcattle, and he had suffered along with his neighbours; and, moreover,the price of cows, when he had bought some to repair his wastedstock, was higher than he had ever remembered it before. The fifteenpounds in the stocking, which Benjamin left, had diminished to littlemore than three; and to have that required of him in so peremptory amanner! Before Nathan imparted the contents of this letter to anyone(Bessy and her aunt had gone to market in a neighbour's cart thatday), he got pen and ink and paper, and wrote back an ill-spelt, butvery explicit and stem negative. Benjamin had had his portion; and ifhe could not make it do, so much the worse for him; his father had nomore to give him. That was the substance of the letter.
The letter was written, directed, and sealed, and given to thecountry postman, returning to Highminster after his day'sdistribution and collection of letters, before Hester and Bessy cameback from market. It had been a pleasant day of neighbourly meetingand sociable gossip; prices had been high, and they were in goodspirits--only agreeably tired, and full of small pieces of news. Itwas some time before they found out how flatly all their talk fell onthe cars of the stay-at-home listener. But, when they saw that hisdepression was caused by something beyond their powers of accountingfor by any little every-day cause, they urged him to tell them whatwas the matter. His anger had not gone off. It had rather increasedby dwelling upon it, and he spoke it out in good, resolute terms;and, long ere he had ended, the two women were as sad, if not asangry, as himself. Indeed, it was many days before either feelingwore away in the minds of those who entertained them. Bessy was thesoonest comforted, because she found a vent for her sorrow in action:action that was half as a kind of compensation for many a sharp wordthat she had spoken, when her cousin had done anything to displeaseher on his last visit, and half because she believed that he nevercould have written such a letter to his father, unless his want ofmoney had been very pressing and real; though how he could ever havewanted money so soon, after such a heap of it had been given to him,was more than she could justly say. Bessy got out all her savings oflittle presents of sixpences and shillings, ever since she had been achild--of all the money she had gained for the eggs of two hens,called her own; she put the whole together, and it was above twopounds--two pounds five and seven-pence, to speak accurately--and,leaving out the penny as a nest-egg for her future savings, she madeup the rest in a little parcel, and sent it, with a note, toBenjamin's address in London:
'From a well-wisher.
'Dr BENJAMIN,--Unkle has lost 2 cows and a vast of monney. He is agood deal Angored, but more Troubled. So no more at present. Hopeingthis will finding you well As it leaves us. Tho' lost to Site, ToMemory Dear. Repayment not kneeded.--Your effectonet cousin.
'ELIZABETH ROSE'
When this packet was once fairly sent off, Bessy began to singagain over her work. She never expected the mere form ofacknowledgement; indeed, she had such faith in the carrier (who tookparcels to York, whence they were forwarded to London by coach), thatshe felt sure he would go on purpose to London to deliver anythingintrusted to him, if he had not full confidence in the person,persons, coach and horses, to whom he committed it. Therefore she wasnot anxious that she did not hear of its arrival. 'Giving a thing toa man as one knows,' said she to herself, 'is a vast different topoking a thing through a hole into a box, th' inside of which one hasnever clapped eyes on; and yet letters get safe, some ways oranother.' (The belief in the infallibility of the post was destinedto a shock before long.) But she had a secret yearning for Benjamin'sthanks, and some of the old words of love that she had been withoutso long. Nay, she even thought--when, day after day, week after week,passed by without a line--that he might be winding up his affairs inthat weary, wasteful London, and coming back to Nab-End to thank herin person.
One day--her aunt was upstairs, inspecting the summer's make ofcheeses, her uncle out in the fields--the postman brought a letterinto the kitchen to Bessy. A country postman, even now, is not muchpressed for time; and in those days there were but few letters todistribute, and they were only sent out from Highminster once a weekinto the district in which Nab-End was situated; and, on thoseoccasions, the letter-carrier usually paid morning calls on thevarious people for whom he had letters. So, half-standing by thedresser, half-sitting on it, he began to rummage out his bag.
'It's a queer-like thing I've got for Nathan this time. I amafraid it will bear ill news in it; for there's 'Dead Letter Office'stamped on the top of it.'
'Lord save us!' said Bessy, and sat down on the nearest chair, aswhite as a sheet. In an instant, however, she was up; and, snatchingthe ominous letter out of the man's hands, she pushed him before herout of the house, and said, 'Be off wi' thee, afore aunt comes down';and ran past him as hard as she could, till she reached the fieldwhere she expected to find her uncle.
'Uncle,' said she, breathiess, 'what is it? Oh, uncle, speak! Ishe dead?'
Nathan's hands trembled, and his eyes dazzled, 'Take it,' he said,'and tell me what it is.'
'It's a letter--it's from you to Benjamin, it is--and there'swords written on it, 'Not known at the address given;' so they'vesent it back to the writer--that's you, uncle. Oh, it gave me such astart, with them nasty words written outside!'
Nathan had taken the letter back into his own hands, and wasturning it over, while he strove to understand what the quick-wittedBessy had picked up at a glance. But he arrived at a differentconclusion.
'He's dead!' said he. 'The lad is dead, and he never knowed how asI were sorry I wrote to 'un so sharp. My lad! my lad!' Nathan satdown on the ground where he stood, and covered his face with his old,withered hands. The letter returned to him was one which he hadwritten, with infinite pains and at various times, to tell his child,in kinder words and at greater length than he had done before, thereasons why he could not send him the money demanded. And nowBenjamin was dead; nay, the old man immediately jumped to theconclusion that his child had been starved to death, without money,in a wild, wide, strange place. All he could say at first was--
'My heart, Bess--my heart is broken!' And he put his hand to hisside, still keeping his shut eyes covered with the other, as thoughhe never wished to see the light of day again. Bessy was down by hisside in an instant, holding him in her arms, chafing and kissinghim.
'It's noan so bad, uncle; he's not dead; the letter does not saythat, dunnot think it. He's flitted from that lodging, and the lazytykes dunna know where to find him; and so they just send y' back th'letter, instead of trying fra' house to house, as Mark Benson would.I've alwayds heerd tell on south-country folk for laziness. He's noandead, uncle; he's just flitted; and he'll let us know afore longwhere he's gotten to. May be, it's a cheaper place; for that lawyerhas cheated him, ye reck'lect, and he'll be trying to live for aslittle as he can, that's all, uncle. Dunnot take on so; for it doesnasay he's dead.'
By this time Bessy was crying with agitation, although she firmlybelieved in her own view of the case, and had felt the opening of theill-favoured letter as a great relief. Presently she began to urge,both with word and action, upon her uncle, that he should sit nolonger on the damp grass, She pulled him up; for he was very stiff,and, as he said, 'all shaken to dithers.' She made him walk about,repeating over and over again her solution of the case, always in thesame words, beginning again and again, 'He's noan dead; it's justbeen a flitting,' and so on. Nathan shook his head, and tried to beconvinced; but it was a steady belief in his own heart for all that.He looked so deathly ill on his return home with Bessy (for she wouldnot let him go on with his day's work), that his wife made sure hehad taken cold; and he, weary and indifferent to life, was glad tosubside into bed and the rest from exertion which his real bodilyillness gave him. Neither Bessy nor he spoke of the letter again,even to each other, for many days; and she found means to stop MarkBenson's tongue and satisfy his kindly curiously, by giving him therosy side of her own view of the case.
Nathan got up again, an older man in looks and constitution by tenyears for that week of bed. His wife gave him many a scolding on hisimprudence for sitting down in the wet field, if ever so tired. Butnow she, too, was beginning to be uneasy at Benjamin's long-continuedsilence. She could not write herself; but she urged her husband manya time to send a letter to ask for news of her lad. He said nothingin reply for some time; at length, he told her he would write nextSunday afternoon. Sunday was his general day for writing, and thisSunday he meant to go to church for the first time since his illness.On Saturday he was very persistent, against his wife's wishes (backedby Bessy as hard as she could), in resolving to go into Highminsterto market. The change would do him good, he said. But he came hometired, and a little mysterious in his ways. When he went to theshippon the last thing at night, he asked Bessy to go with him, andhold the lantern, while he looked at an ailing cow; and, when theywere fairly out of the car-shot of the house, he pulled a littleshop-parcel from his pocket and said--
'Thou'lt put that on ma Sunday hat, wilt 'on, lass? It'll be a biton a comfort to me; for I know my lad's dead and gone, though I dunnaspeak on it, for fear o' grieving th' old woman and ye.'
'I'll put it on, uncle, if--But he's noan dead.' (Bessy wassobbing.)
'I know--I know, lass. I dunnot wish other folk to hold myopinion; but Id like to wear a bit o' crape out o' respect to my boy.It 'ud have done me good for to have ordered a black coat; but she'dsee if I had na' on my wedding-coat, Sundays, for a' she's losing hereyesight, poor old wench! But she'll ne'er take notice o' a bit o'crape. Thou'lt put it on all canny and tidy.'
So Nathan went to church with a strip of crape, as narrow as Bessydurst venture to make it, round his hat. Such is thecontradictoriness of human nature that, though he was most anxioushis wife should not hear of his conviction that their son was dead,he was half-hurt that none of his neighbours noticed his sign ofmourning so far as to ask him for whom he wore it.
But after a while, when they never heard a word from or aboutBenjamin, the household wonder as to what had become of him grew sopainful and strong, that Nathan no longer kept the idea to himselfPoor Hester, however, rejected it with her whole will, heart, andsoul. She could and would not believe--nothing should make herbelieve--that her only child Benjamin had died without some sign oflove or farewell to her. No arguments could shake her in this. Shebelieved that, if all natural means of communication between her andhim had been cut off at the last supreme moment--if death had comeupon him in an instant, sudden and unexpected--her intense love wouldhave been supernaturally made conscious of the blank. Nathan at timestried to feel glad that she should still hope to see the lad again;but at other moments he wanted her sympathy in his grief, hisself-reproach, his weary wonder as to how and what they had donewrong in the treatment of their son, that he had been such a care andsorrow to his parents. Bessy was convinced, first by her aunt, andthen by her uncle--honestly convinced--on both sides of the argument,and so, for the time, able to sympathise with each. But she lost heryouth in a very few months; she looked set and middle-aged, longbefore she ought to have done, and rarely smiled and never sangagain.
All sorts of new arrangements were required by the blow which toldso miserably upon the energies of all the household at Nab-End.Nathan could no longer go about and direct his two men, taking a goodrum of work himself at busy times. Hester lost her interest in thedairy; for which, indeed, her increasing loss of sight unfitted her.Bessy would either do field-work, or attend to the cows and theshippon, or chum, or make cheese; she did all well, no longermerrily, but with something of stem cleverness. But she was not sorrywhen her uncle, one evening, told her aunt and her that aneighbouring farmer, job Kirkby, had made him an offer to take somuch of his land off his hands as would leave him only pasture enoughfor two cows, and no arable to attend to; while Farmer Kirkby did notwish to interfere with anything in the house, only would be glad touse some of the out-building for his Battening cattle.
'We can do wi' Hawky and Daisy; it'll leave us eight or ten poundo' butter to take to market i' summer time, and keep us fra' thinkingtoo much, which is what I'm dreading on as I get into years.'
'Ay,' said his wife. 'Thou'll not have to go so far a-field, ifit's only the Aster-Toft as is on thy hands. And Bess will have togie up her pride i' cheese, and tak' to making cream-butter. I'dallays a fancy for trying at cream-butter; but th' whey had to beused; else, where I come fra', they'd never ha' looked nearwhey-butter.'
When Hester was left alone with Bessy, she said, in allusion tothis change of plan--
'I'm thankful to the Lord that it is as it is; for I were allaysafeared Nathan would have to gie up the house and farm altogether,and then the lad would na know where to find us when he came backfra' Merikay. He's gone there for to make his fortune, I'll be bound.Keep up thy heart, lass, he'll be home some day; and have sown hiswild oats. Eh! but thatten's a pretty story i' the Gospel about theProdigal, who'd to cat the pigs' vittle at one time, but ended i'clover in his father's house. And I'm sure our Nathan 'll be ready toforgive him, and love him, and make much of him--may be, a deal morenor me, who never gave in to 's death. It'll be liken to aresurrection to our Nathan.'
Farmer Kirkby, then, took by far the greater part of the landbelonging to Nab-End Farm; and the work about the rest, and about thetwo remaining cows, was easily done by three pairs of willing hands,with a little occasional assistance. The Kirkby family were pleasantenough to have to deal with. There was a son, a stiff, gravebachelor, who was very particular and methodical about his work, andrarely spoke to any one. But Nathan took it into his head that JohnKirkby was looking after Bessy, and was a good deal troubled in hismind in consequence; for it was the first time he had to face theeffects of his belief in his son's death; and he discovered, to hisown surprise, that he had not that implicit faith which would make iteasy for him to look upon Bessy as the wife of another man than theone to whom she had been betrothed in her youth. As, however, JohnKirkby seemed in no hurry to make his intentions (if indeed he hadany) clear to Bessy, it was only now and then that his jealousy onbehalf of his lost son seized upon Nathan.
But people, old, and in deep hopeless sorrow, grow irritable attimes, however they may repent and struggle against theirirritability. There were days when Bessy had to bear a good deal fromher uncle; but she loved him so dearly and respected him so much,that, high as her temper was to all other people, she never returnedhim a rough or impatient word. And she had a reward in the convictionof his deep, true affection for her, and her aunt's entire and mostsweet dependence upon her.
One day, however--it was near the end of November--Bessy had had agood deal to bear, that seemed more than usually unreasonable, on thepart of her uncle. The truth was, that one of Kirkby's cows was ill,and John Kirkby was a good deal about in the farmyard; Bessy wasinterested about the animal, and had helped in preparing a mash overtheir own fire, that had to be given warm to the sick creature. IfJohn had been out of the way, there would have been no one moreanxious about the affair than Nathan: both because he was naturallykind-hearted and neighbourly, and also because he was rather proud ofhis reputation for knowledge in the diseases of cattle. But becauseJohn was about, and Bessy helping a little in what had to be done,Nathan would do nothing, and chose to assume that nothing to think onailed th' beast; but lads and lasses were allays fain to be feared onsomething.' Now John was upwards of forty, and Bessy nearlyeight-and-twenty; so the terms lads and lasses did not exactly applyto their case.
When Bessy brought the milk in from their own cows, towardshalf-past five o'clock, Nathan bade her make the doors, and not berunning out i' the dark and cold about other folks' business; and,though Bessy was a little surprised and a good deal annoyed at histone, she sat down to her supper without making a remonstrance. Ithad long been Nathan's custom to look out the last thing at night, tosee 'what mak' o' weather it wur'; and when, towards half-past eight,he got his stick and went out--two or three steps from the door,which opened into the house-place where they were sitting--Hester puther hand on her niece's shoulder and said--
'He's gotten a touch o' rheumatics, as twinges him and makes himspeak so sharp. I didna like to ask thee afore him, but how's yonpoor beast?'
'Very ailing, belike. John Kirkby wur off for th' cow-doctor whenI cam in. I reckon they'll have to stop up wi 't a' night.'
Since their sorrows, her uncle had taken to reading a chapter inthe Bible aloud, the last thing at night. He could not read fluently,and often hesitated long over a word, which he miscalled at length;but the very fact of opening the book seemed to soothe those oldbereaved parents; for it made them feel quiet and safe in thepresence of God, and took them out of the cares and troubles of thisworld into that futurity which, however dim and vague, was to theirfaithful hearts as a sure and certain rest. This little quiettime--Nathan sitting with his hem spectacles, the tallow candlebetween him and the Bible throwing a strong light on his reverent,earnest face; Hester sitting on the other side of the fire, her headbowed in attentive listening; now and then shaking it, and moaning alittle, but when a promise came, or any good tidings of great joy,saying 'Amen' with fervour; Bessy by her aunt, perhaps her mind alittle wandering to some household cares, or it might be on thoughtsof those who were absent--this little quiet pause, I say, wasgrateful and soothing to this household, as a lullaby to a tiredchild. But this night, Bessy, sitting opposite to the long, lowwindow, only shaded by a few geraniums that grew in the sill, and tothe door alongside that window through which her uncle had passed nota quarter of an hour before, saw the wooden latch of the door gentlyand almost noiselessly lifted up, as if some one were trying it fromthe outside.
She was startled, and watched again, intently; but it wasperfectly still now. She thought it must have been that it had notfallen into its proper place, when her uncle had come in and lockedthe door. It was just enough to make her uncomfortable, no more; andshe almost persuaded herself it must have been fancy. Before goingupstairs, however, she went to the window, to look out into thedarkness; but all was still. Nothing to be seen; nothing to be heard.So the three went quietly upstairs to bed.
The house was little better than a cottage. The front door openedon a house-place, over which was the old couple's bed-room. To theleft, as you entered this pleasant house-place, and at close rightangles with the entrance, was a door that led into the small parlour,which was Hester's and Bessy's pride, although not half ascomfortable as the house-place, and never on any occasion used as asitting-room. There were shells and bunches of honesty in thefireplace; the best chest of drawers, and a company set ofgaudy-coloured china, and a bright common carpet on the floor; butall failed to give it the aspect of the homely comfort and delicatecleanliness of the house-place. Over this parlour was the bedroomwhich Benjamin had slept in when a boy, when at home. It was kept,still, in a kind of readiness for him. The bed was yet there, inwhich none had slept since he had last done, eight or nine years ago;and every now and then a warming-pan was taken quietly and silentlyup by his old mother, and the bed thoroughly aired. But this she didin her husband's absence, and without saying a word to anyone; nordid Bessy offer to help her, though her eyes often filled with tears,as she saw her aunt still going through the hopeless service. But theroom had become a receptacle for all unused things; and there wasalways a corner of it appropriated to the winter's store of apples.To the left of the house-place, as you stood facing the fire, on theside opposite to the window and outer door, were two other doors; theone on the right led into a kind of back kitchen, and had a lean-toroof, and a door opening on to the farm-yard and back-premises; theleft-hand door gave on the stairs, underneath which was a closet, inwhich various house-hold treasures were kept; and beyond that was thedairy, over which Bessy slept, her little chamber window opening justabove the sloping roof of the back-kitchen. There were neither blindsnor shutters to any of the windows, either upstairs or down; thehouse was built of stone; and there was heavy framework of the samematerial around the little casement windows, and the long, low windowof the house-place was divided by what, in grander dwellings, wouldbe called mullions.
By nine o'clock this night of which I am speaking, all had goneupstairs to bed; it was even later than usual, for the burning ofcandles was regarded so much in the light of an extravagance, thatthe household kept early hours even for country-folk. But, somehow,this evening, Bessy could not sleep; although in general she was indeep slumber five minutes after her head touched the pillow. Herthoughts ran on the chances for John Kirkby's cow, and a little fearlest the disorder might be epidemic and spread to their own cattle.Across all these homely cares came a vivid, uncomfortablerecollection of the way in which the door-latch went up and down,without any sufficient agency to account for it. She felt more surenow than she had done downstairs, that it was a real movement, and noeffect of her imagination. She wished that it had not happened justwhen her uncle was reading, that she might at once have gone quick tothe door, and convinced herself of the cause. As it was, her thoughtsran uneasily on the supernatural; and thence to Benjamin, her dearcousin and playfellow, her early lover. She had long given him up aslost for ever to her, if not actually dead; but this very giving himup for ever involved a free, full forgiveness of all his wrongs toher. She thought tenderly of him, as of one who might have been ledastray in his later years, but who existed rather in her recollectionas the innocent child, the spirited lad, the handsome, dashing youngman. If John Kirkby's quiet attentions had ever betrayed his wishesto Bessy--if indeed he ever had any wishes on the subject--her firstfeeling would have been to compare his weather-beaten, middle-agedface and figure with the face and figure she remembered well, butnever more expected to see in this life. So thinking, she became veryrestless, and weary of bed, and, after long tossing and turning,ending in a belief that she should never get to sleep at all thatnight, she went off soundly and suddenly.
As suddenly she was wide awake, sitting up in bed, listening tosome noise that must have awakened her, but which was not repeatedfor some time. Surely it was in her uncle's room--her uncle was up;but, for a minute or two, there was no further sound. Then she heardhim open his door, and go downstairs, with hurried, stumbling steps.She now thought that her aunt must be ill, and hastily sprang out ofbed, and was putting on her petticoat with hurried, trembling hands,and had just opened her chamber door, when she heard the front doorundone, and a scuffle, as of the feet of several people, and manyrude, passionate words, spoken hoarsely below the breath. Quick asthought she understood it all--the house was lonely--her uncle hadthe reputation of being well-to-do--they had pretended to be belated,and had asked their way or something. What a blessing that JohnKirkby's cow was sick, for there were several men watching with him!She went back, opened her window, squeezed herself out, slid down thelean-to roof, and ran barefoot and breathless to the shippon--
'John, John, for the love of God, come quick; there's robbers inthe house, and uncle and aunt 'll be murdered!' she whispered, interrified accents, through the closed and barred shippon door. In amoment it was undone, and John and the cow-doctor stood there, readyto act, if they but understood her rightly. Again she repeated herwords, with broken, half-unintelligible explanations of what she asyet did not rightly understand.
'Front door is open, say'st thou?' said John, arming himself witha pitchfork, while the cow-doctor took some other implement. 'Then Ireckon we'd best make for that way o' getting into th' house, andcatch 'em all in a trap.'
'Run! run!' was all Bessy could say, taking hold of John Kirkby'sarm, and pulling him along with her. Swiftly did the three run to thehouse round the corner, and in at the open front-door. The mencarried the hem lantern they had been using in the shippon; and, bythe sudden oblong light that it threw, Bessy saw the principal objectof her anxiety, her uncle, lying stunned and helpless on thekitchen-floor. Her first thought was for him; for she had no ideathat her aunt was in any immediate danger, although she heard thenoise of feet, and fierce, subdued voices upstairs.
'Make th' door behind us, lass. We'll not let 'em escape!' saidbrave John Kirkby, dauntless in a good cause, though he knew not howmany there might be above. The cow-doctor fastened and locked thedoor, saying, 'There!' in a defiant tone, as he put the key in hispocket. It was to be a struggle for life or death, or, at any rate,for effectual capture or desperate escape. Bessy kneeled down by heruncle, who did not speak or give any sign of consciousness. Bessyraised his head by drawing a pillow off the settle, and putting itunder him; she longed to go for water into the back kitchen, but thesound of a violent struggle, and of heavy blows, and of low, hardcurses spoken through closed teeth, and muttered passion, as thoughbreath were too much needed for action to be wasted in speech, kepther still and quiet by her uncle's side in the kitchen, where thedarkness might almost be felt, so thick and deep was it. Once--in apause of her own heart's beating--a sudden terror came over her; sheperceived, in that strange way in which the presence of a livingcreature forces itself on our consciousness in the darkest room, thatsomeone was near her, keeping as still as she. It was not the poorold man's breathing that she heard, nor the radiation of his presencethat she felt; someone else was in the kitchen; another robber,perhaps, left to guard the old man, with murderous intent if hisconsciousness returned. Now Bessy was fully aware thatself-preservation would keep her terrible companion quiet, as therewas no motive for his betraying himself stronger than the desire ofescape; any effort for which he, the unseen witness, must know wouldbe rendered abortive by the fact of the door being locked.
Yet, with the knowledge that he was there, close to her still,silent as the grave--with fearful, it might be deadly, unspokenthoughts in his heart--possibly even with keener and stronger sightthan hers, as longer accustomed to the darkness, able to discern herfigure and posture, and glaring at her like some wild beast--Bessycould not fail to shrink from the vision that her fancy presented!And still the struggle went on upstairs; feet slipping, blowssounding, and the wrench of intentioned aims, the strong gasps forbreath, as the wrestlers paused for an instant. In one of thesepauses, Bessy felt conscious of a creeping movement close to her,which ceased when the noise of the strife above died away, and wasresumed when it again began. She was aware of it by some subtlevibration of the air, rather than by touch or sound. She was surethat he who had been close to her one minute as she knelt, was, thenext, passing stealthily towards the inner door which led to thestaircase. She thought he was going to join and strengthen hisaccomplices, and, with a great cry, she sprang after him; but just asshe came to the doorway, through which some dim portion of light fromthe upper chambers came, she saw one man thrown downstairs, with suchviolence that he fell almost at her very feet, while the dark,creeping figure glided suddenly away to the left, and as suddenlyentered the closet beneath the stairs. Bessy had no time to wonder asto his purpose in so doing, whether he had at first designed to aidhis accomplices in their desperate fight or not. He was an enemy, arobber, that was all she knew, and she sprang to the door of thecloset, and in a trice had locked it on the outside. And then shestood frightened, panting in that dark corner, sick with terror lestthe man who lay before her was either John Kirkby or the cow-doctor.If it were either of those friendly two, what would become of theother--of her uncle, her aunt, herself? But, in a very few minutes,this wonder was ended; her two defenders came slowly and heavily downthe stairs, dragging with them a man, fierce, sullen,despairing--disabled with terrible blows, which had made his face onebloody, swollen mass. As for that, neither John nor the cow-doctorwas much more presentable. One of them bore the lantern in his teeth;for all their strength was taken up by the weight of the fellow theywere bearing.
'Take care,' said Bessy, from her corner; 'there's a chap justbeneath your feet. I dunno know if he's dead or alive; and uncle lieson the floor just beyond.'
They stood still on the stairs for a moment, just then the robberthey had thrown downstairs stirred and moaned.
'Bessy,' said John, 'run off to th' stable and fetch ropes andgearing for us to bind 'em; and we'll rid the house on 'em, and thoucan'st go see after th' oud folks, who need it sadly.'
Bessy was back in a very few minutes. When she came in, there wasmore light in the house-place, for someone had stirred up the rakedfire.
'That felly makes as though his leg were broken,' said John,nodding towards the man still lying on the ground. Bessy felt almostsorry for him as they handled him--not over-gently--and bound him,only half-conscious, as hardly and tightly as they had done hisfierce, surly companion. She even felt sorry for his evident agony,as they turned him over and over, that she ran to get him a cup ofwater to moisten his lips.
'I'm loth to leave yo' with him alone,' said John, 'though I'mthinking his leg is broken for sartin, and he can't stir, even if hecomes to hissel, to do yo' any harm. But we'll just take off thischap, and mak sure of him, and then one on us 'll come back to yo',and we can, may be, find a gate or so for yo' to get shut on him o'th' house. This felly's made safe enough, I'll be bound,' said he,looking at the burglar, who stood, bloody and black, with fell hatredon his sullen face. His eye caught Bessy's, as hers fell on him withdread so evident that it made him smile; and the look and the smileprevented the words from being spoken which were on Bessy's lips.
She dared not tell, before him, that an able-bodied accomplicestill remained in the house; lest, somehow, the door which kept him aprisoner should be broken open and the fight renewed. So she onlysaid to John, as he was leaving the house--
'Thou'll not be long away, for I'm afeared of being left wi' thisman.'
'He'll noan do thee harm,' said John.
'No! but I'm feared lest he should die. And there's uncle andaunt. Come back soon, John!'
'Ay, ay!' said he, half-pleased; 'I'll be back, never fearme.'
So Bessy shut the door after them, but did not lock it, for fearof mischances in the house, and went once more to her uncle, whosebreathing, by this time, was easier than when she had first returnedinto the house-place with John and the doctor. By the light of thefire, too, she could now see that he had received a blow on the head,which was probably the occasion of his stupor. Round this wound,which was bleeding pretty freely, Bessy put cloths dipped in coldwater; and then, leaving him for a time, she lighted a candle, andwas about to go upstairs to her aunt, when, just as she was passingthe bound and disabled robber, she heard her name softly, urgentlycalled--
'Bessy, Bessy!' At first the voice sounded so close that shethought it must be the unconscious wretch at her feet. But, onceagain, that voice thrilled through her-
'Bessy, Bessy! for God's sake, let me out!'
She went to the stair-closet door, and tried to speak, but couldnot, her heart beat so terribly. Again, close to her ear--
'Bessy, Bessy! they'll be back directly; let me out, I say! ForGod's sake, let me out!' And he began to kick violently against thepanels.
'Hush! hush!' she said, sick with a terrible dread, yet with awill strongly resisting her conviction. 'Who are you?' But sheknew--knew quite well.
'Benjamin.' An oath. 'Let me out, I say, and I'll be off, and outof England by to-morrow night, never to come back, and you'll haveall my father's money.'
'D'ye think I care for that?' said Bessy vehemently, feeling withtrembling hands for the lock; 'I wish there was noan such a thing asmoney i' the world, afore yo'd come to this. There, yo 're free, andI charge yo' never to let me see your face again. I'd ne'er ha' letyo' loose but for fear o' breaking their hearts, if yo' hanna killedhim already.' But, before she had ended her speech, he was gone--offinto the black darkness, leaving the door open wide. With a newterror in her mind, Bessy shut it afresh--shut it and bolted it thistime. Then she sat down on the first chair, and relieved her soul bygiving a great and exceeding bitter cry. But she knew it was no timefor giving way; and, lifting herself up with as much effort as ifeach of her limbs was a heavy weight, she went into the back kitchen,and took a drink of cold water. To her surprise, she heard heruncle's voice saying feebly--
'Carry me up, and lay me by her.'
But Bessy could not carry him; she could only help his faintexertions to walk upstairs; and, by the time he was there, sittingpanting on the first chair she could find, John Kirkby and Atkinsonreturned. John came up now to her aid. Her aunt lay across the bed ina fainting-fit, and her uncle sat in so utterly broken-down a statethat Bessy feared immediate death for both. But John cheered her up,and lifted the old man into his bed again; and, while Bessy tried tocompose poor Hester's limbs into a position of rest, John went downto hunt about for the little store of gin which was always kept in acorner cupboard against emergencies.
'They've had a sore fright,' said he, shaking his head, as hepoured a little gin and hot water into their mouths with a tea-spoon,while Bessy chafed their cold feet; 'and it and the cold have beenwelly too much for 'em, poor old folk!'
He looked tenderly at them, and Bessy blessed him in her heart forthat look.
'I maun be off. I sent Atkinson up to th' farm for to bring downBob, and Jack came wi' him back to th' shippon, for to look aftert'other man. He began blackguarding us all round, so Bob and Jackwere gagging him wi' bridles when I left.'
'Ne'er give heed to what he says,' cried poor Bessy, a new panicbesetting her. 'Folks o' his sort are allays for dragging other folkinto their mischief. I'm right glad he were well gagged.'
'Well! but what I were saying were this: Atkinson and me will taket'other chap, who seems quiet enough, to th' shippon, and it'll beone piece o' work for to mind them and the cow; and I'll saddle t'old bay mare and ride for constables and doctor fra' Highminster.I'll bring Dr Preston up to see Nathan and Hester first; and then, Ireckon, th' broken-legged chap down below must have his turn for allas he's met wi' his misfortunes in a wrong line o' life.'
'Ay!' said Bessy. 'We maun ha' the doctor sure enough, for look atthem how they lie--like two stone statues on a church monument, sosad and solemn!'
'There's a look o' sense come back into their faces though, sin'they supped that gin-and-water. I'd keep on a-bathing his head andgiving them a sup on't fra' time to time, if I was you, Bessy.'
Bessy followed him downstairs, and lighted the men out of thehouse. She dared not light them carrying their burden even, untilthey passed round the corner of the house; so strong was her fearfulconviction that Benjamin was lurking near, seeking again to enter.She rushed back into the kitchen, bolted and barred the door, andpushed the end of the dresser against it, shutting her eyes as shepassed the uncurtained window, for fear of catching a glimpse of awhite face pressed against the glass, and gazing at her. The poor oldcouple lay quiet and speechless, although Hester's position hadslightly altered: she had turned a little on her side towards herhusband, and had laid one shrivelled arm around his neck. But he wasjust as Bessy had left him, with the wet cloths around his head, hiseyes not wanting in a certain intelligence, but solemn, andunconscious to all that was passing around as the eyes of death.
His wife spoke a little from time to time--said a word of thanks,perhaps, or so; but he, never. All the rest of that terrible night,Bessy tended the poor old couple with constant care, her own heart sostunned and bruised in its feelings that she went about her piousduties almost like one in a dream. The November morning was long incoming; nor did she perceive any change, either for the worse or thebetter, before the doctor came, about eight o'clock. John Kirkbybrought him; and was full of the capture of the two burglars.
As far as Bessy could make out, the participation of thatunnatural Third was unknown. It was a relief, almost sickening in therevulsion it gave her from her terrible fear, which now she felt hadhaunted and held possession of her all night long, and had, in fact,paralysed her from thinking. Now she felt and thought with acute andfeverish vividness, owing, no doubt, in part, to the sleepless nightshe had passed. She felt almost sure that her uncle (possibly heraunt, too) had recognised Benjamin; but there was a faint chance thatthey had not done so, and wild horses should never tear the secretfrom her, nor should any inadvertent word betray the fact that therehad been a third person concerned. As to Nathan, he had never uttereda word. It was her aunt's silence that made Bessy fear lest Hesterknew, somehow, that her son was concerned.
The doctor examined them both closely; looked hard at the wound onNathan's head; asked questions which Hester answered shortly andunwillingly, and Nathan not at all--shutting his eyes, as if even thesight of a stranger was pain to him. Bessy replied, in their stead,to all that she could answer respecting their state, and followed thedoctor downstairs with a beating heart. When they came into thehouse-place, they found John had opened the outer door to let in somefresh air, had brushed the hearth and made up the fire, and put thechairs and table in their right places. He reddened a little, asBessy's eye fell upon his swollen and battered face, but tried tosmile it off in a dry kind of way--
'Yo' see, I'm an ould bachelor, and I just thought as I'd redd upthings a bit. How dun yo' find 'em, doctor?'
'Well, the poor old couple have had a terrible shock. I shall sendthem some soothing medicine to bring down the pulse, and a lotion forthe old man's head. It is very well it bled so much; there might havebeen a good deal of inflammation.' And so he went on, givingdirections to Bessy for keeping them quietly in bed through the day.From these directions she gathered that they were not, as she hadfeared all night long, near to death. The doctor expected them torecover, though they would require care. She almost wished it hadbeen otherwise, and that they, and she too, might have just lain downto their rest in the churchyard--so cruel did life seem to her; sodreadful the recollection of that subdued voice of the hidden robbersmiting her with recognition.
All this time, John was getting things ready for breakfast, withsomething of the handiness of a woman. Bessy half-resented hisofficiousness in pressing Dr Preston to have a cup of tea, she did sowant him to be gone and leave her alone with her thoughts. She didnot know that all was done for love of her; that the hard-featured,short-spoken John was thinking all the time how ill and miserable shelooked, and trying with tender artifices to make it incumbent uponher sense of hospitality to share Dr Preston's meal.
'I've seen as the cows is milked,' said he, 'yourn and all; andAtkinson's brought ours round fine. Whatten a marcy it were as shewere sick this very night! Yon two chaps 'ud ha' made short workon't, if yo' hadna fetched us in; and, as it were, we had a soretussle. One on 'em 'll bear the marks on't to his dying day, wunnothe, doctor?'
'He'll barely have his leg well enough to stand his trial at YorkAssizes; they're coming off in a fortnight from now.'
'Ay, and that reminds me, Bessy, yo'll have to go witness beforeJustice Royds. Constables bade me tell yo' and gie yo' this summons.Dunnot be feared: it will not be a long job, though I'm not saying asit'll be a pleasant one. Yo'll have to answer questions as to how,and all about it; and Jane' (his sister) 'will come and stop wi' th'oud folks; and I'll drive yo' in the shandry.'
No one knew why Bessy's colour blenched, and her eye clouded. Noone knew how she apprehended lest she should have to say thatBenjamin had been of the gang; if indeed, in some way, the law hadnot followed on his heels quick enough to catch him.
But that trial was spared her; she was warned by John to answerquestions, and say no more than was necessary, for fear of making herstory less clear; and, as she was known, by character at least, tojustice Royds and his clerk, they made the examination as littleformidable as possible.
When all was over, and John was driving her back again, heexpressed his rejoicing that there would be evidence enough toconvict the men, without summoning Nathan and Hester to identifythem. Bessy was so tired that she hardly understood what an escape itwas; how far greater than even her companion understood.
Jane Kirkby stayed with her for a week or more, and was anunspeakable comfort. Otherwise she sometimes thought she should havegone mad, with the face of her uncle always reminding her, in itsstony expression of agony, of that fearful night. Her aunt was softerin her sorrow, as became one of her faithful and pious nature; but itwas easy to see how her heart bled inwardly. She recovered herstrength sooner than her husband; but, as she recovered, the doctorperceived the rapid approach of total blindness. Every day, nay,every hour of the day, that Bessy dared, without fear of excitingtheir suspicions of her knowledge, she told them, as she hadanxiously told them at first, that only two men, and those perfectstrangers, had been discovered as being concerned in the burglary.Her uncle would never have asked a question about it, even if she hadwithheld all information respecting the affair; but she noticed thequick, watching, waiting glance of his eye, whenever she returnedfrom any person or place where she might have been supposed to gainintelligence if Benjamin were suspected or caught: and she hastenedto relieve the old man's anxiety, by always telling all that she hadheard; thankful that, as the days passed on, the danger she sickenedto think of grew less and less.
Day by day, Bessy had ground for thinking that her aunt knew morethan she had apprehended at first. There was something so very humbleand touching in Hester's blind way of feeling about for herhusband--stern, woe-begone Nathan--and mutely striving to console himin the deep agony of which Bessy learnt, from this loving, piteousmanner, that her aunt was conscious. Her aunt's face looked blanklyup into his, tears slowly running down from her sightless eyes; whilefrom time to time, when she thought herself unheard by any save him,she would repeat such texts as she had heard at church in happierdays, and which she thought, in her true, simple piety, might tend toconsole him. Yet, day by day, her aunt grew more and more sad.
Three or four days before assize-time, two summonses to attend thetrial at York were sent to the old people. Neither Bessy, nor John,nor Jane, could understand this: for their own notices had come longbefore, and they had been told that their evidence would be enough toconvict.
But, alas! the fact was, that the lawyer employed to defend theprisoners had heard from them that there was a third person engaged,and had heard who that third person was; and it was this advocate'sbusiness to diminish, if possible, the guilt of his clients, byproving that they were but tools in the hands of one who had, fromhis superior knowledge of the premises and the daily customs of theinhabitants, been the originator and planner of the whole affair. Todo this, it was necessary to have the evidence of the parents, who,as the prisoners had said, must have recognised the voice of theyoung man, their son. For no one knew that Bessy, too, could haveborne witness to his having been present; and, as it was supposedthat Benjamin had escaped out of England, there was no exact betrayalof him on the part of his accomplices.
Wondering, bewildered, and weary, the old couple reached York, incompany with John and Bessy, on the eve of the day of the trial.Nathan was still so self-contained that Bessy could never guess whathad been passing in his mind. He was almost passive under his oldwife's trembling caresses. He seemed hardly conscious of them, sorigid was his demeanour.
She, Bessy feared at times, was becoming childish; for she hadevidently so great and anxious a love for her husband, that hermemory seemed going in her endeavours to melt the stoniness of hisaspect and manners; she appeared occasionally to have forgotten whyhe was so changed, in her piteous little attempts to bring him backto his former self.
'They'll, for sure, never torture them, when they see what oldfolks they are!' cried Bessy, on the morning of the trial, a dim fearlooming over her mind. 'They'll never be so cruel, for sure?'
But 'for sure' it was so. The barrister looked up at the judge,almost apologetically, as he saw how hoary-headed and woeful an oldman was put into the witness-box, when the defence came on, andNathan Huntroyd was called on for his evidence.
'It is necessary, on behalf of my clients, my lord, that I shouldpursue a course which, for all other reasons, I deplore.'
'Go on!' said the judge. 'What is right and legal must be done.'But, an old man himself, he covered his quivering mouth with his handas Nathan, with grey, unmoved face, and solemn, hollow eyes, placinghis two hands on each side of the witness-box, prepared to give hisanswers to questions, the nature of which he was beginning toforesee, but would not shrink from replying to truthfully; 'the verystones' (as he said to himself, with a kind of dulled sense of theEternal justice) 'rise up against such a sinner.'
'Your name is Nathan Huntroyd, I believe?'
'It is.'
'You live at Nab-End Farm?'
'I do.'
'Do you remember the night of November the twelfth?'
'Yes.'
'You were awakened that night by some noise, I believe. What wasit?'
The old man's eyes fixed themselves upon his questioner with thelook of a creature brought to bay. That look the barrister neverforgets. It will haunt him till his dying day.
'It was a throwing-up of stones against our window.'
'Did you hear it at first?'
'No.'
'What awakened you, then?'
'She did.'
'And then you both heard the stones. Did you hear anythingelse?'
A long pause. Then a low, clear 'Yes.'
'What?'
'Our Benjamin asking us for to let him in. She said as it werehim, leastways.'
'And you thought it was him, did you not?'
'I told her' (this rime in a louder voice) 'for to get to sleep,and not be thinking that every drunken chap as passed by were ourBenjamin, for that he were dead and gone.'
'And she?'
'She said as though she'd heerd our Benjamin, afore she were wellyawake, axing for to be let in. But I bade her ne'er heed her dreams,but turn on her other side and get to sleep again.'
'And did she?'
A long pause--judge, jury, bar, audience, all held their breath.At length Nathan said--
'No!'
'What did you do then? (My lord, I am compelled to ask thesepainful questions.)'
'I saw she wadna be quiet: she had allays thought he would comeback to us, like the Prodigal i' th' Gospels.' (His voice choked alittle; but he tried to make it steady, succeeded, and went on.) 'Shesaid, if I wadna get up, she would; and just then I heerd a voice.I'm not quite mysel', gentlemen--I've been ill and i' bed, an' itmakes me trembling-like. Someone said, "Father, mother, I'm here,starving i' the cold--wunnot yo' get up and let me in?"'
'And that voice was--?'
'It were like our Benjamin's. I see whatten yo're driving at, sir,and I'll tell yo' truth, though it kills me to speak it. I dunnot sayit were our Benjamin as spoke, mind yo'--I only say it werelike'--
'That's all I want, my good fellow. And on the strength of thatentreaty, spoken in your son's voice, you went down and opened thedoor to these two prisoners at the bar, and to a third man?'
Nathan nodded assent, and even that counsel was too merciful toforce him to put more into words.
'Call Hester Huntroyd.'
An old woman, with a face of which the eyes were evidently blind,with a sweet, gentle, careworn face, came into the witness-box, andmeekly curtseyed to the presence of those whom she had been taught torespect--a presence she could not see.
There was something in her humble, blind aspect, as she stoodwaiting to have something done to her--what her poor troubled mindhardly knew--that touched all who saw her, inexpressibly. Again thecounsel apologised, but the judge could not reply in words; his facewas quivering all over, and the jury looked uneasily at theprisoner's counsel. That gentleman saw that he might go too far, andsend their sympathies off on the other side; but one or two questionshe must ask. So, hastily recapitulating much that he had learned fromNathan, he said, 'You believed it was your son's voice asking to belet in?'
'Ay! Our Benjamin came home, I'm sure; choose where he isgone.'
She turned her head about, as if listening for the voice of herchild, in the hushed silence of the court.
'Yes; he came home that night--and your husband went down to lethim in?'
'Well! I believe he did. There was a great noise of folkdownstair.'
'And you heard your son Benjamin's voice among the others?'
'Is it to do him harm, sir?' asked she, her face growing moreintelligent and intent on the business in hand.
'That is not my object in questioning you. I believe he has leftEngland; so nothing you can say will do him any harm. You heard yourson's voice, I say?'
'Yes, sir. For sure I did.'
'And some men came upstairs into your room? What did theysay?'
'They axed where Nathan kept his stocking.'
'And you--did you tell them?'
'No, sir, for I knew Nathan would not like me to.'
'What did you do then?'
A shade of reluctance came over her face, as if she began toperceive causes and consequences.
'I just screamed on Bessy--that's my niece, sir.'
'And you heard someone shout out from the bottom of thestairs?'
She looked piteously at him, but did not answer.
'Gentlemen of the jury, I wish to call your particular attentionto this fact; she acknowledges she heard someone shout--some thirdperson, you observe--shout out to the two above. What did he say?That is the last question I shall trouble you with. What did thethird person, left behind, downstairs, say?'
Her face worked--her mouth opened two or three times as if tospeak--she stretched out her arms imploringly; but no word came, andshe fell back into the arms of those nearest to her. Nathan forcedhimself forward into the witness-box--
'My Lord judge, a woman bore ye, as I reckon; it', a cruel shameto serve a mother so. It wur my son, my only child, as called out forus t' open door, and who shouted out for to hold th' oud woman'sthroat if she did na stop her noise, when hoo'd fain ha' cried forher niece to help. And now yo've truth, and a' th' truth, and I'llleave yo' to th' judgement o' God for th' way yo've getten atit.'
Before night the mother was stricken with paralysis, and lay onher death-bed. But the broken-hearted go Home, to be comforted ofGod.
Sir Mark Crowley was the last baronet of his name, and it is nownearly a century since he died. Last year I visited the ruins of hisgreat old Norman castle; and loitered in the village near, where Iheard some of the particulars of the following tale from oldinhabitants, who had heard them from their fathers; no furtherback.
We drove from our little sea-bathing place, in Sussex, to see themassive ruins of Crowley Castle, which is the show-excursion ofMerton. We had to alight at a field gate: the road further on beingtoo bad for the slightly-built carriage, or the poor tired Mertonhorse: and we walked for about a quarter of a mile through unevenground, which had once been an Italian garden; and then we came to abridge over a dry moat, and went over the groove of a portcullis thathad once closed the massive entrance, into an empty space surroundedby thick walls, draperied with ivy, unroofed, and open to the sky. Wecould judge of the beautiful tracery that had been in the windows, bythe remains of the stonework here and there; and an old man--'ever soold,' he called himself when we inquired his exact age--who scrambledand stumbled out of some lair in the least devastated part of theruins at our approach, and who established himself as our guide,showed us a scrap of glass yet lingering in what was the window ofthe great drawing-room not above seventy years ago. After he had donehis duty, he hobbled with us to the neighbouring church, where theknightly Crowleys lie buried: some commemorated by ancient brasses,some by altar-tombs, some by fine Latin epitaphs, bestowing upon themevery virtue under the sun. He had to take the church-key back to theadjoining parsonage at the entrance of the long straggling streetwhich forms the village of Crowley. The castle and the church were onthe summit of a hill, from which we could see the distant line of seabeyond the misty marshes. The village fell away from the church andparsonage, down the hill. The aspect of the place was little, if atall, changed, from its aspect in the year 1772.
But I must begin a little earlier. From one of the Latin epitaphsI learnt that Amelia Lady Crowley died in 1756, deeply regretted byher loving husband, Sir Mark. He never married again, though his wifehad left him no heir to his name or his estate--only a little tinygirl--Theresa Crowley. This child would inherit her mother's fortune,and all that Sir Mark was free to leave; but this little was notmuch; the castle and all the lands going to his sister's son,Marmaduke, or as he was usually called Duke, Brownlow. Duke's parentswere dead, and his uncle was his guardian, and his guardian's housewas his home. The lad was some seven or eight years older than hiscousin; and probably Sir Mark thought it not unlikely that hisdaughter and his heir might make a match. Theresa's mother had badsome foreign blood in her, and had been brought up in France--not sofar away but that its shores might be seen by any one who chose totake an easy day's ride from Crowley Castle for the purpose.
Lady Crowley had been a delicate elegant creature, but no greatbeauty, judging from all accounts; Sir Mark's family were famous fortheir good looks; Theresa, an unusually lucky child, inherited theoutward graces of both her parents. A portrait which I saw of her,degraded to a station over the parlour chimney-piece in the villageinn, showed me black hair, soft yet arch grey eyes with brows andlashes of the same tint as her hair, a full pretty pouting passionatemouth, and a round slender throat. She was a wilful little creature,and her father's indulgence made her more wayward. She had a nurse,too, a French bonne, whose mother had been about my lady from heryouth, who had followed my lady to England, and who had died there.Victorine had been in attendance on the young Theresa from herearliest infancy, and almost took the place of a parent in power andaffection--in power, as to ordering and arranging almost what sheliked, concerning the child's management--in love, because they speakto this day of the black year when virulent smallpox was rife inCrowley, and when, Sir Mark being far away on some diplomaticmission--in Vienna, I fancy--Victorine shut herself up with MissTheresa when the child was taken ill with the disease, and nursed hernight and day. She only succumbed to the dreadful illness when alldanger to the child was over. Theresa came out of it with unblemishedbeauty; Victorine barely escaped with life, and was disfigured forlife.
This disfigurement put a stop to much unfounded scandal which hadbeen afloat respecting the French servant's great influence over SirMark. He was, in fact, an easy and indolent man, rarely excited toany vehemence of emotion, and who felt it to be a point of honour tocarry out his dead wife's wish that Victorine should never leaveTheresa, and that the management of the child should be confided toher. Only once had there been a struggle for power between Sir Markand the bonne, and then she had won the victory. And no wonder, ifthe old butler's account were true; for he had gone into the roomunawares, and had found Sir Mark and Victorine at high words; and hesaid that Victorine was white with rage, that her eyes were blazingwith passionate fire, that her voice was low, and her words were few,but that, although she spoke in French, and he the butler only knewhis native English, he would rather have been sworn at by a drunkengrenadier with a sword in his hand, than have had those words ofVictorine's addressed to him.
Even the choice of Theresa's masters was left to Victorine. Alittle reference was occasionally made to Madam Hawtrey, the parson'swife and a distant relation of Sir Mark's, but, seeing that, ifVictorine chose so to order it, Madam Hawtrey's own little daughterBessy would have been deprived of the advantages resulting fromgratuitous companionship in all Theresa's lessons, she was carefulhow she opposed or made an enemy of Mademoiselle Victorine. Bessy wasa gentle quiet child, and grew up to be a sensible sweet-temperedgirl, with a very fair share of English beauty; fresh-complexion,brown-eyed round-faced, with a stiff though well-made figure, asdifferent as possible from Theresa's slight lithe graceful form. Dukewas a young man to these two maidens, while they to him were littlemore than children. Of course he admired his cousin Theresa themost--who would not?--but he was establishing his first principles ofmorality for himself, and her conduct towards Bessy sometimes jarredagainst his ideas of right. One day, after she had been tyrannizingover the self-contained and patient Bessy so as to make the lattercry--and both the amount of the tyranny and the crying were unusualcircumstances, for Theresa was of a generous nature when not put outof the way--Duke spoke to his cousin:
'Theresa! You had no right to blame Bessy as you did. It was asmuch your fault as hers. You were as much bound to remember MrDawson's directions about the sums you were to do for him, as shewas.'
The girl opened her great grey eyes in surprise. She to blame!
'What does Bessy come to the castle for, I wonder? They paynothing--we pay all. The least she can do, is to remember for me whatwe are told. I shan't trouble myself with attending to Mr Dawson'sdirections; and if Bessy does not like to do so, she can stay away.She already knows enough to earn her bread as a maid: which I supposeis what she'll have to come to.'
The moment Theresa had said this, she could have bitten her tongueout for the meanness and rancour of the speech. She saw pain anddisappointment clearly expressed on Duke's face; and, in anothermoment, her impulses would have carried her to the opposite extreme,and she would have spoken out her self-reproach. But Duke thought ithis duty to remonstrate with her, and to read her a homily, which,however true and just, weakened the effect of the look of distress onhis face. Her wits were called into play to refute his arguments; herhead rather than her heart took the prominent part in thecontroversy; and it ended unsatisfactorily to both; he, going awaywith dismal though unspoken prognostics touching what she wouldbecome as a woman if she were so supercilious and unfeeling as agirl; she, the moment his back was turned, throwing herself on thefloor and sobbing as if her heart would break. Victorine heard herdarling's passionate sobs, and came in.
'What hast thou, my angel! Who has been vexing thee,--tell me, mycherished?'
She tried to raise the girl, but Theresa would not be raised;neither would she speak till she chose, in spite of Victorine'sentreaties. When she chose, she lifted herself up, still sitting onthe floor, and putting her tangled hair off her flushed tear-stainedface, said:
'Never mind, it was only something Duke said; I don't care for itnow.' And refusing Victorine's aid, she got up, and stoodthoughtfully looking out of the window.
'That Duke!' exclaimed Victorine. 'What business has that Mr Duketo go vex my darling? He is not your husband yet, that he shouldscold you, or that you should mind what he says.'
Theresa listened and gained a new idea; but she gave no outwardsign of attention, or of her now hearing for the first time how thatshe was supposed to be intended for her cousin's wife. She made noreply to Victorine's caresses and speeches; one might almost say sheshook her off. As soon as she was left to herself, she took her hat,and going out alone, as she was wont, in the pleasure-grounds, shewent down the terrace steps, crossed the bowling-green, and opened alittle wicket-gate which led into the garden of the parsonage. There,were Bessy and her mother, gathering fruit. It was Bessy whom Theresasought; for there was something in Madam Hawtrey's silky manner thatwas always rather repugnant to her. However, she was not going toshrink from her resolution because Madam Hawtrey was there. So shewent up to the startled Bessy, and said to her, as if she werereciting a prepared speech: 'Bessy, I behaved very crossly to you; Ihad no business to have spoken to you as I did.'--'Will you forgiveme?' was the predetermined end of this confession; but somehow, whenit came to that, she could not say it with Madam Hawtrey standing by,ready to smile and to curtsey as soon as she could catch Theresa'seye. There was no need to ask forgiveness though; for Bessy had putdown her half filled basket, and came softly up to Theresa, stealingher brown soil-stained little hand into the young lady's soft whiteone, and looking up at her with loving brown eyes.
'I am so sorry, but I think it was the sums on page 108. I havebeen looking and looking, and I am almost sure.'
Her exculpatory tone caught her mother's ear, although her wordsdid not.
'I am sure, Miss Theresa, Bessy is so grateful for the privilegesof learning with you! It is such an advantage to her! I often tellher, "Take pattern by Miss Theresa, and do as she does, and try andspeak as she does, and there'll not be a parson's daughter in allSussex to compare with you." Don't I, Bessy?'
Theresa shrugged her shoulders--a trick she had caught fromVictorine--and, turning to Bessy, asked her what she was going to dowith those gooseberries she was gathering? And as Theresa spoke, shelazily picked the ripest out of the basket, and ate them.
'They are for a pudding,' said Bessy. 'As soon as we have gatheredenough, I am going in to make it.'
'I'll come and help you,' said Theresa, eagerly. 'I should so liketo make a pudding. Our Monsieur Antoine never makes gooseberrypuddings.'
Duke came past the parsonage an hour or so afterwards: and,looking in by chance through the open casement windows of thekitchen, saw Theresa pinned up in a bib and apron, her arms all overflour, flourishing a rolling-pin, and laughing and chattering withBessy similarly attired. Duke had spent his morning ostensibly infishing; but in reality in weighing in his own mind what he could door say to soften the obdurate heart of his cousin. And here it was,all inexplicably right, as if by some enchanter's wand!
The only conclusion Duke could come to was the same that many awise (and foolish) man had come to before his day:
'Well! Women are past my comprehension, that's all!'
When all this took place, Theresa was about fifteen; Bessy wasperhaps six months older; Duke was just leaving Oxford. His uncle,Sir Mark, was excessively fond of him; yes! and proud, too, for hehad distinguished himself at college, and every one spoke well ofhim. And he, for his part, loved Sir Mark, and, unspoiled by the fameand reputation he had gained at Christ Church, paid respectfuldeference to Sir Mark's opinions.
As Theresa grew older, her father supposed that he played hiscards well in singing Duke's praises on every possible occasion. Shetossed her head, and said nothing. Thanks to Victorine's revelations,she understood the tendency of her father's speeches. She intended tomake her own choice of a husband when the time came; and it might beDuke, or it might be some one else. When Duke did not lecture orprose, but was sitting his horse so splendidly at the meet, beforethe huntsman gave the blast, 'Found;' when Duke was holding his ownin discourse with other men; when Duke gave her a short sharp word ofcommand on any occasion; then she decided that she would marry him,and no one else. But when he found fault, or stumbled about awkwardlyin a minuet, or talked moralities against duelling, then she was surethat Duke should never be her husband. She wondered if he knew aboutit; if any one had told him, as Victorine had told her; if her fatherhad revealed his thoughts and wishes to his nephew, as plainly as hehad done to his daughter? This last query made her cheeks burn; and,on days when the suspicion had been brought by any chance prominentlybefore her mind, she was especially rude and disagreeable toDuke.
He was to go abroad on the grand tour of Europe, to which youngmen of fortune usually devoted three years. He was to have a tutor,because all young men of his rank had tutors; else he was quite wiseenough, and steady enough, to have done without one, and probablyknew a good deal more about what was best to be observed in thecountries they were going to visit, than Mr Roberts, his appointedbear-leader. He was to come back full of historical and politicalknowledge, speaking French and Italian like a native, and having asmattering of barbarous German, and he was to enter the House as acounty member, if possible--as a borough member at the worst; and wasto make a great success; and then, as every one understood, he was tomarry his cousin Theresa.
He spoke to her father about it, before starting on his travels.It was after dinner in Crowley Castle. Sir Mark and Duke sat alone,each pensive at the thought of the coming parting.
'Theresa is but young,' said Duke, breaking into speech after along silence, 'but if you have no objection, uncle, I should like tospeak to her before I leave England, about my--my hopes.'
Sir Mark played with his glass, poured out some more wine, drankit off at a draught, and then replied:
'No, Duke, no. Leave her in peace with me. I have looked forwardto having her for my companion through these three years; they'llsoon pass away' (to age, but not to youth), 'and I should like tohave her undivided heart till you come back. No, Duke! Three yearswill soon pass away, and then we'll have a royal wedding.'
Duke sighed, but said no more. The next day was the last. Hewanted Theresa to go with him to take leave of the Hawtreys at theParsonage, and of the villagers; but she was wilful, and would not.He remembered, years afterwards, how Bessy's gentle peaceful mannerhad struck him as contrasted with Theresa's, on that last day. Bothgirls regretted his departure. He had been so uniformly gentle andthoughtful in his behaviour to Bessy, that, without any idea of love,she felt him to be her pattern of noble chivalrous manhood; the onlyperson, except her father, who was steadily kind to her. She admiredhis sentiments, she esteemed his principles, she considered his longevolvement of his ideas as the truest eloquence. He had lent herbooks, he had directed her studies; all the advice and informationwhich Theresa had rejected had fallen to Bessy's lot, and she hadreceived it thankfully.
Theresa burst into a passion of tears as soon as Duke and hissuite were out of sight. She had refused the farewell kiss her fatherhad told her to give him, but had waved her white handkerchief out ofthe great drawing-room window (that very window in which the oldguide showed me the small piece of glass still lingering). But Dukehad ridden away with slack rein and downcast head, without lookingback.
His absence was a great blank in Sir Mark's life. He had neversought London much as a place of residence; in former days he hadbeen suspected of favouring the Stuarts; but nothing could be provedagainst him, and he had subsided into a very tolerably faithfulsubject of King George the Third. Still, a cold shoulder having beenturned to him by the court party at one time, he had becomeprepossessed against the English capital. On the contrary, his wife'spredilections and his own tendencies had always made Paris a veryagreeable place of residence to him. To Paris he at length resortedagain, when the blank in his life oppressed him; and from Paris,about two years after Duke's departure, he returned after a shortabsence from home, and suddenly announced to his daughter and thehousehold that he had taken an apartment in the Rue Louis le Grandfor the coming winter, to which there was to be an immediate removalof his daughter, Victorine, and certain other personal attendants andservants.
Nothing could exceed Theresa's mad joy at this unexpected news.She sprang upon her father's neck, and kissed him till she wastired--whatever he was. She ran to Victorine, and told her to guesswhat 'heavenly bliss' was going to befall them, dancing round themiddle-aged woman until she, in her spoilt impatience, was becomingangry, when, kissing her, she told her, and ran off to the Parsonage,and thence to the church, bursting in upon morning prayers--for itwas All Saints' Day, although she had forgotten it--and filliping ascrap of paper on which she had hastily written, 'We are going toParis for the winter--all of us,' rolled into a ball, from the castlepew to that of the parson. She saw Bessy redden as she caught it, putit into her pocket unread, and, after an apologetic glance at thecurtained seat in which Theresa was, go on with her meek responses.Theresa went out by the private door in a momentary fit of passion.'Stupid cold-blooded creature!' she said to herself. But thatafternoon Bessy came to the castle, so sorry--and so losing her ownsorrow in sympathy with her friend's gladness, that Theresa took herinto favour again. The girls parted with promises of correspondence,and with some regret: the greatest on Bessy's side. Some grandpromises of Paris fashion, and presents of dress, Theresa made in herpatronizing way; but Bessy did not seem to care much for them--whichwas fortunate, for they were never fulfilled.
Sir Mark had an idea in his head of perfecting Theresa'saccomplishments and manners by Parisian masters and Parisian society.English residents in Venice, Florence, Rome, wrote to their friendsat home about Duke. They spoke of him as of what we should, at thepresent day, call a 'rising young man.' His praises ran so high, thatSir Mark began to fear lest his handsome nephew, feted by princes,courted by ambassadors, made love to by lovely Italian ladies, mightfind Theresa too country-bred for his taste.
Thus had come about, the engaging of the splendid apartment in theRue Louis le Grand. The street itself is narrow, and now-a-days weare apt to think the situation close; but in those days it was theheight of fashion; for, the great arbiter of fashion, the Duc deRichelieu, lived there, and, to inhabit an apartment in that street,was in itself a mark of bon ton. Victorine seemed almost crazy withdelight when they took possession of their new abode. 'This dearParis! This lovely France! And now I see my young lady, my darling,my angel, in a room suited to her beauty and her rank: such as mylady her mother would have planned for her, if she had lived.' Anyallusion to her dead mother always touched Theresa to the quick. Shewas in her bed, under the blue silk curtains of an alcove, whenVictorine said this,--being too much fatigued after her journey torespond to Victorine's rhapsodies; but now she put our her littlehand and gave Victorine's a pressure of gratitude and pleasure. Nextday she wandered about the rooms and admired their splendour almostto Victorine's content. Her father, Sir Mark, found a handsomecarriage and horses for his darling's use; and also found that notless necessary article--a married lady of rank who would take hisgirl under her wing. When all these preliminary arrangements weremade, who so wildly happy as Theresa! Her carriage was of the newestfashion, fit to vie with any on the Cours de la Reine, the thenfashionable drive. The box at the Grand Opera, and at the Francais,which she shared with Madame la Duchesse de G., was the centre ofobservation; Victorine was in her best humour, Theresa's credit ather dressmaker's was unlimited, her indulgent father was charmed withall she did and said. She had masters, it is true; but, to a rich andbeautiful young lady, masters were wonderfully complaisant, and withthem as with all the world, she did what she pleased. Of Parisiansociety, she had enough and more than enough. The duchess wenteverywhere, and Theresa went too. So did a certain Count de laGrange: some relation or connection of the duchess: handsome, with asouth of France handsomeness: with delicate features, marred by anoversoftness of expression, from which (so men said) the tiger wasoccasionally seen to peep forth. But, for elegance of dress anddemeanour he had not his fellow in Paris--which of course meant, notin the world.
Sir Mark heard rumours of this man's conduct, which were notpleasing to him; but when he accompanied his daughter into society,the count was only as deferential as it became a gentleman to be toso much beauty and grace, When Theresa was taken out by the duchessto the opera, to balls, to petits soupers, without her father, thenthe count was more than deferential; he was adoring. It was a littleintoxicating for a girl brought up in the solitude of an Englishvillage, to have so many worshippers at her feet all at once, in thegreat gay city; and the inbred coquetry of her nature came out,adding to her outward grace, if taking away from the purity anddignity of her character. It was Victorine's delight to send herdarling out arrayed for conquest; her hair delicately powdered, andscented with marechale; her little 'mouches' put on with skill; thetiny half-moon patch, to lengthen the already almond-shaped eye; theminute star to give the effect of a dimple at the corner of herscarlet lips; the silver gauze looped up over the petticoat of bluebrocade, distended over a hoop, much as gowns are worn in our days;the coral ornaments of her silver dress, matching with the tint ofthe high heels to her shoes. And, at night, Victorine was never tiredof listening and questioning; of triumphing in Theresa's triumphs; ofinvariably reminding her that she was bound to marry the absentcousin, and return to the half-feudal state of the old castle inSussex.
Still, even now, if Duke had returned from Italy, all might havegone well; but when Sir Mark, alarmed by the various proposals hereceived for Theresa's hand from needy French noblemen, and by theadmiration she was exciting everywhere, wrote to Duke, and urged himto join them in Paris on his return from his travels, Duke answeredthat three months were yet unexpired of the time allotted for thegrand tour; and that he was anxious to avail himself of that intervalto see something of Spain. Sir Mark read this letter aloud toTheresa, with many expressions of annoyance as he read. Theresamerely said, 'Of course, Duke does what he likes,' and turned away tosee some new lace brought for her inspection. She heard her fathersigh over a re-perusal of Duke's letter, and she set her teeth in theanger she would not show in acts or words. That day the Count deGrange met with gentler treatment from her than he had done for manydays--than he had done since her father's letter to Duke had beensent off to Genoa. As ill fortune would have it, Sir Mark hadoccasion to return to England at this time, and he, guilelesshimself, consigned Theresa and her maid Victorine, and her man Felix,to the care of the duchess for three weeks. They were to reside atthe Hotel de G. during this time. The duchess welcomed them in hermost caressing manner, and showed Theresa the suite of rooms, withthe little private staircase, appropriated to her use.
The Count de Grange was an habitual visitor at the house of hiscousin the duchess, who was a gay Parisian, absorbed in her life ofgiddy dissipation. The count found means of influencing Victorine inhis favour; not by money; so coarse a bribe would have had no powerover her; but by many presents, accompanied with sentimental letters,breathing devotion to her charge, and extremest appreciation of thefaithful friend whom Theresa looked upon as a mother, and whom forthis reason he, the count, revered and loved. Intermixed, were wilyallusions to his great possessions in Provence, and to his ancientlineage:--the one mortgaged, the other disgraced. Victorine, whoseright hand had forgotten its cunning in the length of her drearyvegetation at Crowley Castle, was deceived, and became a vehementadvocate of the dissolute Adonis of the Paris saloons, in his suit toher darling. When Sir Mark came back, he was dismayed and shockedbeyond measure by finding the count and Theresa at his feet,entreating him to forgive their stolen marriage--a marriage which,though incomplete as to its legal forms, was yet too complete to beotherwise than sanctioned by Theresa's nearest friends. The duchessaccused her cousin of perfidy and treason. Sir Mark said nothing. Buthis health failed from that time, and he sank into an old querulousgrey-haired man.
There was some ado, I know not what, between Sir Mark and thecount regarding the control and disposition of the fortune whichTheresa inherited from her mother. The count gained the victory,owing to the different nature of the French laws from the English;and this made Sir Mark abjure the country and the city he had lovedso long. Henceforward, he swore, his foot should never touch Frenchsoil; if Theresa liked to come and see him at Crowley Castle, sheshould be as welcome as a daughter of the house ought to be, and evershould be; but her husband should never enter the gates of the housein Sir Mark's lifetime.
For some months he was out of humour with Duke, because of histardy return from his tour and his delay in joining them in Paris:through which, so Sir Mark fancied, Theresa's marriage had beenbrought about. But--when Duke came home, depressed in spirits andsubmissive to his uncle, even under unjust blame--Sir Mark restoredhim to favour in the course of a summer's day, and henceforth addedanother injury to the debtor side of the count's reckoning.
Duke never told his uncle of the woeful ill-report he had heard ofthe count in Paris, where he had found all the better part of theFrench nobility pitying the lovely English heiress who had beenentrapped into a marriage with one of the most disreputable of theirorder, a gambler and a reprobate. He could not leave Paris withoutseeing Theresa, whom he believed to be as yet unacquainted with hisarrival in the city, so he went to call upon her one evening. She wassitting alone, splendidly dressed, ravishingly beautiful; she made astep forward to meet him, hardly heeding the announcement of hisname; for she had recognized a man's tread, and fancied it was herhusband, coming to accompany her to some grand reception. Duke sawthe quick change from hope to disappointment on her mobile face, andshe spoke out at once her reason. 'Adolphe promised to come and fetchme; the princess receives to-night. I hardly expected a visit fromyou, cousin Duke,' recovering herself into a pretty proud reserve.'It is a fortnight, I think, since I heard you were in Paris. I hadgiven up all expectation of the honour of a visit from you!'
Duke felt that, as she had heard of his being there, it would beawkward to make excuses which both she and he must know to be false,or explanations the very truth of which would be offensive to theloving, trusting, deceived wife. So, he turned the conversation tohis travels, his heart aching for her all the time, as he noticed herwandering attention when she heard any passing sound. Ten, eleven,twelve o'clock; he would not leave her. He thought his presence was acomfort and a pleasure to her. But when one o'clock struck, she saidsome unexpected business must have detained her husband, and she wasglad of it, as she had all along felt too much tired to go out: andbesides, the happy consequence of her husband's detention had beenthat long talk with Duke.
He did not see her again after this polite dismissal, nor did hesee her husband at all. Whether through ill chance, or carefullydisguised purpose, it did so happen that he called several times, hewrote several notes requesting an appointment when he might come withthe certainty of finding the count and countess at home, in order towish them farewell before setting out for England. All in vain. Buthe said nothing to Sir Mark of all this. He only tried to fill up theblank in the old man's life. He went between Sir Mark and the tenantsto whom he was unwilling to show himself unaccompanied by thebeautiful daughter, who had so often been his companion in his walksand rides, before that ill-omened winter in Paris. He was thankful tohave the power of returning the long kindness his uncle had shown himin childhood; thankful to be of use to him in his desertion; thankfulto atone in some measure for his neglect of his uncle's wish that heshould have made a hasty return to Paris.
But it was a little dull after the long excitement of travel,after associating with all that was most cultivated and seeing allthat was most famous, in Europe, to be shut up in that vastmagnificent dreary old castle, with Sir Mark for a perpetualcompanion--Sir Mark, and no other. The parsonage was near at hand,and occasionally Mr Hawtrey came in to visit his parishioner in histrouble. But Sir Mark kept the clergyman at bay; he knew that hisbrother in age, his brother in circumstances (for had not Mr Hawtreyan only child and she a daughter?), was sympathizing with him in hissorrow, and he was too proud to bear it; indeed, sometimes he was sorude to his old neighbour, that Duke would go next morning to theparsonage, to soothe the smart.
And so--and so--gradually, imperceptibly, at last his heart wasdrawn to Bessy. Her mother angled and angled skilfully; at firstscarcely daring to hope; then remembering her own descent from thesame stock as Duke, she drew herself up, and set to work with freshskill and vigour. To be sure, it was a dangerous game for a mother toplay; for her daughter's happiness was staked on her success. Howcould simple country-bred Bessy help being attracted to the courtlyhandsome man, travelled and accomplished, good and gentle, whom shesaw every day, and who treated her with the kind familiarity of abrother; while he was not a brother, but in some measure adisappointed man, as everybody knew? Bessy was a daisy of an Englishmaiden; pure good to the heart's core and most hidden thought;sensible in all her accustomed daily ways, yet not so much withoutimagination as not to desire something beyond the narrow range ofknowledge and experience in which her days had hitherto been passed.Add to this her pretty figure, a bright healthy complexion, lovelyteeth, and quite enough of beauty in her other features to haverendered her the belle of a country town, if her lot had been cast insuch a place; and it is not to be wondered at, that, after she hadbeen secretly in love with Duke with all her heart for nearly a year,almost worshipping him, he should discover that, of all the women hehad ever known--except perhaps the lost Theresa--Bessy Hawtrey had itin her power to make him the happiest of men.
Sir Mark grumbled a little; but now-a-days he grumbled ateverything, poor disappointed, all but childless, old man! As to thevicar he stood astonished and almost dismayed. 'Have you thoughtenough about it, Mr Duke?' the parson asked. 'Young men are apt to dothings in a hurry, that they repent at leisure. Bessy is a good girl,a good girl, God bless her: but she has not been brought up as yourwife should have been: at least as folks will say your wife shouldhave been. Though I may say for her she has a very pretty sprinklingof mathematics. I taught her myself, Mr Duke.'
'May I go and ask her myself? I only want your permission,' urgedDuke.
'Ay, go! But perhaps you'd better ask Madam first. She will liketo be told everything as soon as me.'
But Duke did not care for Madam. He rushed through the open doorof the parsonage, into the homely sitting-rooms, and softly calledfor Bessy. When she came, he took her by the hand and led her forthinto the field-path at the back of the orchard, and there he won hisbride to the full content of both their hearts.
All this time the inhabitants of Crowley Castle and the quietpeople of the neighbouring village of Crowley, heard but little of'The Countess,' as it was their fashion to call her. Sir Mark had hisletters from her, it is true, and he read them over and over again,and moaned over them, and sighed, and put them carefully away in abundle. But they were like arrows of pain to him. None knew theircontents; none, even knowing them, would have dreamed, any more thanhe did, for all his moans and sighs, of the utter wretchedness of thewriter. Love had long since vanished from the habitation of thatpair; a habitation, not a home, even in its brightest days. Love hadgone out of the window, long before poverty had come in at the door:yet that grim visitant who never tarries in tracking a disreputablegambler, had now arrived. The count lost the last remnants of hischaracter as a man who played honourably, and thenceforth--that beingpretty nearly the only sin which banished men from good society inthose days--he had to play where and how he could. Theresa's moneywent as her poor angry father had foretold. By-and-by, and withouther consent, her jewel-box was rifled; the diamonds round the locketholding her mother's picture were wrenched and picked out by nocareful hand. Victorine found Theresa crying over the poorrelics;--crying at last, without disguise, as if her heart wouldbreak.
'Oh, mamma! mamma! mamma!' she sobbed out, holding up the smashedand disfigured miniature as an explanation of her grief. She wassitting on the floor, on which she had thrown herself in the firstdiscovery of the theft. Victorine sat down by her, taking her headupon her breast, and soothing her. She did not ask who had done it;she asked Theresa no question which the latter would have shrunk fromanswering; she knew all in that hour, without the count's name havingpassed the lips of either of them. And from that time she watched himas a tiger watches his prey.
When the letters came from England, the three letters from SirMark and the affianced bride and bridegroom, announcing theapproaching marriage of Duke and Bessy, Theresa took them straight toVictorine. Theresa's lips were tightened, her pale cheeks were paler.She waited for Victorine to speak. Not a word did the Frenchwomanutter; but she smoothed the letters one over the other, and tore themin two, throwing the pieces on the ground, and stamping on them.
'Oh, Victorine!' cried Theresa, dismayed at passion that went sofar beyond her own, 'I never expected it--I never thought of it--but,perhaps, it was but natural.'
'It was not natural; it was infamous! To have loved you once, andnot to wait for chances, but to take up with that mean poor girl atthe parsonage. Pah! and her letter! Sir Mark is of my mind though, Ican see. I am sorry I tore up his letter. He feels, he knows, that MrDuke Brownlow ought to have waited, waited, waited. Some one waitedfourteen years, did he not? The count will not live for ever.'
Theresa did not see the face of wicked meaning as those last wordswere spoken.
Another year rolled heavily on its course of wretchedness toTheresa. That same revolution of time brought increase of peace andjoy to the English couple, striving humbly, striving well, to dotheir duty as children to the unhappy and deserted Sir Mark. They hadtheir reward in the birth of a little girl. Yet, close on the heelsof this birth, followed a great sorrow. The good parson died, after ashort sudden illness. Then came the customary trouble after the deathof a clergyman. The widow had to leave the parsonage, the home of alifetime, and seek a new resting-place for her declining years.
Fortunately for all parties, the new vicar was a bachelor; noother than the tutor who had accompanied Duke on his grand tour; andit was made a condition that he should allow the widow of hispredecessor to remain at the parsonage as his housekeeper. Bessywould fain have had her mother at the castle, and this course wouldhave been infinitely preferred by Madam Hawtrey, who, indeed,suggested the wish to her daughter. But Sir Mark was obstinatelyagainst it; nor did he spare his caustic remarks on Madam Hawtrey,even before her own daughter. He had never quite forgiven Duke'smarriage, although he was personally exceedingly fond of Bessy. Hereferred this marriage, in some part, and perhaps to no greaterextent than was true, to madam's good management in throwing theyoung people together; and he was explicit in the expression of hisopinion.
Poor Theresa! Every day she more and more bitterly rued herill-starred marriage. Often and often she cried to herself, when shewas alone in the dead of the night, 'I cannot bear it--I cannot bearit!' But again in the daylight her pride would help her to keep herwoe to herself. She could not bear the gaze of pitying eyes; shecould not bear even Victorine's fierce sympathy. She might have gonehome like a poor prodigal to her father, if Duke and Bessy had not,as she imagined, reigned triumphant in her place, both in herfather's heart and in her father's home. And all this while, thatfather almost hated the tender attentions which were rendered to himby those who were not his Theresa, his only child, for whose presencehe yearned and longed in silent misery. Then again (to return toTheresa), her husband had his fits of kindness towards her. If he hadbeen very fortunate in play, if he had heard other men admire her, hewould come back for a few moments to his loyalty, and would lure backthe poor tortured heart, only to crush it afresh. One day--after ashort time of easy temper, caresses, and levity--she found outsomething, I know not what, in his life, which stung her to thequick. Her sharp wits and sharper tongue spoke out most cuttinginsults; at first he smiled, as if rather amused to see how she wasransacking her brain to find stabbing speeches; but at length shetouched some sore; he scarcely lost the mocking smile upon his face,but his eyes flashed lurid fire, and his heavy closed hand fell onher white shoulder with a terrible blow!
She stood up, facing him, tearless, deadly white. 'The poor oldman at home!' was all she said, trembling, shivering all over, butwith her eyes fixed on his coward face. He shrank from her look,laughed aloud to hide whatever feeling might be hidden in his bosom,and left the room. She only said again, 'The poor old man--the poorold deserted, desolate man!' and felt about blindly for a chair.
She had not sat down a minute though, before she started up andrang her bell. It was Victorine's office to answer it; but Theresalooked almost surprised to see her. 'You!--I wanted the others--Iwant them all! They shall all see how their master treats his wife!Look here!' she pushed the gauze neckerchief from her shoulder--themark was there red and swollen. 'Bid them all come here--Victorine,Amadee, Jean, Adele, all--I will be justified by their testimony,whatever I do!' Then she fell to shaking and crying.
Victorine said nothing, but went to a certain cupboard where shekept medicines and drugs of which she alone knew the properties, andthere she mixed a draught, which she made her mistress take. Whateverits nature was, it was soothing. Theresa leaned back in her chair,still sobbing heavily from time to time, until at last she droppedinto a kind of doze. Then Victorine softly lifted the neckerchief,which had fallen into its place, and looked at the mark. She did notspeak; but her whole face was a fearful threat. After she had lookedher fill, she smiled a deadly smile. And then she touched the softbruised flesh with her lips, much as though Theresa were the childshe had been twenty years ago. Soft as the touch was Theresashivered, and started and half awoke. 'Are they come?' she murmured;'Amadee, Jean, Adele?' but without waiting for an answer she fellasleep again.
Victorine went quietly back to the cupboard where she kept herdrugs, and stayed there, mixing something noiselessly. When she haddone what she wanted, she returned to her mistress's bedroom, andlooked at her, still sleeping. Then she began to arrange the room. Noblue silk curtains and silver mirrors, now, as in the Rue Louis leGrand. A washed-out faded Indian chintz, and an old battered toiletteservice of japan-ware; the disorderly signs of the count's latepresence; an emptied flask of liqueur.
All the time Victorine arranged this room she kept saying toherself, 'At last! At last!' Theresa slept through the daylight,slept late into the evening, leaning back where she had fallen in herchair. She was so motionless that Victorine appeared alarmed. Once ortwice she felt her pulse, and gazed earnestly into the tear-stainedface. Once, she very carefully lifted one of the eyelids, and holdinga lighted taper near, peered into the eye. Apparently satisfied, shewent out and ordered a basin of broth to be ready when she asked forit. Again she sat in deep silence; nothing stirred in the closedchamber; but in the street the carriages began to roll, and thefootmen and torch-bearers to cry aloud their masters' names andtitles, to show what carriage in that narrow street below, wasentitled to precedence. A carriage stopped at the hotel of which theyoccupied the third floor. Then the bell of their apartment rangloudly--rang violently. Victorine went out to see what it was thatmight disturb her darling--as she called Theresa to herself--hersleeping lady as she spoke of her to her servants.
She met those servants bringing in their master, the count, dead.Dead with a swordwound received in some infamous struggle. Victorinestood and looked at him. 'Better so,' she muttered. 'Better so. But,monseigneur, you shall take this with you, whithersoever your wickedsoul is fleeing.' And she struck him a stroke on his shoulder, justwhere Theresa's bruise was. It was as light a stroke as well couldbe; but this irreverence to the dead called forth indignation evenfrom the hardened bearers of the body. Little recked Victorine. Sheturned her back on the corpse, went to her cupboard, took out themixture she bad made with so much care, poured it out upon the barewooden floor, and smeared it about with her foot.
A fortnight later, when no news had come from Theresa for manyweeks, a poor chaise was seen from the castle windows lumberingslowly up the carriage road to the gate. No one thought much of it;perhaps it was some friend of the housekeeper's; perhaps it was somehumble relation of Mrs Duke's (for many such had found out theircousin since her marriage). No one noticed the shabby carriage much,until the hall-porter was startled by the sound of the great bellpealing, and, on opening wide the hall-doors, saw standing before himthe Mademoiselle Victorine of old days--thinner, sallower, inmourning. In the carriage sat Theresa, in the deep widow's weeds ofthose days. She looked out of the carriage-window wistfully, inbeyond Joseph, the hall-porter.
'My father!' she cried eagerly, before Victorine could speak. 'IsSir Mark--well?' ('alive' was her first thought, but she dared notgive the word utterance.)
'Call Mr. Duke!' said Joseph, speaking to some one unseen. Then hecame forward. 'God bless you, Miss! God bless you! And this day ofall days! Sir Mark is well--leastways he's sadly changed. Where's MrDuke? Call him! My young lady's fainting!'
And this was Theresa's return home. None ever knew how much shehad suffered since she had left home. If any one had known, Victorinewould never have stood there dressed in that mourning. She put it on,sorely against her will, for the purpose of upholding the lyingfiction of Theresa's having been a happy prosperous marriage. She wasalways indignant if any of the old servants fell back into the oncefamiliar appellation of Miss Theresa. 'The countess,' she would say,in lofty rebuke.
What passed between Theresa and her father at that first interviewno one ever knew. Whether she told him anything of her married life,or whether she only soothed the tears he shed on seeing her again, bysweet repetition of tender words and caresses--such as are thesugared pabulum of age as well as of infancy--no one ever knew.Neither Duke nor his wife ever heard her allude to the time she hadpassed in Paris, except in the most cursory and superficial manner.Sir Mark was anxious to show her that all was forgiven, and wouldfain have displaced Bessy from her place as lady of the castle, andmade Theresa take the headship of the house, and sit at table wherethe mistress ought to be. And Bessy would have given up her onerousdignities without a word; for Duke was always more jealous for hiswife's position than she herself was, but Theresa declined to assumeany such place in the household, saying, in the languid way which nowseemed habitual to her, that English house-keeping, and all thedomestic arrangements of an English country house were cumbrous andwearisome to her; that if Bessy would continue to act as she had donehitherto, and would so forestall what must be her natural duties atsome future period, she, Theresa, should be infinitely obliged.
Bessy consented, and in everything tried to remember what Theresaliked, and how affairs were ordered in the old Theresa days. Shewished the servants to feel that 'the countess' had equal rights withherself in the management of the house. But she, to whom thehousekeeper takes her accounts--she in whose hands the power ofconferring favours and privileges remains de facto--will always beheld by servants as the mistress; and Theresa's claims soon sank intothe background. At first, she was too broken--spirited, too languid,to care for anything but quiet rest in her father's companionship.They sat sometimes for hours hand in hand; or they sauntered out onthe terraces, hardly speaking, but happy; because they were once moretogether, and once more on loving terms. Theresa grew strong duringthis time of gentle brooding peace. The pinched pale face of anxietylined with traces of suffering, relaxed into the soft oval; the lightcame into the eyes, the colour came into the cheeks.
But, in the autumn after Theresa's return, Sir Mark died; it hadbeen a gradual decline of strength, and his last moments were passedin her arms. Her new misfortune threw her back into the wan worncreature she had been when she first came home, a widow, to CrowleyCastle; she shut herself up in her rooms, and allowed no one to comenear her but Victorine. Neither Duke nor Bessy was admitted into thedarkened rooms, which she had hung with black cloth in solemnfunereal state.
Victorine's life since her return to the castle had been anythingbut peaceable. New powers had arisen in the housekeeper's room. MadamBrownlow had her maid, far more exacting than Madam Brownlow herself;and a new housekeeper reigned in the place of her who was formerlybut an echo of Victorine's opinions. Victorine's own temper, too, wasnot improved by her four years abroad, and there was a generaldisposition among the servants to resist all her assumption ofauthority. She felt her powerlessness after a struggle or two, buttreasured up her vengeance. If she had lost power over the household,however, there was no diminution of her influence over her mistress.It was her device at last that lured the countess out of her gloomyseclusion.
Almost the only creature Victorine cared for, besides Theresa, wasthe little Mary Brownlow. What there was of softness in her woman'snature, seemed to come out towards children; though, if the child hadbeen a boy instead of a girl, it is probable that Victorine might nothave taken it into her good graces. As it was, the French nurse andthe English child were capital friends; and when Victorine sent Maryinto the countess's room, and bade her not be afraid, but ask thelady in her infantine babble to come out and see Mary's snow-man, sheknew that the little one, for her sake, would put her small hand intoTheresa's, and thus plead with more success, because with lesspurpose, than any one else had been able to plead. Out came Theresa,colourless and sad, holding Mary by the hand. They went, unobservedas they thought, to the great gallery-window, and looked out into thecourt-yard; then Theresa returned to her rooms. But the ice wasbroken, and before the winter was over, Theresa fell into her oldways, and sometimes smiled, and sometimes even laughed, until chancevisitors again spoke of her rare beauty and her courtly grace.
It was noticeable that Theresa revived first out of her lassitudeto an interest in all Duke's pursuits. She grew weary of Bessy'ssmall cares and domestic talk--now about the servants, now about hermother and the parsonage, now about the parish. She questioned Dukeabout his travels, and could enter into his appreciation andjudgement of foreign nations; she perceived the latent powers of hismind; she became impatient of their remaining dormant in countryseclusion. She had spoken of leaving Crowley Castle, and of findingsome other home, soon after her father's death; but both Duke andBessy had urged her to stay with them, Bessy saying, in the pureinnocence of her heart, how glad she was that, in the probablyincreasing cares of her nursery, Duke would have a companion so muchto his mind.
About a year after Sir Mark's death, the member for Sussex died,and Theresa set herself to stir up Duke to assume his place. Withsome difficulty (for Bessy was passive: perhaps even opposed to thescheme in her quiet way), Theresa succeeded, and Duke was elected.She was vexed at Bessy's torpor, as she called it, in the wholeaffair; vexed as she now often was with Bessy's sluggish interest inall things beyond her immediate ken. Once, when Theresa tried to makeBessy perceive how Duke might shine and rise in his new sphere, Bessyburst into tears, and said, 'You speak as if his presence here werenothing, and his fame in London everything. I cannot help fearingthat he will leave off caring for all the quiet ways in which we havebeen so happy ever since we were married.'
'But when he is here,' replied Theresa, 'and when he wants to talkto you of politics, of foreign news, of great public interests, youdrag him down to your level of woman's cares.'
'Do I?' said Bessy. 'Do I drag him down? I wish I was cleverer;but you know, Theresa, I was never clever in anything buthousewifery.'
Theresa was touched for a moment by this humility.
'Yet, Bessy, you have a great deal of judgement, if you will butexercise it. Try and take an interest in all he cares for, as well asmaking him try and take an interest in home affairs.'
But, somehow, this kind of conversation too often ended indissatisfaction on both sides; and the servants gathered, frominduction rather than from words, that the two ladies were not on themost cordial terms; however friendly they might wish to be, and mightstrive to appear. Madam Hawtrey, too, allowed her jealousy of Theresato deepen into dislike. She was jealous because, in some unreasonableway, she had taken it into her head that Theresa's presence at thecastle was the reason why she was not urged to take up her abodethere on Sir Mark's death: as if there were not rooms and suites ofrooms enough to lodge a wilderness of dowagers in the building, ifthe owner so wished. But Duke had certain ideas pretty strongly fixedin his mind; and one was a repugnance to his mother-in-law's constantcompany. But he greatly increased her income as soon as he had it inhis power, and left it entirely to herself how she should spendit.
Having now the means of travelling about, Madam Hawtrey betookherself pretty frequently to such watering-places as were in vogue atthat day, or went to pay visits at the houses of those friends whooccasionally came lumbering up in shabby vehicles to visit theircousin Bessy at the castle. Theresa cared little for Madam Hawtrey'scoldness; perhaps, indeed, never perceived it. She gave up strivingwith Bessy, too; it was hopeless to try to make her an intellectualambitious companion to her husband. He had spoken in the House; hehad written a pamphlet that made much noise; the minister of the dayhad sought him out, and was trying to attach him to the government.Theresa, with her Parisian experience of the way in which womeninfluenced politics, would have given anything for the Brownlows tohave taken a house in London. She longed to see the greatpoliticians, to find herself in the thick of the struggle for placeand power, the brilliant centre of all that was worth hearing andseeing in the kingdom. There had been some talk of this same Londonhouse; but Bessy had pleaded against it earnestly while Theresa satby in indignant silence, until she could bear the discussion nolonger; going off to her own sitting-room, where Victorine was atwork. Here her pent-up words found vent--not addressed to herservant, but not restrained before her:
'I cannot bear it--to see him cramped in by her narrow mind, tohear her weak selfish arguments, urged because she feels she would beout of place beside him. And Duke is hampered with this woman: hewhose powers are unknown even to himself, or he would put her feeblenature on one side, and seek his higher atmosphere, How he wouldshine! How he does shine! Good Heaven! To think--'
And here she sank into silence, watched by Victorine's furtiveeyes.
Duke had excelled all he had previously done by some great burstof eloquence, and the country rang with his words. He was to comedown to Crowley Castle for a parliamentary recess, which occurredalmost immediately after this. Theresa calculated the hours of eachpart of the complicated journey, and could have told to five minuteswhen he might be expected; but the baby was ill and absorbed allBessy's attention. She was in the nursery by the cradle in which thechild slept, when her husband came riding up to the castle gate. ButTheresa was at the gate; her hair all out of powder, and blowing awayinto dishevelled curls, as the hood of her cloak fell back; her lipsparted with a breathless welcome, her eyes shining out love andpride. Duke was but mortal. All London chanted his rising fame, andhere in his home Theresa seemed to be the only person who appreciatedhim.
The servants clustered in the great hall; for it was now somelength of time since he had been at home. Victorine was there, withsome headgear for her lady; and when, in reply to his inquiry for hiswife, the grave butler asserted that she was with young master, whowas, they feared, very seriously ill, Victorine said, with thefamiliarity of an old servant, and as if to assuage Duke's anxiety:'Madam fancies the child is ill, because she can think of nothing buthim, and perpetual watching has made her nervous.' The child,however, was really ill; and after a brief greeting to her husband,Bessy returned to her nursery, leaving Theresa to question, to hear,to sympathize. That night she gave way to another burst ofdisparaging remarks on poor motherly homely Bessy, and that nightVictorine thought she read a deeper secret in Theresa's heart.
The child was scarcely ever out of its mother's arms; but theillness became worse, and it was nigh unto death. Some cream had beenset aside for the little wailing creature, and Victorine hadunwittingly used it for the making of a cosmetic for her mistress.When the servant in charge of it reproved her, a quarrel began as totheir respective mistress's right to give orders in the household.Before the dispute ended, pretty strong things had been said on bothsides.
The child died. The heir was lifeless; the servants were inwhispering dismay, and bustling discussion of their mourning; Dukefelt the vanity of fame, as compared to a baby's life. Theresa wasfull of sympathy, but dared not express it to him; so tender was herheart becoming. Victorine regretted the death in her own way. Bessylay speechless, and tearless; not caring for loving voices, nor forgentle touches; taking neither food nor drink; neither sleeping norweeping. 'Send for her mother,' the doctor said; for Madam Hawtreywas away on her visits, and the letters telling her of hergrandchild's illness had not reached her in the slow-delayingcross-country posts of those days. So she was sent for; by a manriding express, as a quicker and surer means than the post.
Meanwhile, the nurses, exhausted by their watching, found the careof little Mary by day, quite enough. Madam's maid sat up with Bessyfor a night or two; Duke striding in from time to time through thedark hours to look at the white motionless face, which would haveseemed like the face of one dead, but for the long-quivering sighsthat came up from the overladen heart. The doctor tried his drugs, invain, and then he tried again. This night, Victorine at her ownearnest request, sat up instead of the maid. As usual, towardsmidnight, Duke came stealing in with shaded light. 'Hush!' saidVictorine, her finger on her lips. 'She sleeps at last.' Morningdawned faint and pale, and still she slept. The doctor came, andstole in on tip-toe, rejoicing in the effect of his drugs. They allstood round the bed; Duke, Theresa, Victorine. Suddenly the doctor--astrange change upon him, a strange fear in his face--felt thepatient's pulse, put his ear to her open lips, called for a glass--afeather. The mirror was not dimmed, the delicate fibres stirred not.Bessy was dead.
I pass rapidly over many months. Theresa was again overwhelmedwith grief, or rather, I should say, remorse; for now that Bessy wasgone, and buried out of sight, all her innocent virtues, all herfeminine homeliness, came vividly into Theresa's mind--not aswearisome, but as admirable, qualities of which she had been tooblind to perceive the value. Bessy had been her own old companiontoo, in the happy days of childhood, and of innocence. Theresa rathershunned than sought Duke's company now. She remained at the castle,it is true, and Madam Hawtrey, as Theresa's only condition ofcontinuing where she was, came to live under the same roof. Duke felthis wife's death deeply, but reasonably, as became his character. Hewas perplexed by Theresa's bursts of grief, knowing, as he dimly did,that she and Bessy had not lived together in perfect harmony. But hewas much in London now; a rising statesman; and when, in autumn, hespent some time at the castle, he was full of admiration for thestrangely patient way in which Theresa behaved towards the old lady.It seemed to Duke that in his absence Madam Hawtrey had assumedabsolute power in his household, and that the high-spirited Theresasubmitted to her fantasies with even more docility than her owndaughter would have done. Towards Mary, Theresa was always kind andindulgent.
Another autumn came; and before it went, old ties were renewed,and Theresa was pledged to become her cousin's wife.
There were two people strongly affected by this news when it waspromulgated; one--and this was natural under the circumstances--wasMadam Hawtrey; who chose to resent the marriage as a deep personaloffence to herself as well as to her daughter's memory, and whosternly rejecting all Theresa's entreaties, and Duke's invitation tocontinue her residence at the castle, went off into lodgings in thevillage. The other person strongly affected by the news, wasVictorine.
From being a dry active energetic middle-aged woman, she now, atthe time of Theresa's engagement, sank into the passive languor ofadvanced life. It seemed as if she felt no more need of effort, orstrain, or exertion. She sought solitude; liked nothing better thanto sit in her room adjoining Theresa's dressing-room, sometimes sunkin a reverie, sometimes employed on an intricate piece of knittingwith almost spasmodic activity. But wherever Theresa went, thitherwould Victorine go. Theresa had imagined that her old nurse wouldprefer being left at the castle, in the soothing tranquillity of thecountry, to accompanying her and her husband to the house inGrosvenor-square, which they had taken for the parliamentary season.But the mere offer of a choice seemed to irritate Victorineinexpressibly. She looked upon the proposal as a sign that Theresaconsidered her as superannuated--that her nursling was weary of her,and wished to supplant her services by those of a younger maid. Itseemed impossible to dislodge this idea when it had once entered intoher head, and it led to frequent bursts of temper, in which sheviolently upbraided Theresa for her ingratitude towards so faithful afollower.
One day, Victorine went a little further in her expressions thanusual, and Theresa, usually so forbearing towards her, turned atlast. 'Really, Victorine!' she said, 'this is misery to both of us.You say you never feel so wicked as when I am near you; that myingratitude is such as would be disowned by fiends; what can I, whatmust I do? You say you are never so unhappy as when you are near me;must we, then, part? Would that be for your happiness?'
'And is that what it has come to!' exclaimed Victorine. 'In mycountry they reckon a building secure against wind and storm and allthe ravages of time, if the first mortar used has been tempered withhuman blood. But not even our joint secret, though it was temperedwell with blood, can hold our lives together! How much less all thecare, all the love, that I lavished upon you in the days of my youthand strength!'
Theresa came close to the chair in which Victorine was seated. Shetook hold of her hand and held it fast in her own. 'Speak,Victorine,' said she, hoarsely, 'and tell me what you mean. What isour joint secret? And what do you mean by its being a secret ofblood? Speak out. I will know.'
'As if you do not know!' replied Victorine, harshly. 'You don'tremember my visits to Bianconi, the Italian chemist in the Marais,long ago?' She looked into Theresa's face, to see if her words hadsuggested any deeper meaning than met the ear. No; Theresa's look wasstern, but free and innocent.
'You told me you went there to learn the composition of certainunguents, and cosmetics, and domestic medicines.'
'Ay, and paid high for my knowledge, too,' said Victorine, with alow chuckle. 'I learned more than you have mentioned, my ladycountess. I learnt the secret nature of many drugs--to speak plainly,I learnt the art of poisoning. And,' suddenly standing up, 'it wasfor your sake I learnt it. For your service--you--who would fain castme off in my old age. For you!'
Theresa blanched to a deadly white. But she tried to move neitherfeature nor limb, nor to avert her eyes for one moment from the eyesthat defied her. 'For my service, Victorine?'
'Yes! The quieting draught was all ready for your husband, whenthey brought him home dead.'
'Thank God his death does not lie at your door!'
'Thank God?' mocked Victorine. 'The wish for his death does lie atyour door; and the intent to rid you of him does lie at my door. AndI am not ashamed of it. Not I! It was not for myself I would havedone it, but because you suffered so. He had struck you, whom I hadnursed on my breast.'
'Oh, Victorine!' said Theresa, with a shudder. 'Those days arepast. Do not let us recall them. I was so wicked because I was somiserable; and now I am so happy, so inexpressibly happy, that--dolet me try to make you happy too!'
'You ought to try,' said Victorine, not yet pacified; 'can't yousee how the incomplete action once stopped by Fate, was tried again,and with success; and how you are now reaping the benefit of my sin,if sin it was?'
'Victorine! I do not know what you mean!' But some terror musthave come over her, she so trembled and so shivered.
'Do you not indeed? Madame Brownlow, the country girl from CrowleyParsonage, needed sleep, and would fain forget the little child'sdeath that was pressing on her brain. I helped the doctor to his end.She sleeps now, and she has met her baby before this, if priests'tales are true. And you, my beauty, my queen, you reign in her stead!Don't treat the poor Victorine as if she were mad, and speaking inher madness. I have heard of tricks like that being played, when thecrime was done, and the criminal of use no longer.'
That evening, Duke was surprised by his wife's entreaty andpetition that she might leave him, and return with Victorine and herother personal servants to the seclusion of Crowley Castle. She, thegreat London toast, the powerful enchantress of society, and most ofall, the darling wife and true companion, with this sudden fancy forthis complete retirement, and for leaving her husband when he wasfirst fully entering into the comprehension of all that a wife mightbe! Was it ill health? Only last night she had been in dazzlingbeauty, in brilliant spirits; this morning only, she had been somerry and tender. But Theresa denied that she was in any wayindisposed; and seemed suddenly so unwilling to speak of herself, andso much depressed, that Duke saw nothing for it but to grant her wishand let her go. He missed her terribly. No more pleasant tete-a-tetebreakfasts, enlivened by her sense and wit, and cheered by her prettycaressing ways. No gentle secretary now, to sit by his side throughlong long hours, never weary. When he went into society, he no longerfound his appearance watched and waited for by the loveliest womanthere. When he came home from the House at night, there was no one totake an interest in his speeches, to be indignant at all that annoyedhim, and charmed and proud of all the admiration he had won. Helonged for the time to come when he would be able to go down for aday or two to see his wife; for her letters appeared to him dull andflat after her bright companionship. No wonder that her letters cameout of a heavy heart, knowing what she knew.
She scarcely dared to go near Victorine, whose moods were becomingas variable as though she were indeed the mad woman she hadtauntingly defied Theresa to call her. At times she was miserablebecause Theresa looked so ill, and seemed so deeply unhappy. At othertimes she was jealous because she fancied Theresa shrank from her andavoided her. So, wearing her life out with passion, Victorine'shealth grew daily worse and worse during that summer.
Theresa's only comfort seemed to be little Mary's society. Sheseemed as though she could not lavish love enough upon the motherlesschild, who repaid Theresa's affection with all the prettydemonstrativeness of her age. She would carry the littlethree-year-old maiden in her arms when she went to see Victorine, orwould have Mary playing about in her dressing-room, if the oldFrenchwoman, for some jealous freak, would come and arrange herlady's hair with her trembling hands. To avoid giving offence toVictorine, Theresa engaged no other maid; to shun over-much orover-frank conversation with Victorine, she always had little Marywith her when there was a chance of the French waiting-maid comingin. For, the presence of the child was a holy restraint even onVictorine's tongue; she would sometimes check her fierce temper, tocaress the little creature playing at her knees; and would only darta covert bitter sting at Theresa under the guise of a warning againstingratitude, to Mary.
Theresa drooped and drooped in this dreadful life. She sought outMadam Hawtrey, and prayed her to come on a long visit to the castle.She was lonely, she said, asking for madam's company as a favour toherself. Madam Hawtrey was difficult to persuade; but the more sheresisted, the more Theresa entreated; and, when once madam was at thecastle, her own daughter had never been so dutiful, so humble a slaveto her slightest fancy as was the proud Theresa now.
Yet, for all this, the lady of the castle drooped and drooped, andwhen Duke came down to see his darling he was in utter dismay at herlooks. Yet she said she was well enough, only tired. If she hadanything more upon her mind, she refused him her confidence. Hewatched her narrowly, trying to forestall her smallest desires. Hesaw her tender affection for Mary, and thought he had never seen solovely and tender a mother to another woman's child. He wondered ather patience with Madam Hawtrey, remembering how often his own stockhad been exhausted by his mother-in-law, and how the brilliantTheresa had formerly scouted and flouted at the vicar's wife. Withall this renewed sense of his darling's virtues and charms, the ideaof losing her was too terrible to bear.
He would listen to no pleas, to no objections. Before he returnedto town, where his presence was a political necessity, he sought thebest medical advice that could be had in the neighbourhood. Thedoctors came; they could make but little out of Theresa, if hervehement assertion were true that she had nothing on her mind.Nothing.
'Humour him at least, my dear lady!' said the doctor, who hadknown Theresa from her infancy, but who, living at the distant countytown, was only called in on the Olympian occasions of great stateillnesses. 'Humour your husband, and perhaps do yourself some goodtoo, by consenting to his desire that you should have change of air.Brighthelmstone is a quiet village by the sea-side. Consent, like agracious lady, to go there for a few weeks.'
So, Theresa, worn out with opposition, consented, and Duke madeall the arrangements for taking her, and little Mary, and thenecessary suite of servants, to Brighton, as we call it now. Heresolved in his own mind that Theresa's personal attendant should besome woman young enough to watch and wait upon her mistress, and notVictorine, to whom Theresa was in reality a servant. But of thisplan, neither Theresa nor Victorine knew anything until the formerwas in the carriage with her husband some miles distant from thecastle. Then he, a little exultant in the good management by which hesupposed he had spared his wife the pain and trouble of decision,told her that Victorine was left behind, and that a new accomplishedLondon maid would await her at her journey's end.
Theresa only exclaimed, 'O! What will Victorine say?' and coveredher face, and sat shivering and speechless.
What Victorine did say, when she found out the trick, as sheesteemed it, that had been played upon her, was too terrible torepeat. She lashed herself up into an ungoverned passion; ark thenbecame so really and seriously ill that the servants went to fetchMadam Hawtrey in terror and dismay. But when that lady came,Victorine shut her eyes, and refused to look at her. 'She has got herdaughter in her hand! I will not look!' Shaking all the time sheuttered these awe-stricken words, as if she were in an ague-fit.'Bring the countess back to me. Let her face the dead woman standingthere, I will not do it. They wanted her to sleep--and so did thecountess, that she might step into her lawful place. Theresa,Theresa, where are you? You tempted me. What I did, I did in yourservice. And you have gone away, and left me alone with the deadwoman! It was the same drug as the doctor gave, after all--only hegave little, and I gave much. My lady the countess spent her moneywell, when she sent me to the old Italian to learn his trade' Lotionsfor the complexion, and a discriminating use of poisonous drugs. Idiscriminated, and Theresa profited; and now she is his wife, and hasleft me here alone with the dead woman. Theresa, Theresa, come backand save me from the dead woman!'
Madam Hawtrey stood by, horror-stricken. 'Fetch the vicar,' saidshe, under her breath, to a servant.
'The village doctor is coming,' said some one near. 'How sheraves! Is it delirium?'
'It is no delirium,' said Bessy's mother. 'Would to Heaven itwere!'
Theresa had a happy day with her husband at Brighthelmstone beforehe set off on his return to London. She watched him riding away, hisservant following with his portmanteau. Often and often did Duke lookback at the figure of his wife, waving her handkerchief, till a turnof the road hid her from his sight. He had to pass through a littlevillage not ten miles from his home, and there a servant, with hisletters and further luggage, was to await him. There he found amysterious, imperative note, requiring his immediate presence atCrowley Castle. Something in the awe-stricken face of the servantfrom the castle, led Duke to question him. But all he could say was,that Victorine lay dying, and that Madam Hawtrey had said that afterthat letter the master was sure to return, and so would need noluggage. Something lurked behind, evidently. Duke rode home at speed.The vicar was looking out for him. 'My dear boy,' said he, relapsinginto the old relations of tutor and pupil, 'prepare yourself.'
'What for?' said Duke, abruptly: for the being told to preparehimself, without being told for what, irritated him in his presentmood. 'Victorine is dead?'
'No! She says she will not die until she has seen you, and got youto forgive her, if Madam Hawtrey will not. But first read this: it isa terrible confession, made by her before me, a magistrate, believingherself to be on the point of death!'
Duke read the paper--containing little more in point of detailthan I have already given--the horrible words taken down in theshort-hand in which the vicar used to write his mild prosy sermons:his pupil knew the character of old. Duke read it twice. Then hesaid: 'She is raving, poor creature!' But for all that, his heart'sblood ran cold, and he would fain not have faced the woman, but wouldrather have remained in doubt to his dying day.
He went up the stairs three steps at a time, and then turned andfaced the vicar, with a look like the stern calmness of death. 'Iwish to see her alone.' He turned out all the watching women, andthen he went to the bedside where Victorine sat, half propped up withpillows, watching all his doings and his looks, with her hollow awfuleyes. 'Now, Victorine, I will read this paper aloud to you. Perhapsyour mind has been wandering; but you understand me now?' A feeblemurmur of assent met his listening ear. 'If any statement in thispaper be not true, make me a sign. Hold up your hand--for God's sakehold up your hand. And if you can do it with truth in this, your hourof dying, Lord have mercy upon you; but if you cannot hold up yourhand, then Lord have mercy upon me!'
He read the paper slowly; clause by clause he read the paper. Nosign; no uplifted hand. At the end she spoke, and he bent his head tolisten. 'The Countess--Theresa you know--she who has left me to diealone--she'--then mortal strength failed, and Duke was left alone inthe chamber of death.
He stayed in the chamber many minutes, quite still. Then he leftthe room, and said to the first domestic he could find, 'The woman isdead. See that she is attended to.' But he went to the vicar, and hada long long talk with him. He sent a confidential servant for littleMary--on some pretext, hardly careful, or plausible enough; but hismood was desperate, and he seemed to forget almost everything butBessy, his first wife, his innocent girlish bride.
Theresa could ill spare her little darling, and was perplexed bythe summons; but an explanation of it was to come in a day or two. Itcame.
'Victorine is dead; I need say no more. She could not carry herawful secret into the next world, but told all. I can think ofnothing but my poor Bessy, delivered over to the cruelty of such awoman. And you, Theresa, I leave you to your conscience, for you haveslept in my bosom. Henceforward I am a stranger to you. By the timeyou receive this, I, and my child, and that poor murdered girl'smother, will have left England. What will be our next step I knownot. My agent will do for you what you need.'
Theresa sprang up and rang her bell with mad haste. 'Get me ahorse!' she cried, 'and bid William be ready to ride with me for hislife--for my life--along the coast, to Dover!'
They rode and they galloped through the night, scarcely staying tobait their horses. But when they came to Dover, they looked out tosea upon the white sails that bore Duke and his child away. Theresawas too late, and it broke her heart. She lies buried in Doverchurchyard. After long years Duke returned to England; but his placein parliament knew him no more, and his daughter's husband soldCrowley Castle to a stranger.
You were formerly so much amused at my pride in my descent fromthat sister of Calvin's, who married a Whittingham, Dean of Durham,that I doubt if you will be able to enter into the regard for mydistinguished relation that has led me to France, in order to examineregisters and archives, which, I thought, might enable me to discovercollateral descendants of the great reformer, with whom I might callcousins. I shall not tell you of my troubles and adventures in thisresearch; you are not worthy to hear of them; but something socurious befel me one evening last August, that if I had not beenperfectly certain I was wide awake, I might have taken it for adream.
For the purpose I have named, it was necessary that I should makeTours my head-quarters for a time. I had traced descendants of theCalvin family out of Normandy into the centre of France; but I foundit was necessary to have a kind of permission from the bishop of thediocese before I could see certain family papers, which had falleninto the possession of the Church; and, as I had several Englishfriends at Tours, I awaited the answer to my request to Monseigneurde---, at that town. I was ready to accept any invitation; but Ireceived very few; and was sometimes a little at a loss what to dowith my evenings. The table d'hote was at five o'clock; I did notwish to go to the expense of a private sitting-room, disliked thedinnery atmosphere of the salle a manger, could not play either atpool or billiards, and the aspect of my fellow guests wasunprepossessing enough to make me unwilling to enter into anytete-a-tete gamblings with them. So I usually rose from table early,and tried to make the most of the remaining light of the Augustevenings in walking briskly off to explore the surrounding country;the middle of the day was too hot for this purpose, and betteremployed in lounging on a bench in the Boulevards, lazily listeningto the distant band, and noticing with equal laziness the faces andfigures of the women who passed by.
One Thursday evening, the 18th of August it was, I think, I hadgone further than usual in my walk, and I found that it was laterthan I had imagined when I paused to turn back. I fancied I couldmake a round; I had enough notion of the direction in which I was, tosee that by turning up a narrow, straight lane to my left I shouldshorten my way back to Tours. And so I believe I should have done,could I have found an outlet at the right place, but field-paths arealmost unknown in that part of France, and my lane, stiff andstraight as any street, and marked into terribly vanishingperspective by the regular row of poplars on each side, seemedinterminable. Of course night came on, and I was in darkness. InEngland I might have had a chance of seeing a light in some cottageonly a field or two off, and asking my way from the inhabitants; buthere I could see no such welcome sight; indeed, I believe Frenchpeasants go to bed with the summer daylight, so if there were anyhabitations in the neighbour hood I never saw them. At last--Ibelieve I must have walked two hours in the darkness,--I saw thedusky outline of a wood on one side of the weariful lane, and,impatiently careless of all forest laws and penalties fortrespassers, I made my way to it, thinking that if the worst came tothe worst, I could find some covert--some shelter where I could liedown and rest, until the morning light gave me a chance of finding myway back to Tours. But the plantation, on the outskirts of whatappeared to me a dense wood, was of young trees, too closely plantedto be more than slender stems growing up to a good height, withscanty foliage on their summits. On I went towards the thickerforest, and once there I slackened my pace, and began to look aboutme for a good lair. I was as dainty as Lochiel's grandchild, who madehis grandsire indignant at the luxury of his pillow of snow: thisbrake was too full of brambles, that felt damp with dew; there was nohurry, since I had given up all hope of passing the night betweenfour walls; and I went leisurely groping about, and trusting thatthere were no wolves to be poked up Out of their summer drowsiness bymy stick, when all at once I saw a chateau before me, not a quarterof a mile off, at the end of what seemed to be an ancient avenue (nowovergrown and irregular), which I happened to be crossing, when Ilooked to my right, and saw the welcome sight. Large, stately, anddark was its outline against the dusky night-sky; there werepepper-boxes and tourelles and what-not fantastically going up intothe dim starlight. And more to the purpose still, though I could notsee the details of the building that I was now facing, it was plainenough that there were lights in many windows, as if some greatentertainment was going on.
'They are hospitable people, at any rate,' thought I. 'Perhapsthey will give me a bed. I don't suppose French proprietaires havetraps and horses quite as plentiful as English gentlemen; but theyare evidently having a large party, and some of their guests may befrom Tours, and will give me a cast back to the Lion d'Or. I am notproud, and I am dog-tired. I am not above hanging on behind, if needbe.'
So, putting a little briskness and spirit into my walk, I went upto the door, which was standing open, most hospitably, showing alarge, lighted hall, all hung round with spoils of the chase, armour,and co., the details of which I had not time to notice, for theinstant I stood on the threshold a huge porter appeared, in astrange, old-fashioned dress, a kind of livery which well befittedthe general appearance of the house. He asked me, in French (socuriously pronounced that I thought I had hit upon a new kind ofpatois), my name, and whence I came. I thought he would not be muchthe wiser, still it was but civil to give it before I made my requestfor assistance; so, in reply, I said,---
'My name is Whittingham--Richard Whittingham, an Englishgentleman, staying at---' To my infinite surprise, a light of pleasedintelligence came over the giant's face; he made me a low bow, andsaid (still in the same curious dialect) that I was welcome, that Iwas long expected.
'Long expected!' what could the fellow mean? Had I stumbled on anest of relations by John Calvin's side, who had heard of mygenealogical inquiries, and were gratified and interested by them?But I was too much pleased to be under shelter for the night to thinkit necessary to account for my agreeable reception before I enjoyedit. Just as he was opening the great, heavy battants of the door thatled from the hall to the interior, he turned round and said,---
'Apparently Monsieur le Geanquilleur is not come with you.'
'No! I am all alone; I have lost my way,'--and I was going on withmy explanation, when he, as if quite indifferent to it, led the wayup a great stone staircase, as wide as many rooms, and having on eachlanding-place massive iron wickets, in a heavy framework; these theporter unlocked with the solemn slowness of age. Indeed, a strange,mysterious awe of the centuries that had passed away since thischateau was built, came over me as I waited for the turning of theponderous keys in the ancient locks. I could almost have fancied thatI heard a mighty rushing murmur (like the ceaseless sound of adistant sea, ebbing and flowing for ever and for ever), coming forthfrom the great, vacant galleries that opened out on each side of thebroad staircase, and were to be dimly perceived in the darkness aboveus. It was as if the voices of generations of men yet echoed andeddied in the silent air. It was strange, too, that my friend theporter going before me, ponderously in firm, with his feeble oldhands striving in vain to keep the tall flambeau he held steadilybefore him,--strange, I say, that he was the only domestic I saw inthe vast halls and passages, or met with on the grand staircase. Atlength we stood before the gilded doors that led into the saloonwhere the family--or it might be the company, so great was the buzzof voices--was assembled. I would have remonstrated when I found hewas going to introduce me, dusty and travel-smeared, in a morningcostume that was not even my best, into this grand salon, with nobodyknew how many ladies and gentlemen assembled; but the obstinate oldman was evidently bent upon taking me straight to his master, andpaid no heed to my words.
The doors flew open, and I was ushered into a saloon curiouslyfull of pale light, which did not culminate on any spot, nor proceedfrom any centre, nor flicker with any motion of the air, but filledevery nook and corner, making all things deliciously distinct;different from our light of gas or candle, as is the differencebetween a clear southern atmosphere and that of our mistyEngland.
At the first moment, my arrival excited no attention, theapartment was so full of people, all intent on their ownconversation. But my friend the porter went up to a handsome lady ofmiddle age, richly attired in that antique manner which fashion hasbrought round again of late years, and, waiting first in an attitudeof deep respect till her attention fell upon him, told her my nameand something about me, as far as I could guess from the gestures ofthe one and the sudden glance of the eye of the other.
She immediately came towards me with the most friendly actions ofgreeting, even before she had advanced near enough to speak.Then,--and was it not strange?--her words and accent were that of thecommonest peasant of the country. Yet she herself looked highbred,and would have been dignified had she been a shade less restless, hadher countenance worn a little less lively and inquisitive expression.I had been poking a good deal about the old parts of Tours, and hadhad to understand the dialect of the people who dwelt in the Marcheau Vendredi and similar places, or I really should not haveunderstood my handsome hostess, as she offered to present me to herhusband, a henpecked, gentlemanly man, who was more quaintly attiredthan she in the very extreme of that style of dress. I thought tomyself that in France, as in England, it is the provincials who carryfashion to such an excess as to become ridiculous.
However, he spoke (still in the patois) of his pleasure in makingmy acquaintance, and led me to a strange, uneasy easy-chair, much ofa piece with the rest of the furniture, which might have taken itsplace without any anachronism by the side of that in the Hotel Cluny.Then again began the clatter of French voices, which my arrival hadfor an instant interrupted, and I had leisure to look about me.Opposite to me sat a very sweet-looking lady, who must have been agreat beauty in her youth, I should think, and would be charming inold age, from the sweetness of her countenance. She was, however,extremely fat, and on seeing her feet laid up before her on acushion, I at once perceived that they were so swollen as to renderher incapable of walking, which probably brought on her excessiveembonpoint. Her hands were plump and small, but rather coarse-grainedin texture, not quite so clean as they might have been, andaltogether not so aristocratic-looking as the charming face. Herdress was of superb black velvet, ermine-trimmed, with diamondsthrown all abroad over it.
Not far from her stood the least little man I had ever seen; ofsuch admirable proportions no one could call him a dwarf, becausewith that word we usually associate something of deformity; but yetwith an elfin look of shrewd, hard, worldly wisdom in his face thatmarred the impression which his delicate, regular, little featureswould otherwise have conveyed. Indeed, I do not think he was quite ofequal rank with the rest of the company, for his dress wasinappropriate to the occasion (and he apparently was an invited,while I was an involuntary guest); and one or two of his gestures andactions were more like the tricks of an uneducated rustic thananything else. To explain what I mean: his boots had evidently seenmuch service, and had been re-topped, re-heeled, resoled to theextent of cobbler's powers. Why should he have come in them if theywere not his best--his only pair? And what can be more ungenteel thanpoverty? Then again he had an uneasy trick of putting his hand up tohis throat, as if he expected to find something the matter with it;and he had the awkward habit--which I do not think he could havecopied from Dr Johnson, because most probably he had never heard ofhim--of trying always to retrace his steps on the exact boards onwhich he had trodden to arrive at any particular part of the room.Besides, to settle the question, I once heard him addressed asMonsieur Poucet, without any aristocratic 'de' for a prefix; andnearly every one else in the room was a marquis, at any rate.
I say, 'nearly every one'; for some strange people had the entree;unless, indeed, they were, like me, benighted. One of the guests Ishould have taken for a servant, but for the extraordinary influencehe seemed to have over the man I took for his master, and who neverdid anything without, apparently, being urged thereto by thisfollower. The master, magnificently dressed, but ill at ease in hisclothes, as if they had been made for some one else, was aweak-looking, handsome man, continually sauntering about, and Ialmost guessed an object of suspicion to some of the gentlemenpresent, which, perhaps, drove him on the companionship of hisfollower, who was dressed something in the style of an ambassador'schasseur; yet it was not a chasseur's dress after all; it wassomething more thoroughly old-world; boots half way up hisridiculously small legs, which clattered as he walked along, as ifthey were too large for his little feet; and a great quantity of greyfur, as trimming to coat, court-mantle, boots, cap--everything. Youknow the way in which certain countenances remind you perpetually ofsome animal, be it bird or beast! Well, this chasseur (as I will callhim for want of a better name) was exceedingly like the great Tom-catthat you have seen so often in my chambers, and laughed at almost asoften for his uncanny gravity of demeanour. Grey whiskers has myTom--grey whiskers had the chasseur: grey hair overshadows the upperlip of my Tom--grey mustachios hid that of the chasseur. The pupilsof Tom's eyes dilate and contract as I had thought cats' pupils onlycould do, until I saw those of the chasseur. To be sure, canny as Tomis, the chasseur had the advantage in the more intelligentexpression. He seemed to have obtained most complete sway over hismaster or patron, whose looks he watched, and whose steps hefollowed, with a kind of distrustful interest that puzzled megreatly.
There were several other groups in the more distant part of thesaloon, all of the stately old school, all grand and noble, Iconjectured from their bearing. They seemed perfectly well acquaintedwith each other, as if they were in the habit of meeting. But I wasinterrupted in my observations by the tiny little gentleman on theopposite side of the room coming across to take a place beside me. Itis no difficult matter to a Frenchman to slide into conversation, andso gracefully aid my pigmy friend keep up the character of thenation, that we were almost confidential before ten minutes hadelapsed.
Now I was quite aware that the welcome which all had extended tome, from the porter up to the vivacious lady and meek lord of thecastle, was intended for some other person. But it required either adegree of moral courage, of which I cannot boast, or theself-reliance and conversational powers of a bolder and cleverer manthan I, to undeceive people who had fallen into so fortunate amistake for me. Yet the little man by my side insinuated himself somuch into my confidence, that I had half a mind to tell him of myexact situation, and to turn him into a friend and an ally.
'Madame is perceptibly growing older,' said he, in the midst of myperplexity, glancing at our hostess.
'Madame is still a very fine woman,' replied I.
'Now, is it not strange,' continued he, lowering his voice, 'howwomen almost invariably praise the absent, or departed, as if theywere angels of light, while as for the present, or the living'--herehe shrugged up his little shoulders, and made an expressive pause.'Would you believe it! Madame is always praising her late husband tomonsieur's face; till, in fact, we guests are quite perplexed how tolook: for, you know, the late M. de Retz's character was quitenotorious,--everybody has heard of him.' All the world of Touraine,thought I, but I made an assenting noise.
At this instant, monsieur our host came up to me, and with a civillook of tender interest (such as some people put on when they inquireafter your mother, about whom they do not care one straw), asked if Ihad heard lately how my cat was? 'How my cat was!' what could the manmean? My cat! Could he mean the tailless Tom, born in the Isle ofMan, and now supposed to be keeping guard against the incursions ofrats and mice into my chambers in London? Tom is, as you know, onpretty good terms with some of my friends, using their legs forrubbing-posts without scruple, and highly esteemed by them for hisgravity of demeanour, and wise manner of winking his eyes. But couldhis fame have reached across the Channel? However, an answer must bereturned to the inquiry, as monsieur's face was bent down to minewith a look of polite anxiety; so I, in my turn, assumed anexpression of gratitude, and assured him that, to the best of mybelief, my cat was in remarkably good health.
'And the climate agrees with her?'
'Perfectly,' said I, in a maze of wonder at this deep solicitudein a tailless cat who had lost one foot and half an ear in some crueltrap. My host smiled a sweet smile, and, addressing a few words to mylittle neighbour, passed on.
'How wearisome those aristocrats are!' quoth my neighbour, with aslight sneer. 'Monsieur's conversation rarely extends to more thantwo sentences to any one. By that time his faculties are exhausted,and he needs the refreshment of silence. You and I, monsieur, are, atany rate, indebted to our own wits for our rise in the world!'
Here again I was bewildered! As you know, I am rather proud of mydescent from families which, if not noble themselves, are allied tonobility,--and as to my 'rise in the world'--if I had risen, it wouldhave been rather for balloon-like qualities than for mother-wit, tobeing unencumbered with heavy ballast either in my head or mypockets. However, it was my cue to agree: so I smiled again.
'For my part,' said he, 'if a man does not stick at trifles, if heknows how to judiciously add to, or withhold facts, and is notsentimental in his parade of humanity, he is sure to do well; sure toaffix a de or von to his name, and end his days in comfort. There isan example of what I am saying'--and he glanced furtively at theweak-looking master of the sharp, intelligent servant, whom I havecalled the chasseur.
'Monsieur le Marquis would never have been anything but a miller'sson, if it had not been for the talents of his servant. Of course youknow his antecedents?'
I was going to make some remarks on the changes in the order ofthe peerage since the days of Louis XVI--going, in fact, to be verysensible and historical--when there was a slight commotion among thepeople at the other end of the room. Lacqueys in quaint liveries musthave come in from behind the tapestry, I suppose (for I never sawthem enter, though I sate right opposite to the doors), and werehanding about the slight beverages and slighter viands which areconsidered sufficient refreshments, but which looked rather meagre tomy hungry appetite. These footmen were standing solemnly opposite toa lady,--beautiful, splendid as the dawn, but--sound asleep in amagnificent settee. A gentleman who showed so much irritation at herill-timed slumbers, that I think he must have been her husband, wastrying to awaken her with actions not far removed from shakings. Allin vain; she was quite unconscious of his annoyance, or the smiles ofthe company, or the automatic solemnity of the waiting footman, orthe perplexed anxiety of monsieur and madame.
My little friend sat down with a sneer, as if his curiosity wasquenched in contempt.
'Moralists would make an infinity of wise remarks on that scene,'said he. 'In the first place, note the ridiculous position into whichtheir superstitious reverence for rank and title puts all thesepeople. Because monsieur is a reigning prince over some minuteprincipality, the exact situation of which no one has as yetdiscovered, no one must venture to take their glass of eau sucre tillMadame la Princesse awakens; and, judging from past experience, thosepoor lacqueys may have to stand for a century before that happens.Next--always speaking as a moralist, you will observe--note howdifficult it is to break off bad habits acquired in youth!'
Just then the prince succeeded, by what means I did not see, inawaking the beautiful sleeper. But at first she did not rememberwhere she was, and looking up at her husband with loving eyes, shesmiled and said,---
'Is it you, my prince?'
But he was too conscious of the suppressed amusement of thespectators and his own consequent annoyance, to be reciprocallytender, and turned away with some little French expression, bestrendered into English by 'Pooh, pooh, my dear!'
After I had had a glass of delicious wine of some unknown quality,my courage was in rather better plight than before, and I told mycynical little neighbour--whom I must say I was beginning todislike--that I had lost my way in the wood, and had arrived at thechateau quite by mistake.
He seemed mightily amused at my story; said that the same thinghad happened to himself more than once; and told me that I had betterluck than he had on one of these occasions, when, from his account,he must have been in considerable danger of his life. He ended hisstory by making me admire his boots, which he said he still wore,patched though they were, and all their excellent quality lost bypatching, because they were of such a first-rate make for longpedestrian excursions. 'Though, indeed,' he wound up by saying, 'thenew fashion of railroads would seem to supersede the necessity forthis description of boots.'
When I consulted him as to whether I ought to make myself known tomy host and hostess as a benighted traveller, instead of the guestwhom they had taken me for, he exclaimed, 'By no means! I hate suchsqueamish morality.' And he seemed much offended by my innocentquestion, as if it seemed by implication to condemn something inhimself. He was offended and silent; and just at this moment I caughtthe sweet, attractive eyes of the lady opposite--that lady whom Inamed at first as being no longer in the bloom of youth, but as beingsomewhat infirm about the feet, which were supported on a raisedcushion before her. Her looks seemed to say, 'Come here, and let ushave some conversation together'; and, with a bow of silent excuse tomy little companion, I went across to the lame old lady. Sheacknowledged my coming with the prettiest gesture of thanks possible;and, half apologetically, said, 'It is a little dull to be unable tomove about on such evenings as this; but it is a just punishment tome for my early vanities. My poor feet, that were by nature so small,are now taking their revenge for my cruelty in forcing them into suchlittle slippers... Besides, monsieur,' with a pleasant smile, 'Ithought it was possible you might be weary of the malicious sayingsof your little neighbour. He has not borne the best character in hisyouth, and such men are sure to be cynical in their old age.'
'Who is he?' asked I, with English abruptness.
'His name is Poucet, and his father was, I believe, a woodcutter,or charcoal burner, or something of the sort. They do tell sadstories of connivance at murder, ingratitude, and obtaining money onfalse pretences--but you will think me as bad as he if I go on withmy slanders. Rather let us admire the lovely lady coming up towardsus, with the roses in her hand--I never see her without roses, theyare so closely connected with her past history, as you are doubtlessaware. Ah, beauty!' said my companion to the lady drawing near to us,'it is like you to come to me, now that I can no longer go to you.'Then turning to me, and gracefully drawing me into the conversation,she said, 'You must know that, although we never met until we wereboth married, we have been almost like sisters ever since. There havebeen so many points of resemblance in our circumstances, and I thinkI may say in our characters. We had each two elder sisters--mine werebut half-sisters, though--who were not so kind to us as they mighthave been.'
'But have been sorry for it since,' put in the other lady.
'Since we have married princes,' continued the same lady, with anarch smile that had nothing of unkindness in it, 'for we both havemarried far above our original stations in life; we are bothunpunctual in our habits, and, in consequence of this failing ofours, we have both had to suffer mortification and pain.'
'And both are charming,' said a whisper close behind me. 'My lordthe marquis, say it--say, "And both are charming."'
'And both are charming,' was spoken aloud by another voice. Iturned, and saw the wily, cat-like chasseur, prompting his master tomake civil speeches.
The ladies bowed with that kind of haughty acknowledgment whichshows that compliments from such a source are distasteful. But ourtrio of conversation was broken up, and I was sorry for it. Themarquis looked as if he had been stirred up to make that one speech,and hoped that he would not be expected to say more; while behind himstood the chasseur, half impertinent and half servile in his ways andattitudes. The ladies, who were real ladies, seemed to be sorry forthe awkwardness of the marquis, and addressed some trifling questionsto him, adapting themselves to the subjects on which he could have notrouble in answering. The chasseur, meanwhile, was talking to himselfin a growling tone of voice. I had fallen a little into thebackground at this interruption in a conversation which promised tobe so pleasant, and I could not help hearing his words.
'Really, De Carabas grows more stupid every day. I have a greatmind to throw off his boots, and leave him to his fate. I wasintended for a court, and to a court I will go, and make my ownfortune as I have made his. The emperor will appreciate mytalents.'
And such are the habits of the French, or such his forgetfulnessof good manners in his anger, that he spat right and left on theparquetted floor.
Just then a very ugly, very pleasant-looking man, came towards thetwo ladies to whom I had lately been speaking, leading up to them adelicate, fair woman, dressed all in the softest white, as if shewere vouee au blanc. I do not think there was a bit of colour abouther. I thought I heard her making, as she came along, a little noiseof pleasure, not exactly like the singing of a tea-kettle, nor yetlike the cooing of a dove, but reminding me of each sound.
'Madame de Mioumiou was anxious to see you,' said he, addressingthe lady with the roses, 'so I have brought her across to give you apleasure!' What an honest, good face! but oh! how ugly! And yet Iliked his ugliness better than most persons' beauty. There was a lookof pathetic acknowledgment of his ugliness, and a deprecation of yourtoo hasty judgment, in his countenance that was positively winning.The soft, white lady kept glancing at my neighbour the chasseur, asif they had had some former acquaintance, which puzzled me very much,as they were of such different rank. However, their nerves wereevidently strung to the same tune, for at a sound behind thetapestry, which was more like the scuttering of rats and mice thananything else, both Madame de Mioumiou and the chasseur started withthe most eager look of anxiety on their countenances, and by theirrestless movements--madame's panting, and the fiery dilation of hiseyes--one might see that commonplace sounds affected them both in amanner very different to the rest of the company. The ugly husband ofthe lovely lady with the roses now addressed himself to me.
'We are much disappointed,' he said, 'in finding that monsieur isnot accompanied by his countryman--le grand Jean d'Angleterre; Icannot pronounce his name rightly'--and he looked at me to help himout.
'Le grand Jean d'Angleterre!' Now who was le grand Jeand'Angleterre? John Bull? John Russell? John Bright?
'Jean--Jean'--continued the gentleman, seeing my embarrassment.'Ah, these terrible English names--"Jean de Geanquilleur!"
I was as wise as ever. And yet the name struck me as familiar, butslightly disguised. I repeated it to myself. It was mighty like Johnthe Giant-killer, only his friends always call that worthy, 'Jack'. Isaid the name aloud.
'Ah, that is it!' said he. 'But why has he not accompanied you toour little reunion to-night?'
I had been rather puzzled once or twice before, but this seriousquestion added considerably to my perplexity. Jack the Giant-killerhad once, it is true, been rather an intimate friend of mine, as faras (printer's) ink and paper can keep up a friendship, but I had notheard his name mentioned for years; and for aught I knew he layenchanted with King Arthur's knights, who lie entranced until theblast of the trumpets of four mighty kings shall call them to help atEngland's need. But the question had been asked in serious earnest bythat gentleman, whom I more wished to think well of me than I did anyother person in the room. So I answered respectfully that it was longsince I had heard anything of my countryman; but that I was sure itwould have given him as much pleasure as it was doing myself to havebeen present at such an agreeable gathering of friends. He bowed, andthen the lame lady took up the word.
'To-night is the night when, of all the year, this great oldforest surrounding the castle is said to be haunted by the phantom ofa little peasant girl who once lived hereabouts; the tradition isthat she was devoured by a wolf. In former days I have seen her onthis night out of yonder window at the end of the gallery. Will you,ma belie, take monsieur to see the view outside by the moonlight (youmay possibly see the phantom-child); and leave me to a littletete-a-tete with your husband?'
With a gentle movement the lady with the roses complied with theother's request, and we went to a great window, looking down on theforest, in which I had lost my way. The tops of the far-spreading andleafy trees lay motionless beneath us in that pale, wan light, whichshows objects almost as distinct in form, though not in colour, as byday. We looked down on the countless avenues, which seemed toconverge from all quarters to the great old castle; and suddenlyacross one, quite near to us, there passed the figure of a littlegirl, with the 'capuchon' on, that takes the place of a peasantgirl's bonnet in France. She had a basket on one arm, and by her, onthe side to which her head was turned, there went a wolf. I couldalmost have said it was licking her hand, as if in penitent love, ifeither penitence or love had ever been a quality of wolves,--butthough not of living, perhaps it may be of phantom wolves.
'There, we have seen her!' exclaimed my beautiful companion.'Though so long dead, her simple story of household goodness andtrustful simplicity still lingers in the hearts of all who have everheard of her; and the country-people about here say that seeing thatphantom-child on this anniversary brings good luck for the year. Letus hope that we shall share in the traditionary good fortune. Ah!here is Madame de Retz--she retains the name of her first husband,you know, as he was of higher rank than the present.' We were joinedby our hostess.
'If monsieur is fond of the beauties of nature and art,' said she,perceiving that I had been looking at the view from the great window,'he will perhaps take pleasure in seeing the picture.' Here shesighed, with a little affectation of grief. 'You know the picture Iallude to,' addressing my companion, who bowed assent, and smiled alittle maliciously, as I followed the lead of madame.
I went after her to the other end of the saloon, noting by the waywith what keen curiosity she caught up what was passing either inword or action on each side of her. When we stood opposite to the endwall, I perceived a full-length picture of a handsome,peculiar-looking man, with--in spite of his good looks--a very fierceand scowling expression. My hostess clasped her hands together as herarms hung down in front, and sighed once more. Then, half insoliloquy, she said,---
'He was the love of my youth; his stern yet manly character firsttouched this heart of mine. When--when shall I cease to deplore hisloss!'
Not being acquainted with her enough to answer this question (if,indeed, it were not sufficiently answered by the fact of her secondmarriage), I felt awkward; and, by way of saying something, Iremarked,---
'The countenance strikes me as resembling something I have seenbefore--in an engraving from an historical picture, I think; only, itis there the principal figure in a group: he is holding a lady by herhair, and threatening her with his scimitar, while two cavaliers arerushing up the stairs, apparently only just in time to save herlife.'
'Alas, alas!' said she, 'you too accurately describe a miserablepassage in my life, which has often been represented in a falselight. The best of husbands'--here she sobbed, and became slightlyinarticulate with her grief--'will sometimes be displeased. I wasyoung and curious, he was justly angry with my disobedience--mybrothers were too hasty--the consequence is, I became a widow!'
After due respect for her tears, I ventured to suggest somecommonplace consolation. She turned round sharply.
'No, monsieur: my only comfort is that I have never forgiven thebrothers who interfered so cruelly, in such an uncalled-for manner,between my dear husband and myself. To quote my friend MonsieurSganarelle--"Ce sont petites choses qui sont de temps en tempsnecessaires dans l'amitie; et cinq ou six coups d'epee entre gens quis'aiment ne font que ragaillardir l'affection." You observe thecolouring is not quite what it should be?'
'In this light the beard is of rather a peculiar tint,' saidI.
'Yes: the painter did not do it justice. It was most lovely, andgave him such a distinguished air, quite different from the commonherd. Stay, I will show you the exact colour, if you will come nearthis flambeau!' And going near the light, she took off a bracelet ofhair, with a magnificent clasp of pearls. It was peculiar, certainly.I did not know what to say. His precious lovely beard!' said she.'And the pearls go so well with the delicate blue!'
Her husband, who had come up to us, and waited till her eye fellupon him before venturing to speak, now said, 'It is strange MonsieurOgre is not yet arrived!'
'Not at all strange,' said she, tartly. 'He was always verystupid, and constantly falls into mistakes, in which he comes worseoff; and it is very well he does, for he is a credulous and cowardlyfellow. Not at all strange! If you will'--turning to her husband, sothat I hardly heard her words, until I caught--'Then everybody wouldhave their rights, and we should have no more trouble. Is it not,monsieur?' addressing me.
'If I were in England, I should imagine madame was speaking of thereform bill, or the millennium,--but I am in ignorance.'
And just as I spoke, the great folding-doors were thrown openwide, and every one started to their feet to greet a little old lady,leaning on a thin, black wand--and---
'Madame la Feemarraine,' was announced by a chorus of sweet shrillvoices.
And in a moment I was lying in the grass close by a hollowoak-tree, with the slanting glory of the dawning day shining full inmy face, and thousands of little birds and delicate insects pipingand warbling out their welcome to the ruddy splendour.
I am not in the habit of seeing the Household Words regularly; buta friend, who lately sent me some of the back numbers, recommended meto read "all the papers relating to the Detective and ProtectivePolice," which I accordingly did--not as the generality of readershave done, as they appeared week by week, or with pauses between, butconsecutively, as a popular history of the Metropolitan Police; and,as I suppose it may also be considered, a history of the police forcein every large town in England. When I had ended these papers, I didnot feel disposed to read any others at that time, but preferredfalling into a train of reverie and recollection.
First of all I remembered, with a smile, the unexpected manner inwhich a relation of mine was discovered by an acquaintance, who hadmislaid or forgotten Mr. B.'s address. Now my dear cousin, Mr. B.,charming as he is in many points, has the little peculiarity ofliking to change his lodgings once every three months on an average,which occasions some bewilderment to his country friends, who have nosooner learnt the 19 Belle Vue Road, Hampstead, than they have totake pains to forget that address, and to remember the 27 1/2 UpperBrown Street, Camberwell; and so on, till I would rather learn a pageof "Walker's Pronouncing Dictionary," than try to remember thevariety of directions which I have had to put on my letters to Mr. B.during the last three years. Last summer it pleased him to remove toa beautiful village not ten miles out of London, where there is arailway station. Thither his friend sought him. (I do not now speakof the following scent there had been through three or four differentlodgings, where Mr. B. had been residing, before his country friendascertained that he was now lodging at R---.) He spent the morning inmaking inquiries as to Mr. B.'s whereabouts in the village; but manygentlemen were lodging there for the summer, and neither butcher norbaker could inform him where Mr. B. was staying; his letters wereunknown at the post-office, which was accounted for by thecircumstance of their always being directed to his office in town. Atlast the country friend sauntered back to the railway-office, andwhile he waited for the train he made inquiry, as a last resource, ofthe book-keeper at the station. "No, sir, I cannot tell you where Mr.B. lodges--so many gentlemen go by the trains; but I have no doubtbut that the person standing by that pillar can inform you." Theindividual to whom he directed the inquirer's attention had theappearance of a tradesman--respectable enough, yet with nopretensions to "gentility," and had, apparently, no more urgentemployment than lazily watching the passengers who came dropping into the station. However, when he was spoken to, he answered civillyand promptly. "Mr. B.? tall gentleman, with light hair? Yes, sir, Iknow Mr. B. He lodges at No. 8 Morton Villas--has done these threeweeks or more; but you'll not find him there, sir, now. He went totown by the eleven o'clock train, and does not usually return untilthe half-past four train."
The country friend had no time to lose in returning to thevillage, to ascertain the truth of this statement. He thanked hisinformant, and said he would call on Mr. B. at his office in town;but before he left R--station, he asked the book-keeper who theperson was to whom he had referred him for information as to hisfriend's place of residence. "One of the Detective Police, sir," wasthe answer. I need hardly say that Mr. B., not without a littlesurprise, confirmed the accuracy of the policeman's report in everyparticular. When I heard this anecdote of my cousin and his friend, Ithought that there could be no more romances written on the same kindof plot as Caleb Williams; the principal interest of which, to thesuperficial reader, consists in the alternation of hope and fear,that the hero may, or may not, escape his pursuer. It is long since Ihave read the story, and I forget the name of the offended andinjured gentleman whose privacy Caleb has invaded; but I know thathis pursuit of Caleb--his detection of the various hiding-places ofthe latter--his following up of slight clues--all, in fact, dependedupon his own energy, sagacity, and perseverance. The interest wascaused by the struggle of man against man; and the uncertainty as towhich would ultimately be successful in his object: the unrelentingpursuer, or the ingenious Caleb, who seeks by every device to concealhimself. Now, in 1851, the offended master would set the DetectivePolice to work; there would be no doubt as to their success; the onlyquestion would be as to the time that would elapse before thehiding-place could be detected, and that could not be a questionlong. It is no longer a struggle between man and man, but between avast organised machinery, and a weak, solitary individual; we have nohopes, no fears--only certainty. But if the materials of pursuit andevasion, as long as the chase is confined to England, are taken awayfrom the store-house of the romancer, at any rate we can no more behaunted by the idea of the possibility of mysterious disappearances;and any one who has associated much with those who were alive at theend of the last century, can testify that there was some reason forsuch fears.
When I was a child, I was sometimes permitted to accompany arelation to drink tea with a very clever old lady, of one hundred andtwenty--or so I thought then; I now think she, perhaps, was onlyabout seventy. She was lively, and intelligent, and had seen andknown much that was worth narrating. She was a cousin of the Sneyds,the family whence Mr. Edgeworth took two of his wives; had knownMajor Andre; had mixed in the Old Whig Society that the beautifulDuchess of Devonshire and Mrs. Crewe of "Buff and Blue" fame gatheredround them; and her father had been one of the early patrons of thelovely Miss Linley. I name these facts to show that she was toointelligent and cultivated by association, as well as by naturalpowers, to lend an over-easy credence to the marvellous; and yet Ihave heard her relate stories of disappearances which haunted myimagination longer than any tale of wonder. One of her stories wasthis:--Her father's estate lay in Shropshire, and his park-gatesopened right on to a scattered village of which he was landlord. Thehouses formed a straggling irregular street--here a garden, next agable-end of a farm, there a row of cottages, and so on. Now, at theend house or cottage lived a very respectable man and his wife. Theywere well known in the village, and were esteemed for the patientattention which they paid to the husband's father, a paralytic oldman. In winter, his chair was near the fire; in summer, they carriedhim out into the open space in front of the house to bask in thesunshine, and to receive what placid amusement he could from watchingthe little passings to and fro of the villagers. He could not movefrom his bed to his chair without help. One hot and sultry June day,all the village turned out to the hay-fields. Only the very old andthe very young remained.
The old father of whom I have spoken was carried out to bask inthe sunshine that afternoon as usual, and his son and daughter-in-lawwent to the hay-making. But when they came home in the early evening,their paralysed father had disappeared--was gone! and from that dayforwards, nothing more was ever heard of him. The old lady, who toldthis story, said, with the quietness that always marked thesimplicity of her narration, that every inquiry which her fathercould make was made, and that it could never be accounted for.' Noone had observed any stranger in the village; no small householdrobbery, to which the old man might have been supposed an obstacle,had been committed in his son's dwelling that afternoon. The son anddaughter-in-law (noted, too, for their attention to the helplessfather) had been a-field among all the neighbours the whole of thetime. In short, it never was accounted for; and left a painfulimpression on many minds.
I will answer for it, the Detective Police would have ascertainedevery fact relating to it in a week.
This story, from its mystery, was painful, but had no consequencesto make it tragical. The next which I shall tell (and althoughtraditionary, these anecdotes of disappearances which I relate inthis paper are correctly repeated, and were believed by my informantsto be strictly true) bad consequences, and melancholy ones, too. Thescene of it is in a little country-town, surrounded by the estates ofseveral gentlemen of large property. About a hundred years ago therelived in this small town an attorney, with his mother and sister. Hewas agent for one of the squires near, and received rents for him onstated days, which, of course, were well known. He went at thesetimes to a small public-house, perhaps five miles from--, where thetenants met him, paid their rents, and were entertained at dinnerafterwards. One night he did not return from this festivity. He neverreturned. The gentleman whose agent he was, employed the Dogberrys ofthe time to find him, and the missing cash; the mother, whose supportand comfort he was, sought him with all the perseverance of faithfullove. But he never returned; and by-and-by the rumour spread that hemust have gone abroad with the money; his mother heard the whispersall around her, and could not disprove it; and so her heart broke,and she died. Years after, I think as many as fifty, the well-to-dobutcher and grazier of--died; but, before his death, he confessedthat he had waylaid Mr.--on the heath, close to the town, almostwithin call of his own house, intending only to rob him, but, meetingwith more resistance than he anticipated, had been provoked to stabhim; and had buried him that very night deep under the loose sand ofthe heath. There his skeleton was found; but too late for his poormother to know that his fame was cleared. His sister, too, was dead,unmarried, for no one liked the possibilities which might arise frombeing connected with the family. None cared if he were guilty orinnocent now. If our Detective Police had only been in existence!
This last is hardly a story of unaccounted-for disappearance. Itis only unaccounted for in one generation. But disappearances neverto be accounted for on any supposition are not uncommon among thetraditions of the last century. I have heard (and I think I have readit in one of the earlier numbers of Chambers's Journal) of a marriagewhich took place in Lincolnshire about the year 1750. It was not thende rigueur that the happy couple should set out on a wedding journey;but instead, they and their friends had a merry jovial dinner at thehouse of either bride or groom; and in this instance the whole partyadjourned to the bridegroom's residence, and dispersed, some toramble in the garden, some to rest in the house until thedinner-hour. The bridegroom, it is to be supposed, was with hisbride, when he was suddenly summoned away by a domestic, who said hewas never seen more. The same tradition hangs about that a strangerwished to speak to him; and henceforward an old deserted Welsh hallstanding in a wood near Festiniog; there, too, the bridegroom wassent for to give audience to a stranger on his wedding-day, anddisappeared from the face of the earth from that time; but there,they tell in addition, that the bride lived long--that she passed herthree-score years and ten, but that daily, during all those years,while there was light of sun or moon to lighten the earth, she satwatching--watching at one particular window which commanded a view ofthe approach to the house. Her whole faculties, her whole mentalpowers, became absorbed in that weary watching; long before she died,she was childish, and only conscious of one wish--to sit in that longhigh window, and watch the road along which he might come. She was asfaithful as Evangeline, if pensive and inglorious.
That these two similar stories of disappearance on a wedding-day"obtained," as the French say, shows us that anything which adds toour facility of communication, and organisation of means, adds to oursecurity of life. Only let a bridegroom try to disappear from anuntamed Katherine of a bride, and he will soon be brought home, likea recreant coward, overtaken by the electric telegraph, and clutchedback to his fate by a detective policeman.
Two more stories of disappearance and I have done. I will give youthe last in date first, because it is the most melancholy; and wewill wind up cheerfully (after a fashion). Some time between 1820 and1830, there lived in North Shields a respectable old woman, and herson, who was trying to struggle into sufficient knowledge of medicineto go out as ship-surgeon in a Baltic vessel, and perhaps in thismanner to earn money enough to spend a session in Edinburgh. He wasfurthered in all his plans by the late benevolent Dr. G. of thattown. I believe the usual premium was not required in his case; theyoung man did many useful errands and offices which a finer younggentleman would have considered beneath him; and he resided with hismother in one of the alleys (or "chares") which lead down from themain street of North Shields to the river. Dr. G. had been with apatient all night, and left her very early on a winter's morning toreturn home to bed; but first he stepped down to his apprentice'shome, and bade him get up, and follow him to his own house, wheresome medicine was to be mixed, and then taken to the lady.Accordingly, the poor lad came, prepared the dose, and set off withit some time between five and six on a winter's morning. He was neverseen again. Dr. G. waited, thinking he was at his mother's house; shewaited, considering that he had gone to his day's work. Andmeanwhile, as people remembered afterwards, the small vessel bound toEdinburgh sailed out of port. The mother expected him back her wholelife long; but some years afterwards occurred the discoveries of theHare and Burke horrors, and people seemed to gain a dark glimpse athis fate; but I never heard that it was fully ascertained, or indeedmore than surmised. I ought to add that all who knew him spokeemphatically as to his steadiness of purpose and conduct, so as torender it improbable in the highest degree that he had run off tosea, or suddenly changed his plan of life in any way.
My last story is one of a disappearance which was accounted forafter many years. There is a considerable street in Manchesterleading from the centre of the town to some of the suburbs. Thisstreet is called at one part Garratt, and afterwards--where itemerges into gentility and, comparatively, country--Brook Street. Itderives its former name from an old black-and-white hall of the timeof Richard the Third, or thereabouts, to judge from the style ofbuilding; they have closed in what is left of the old hall now; but afew years since this old house was visible from the main road; itstood low on some vacant ground, and appeared to be half in ruins. Ibelieve it was occupied by several poor families, who rentedtenements in the tumble-down dwelling. But formerly it was GerrardHall (what a difference between Gerrard and Garratt!) and wassurrounded by a park with a clear brook running through it, withpleasant fish-ponds (the name of these was preserved, until verylately, on a street near), orchards, dovecots, and similarappurtenances to the manor-houses of former days. I am almost surethat the family to whom it belonged were Mosleys, probably a branchof the tree of the Lord of the Manor of Manchester. Any topographicalwork of the last century relating to their district would give thename of the last proprietor of the old stock, and it is to him thatmy story refers.
Many years ago there lived in Manchester two old maiden ladies ofhigh respectability. All their lives had been spent in the town, andthey were fond of relating the changes which had taken place withintheir recollection, which extended back to seventy or eighty yearsfrom the present time. They knew much of its traditionary historyfrom their father, as well; who, with his father before him, had beenrespectable attorneys in Manchester during the greater part of thelast century; they were, also, agents for several of the countyfamilies, who, driven from their old possessions by the enlargementof the town, found some compensation in the increased value of anyland which they might choose to sell. Consequently the Messrs. S.,father and son, were conveyancers in good repute, and acquainted withseveral secret pieces of family history, one of which related toGarratt Hall.
The owner of this estate, some time in the first half of the lastcentury, married young; he and his wife had several children, andlived together in a quiet state of happiness for many years. At last,business of some kind took the husband up to London; a week's journeyin those days. He wrote and announced his arrival; I do not think heever wrote again. He seemed to be swallowed up in the abyss of themetropolis, for no friend (and the lady had many powerful friends)could ever ascertain for her what had become of him; the prevalentidea was that he had been attacked by some of the street-robbers whoprowled about in those days, that he had resisted, and had beenmurdered. His wife gradually gave up all hopes of seeing him again,and devoted herself to the care of her children; and so they went on,tranquilly enough, until the heir came of age, when certain deedswere necessary before he could legally take possession of theproperty. These deeds Mr. S. (the family lawyer) stated had beengiven up by him into the missing gentleman's keeping just before thelast mysterious journey to London, with which I think they were insome way concerned. It was possible that they were still inexistence; some one in London might have them in possession, and beeither conscious or unconscious of their importance. At any rate, Mr.S.'s advice to his client was that he should put an advertisement inthe London papers, worded so skilfully that any one who might holdthe important documents should understand to what it referred, and noone else. This was accordingly done; and, although repeated atintervals for some time, it met with no success. But at last amysterious answer was sent: to the effect that the deeds were inexistence, and should be given up; but only on certain conditions,and to the heir himself. The young man, in consequence, went up toLondon, and adjourned, according to directions, to an old house inBarbican, where he was told by a man, apparently awaiting him, thathe must submit to be blindfolded, and must follow his guidance. Hewas taken through several long passages before he left the house; atthe termination of one of these he was put into a sedan-chair, andcarried about for an hour or more; he always reported that there weremany turnings, and that he imagined he was set down finally not veryfar from his starting-point.
When his eyes were unbandaged, he was in a decent sitting-room,with tokens of family occupation lying about. A middle-aged gentlemanentered, and told him that, until a certain time had elapsed (whichshould be indicated to him in a particular way, but of which thelength was not then named), he must swear to secrecy as to the meansby which he obtained possession of the deeds. This oath was taken;and then the gentleman, not without some emotion, acknowledgedhimself to be the missing father of the heir. It seems that he hadfallen in love with a damsel, a friend of the person with whom helodged. To this young woman he had represented himself as unmarried;she listened willingly to his wooing, and her father, who was ashopkeeper in the City, was not averse to the match, as theLancashire squire had a goodly presence, and many similar qualities,which the shopkeeper thought might be acceptable to his customers.The bargain was struck; the descendant of a knightly race married theonly daughter of the City shopkeeper, and that he had never repentedthe step, he had taken; that his became the junior partner in thebusiness. Ho told his son lowly-born wife was sweet, docile, andaffectionate; that his family by her was large; and that he and theywere thriving and happy. He inquired after his first (or rather, Ishould say, his true) wife with friendly affection; approved of whatshe had done with regard to his estate, and the education of hischildren; but said that he considered he was dead to her as she wasto him. When he really died he promised that a particular message,the nature of which he specified, should be sent to his son atGarratt; until then they would not hear more of each other, for itwas of no use attempting to trace him under his incognito, even ifthe oath did not render such an attempt forbidden. I dare say theyouth had no great desire to trace out the father, who had been onein name only. He returned to Lancashire; took possession of theproperty at Manchester; and many years elapsed before he received themysterious intimation of his father's real death. After that, henamed the particulars connected with the recovery of the title-deedsto Mr. S., and one or two intimate friends. When the family becameextinct, or removed from Garratt, it became no longer any veryclosely-kept secret, and I was told the tale of the disappearance byMiss S., the aged daughter of the family agent.
Once more, let me say, I am thankful I live in the days of theDetective Police; if I am murdered, or commit bigamy, at any rate myfriends will have the comfort of knowing all about it.
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A correspondent has favoured us with the sequel of thedisappearance of the pupil of Dr. G., who vanished from NorthShields, in charge of certain potions he was entrusted with, veryearly one morning, to convey to a patient: "Dr. G.'s son married mysister, and the young man who disappeared was a pupil in the house.When he went out with the medicine, he was hardly dressed, havingmerely thrown on some clothes; and he went in slippers--whichincidents induced the belief that he was made away with. After somemonths his family put on mourning; and the G.'s (very timid people)were so sure that he was murdered, that they wrote verses to hismemory, and became sadly worn by terror. But, after a long time (Ifancy, but am not sure, about a year and a half), came a letter fromthe young man, who was doing well in America. His explanation was,that a vessel was lying at the wharf about to sail in the morning,and the youth, who had long meditated evasion, thought it a goodopportunity, and stepped on board, after leaving the medicine at theproper door. I spent some weeks at Dr. G.'s after the occurrence; andvery doleful we used to be about it. But the next time I went theywere, naturally, very angry with the inconsiderate young man."
I have no objection to tell you to what I alluded the other night,as I am too rational, I trust, to believe in ghosts; at the sametime, I own it has ever remained an unexplained circumstance; and theimpression it left on my own mind was so vivid and so painful thatfor years I could not bear to think at all on the subject. To you,even, I do not mind owning that I once made a considerable round toavoid Birmingham as a sleeping-place. This was thoroughly ridiculous;and so I felt it at the time. I think you know enough of my fatherand mother to recall a little of the gentle formality of the Societyto which they used to belong. Don't you remember how my mother wouldcheck any "vain talking" in her own mild, irresistible way? All talesand stories which were not true were excluded from the dear oldnursery-library at Heverington. Much more so were ghosts and fairiesprohibited; though the knowledge that there were such things to betalked about came to us, I don't know how. Do you know, I even nowdraw back from telling the story of my fright! I do believe I ammaking this preamble, in order to defer the real matter of my letter.But now I will begin at once.
I was going back to school at Dunchurch; and my father could notgo with me, because of some special jury-case at Chester which he wasobliged to attend; so I was to be put in charge of the guard of thecoach as far as Birmingham, where a friend of my father's was to meetme, and take me to sleep at his house. It was on the 26th of January;so you may be sure it was dark when we got into Birmingham aboutseven o'clock. The coach rumbled into an inn-yard, and I was wakenedout of my sleep by some one popping in a broad-brimmed hat (with ahead under it, I suppose; only the hat stood out in relief againstthe light) and asking if Hannah Johnson was there? I remember feelingfrightened at saying "Yes," and wishing that some one were there toanswer for me; and at last I spoke sadly too loud--but I had triedtwice before, and no voice had come.
Well! I was soon bundled, more asleep than awake, into a gig; andmy luggage was all stowed away till morning, in the booking-office, Isuppose. We had a drive of two miles, or it might be two miles and ahalf, out of the very thick of the town into a sort of suburb on ahill-side. The houses were plain and commonplace enough (red-brick, Isaw the next morning, they were), with a long slip of garden, upwhich we had to walk. A woman Friend came to the steps, with a candlein her hand, to meet us; and I liked her from the first better thanher silent husband, who did his duty, but never spoke. She made metake off my shoes; felt my stockings to see if they were wet; thenshe hurried tea, to which I remember I had no sugar, because of theslave-trade, which many good people were then striving to put down.She talked a good deal to me; and, if her husband had not been there,I should have talked much more openly back again; but, as it was, Iremember feeling sure he was listening behind his newspaper; and veryuncomfortable it made me. I recollect she had let the cat jump on herknee and was stroking it, and it was purring; but he gave it a slapand sent it down, saying, "Esther, thee hadst three drab gowns lastyear. That cat will cost me as many this." I don't remember hisspeaking again; but I know I was as glad as the cat to get out of theroom, and upstairs to my snug bedroom. The house was joined toanother; and, somehow, they dove-tailed together; so that, thoughthere was but one room in the front, there were two in width behind;one on each side of the passage.
We breakfasted in the left-hand room at the back next morning; butI never knew what the right-hand room was. Only, over it on the firstfloor, was the chamber I was to sleep in that night; and verycomfortable it looked, with a pleasant fire, and a great deal ofcrimson and white about the room. You went in, and had the fire onyour right-hand and the bed opposite to you, and the large window,with the dressing-table under it, on the left. The house altogethermust have been eighty or ninety years old; I judge from thechimney-pieces, which, I recollect, were very high, with narrowshelves, and made of painted wood, with garlands tied with ribbons,carved, not very well, upon them. The bed, I remember, was a great,large one--too large for the room, I should think; but you heard mesay I have never seen it since that time. Judging from myrecollections, I should imagine the furniture had been picked up atsales, in accordance with the thriftiness of the master of the house.(I do not mention his name, because he has a nephew, a respectabletea-dealer in Bull Street, and a member of the Society of Friends,who would not, I am sure, like to have his name connected with aghost-story.)
All these things I was too tired to notice that night. I put myfeet into hot water--though I would much rather have gone straight tobed--because my kind hostess urged it; and then it was found out Ihad left my carpet-bag at the inn; so I had to wait till a night-gownand night-cap of hers was aired. And at last I tumbled into bed.
I think I fell asleep directly; at any rate, I don't rememberanything of being awake. But, by-and-by, I wakened up suddenly. Tothis day, I don't know what wakened me; but I was all at onceperfectly conscious, although at first I was puzzled to rememberwhere I was. The fire had burnt down, but not very much; there was,however, not a great deal of light from it. But it seemed as if therewere some light behind the right-hand curtain at the head of the bed;just as if some one had been in and put a candle down on the drawers,which stood between the bed and the window. I thought I must haveforgotten to put the candle out, though I did not remember putting itthere. I had some debates with myself as to whether I would leave mywarm bed, and get up into the cold and put it out; and I think Ishould never have troubled myself about it, if I had not rememberedthat the candle would be burnt down before morning, and that perhapsI might get a scolding from my host. Still, I was so lazy! and Ithought I could perhaps stretch out of bed far enough to put it outwithout fairly getting up. So I shuffled to the cold side of the bed(which was fully large enough, and indeed prepared for twopeople).
I name this, because I remember the wide-awake feeling which theicy coldness of the fine linen sheets gave me, when I was lyingacross them; stretching out, I undrew the crimson moreen curtain.There was no candle; but a bright light--very red; more like the veryearliest blush of dawn on a summer's morning than anything else; butvery red and glowing. It seemed to come from, or out of--I don't knowhow--the figure of a woman, who sat in the easy chair by the head ofthe bed. I think she was a young woman, but I did not see her face;it was bent down over a little child which she held in her arms, androcked backwards and forwards, as if she were getting it to sleep,with her cheek on its head. She took no notice of my drawing back thecurtain, though it made a rustling noise, and the rings grated alittle on the rod. I could draw the pattern of the chintz gown shewore; of a kind called by my mother, a palampore: an Indian thing,with a large straggling print on it, but which had been in fashionmany years before.
I don't think I was frightened then; at least, I looked curiously,and did not drop the curtain, as I should have done if I had beenfrightened, I think. I thought of her as somebody in great distress;her gesture and the way she hung her head all showed that. I knewvery little about the people I was staying with; they might havebabies, for aught I knew, and this might be some friend or visitor,who was soothing a restless child. I knew my mother often walkedabout with my little brother who was teething. But it was ratherstrange I had not seen this lady at tea; and a little strange toothat her dress was so very gay and bright-coloured, because ingeneral such dress would be considered by Friends to savour too muchof the world, and would be remonstrated against. While these thoughtswere passing through my mind--of course in much less time than ittakes me to write them down-the lady rose, and I dropped the curtainand ...
Well, my dear Bob, let those laugh who win! You, who were so muchamused at my being captivated by the queerly-worded advertisement oflodgings in the "Guardian," would be glad enough, I fancy, toexchange your small, dingy, smoky rooms in Manchester (even grantedthe delights of a railway excursion every day during Whitsun-week)for my Lorton Grange, though my host cannot write grammar, any morethan my hostess can speak it. I do like the spice which theuncertainty of the result gives to any adventure; and therefore myspirits grew higher and more boisterous, the wilder and more desolategrew the hills and the moors, over which I passed in the shandry mylandlord had sent to meet me at the station.
When I say the "station," you are not to picture to yourselfanything like a Euston or a Victoria; but just a modest neat kind ofturnpike-house, with no other dwelling near it; no passengerscrowding for tickets, no pyramids of luggage. I myself was the onlyperson to alight, and the train whizzed away, leaving me standing andgazing (rather sadly I must confess) at the last relic of a town Iwas to see for a whole week. But the delicious mountain-air blew awaymelancholy; and I had not gone many paces before I saw the shandry,jogging along on its approach to the station. Worthy Mr. Jacksonfancied he had an hour to spare for a chat with his friend at thestation, and a rest for his horse. No wonder! for, when I arrived atLorton Grange, I found the clocks differed by two hours from oneanother, and each an hour from the real time of day. Does not thisspeak volumes as to the way in which life is dreamt away in thesedales?
Good-man Jackson was taciturn enough on the drive--a circumstanceI did not dislike, as it gave me leisure to look about. The roadwound up among brown heathery hills, with scarce a bush to catch astray light, or a passing shadow; the few fences there were to beseen were made of loose stones piled on one another, and cementedsolely by the moss and ferns which filled up every crevice. I do notintend to worry you by description of scenery, any more than will beabsolutely necessary to give you an idea of my locale; so I shallonly say that, after about an hour's drive over these hills, "fells"and "knots" as my landlord called them, we dropped down by a mostprecipitous road into the valley in which Lorton Grange issituated.
The dale is about half a mile in breadth, with a brawling,dashing, brilliant, musical stream dividing it into unequal halves.At places, the grey rocks hem the noisy, sparkling waters in, andabsolutely encroach upon their territory; again they recede and leavebays of the greenest of green meadows between rock and river. On oneof these Lorton Grange was erected some three hundred years ago; andrather a stately place it must have been in those days. It is builtaround a hollow square, and must have been roomy enough, when all thesides were appropriated to the use of the family. Now two areoccupied as farm-buildings, and one is almost in ruins; it has beengutted to serve as a large barn, and the rain evidently comes in,every here and there, through the neglected roof. The front of thequadrangular building is used as the dwelling-place of the farmer'sfamily. Formerly, a short avenue must have led up to the ivy-coveredporch from the road which is flanked by the afore-mentioned river.Now, all the trees are felled, except one noble beech, which sweepsthe ground close to the walls of the house, and throws into greenobscurity one charming window-seat in my sitting-room. All over thefront of the house clamber roses, flaunting their branches above thevery eaves; but they seem to grow by sufferance now, and to flowerfrom summer to summer without imparting pleasure to any one.
You must not suppose that we drove up to the grand entrance; theold carriage-road has long been ploughed up, and grass now growswhere once the Lortons paced daintily along their avenue. Mr. Jacksontook me to the back-door in the inner square, fluttering two or threedozen hens and turkeys, and evoking a barking welcome from almost asmany dogs and whelps. I steered my way through the dim confusion of alarge crowded kitchen, having for guide the voice of some female, whoat the end of a dark passage kept calling, "This way, sir; this way;"and at last I arrived at the room in which I now write--the ancienthall, I take it.
I could write down an inventory of the furniture and descriptionof any room in a lodging-house in Manchester; but I think I mightdefy you to return the compliment, and form even a guess at theapartment I am now occupying. Think of four windows, and five doors,to begin with! Two of my windows look to the front, and arecasements, draperied with ivy; through one the glancing waters of thestream glint into my room, when the sun shines as it does now; theother two look into the noisy farm-yard; but on these window-seatsare placed enormous unpruned geraniums and fuchsias, which form anagreeable blind. As to the doors, two of them are mysteries to me atthis present; one is the back entrance to the room through which...
I was born at Sawley, where the shadow of Pendle Hill falls atsunrise. I suppose Sawley sprang up into a village in the time of themonks, who had an abbey there. Many of the cottages are strange oldplaces; others, again, are built of the abbey stones, mixed up withthe shale from the neighbouring quarries; and you may see many aquaint bit of carving worked into the walls, or forming the lintelsof the doors. There is a row of houses, built still more recently,where one Mr Peel came to live there for the sake of the water-power,and gave the place a fillip into something like life; though adifferent kind of life, as I take it, from the grand, slow ways folkshad when the monks were about.
Now it was--six o'clock, ring the bell, throng to the factory;sharp home at twelve; and even at night, when work was done, wehardly knew how to walk slowly, we had been so bustled all day long.I can't recollect the time when I did not go to the factory. Myfather used to drag me there when I was quite a little fellow, inorder to wind reels for him. I never remember my mother. I shouldhave been a better man than I have been, if I had only had a notionof the sound of her voice, or the look on her face.
My father and I lodged in the house of a man who also worked inthe factory. We were sadly thronged in Sawley, so many people camefrom different parts of the country to earn a livelihood at the newwork; and it was some time before the row of cottages I have spokenof could be built. While they were building, my father was turned outof his lodgings for drinking and being disorderly, and he and I sleptin the brick-kiln; that is to say, when we did sleep o' nights; hut,often and often, we went poaching; and many a hare and pheasant haveI rolled up in clay, and roasted in the embers of the kiln. Then, asfollowed to reason, I was drowsy next day over my work; but fatherhad no mercy on me for sleeping, for all he knew the cause of it, butkicked me where I lay, a heavy lump on the factory floor, and cursedand swore at me till I got up for very fear, and to my winding again.But, when his back was turned, I paid him off with heavier cursesthan he had given me, and longed to be a man, that I might berevenged on him. The words I then spoke I would not now dare torepeat; and worse than hating words, a hating heart went with them. Iforget the time when I did not know how to hate. When I first came toread, and learnt about Ishmael, I thought I must be of his doomedrace, for my hand was against every man, and every man's against me.But I was seventeen or more before I cared for my book enough tolearn to read.
After the row of works was finished, lather took one, and set upfor himself, in letting lodgings. I can't say much for thefurnishing; but there was plenty of straw, and we kept up good fires;and there is a set of people who value warmth above everything. Theworst lot about the place lodged with us. We used to have a supper inthe middle of the night; there was game enough, or if there was notgame, there was poultry to be had for the stealing. By day, we allmade a show of working in the factory. By night, we feasted anddrank.
Now this web of my life was black enough, and coarse enough; but,by-and-by, a little golden, filmy thread began to be woven in; thedawn of God's mercy was at hand.
One blowy October morning, as I sauntered lazily along to themill, I came to the little wooden bridge over a brook that falls intothe Bribble. On the plank there stood a child, balancing the pitcheron her head, with which she had been to fetch water. She was so lighton her feet that, had it not been for the weight of the pitcher, Ialmost believe the wind would have taken her up, and wafted her awayas it carries off a blow-ball in seed-time; her blue cotton dress wasblown before her, as if she were spreading her wings for a flight;she turned her face round, as if to ask me for something, but whenshe saw who it was, she hesitated, for I had a bad name in thevillage, and I doubt not she had been warned against me. But herheart was too innocent to be distrustful; so she said to me,timidly,--
'Please, John Middleton, will you carry me this heavy jug justover the bridge?'
It was the very first time I had ever been spoken to gently. I wasordered here and there by my father and his rough companions; I wasabused, and cursed by them if I failed in doing what they wished; ifI succeeded, there came no expression of thanks or gratitude. I wasinformed of facts necessary for me to know. But the gentle words ofrequest or entreaty were aforetime unknown to me, and now their tonesfell on my ear soft and sweet as a distant peal of bells. I wishedthat I knew how to speak properly in reply; but though we were of thesame standing as regarded worldly circumstances, there was somemighty difference between us, which made me unable to speak in herlanguage of soft words and modest entreaty. There was nothing for mebut to take up the pitcher in a kind of gruff, shy silence, and carryit over the bridge, as she had asked me. When I gave it her backagain, she thanked me and tripped away, leaving me, wordless, gazingafter her like an awkward lout as I was. I knew well enough who shewas. She was grandchild to Eleanor Hadfield, an aged woman, who wasreputed as a witch by my father and his set, for no other reason,that I can make out, than her scorn, dignity, and fearlessness ofrancour. It was true we often met her in the grey dawn of themorning, when we returned from poaching, and my father used to curseher, under his breath, for a witch, such as were burnt long ago onPendle Hill top; but I had heard that Eleanor was a skilful sicknurse, and ever ready to give her services to those who were ill; andI believe that she had been sitting up through the night (the nightthat we had been spending under the wild heavens, in deeds as wild),with those who were appointed to die. Nelly was her orphangranddaughter; her little hand-maiden; her treasure; her one ewelamb. Many and many a day have I watched by the brook-side, hopingthat some happy gust of wind, coming with opportune bluster down thehollow of the dale, might make me necessary once more to her. Ilonged to hear her speak to me again. I said the words she had usedto myself, trying to catch her tone; but the chance never came again.I do not know that she ever knew how I watched for her there. I foundout that she went to school, and nothing would serve me but that Imust go too. My father scoffed at me; I did not care. I knew noughtof what reading was, nor that it was likely that I should be laughedat; I, a great hulking lad of seventeen or upwards, for going tolearn my A, B, C, in the midst of a crowd of little ones. I stoodjust this way in my mind. Nelly was at school; it was the best placefor seeing her, and hearing her voice again. Therefore I would gotoo. My father talked, and swore, and threatened, but I stood to it.He said I should leave school, weary of it in a month. I swore adeeper oath than I like to remember, that I would stay a year, andcome out a reader and a writer. My father hated the notion of folkslearning to read, and said it took all the spirit out of them;besides, he thought he had a right to every penny of my wages, andthough, when he was in good humour, he might have given me many a jugof ale, he grudged my twopence a week for schooling. However, toschool I went. It was a different place to what I had thought itbefore I went inside. The girls sat on one side, and the boys on theother; so I was not near Nelly. She, too, was in the first class; Iwas put with the little toddling things that could hardly tun alone.The master sat in the middle, and kept pretty strict watch over us.But I could see Nelly, and hear her read her chapter; and even whenit was one with a long list of hard names, such as the master wasvery fond of giving her, to show how well she could hit them offwithout spelling, I thought I had never heard a prettier music. Nowand then she read other things. I did not know what they were, trueor false; but I listened because she read; and, by-and-by, I began towonder. I remember the first word I ever spoke to her was to ask her(as we were coming out of school) who was the Father of whom she hadbeen reading, for when she said the words 'Our Father,' her voicedropped into a soft, holy kind of low sound, which struck me morethan any loud reading, it seemed so loving and tender. When I askedher this, she looked at me with her great blue wondering eyes, atfirst shocked; and then, as it were, melted down into pity andsorrow, she said in the same way, below her breath, in which she readthe words, 'Our Father,'--
'Don't you know? It is God.'
'God?'
'Yes; the God that grandmother tells me about.'
'Tell me what she says, will you?' So we sat down on thehedge-bank, she a little above me, while I looked up into her face,and she told me all the holy texts her grandmother had taught her, asexplaining all that could be explained of the Almighty. I listened insilence, for indeed I was overwhelmed with astonishment. Herknowledge was principally rote-knowledge; she was too young for muchmore; but we, in Lancashire, speak a rough kind of Bible language,and the texts seemed very clear to me. I rose up, dazed andoverpowered. I was going away in silence, when I bethought me of mymanners, and turned hack, and said, 'Thank you,' for the first time Iever remember saying it in my life. That was a great day for me, inmore ways than one.
I was always one who could keep very steady to an object when onceI had set it before me. My object was to know Nelly. I was consciousof nothing more. But it made me regardless of all other things. Themaster might scold, the little ones might laugh; I bore it allwithout giving it a second thought. I kept to my year, and came out areader and writer; more, however, to stand well in Nelly's goodopinion, than because of my oath. About this time, my fathercommitted some bad, cruel deed, and had to fly the country. I wasglad he went; for I had never loved or cared for him, and wanted toshake myself clear of his set. But it was no easy matter. Honest folkstood aloof; only bad men held out their arms to me with a welcome.Even Nelly seemed to have a mixture of fear now with her kind waystowards me. I was the son of John Middleton, who, if he were caught,would be hung at Lancaster Castle. I thought she looked at mesometimes with a sort of sorrowful horror. Others were not forbearingenough to keep their expression of feeling confined to looks. The sonof the overlooker at the mill never ceased twitting me with myfather's crime; he now brought up his poaching against him, though Iknew very well how many a good supper he himself had made on gamewhich had been given him to make him and his lather wink at latehours in the morning. And how were such as my father to come honestlyby game?
This lad, Dick Jackson, was the bane of my life. He was a year ortwo older than I was, and had much power over the men who worked atthe mill, as he could report to his lather what he chose. I could notalways hold my peace when he 'threaped' me with my father's sins, butgave it him back sometimes in a storm of passion. It did me no good;only threw me farther from the company of better men, who lookedaghast and shocked at the oaths I poured out--blasphemous wordslearnt in my childhood, which I could not forger now that I wouldfain have purified myself of them; while all the time Dick Jacksonstood by, with a mocking smile of intelligence; and when I had ended,breathless and weary with spent passion, he would rum to those whoserespect I longed to earn, and ask if I were not a worthy son of mylather, and likely to tread in his steps. But this smilingindifference of his to my miserable vehemence was not all, though itwas the worst part of his conduct, for it made the rankling hatredgrow up in my heart, and overshadow it like the great gourd-tree ofthe prophet Jonah. But his was a merciful shade, keeping out theburning sun; mine blighted what it fell upon.
What Dick Jackson did besides, was this. His father was a skilfuloverlooker, and a good man. Mr Peel valued him so much, that he waskept on, although his health was failing; and when he was unable,through illness, to come to the mill, he deputed his son to watchover, and report the men. It was too much power for one so young--Ispeak it calmly now. Whatever Dick Jackson became, he had strongtemptations when he was young, which will be allowed for hereafter.But at the time of which I am telling, my hate raged like a fire. Ibelieved that he was the one sole obstacle to my being received asfit to mix with good and honest men. I was sick of crime anddisorder, and would fain have come over to a different kind of life,and have been industrious, sober, honest, and right-spoken (I had noidea of higher virtue then), and at every turn Dick Jackson met mewith his sneers. I have walked the night through, in the old abbeyfield, planning how I could outwit him, and win men's respect inspite of him. The first time I ever prayed, was underneath the silentstars, kneeling by the old abbey walls, throwing up my arms, andasking God for the power of revenge upon him.
I had heard that if I prayed earnestly, God would give me what Iasked for, and I looked upon it as a kind of chance for thefulfilment of my wishes. If earnestness would have won the boon forme, never were wicked words so earnestly spoken. And oh, later on, myprayer was heard, and my wish granted! All this time I saw little ofNelly. Her grandmother was failing, and she had much to do in-doors.Besides, I believed I had read her looks aright, when I took them tospeak of aversion; and I planned to hide myself from her sight, as itwere, until I could stand upright before men, with fearless eyes,dreading no face of accusation. It was possible to acquire a goodcharacter; I would do it--I did it: but no one brought up amongrespectable untempted people can tell the unspeakable hardness of thetask. In the evenings I would not go forth among the village throng;for the acquaintances that claimed me were my father's oldassociates, who would have been glad enough to enlist a strong youngman like me in their projects; and the men who would have shunned meand kept aloof, were the steady and orderly. So I stayed in-doors,and practised myself in reading. You will say, I should have found iteasier to earn a good character away from Sawley, at some place whereneither I nor my father was known. So I should; but it would not havebeen the same thing to my mind. Besides, representing all good men,all goodness to me, in Sawley Nelly lived. In her sight I would workout my life, and fight my way upwards to men's respect. Two yearspassed on. Every day I strove fiercely; every day my struggles weremade fruitless by the son of the overlooker; and I seemed but where Iwas--but where I must ever be esteemed by all who knew me--but as theson of the criminal--wild, reckless, ripe for crime myself Where wasthe use of my reading and writing? These acquirements weredisregarded and scouted by those among whom I was thrust back to takemy portion. I could have read any chapter in the Bible now; and Nellyseemed as though she would never know it. I was driven in upon mybooks; and few enough of them I had. The pedlars brought them roundin their packs, and I bought what I could. I had the Seven Champions,and the Pilgrim's Progress, and both seemed to me equally wonderful,and equally founded on fact. I got Byron's Narrative, and Milton'sParadise Lost; but I lacked the knowledge which would give a clue toall. Still they afforded me pleasure, because they took me out ofmyself, and made me forget my miserable position, and made meunconscious (for the time at least) of my one great passion of hatredagainst Dick Jackson.
When Nelly was about seventeen her grandmother died. I stood aloofin the churchyard, behind the great yew-tree, and watched thefuneral. It was the first religious service that ever I heard; and,to my shame, as I thought, it affected me to tears. The words seemedso peaceful and holy that I longed to go to church, but I durst not,because I had never been. The parish church was at Bolton, far enoughaway to serve as an excuse for all who did not care to go. I heardNoel's sobs filling up every pause in the clergyman's voice; andevery sob of hers went to my heart. She passed me on her way out ofthe churchyard; she was so near I might have touched her; but herhead was hanging down, and I dourest not speak to her. Then thequestion arose, what was to become of her? She must earn her living!was it to be as a farm-servant, or by working at the mill? I knewenough of both kinds of life to make me tremble for her. My wageswere such as to enable me to marry, if I chose; and I never thoughtof woman, for my wife, but Nelly. Still, I would not have married hernow, if I could; for, as yet, I had not risen up to the characterwhich I determined it was fit that Nelly's husband should have. WhenI was rich in good report, I would come forwards, and take my chance,but until then I would hold my peace. I had faith in the power of mylong-continued dogged breasting of opinion. Sooner or later it must,it should, yield, and I be received among the ranks of good men. But,meanwhile, what was to become of Nelly? I reckoned up my wages; Iwent to inquire what the board of a girl would be who should help herin her household work, and live with her as a daughter, at the houseof one of the most decent women of the place; she looked at mesuspiciously. I kept down my temper, and told her I would never comenear the place; that I would keep away from that end of the village,and that the girl for whom I made the inquiry should never know butwhat the parish paid for her keep. It would not do; she suspected me;but I know I had power over myself to have kept my word; and besides,I would not for worlds have had Nelly put under any obligation to me,which should speck the purity of her love, or dim it by a mixture ofgratitude,--the love that I craved to earn, not for my money, not formy kindness, but for myself. I heard that Nelly had met with a placein Bolland; and I could see no reason why I might not speak to heronce before she left our neighbourhood. I meant it to be a quietfriendly telling her of my sympathy in her sorrow. I felt I couldcommand myself. So, on the Sunday before she was to leave Sawley, Iwaited near the wood-path, by which I knew that she would return fromafternoon church. The birds made such a melodious warble, such a busysound among the leaves, that I did not hear approaching footstepstill they were close at hand; and then there were sounds of twopersons' voices. The wood was near that part of Sawley where Nellywas staying with friends; the path through it led to their house, andtheirs only, so I knew it must be she, for I had watched her settingout to church alone.
But who was the other?
The blood went to my heart and head, as if I were shot, when I sawthat it was Dick Jackson. Was this the end of it all? In the steps ofsin which my father had trod, I would rush to my death and my doom.Even where I stood I longed for a weapon to slay him. How dared hecome near my Nelly? She too.--I thought her faithless, and forgot howlittle I had ever been to her in outward action; how few words, andthose how uncouth, I had ever spoken to her; and I hated her for atraitress. These feelings passed through me before I could see, myeyes and head were so dizzy and blind. When I looked I saw DickJackson holding her hand, and speaking quick and low and thick, as aman speaks in great vehemence. She seemed white and dismayed; but allat once, at some word of his (and what it was she never would tellme), she looked as though she defied a fiend, and wrenched herselfout of his grasp. He caught hold of her again, and began once morethe thick whisper that I loathed. I could bear it no longer, nor didI see why I should. I stepped out from behind the tree where I hadbeen lying. When she saw me, she lost her look of one strung up todesperation, and came and clung to me; and I felt like a giant instrength and might. I held her with one arm, but I did not take myeyes off him; I felt as if they blazed down into his soul, andscorched him up. He never spoke, but tried to look as though hedefied me. At last, his eyes fell before mine, I dared not speak; forthe old horrid oaths thronged up to my mouth; and I dreaded givingthem way, and terrifying my poor, trembling Nelly.
At last, he made to go past me: I drew her out of the pathway. Byinstinct she wrapped her garments round her, as if to avoid hisaccidental touch; and he was stung by this, I suppose--I believe--tothe mad, miserable revenge he took. As my back was turned to him, inan endeavour to speak some words to Nelly that might soothe her intocalmness, she, who was looking after him, like one fascinated withterror, saw him take a sharp, shaley stone, and aim it at me. Poordarling! she clung round me as a shield, making her sweet body into adefence for mine. It hit her, and she spoke no word, kept back hercry of pain, but fell at my feet in a swoon. He--the coward!--ran offas soon as he saw what he had done. I was with Nelly alone in thegreen gloom of the wood. The quivering and leaf-tinted light made herlook as if she were dead. I carried her, not knowing if I bore acorpse or not, to her friend's house. I did not stay to explain, butran madly for the doctor.
Well! I cannot bear to recur to that time again. Five weeks Ilived in the agony of suspense; from which my only relief was inlaying savage plans for revenge. If I hated him before, what think yeI did now? It seemed as if earth could not hold us twain, but thatone of us must go down to Gehenna. I could have killed him; and wouldhave done it without a scruple, but that seemed too poor and bold arevenge. At length--oh! the weary waiting--oh! the sickening of myheart--Nelly grew better; as well as she was ever to grow. The brightcolour had left her cheek; the mouth quivered with repressed pain,the eyes were dim with tears that agony had forced into them; and Iloved her a thousand times better and more than when she was brightand blooming! What was best of all, I began to perceive that shecared for me. I know her grandmother's friends warned her against me,and told her I came of a bad stock; but she had passed the pointwhere remonstrance from bystanders can take effect--she loved me as Iwas, a strange mixture of bad and good, all unworthy of her. We spoketogether now, as those do whose lives are bound up in each other. Itold her I would marry her as Soon as she had recovered her health.Her friends shook their heads; but they saw she would be unfit forfarm-service or heavy work, and they perhaps thought, as many a onedoes, that a bad husband was better than none at all. Anyhow, we weremarried; and I learnt to bless God for my happiness, so far beyond mydeserts. I kept her like a lady. I was a skilful workman, and earnedgood wages; and every want she had I tried to gratify. Her wisheswere few and simple enough, poor Nelly! If they had been ever sofanciful, I should have had my reward in the new feeling of theholiness of home. She could lead me as a little child, with the charmof her gentle voice, and her ever-kind words. She would plead for allwhen I was frill of anger and passion; only Dick Jackson's namepassed never between our lips during all that time. In the eveningshe lay back in her beehive chair, and read to me. I think I see hernow, pale and weak, with her sweet, young face, lighted by her holy,earnest eyes, telling me of the Saviour's life and death, till theywere filled with tears. I longed to have been there, to have avengedhim on the wicked Jews. I liked Peter the best of all the disciples.But I got the Bible myself, and read the mighty act of God'svengeance, in the Old Testament, with a kind of triumphant faiththat, sooner or later, He would take my cause in hand, and revenge meon mine enemy.
In a year or so, Nelly had a baby--a little girl, with eyes justlike Nelly recovered but slowly. It was just before winter, thecotton-crop had failed, and master had to turn off many hands. Ithought I was sure of being kept on, for I had earned a steadycharacter, and did my work well; but once again it was permitted thatDick Jackson should do me wrong. He induced his father to dismiss meamong the first in my branch of the business; and there was I, justbefore winter set in, with a wife and new-born child, and a smallenough store of money to keep body and soul together, till I couldget to work again. All my savings had gone by Christmas Eve, and wesat in the house, foodless for the morrow's festival. Nelly lookedpinched and worn; the baby cried for a larger supply of milk than itspoor, starving mother could give it. My right hand had not forgot itscunning, and I went out once more to my poaching. I knew where thegang met; and I knew what a welcome back I should have,--a far warmerand more hearty welcome than good men had given me when I tried toenter their ranks. On the road to the meeting-place I fell in with anold man,--one who had been a companion to my father in his earlydays.
'What, lad!' said he, 'art thou turning back to the old trade?It's the better business, now that cotton has failed.'
'Ay,' said I, 'cotton is starving us outright. A man may bear adeal himself, but he'll do aught bad and sinful to save his wife andchild.'
'Nay, lad,' said he, 'poaching is not sinful; it goes againstman's laws, but not against God's.'
I was too weak to argue or talk much. I had not tasted food fortwo days. But I murmured, 'At any rate, I trusted to have been clearof it for the rest of my days. It led my father wrong at first. Ihave tried and I have striven. Now I give all up. Right or wrongshall be the same to me. Some are foredoomed; and so am I.' And as Ispoke, some notion of the futurity that would separate Nelly, thepure and holy, from me, the reckless and desperate one, came over mewith an irrepressible burst of anguish. Just then the bells ofBolton-in-Bolland struck up a glad peal, which came over the woods,in the solemn midnight air, like the sons of the morning shouting forjoy--they seemed so clear and jubilant. It was Christmas Day: and Ifelt like an outcast from the gladness and the salvation. Old Jonahspoke out:--
'Yon's the Christmas bells. I say, Johnny, my lad, I've no notionof taking such a spiritless chap as thou into the thick of it, withthy rights and thy wrongs. We don't trouble ourselves with such finelawyer's stuff, and we bring down the "varmint" all the better. Now,I'll not have thee in our gang, for thou art not up to the fun, andthou'd hang fire when the time came to be doing. But I've a shrewdguess that plaguy wife and child of thine are at the bottom of thyhalf-and-half joining. Now, I was thy father's friend afore he tookto them helter-skelter ways, and I've five shillings and a neck ofmutton at thy service. I'll not list a fasting man; but if thou'ltcome to us with a full stomach, and say, "I like your life, my lads,and I'll make one of you with pleasure, the first shiny night," why,we'll give you a welcome and a half; but, to-night, make no more ado,but turn back with me for the mutton and the money.'
I was not proud: nay, I was most thankful. I took the meat, andboiled some broth for my poor Nelly. She was in a sleep, or a faint,I know not which; but I roused her, and held her up in bed, and fedher with a teaspoon, and the light came back to her eyes, and thefaint. moonlight smile to her lips; and when she had ended, she saidher innocent grace, and fell asleep, with her baby on her breast. Isat over the fire, and listened to the bells, as they swept past mycottage on the gusts of the wind. I longed and yearned for the secondcoming of Christ, of which Nelly had told me. The world seemed cruel,and hard, and strong--too strong for me; and I prayed to cling to thehem of His garment, and be borne over the rough places when Ifainted, and bled, and found no man to pity or help me, but poor oldJonah, the publican and sinner. All this time my own woes and my ownself were uppermost in my mind, as they are in the minds of most whohave been hardly used. As I thought of my wrongs, and my sufferings,my heart burned against Dick Jackson; and as the bells rose and fell,so my hopes waxed and waned, that in those mysterious days, of whichthey were both the remembrance and the prophecy, he would be purgedfrom off the earth. I took Nelly's Bible, and turned, not to thegracious story of the Saviour's birth, but to the records of theformer days, when the Jews took such wild revenge upon all theiropponents. I was a Jew,--a leader among the people. Dick Jackson wasas Pharaoh, as the King Agag, who walked delicately, thinking thebitterness of death was past,--in short, he was the conquered enemy,over whom I gloated, with my Bible in my hand--that Bible whichcontained our Saviour's words on the Cross. As yet, those wordsseemed faint and meaningless to me, like a tract of country seen inthe starlight haze; while the histories of the Old Testament weregrand and distinct in the blood-red colour of sunset. By-and-by thatnight passed into day, and little piping voices came round,carol-singing. They wakened Nelly. I went to her as soon as I heardher stirring.
'Nelly,' said I, 'there's money and food in the house; I will beoff to Padiham seeking work, while thou hast something to goupon.
'Not to-day,' said she; 'stay to-day with me. If thou wouldst onlygo to church with me this once'--for you see I had never been insidea church but when we were married, and she was often praying me togo; and now she looked at me, with a sigh just creeping forth fromher lips, as she expected a refusal. But I did not refuse. I had beenkept away from church before because I dared not go; and now I wasdesperate, and dared do anything. If I did look like a heathen in theface of all men, why, I was a heathen in my heart; for I was fallingback into all my evil ways. I had resolved if my search of work atPadiham should fail, I would follow my father's footsteps, and takewith my own right hand and by my strength of arm what it was deniedme to obtain honestly. I had resolved to leave Sawley, where a curseseemed to hang over me; so, what did it matter if I went to church,all unbeknowing what strange ceremonies were there performed? Iwalked thither as a sinful man--sinful in my heart. Nelly hung on myarm, but even she could not get me to speak. I went in; she found myplaces, and pointed to the words, and looked up into my eyes withhers, so frill of faith and joy. But I saw nothing but RichardJackson--I heard nothing but his loud nasal voice, making response,and desecrating all the holy words. He was in broadcloth of thebest--I in my fustian jacket. He was prosperous and glad--I wasstarving and desperate. Nelly grew pale, as she saw the expression inmy eyes; and she prayed ever, and ever more fervently as the thoughtof me tempted by the Devil even at that very moment came more fullybefore her.
By-and-by she forgot even me, and laid her soul bare before God,in a long, silent, weeping prayer, before we left the church. Nearlyall had gone; and I stood by her, unwilling to disturb her, unable tojoin her. At last she rose up, heavenly calm. She took my arm, and wewent home through the woods, where all the birds seemed tame andfamiliar. Nelly said she thought all living creatures knew it wasChristmas Day, and rejoiced, and were loving together. I believed itwas the frost that had tamed them; and I felt the hatred that was inme, and knew that whatever else was loving, I was full of malice anduncharitableness, nor did I wish to be otherwise. That afternoon Ibade Nelly and our child farewell, and tramped to Padiham. I gotwork--how I hardly know; for stronger and stronger came the force ofthe temptation to lead a wild, free life of sin; legions seemedwhispering evil thoughts to me, and only my gentle, pleading Newly topull me back from the great gulf. However, as I said before, I gotwork, and set off homewards to move my wife and child to thatneighbourhood. I hated Sawley, and yet I was fiercely indignant toleave it, with my purposes unaccomplished. I was still an outcastfrom the more respectable, who stood afar off from such as I; andmine enemy lived and flourished in their regard. Padiham, however,was not so far away for me to despair--to relinquish my fixeddetermination. It was on the eastern side of the great Pendle Hill,ten miles away--maybe. Hate will overleap a greater obstacle. I tooka cottage on the Fell, high up on the side of the hill. We saw a longblack moorland slope before us, and then the grey stone houses ofPadiham, over which a black cloud hung, different from the blue woodor turf smoke about Sawley. The wild winds came down and whistledround our house many a day when all was still below. But I was happythen. I rose in men's esteem. I had work in plenty. Our child livedand throve. But I forgot not our country proverb--'Keep a stone inthy pocket for seven years: turn it, and keep it seven years more;but have it ever ready to cast at thine enemy when the timecomes.'
One day a fellow-workman asked me to go to a hill-side preaching.Now, I never cared to go to church; but there was something newer andfreer in the notion of praying to God right under His great dome; andthe open air had had a charm to me ever since my wild boyhood.Besides, they said, these ranters had strange ways with them, and Ithought it would be fun to see their way of setting about it; andthis ranter of all others had made himself a name in our parts.Accordingly we went; it was a fine summer's evening, after work wasdone. When we got to the place we saw such a crowd as I never sawbefore--men, women, and children; all ages were gathered together,and sat on the hill-side. They were care-worn, diseased, sorrowful,criminal'. all that was told on their faces, which were hard andstrongly marked. In the midst, standing in a cart, was the ranger.When I first saw him, I said to my companion, 'Lord! what a littleman to make all this pother! I could trio him up with one of myfingers,' and then I sat down, and looked about me a bit. All eveswere fixed on the preacher; and I turned mine upon him too. He beganto speak; it was in no fine-drawn language, but in words such as weheard every day of our lives, and about things we did every day ofour lives. He did nor call our shortcomings pride or worldliness, orpleasure-seeking, which would have given us no clear notion of whathe meant, but he just told us outright what we did, and then he gaveit a name, and said that it was accursed, and that we were lost if wewent on so doing.
By this time the tears and sweat were running down his face; hewas wrestling for our souls. We wondered how he knew our innermostlives as he did, for each one of us saw his sin set before him inplain-spoken words. Then he cried out to us to repent; and spokefirst to us, and then to God, in a way that would have shockedmany--but it did not shock me. I liked strong things; and I liked thebare, hill truth: and I felt brought nearer to God in that hour--thesummer darkness creeping over us, and one after one the stars comingout above us, like the eyes of the angels watching us--than I hadever done in my life before. When he had brought us to our tears andsighs, he stopped his loud voice of upbraiding, and there was a hush,only broken by sobs and quivering moans, in which I heard through thegloom the voices of strong men in anguish and supplication, as wellas the shriller tones or women. Suddenly he was heard again; by thistime we could not see him; but his voice was now tender as the voiceof an angel, and he told us of Christ, and implored us to come toHim. I never heard such passionate entreaty. He spoke as if he sawSatan hovering near us in the dark, dense night, and as if our onlysafety lay in a very present coming to the Cross; I believe he didsee Satan; we know he haunts the desolate old hills, awaiting histime, and now or never it was with many a soul. At length there was asudden silence; and by the cries of those nearest to the preacher, weheard that he had fainted. We had all crowded round him, as if hewere our safety and our guide; and he was overcome by the heat andthe fatigue, for we were the fifth set of people whom he hadaddressed that day. I left the crowd who were leading him down, andtook a lonely path myself.
Here was the earnestness I needed. To this weak and weary faintingman, religion was a life and a passion. I look back now, and wonderat my blindness as to what was the took of all my Noel's patience andlong-suffering; for I thought, now I had found out what religion was,and that hitherto it had been all an unknown thing to me.
Henceforward, my life was changed. I was zealous and fanatical.Beyond the set to whom I had affiliated myself, I had no sympathy. Iwould have persecuted all who differed from me, if I had only had thepower. I became an ascetic in all bodily enjoyments. And, strange andinexplicable mystery, I had some thoughts that by every act ofself-denial I was attaining to my unholy end, and that, when I hadfasted and prayed long enough, God would place my vengeance in myhands. I have knelt by Nelly's bedside, and vowed to live aself-denying life, as regarded all outward things, if so that Godwould grant my prayer. I left it in His hands. I felt sure He wouldtrace out the token and the word; and Nelly would listen to mypassionate words, and lie awake sorrowful and heart-sore through thenight; and I would get up and make her tea, and rearrange herpillows, with a strange and willful blindness that my bitter wordsand blasphemous prayers had cost her miserable, sleepless nights. MyNelly was suffering yet from that blow. How or where the stone hadhurt her, I never understood; but in consequence of that one moment'saction, her limbs became numb and dead, and, by slow degrees, shetook to her bed, from whence she was never carried alive. There shelay, propped up by pillows, her meek face ever bright, and smilingforth a greeting; her white, pale hands ever busy with some kind ofwork; and our little Grace was as the power of motion to her. Fierceas I was away from her, I never could speak to her but in my gentlesttones. She seemed to me as if she had never wrestled for salvation asI had; and when away from her, I resolved many a time and oft, that Iwould rouse her up to her state of danger when I returned home thatevening--even if strong reproach were required I would rouse her upto her soul's need. But I came in and heard her voice singing softlysome holy word of patience, some psalm which, maybe, had comfortedthe martyrs, and when I saw her face like the face of an angel, fullof patience and happy faith, I put off my awakening speeches nilanother time.
One night, long ago, when I was yet young and strong, although myyears were past forty, I sat alone in my houseplace. Nelly was alwaysin bed, as I have told you, and Grace lay in a cot by her side. Ibelieved them to be both asleep; though how they could sleep I couldnot conceive, so wild and terrible was the night. The wind camesweeping down from the hill-top in great beats, like the pulses ofheaven; and, during the pauses, while I listened for the coming roar,I felt the earth shiver beneath me. The rain heat against windows anddoors, and sobbed for entrance. I thought the Prince of the Air wasabroad; and I heard, or fancied I heard, shrieks come on the blast.like the cries of sinful souls given over to his power.
The sounds came nearer and neater. I got up and saw to thefastenings of the door, for though I cared not for mortal man, I didcare for what I believed was surrounding the house, in evil might andpower. But the door shook as though it, too, were in deadly terror,and I thought the fastenings would give way. I stood facing theentrance, lashing my heart up to defy the spiritual enemy that Ilooked to see, every instant, in bodily presence; and the door didburst open; and before me stood--what was it? man or demon? agrey-haired man, with poor, worn clothes all wringing wet, and hehimself battered and piteous to look upon, from the storm he hadpassed through.
'Let me in!' he said. 'Give me shelter. I am poor, or I wouldreward you. And I am friendless, too,' he said, looking up in myface, like one seeking what he cannot find. In that look, strangelychanged, I knew that God had heard me; for it was the old cowardlylook of my life's enemy. Had he been a stranger, I might not havewelcomed him; but as he was mine enemy, I gave him welcome in alordly dish. I sat opposite to him. 'Whence do you come?' said I. 'Itis a strange night to be out on the fells.'
He looked up at me sharp; but in general he held his head downlike a beast or hound.
You won't betray me. I'll not trouble you long. As soon as thestorm abates, I'll go.'
'Friend!' said I, 'what have I to betray?' and I trembled lest heshould keep himself out of my power and not tell me. 'You come forshelter, and I give you of my best. Why do you suspect me?'
'Because,' said he, in his abject bitterness, all the world isagainst me. I never met with goodness or kindness; and now I amhunted like a wild beast. I'll tell you--I'm a convict returnedbefore my time. I was a Sway man' (as if I, of all men, did nor knowit!), 'and I went back, like a fool, to the old place. They've huntedme out where I would fain have lived rightly and quietly, and they'llsend me back to that hell upon earth, if they catch me. I did norknow it would be such a night. Only let me rest and get warm oncemore, and I'll go away. Good, kind man, have pity upon me!' I smiledall his doubts away; I promised him a bed on the floor, and I thoughtof Jael and Sisera. My heart leaped up like a war-horse at the soundof the trumpet, and said, 'Ha, ha, the Lord hath heard my prayer andsupplication; I shall have vengeance at last!'
He did not dream who I was. He was changed; so that I, who hadlearned his features with all the diligence of hatred, did not, atfirst, recognize him; and he thought not of me, only of his own woeand affright. He looked into the fire with the dreamy gaze of onewhose strength of character, if he had any, is beaten out of him, andcannot return at any emergency whatsoever. He sighed and pitiedhimself, yet could not decide on what to do. I went softly about mybusiness, which was to make him up a bed on the floor, and, when hewas lulled to sleep and security, to make the best of my way toPadiham, and summon the constable, into whose hands I would give himup, to be taken back to his 'hell upon earth.' I went into Nelly'sroom. She was awake and anxious. I saw she had been listening to thevoices.
'Who is there?' said she. 'John, tell me; it sounded like a voiceI knew. For God's sake, speak!'
I smiled a quiet smile. It is a poor man, who has lost his way. Goto sleep, my dear--I shall make him up on the floor. I may not comefor some time. Go to sleep;' and I kissed her. I thought she wassoothed, but nor fully satisfied. However, I hastened away beforethere was any further time for questioning. I made up the bed, andRichard Jackson, tired out, lay down and fell asleep. My contempt forhim almost equalled my hate. If I were avoiding return to a placewhich I thought to be a hell upon earth, think you I would have takena quiet sleep under any man's roof till, somehow or another, I wassecure. Now comes this man, and, with incontinence of tongue, blabsout the very thing he most should conceal, and then lies down to agood, quiet, snoring sleep. I looked again. His face was old, andworn, and miserable. So should mine enemy look. And yet it was sad togaze upon him, poor, hunted creature!
I would gaze no more, lest I grew weak and pitiful. Thus I took myhat, and softly opened the door. The wind blew in, but did notdisturb him, he was so utterly weary. I was our in the open air ofnight. The storm was ceasing, and, instead of the black sky of doomthat I had seen when I last looked forth, the moon was come out, wanand pale, as if wearied with the fight in the heavens, and her whitelight fell ghostly and calm on many a well-known object. Now andthen, a dark, torn cloud was blown across her home in the sky; butthey grew fewer and fewer, and at last she shone out steady andclear. I could see Padiham down before me. I heard the noise of thewatercourses down the hill-side. My mind was hill of one thought, andstrained upon that one thought, and yet my senses were most acute andobservant. When I came to the brook, it was swollen to a rapid,tossing river; and the little bridge, with its hand-rail, was utterlyswept away. It was like the bridge at Sway, where I had first seenNewly; and I remembered that day even then in the midst of myvexation at having to go round. I turned away from the brook, andthere stood a little figure facing me. No spirit from the dead couldhave affrighted me as it did; for I saw it was Grace, whom I had leftin bed by her mother's side.
She came to me, and took my hand. Her bare feet glittered white inthe moonshine, and sprinkled the light upwards, as they plashedthrough the pool.
'Father,' said she, 'mother bade me say this.' Then pausing togather breath and memory, she repeated these words, like a lesson ofwhich she feared to forget a syllable:--
'Mother says, "There is a God in heaven; and in His house are manymansions. If you hope to meet her there, you will come back and speakto her; if you are to be separate for ever and ever, you will go on,and may God have mercy on her and on you!" Father, I have said itright--every word.' I was silent. At last, I said,--
'What made mother say this? How came she to send you out?'
'I was asleep, father, and I heard her cry. I wakened up, and Ithink you had but just left the house, and that she was calling foryou. Then she prayed, with the tears rolling down her cheeks, andkept saying--"Oh, that I could walk!--oh, that for one hour I couldrun and walk!" So I said, "Mother, I can run and walk. Where must Igo?" And she clutched at my arm, and bade God bless me, and told menot to fear, for that He would compass me about, and taught me mymessage: and now, father, dear father, you will meet mother inheaven, won't you, and not be separate for ever and ever?' She clungto my knees, and pleaded once more in her mother's words. I took herup in my arms, and turned homewards.
'Is yon man there, on the kitchen floor?' asked I.
'Yes!' she answered. At any rate, my vengeance was not out of mypower yet.
When we got home I passed him, dead asleep.
In our room, to which my child guided me, was Nelly. She sat up inbed, a most unusual attitude for her, and one of which I thought shehad been incapable of attaining to without help. She had her handsclasped, and her face rapt, as if in prayer; and when she saw me, shelay back with a sweet ineffable smile. She could not speak at first;but when I came near, she took my hand and kissed it, and then shecalled Grace to her, and made her take off her cloak and her wetthings, and dressed in her short scanty nightgown, she slipped in toher mother's warm side; and all this time my Nelly never told me whyshe summoned me: it seemed enough that she should hold my hand, andfeel that I was there. I believed she had read my heart; and yet Idurst not speak to ask her. At last, she looked up. 'My husband,'said she, 'God has saved you and me from a great sorrow this night.'I would not understand, and I felt her look die away intodisappointment.
'That poor wanderer in the house-place is Richard Jackson, is itnot?'
I made no answer. Her face grew white and wan. 'Oh,' said she,'this is hard to bear. Speak what is in your mind, I beg of you. Iwill not thwart you harshly; dearest John, only speak to me.'
'Why need I speak? You seem to know all.'
'I do know that his is a voice I can never forget; and I do knowthe awful prayers you have prayed; and I know how I have lain awake,to pray that your words might never be heard; and I am a powerlesscripple. I put my cause in God's hands. You shall not do the man anyharm. What you have it in your thoughts to do, I cannot tell. But Iknow that you cannot do it. My eyes are dim with a strange mist; butsome voice tells me that you will forgive even Richard Jackson. Dearhusband--dearest John, it is so dark, I cannot see you: but speakonce to me.
I moved the candle; but when I saw her face, I saw what wasdrawing the mist over those loving eyes--how strange and woeful thatshe could die! Her little girl lying by her side looked in my face,and then at her; and the wild knowledge of death shot through heryoung heart, and she screamed aloud.
Nelly opened her eyes once more. They fell upon the gaunt,sorrow-worn man who was the cause of all. He roused him from hissleep, at that child's piercing cry, and stood at the doorway,looking in. He knew Nelly, and understood where the storm had drivenhim to shelter. He came towards her--
'Oh, woman--dying woman--you have haunted me in the loneliness ofthe Bush far away--you have been in my dreams for ever--the huntingof men has not been so terrible as the hunting of your spirit,--thatstone--that stone!' He fell down by her bedside in an agony; abovewhich her saint-like face looked on us all, for the last time,glorious with the coming light of heaven. She spoke once again:--
'It was a moment of passion; I never bore you malice for it. Iforgive you; and so does John, I trust.'
Could I keep my purpose there? It faded into nothing. But, abovemy choking tears, I strove to speak clear and distinct, for her dyingear to hear, and her sinking heart to be gladdened.
'I forgive you, Richard; I will befriend you in your trouble.'
She could not see; but, instead of the dim shadow of deathstealing over her face, a quiet light came over it, which we knew wasthe look of a soul at rest.
That night I listened to his tale for her sake; and I learned thatit is better to be sinned against than to sin. In the storm of thenight mine enemy came to me; in the calm of the grey morning I ledhim forth, and bade him 'God speed.' And a woe had come upon me, butthe burning burden of a sinful, angry heart was taken off. I am oldnow, and my daughter is married. I try to go about preaching andteaching in my rough, rude way; and what I teach is, how Christ livedand died, and what was Nelly's faith of love.
Our old Hall is to be pulled down, and they are going to buildstreets on the site. I said to my sister, 'Ethelinda! if they reallypull down Morton Hall, it will be a worse piece of work than theRepeal of the Corn Laws.' And, after some consideration, she replied,that if she must speak what was on her mind, she would own that shethought the Papists had something to do with it; that they had neverforgiven the Morton who had been with Lord Monteagle when hediscovered the Gunpowder Plot; for we knew that, somewhere in Rome,there was a book kept, and which had been kept for generations,giving an account of the secret private history of every Englishfamily of note, and registering the names of those to whom thePapists owed either grudges or gratitude.
We were silent for some time; but I am sure the same thought wasin both our minds; our ancestor, a Sidebotham, had been a follower ofthe Morton of that day; it had always been said in the family that hehad been with his master when he went with the Lord Monteagle, andfound Guy Fawkes and his dark lantern under the Parliament House; andthe question flashed across our minds, were the Sidebothams markedwith a black mark in that terrible mysterious book which was keptunder lock and key by the Pope and the Cardinals in Rome? It wasterrible, yet, somehow, rather pleasant to think of. So many of themisfortunes which had happened to us through life, and which we hadcalled 'mysterious dispensations,' but which some of our neighbourshad attributed to our want of prudence and foresight, were accountedfor at once, if we were objects of the deadly hatred of such apowerful order as the Jesuits, of whom we had lived in dread eversince we had read the Female Jesuit. Whether this last idea suggestedwhat my sister said next I can't tell; we did know the femaleJesuit's second cousin, so might be said to have literaryconnections, and from that the startling thought might spring up inmy sister's mind, for, said she, 'Biddy!' (my name is Bridget, and noone but my sister calls me Biddy) 'suppose you write some account ofMorton Hall; we have known much in our time of the Mortons, and itwill be a shame if they pass away completely from men's memorieswhile we can speak or write.' I was pleased with the notion, Iconfess; but I felt ashamed to agree to it ill at once, though even,as I objected for modesty's sake, it came into my mind how much I hadheard of the old place in its former days, and how it was, perhaps,all I could now do for the Mortons, under whom our ancestors hadlived as tenants for more than three hundred years. So at last Iagreed; and, for fear of mistakes, I showed it to Mr Swinton, ouryoung curate, who has put it quite in order for me.
Morton Hall is situated about five miles from the centre ofDrumble. It stands on the outskirts of a village, which, when theHall was built, was probably as large as Drumble in those days; andeven I can remember when there was a long piece of rather lonelyroad, with high hedges on either side, between Morton village andDrumble. Now, it is all street, and Morton seems but a suburb of thegreat town near. Our farm stood where Liverpool Street runs now; andpeople used to come snipe-shooting just where the Baptist chapel isbuilt. Our farm must have been older than the Hall, for we had a dateof 1460 on one of the cross-beams. My father was rather proud of thisadvantage, for the Hall had no date older than 1554; and I rememberhis affronting Mrs Dawson, the house-keeper, by dwelling too much onthis circumstance one evening when she came to drink tea with mymother, when Ethelinda and I were mere children. But my mother,seeing that Mrs Dawson would never allow that any house in the parishcould be older than the Hall, and that she was getting very warm, andalmost insinuating that the Sidebothams had forged the date todisparage the squire's family, and set themselves up as having theolder blood, asked Mrs Dawson to tell us the story of old Sir JohnMorton before we went to bed. I slily reminded my father that jack,our man, was not always so careful as might be in housing theAlderney in good time in the autumn evenings. So he started up, andwent off to see after jack; and Mrs Dawson and we drew nearer thefire to hear the story about Sir John.
Sir John Morton had lived some time about the Restoration. TheMortons had taken the right side; so when Oliver Cromwell came intopower, he gave away their lands to one of his Puritan followers--aman who had been but a praying, canting, Scotch pedlar till the warbroke out; and Sir John had to go and live with his royal master atBruges. The upstart's name was Carr, who came to live at Morton Hall;and, I'm proud to say, we--I mean our ancestors--led him a prettylife. He had hard work to get any rent at all from the tenantry, whoknew their duty better than to pay it to a Roundhead. If he took thelaw to them, the law officers fared so badly, that they were shy ofcoming out to Morton--all along that lonely road I told youof--again. Strange noises were heard about the Hall, which got thecredit of being haunted; but, as those noises were never heard beforeor since that Richard Carr lived there, I leave you to guess if theevil spirits did not know well over whom they had power--overschismatic rebels, and no one else. They durst not trouble theMortons, who were true and loyal, and were faithful followers of KingCharles in word and deed. At last, Old Oliver died; and folks did saythat, on that wild and stormy night, his voice was heard high up inthe air, where you hear the flocks of wild geese skirl, crying outfor his true follower Richard Carr to accompany him in the terriblechase the fiends were giving him before carrying him down to hell.Anyway, Richard Carr died within a week--summoned by the dead or not,he went his way down to his master, and his master's master.
Then his daughter Alice came into possession. Her mother wassomehow related to General Monk, who was beginning to come into powerabout that time. So when Charles the Second came back to his throne,and many of the sneaking Puritans had to quit their ill-gotten land,and turn to the right about, Alice Carr was still left at Morton Hallto queen it there. She was taller than most women, and a greatbeauty, I have heard. But, for all her beauty, she was a stern, hardwoman. The tenants had known her to be hard in her father's lifetime,but now that she was the owner, and had the power, she was worse thanever. She hated the Stuarts worse than ever her father bad done; hadcalves' head for dinner every thirtieth of January; and when thefirst twenty-ninth of May came round, and every mother's son in thevillage gilded his oak-leaves, and wore them in his hat, she closedthe windows of the great hall with her own hands, and sat throughoutthe day in darkness and mourning. People did not like to go againsther by force, because she was a young and beautiful woman. It wassaid the King got her cousin, the Duke of Albemarle, to ask her tocourt, just as courteously as if she had been the Queen of Sheba, andKing Charles, Solomon, praying her to visit him in Jerusalem. But shewould not go; not she! She lived a very lonely life, for now the Kinghad got his own again, no servant but her nurse would stay with herin the Hall; and none of the tenants would pay her any money for allthat her father had purchased the lands from the Parliament, and paidthe price down in good red gold.
All this time, Sir John was somewhere in the Virginianplantations; and the ships sailed from thence only twice a year: buthis royal master had sent for him home; and home he came, that secondsummer after the restoration. No one knew if Mistress Alice had heardof his landing in England or not; all the villagers and tenantryknew, and were not surprised, and turned out in their best dresses,and with great branches of oak, to welcome him as he rode into thevillage one July morning, with many gay-looking gentlemen by hisside, laughing, and talking, and making merry, and speaking gaily andpleasantly to the village people. They came in on the opposite sideto the Drumble Road; indeed Drumble was nothing of a place then, as Ihave told you. Between the last cottage in the village and the gatesto the old Hall, there was a shady part of the road, where thebranches nearly met overhead, and made a green gloom. If you'llnotice, when many people are talking merrily out of doors insunlight, they will stop talking for an instant, when they come intothe cool green shade, and either be silent for some little time, orelse speak graver, and slower, and softer. And so old people saythose gay gentlemen did; for several people followed to see AliceCarr's pride taken down. They used to tell how the cavaliers had tohow their plumed hats in passing under the unlopped and droopingboughs. I fancy Sir John expected that the lady would have ralliedher friends, and got ready for a sort of battle to defend theentrance to the house; but she had no friends. She had no nearerrelations than the Duke of Albemarle, and he was mad with her forhaving refused to come to court, and so save her estate, according tohis advice.
Well, Sir John rode on in silence; the tramp of the many horses'feet, and the clumping sound of the clogs of the village people wereall that was heard. Heavy as the great gate was, they swung it wideon its hinges, and up they rode to the Hall steps, where the ladystood, in her close, plain, Puritan dress, her cheeks one crimsonflush, her great eyes flashing fire, and no one behind her, or withher, or near her, or to be seen, but the old trembling nurse,catching at her gown in pleading terror. Sir John was taken aback; hecould not go out with swords and warlike weapons against a woman; hisvery preparations for forcing an entrance made him ridiculous in hisown eyes, and, he well knew, in the eyes of his gay, scornfulcomrades too; so he turned him round about, and bade them stay wherethey were, while he rode close to the steps, and spoke to the younglady; and there they saw him, hat in hand, speaking to her; and she,lofty and unmoved, holding her own as if she had been a sovereignqueen with an army at her back. What they said, no one heard; but herode back, very grave and much changed in his look, though his greyeye showed more hawk-like than ever, as if seeing the way to his end,though as yet afar off. He was not one to be jested with before hisface; so when he professed to have changed his mind, and not to wishto disturb so fair a lady in possession, he and his cavaliers rodeback to the village inn, and roystered there all day, and feasted thetenantry, cutting down the branches that had incommoded them in theirmorning's ride, to make a bonfire of on the village green, in whichthey burnt a figure, which some called Old Noll, and others RichardCarr: and it might do for either, folks said, for unless they hadgiven it the name of a man, most people would have taken it for aforked log of wood. But the lady's nurse told the villagersafterwards that Mistress Alice went in from the sunny Hall steps intothe chill house shadow, and sat her down and wept as her poorfaithful servant had never seen her do before, and could not haveimagined her proud young lady ever doing. All through that summer'sday she cried; and if for very weariness she ceased for a time, andonly sighed as if her heart was breaking, they heard through theupper windows--which were open because of the heat--the village bellsringing merrily through the trees, and bursts of choruses to gaycavalier songs, all in favour of the Stuarts. All the young lady saidwas once or twice, 'Oh God! I am very friendless!'--and the old nurseknew it was true, and could not contradict her; and always thought,as she said long after, that such weary weeping showed there was somegreat sorrow at hand.
I suppose it was the dreariest sorrow that ever a proud woman had;but it came in the shape of a gay wedding. How, the village neverknew. The gay gentlemen rode away from Morton the next day as lightlyand carelessly as if they had attained their end, and Sir John hadtaken possession; and, by-and-by, the nurse came timorously out tomarket in the village, and Mistress Alice was met in the wood walksjust as grand and as proud as ever in her ways, only a little morepale, and a little more sad. The truth was, as I have been told, thatshe and Sir John had each taken a fancy to each other in that parleythey held on the Hall steps; she, in the deep, wild way in which shetook the impressions of her whole life, deep down, as if they wereburnt in. Sir John was a gallant-looking man, and had a kind offoreign grace and courtliness about him. The way he fancied her wasvery different--a man's way, they tell me. She was a beautiful womanto be tamed, and made to come to his beck and call; and perhaps heread in her softening eyes that she might be won, and so all legaltroubles about the possession of the estate come to an end in aneasy, pleasant manner. He came to stay with friends in theneighbourhood; he was met in her favourite walks, with his plumed hatin his hand, pleading with her, and she looking softer and far morelovely than ever; and lastly, the tenants were told of the marriagethen nigh at hand.
After they were wedded, he stayed for a time with her at the Hall,and then off back to court. They do say that her obstinate refusal togo with him to London was the cause of their first quarrel; but suchfierce, strong wills would quarrel the first day of their weddedlife. She said that the court was no place for an honest woman; butsurely Sir John knew best, and she might have trusted him to takecare of her. However, he left her all alone; and at first she criedmost bitterly, and then she took to her old pride, and was morehaughty and gloomy than ever. By-and-by she found out hiddenconventicles; and, as Sir John never stinted her of money, shegathered the remnants of the old Puritan party about her, and triedto comfort herself with long prayers, snuffled through the nose, forthe absence of her husband, but it was of no use. Treat her as hewould, she loved him still with a terrible love. Once, they say, sheput on her waiting-maid's dress, and stole up to London to find outwhat kept him there; and something she saw or heard that changed heraltogether, for she came back as if her heart was broken. They saythat the only person she loved with all the wild strength of herheart, had proved false to her; and if so, what wonder! At the bestof times she was but a gloomy creature, and it was a great honour forher father's daughter to be wedded to a Morton. She should not haveexpected too much.
After her despondency came her religion. Every old Puritanpreacher in the country was welcome at Morton Hall. Surely that wasenough to disgust Sir John. The Mortons had never cared to have muchreligion, but what they had, had been good of its kind hitherto. So,when Sir John came down wanting a gay greeting and a tender show oflove, his lady exhorted him, and prayed over him, and quoted the lastPuritan text she had heard at him; and he swore at her, and at herpreachers; and made a deadly oath that none of them should findharbour or welcome in any house of his. She looked scornfully back athim, and said she had yet to learn in what county of England thehouse he spoke of was to be found; but in the house her fatherpurchased, and she inherited, all who preached the Gospel should bewelcome, let kings make what laws, and kings' minions swear whatoaths they would. He said nothing to this--the worst sign for her;but he set his teeth at her; and in an hour's time he rode away backto the French witch that had beguiled him.
Before he went away from Morton he set his spies. He longed tocatch his wife in his fierce clutch, and punish her for defying him.She had made him hate her with her Puritanical ways. He counted thedays till the messenger came, splashed up to the top of his deepleather boots, to say that my lady had invited the canting Puritanpreachers of the neighbourhood to a prayer-meeting, and a dinner, anda night's rest at her house. Sir John smiled as he gave the messengerfive gold pieces for his pains; and straight took post-horses, androde long days till he got to Morton; and only just in time; for itwas the very day of the prayer-meeting. Dinners were then at oneo'clock in the country. The great people in London might keep latehours, and dine at three in the afternoon or so; but the Mortons theyalways clung to the good old ways, and as the church bells wereringing twelve when Sir John came riding into the village, he knew hemight slacken bridle; and, casting one glance at the smoke which camehurrying up as if from a newly-mended fire, just behind the wood,where he knew the Hall kitchen chimney stood, Sir John stopped at thesmithy, and pretended to question the smith about his horse's shoes;but he took little heed of the answers, being more occupied by an oldserving-man from the Hall, who had been loitering about the smithyhalf the morning, as folk thought afterwards to keep some appointmentwith Sir John. When their talk was ended, Sir John lifted himselfstraight in his saddle; cleared his throat, and spoke outaloud:--
'I grieve to hear your lady is so ill.' The smith wondered atthis, for all the village knew of the coming feast at the Hall; thespring-chickens had been bought up, and the cade-lambs killed; forthe preachers in those days, if they fasted they fasted, if theyfought they fought, if they prayed they prayed, sometimes for threehours at a standing; and if they feasted they feasted, and knew whatgood eating was, believe me.
'My lady ill?' said the smith, as if he doubted the old primserving-man's word. And the latter would have chopped in with anangry asseveration (he had been at Worcester and fought on the rightside), but Sir John cut him short.
'My lady is very ill, good Master Fox. It touches her here,'continued he, pointing to his head. 'I am come down to take her toLondon, where the King's own physician shall prescribe for her.' Andhe rode slowly up to the hall.
The lady was as well as ever she had been in her life, and happierthan she had often been; for in a few minutes some of those whom sheesteemed so highly would be about her, some of those who had knownand valued her father--her dead father, to whom her sorrowful heartturned in its woe, as the only true lover and friend she had ever hadon earth. Many of the preachers would have ridden far,--was all inorder in their rooms, and on the table in the great dining parlour?She had got into restless hurried ways of late. She went round below,and then she mounted the great oak staircase to see if the towerbed-chamber was all in order for old Master Hilton, the oldest amongthe preachers. Meanwhile, the maidens below were carrying in mightycold rounds of spiced beef, quarters of lamb, chicken pies, and allsuch provisions, when, suddenly, they knew not how, they foundthemselves each seized by strong arms, their aprons thrown over theirheads, after the manner of a gag, and themselves borne out of thehouse on to the poultry green behind, where, with threats of whatworse might befall them, they were sent with many a shameful word(Sir John could not always command his men, many of whom had beensoldiers in the French wars) back into the village. They scudded awaylike frightened hares. My lady was strewing the white-headedpreacher's room with the last year's lavender, and stirring up thesweet-pot on the dressing-table, when she heard a step on the echoingstairs. It was no measured tread of any Puritan; it was the clang ofa man of war coming nearer and nearer, with loud rapid strides. Sheknew the step; her heart stopped beating, not for fear, but becauseshe loved Sir John even yet; and she took a step forward to meet him,and then stood still and trembled, for the flattering false thoughtcame before her that he might have come yet in some quick impulse ofreviving love, and that his hasty step might be prompted by thepassionate tenderness of a husband. But when he reached the door, shelooked as calm and indifferent as ever.
'My lady,' said he, 'you are gathering your friends to some feast.May I know who are thus invited to revel in my house? Some gracelessfellows, I see, from the store of meat and drink below--wine-bibbersand drunkards, I fear.'
But, by the working glance of his eye, she saw that he knew all;and she spoke with a cold distinctness.
'Master Ephraim Dixon, Master Zerubbabel Hopkins, MasterHelp-me-or-I-perish Perkins, and some other godly ministers, come tospend the afternoon in my house.'
He went to her, and in his rage he struck her. She put up no armto save herself, but reddened a little with the pain, and thendrawing her neckerchief on one side, she looked at the crimson markon her white neck.
'It serves me right,' she said. 'I wedded one of my father'senemies; one of those who would have hunted the old man to death. Igave my father's enemy house and lands, when he came as a beggar tomy door; I followed my wicked, wayward heart in this, instead ofminding my dying father's words. Strike again, and avenge him yetmore!'
But he would not, because she bade him. He unloosed his sash, andbound her arms tight,--tight together, and she never struggled orspoke. Then pushing her so that she was obliged to sit down on thebed side,--
'Sit there,' he said, 'and hear how I will welcome the oldhypocrites you have dared to ask to my house--my house and myancestors' house, long before your father--a canting pedlar--hawkedhis goods about, and cheated honest men.'
And, opening the chamber window right above those Hall steps whereshe had awaited him in her maiden beauty scarce three short yearsago, he greeted the company of preachers as they rode up to the Hallwith such terrible hideous language (my lady had provoked him pastall bearing, you see), that the old men turned round aghast, and madethe best of their way back to their own places.
Meanwhile, Sir john's serving-men below had obeyed their master'sorders. They had gone through the house, closing every window, everyshutter, and every door, but leaving all else just as it was--thecold meats on the table, the hot meats on the spit, the silverflagons on the side-board, all just as if it were ready for a feast;and then Sir john's head-servant, he that I spoke of before, came upand told his master all was ready.
'Is the horse and the pillion all ready? Then you and I must be mylady's tire-women;' and as it seemed to her in mockery, but inreality with a deep purpose, they dressed the helpless woman in herriding things all awry, and strange and disorderly, Sir John carriedher down stairs; and he and his man bound her on the pillion; and SirJohn mounted before. The man shut and locked the great house-door,and the echoes of the clang went through the empty Hall with anominous sound. 'Throw the key,' said Sir John, 'deep into the mereyonder. My lady may go seek it if she lists, when next I set her armsat liberty. Till then I know whose house Morton Hall shall becalled.'
'Sir John! it shall be called the Devil's House, and you shall behis steward.'
But the poor lady had better have held her tongue; for Sir Johnonly laughed, and told her to rave on. As he passed through thevillage, with his serving-men riding behind, the tenantry came outand stood at their doors, and pitied him for having a mad wife, andpraised him for his care of her, and of the chance he gave her ofamendment by taking her up to be seen by the King's physician. But,somehow, the Hall got an ugly name; the roast and boiled meats, theducks, the chickens had time to drop into dust, before any humanbeing now dared to enter in; or, indeed, had any right to enter in,for Sir John never came back to Morton; and as for my lady, some saidshe was dead, and some said she was mad, and shut up in London, andsome said Sir John had taken her to a convent abroad.
'And what did become of her?' asked we, creeping up to MrsDawson.
'Nay, how should I know?'
'But what do you think?' we asked pertinaciously.
'I cannot tell. I have heard that after Sir John was killed at thebattle of the Boyne she got loose, and came wandering back to Morton,to her old nurse's house; but, indeed, she was mad then, out and out,and I've no doubt Sir John had seen it coming on. She used to havevisions and dream dreams: and some thought her a prophetess, and somethought her fairly crazy. What she said about the Mortons was awful.She doomed them to die out of the land, and their house to be razedto the ground, while pedlars and huxters, such as her own people, herfather, had been, should dwell where the knightly Mortons had oncelived. One winter's night she strayed away, and the next morning theyfound the poor crazy woman frozen to death in Drumble meeting-houseyard; and the Mr Morton who had succeeded to Sir John had herdecently buried where she was found, by the side of her father'sgrave.'
We were silent for a time. 'And when was the old Hall opened, MrsDawson, please?'
'Oh! when the Mr Morton, our Squire Morton's grandfather, cameinto possession. He was a distant cousin of Sir john's, a muchquieter kind of man. He had all the old rooms opened wide, and aired,and fumigated; and the strange fragments of musty food were collectedand burnt in the yard; but somehow that old dining-parlour had alwaysa charnel-house smell, and no one ever liked making merry init--thinking of the grey old preachers, whose ghosts might be eventhen scenting the meats afar off, and trooping unbidden to a feast,that was not that of which they were baulked. I was glad for one whenthe squire's father built another dining-room; and no servant in thehouse will go an errand into the old dining-parlour after dark, I canassure ye.'
'I wonder if the way the last Mr Morton had to sell his land tothe people at Drumble had anything to do with old Lady Morton'sprophecy,' said my mother, musingly.
'Not at all,' said Mrs Dawson, sharply. 'My lady was crazy, andher words not to be minded. I should like to see the cotton-spinnersof Drumble offer to purchase land from the squire. Besides, there's astrict entail now. They can't purchase the land if they would. A setof trading pedlars, indeed!'
I remember Ethelinda and I looked at each other at this wordpedlars;' which was the very word she had put into Sir john's mouthwhen taunting his wife with her father's low birth and calling. Wethought, 'We shall see.'
Alas! we have seen.
Soon after that evening our good old friend Mrs Dawson died. Iremember it well, because Ethelinda and I were put into mourning forthe first time in our lives. A dear little brother of ours had diedonly the year before, and then my father and mother had decided thatwe were too young; that there was no necessity for their incurringthe expense of black frocks. We mourned for the little delicatedarling in our hearts, I know; and to this day I often wonder what itwould have been to have had a brother. But when Mrs Dawson died itbecame a sort of duty we owed to the squire's family to go intoblack, and very proud and pleased Ethelinda and I were with our newfrocks. I remember dreaming Mrs Dawson was alive again, and crying,because I thought my new frock would be taken away from me. But allthis has nothing to do with Morton Hall.
When I first became aware of the greatness of the squire's stationin life, his family consisted of himself, his wife (a frail, delicatelady), his only son, 'little master,' as Mrs Dawson was allowed tocall him, 'the young squire,' as we in the village always termed him.His name was John Marmaduke. He was always called John; and after MrsDawson's story of the old Sir John, I used to wish he might not bearthat ill-omened name. He used to ride through the village in hisbright scarlet coat, his long fair curling hair falling over his lacecollar, and his broad black hat and feather shading his merry blueeyes, Ethelinda and I thought then, and I always shall think, therenever was such a boy. He had a fine high spirit, too, of his own, andonce horsewhipped a groom twice as big as himself who had thwartedhim. To see him and Miss Phillis go tearing through the village ontheir pretty Arabian horses, laughing as they met the west wind, andtheir long golden curls flying behind them, you would have thoughtthem brother and sister, rather than nephew and aunt; for MissPhillis was the squire's sister, much younger than himself; indeed,at the time I speak of, I don't think she could have been aboveseventeen, and the young squire, her nephew, was nearly ten. Iremember Mrs Dawson sending for my mother and me up to the Hall thatwe might see Miss Phillis dressed ready to go with her brother to aball given at some great lord's house to Prince William ofGloucester, nephew to good old George the Third.
When Mrs Elizabeth, Mrs Morton's maid, saw us at tea in MrsDawson's room, she asked Ethelinda and me if we would not like tocome into Miss Phillis's dressing-room, and watch her dress; and thenshe said, if we would promise to keep from touching anything, shewould make interest for us to go. We would have promised to stand onour heads, and would have tried to do so too, to earn such aprivilege. So in we went, and stood together, hand-in-hand, up in acorner out of the way, feeling very red, and shy, and hot, till MissPhillis put us at our case by playing all manner of comical tricks,just to make us laugh, which at last we did outright, in spite of allour endeavours to be grave, lest Mrs Elizabeth should complain of usto my mother. I recollect the scent of the marechale powder withwhich Miss Phillis's hair was just sprinkled; and how she shook herhead, like a young colt, to work the hair loose which Mrs Elizabethwas straining up over a cushion. Then Mrs Elizabeth would try alittle of Mrs Morton's rouge; and Miss Phillis would wash it off witha wet towel, saying that she liked her own paleness better than anyperformer's colour; and when Mrs Elizabeth wanted just to touch hercheeks once more, she hid herself behind the great arm-chair, peepingout, with her sweet, merry face, first at one side and then atanother, till we all heard the squire's voice at the door, askingher, if she was dressed, to come and show herself to madam, hersister-in-law; for, as I said, Mrs Morton was a great invalid, andunable to go out to any grand parties like this. We were all silentin an instant; and even Mrs Elizabeth thought no more of the rouge,but how to get Miss Phillis's beautiful blue dress on quick enough.She had cherry-coloured knots in her hair, and her breast-knots wereof the same ribbon. Her gown was open in front, to a quilted whitesilk skirt. We felt very shy of her as she stood there fullydressed--she looked so much grander than anything we had ever seen;and it was like a relief when Mrs Elizabeth told us to go down to MrsDawson's parlour, where my mother was sitting all this time.
Just as we were telling how merry and comical Miss Phillis hadbeen, in came a footman. 'Mrs Dawson,' said he, 'the squire bids meask you to go with Mrs Sidebotham into the west parlour, to have alook at Miss Morton before she goes.' We went, too, clinging to mymother. Miss Phillis looked rather shy as we came in, and stood justby the door. I think we all must have shown her that we had neverseen anything so beautiful as she was in our lives before; for shewent very scarlet at our fixed gaze of admiration, and, to relieveherself, she began to play all manner of antics--whirling round, andmaking cheeses with her rich silk petticoat; unfurling her fan (apresent from madam, to complete her dress), and peeping first on oneside and then on the other, just as she had done upstairs; and thencatching hold of her nephew, and insisting that he should dance aminuet with her until the carriage came; which proposal made him veryangry, as it was an insult to his manhood (at nine years old) tosuppose he could dance. 'It was all very well for girls to make foolsof themselves,' he said, 'but it did not do for men.' And Ethelindaand I thought we had never heard so fine a speech before. But thecarriage came before we had half feasted our eyes enough; and thesquire came from his wife's room to order the little master to bed,and hand his sister to the carriage.
I remember a good deal of talk about royal dukes and unequalmarriages that night. I believe Miss Phillis did dance with PrinceWilliam; and I have often heard that she bore away the bell at theball, and that no one came near her for beauty and pretty, merryways. In a day or two after I saw her scampering through the village,looking just as she did before she had danced with a royal duke. Weall thought she would marry some one great, and used to look out forthe lord who was to take her away. But poor madam died, and there wasno one but Miss Phillis to comfort her brother, for the young squirewas gone away to some great school down south; and Miss Phillis grewgrave, and reined in her pony to keep by the squire's side, when herode out on his steady old mare in his lazy, careless way.
We did not hear so much of the doings at the Hall now Mrs Dawsonwas dead; so I cannot tell how it was; but, by-and-by, there was atalk of bills that were once paid weekly, being now allowed to run toquarter-day; and then, instead of being settled every quarter-day,they were put off to Christmas; and many said they had hard enoughwork to get their money then. A buzz went through the village thatthe young squire played high at college, and that he made away withmore money than his father could afford. But when he came down toMorton, he was as handsome as ever; and I, for one, never believedevil of him; though I'll allow others might cheat him, and he neversuspect it. His aunt was as fond of him as ever; and he of her. Manyis the time I have seen them out walking together, sometimes sadenough, sometimes merry as ever. By-and-by, my father heard of salesof small pieces of land, not included in the entail; and, at last,things got so bad, that the very crops were sold yet green upon theground, for any price folks would give, so that there was but readymoney paid. The squire at length gave way entirely, and never leftthe house; and the young master in London; and poor Miss Phillis usedto go about trying to see after the workmen and labourers, and savewhat she could. By this time she would be above thirty; Ethelinda andI were nineteen and twenty-one when my mother died, and that was someyears before this. Well, at last the squire died; they do say of abroken heart at his son's extravagance; and, though the lawyers keptit very close, it began to be rumoured that Miss Phillis's fortunehad gone too. Any way, the creditors came down on the estate likewolves. It was entailed, and it could not be sold; but they put itinto the hands of a lawyer, who was to get what he could out of it,and have no pity for the poor young squire, who had not a roof forhis head. Miss Phillis went to live by herself in a little cottage inthe village, at the end of the property, which the lawyer allowed herto have because he could not let it to any one, it was so tumble-downand old. We never knew what she lived on, poor lady; but she said shewas well in health, which was all we durst ask about. She came to seemy father just before he died, and he seemed made bold with thefeeling that he was a dying man; so he asked, what I had longed toknow for many a year, where was the young squire? he had never beenseen in Morton since his father's funeral. Miss Phillis said he wasgone abroad; but in what part he was then, she herself hardly knew;only she had a feeling that, sooner or later, he would come back tothe old place; where she should strive to keep a home for himwhenever he was tired of wandering about, and trying to make hisfortune.
'Trying to make his fortune still?' asked my father, hisquestioning eyes saying more than his words. Miss Phillis shook herhead, with a sad meaning in her face; and we understood it all. Hewas at some French gaming-table, if he was not at an English one.
Miss Phillis was right. It might be a year after my father's deathwhen he came back, looking old and grey and worn. He came to our doorjust after we had barred it one winter's evening. Ethelinda and Istill lived at the farm, trying to keep it up, and make it pay; butit was hard work. We heard a step coming up the straight pebble walk;and then it stopped right at our door, under the very porch, and weheard a man's breathing, quick and short.
'Shall I open the door?' said I.
'No, wait!' said Ethelinda; for we lived alone, and there was nocottage near us. We held our breaths. There came a knock.
'Who's there?' I cried.
'Where does Miss Morton live--Miss Phillis?'
We were not sure if we would answer him; for she, like us, livedalone.
'Who's there?' again said I.
'Your master,' he answered, proud and angry. 'My name is JohnMorton. Where does Miss Phillis live?'
We had the door unbarred in a trice, and begged him to come in; topardon our rudeness. We would have given him of our best, as was hisdue from us; but he only listened to the directions we gave him tohis aunt's, and took no notice of our apologies.
Up to this time we had felt it rather impertinent to tell eachother of our individual silent wonder as to what Miss Phillis livedon; but I know in our hearts we each thought about it, with a kind ofrespectful pity for her fallen low estate. Miss Phillis--that weremembered like an angel for beauty, and like a little princess forthe imperious sway she exercised, and which was such sweet compulsionthat we bad all felt proud to be her slaves--Miss Phillis was now aworn, plain woman, in homely dress, tending towards old age; andlooking--(at that time I dared not have spoken so insolent a thought,not even to myself)--but she did look as if she had hardly the propernourishing food she required. One day, I remember Mrs Jones, thebutcher's wife (she was a Drumble person) saying, in her saucy way,that she was not surprised to see Miss Morton so bloodless and pale,for she only treated herself to a Sunday's dinner of meat, and livedon slop and bread-and-butter all the rest of the week. Ethelinda puton her severe face--a look that I am afraid of to this day--and said,'Mrs Jones, do you suppose Miss Morton can eat your half-starvedmeat? You do not know how choice and dainty she is, as becomes oneborn and bred like her. What was it we had to bring for her only lastSaturday from the grand new butcher's, in Drumble, Biddy?'--(We tookour eggs to market in Drumble every Saturday, for the cotton-spinnerswould give us a higher price than the Morton people: the more foolsthey!)
I thought it rather cowardly of Ethelinda to put the story-tellingon me; but she always thought a great deal of saving her soul; morethan I did, I am afraid, for I made answer, as bold as a lion, 'Twosweet breads, at a shilling a-piece; and a forequarter of house-lamb,at eighteen-pence a pound.' So off went Mrs Jones, in a huff, saying,'their meat was good enough for Mrs Donkin, the great mill-owner'swidow, and might serve a beggarly Morton any day.' When we werealone, I said to Ethelinda, 'I'm afraid we shall have to pay for ourlies at the great day of account;' and Ethelinda answered, verysharply--(she's a good sister in the main)--'Speak for yourself,Biddy. I never said a word. I only asked questions. How could I helpit if you told lies? I'm sure I wondered at you, how glib you spokeout what was not true. 'But I knew she was glad I told the lies, inher heart.
After the poor squire came to live with his aunt, Miss Phillis, weventured to speak a bit to ourselves. We were sure they were pinched.They looked like it. He had a bad hacking cough at times; though hewas so dignified and proud he would never cough when any one wasnear. I have seen him up before it was day, sweeping the dung off theroads, to try and get enough to manure the little plot of groundbehind the cottage, which Miss Phillis had let alone, but which hernephew used to dig in and till; for, said he, one day, in his grand,slow way, 'he was always fond of experiments in agriculture.'Ethelinda and I do believe that the two or three score of cabbages heraised were all they had to live on that winter, besides the bit ofmeal and tea they got at the village shop.
One Friday night I said to Ethelinda, 'It is a shame to take theseeggs to Drumble to sell, and never to offer one to the squire, onwhose lands we were born.' She answered, 'I have thought so many atime; but how can we do it? I, for one, dare not offer them to thesquire; and as for Miss Phillis, it would seem like impertinence.''I'll try at it,' said I.
So that night I took some eggs--fresh yellow eggs from our ownpheasant hen, the like of which there were not for twenty milesround--and I laid them softly after dusk on one of the little stoneseats in the porch of Miss Phillis's cottage. But, alas! when we wentto market at Drumble, early the next morning, there were my eggs allshattered and splashed, making an ugly yellow pool in the road justin front of the cottage. I had meant to have followed it up by achicken or so; but I saw now that it would never do. Miss Philliscame now and then to call on us; she was a little more high anddistant than she had been when a girl, and we felt we must keep ourplace. I suppose we had affronted the young squire, for he never camenear our house.
Well, there came a hard winter, and provisions rose; and Ethelindaand I had much ado to make ends meet. If it had not been for mysister's good management, we should have been in debt, I know; butshe proposed that we should go without dinner, and only have abreakfast and a tea, to which I agreed, you may be sure.
One baking day I had made some cakes for tea--potato-cakes wecalled them. They had a savoury, hot smell about them; and, to temptEthelinda, who was not quite well, I cooked a rasher of bacon. Justas we were sitting down, Miss Phillis knocked at our door. We let herin. God only knows how white and haggard she looked. The heat of ourkitchen made her totter, and for a while she could not speak. But allthe time she looked at the food on the table as if she feared to shuther eyes lest it should all vanish away. It was an eager stare likethat of some animal, poor soul! 'If I durst,' said Ethelinda, wishingto ask her to share our meal, but being afraid to speak out. I didnot speak, but handed her the good, hot, buttered cake; on which sheseized, and putting it up to her lips as if to taste it, she fellback in her chair, crying.
We had never seen a Morton cry before.' and it was somethingawful. We stood silent and aghast. She recovered herself, but did nottaste the food; on the contrary, she covered it up with both herhands, as if afraid of losing it. 'If you'll allow me,' said she, ina stately kind of way, to make up for our having seen her crying,'I'll take it to my nephew.' And she got up to go away; but she couldhardly stand for very weakness, and had to sit down again; she smiledat us, and said she was a little dizzy, but it would soon go off; butas she smiled, the bloodless lips were drawn far back over her teeth,making her face seem somehow like a death's head. 'Miss Morton,' saidI, 'do honour us by taking tea with us this once. The squire, yourfather, once took a luncheon with my father, and we are proud of itto this day.' I poured her out some tea, which she drank; the foodshe shrank away from as if the very sight of it turned her sickagain. But when she rose to go, she looked at it with her sad,wolfish eyes, as if she could not leave it; and at last she brokeinto a low cry, and said, 'Oh, Bridget, we are starving! we arestarving for want of food! I can bear it; I don't mind; but hesuffers--oh, how he suffers! let me take him food for this onenight.'
We could hardly speak; our hearts were in our throats, and thetears ran down our cheeks like rain. We packed up a basket, andcarried it to her very door, never venturing to speak a word, for weknew what it must have cost her to say that. When we left her at thecottage, we made her our usual deep courtesy, but she fell upon ournecks, and kissed us. For several nights after she hovered round ourhouse about dusk, but she would never come in again, and face us incandle or fire light, much less meet us by daylight. We took out foodto her as regularly as might be, and gave it to her in silence, andwith the deepest courtesies we could make, we felt so honoured. Wehad many plans now she had permitted us to know of her distress. Wehoped she would allow us to go on serving her in some way as becameus as Sidebothams. But one night she never came; we stayed out in thecold, bleak wind, looking into the dark for her thin, worn figure;all in vain. Late the next afternoon, the young squire lifted thelatch, and stood right in the middle of our houseplace. The roof waslow overhead, and made lower by the deep beams supporting the floorabove; he stooped as he looked at us, and tried to form words, but nosound came out of his lips. I never saw such gaunt woe; no, never! Atlast he took me by the shoulder, and led me out of the house.
'Come with me!' he said, when we were in the open air, as if thatgave him strength to speak audibly. I needed no second word. Weentered Miss Phillis's cottage; a liberty I had never taken before.What little furniture was there, it was clear to be seen werecast-off fragments of the old splendour of Morton Hall. No fire. Greywood ashes lay on the hearth. An old settee, once white and gold, nowdoubly shabby in its fall from its former estate. On it lay MissPhillis, very pale; very still; her eyes shut.
'Tell me!' he gasped. 'Is she dead? I think she is asleep; but shelooks so strang--as if she might be--' He could not say the awfulword again. I stooped, and felt no warmth; only a cold chillatmosphere seemed to surround her.
'She is dead!' I replied at length. 'Oh, Miss Phillis! MissPhillis!' and, like a fool, I began to cry. But he sat down without atear, and looked vacantly at the empty hearth. I dared not cry anymore when I saw him so stony sad. I did not know what to do. I couldnot leave him; and yet I had no excuse for staying. I went up to MissPhillis, and softly arranged the grey ragged locks about herface.
'Ay!' said he. 'She must be laid out, Who so fit to do it as youand your sister, children of good old Robert Sidebotham?'
'Oh, my master,' I said, 'this is no fit place for you. Let mefetch my sister to sit up with me all night; and honour us bysleeping at our poor little cottage.'
I did not expect he would have done it; but after a few minutes'silence he agreed to my proposal. I hastened home, and toldEthelinda, and both of us crying, we heaped up the fire, and spreadthe table with food, and made up a bed in one corner of the floor.While I stood ready to go, I saw Ethelinda open the great chest inwhich we kept our treasures; and out she took a fine Holland shiftthat had been one of my mother's wedding shifts; and, seeing what shewas after, I went upstairs and brought down a piece of rare old lace,a good deal darned to be sure, but still old Brussels point,bequeathed to me long ago by my god-mother, Mrs Dawson. We huddledthese things under our cloaks, locked the door behind us, and set outto do all we could now for poor Miss Phillis. We found the squiresitting just as we left him; I hardly knew if he understood me when Itold him how to unlock our door, and gave him the key, though I spokeas distinctly as ever I could for the choking in my throat. At lasthe rose and went; and Ethelinda and I composed her poor thin limbs todecent rest, and wrapped her in the fine Holland shift; and then Iplaited up my lace into a close cap to tie up the wasted features.When all was done we looked upon her from a little distance.
'A Morton to die of hunger!' said Ethelinda solemnly. 'We shouldnot have dared to think that such a thing was within the chances oflife. Do you remember that evening, when you and I were littlechildren, and she a merry young lady peeping at us from behind herfan?'
We did not cry any more; we felt very still and awestruck. After awhile I said, 'I wonder if, after all, the young squire did go to ourhouse. He had a strange look about him. If I dared I would go andsee.' I opened the door; the night was black as pitch; the air verystill. 'I'll go,' said I; and off I went, not meeting a creature, forit was long past eleven. I reached our house; the window was long andlow, and the shutters were old and shrunk. I could peep between themwell, and see all that was going on. He was there, sitting over thefire, never shedding a tear; but seeming as if he saw his past lifein the embers. The food we had prepared was untouched. Once or twice,during my long watch (I was more than an hour away), he turnedtowards the food, and made as though he would have eaten it, and thenshuddered back; but at last he seized it, and tore it with his teeth,and laughed and rejoiced over it like some starved animal. I couldnot keep from crying then. He gorged himself with great morsels; andwhen he could eat no more, it seemed as if his strength for sufferinghad come back. He threw himself on the bed, and such a passion ofdespair I never heard of, much less ever saw. I could not bear towitness it. The dead Miss Phillis lay calm and still. Her trials wereover. I would go back and watch with Ethelinda.
When the pale grey morning dawn stole in, making us shiver andshake after our vigil, the squire returned. We were both mortalafraid of him, we knew not why. He looked quiet enough--the lineswere worn deep before--no new traces were there. He stood and lookedat his aunt for a minute or two. Then he went up into the loft abovethe room where we were; he brought a small paper parcel down; bade uskeep on our watch yet a little time. First one and then the other ofus went home to get some food. It was a bitter black frost; no onewas out who could stop indoors; and those who were out cared not tostop to speak. Towards afternoon the air darkened, and a greatsnow-storm came on. We durst not be left only one alone; yet, at thecottage where Miss Phillis had lived, there was neither fire norfuel. So we sat and shivered and shook till morning. The squire nevercame that night nor all next day.
'What must we do?' asked Ethelinda, broken down entirely. 'I shalldie if I stop here another night. We must tell the neighbours and gethelp for the watch.'
'So we must,' said I, very low and grieved. I went out and toldthe news at the nearest house, taking care, you may be sure, never tospeak of the hunger and cold Miss Phillis must have endured insilence. It was bad enough to have them come in, and make theirremarks on the poor bits of furniture; for no one had known theirbitter straits even as much as Ethelinda and me, and we had beenshocked at the bareness of the place. I did hear that one or two ofthe more ill-conditioned had said, it was not for nothing we had keptthe death to ourselves for two nights; that, to judge from the laceon her cap, there must have been some pretty pickings. Ethelindawould have contradicted this, but I bade her let it alone; it wouldsave the memory of the proud Mortons from the shame that poverty isthought to be; and as for us, why we could live it down. But, on thewhole, people came forward kindly; money was not wanting to bury herwell, if not grandly, as became her birth; and many a one was biddento the funeral who might have looked after her a little more in herlife-time. Among others was Squire Hargreaves from Bothwick Hall overthe moors. He was some kind of far-away cousin to the Morton's; sowhen he came he was asked to go chief mourner in Squire Morton'sstrange absence, which I should have wondered at the more if I hadnot thought him almost crazy when I watched his ways through theshutter that night. Squire Hargreaves started when they paid him thecompliment of asking him to take the head of the coffin.
'Where is her nephew?' asked he.
'No one has seen him since eight o'clock last Thursdaymorning.'
'But I saw him at noon on Thursday,' said Squire Hargreaves, witha round oath. 'He came over the moors to tell me of his aunt's death,and to ask me to give him a little money to bury her, on the pledgeof his gold shirt-buttons. He said I was a cousin, and could pity agentleman in such sore need; that the buttons were his mother's firstgift to him; and that I was to keep them safe, for some day he wouldmake his fortune, and come back to redeem them. He had not known hisaunt was so ill, or he would have parted with these buttons sooner,though he held them as more precious than he could tell me. I gavehim money; but I could not find in my heart to take the buttons. Hebade me not tell of all this; but when a man is missing it is my dutyto give all the clue I can.'
And so their poverty was blazoned abroad! But folk forgot it allin the search for the squire on the moor-side. Two days they searchedin vain; the third, upwards of a hundred men turned out,hand-in-hand, step to step, to leave no foot of ground unsearched.They found him stark and stiff, with Squire Hargreaves' money, andhis mother's gold buttons, safe in his waistcoat pocket.
And we laid him down by the side of his poor aunt Phillis.
After the squire, John Marmaduke Morton, had been found dead inthat sad way, on the dreary moors, the creditors seemed to lose allhold on the property; which indeed, during the seven years they hadhad it, they had drained as dry as a sucked orange. But for a longtime no one seemed to know who rightly was the owner of Morton Halland lands. The old house fell out of repair; the chimneys were fullof starlings' nests; the flags in the terrace in front were hidden bythe long grass; the panes in the windows were broken, no one knew howor why, for the children of the village got up a tale that the housewas haunted. Ethelinda and I went sometimes in the summer mornings,and gathered some of the roses that were being strangled by thebindweed that spread over all; and we used to try and weed the oldflower-garden a little; but we were no longer young, and the stoopingmade our backs ache. Still we always felt happier if we cleared butever such a little space. Yet we did not go there willingly in theafternoons, and left the garden always long before the first slightshade of dusk.
We did not choose to ask the common people--many of them wereweavers for the Drumble manufacturers, and no longer decent hedgersand ditchers--we did not choose to ask them, I say, who was squirenow, or where he lived. But one day, a great London lawyer came tothe Morton Arms, and made a pretty stir. He came on behalf of aGeneral Morton, who was squire now, though he was far away in India.He had been written to, and they had proved him heir, though he was avery distant cousin, farther back than Sir John, I think. And now hehad sent word they were to take money of his that was in England, andput the house in thorough repair; for that three maiden sisters ofhis, who lived in some town in the north, would come and live atMorton Hall till his return. So the lawyer sent for a Drumblebuilder, and gave him directions. We thought it would have beenprettier if he had hired John Cobb, the Morton builder and joiner, hethat had made the squire's coffin, and the squire's father's beforethat. Instead, came a troop of Drumble men, knocking and tumblingabout in the Hall, and making their jests up and down all thosestately rooms. Ethelinda and I never went near the place till theywere gone, bag and baggage. And then what a change! The old casementwindows, with their heavy leaded panes half overgrown with vines androses, were taken away, and great staring sash windows were in theirstead. New grates inside; all modern, newfangled, and smoking,instead of the brass dogs which held the mighty logs of wood in theold squire's time. The little square Turkey carpet under thedining-table, which had served Miss Phillis, was not good enough forthese new Mortons; the dining-room was all carpeted over. We peepedinto the old dining-parlour--that parlour where the dinner for thePuritan preachers had been laid out; the flag parlour, as it had beencalled of late years. But it had a damp, earthy smell, and was usedas a lumber-room. We shut the door quicker than we had opened it. Wecame away disappointed. The Hall was no longer like our own honouredMorton Hall.
'After all, these three ladies are Morrons,' said Ethelinda to me.'We must not forget that: we must go and pay our duty to them as soonas they have appeared in church.'
Accordingly we went. But we had heard and seen a little of thembefore we paid our respects at the Hall. Their maid had been down inthe village; their maid, as she was called now; but amaid-of-all-work she had been until now, as she very soon let outwhen we questioned her. However, we were never proud; and she was agood honest farmer's daughter out of Northumberland. What work shedid make with the Queen's English! The folk in Lancashire are said tospeak broad, but I could always understand our own kindly tongue;whereas, when Mrs Turner told me her name, both Ethelinda and I couldhave sworn she said Donagh, and were afraid she was an Irishwoman.Her ladies were what you may call past the bloom of youth; MissSophronia--Miss Morton, properly--was just sixty; Miss Annabella,three years younger; and Miss Dorothy (or Baby, as they called herwhen they were by themselves), was two years younger still. MrsTurner was very confidential to us, partly because, I doubt not, shehad heard of our old connection with the family, and partly becauseshe was an arrant talker, and was glad of anybody who would listen toher. So we heard the very first week how each of the ladies hadwished for the east bed-room--that which faced the north-east--whichno one slept in in the old squire's days; but there were two stepsleading up into it, and, said Miss Sophronia, she would never let ayounger sister have a room more elevated than she had herself She wasthe eldest, and she bad a right to the steps. So she bolted herselfin for two days, while she unpacked her clothes, and then came out,looking like a hen that has laid an egg, and defies any one to takethat honour from her.
But her sisters were very deferential to her in general; that mustbe said. They never had more than two black feathers in theirbonnets; while she had always three. Mrs Turner said that once, whenthey thought Miss Annabella had been going to have an offer ofmarriage made her, Miss Sophronia had not objected to her wearingthree that winter; but when it all ended in smoke, Miss Annabella hadto pluck it out as became a younger sister. Poor Miss Annabella! Shehad been a beauty (Mrs Turner said), and great things had beenexpected of her. Her brother, the general, and her mother had bothspoilt her, rather than cross her unnecessarily, and so spoil hergood looks; which old Mrs Morton had always expected would make thefortune of the family. Her sisters were angry with her for not havingmarried some great rich gentleman; though, as she used to say to MrsTurner, how could she help it? She was willing enough, but no richgentleman came to ask her. We agreed that it really was not herfault; but her sisters thought it was; and now, that she had lost herbeauty, they were always casting it up what they would have done ifthey had had her gifts. There were some Miss Burrells they had heardof, each of whom had married a lord; and these Miss Burrells had notbeen such great beauties. So Miss Sophronia used to work the questionby the rule of three; and put it in this way--If Miss Burrell, with atolerable pair of eyes, a snub nose, and a wide mouth, married abaron, what rank of peer ought our pretty Annabella to have espoused?And the worst was, Miss Annabella--who had never had anyambition--wanted to have married a poor curate in her youth; but waspulled up by her mother and sisters, reminding her of the duty sheowed to her family. Miss Dorothy had done her best--Miss Mortonalways praised her for it. With not half the good looks of MissAnnabella, she had danced with an honourable at Harrogate three timesrunning; and, even now, she persevered in trying; which was more thancould be said of Miss Annabella, who was very broken-spirited.
I do believe Mrs Turner told us all this before we had ever seenthe ladies. We had let them know, through Mrs Turner, of our wish topay them our respects.' so we ventured to go up to the front door,and rap modestly. We had reasoned about it before, and agreed that ifwe were going in our every-day clothes, to offer a little present ofeggs, or to call on Mrs Turner (as she had asked us to do), the backdoor would have been the appropriate entrance for us. But going,however humbly, to pay our respects, and offer our reverentialwelcome to the Miss Mortons, we took rank as their visitors, andshould go to the front door. We were shown up the wide stairs, alongthe gallery, up two steps, into Miss Sophronia's room. She put awaysome papers hastily as we came in. We heard afterwards that she waswriting a book, to be called The Female Chesterfield; or, Lettersfrom a Lady of Quality to her Niece. And the little niece sat therein a high chair, with a flat board tied to her back, and her feet instocks on the tail of the chair; so that she had nothing to do butlisten to her aunt's letters; which were read aloud to her as theywere written, in order to mark their effect on her manners. I was notsure whether Miss Sophronia liked our interruption; but I know littleMiss Cordelia Mannisty did.
'Is the young lady crooked?' asked Ethelinda, during a pause inour conversation. I had noticed that my sister's eyes would rest onthe child; although, by an effort, she sometimes succeeded in lookingat something else occasionally.
'No! indeed, ma'am,' said Miss Morton. 'But she was born in India,and her backbone has never properly hardened. Besides, I and my twosisters each take charge of her for a week; and their systems ofeducation--I might say non-education--differ so totally and entirelyfrom my ideas, that when Miss Mannisty comes to me, I consider myselffortunate if I can undo the--hem!--that has been done during afortnight's absence. Cordelia, my dear, repeat to these good ladiesthe geography lesson you learnt this morning.'
Poor little Miss Mannisty began to tell us a great deal about someriver in Yorkshire of which we had never heard, though I dare say weought to, and then a great deal more about the towns that it passedby, and what they were famous for; and all I can remember--indeed,could understand at the time--was that Pomfret was famous for Pomfretcakes; which I knew before. But Ethelinda gasped for breath before itwas done, she was so nearly choked up with astonishment; and when itwas ended, she said, 'Pretty dear; it's wonderful!' Miss Mortonlooked a little displeased, and replied, 'Not at all. Good littlegirls can learn anything they choose, even French verbs. Yes,Cordelia, they can. And to be good is better than to be pretty. Wedon't think about looks here. You may get down, child, and go intothe garden; and take care you put your bonnet on, or you'll be allover freckles.' We got up to take leave at the same time, andfollowed the little girl out of the room. Ethelinda fumbled in herpocket.
'Here's a sixpence, my dear, for you. Nay, I am sure you may takeit from an old woman like me, to whom you've told over more geographythan I ever thought there was out of the Bible.' For Ethelinda alwaysmaintained that the long chapters in the Bible which were all names,were geography; and though I knew well enough they were not, yet Ihad forgotten what the right word was, so I let her alone; for onehard word did as well as another. Little miss looked as if she wasnot sure if she might take it; but I suppose we had two kindly oldfaces, for at last the smile came into her eyes--not to her mouth,she had lived too much with grave and quiet people for that--and,looking wistfully at us, she said,--
'Thank you. But won't you go and see aunt Annabella?' We said weshould like to pay our respects to both her other aunts if we mighttake that liberty; and perhaps she would show us the way. But, at thedoor of a room, she stopped short, and said, sorrowfully, 'I mayn'tgo in; it is not my week for being with aunt Annabella;' and then shewent slowly and heavily towards the garden-door.
'That child is cowed by somebody,' said I to Ethelinda.
'But she knows a deal of geography'--Ethelinda's speech was cutshort by the opening of the door in answer to our knock. The oncebeautiful Miss Annabella Morton stood before us, and bade us enter.She was dressed in white, with a turned-up velvet hat, and two orthree short drooping black feathers in it. I should not like to sayshe rouged, but she had a very pretty colour in her cheeks; that muchcan do neither good nor harm. At first she looked so unlike anybody Ihad ever seen, that I wondered what the child could have found tolike in her; for like her she did, that was very clear. But, whenMiss Annabella spoke, I came under the charm. Her voice was verysweet and plaintive, and suited well with the kind of things shesaid; all about charms of nature, and tears, and grief, and such sortof talk, which reminded me rather of poetry--very pretty to listento, though I never could understand it as well as plain, comfortableprose. Still I hardly know why I liked Miss Annabella. I think I wassorry for her; though whether I should have been if she had not putit in my head, I don't know. The room looked very comfortable; aspinnet in a corner to amuse herself with, and a good sofa to liedown upon. By-and-by, we got her to talk of her little niece, andshe, too, had her system of education. She said she hoped to developthe sensibilities and to cultivate the tastes. While with her, herdarling niece read works of imagination, and acquired all that MissAnnabella could impart of the fine arts. We neither of us quite knewwhat she was hinting at, at the time; but afterwards, by dint ofquestioning little miss, and using our own eyes and ears, we foundthat she read aloud to her aunt while she lay on the sofa. SantoSebastiano; or, the Young Protector, was what they were deep in atthis time; and, as it was in five volumes and the heroine spokebroken English--which required to be read twice over to make itintelligible--it lasted them a long time. She also learned to play onthe spinnet; not much, for I never heard above two tunes, one ofwhich was God save the King, and the other was not. But I fancy thepoor child was lectured by one aunt, and frightened by the other'ssharp ways and numerous fancies. She might well be fond of hergentle, pensive (Miss Annabella told me she was pensive, so I know Iam right in calling her so) aunt, with her soft voice, and hernever-ending novels, and the sweet scents that hovered about thesleepy room.
No one tempted us towards Miss Dorothy's apartment when we leftMiss Annabella; so we did not see the youngest Miss Morton this firstday. We had each of us treasured up many little mysteries to beexplained by our dictionary, Mrs Turner.
'Who is little Miss Mannisty?' we asked in one breath, when we sawour friend from the Hall. And then we learnt that there had been afourth--a younger Miss Morton, who was no beauty, and no wit, and noanything; so Miss Sophronia, her eldest sister, had allowed her tomarry a Mr Mannisty, and ever after spoke of her as 'my poor sisterJane.' She and her husband had gone out to India, and both had diedthere; and the general had made it a sort of condition with hissisters that they should take charge of the child, or else none ofthem liked children except Miss Annabella.
'Miss Annabella likes children,' said I. 'Then that's the reasonchildren like her.'
'I can't say she likes children; for we never have any in ourhouse but Miss Cordelia; but her she does like dearly.'
'Poor little miss!' said Ethelinda, 'does she never get a game ofplay with other little girls?' And I am sure from that time Ethelindaconsidered her in a diseased state from this very circumstance, andthat her knowledge of geography was one of the symptoms of thedisorder; for she used often to say, 'I wish she did not know so muchgeography! I'm sure it is not quite right.'
Whether or not her geography was right, I don't know; but thechild pined for companions. A very few days after we had called--andyet long enough to have passed her into Miss Annabella's week--I sawMiss Cordelia in a corner of the church green, playing, with awkwardhumility, along with some of the rough village girls, who were asexpert at the game as she was unapt and slow. I hesitated a little,and at last I called to her.
'How do you, my dear?' I said. 'How come you here, so far fromhome?'
She reddened, and then looked up at me with her large, seriouseyes.
'Aunt Annabel sent me into the wood to meditate--and--and--it wasvery dull--and I heard these little girls playing and laughing--and Ihad my sixpence with me, and--it was not wrong, was it, ma'am?--Icame to them, and told one of them I would give it to her if shewould ask the others to let me play with them.'
'But, my dear, they are--some of them--very rough little children,and not fit companions for a Morton.'
'But I am a Mannisty, ma'am!' she pleaded, with so much entreatyin her ways, that if I had not known what naughty, bad girls some ofthem were, I could not have resisted her longing for companions ofher own age. As it was, I was angry with them for having taken hersixpence; but, when she had told me which it was, and saw that I wasgoing to reclaim it, she clung to me, and said,--
'Oh! don't, ma'am--you must not. I gave it to her quite of my ownself.'
So I turned away; for there was truth in what the child said. Butto this day I have never told Ethelinda what became of her sixpence.I took Miss Cordelia home with me while I changed my dress to be fitto take her back to the Hall. And on the way, to make up for herdisappointment, I began talking of my dear Miss Phillis, and herbright, pretty youth, I had never named her name since her death toany one but Ethelinda--and that only on Sundays and quiet times. AndI could not have spoken of her to a grown-up person; but somehow toMiss Cordelia it came out quite natural. Not of her latter days, ofcourse; but of her pony, and her little black King Charles's dogs,and all the living creatures that were glad in her presence whenfirst I knew her. And nothing would satisfy the child but I must gointo the Hall garden and show her where Miss Phillis's garden hadbeen. We were deep in our talk, and she was stooping down to clearthe plot from weeds, when I heard a sharp voice cry out, 'Cordelia!Cordelia! Dirtying your frock with kneeling on the wet grass! It isnot my week; but I shall tell your aunt Annabella of you.'
And the window was shut down with a jerk. It was Miss Dorothy. AndI felt almost as guilty as poor little Miss Cordelia; for I had heardfrom Mrs Turner that we had given great offence to Miss Dorothy bynot going to call on her in her room that day on which we had paidour respects to her sisters; and I had a sort of an idea that seeingMiss Cordelia with me was almost as much of a fault as the kneelingdown on the wet grass. So I thought I would take the bull by thehorns.
'Will you take me to your aunt Dorothy, my dear?' said I.
The little girl had no longing to go into her aunt Dorothy's room,as she had so evidently had at Miss Annabella's door. On thecontrary, she pointed it out to me at a safe distance, and then wentaway in the measured step she was taught to use in that house; wheresuch things as running, going upstairs two steps at a time, orjumping down three, were considered undignified and vulgar. MissDorothy's room was the least prepossessing of any. Somehow it had anorth-east look about it, though it did face direct south; and as forMiss Dorothy herself, she was more like a 'cousin Berry' thananything else; if you know what a cousin Berry is, and perhaps it istoo old-fashioned a word to be understood by any one who has learntthe foreign languages: but when I was a girl, there used to be poorcrazy women rambling about the country, one or two in a district.They never did any harm that I know of; they might have been bornidiots, poor creatures! or crossed in love, who knows? But theyroamed the country, and were well known at the farm-houses, wherethey often got food and shelter for as long a time as their restlessminds would allow them to stay in any one place; and the farmer'swife would, maybe, rummage up a ribbon, or a feather, or a smart oldbreadth of silk, to please the harmless vanity of these poor crazywomen; and they would go about so bedizened sometimes that, as wecalled them always 'cousin Betty,' we made it into a kind of proverbfor any one dressed in a fly-away, showy style, and said they werelike a cousin Berry. So now you know what I mean that Miss Dorothywas like. Her dress was white, like Miss Annabella's; but, instead ofthe black velvet hat her sister wore, she had on, even in the house,a small black silk bonnet. This sounds as if it should be less like acousin Berry than a hat; but wait till I tell you how it waslined--with strips of red silk, broad near the face, narrow near thebrim; for all the world like the rays of the rising sun, as they arepainted on the public-house sign. And her face was like the sun; asround as an apple; and with rouge on, without any doubt: indeed, shetold me once, a lady was not dressed unless she had put her rouge on.Mrs Turner told us she studied reflections a great deal; not that shewas a thinking woman in general, I should say; and that this rayedlining was the fruit of her study. She had her hair pulled together,so that her forehead was quite covered with it; and I won't deny thatI rather wished myself at home, as I stood facing her in the doorway.She pretended she did not know who I was, and made me tell all aboutmyself; and then it turned out she knew all about me, and she hoped Ihad recovered from my fatigue the other day.
'What fatigue?' asked I, immovably. Oh! she had understood I wasvery much tired after visiting her sisters; otherwise, of course, Ishould not have felt it too much to come on to her room. She kepthinting at me in so many ways, that I could have asked her gladly toslap my face and have done with it, only I wanted to make MissCordelia's peace with her for kneeling down and dirtying her frock. Idid say what I could to make things straight; but I don't know if Idid any good. Mrs Turner told me how suspicious and jealous she wasof everybody, and of Miss Annabella in particular, who had been setover her in her youth because of her beauty; but since it had faded,Miss Morton and Miss Dorothy had never ceased pecking at her; andMiss Dorothy worst of all. If it had not been for little MissCordelia's love, Miss Annabella might have wished to die; she didoften wish she had had the small-pox as a baby. Miss Morton wasstately and cold to her, as one who had not done her duty to herfamily, and was put in the corner for her bad behaviour. Miss Dorothywas continually talking at her, and particularly dwelling on the factof her being the older sister. Now she was but two years older; andwas still so pretty and gentle-looking, that I should have forgottenit continually but for Miss Dorothy.
The rules that were made for Miss Cordelia! She was to eat hermeals standing, that was one thing! Another was, that she was todrink two cups of cold water before she had any pudding; and it justmade the child loathe cold water. Then there were ever so many wordsshe might not use; each aunt bad her own set of words which wereungenteel or improper for some reason or another. Miss Dorothy wouldnever let her say 'red;' it was always to be pink, or crimson, orscarlet. Miss Cordelia used at one time to come to us, and tell usshe had a 'pain at her chest' so often, that Ethelinda and I began tobe uneasy, and questioned Mrs Turner to know if her mother had diedof consumption; and many a good pot of currant jelly have I givenher, and only made her pain at the chest worse; for--would youbelieve it?--Miss Morton told her never to say she had got astomach-ache, for that it was not proper to say so, I had heard itcalled by a worse name still in my youth, and so had Ethelinda; andwe sat and wondered to ourselves how it was that some kinds of painwere genteel and others were not. I said that old families, like theMortons, generally thought it showed good blood to have theircomplaints as high in the body as they could--brain-fevers andheadaches had a better sound, and did perhaps belong more to thearistocracy. I thought I had got the right view in saying this, whenEthelinda would put in that she had often heard of Lord Toffey havingthe gout and being lame, and that nonplussed me. If there is onething I do dislike more than another, it is a person saying somethingon the other side when I am trying to make up my mind--how can Ireason if I am to be disturbed by another person's arguments?
But though I tell all these peculiarities of the Miss Mortons,they were good women in the main: even Miss Dorothy had her times ofkindness, and really did love her little niece, though she was alwayslaying traps to catch her doing wrong. Miss Morton I got to respect,if I never liked her. They would ask us up to tea; and we would puton our best gowns; and taking the house-key in my pocket, we used towalk slowly through the village, wishing that people who had beenliving in our youth could have seen us now, going by invitation todrink tea with the family at the Hall--not in the housekeeper's room,but with the family, mind you. But since they began to weave inMorton, everybody seemed too busy to notice us; so we were fain to becontent with reminding each other how we should never have believedit in our youth that we could have lived to this day. After tea, MissMorton would set us to talk of the real old family, whom they hadnever known; and you may be sure we told of all their pomp andgrandeur and stately ways: but Ethelinda and I never spoke of whatwas to ourselves like the memory of a sad, terrible dream. So theythought of the squire in his coach-and-four as high sheriff, andmadam lying in her morning-room in her Genoa velvet wrapping-robe,all over peacock's eyes (it was a piece of velvet the squire broughtback from Italy, when he had been the grand tour), and Miss Phillisgoing to a ball at a great lord's house and dancing with a royalduke. The three ladies were never tired of listening to the tale ofthe splendour that had been going on here, while they and theirmother had been starving in genteel poverty up in Northumberland; andas for Miss Cordelia, she sat on a stool at her aunt Annabella'sknee, her hand in her aunt's, and listened, open-mouthed andunnoticed, to all we could say.
One day, the child came crying to our house. It was the old story;aunt Dorothy had been so unkind to aunt Annabella! The little girlsaid she would run away to India, and tell her uncle the general, andseemed in such a paroxysm of anger, and grief, and despair, that asudden thought came over me. I thought I would try and teach hersomething of the deep sorrow that lies awaiting all at some part oftheir lives, and of the way in which it ought to be borne, by tellingher of Miss Phillis's love and endurance for her wasteful, handsomenephew. So from little, I got to more, and I told her all; thechild's great eyes filling slowly with tears, which brimmed over andcame rolling down her cheeks unnoticed as I spoke. I scarcely neededto make her promise not to speak about all this to any one. She said,'I could not--no! not even to aunt Annabella.' And to this day shenever has named it again, not even to me; but she tried to makeherself more patient, and more silently helpful in the strangehousehold among whom she was cast.
By-and-by, Miss Morton grew pale, and grey, and worn, amid all herstiffness. Mrs Turner whispered to us that for all her stern, unmovedlooks, she was ill unto death; that she had been secretly to see thegreat doctor at Drumble; and he had told her she must set her housein order. Not even her sisters knew this; but it preyed upon MrsTurner's mind and she told us. Long after this, she kept up her weekof discipline with Miss Cordelia; and walked in her straight,soldier-like way about the village, scolding people for having toolarge families, and burning too much coal, and eating too muchbutter. One morning she sent Mrs Turner for her sisters; and, whileshe was away, she rummaged out an old locket made of the four MissMortons' hair when they were all children; and, threading the eye ofthe locket with a piece of brown ribbon, she tied it round Cordelia'sneck, and kissing her, told her she had been a good girl, and hadcured herself of stooping; that she must fear God and honour theking; and that now she might go and have a holiday. Even while thechild looked at her in wonder at the unusual tenderness with whichthis was said, a grim spasm passed over her face, and Cordelia ran inaffright to call Mrs Turner. But when she came, and the other twosisters came, she was quite herself again. She had her sisters in herroom alone when she wished them good-by; so no one knows what shesaid, or how she told them (who were thinking of her as in health)that the signs of near-approaching death, which the doctor hadforetold, were upon her. One thing they both agreed in saying--and itwas much that Miss Dorothy agreed in anything--that she bequeathedher sitting-room, up the two steps, to Miss Annabella as being nextin age. Then they left her room crying, and went both together intoMiss Annabella's room, sitting hand in hand (for the first time sincechildhood I should think), listening for the sound of the littlehand-bell which was to be placed close by her, in case, in her agony,she required Mrs Turner's presence. But it never rang. Noon becametwilight. Miss Cordelia stole in from the garden with its long,black, green shadows, and strange eerie sounds of the night windthrough the trees, and crept to the kitchen fire. At last Mrs Turnerknocked at Miss Morton's door, and hearing no reply, went in andfound her cold and dead in her chair.
I suppose that some time or other we had told them of the funeralthe old squire had; Miss Phillis's father, I mean. He had had aprocession of tenantry half-a-mile long to follow him to the grave.Miss Dorothy sent for me to tell her what tenantry of her brother'scould follow Miss Morton's coffin; but what with people working inmills, and land having passed away from the family, we could butmuster up twenty people, men and women and all; and one or two weredirty enough to be paid for their loss of time.
Poor Miss Annabella did not wish to go into the room up two steps;nor yet dared she stay behind; for Miss Dorothy, in a kind of spitefor not having had it bequeathed to her, kept telling Miss Annabellait was her duty to occupy it; that it was Miss Sophronia's dyingwish, and that she should not wonder if Miss Sophronia were to hauntMiss Annabella, if she did not leave her warm room, full of ease andsweet scent, for the grim north-east chamber. We told Mrs Turner wewere afraid Miss Dorothy would lord it sadly over Miss Annabella, andshe only shook her head; which, from so talkative a woman, meant agreat deal. But, just as Miss Cordelia had begun to droop, thegeneral came home, without any one knowing he was coming. Sharp andsudden was the word with him. He sent Miss Cordelia off to school;but not before she had had time to tell us that she loved her uncledearly, in spite of his quick, hasty ways. He carried his sisters offto Cheltenham; and it was astonishing how young they made themselveslook before they came back again. He was always here, there, andeverywhere: and very civil to us into the bargain; leaving the key ofthe Hall with us whenever they went from home. Miss Dorothy wasafraid of him, which was a blessing, for it kept her in order, andreally I was rather sorry when she died; and, as for Miss Annabella,she fretted after her till she injured her health, and Miss Cordeliahad to leave school to come and keep her company. Miss Cordelia wasnot pretty; she had too sad and grave a look for that; but she hadwinning ways, and was to have her uncle's fortune some day, so Iexpected to hear of her being soon snapped up. But the general saidher husband was to take the name of Morton; and what did my younglady do but begin to care for one of the great mill-owners atDrumble, as if there were not all the lords and commons to choosefrom besides? Mrs Turner was dead; and there was no one to tell usabout it; but I could see Miss Cordelia growing thinner and palerevery time they came back to Morton Hall; and I longed to tell her topluck up a spirit, and he above a cotton-spinner. One day, not half ayear before the general's death, she came to see us, and told us,blushing like a rose, that her uncle had given his consent; and so,although 'he' had refused to take the name of Morton, and had wantedto marry her without a penny, and without her uncle's leave, it hadall come right at last, and they were to be married at once; andtheir house was to be a kind of home for her aunt Annabella, who wasgetting tired of being perpetually on the ramble with thegeneral.
'Dear old friends!' said our young lady, 'you must like him. I amsure you will; he is so handsome, and brave, and good. Do you know,he says a relation of his ancestors lived at Morton Hall in the timeof the Commonwealth.'
'His ancestors,' said Ethelinda. 'Has he got ancestors? That's onegood point about him, at any rate. I didn't know cotton-spinners hadancestors.'
'What is his name?' asked I.
'Mr Marmaduke Carr,' said she, sounding each r with the oldNorthumberland burr, which was softened into a pretty pride andeffort to give distinctness to each letter of the beloved name.
'Carr,' said I, 'Carr and Morton! Be it so! It was prophesied ofold!' But she was too much absorbed in the thought of her own secrethappiness to notice my poor sayings.
He was and is a good gentleman; and a real gentleman, too. Theynever lived at Morton Hall. Just as I was writing this, Ethelindacame in with two pieces of news. Never again say I am superstitious!There is no one living in Morton that knows the tradition of Sir JohnMorton and Alice Carr; yet the very first part of the Hall theDrumble builder has pulled down is the old stone dining-parlour wherethe great dinner for the preachers mouldered away--flesh from flesh,crumb from crumb! And the street they are going to build rightthrough the rooms through which Alice Carr was dragged in her agonyof despair at her husband's loathing hatred, is to be called CarrStreet.
And Miss Cordelia has got a baby; a little girl; and writes inpencil two lines at the end of her husband's note, to say she meansto call it Phillis.
Phillis Carr! I am glad he did not take the name of Morton. I liketo keep the name of Phillis Morton in my memory very still andunspoken.
Of a hundred travellers who spend a night at Tre-Madoc, in NorthWales, there is not one, perhaps, who goes to the neighbouringvillage of Pen-Morfa. The new town, built by Mr Maddocks, Shelley'sfriend, has taken away all the importance of the ancientvillage--formerly, as its name imports, 'the head of the marsh;' thatmarsh which Mr Maddocks drained and dyked, and reclaimed from theTraeth Mawr, till Pen-Morfa, against the walls of whose cottages thewinter tides lashed in former days, has come to stand, high and dry,three miles from the sea, on a disused road to Caernarvon. I do notthink there has been a new cottage built in Pen-Morfa this hundredyears, and many an old one has dates in some obscure corner whichtell of the fifteenth century. The joists of timber, where they meetoverhead, are blackened with the smoke of centuries. There is onelarge room, round which the beds are built like cupboards, withwooden doors to open and shut, somewhat in the old Scotch fashion, Iimagine; and below the bed (at least in one instance I can testifythat this was the case, and I was told it was not uncommon) is agreat wide wooden drawer, which contained the oat-cake, baked forsome months' consumption by the family. They call the promontory ofLlyn (the point at the end of Caernarvonshire), Welsh Wales. I thinkthey might call Pen-Morfa a Welsh Welsh village; it is so national inits ways, and buildings, and inhabitants, and so different from thetowns and hamlets into which the English throng in summer. How thesesaid inhabitants of Pen-Morfa ever are distinguished by their names,I, uninitiated, cannot tell. I only know for a fact, that in a familythere with which I am acquainted, the eldest son's name is JohnJones, because his father's was John Thomas; that the second son iscalled David Williams, because his grandfather was William Wynn; andthat the girls are called indiscriminately by the names of Thomas andJones. I have heard some of the Welsh chuckle over the way in whichthey have baffled the barristers at Caernarvon assizes, denying thename under which they had been subpoenaed to give evidence, if theywere unwilling witnesses. I could tell you of a great deal which ispeculiar and wild in these true Welsh people, who are what I supposewe English were a century ago; but I must hasten on to my tale.
I have received great, true, beautiful kindness from one of themembers of the family of whom I just now spoke as living atPen-Morfa; and when I found that they wished me to drink tea withthem, I gladly did so, though my friend was the only one in the housewho could speak English at all fluently. After tea, I went with themto see some of their friends; and it was then I saw the interiors ofthe houses of which I have spoken. It was an autumn evening: we leftmellow sunset-light in the open air when we entered the houses, inwhich all seemed dark, save in the ruddy sphere of the firelight, forthe windows were very' small, and deep-set in the thick walls. Herewere an old couple, who welcomed me in Welsh; and brought forth milkand oat-cake with patriarchal hospitality. Sons and daughters hadmarried away from them; they lived alone; he was blind, or nearly so;and they sat one on each side of the fire, so old and so still (tillwe went in and broke the silence) that they seemed to be listeningfor death. At another house lived a woman stern and severe-looking.She was busy hiving a swarm of bees, alone and unassisted. I do notthink my companion would have chosen to speak to her; but seeing herout in her hill-side garden, she made some inquiry in Welsh, whichwas answered in the most mournful tone I ever heard in my life; avoice of which the freshness and 'timbre' had been choked up by tearslong years ago. I asked who she was. I dare say the story is commonenough; but the sight of the woman and her few words had impressedme. She had been the beauty of Pen-Morfa; had been in service; hadbeen taken to London by the family whom she served; had come down, ina year or so, back to Pen-Morfa, her beauty gone into that sad, wild,despairing look which I saw; and she about to become a mother. Herfather had died during her absence, and left her a very little money;and after her child was born, she took the little cottages where Isaw her, and made a scanty living by the produce of her bees. Sheassociated with no one. One event had made her savage and distrustfulto her kind. She kept so much aloof that it was some time before itbecame known that her child was deformed, and had lost the use of itslower limbs. Poor thing! When I saw the mother, it had been forfifteen years bedridden. But go past when you would, in the night,you saw a light burning; it was often that of the watching mother,solitary and friendless, soothing the moaning child; or you mighthear her crooning some old Welsh air, in hopes to still the pain withthe loud monotonous music. Her sorrow was so dignified, and her muteendurance and her patient love won her such respect, that theneighbours would fain have been friends; but she kept alone andsolitary. This a most true story. I hope that woman and her child aredead now, and their souls above.
Another story which I heard of these old primitive dwellings Imean to tell at somewhat greater length:--
There are rocks high above Pen-Morfa; they are the same that hangover Tre-Madoc, but near Pen-Morfa they sweep away, and are lost inthe plain. Everywhere they are beautiful. The great, sharp ledges,which would otherwise look hard and cold, are adorned with thebrightest-coloured moss, and the golden lichen. Close to, you see thescarlet leaves of the crane's-bill, and the tufts of purple heather,which fill up every cleft and cranny; but, in the distance, you seeonly the general effect of infinite richness of colour, broken, hereand there, by great masses of ivy. At the foot of these rocks come arich, verdant meadow or two; and then you are at Pen-Morfa. Thevillage well is sharp down under the rocks. There are one or twolarge sloping pieces of stone in that last field, on the road leadingto the well, which are always slippery; slippery in the summer'sheat, almost as much as in the frost of winter, when some littleglassy stream that runs over them is turned into a thin sheet of ice.Many, many years back--a lifetime ago--there lived in Pen-Morfa awidow and her daughter. Very little is required in thoseout-of-the-way Welsh villages. The wants of the people are verysimple. Shelter, fire, a little oat-cake and buttermilk, and gardenproduce; perhaps some pork and bacon from the pig in winter;clothing, which is principally of home manufacture, and of the mostenduring kind: these take very little money to purchase, especiallyin a district into which the large capitalists have not yet come, tobuy up two or three acres of the peasants; and nearly every man aboutPen-Morfa owned, at the time of which I speak, his dwelling and someland beside.
Eleanor Gwynn inherited the cottage (by the roadside, on the lefthand as you go from Tre-Madoc to Pen-Morfa) in which she and herhusband had lived all their married life, and a small garden slopingsouthwards, in which her bees lingered before winging their way tothe more distant heather. She took rank among her neighbours as thepossessor of a moderate independence--not rich, and not poor. But theyoung men of Pen-Morfa thought her very rich in the possession of amost lovely daughter. Most of us know how very pretty Welsh womenare; but, from all accounts Nest Gwynn (Nest, or Nesta, is the Welshfor Agnes) was more regularly beautiful than any one for miles round.The Welsh are still fond of triads, and 'as beautiful as a summer'smorning at sunrise, as a white seagull on the green sea wave, and asNest Gwynn,' is yet a saying in that district. Nest knew she wasbeautiful, and delighted in it. Her mother sometimes checked her inher happy pride, and sometimes reminded her that beauty was a greatgift of God (for the Welsh are a very pious people); but when shebegan her little homily, Nest came dancing to her, and knelt downbefore her, and put her face up to be kissed, and so, with a sweetinterruption, she stopped her mother's lips. Her high spirits madesome few shake their heads, and some called her a flirt and acoquette; for she could not help trying to please all, both old andyoung, both men and women. A very little from Nest sufficed for this;a sweet, glittering smile, a word of kindness, a merry glance, or alittle sympathy; all these pleased and attracted: she was like thefairy-gifted child, and dropped inestimable gifts. But some, who hadinterpreted her smiles and kind words rather as their wishes ledthem, than as they were really warranted, found that the beautiful,beaming Nest could be decided and saucy enough; and so they revengedthemselves by calling her a flirt. Her mother heard it, and sighed;but Nest only laughed.
It was her work to fetch water for the day's use from the well Itold you about. Old people say it was the prettiest sight in theworld to see her come stepping lightly and gingerly over the stoneswith the pail of water balanced on her head; she was too adroit toneed to steady it with her hand. They say, now that they can affordto be charitable and speak the truth, that in all her changes toother people, there never was a better daughter to a widowed motherthan Nest. There is a picturesque old farmhouse under Moel Gwynn, onthe road from Tre-Madoc to Criccaeth, called by some Welsh name whichI now forget; but its meaning in English is 'The End of Time;' astrange, boding, ominous name. Perhaps, the builder meant his work toendure till the end of time. I do not know; but there the old housestands, and will stand for many a year. When Nest was young, itbelonged to one Edward Williams; his mother was dead, and people saidhe was on the look-out for a wife. They told Nest so, but she tossedher head and reddened, and said she thought he might look long beforehe got one; so it was not strange that one morning when she went tothe well, one autumn morning when the dew lay heavy on the grass, andthe thrushes were busy among the mountain-ash berries, EdwardWilliams happened to be there, on his way to the coursing match near,and somehow his greyhounds threw her pail of water over in theirromping play, and she was very long in filling it again; and when shecame home she threw her arms round her mother's neck, and, in apassion of joyous tears, told her that Edward Williams, of 'The Endof Time,' had asked her to marry him, and that she had said'Yes.'
Eleanor Gwynn shed her tears too; but they fell quietly when shewas alone. She was thankful Nest had found a protector--one suitablein age and apparent character, and above her in fortune; but she knewshe should miss her sweet daughter in a thousand household ways; missher in the evenings by the fireside; miss her when at night shewakened up with a start from a dream of her youth, and saw her fairface lying calm in the moonlight, pillowed by her side. Then sheforgot her dream, and blessed her child, and slept again. But whocould be so selfish as to be sad when Nest was so supremely happy;she danced and sang more than ever; and then sat silent, and smiledto herself: if spoken to, she started and came back to the presentwith a scarlet blush, which told what she had been thinking of.
That was a sunny, happy, enchanted autumn. But the winter was nighat hand; and with it came sorrow. One fine frosty morning, Nest wentout with her lover--she to the well, he to some farming business,which was to be transacted at the little inn of Pen-Morfa. He waslate for his appointment; so he left her at the entrance of thevillage, and hastened to the inn; and she, in her best cloak and newhat (put on against her mother's advice; but they were a recentpurchase, and very becoming), went through the Dol Mawr, radiant withlove and happiness. One who lived until lately, met her going downtowards the well that morning, and said 'he turned round to look'after her--she seemed unusually lovely. He wondered at the time ather wearing her Sunday clothes; for the pretty, hooded blue-clothcloak is kept among the Welsh women as a church and market garment,and not commonly used, even on the coldest days of winter, for suchhousehold errands as fetching water from the well. However, as hesaid, 'It was not possible to look in her face, and "fault" anythingshe wore.' Down the sloping stones the girl went blithely with herpail. She filled it at the well; and then she took off her hat, tiedthe strings together, and slung it over her arm. She lifted the heavypail and balanced it on her head. But, alas! in going up the smooth,slippery, treacherous rock, the encumbrance of her cloak--it might besuch a trifle as her slung hat--something, at any rate, took away herevenness of poise; the freshet had frozen on the slanting stone, andwas one coat of ice; poor Nest fell, and put out her hip. No moreflushing rosy colour on that sweet face; no more look of beaminginnocent happiness; instead, there was deadly pallor, and filmy eyes,over which dark shades seemed to chase each other as the shoots ofagony grew more and more intense. She screamed once or twice; but theexertion (involuntary, and forced out of her by excessive pain)overcame her, and she fainted. A child, coming an hour or twoafterwards, on the same errand, saw her lying there, ice-glued to thestone, and thought she was dead. It flew crying back.
'Nest Gwynn is dead! Nest Gwynn is dead!' and, crazy with fear, itdid not stop until it had hid its head in its mother's lap. Thevillage was alarmed, and all who were able went in haste towards thewell. Poor Nest had often thought she was dying in that dreary hour;had taken fainting for death, and struggled against it; and prayedthat God would keep her alive till she could see her lover's faceonce more; and when she did see it, white with terror, bending overher, she gave a feeble smile, and let herself faint away intounconsciousness.
Many a month she lay on her bed unable to move. Sometimes she wasdelirious, sometimes worn-out into the deepest depression. Throughall, her mother watched her with tenderest care. The neighbours wouldcome and offer help. They would bring presents of country dainties;and I do not suppose that there was a better dinner than ordinarycooked in any household in Pen-Morfa parish, but a portion of it wassent to Eleanor Gwynn, if not for her sick daughter, to try and tempther herself to eat and' be strengthened; for to no one would shedelegate the duty of watching over her child. Edward Williams was fora long time most assiduous in his inquiries and attentions; butby-and-by (ah! you see the dark fate of poor Nest now), he slackened,so little at first that Eleanor blamed herself for her jealousy onher daughter's behalf, and chid her suspicious heart. But as springripened into summer, and Nest was still bedridden, Edward's coolnesswas visible to more than the poor mother. The neighbours would havespoken to her about it, but she shrunk from the subject as if theywere probing a wound. 'At any rate,' thought she, 'Nest shall bestrong before she is told about it. I will tell lies--I shall beforgiven--but I must save my child; and when she is stronger, perhapsI may be able to comfort her. Oh! I wish she would not speak to himso tenderly and trustfully, when she is delirious. I could curse himwhen she does.' And then Nest would call for her mother, and Eleanorwould go and invent some strange story about the summonses Edward hadhad to Caernarvon assizes, or to Harlech cattle market. But at lastshe was driven to her wits' end; it was three weeks since he had evenstopped at the door to inquire, and Eleanor, mad with anxiety abouther child, who was silently pining off to death for want of tidingsof her lover, put on her cloak, when she had lulled her daughter tosleep one fine June evening, and set off to 'The End of Time.' Thegreat plain which stretches out like an amphitheatre, in thehalf-circle of hills formed by the ranges of Moel Gwynn and theTre-Madoc Rocks, was all golden-green in the mellow light of sunset.To Eleanor it might have been black with winter frost--she nevernoticed outward things till she reached 'The End of Time;' and there,in the little farm-yard, she was brought to a sense of her presenthour and errand by seeing Edward. He was examining some hay, newlystacked; the air was scented by its fragrance, and by the lingeringsweetness of the breath of the cows. When Edward turned round at thefootstep and saw Eleanor, he coloured and looked confused; however,he came forward to meet her in a cordial manner enough.
'It's a fine evening,' said he. 'How is Nest? But, indeed, yourbeing here is a sign she is better. Won't you come in and sit down?'He spoke hurriedly, as if affecting a welcome which he did notfeel.
'Thank you. I'll just take this milking-stool and sit down here.The open air is like balm, after being shut up so long.'
'It is a long time,' he replied, 'more than five months.'
Mrs Gwynn was trembling at heart. She felt an anger which she didnot wish to show; for, if by any manifestations of temper orresentment she lessened or broke the waning thread of attachmentwhich bound him to her daughter, she felt she should never forgiveherself. She kept inwardly saying, 'Patience, patience! he may betrue, and love her yet;' but her indignant convictions gave her wordsthe lie.
'It's a long time, Edward Williams, since you've been near us toask after Nest,' said she. 'She may be better, or she may be worse,for aught you know.' She looked up at him reproachfully, but spoke ina gentle, quiet tone.
'I--you see the hay has been a long piece of work. The weather hasbeen fractious--and a master's eye is needed. Besides,' said he, asif he had found the reason for which he sought to account for hisabsence, 'I have heard of her from Rowland Jones. I was at thesurgery for some horse-medicine--he told me about her:' and a shadecame over his face, as he remembered what the doctor had said. Did hethink that shade would escape the mother's eye?
'You saw Rowland Jones! Oh, man-alive, tell me what he said of mygirl! He'll say nothing to me, but just hems and haws the more I prayhim. But you will tell me. You must tell me.' She stood up and spokein a tone of command, which his feeling of independence, weakenedjust then by an accusing conscience, did not enable him to resist. Hestrove to evade the question, however.
'It was an unlucky day that ever she went to the well!'
'Tell me what the doctor said of my child,' repeated Mrs Gwynn.'Will she live, or will she die?' He did not dare to disobey theimperious tone in which this question was put.
'Oh, she will live, don't be afraid. The doctor said she wouldlive.' He did not mean to lay any peculiar emphasis on the word'live,' but somehow he did, and she, whose every nerve vibrated withanxiety, caught the word.
'She will live!' repeated she. 'But there is something behind.Tell me, for I will know. If you won't say, I'll go to Rowland Jonesto-night, and make him tell me what he has said to you.'
There had passed something in this conversation between himselfand the doctor, which Edward did not wish to have known; and MrsGwynn's threat had the desired effect. But he looked vexed andirritated.
'You have such impatient ways with you, Mrs Gwynn,' heremonstrated.
'I am a mother asking news of my sick child,' said she. 'Go on.What did he say? She'll live--' as if giving the clue.
'She'll live, he has no doubt of that. But he thinks--now don'tclench your hands so--I can't tell you if you look in that way; youare enough to frighten a man.'
'I'm not speaking,' said she, in a low, husky tone. 'Never mind mylooks: she'll live--'
'But she'll be a cripple for life. There! you would have it out,'said he, sulkily.
'A cripple for life,' repeated she, slowly. 'And I'mone-and-twenty years older than she is!' She sighed heavily.
'And, as we're about it, I'll just tell you what is in my mind,'said he, hurried and confused. 'I've a deal of cattle; and the farmmakes heavy work, as much as an able healthy woman can do. So yousee--' He stopped, wishing her to understand his meaning withoutwords. But she would not. She fixed her dark eyes on him, as ifreading his soul, till he flinched under her gaze.
'Well,' said she, at length, 'say on. Remember, I've a deal ofwork in me yet, and what strength is mine is my daughter's.'
'You're very good. But, altogether, you must be aware, Nest willnever be the same as she was.'
'And you've not yet sworn in the face of God to take, her forbetter, for worse; and, as she is worse'--she looked in his face,caught her breath, and went on--'as she is worse, why, you cast heroff, not being church-tied to her. Though her body may be crippled,her poor heart is the same--alas!--and full of love for you. Edward,you don't mean to break it off because of our sorrows. You're onlytrying me, I know,' said she, as if begging him to assure her thather fears were false. 'But, you see, I'm a foolish woman--a poor,foolish woman--and ready to take fright at a few words.' She smiledup in his face; but it was a forced, doubting smile, and his facestill retained its sullen, dogged aspect.
'Nay, Mrs Gwynn,' said he, 'you spoke truth at first. Your owngood sense told you Nest would never be fit to be any man'swife--unless, indeed, she could catch Mr Griffiths of Tynwntyrybwlch;he might keep her a carriage, maybe.' Edward really did not mean tobe unfeeling; but he was obtuse, and wished to carry off his'embarrassment by a kind of friendly joke, which he had no idea wouldsting the poor mother as it did. He was startled at her manner.
'Put it in words like a man. Whatever you mean by my child, say itfor yourself, and don't speak as if my good sense had told meanything. I stand here, doubting my own thoughts, cursing my ownfears. Don't be a coward. I ask you whether you and Nest aretroth-plight?'
'I am not a coward. Since you ask me, I answer, Nest and I weretroth-plight; but we are not. I cannot--no one would expect me to weda cripple. It's your own doing I've told you now; I had made up mymind, but I should have waited a bit before telling you.'
'Very well,' said she, and she turned to go away; but her wrathburst the flood-gates, and swept away discretion and forethought. Shemoved, and stood in the gateway. Her lips parted, but no sound came;with an hysterical motion, she threw her arms suddenly up to heaven,as if bringing down lightning towards the grey old house to which shepointed as they fell, and then she spoke--
'The widow's child is unfriended. As surely as the Saviour broughtthe son of a widow from death to life, for her tears and cries, sosurely will God and His angels watch over my Nest, and avenge hercruel wrongs.' She turned away weeping, and wringing her hands.
Edward went in-doors; he had no more desire to reckon his stores;he sat by the fire, looking gloomily at the red ashes. He might havebeen there half an hour or more, when some one knocked at the door.He would not speak. He wanted no one's company. Another knock, sharpand loud. He did not speak. Then the visitor opened the door, and, tohis surprise--almost to his affright--Eleanor Gwynn came in.
'I knew you were here. I knew you could not go out into the clear,holy night as if nothing had happened. Oh! did I curse you? If I did,I beg you to forgive me; and I will try and ask the Almighty to blessyou, if you will but have a little mercy--a very little. It will killmy Nest if she knows the truth now--she is so very weak. Why, shecannot feed herself, she is so low and feeble. You would not wish tokill her, I think, Edward!' She looked at him, as if expecting ananswer; but he did not speak. She went down on her knees on the flagsby him.
'You will give me a little time, Edward, to get her strong, won'tyou, now? I ask it on my bended knees! Perhaps, if I promise never tocurse you again, you will come sometimes to see her, till she is wellenough to know how all is over, and her heart's hopes crushed. Onlysay you'll come for a month or so, as if you still loved her--thepoor cripple, forlorn of the world. I'll get her strong, and not taxyou long.' Her tears fell too fast for her to go on.
'Get up, Mrs Gwynn,' Edward said. 'Don't kneel to me. I have noobjection to come and see Nest, now and then, so that all is clearbetween you and me. Poor thing! I'm sorry, as it happens, she's sotaken up with the thought of me.'
'It was likely, was not it? and you to have been her husbandbefore this time, if--oh, miserable me! to let my child go and dimher bright life! But you'll forgive me, and come sometimes, just fora little quarter of an hour, once or twice a week. Perhaps she'll beasleep sometimes when you call, and then, you know, you need not comein. If she were not so ill, I'd never ask you.'
So low and humble was the poor widow brought, through herexceeding love for her daughter.
Nest revived during the warm summer weather. Edward came to seeher, and stayed the allotted quarter of an hour; but he dared notlook her in the face. She was, indeed, a cripple: one leg was muchshorter than the other, and she halted on a crutch. Her face,formerly so brilliant in colour, was wan and pale with suffering; thebright roses were gone, never to return. Her large eyes were sunkdeep down in their hollow, cavernous sockets; but the light was inthem still, when Edward came. Her mother dreaded her returningstrength--dreaded, yet desired it; for the heavy burden of her secretwas most oppressive at times, and she thought Edward was beginning toweary of his enforced attentions. One October evening she told herthe truth. She even compelled her rebellious heart to take the cold,reasoning side of the question; and she told her child that herdisabled frame was a disqualification for ever becoming a farmer'swife. She spoke hardly, because her inner agony and sympathy wassuch, she dared not trust herself to express the feelings that wererending her. But Nest turned away from cold reason; she revolted fromher mother; she revolted from the world. She bound her sorrow tightup in her breast, to corrode and fester there.
Night after night, her mother heard her cries and moans--morepitiful, by far, than those wrung from her by bodily pain a yearbefore; and night after night, if her mother spoke to soothe, sheproudly denied the existence of any pain but what was physical, andconsequent upon her accident.
'If she would but open her sore heart to me--to me, her mother,'Eleanor wailed forth in prayer to God, 'I would be content. Once itwas enough to have my Nest all my own. Then came love, and I knew itwould never be as before; and then I thought the grief I felt, whenEdward spoke to me, was as sharp a sorrow as could be; but thispresent grief, O Lord, my God, is worst of all; and Thou only, Thou,canst help!'
When Nest grew as strong as she was ever likely to be on earth,she was anxious to have as much labour as she could bear. She wouldnot allow her mother to spare her anything. Hard work--bodilyfatigue--she seemed to crave. She was glad when she was stunned byexhaustion into a dull insensibility of feeling. She was almostfierce when her mother, in those first months of convalescence,performed the household tasks which had formerly been hers; but sheshrank from going out of doors. Her mother thought that she wasunwilling to expose her changed appearance to the neighbours'remarks, but Nest was not afraid of that; she was afraid of theirpity, as being one deserted and cast off. If Eleanor gave way beforeher daughter's imperiousness, and sat by while Nest 'tore' about herwork with the vehemence of a bitter heart, Eleanor could have cried,but she durst not; tears, or any mark of commiseration, irritated thecrippled girl so much, she even drew away from caresses. Everythingwas to go on as it had been before she had known Edward; and so itdid, outwardly; but they trod carefully, as if the ground on whichthey moved was hollow--deceptive. There was no more careless ease,every word was guarded, and every action planned. It was a drearylife to both. Once, Eleanor brought in a little baby, a neighbour'schild, to try and tempt Nest out of herself, by her old love ofchildren. Nest's pale face flushed as she saw the innocent child inher mother's arms; and, for a moment, she made as if she would havetaken it; but then she turned away, and hid her face behind herapron, and murmured, 'I shall never have a child to lie in my breast,and call me mother!' In a minute she arose, with compressed andtightened lips, and went about her household work, without hernoticing the cooing baby again, till Mrs Gwynn, heart-sick at thefailure of her little plan, took it back to its parents.
One day the news ran through Pen-Morfa that Edward Williams wasabout to be married. Eleanor had long expected this intelligence. Itcame upon her like no new thing, but it was the filling-up of her cupof woe. She could not tell Nest. She sat listlessly in the house, anddreaded that each neighbour who came in would speak about the villagenews. At last some one did. Nest looked round from her employment,and talked of the event with a kind of cheerful curiosity as to theparticulars, which made her informant go away, and tell others thatNest had quite left off caring for Edward Williams. But when the doorwas shut, and Eleanor and she were left alone, Nest came and stoodbefore her weeping mother like a stern accuser.
'Mother, why did not you let me die? Why did you keep me alive forthis?' Eleanor could not speak, but she put her arms out towards hergirl. Nest turned away, and Eleanor cried aloud in her soreness ofspirit. Nest came again.
'Mother, I was wrong. You did your best. I don't know how it is Iam so hard and cold. I wish I had died when I was a girl, and had afeeling heart.'
'Don't speak so, my child. God has afflicted you sore, and yourhardness of heart is but for a time. Wait a little. Don't reproachyourself, my poor Nest. I understand your ways. I don't mind them,love. The feeling heart will come back to you in time. Anyways, don'tthink you're grieving me; because, love, that may sting you when I'mgone; and I'm not grieved, my darling. Most times, we're verycheerful, I think.'
After this, mother and child were drawn more together. But Eleanorhad received her death from, these sorrowful, hurrying events. Shedid not conceal the truth from herself, nor did she pray to live, assome months ago she had done, for her child's sake; she had found outthat she had no power to console the poor wounded heart. It seemed toher as if her prayers had been of no avail; and then she blamedherself for this thought.
There are many Methodist preachers in this part of Wales. Therewas a certain old man, named David Hughes, who was held in peculiarreverence because he had known the great John Wesley. He had beencaptain of a Caernarvon slate-vessel; he had traded in theMediterranean, and had seen strange sights. In those early days (touse his own expression) he had lived without God in the world; but hewent to mock John Wesley, and was converted by the white-hairedpatriarch, and remained to pray. Afterwards he became one of theearnest, self-denying, much-abused band of itinerant preachers whowent forth under Wesley's direction, to spread abroad a more earnestand practical spirit of religion. His rambles and travels were of useto him. They extended his knowledge of the circumstances in which menare sometimes placed, and enlarged his sympathy with the tried andtempted. His sympathy, combined with the thoughtful experience offourscore years, made him cognizant of many of the strange secrets ofhumanity; and when younger preachers upbraided the hard hearts theymet with, and despaired of the sinners, he 'suffered long, and waskind.'
When Eleanor Gwynn lay low on her death-bed, David Hughes came toPen-Morfa. He knew her history, and sought her out. To him sheimparted the feelings I have described.
'I have lost my faith, David. The tempter has come, and I haveyielded. I doubt if my prayers have been heard. Day and night have Iprayed that I might comfort my child in her great sorrow; but God hasnot heard me. She has turned away from me, and refused my poor love.I wish to die now; but I have lost my faith, and have no morepleasure in the thought of going to God. What must I do, David?'
She hung upon his answer; and it was long in coming.
'I am weary of earth,' said she, mournfully, 'and can I find restin death even, leaving my child desolate and broken-hearted?'
'Eleanor,' said David, 'where you go, all things will be madeclear; and you will learn to thank God for the end of what now seemsgrievous and heavy to be borne. Do you think your agony has beengreater than the awful agony in the Garden--or your prayers moreearnest than that which He prayed in that hour when the great dropsof blood ran down his face like sweat? We know that God heard Him,although no answer came to Him through the dread silence of thatnight. God's times are not our times. I have lived eighty and oneyears, and never yet have I known an earnest prayer fall to theground unheeded. In an unknown way, and when no one looked for it,maybe, the answer came; a fuller, more satisfying answer than heartcould conceive of, although it might be different to what wasexpected. Sister, you are going where in His light you will seelight; you will learn there that in very faithfulness he hasafflicted you!'
'Go on--you strengthen me,' said she.
After David Hughes left that day, Eleanor was calm as one alreadydead, and past mortal strife. Nest was awed by the change. No morepassionate weeping--no more sorrow in the voice; though it was lowand weak, it sounded with a sweet composure. Her last look was asmile; her last word a blessing.
Nest, tearless, streaked the poor worn body. She laid a plate withsalt upon it on the breast, and lighted candles for the head andfeet. It was an old Welsh custom; but when David Hughes came in, thesight carried him back to the time when he had seen the chapels insome old Catholic cathedral. Nest sat gazing on the dead with dry,hot eyes.
'She is dead,' said David, solemnly; 'she died in Christ. Let usbless God, my child. He giveth and He taketh away.'
'She is dead,' said Nest, 'my mother is dead. No one loves menow.
She spoke as if she were thinking aloud, for she did not look atDavid, or ask him to be seated.
'No one loves you now? No human creature, you mean. You are notyet fit to be spoken to concerning God's infinite love. I, like you,will speak of love for human creatures. I tell you if no one lovesyou, it is time for you to begin to love.' He spoke almost severely(if David Hughes ever did); for, to tell the truth, he was repelledby her hard rejection of her mother's tenderness, about which theneighbours had told him.
'Begin to love!' said she, her eyes flashing. 'Have I not loved?Old man, you are dim, and worn-out. You do not remember what loveis.' She spoke with a scornful kind of pitying endurance. 'I willtell you how I have loved by telling you the change it has wrought inme. I was once the beautiful Nest Gwynn; I am now a cripple, a poor,wan-faced cripple, old before my time. That is a change, at leastpeople think so.' She paused and then spoke lower. 'I tell you, DavidHughes, that outward change is as nothing compared to the change inmy nature caused by the love I have felt--and have had rejected. Iwas gentle once, and if you spoke a tender word, my heart cametowards you as natural as a little child goes to its mammy. I neverspoke roughly, even to the dumb creatures, for I had a kind feelingfor all. Of late (since I loved, old man), I have been cruel in mythoughts to every one. I have turned away from tenderness with bitterindifference. Listen!' she spoke in a hoarse whisper. 'I will own it.I have spoken hardly to her,' pointing towards the corpse,--'her whowas ever patient, and full of love for me. She did not know,' shemuttered, 'she is gone to the grave without knowing how I lovedher--I had such strange, mad, stubborn pride in me.'
'Come back, mother! Come back,' said she, crying wildly to thestill, solemn corpse; 'come back as a spirit or a ghost--only comeback, that I may tell you how I have loved you.'
But the dead never come back.
The passionate adjuration ended in tears--the first she had shed.When they ceased, or were absorbed into long quivering sobs, Davidknelt down. Nest did not kneel, but bowed her head. He prayed, whilehis own tears fell fast. He rose up. They were both calm.
'Nest,' said he, 'your love has been the love ofyouth--passionate, wild, natural to youth. Henceforward, you mustlove like Christ, without thought of self, or wish for return. Youmust take the sick and the weary to your heart, and love them. Thatlove will lift you up above the storms of the world into God's ownpeace. The very vehemence of your nature proves that you are capableof this. I do not pity you. You do not require pity. You are powerfulenough to trample down your own sorrows into a blessing for others;and to others you will be a blessing. I see it before you, I see init the answer to your mother's prayer.'
The old man's dim eyes glittered as if they saw a vision; thefire-light sprang up, and glinted on his long white hair. Nest wasawed as if she saw a prophet, and a prophet he was to her.
When next David Hughes came to Pen-Morfa, he asked about NestGwynn, with a hovering doubt as to the answer. The inn-folk told himshe was living still in the cottage, which was now her own.
'But would you believe it, David,' said Mrs Thomas, 'she has goneand taken Mary Williams to live with her? You remember Mary Williams,I'm sure.'
No! David Hughes remembered no Mary Williams at Pen-Morfa.
'You must have seen her, for I know you've called at JohnGriffiths', where the parish boarded her?'
'You don't mean the half-witted woman--the poor crazycreature?'
'But I do!' said Mrs Thomas.
'I have seen her sure enough, but I never thought of learning hername. And Nest Gwynn has taken her to live with her.'
'Yes! I thought I should surprise you. She might have had many adecent girl for companion. My own niece, her that is an orphan, wouldhave gone, and been thankful. Besides, Mary Williams is a regularsavage at times: John Griffiths says there were days when he used tobeat her till she howled again, and yet she would not do as he toldher. Nay, once, he says, if he had not seen her eyes glare like awild beast, from under the shadow of the table where she had takenshelter, and got pretty quickly out of her way, she would have flownupon him, and throttled him. He gave Nest fair warning of what shemust expect, and he thinks some day she will be found murdered.'
David Hughes thought a while. 'How came Nest to take her to livewith her?' asked he.
'Well! Folk say John Griffiths did not give her enough to eat.Half-wits, they tell me, take more to feed them than others, andEleanor Gwynn had given her oat-cake, and porridge a time or two, andmost likely spoken kindly to her (you know Eleanor spoke kind toall), so some months ago, when John Griffiths had been beating her,and keeping her without food to try and tame her, she ran away, andcame to Nest's cottage in the dead of night, all shivering andstarved, for she did not know Eleanor was dead, and thought to meetwith kindness from her, I've no doubt; and Nest remembered how hermother used to feed and comfort the poor idiot, and made her somegruel, and wrapped her up by the fire. And, in the morning, when JohnGriffiths came in search of Mary, he found her with Nest, and Marywailed so piteously at the sight of him, that Nest went to the parishofficers, and offered to take her to board with her for the samemoney they gave to him. John says he was right glad to be off hisbargain.'
David Hughes knew there was a kind of remorse which sought reliefin the performance of the most difficult and repugnant tasks. Hethought he could understand how, in her bitter repentance for herconduct towards her mother, Nest had taken in the first helplesscreature that came seeking shelter in her name. It was not what hewould have chosen, but he knew it was God that had sent the poorwandering idiot there.
He went to see Nest the next morning. As he drew near thecottage--it was summer time, and the doors and windows were allopen--he heard an angry passionate kind of sound that was scarcelyhuman. That sound prevented his approach from being heard; and,standing at the threshold, he saw poor Mary Williams pacing backwardsand forwards in some wild mood. Nest, cripple as she was, was walkingwith her, speaking low soothing words, till the pace was slackened,and time and breathing was given to put her arm around the crazywoman's neck, and soothe her by this tender caress into the quietluxury of tears--tears which give the hot brain relief. Then DavidHughes came in. His first words, as he took off his hat, standing onthe lintel, were--'The peace of God be upon this house.' Neither henor Nest recurred to the past, though solemn recollections filledtheir minds. Before he went, all three knelt and prayed; for, as Nesttold him, some mysterious influence of peace came over the poorhalf-wit's mind, when she heard the holy words of prayer; and oftenwhen she felt a paroxysm coming on, she would kneel and repeat ahomily rapidly over, as if it were a charm to scare away the Demon inpossession; sometimes, indeed, the control over herself requisite forthis effort was enough to dispel the fluttering burst. When Davidrose up to go, he drew Nest to the door.
'You are not afraid, my child?' asked he.
'No,' she replied. 'She is often very good and quiet. When she isnot, I can bear it.'
'I shall see your face on earth no more,' said he. 'God blessyou!' He went on his way. Not many weeks after, David Hughes wasborne to his grave.
The doors of Nest's heart were opened--opened wide by the love shegrew to feel for crazy Mary, so helpless, so friendless, so dependentupon her. Mary loved her back again, as a dumb animal loves its blindmaster. It was happiness enough to be near her. In general, she wasonly too glad to do what she was bidden by Nest. But there were timeswhen Mary was overpowered by the glooms and fancies of her poordisordered brain. Fearful times! No one knew how fearful. On thosedays, Nest warned the little children who loved to come and playaround her, that they must not visit the house. The signal was apiece of white linen hung out of a side window. On those days, thesorrowful and sick waited in vain for the sound of Nest's lameapproach. But what she had to endure was only known to God, for shenever complained. If she had given up the charge of Mary, or if theneighbours had risen, out of love and care for her life, to compelsuch a step, she knew what hard curses and blows, what starvation andmisery, would await the poor creature.
She told of Mary's docility, and her affection, and her innocent,little sayings; but she never told the details of the occasional daysof wild disorder, and driving insanity.
Nest grew old before her time, in consequence of her accident. Sheknew that she was as old at fifty as many are at seventy. She knew itpartly by the vividness with which the remembrance of the days of heryouth came back to her mind, while the events of yesterday were dimand forgotten. She dreamt of her girlhood and youth. In sleep, shewas once more the beautiful Nest Gwynn, the admired of all beholders,the light-hearted girl, beloved by her mother. Little circumstancesconnected with those early days, forgotten since the very time whenthey occurred, came back to her mind, in her waking hours. She had ascar on the palm of her left hand, occasioned by the fall of a branchof a tree, when she was a child. It had not pained her since thefirst two days after the accident; but now it began to hurt herslightly; and clear in her ears was the crackling sound of thetreacherous, rending wood; distinct before her rose the presence ofher mother, tenderly binding up the wound. With these remembrancescame a longing desire to see the beautiful, fatal well once morebefore her death. She had never gone so far since the day when, byher fall there, she lost love and hope, and her bright glad youth.She yearned to look upon its waters once again. This desire waxed asher life waned. She told it to poor crazy Mary.
'Mary!' said she, 'I want to go to the Rock Well. If you will helpme, I can manage it. There used to be many a stone in the Dol Mawr onwhich I could sit and rest. We will go to-morrow morning before folksare astir.'
Mary answered briskly, 'Up, up! To the Rock Well. Mary will go.Mary will go.' All day long she kept muttering to herself, 'Mary willgo.'
Nest had the happiest dream that night. Her mother stood besideher--not in the flesh, but in the bright glory of a blessed spirit.And Nest was no longer young--neither was she old--'they reckon notby days, nor years, where she was gone to dwell;' and her motherstretched out her arms to her with a calm, glad look of welcome. Sheawoke; the woodlark was singing in the near copse--the little birdswere astir, and rustling in their leafy nests. Nest arose, and calledMary. The two set out through the quiet lane. They went along slowlyand silently. With many a pause they crossed the broad Dol Mawr, andcarefully descended the sloping stones, on which no trace remained ofthe hundreds of feet that had passed over them since Nest was lastthere. The clear water sparkled and quivered in the early sunlight,the shadows of the birch-leaves were stirred on the ground; theferns--Nest could have believed that they were the very same fernswhich she had seen thirty years before--hung wet and dripping wherethe water overflowed--a thrush chanted matins from a hollybushnear--and the running stream made a low, soft, sweet accompaniment.All was the same. Nature was as fresh and young as ever. It mighthave been yesterday that Edward Williams had overtaken her, and toldher his love--the thought of his words--his handsome looks--(he was agray, hard-featured man by this time), and then she recalled thefatal wintry morning when joy and youth had fled; and as sheremembered that faintness of pain, a new, a real faintness--no echoof the memory--came over her. She leant her back against a rock,without a moan or sigh, and died! She found immortality by thewell-side, instead of her fragile, perishing youth. She was so calmand placid that Mary (who had been dipping her fingers in the well,to see the waters drop off in the gleaming sunlight), thought she wasasleep, and for some time continued her amusement in silence. Atlast, she turned, and said,--
'Mary is tired. Mary wants to go home.' Nest did not speak, thoughthe idiot repeated her plaintive words. She stood and looked till astrange terror came over her--a terror too mysterious to beborne.
'Mistress, wake! Mistress, wake!' she said, wildly, shaking theform.
But Nest did not awake. And the first person who came to the wellthat morning found crazy Mary sitting, awestruck, by the poor deadNest. They had to get the poor creature away by force, before theycould remove the body.
Mary is in Tre-Madoc workhouse. They treat her pretty kindly, and,in general, she is good and tractable. Occasionally, the oldparoxysms come on; and, for a time, she is unmanageable. But some onethought of speaking to her about Nest. She stood arrested at thename; and, since then, it is astonishing to see what efforts shemakes to curb her insanity; and when the dread time is past, shecreeps up to the matron, and says, 'Mary has tried to be good. WillGod let her go to Nest now?'
The facts of the following narration were communicated to me byMr. Burton, the head gardener at Teddesley Park, in Staffordshire. Ihad previously been told that he had been for a year or two in theservice of the Shah of Persia; and this induced me to question himconcerning the motives which took him so far from England, and thekind of life which he led at Teheran. I was so much interested in thedetails he gave me, that I made notes at the time, which have enabledme to draw up the following account:---
Mr. Burton is a fine-looking, healthy man, in the prime of life,whose appearance would announce his nation all the world over. He hadcompleted his education as a gardener at Knight's, when, in 1848, anapplication was made to him, on behalf of the Shah of Persia, byColonel Sheil, the English envoy at the court of Teheran; whoproposed to Mr. Burton that he should return to Persia with thesecond Persian secretary to the embassy, Mirza Oosan Koola, and takecharge of the Royal Gardens at Teheran, at a salary of a hundredpounds a year, with rooms provided for him, and an allowance of twoshillings a day for the food of himself and the native servant whomhe would find it necessary to employ. This prospect, and the desire,which is so natural to young men, to see countries beyond their own,led Mr. Burton to accept the proposal. The Mirza Oosan Koola and heleft Southampton on the twenty-ninth of September, 1848, and went bysteam to Constantinople. Thence they journeyed without accident tothe capital of Persia. The seat of government was removed to Teheranabout seventy years ago, when the Kujur dynasty became possessed ofthe Persian throne. Their faction was predominant in the North ofPersia, and they, consequently, felt more secure in Teheran than inthe ancient southern capital Teheran is situated in the midst of awide plain, from two to three hundred miles long, which has a mostdreary appearance, being totally uncultivated, and the soil of whichis a light kind of reddish loam, that becomes pulverised after a longcontinuance of dry weather, and then rises as great clouds of sand,sometimes even obscuring the sun several hours in a day for severalsuccessive clays.
Bad news awaited Mr. Burton on his arrival at Teheran. The Shah,who had commissioned Colonel Sheil to engage an English gardener, wasdead. His successor cared little either about gardening or hispredecessor's engagements. Colonel Sheil was in England. Mr. Burton'sheart sank a little within him; but, having a stout English spirit,and great faith in the British embassy, he insisted on a partialfulfilment of the contract. Until this negotiation was completed, Mr.Burton was lodged in the house of Mirza Ocean Koola. Mr. Burton was,therefore, for a month, a member of a Persian household belonging toone of the upper middle classes.
The usual mode of living in one house seemed pretty nearly thesame in all that fell under the range of Mr. Burton's observation.The Persians get up at sunrise, when they have a cup of coffee. Thefew hours in the day in which they condescend to labour in any way,are from sunrise until seven or eight o'clock in the morning. Afterthat, the heat becomes so intense (frequently one hundred and eightor one hundred and nine degrees in the shade) that all keep withindoors, lying about on mats in passages or rooms. At ten they havetheir first substantial meal; which consists of mutton and rice,stewed together in a rude saucepan over a charcoal fire, built out ofdoors. Sometimes, in addition to this dish, they have a kind of soup,or "water-meat" (which is the literal translation of the Persianname), made of water, mutton, onions, parsley, fowls, rice, driedfruits, apricots, almonds, and walnuts, stewed together. But this, aswe may guess from the multiplicity of the ingredients, is a daintydish. At four o'clock, the panting Persians, nearly worn out by theheat of the day, take a cup of strongly perfumed tea, with a littlebitter-orange juice squeezed into it; and after this tonic theyrecover strength enough to smoke and lounge. Dinner was the grandmeal of the clay, to which they invited friends. It wan not unlikebreakfast, but was preceded by a dessert, at which wine wasoccasionally introduced, but which always consisted of melons anddried fruits. The dinner was brought in on a pewter tray; but Mr.Burton remarked that the pewter dishes were very dingy. A piece ofcommon print was spread on the ground, and cakes of bread put on it.They had no spoons for the soup, or "water-meat," but soaked theirbread in it, or curled it round into a hollow shape, and fished upwhat they could out of the abyss. At the Mirza's they had spoons forthe sour goat's-milk, with ice, which seemed to be one of theirdelicacies. The ice is brought down from the mountains, and soldpretty cheaply in the bazaars. Sugar and salt are eaten together withthis iced sour goat's-milk. Smoking narghilahs beguiles the eveninghours very pleasantly. They pluck a quantity of rose-blossoms and putthem into the water through which the smoke passes; but the roseslast in season only a month. Mirza Ocean Koola had a few chairs inthe house for the use of the gentlemen of the Embassy.
At last the negotiation respecting Mr. Burton's engagement wasended. His friends at the Embassy bad insisted that the present Shahshould install him in the office of royal gardener at the salaryproposed by his predecessor. Accordingly, about a month after hisarrival at Teheran, he took possession of two rooms, appropriated tohis use, in the garden of El Kanai. This garden consisted of sixacres, with a mud-wall all around. There were avenues of fruit-treesplanted, with lucerne growing under them, which was cut for the foodof the horses in the royal stable; but the lucerne and the trees gavethis royal garden very much the aspect of an English orchard, andmust have been a very disenchanting prospect for a well-trainedgardener, accustomed to our flower-beds, and vegetable-gardens. Thefruit trees were apricots, apples, pears, and cherries--the latter ofthe same description as ours, but finer in quality; the apricots wereof a kind which Mr. Burton had never seen before, with large sweetkernels. He brought some of the stones with him to England, and gavethem to his old master, Mr. Knight. If this square plot oforchard-ground, surrounded by a mud-wall, was the cheerless prospectoutside, the two rooms which Mr. Burton was to inhabit were not muchmore attractive. Bare of all furniture, with floors of mud and chaffbeaten together, they did not even contain the mats which play somany parts in Persian houses. Mr. Burton's first care was to purchasemats, and hire a servant to market and cook for him. The people atthe Embassy sent him the various bales of seeds, roots, andimplements, which he had brought with him from England; and he hopedbefore long to introduce some improvements into Persian gardening; solittle did he as yet know the nature of the people with whom he hadto deal. But before he was well settled in his two rooms, while hewas yet unpacking his English bales, some native plasterers told himthat, outside of his wooden door (which fastened only with a slightchain), six men lay in wait for him to do him evil, partly promptedby the fact of his being a foreigner, partly in hopes of obtainingpossession of some of the contents of these bales.
It was two miles to the Embassy, and Mr. Burton was without afriend nearer; his very informants would not stand by him, but wouldrather rejoice in his discomfiture. But, being a brave, resolute man,he picked out a scythe from among his English implements, threw openthe door, and began to address the six men (who, sure enough, laycrouched near the entrance) in the best Persian he could muster. HisPersian eloquence, or possibly the sight of the scythe wielded by astout, resolute man, produced the desired effect: the six men,fortunately, went away, without having attacked him, for any effortat self-defence on his part would have strengthened the feeling ofhostility already strong against him. Once more, he was left in quietto unpack his goods, with such shaded light as two windows, coveredover with paper and calico, could give. But when his tools wereunpacked--tools selected with such care and such a hoping heart inEngland--who were to use them? The men appointed as gardeners underhim would not work, because they were never paid. If Mr. Burton madethem work, he should pay them, they said. At length he did persuadethem to labour, during the hours in which exertion was possible, evento a native. Mr. Burton began to inquire how these men were paid, orif their story was true, that they never were. It was true that wagesfor labour done for the Shah were most irregularly given. And, whenthe money could no longer be refused, it was paid in the form ofbills upon some gate to a town, or some public bath, a hundred or ahundred and twenty miles away, such gates and baths being royalproperty. Honest payment of wages being rare, of course stealing isplentiful; and it is even winked at by the royal officers. Thegardeners under Mr. Burton, for instance, would gather the flowers hehad cherished with care, and present them to any chief who came intothe Baugh-el-Kanai; and the present they received in turn constitutedtheir only means of livelihood. Sometimes, Mr. Burton was the solelabourer in this garden, and he had the charge of Baugh-el-Colleza,twenty square acres in size, and at some distance from El Kanai,where he lived. When the hot weather came on, he fell ill ofdiarrhea, and for three months lay weary and ill on his mat, unableto superintend, if there were gardeners, or to work himself, if therewere none.
After he recovered, he seems to have been hopeless of doing anygood in such a climate, and among such a people. The Shah took littleinterest in horticulture. He sometimes came into the gardens of ElKanai (in which his palace was situated), and would ask, somequestions, through an interpreter, in a languid, weary kind of way.Sometimes, when Mr. Burton had any vegetables ready, he requestedleave to present them himself to the Shah; when this was accorded, hewove a basket out of the twigs of the white poplar (the tree whichmost abounded on the great barren plain surrounding Teheran); and,filling this with lettuces, or peas, or similar garden produce, hewas ushered with much ceremony into one of the courts ("small yards,"as Mr. Burton once irreverently called them) belonging to the palace.There, in a kind of balcony projecting from one of the windows, theShah sat; and the English gardener, without shoes, but with thelamb's-skin fez covering his head, bowed low three times, as he gaveup his basket to be handed to the Shah. Mr. Burton did not performthe Persian salaam, considering such a slave-like obeisanceunbefitting a European. The Shah received these baskets ofvegetables, some of which were new to him, with great indifference,not caring to ask any questions. The spirit of curiosity, however,was alive in the harem, if nowhere else; and, one clay, Mr. Burtonwas surprised to receive a command to go and sow some annuals in oneof the courts of the harem, for such was the Queen-mother's desire.So, taking a few packets of common flower-seeds, he went through somerooms in the palace, before he arrived at the courts, which open oneout of another. These rooms Mr. Burton considered as little better,whether in size, construction, or furniture, than his owngarden-dwelling; but there are some apartments in this royal palacewhich are said to be splendid--one lined with plate-glass, andseveral fitted up with the beautiful painted windows for which Persiais celebrated. On entering the courts belonging to the harem, Mr.Burton found himself attended by three or four soldiers and twoeunuchs--all with drawn swords, which they made a little parade ofholding above him, rather to his amusement, especially as he seems tohave had occasional glimpses of peeping ladies, who ought rather tohave had the swords held over them. Before pawing from one yard toanother, one or two soldiers would precede him, to ace that the coastwas clear. And if a veiled lady chanced, through that ignorance whichis bliss all the world over, to come into the very yard where he was,the soldiers seized him, huddled him into a dark corner, and turnedhis face to the wall; she, meanwhile, passing through under the coverof her servant's large cloak, something like a chicken peeping fromunder the wing of the hen. Whatever might have been their danger fromthe handsome young Englishman, he, at least, was not particularlyattracted, by their appearance. The utmost praise he could bestowwas, that "one or two were tolerably good-looking;" and, on beingpressed for details, he said that those ladies of the harem of whomhe caught a glimpse resembled all other Persian women, in having verylarge features, very coarse complexions, and large eyes. They (aswell as the men) paint the eyebrows, so as to make them appear tomeet. They are stoutly-built. Such were the observations which Mr.Burton made, as he was passing through the yards, or courts, whichled into the small garden where he was to sow his flower-seeds. Herethe Queen-mother sat in a projecting balcony; but, as soon as she sawthe stranger, she drew back. She is about thirty-five years of age,and possesses much influence in the country; which, as she is a crueland ambitious woman, has produced great evils.
One day, Mrs. Sheil's maid, who had accompanied her mistress on avisit to the ladies in the harem, fell in with a Frenchwoman who hadbeen an inhabitant there for more than twenty years. She seemedperfectly contented with her situation, and had no wish to exchangeit for any other.
Every now and then Mr. Burton sent flowers to the harem: such ashe could cultivate in the dry, hot garden, with no command of labour.Marvel of Peru, African marigolds, single stocks, and violets plantedalong the sides of the walks between planes and poplars, were theflowers he gathered to form his nosegays. But all gardening was wearyand dreary work; partly owing to the great heat of the climate,partly to the scarcity of water, but most especially because therewas no service or assistance to be derived from any other man. Themen appointed to assist him grew more careless and lazy than ever astime rolled on; he had no means of enforcing obedience, or attention,and, if he had had, he would not have dared to use it, and so toincrease the odium that attached to him as a foreigner. Moreover, noone cared whether the gardens flourished or decayed. If it had notbeen for the kindness of some of the English residents, among whom heespecially mentioned Mr. Reads, his situation would have been utterlyintolerable.
There was nothing in the external life of the place which couldcompensate for his individual disappointment; at least, he perceivednothing. One day, in crossing the market-place, he saw eight menlying with their heads cut off; executed for being religiousfanatics, who had assumed the character of prophets. At another time,there were six men put to death for highway robbery; and the mode ofdeath was full of horror, whatever their crimes might be. They werehung head downwards, with the right arm and leg cut off; one of themdragged out life in this state for three days. Even the minorpunishments are cruel and vindictive, as they always are where thepower and execution of the laws is uncertain. One of the penaltiesinflicted for slight offences, is to have a string passed through thenostrils, and to be led for three successive days through the bazaarsand market-places by a crier, proclaiming the nature of themisdemeanour committed. Blindness is very common: Mr. Burton hasoften seen six or eight blind men walking in a string, each with hisright arm on the shoulder of his precursor. It is partly caused byophthalmia, produced by the dust, and partly clue to the Shah havingit in his power to inflict the punishment of pulling out both, or oneof, the eyes. The great-grandfather of the present Shah, AgaMohammed, the founder of the Kujur dynasty, had large baskets-full ofthe eyes of his enemies presented to him after his accession to thethrone.
Let us change the subject to attar of roses; though all theperfumes of Arabia will not sweeten the memory of that last sentence.Attar of roses is made and sold in the bazaars; the rose employed isthe common single pink one, which must be gathered before the suddenrise of the hot sun causes the clew to evaporate. By the side of theattar-sellers may be seen the Jew, selling trinkets; theArmenians--Christians in name, and, as such, bound by no laws ofMohammed--selling a sweetish red wine and arrakee, a spirit made fromthe refuse of grapes and resembling gin; while through the bazaarsmen go, having leathern bags on their backs containing bad, dirtywater, and a lump of ice in a basin, into which they pour outdraughts for their customers. Ice is brought clown from themountains, and sold at the rate of a large lump for two or threepools--a pool being a small copper coin, of which thirty make onekoraun (silver), value eleven-pence; and ten korauns make one tomaun,a gold coin of the value of nine shillings. The drinking-water isprocured from open drains, or from tanks, in which all the washingthe Persians ever give their clothes is done. They use no soap evenfor shaving; but soapy water would be preferable to the beverageobtained from these sources, with vermin floating on its surface. Nowonder that the cholera returns every three years, and is a fatalscourge; especially when we learn that the doctors and barbers inTeheran, as formerly in England, unite the two professions and thatthe great resource in all cases of illness is the lancet.
Besides the shops in the bazaars, where provisions and beveragesof various kinds are sold, there are others for silks, carpets,embroidered pieces, something like the Indian shawls, but smaller insize, and purchased by the Europeans for waistcoats; and Cashmereshawls, which even there, and though not always new, bear the highprices of from fifty pounds to one hundred pounds. Those which werepresented to the ladies of the Embassy were worth, at Teheran, onehundred pounds apiece. There are also lamb's-skin caps, or fezzes,about half a yard high, conical in shape, and open, or crownless, atthe top; heavier than a hat, but much cooler, owing to theventilation produced by this opening. No Europeans wear hats, exceptone or two at the Embassy. Cotton materials are used for dresses bythe common people, manufactured at Teheran. There are very fewarticles of British manufacture Bold in the bazaars; but French,German, and Russian things abound. A fondness for watches seems to bea Persian weakness; some of the higher classes will wear two at atime, like the English dandies sixty years ago; and sometimes boththese watches will be in a state of stand-still. It is therefore nowonder that a little German watchmaker, who is settled at Teheran, ismaking his fortune. The mode of reckoning time is from sunrise tosunset--prayers being said by the faithful before each of these. Theday and night are each divided into "watches" of three hours long;subdividing the time between sunrise and mid-day, mid-day andsunset.
Mr. Burton saw little of the religious ceremonies of the Persians.He had never been inside a mosque; but had seen people saying theirprayers at the appointed times (at the expiration of every watchthrough the day, he believed), on raised platforms, erected for thepurpose, up and down the town. The form of washing the hands beforethey say their prayers is gone through by country-people on the dustyplain, using soil instead of water--the more purifying article of thetwo, one would suppose, after hearing Mr. Burton's account of thestate of the drains and tanks in Teheran. The priests are recognisedby the white turbans which they wear as a class distinction; and ourEnglish gardener does not seem to have come in contact with any ofthem, excepting in occasional rencontres in the streets; where thewomen, veiled and shrouded, shuffle along--their veils beingtransparent just at the eyes, so as to enable them to see withoutbeing seen; while their clumsy, shapeless mantles effectually preventall recognition, even from husband or father. The higher class (thewives of Mirzas, or noblemen) are conveyed in a kind of coveredhand-barrow from place to place. This species of rude carriage willhold two ladies sitting upright, and has a small door on either side;it is propelled by one before and one behind.
As long as these national peculiarities were novel enough toexcite curiosity, Mr. Burton had something to relieve the monotony ofhis life, which was very hopeless in the horticultural line.By-and-by it sank into great sameness. The domestic changes were ofmuch the same kind as the Vicar of Wakefield's migration from theblue bed to the brown: for three or four months in the hot season,Mr. Burton conveyed his mat up the mud-staircase, which led from hisapartments through a trap-door on to the flat roof, and slept there.When the hot weather was over, Mr. Burton came down under cover. Hefelt himself becoming utterly weary and enervated; and probablywondered less than he had done on his first arrival at the lazy wayin which the natives worked; sitting down, for instance, to build awall. Indifference, which their religion may dignify in some thingsinto fatalism, seemed to prevail everywhere and in every person. Theyate their peas and beans unshelled, rather than take any unnecessarytrouble; a piece of piggism which especially scandalised him.
Twice in the year there were great religious festivals, whichroused the whole people into animation and enthusiasm. One in thespring was the Noorooz, when a kind of miracle-play was actedsimultaneously upon the various platforms in the city; the grandestrepresentation of all being in the market-place, where thirty orforty thousand attended. The subject of this play is the death of thesons of Ali; the Persians being Sheeah, or followers of Ali, and, assuch, regarded as schismatics by the more orthodox Turks, who do notbelieve in the three successors of Mohammed. This "mystery" isadmirably performed, and excites the Persians to passionate weeping.A Frank ambassador is invariably introduced, who comes to intercedefor the sons of Ali. This is the tradition of the Persians; and,although not corroborated by any European legend, it is so faithfullybelieved in by the Persians, that it has long procured for theEuropeans a degree of kindly deference, very different from thefeeling with which they are regarded by the Ali-hating Turks. Theother religious festival occurs some time in August, and is of muchthe came description; some event (Mr. Burton believed it was thedeath of Mohammed) being dramatised, and acted in all the open publicplaces. The weeping and wailing are as general at this representationas at the other. Mr. Burton himself said, "he was so out up by it, hecould not help crying;" and excused himself for what he evidentlyconsidered a weakness, by saying that everybody there was doing thesame.
Sometimes the Shah rode abroad; he and his immediate attendantswere well mounted; but behind, around, came a rabble rout to thenumber of one, two, or even three thousand, on broken-down horses, onmules, on beggarly donkeys, or running on foot, their rags waving inthe wind, everybody, anybody, anyhow. The soldiers in attendance didnot contribute to the regularity or uniformity of the scene, as thereis no regulation height, and the dwarf of four feet ten jostles hisbrother in arms who towers above him at the stature of six feetsix.
In strange contrast with this wild tumult and disorderly crowdmust be one of the Shah's amusements, which consists in listening toMr. Burgess (the appointed English interpreter), who translates theTimes, Illustrated News, and, occasionally, English books, for thepleasure of the Shah. One wonders what ideas certain words convey,representative of the order and uniform regularity of England.
In October, 1849, Colonel Shiel returned to Teheran, after hissojourn in England; and soon afterwards it was arranged that Mr.Burton should leave Persia, and shorten his time of engagement to theShah by one-half. Accordingly, as soon as he had completed a year inTeheran, he began to make preparations for returning to Europe; andabout March, 1850, he arrived at Constantinople, where he remainedanother twelvemonth. The remembrance of Mr. Burton's Oriental lifemust be in strange contrast to the regular, well-ordered comfort ofhis present existence.
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