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tmatmttHHIttt 


JT 


GIFT   Oi 


Fninii^tce. 


"Naiiij^.  Xanii.\,  nij  little  Noiiny.' 


NOVELS    AND    TALES 


vt 


MRS.    GASKELL. 


IN  SEVEN  VOLUMES. 


Vol.  VII. 
LIZZIE     LEIGH     and     OTHER     TALES. 


LONDON: 
SMITH,  ELDER,  &  CO.,  L5  WATERLOO  PLACE. 

1889. 


LIZZIE     LEIGH 


^nb    otber    ^-dt^. 


BV 


MRS.     GASKELL. 


A     NEW     EDITION,     WITH     FOUR     ILLUSTRATIONS. 


LONDON: 

SMITH,  ELDER,  &  CO.,  15  WATERLOO  PLACE. 

1889. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGX 

Lizzie  Leigh 1 

A  Dark  Night's  "WoEK                     29 

EouND  THE  Sofa 175 

Mt  Lady  Ludlow     ....•».••  181 

An  Accursed  Race 345 

The  Doom  of  the  Griffiths     .......  360 

Half  a  Life-time  Ago 393 

The  Poor  Clare 433 

The  Half-Bbothebs          .        .        .        .        r        •        >        •  482 


MllO'^7'^ 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 

"  Nannt,  Naxnt,  my  little  Nannt  "        .        .         .  .         Frontispiece 

A  Djlric  Night's  Wohk to/acr  page      76 

The  Sbchkt  Witness .,             166 

''Please,  my  lady,  I  meant  no  harm,  vy  ladt"       :  ^            ^^^ 


LIZZIE    LEIGH. 


CHAPTER  I. 

When  Death  is  present  in  a  household  on  a  Cliristmas  Day,  the 
very  contrast  between  the  time  as  it  now  is,  and  the  day  as  it  haa 
often  been,  gives  a  poignancy  to  sorrow — a  more  utter  blankness 
to  the  dei^olation.  James  Leigh  died  just  as  the  liir-away  bells 
of  Kochdale  Church  were  ringing  for  morning  service  on  Christ- 
mas Day,  183G.  A  few  minutes  before  his  deatli,  he  opened  his 
already  glazing  eyes,  and  made  a  sign  to  his  wife,  by  the  faint 
motion  of  his  lips,  that  he  had  yet  something  to  say.  She  stooped 
close  down,  and  caught  the  broken  whisper,  "  I  forgive  her, 
Annie  !     May  God  forgive  me  !  " 

"  Oh,  my  love,  my  dear !  only  get  well,  and  I  will  never  cease 
showing  my  thanks  for  those  words.  May  God  in  heaven  bless 
thee  for  saying  them.  Thou'rt  not  so  restless,  my  lad  !  may  be 
—Oh,  God ! " 

For  even  while  she  spoke  he  died. 

They  had  been  two-and-twenty  years  man  and  wife ;  for 
nineteen  of  those  years  their  life  had  been  as  calm  and  happy  as 
the  most  perfect  uprightness  on  the  one  side,  and  the  most 
complete  confidence  and  loving  submission  on  the  other,  could 
make  it.  Milton's  famous  line  might  have  been  iramed  and 
hung  up  as  tlie  rule  of  their  married  life,  for  he  was  truly  the 
interpreter,  who  stood  between  God  and  her;  she  would  have 
considered  herself  wicked  if  she  had  ever  dared  even  to  think  him 
austere,  though  as  certainly  as  he  was  an  upright  man,  so  surely 
was  he  hard,  stern,  and  inflexible.  But  for  three  years  the  moan 
and  the  murmur  had  never  been  out  of  her  heart;  she  had 
rebelled  against  her  husljand  as  against  a  tyrant,  witli  a  hidden, 

B 


2  LIZZIE    LEIGH. 

sullen  rebellion,  wliich  tore  up  the  old  landmarks  of  wifely  duty 
and  affi'Ction,  and  j)oisoned  the  fountains  whence  gentlest  love 
and  reverence  had  once  been  for  ever  springing. 

But  those  last  blessed  words  replaced  him  on  his  throne  in 
her  hefirt,  and  culled  out  penitent  anguish  for  a'l  the  bitter 
estrancement  of  later  years.  It  was  this  which  made  her  refuse 
all  the  entreat'es  of  lier  sonp^tliat  she  would  see  the  kind-hearted 
neighbviurs,  wlio  called  <>i>. -tlicir.  way  from  church,  to  sympathize 
and  condole.  No  !  she  would  stay  with  the  dead  husband  that 
liad  spoken  tenderly  at  last,  if  for  three  years  he  had  kept 
silence;  who  knew  but  what,  if  she  had  only  been  more  gentl** 
and  less  angrily  reserved  he  might  have  relented  earlier — and 
in  time? 

She  sat  rocking  herself  to  and  fro  by  the  side  of  the  bed.  while 
the  footsteps  below  went  in  and  out ;  she  had  been  in  sorrow  too 
long  to  have  any  violent  burst  of  deep  grief  now  ;  the  furrows 
were  well  worn  in  her  cheeks,  and  the  tears  llowed  quietly,  if 
incessjintlv,  all  the  day  long.  But  when  the  winter's  night  drew 
on,  and  the  neighbours  had  gone  away  to  their  homes,  she  st<ile 
to  the  window,  and  gazed  out,  long  and  wistfully,  over  the  dark 
grey  moors.  She  did  not  hear  her  son's  voice,  as  he  spoke  to  her 
from  the  door,  nor  his  footstep  as  he  drew  nearer.  She  started 
when  he  touched  her. 

"  M(jther  !  come  down  to  us.  There's  no  one  but  "Will  and  me. 
Dearest  mother,  we  do  so  want  you."  The  poor  lad's  voice 
trembled,  and  he  began  to  cry.  It  appeared  to  require  an  cflTort 
on  Mrs.  Leigh's  part  to  tear  herself  away  from  the  window,  but 
with  a  sigh  she  complied  with  his  request. 

The  two  boys  (for  though  Will  was  nearly  twenty-one,  slie 
still  thought  of  him  as  a  lad)  had  done  everything  in  their  power 
to  make  the  house-jjlace  comfortable  for  her.  She  herself,  in  the 
old  days  before  her  sorrow,  had  never  made  a  brighter  fire  or  a 
cleaner  hearth,  ready  for  her  husband's  return  home,  than  now 
awaited  her.  The  tea-things  were  all  put  out,  and  the  kettle  wns 
boiling;  and  the  boys  had  calmed  their  grief  down  into  a  kind 
of  wiber  cheerfulness.  They  jiaid  her  every  attention  they  could 
think  (pf,  but  received  little  notice  on  her  part;  hhe  did  not  resist, 
she  rather  submitted  to  all  their  arrangements;  but  they  did  nut 
seem  to  touch  her  heart. 

When  tea  was  ended — it  was  nierelv  the  form  of  tea  that  had 
been  gone  through  —  ^^'ilI  moved  the  thiii^is  away  to  the  dres-.ser. 
His  mother  leant  b:iek  languidly  in  her  chair. 

"  Mother,  shall  Toui  rc;ul  you  a  chanter  I  He's  a  bettor  scholar 
than  I." 


LIZZIE  LEIGH.  ?> 

*  Ay,  lad  !  "  said  she,  almost  eagerly.  "  That's  it.  Read  me 
the  Prodigal  Son.     Ay,  ay,  lad.     'J'liank  thee." 

Tom  ft)iind  the  chapter,  and  read  it  in  the  high-pifchcd  voice 
which  is  customary  in  village  schools.  His  mother  bent  forward, 
hor  lips  parted,  her  eyes  dilated;  her  whole  body  instinct  with 
eager  attention.  Will  sat  with  his  head  depressed  and  hung  down. 
He  knew  why  that  chapter  had  been  chosen ;  and  to  him  it  re- 
called the  family's  disgrace.  When  the  reading  was  ended,  ha 
still  hung  down  his  head  in  gloomy  silence.  But  her  face  was 
brighter  than  it  had  been  before  for  the  day.  Her  eyes  looked 
dreamy,  as  if  she  saw  a  vision  ;  and  by-and-by  she  pulled  the 
Bible  towards  her,  and,  putting  her  finger  underneath  each  word,, 
began  to  read  them  aloud  in  a  low  voice  to  herself  ;  she  read  again 
the  words  of  bitter  sorrow  and  deep  humiliation  ;  but  most  of  all', 
she  paused  and  brightened  over  the  father's  tender  reception  of  the 
repentant  prodigal. 

ISo  passed  the  Christmas  evening  in  the  Upclose  Farm. 

The  snow  had  fallen  heavily  over  the  dark  Avaving  moorland 
before  the  day  of  the  funeral.  The  black  storm-laden  dome  of 
heaven  lay  very  still  and  close  upon  the  white  earth,  as  they 
carried  the  body  forth  otit  of  the  house  which  had  known  his  pre- 
sence so  long  as  its  ruling  power.  Two  and  two  the  mourners 
followed,  making  a  black  procession,  in  their  winding  march  over 
the  unbeaten  snow,  to  Milne  Row  Church  ;  now  lost  in  some 
hollow  of  the  bleak  moors,  now  slowly  climbing  the  heaving 
ascents.  There  was  no  long  tarrying  after  the  funeral,  for  many 
of  the  neighbours  who  accompanied  the  body  to  the  grave  had  far 
to  go,  and  the  great  white  flakes  which  came  slowly  down  were 
the  boding  forerunners  of  a  heavy  storm.  One  old  friend  alone 
accompanied  the  widow  and  her  sons  to  their  home. 

The  Upclose  Farm  had  belonged  for  generations  to  the  Leighs; 
and  yet  its  possession  hardly  raised  them  above  the  rank  of 
labourers.  There  was  the  house  and  out-buildings,  all  of  an  old- 
fashioned  kind,  and  about  seven  acres  of  barren  unproductive 
land,  which  they  had  never  possessed  capital  enough  to  improve; 
indeed,  they  could  hardly  rely  upon  it  for  subj^istence ;  and  it 
had  been  customary  to  bring  tip  the  sous  to  some  trade,  such  as 
a  wheelwright's  or  blacksmith's. 

James  Leigh  had  left  a  will  in  the  possession  of  the  old  man 
who  accompanied  them  home.  He  read  it  aloud.  James  had 
bequeathed  the  farm  to  his  faithful  wife,  Anne  Leigh,  for  her 
lifetime,  and  afterwards  to  his  son  William.  The  hundred 
and  odd  pounds  in  the  savings  bank  was  to  accumulate  for 
Thomas. 

B  2 


4  LIZZIE  LEIGH. 

After  the  readinc^  was  ended,  Anne  Leigh  sat  silent  for  a  time, 
niid  then  she  jujked  to  speak  to  Samuel  Orme  alone.  The  sons 
went  into  the  back  kitchen,  and  thence  strolled  out  into  the  fields 
regardlejrs  of  the  driving  snow.  The  brothers  were  dearly  fond  of 
each  other,  although  they  were  very  different  in  character.  Will, 
the  elder,  was  like  his  father,  stern,  reserved,  and  scrupulously 
upright.  Torn  (who  was  ten  years  younger)  was  gentle  and 
delicate  as  a  girl,  both  in  appearance  and  character.  He  had 
always  clung  to  his  mother  and  dreaded  his  father.  They  did 
not  speak  as  they  walked,  for  they  were  only  in  the  habit  of 
talking  about  facts,  and  hardly  knew  the  more  sophist iciited 
language  applied  to  the  description  of  feelings. 

Meanwhile  their  mother  had  taken  hold  of  Samuel  Orme's  arm 
with  her  trembling  hand. 

"  Samuel,  I  must  let  the  farm — I  must." 

"  Let  the  farm  !     What's  come  o'er  the  woman  ?" 

"Oh,  Samuel!"  said  she,  her  eyes  swimming  in  tears,  "  Im 
just  fain  to  go  and  live  in  Manchester.     I  mun  let  the  farm." 

Samuel  looked,  and  pondered,  but  did  not  speak  for  some  time. 
At  last  he  said — 

"  If  thou  hast  made  up  thy  mind,  there's  no  speaking  again  it ; 
and  thou  must  een  go.  Thou'lt  be  sadly  pottered  wi'  Manchester 
ways;  but  that's  not  my  look  out.  Why,  thou'lt  have  to  buy 
potatoes,  a  thing  thou  hast  never  done  afore  in  all  thy  born  life. 
Well  I  it's  not  my  look  out.  It's  rather  for  me  than  again  me. 
Our  Jenny  is  going  to  be  married  to  Tom  Iligginbotham,  and  he 
was  speaking  of  wanting  a  bit  of  land  to  begin  ujwn.  His  father 
will  be  dying  sometime,  I  reckon,  and  then  he'll  step  into  the 
Croft  Farm.     But  meanwhile " 

"  Then,  tliou'lt  lot  the  farm,"  said  she,  still  as  eagerly  as  ever. 

"  Ay,  ay,  he'll  take  it  fast  enough,  I've  a  notion.  But  I'll  not 
drive  a  bargain  with  thee  just  now;  it  would  not  be  right;  we'll 
wait  a  bit." 

"  No ;   I  cannot  wait ;  settle  it  out  at  once." 

"  Well,  well ;  I'll  sjicak  to  Will  about  it.  I  see  him  out  yonder. 
I'll  step  to  him  and  talk  it  over." 

Accordingly  he  went  and  joined  the  two  lads,  and,  without 
more  ado,  began  the  subject  to  them. 

"  Will,  thy  mother  is  fain  to  go  live  in  Manchester,  and  covets 
to  hi  the  farm.  Now,  Vu\  willing  to  take  it  for  Tom  Iliggin- 
botham; but  I  like  to  drive  a  keen  bargain,  and  there  would  be 
no  fun  chailering  with  thy  mutlier  just  now.  Let  theo  and  me 
buckle  to,  my  lad  !  and  try  and  cheat  each  oilier;  it  will  warm 
Ui»  thill  cold  day." 


LIZZIE   LEIGH.  5 

"  Let  the  farm ! "  said  both  the  lads  at  once,  with  infinite 
surprise.     "  Go  live  in  ^lanchester  !  " 

When  Samuel  Orme  found  that  the  plan  had  never  before 
been  named  to  either  Will  or  Tom,  he  would  have  nothing  to  do 
with  it,  he  said,  until  they  liad  spoken  to  their  mother.  Likely 
she  was  "  dazed  "  by  her  husband's  death  ;  he  would  wait  a  day 
or  two,  and  not  name  it  to  any  one;  not  to  Tom  Iliojginbothain 
liimself,  or  may  be  he  would  set  liis  heart  upon  it.  The  lads  had 
better  go  in  and  talk  it  over  with  their  mother.  He  bade  them 
good-day,  and  left  them. 

Will  looked  very  gloomy,  but  he  did  not  speak  till  they  got 
near  the  house.     Then  he  said — 

"  Tom,  go  to  th'  shippon,  and  supper  the  cows.  I  want  to 
speak  to  mother  alone." 

When  he  entered  the  house-place,  she  was  sitting  before  the 
fire,  looking  into  its  embers.  She  did  not  hear  him  come  in  :  for 
some  time  she  liad  lost  her  quick  perception  of  outward  things. 

"  Mother  !  what's  this  about  going  to  Manchester  ?  "  asked  he. 

"  Oh,  lad !  "  said  she,  turning  round,  and  speaking  in  a  be- 
seeching tone,  "  I  must  go  and  seek  our  Lizzie.  I  cannot  rest 
here  for  thinking  on  her.  Many's  the  time  I've  left  thy  father 
sleeping  in  bed,  and  stole  to  th'  window,  and  looked  and  looked 
my  heart  out  towards  Manchester,  till  I  thought  I  must  just  set 
out  and  tramp  over  moor  and  moss  straight  away  till  I  got  there, 
and  then  lift  up  every  downcast  face  till  I  came  to  our  Lizzie. 
And  often,  when  the  south  wind  was  blowing  soft  among  the 
hoUows,  I've  fancied  (it  could  but  be  fancy,  thou  knowest)  I 
heard  her  crying  upon  me;  and  I've  thought  the  voice  came 
closer  and  closer,  till  at  last  it  was  sobV)ing  out,  '  Mother  ! '  close 
to  the  door ;  and  I've  stolen  down,  and  undone  the  latch  before 
now,  and  looked  out  into  the  still,  black  night,  thinking  to  sec 
her — and  turned  sick  and  sorrowful  when  I  heard  no  living 
sound  but  the  sough  of  the  wind  dying  away.  Oh,  speak  not  to 
me  of  stopping  here,  when  she  may  be  perishing  for  hunger,  like 
the  poor  lad  in  the  parable."  And  now  she  lifted  up  her  voice, 
and  wept  aloud. 

Will  Avas  deeply  grieved.  He  had  been  old  enough  to  be  told 
the  family  shanie  when,  more  than  two  years  before,  his  father 
had  had  his  letter  to  his  daughter  returned  by  her  mistress  in 
Manchester,  telling  him  that  Lizzie  had  left  her  service  some 
time — and  why.  He  had  sympathized  with  his  father's  stern 
anger;  though  he  had  thought  him  something  hard,  it  is  trup, 
when  he  had  forbidden  liis  weeping,  heart-broken  wife  to  go  and 
try  to  find  her  poor  sinning  child,  and  dccla.od  that  henceforth 


f)  LIZZIE  LEIGH. 

they  would  have  no  daughter;  that  she  ahouM  be  as  one  dead, 
and  her  name  never  more  be  named  at  market  or  at  meal  time, 
in  blessing  or  in  prayer.  He  had  held  his  peace,  with  compressed 
lips  and  contracted  brow,  when  the  neighbours  had  noticed  to 
him  how  ])oor  Lizzie's  death  had  aged  both  his  lather  and  his 
mother;  and  how  they  thought  the  bereaved  couple  would  never 
hold  up  their  heads  again.  He  himself  had  felt  as  if  that  one 
•  vent  had  made  him  old  before  his  time ;  and  had  envied  Torn 
the  tears  he  had  phed  over  poor,  pretty,  innocent,  dead  Lizzie. 
He  thought  about  her  sometimes,  till  he  ground  his  teeth  together, 
aiid  could  have  struck  her  down  iu  her  shame.  His  mother  had 
never  named  lier  to  him  until  now. 

"  Mother  1 "  said  he,  at  last.  "  She  may  be  dead.  Most  likely 
she  is." 

*'  No,  "Will ;  she  is  not  dead,"  faid  Mrs.  Leigh.  "  God  will  not 
let  her  die  till  I've  seen  her  once  again.  Thou  dost  not  know 
how  I've  prayed  and  prayed  just  once  again  to  see  her  sweet  face, 
and  tell  her  I've  forgiven  her,  though  she's  broken  my  heart — 
she  has.  Will."  She  could  not  go  on  for  a  minute  or  two  for  the 
choking  sobs.  *'  Thou  dost  not  know  that,  or  thou  wouldst  not 
say  she  could  be  dead — for  God  is  very  merciful.  Will;  He  is  : 
He  is  much  more  pitiful  than  man.  I  could  never  ha'  spoken  to 
thy  iather  as  I  did  to  Him — and  yet  thy  father  forgave  her  at 
last.  The  last  words  he  said  were  that  he  forgave  her.  Thou'lt 
not  be  harder  than  thy  father.  Will?  Do  not  try  and  hinder  me 
going  to  seek  her,  for  it's  no  use." 

Will  sat  very  still  f6r  a  long  time  before  he  spoke.  At  last  he 
said,  "  I'll  not  hinder  you.  I  think  she's  dead,  but  that's  no 
matter." 

"  She's  not  dead,"  said  her  mother,  with  low  earnestness.  Will 
tuok  no  notice  of  the  interruption. 

"  We  will  all  go  to  Manchester  for  a  twelvemonth,  and  let  the 
farm  to  Tom  Higginbotham.  I'll  get  blacksmith's  work;  and 
Tom  can  have  good  schooling  for  awhile,  which  he's  always 
craving  for.  At  the  end  of  the  year  you'll  come  back,  njother, 
and  give  over  fretting  lor  Lizzie,  and  think  with  me  tliat  she  is 
il.iid — and,  to  my  mind,  that  would  bo  more  comlort  than  t«) 
think  of  her  living;  "  he  droj)p(.'d  his  voice  as  he  spoko  these  lust 
\vords.  She  shook  her  head  but  made  no  answer.  He  usked 
again  — 

"  Will  you,  mother,  agree  to  this?" 

"  I'll  aj.'ree  to  it  a-tliis-ns,"  said  slic.  "  If  I  hear  and  see 
nought  of  her  for  u  twelvemonth,  me  being  in  Manchester  look- 
ing out,  I'll  juhl  hu'  broken  my  heart  fairly'  before  the  year's 


LIZZIE   LEIGH.  7 

ended,  and  then  I  shall  know  neither  love  nor  sorrow  for  her  any 
more,  when  I'm  at  rest  in  my  grave.     Ill  agree  to  thaf,  Will." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  it  must  be  so.  I  shall  not  tell  Tom,  mother, 
why  we're  flitting  to  Manchester.     Best  spare  him." 

"  As  thou  wilt,"  said  she,  sadly,  "  so  that  we  go,  that's  all." 

Before  the  wild  daffodils  were  in  flower  in  the  sheltered  copses 
round  Upclose  Farm,  the  Leighs  were  settled  in  their  Manchester 
home ;  if  they  could  ever  grow  to  consider  that  place  as  a  home, 
where  there  was  no  garden  or  outbuilding,  no  fresh  breezy  outlet, 
no  far-stretching  view,  over  moor  and  hollow ;  no  dumb  animals 
to  be  tended,  and,  what  more  than  all  they  missed,  no  old  haunt- 
ing memories,  even  though  those  remembrances  told  of  sorrow, 
and  the  dead  and  gone. 

Mrs.  Leigh  heeded  the  loss  of  all  these  things  less  than  her 
sons.  She  had  more  spirit  in  her  countenance  than  she  had  had 
for  months,  because  now  she  had  hope ;  of  a  sad  enough  kind,  to 
be  sure,  but  still  it  was  hope.  She  performed  all  her  household 
duties,  strange  and  complicated  as  they  were,  and  bewildered  as 
she  was  with  all  the  town  necessities  of  her  new  manner  of  life ; 
but  when  her  house  was  "  sided,"  and  the  boys  come  home  from 
their  work  in  the  evening,  she  would  put  on  her  things  and  steal 
out,  unnoticed,  as  she  thought,  but  not  without  many  a  heavy 
sigh  from  Will,  after  she  had  closed  the  house-door  and  departed. 
It  was  often  past  midnight  before  she  came  back,  pale  and  weary, 
with  almost  a  guilty  look  upon  her  face ;  but  that  face  so  full  of 
disappointment  and  hope  deferred,  that  Will  had  never  the  heart 
to  say  what  he  thought  of  the  folly  and  hopelessness  of  the 
search.  Night  after  night  it  was  renewed,  till  days  grew  to 
weeks,  and  weeks  to  months.  All  this  time  Will  did  his  duty 
towards  her  as  well  as  he  could,  without  having  sympathy  with 
her.  lie  stayed  at  home  in  the  evenings  for  Tom's  sake,  and 
often  wished  he  had  Tom's  pleasure  in  reading,  for  the  time  hung 
heavy  on  his  hands  as  he  sat  up  for  his  mother. 

I  need  not  tell  you  how  the  mother  spent  the  weary  hours. 
And  yet  I  will  tell  you  something.  She  used  to  wander  out,  at 
first  as  if  without  a  purpose,  till  she  rallied  her  thoughts,  and 
brought  all  her  energies  to  bear  on  the  one  point ;  then  she  went 
with  earnest  patience  along  the  least-known  ways  to  some  new 
part  of  the  town,  looking  wistfully  with  dumb  entreaty  into 
people's  faces;  sometimes  catching  a  glimpse  of  a  figure  which 
had  a  kind  of  momentary  likeness  to  her  child's,  and  following 
that  figure  with  never-wearying  perseverance,  till  some  light 
from  shop  or  lamp  showed  the  cold  strange  face  which  was  not 
her  daughter's.     Once  or  twice  a  kind-hearted  passer-by,  struck 


8  LIZZIE   LEIGE. 

by  lier  look  of  yearning  woe,  turned  back  and  ofTered  help,  or 
asked  her  what  she  wanted.  When  bo  spoken  to,  she  answered 
only,  "  You  don't  know  a  poor  girl  they  call  Lizzie  Leigh,  do 
you  ?  "  and  when  they  denied  all  knowledge,  she  shook  her  head, 
and  went  on  again.  I  think  they  believed  her  to  be  crazy.  But 
she  never  spoke  first  to  any  one.  She  sometimes  took  a  few 
minutes'  rest  on  the  door-stejjs,  and  sometimes  (very  seldom) 
covered  her  face  and  cried ;  but  she  could  not  afford  to  lose  time 
and  clianccs  in  this  way  ;  while  her  eyes  were  blinded  with  tears, 
the  lost  one  might  pass  by  unseen. 

One  evening,  in  the  rich  timeof  shortening  autumn-days,  Will 
saw  an  old  man,  who,  without  being  absolutely  drunk,  could  not 
guide  himself  rightly  along  the  foot-path,  and  was  mocke<l  for 
his  unsteadiness  of"  gait  by  the  idle  boys  of  the  neighbourhood. 
For  his  father's  sake.  Will  regarded  old  age  with  tenderness,  even 
when  most  degraded  and  removed  from  the  stern  virtues  which 
dignified  that  father;  so  he  took  the  old  man  home,  and  seemed 
to  believe  his  often-repeated  assertions,  that  he  drank  nothing  but 
water.  The  stranger  tried  to  stiffen  himself  up  into  steadiness 
as  he  drew  nearer  home,  as  if  there  some  one  there  for  whose 
respect  he  cared  even  in  his  half-into.xicated  state,  or  whose 
feelings  he  feared  to  grieve.  His  home  was  c.\(juisitely  clean  and 
neat,  even  in  outside  appearance;  threshold,  window,  and  wimlow- 
sill  were  outward  signs  of  some  spirit  of  purity  within.  Will 
was  rewarded  for  his  attention  by  a  bright  glance  of  thanks,  suc- 
ceeded by  a  blush  of  shame,  from  a  young  woman  of  twenty  or 
thereabouts.  She  did  not  speak  or  second  her  father's  hosjtitabio 
invitations  to  him  to  be  seated.  She  seemed  unwilling  that  a 
stranger  should  witness  her  father's  attempts  at  stately  sobriety, 
and  Will  could  not  bear  to  stay  and  see  her  distress.  But  when 
the  old  man,  with  many  a  flabby  shake  of  the  hand,  knn  asking 
him  to  come  again  some  other  evening,  and  see  tiiem.  Will  sought 
her  downcast  eyes,  and,  though  ho  could  not  read  their  veiled 
meaning,  he  aiiswcrod,  timidly,  "  If  it's  agreeable  to  everybody, 
I'll  come,  and  thank  ye."  But  there  was  no  answer  from  the  girl, 
U)  whom  this  speech  was  in  reality  addressed;  and  Will  left  the 
house,  liking  her  all  the  better  for  nevt-r  speaking. 

lie  thought  aiinut  her  a  great  deal  for  tlu-  next  day  or  two;  he 
scolded  himself  fi.r  being  so  foolish  as  to  think  of  her,  and  then 
fell  to  with  fresh  vigour,  and  thought  of  htr  more  than  ever.  Ho 
tried  to  (hprcciute  her:  he  told  himself  she  was  not  jiretty,  and 
then  made  indigniuit  answer  that  he  lik<'d  her  looks  much  better 
than  any  beaut v  of  them  all.  He  wished  he  was  not  so  country- 
looking,  bo  rcd-fuced,  ao  broad-hljouldered  ;  while  ulio  was  liko  a 


LIZZIE   LEIGH.  9 

lady,  witli  her  smoth,  coloivrless  comj^lexion,  her  bright  dark  hair, 
and  her  spotless  dress.  Pretty  or  not  pretty  she  drew  liis  foot- 
steps towards  her;  he  could  not  resist  the  impulse  that  made  him 
wish  to  see  her  once  more,  and  find  out  some  fault  which  should 
xmloose  his  lieart  from  her  unconscious  keeping.  But  there  she 
was,  pure  and  maidenly  as  before.  He  sat  and  looked,  answering 
her  father  at  cross-purposes,  while  she  drew  more  and  more  into 
the  shadow  of  the  chimney-corner  out  of  sight.  Then  the  sjnrit 
that  possessed  him  (it  was  not  he  himself,  sure,  that  did  so  impudent 
a  thing! )  made  him  get  up  and  carry  the  candle  to  a  dirterent  place, 
under  the  pretence  of  giving  her  more  light  at  her  sewing,  but  in 
reality  to  be  able  to  see  her  better.  She  could  not  stand  this  much 
longer,  but  jumped  up  and  said  she  must  put  her  little  niece 
to  bed;  and  surely  there  never  was,  before  or  since,  so  trouble- 
some a  child  of  two  years  old,  for  though  Will  stayed  an  hour  and  a 
half  longer,  she  never  came  down  again.  He  won  the  lather's  heart, 
though,  by  his  capacity  as  a  listener ;  for  some  people  are  not  at  all 
particular,  and,  so  that  they  themselves  may  talk  on  undisturbed, 
are  not  so  unreasonable  as  to  expect  attention  to  what  they  say. 
Will  did  gather  this  much,  however,  from  the  old  man's  talk. 
He  had  once  been  quite  in  a  genteel  line  of  business,  but  had 
failed  for  more  money  than  any  greengrocer  he  had  heard  of; 
at  least,  any  who  did  not  mix  up  fish  and  game  with  green- 
grocery proper.  This  grand  failure  seemed  to  have  been  the 
event  of  his  life,  and  one  on  which  he  dwelt  with  a  strange  kind 
of  pride.  It  appeared  as  if  at  present  he  rested  from  his  past 
exertions  (in  the  bankrupt  line),  and  depended  on  his  daughter, 
who  kept  a  small  school  for  very  young  children.  But  all  these 
particulars  Will  only  remembered  and  understood  when  he  had  left 
the  house;  at  the  time  he  heard  them,  he  was  thinking  of  Susan. 
After  he  had  made  good  his  footing  at  Mr.  Palmer's,  he  was  not 
long,  you  may  bo  siire,  without  finding  some  reason  for  returning 
again  and  again.  He  listened  to  her  father,  he  talked  to  the 
little  niece,  but  he  looked  at  Susan,  both  while  he  listened  and 
while  he  talked.  Her  father  kept  on  insisting  upon  his  former 
gentility,  the  details  of  which  would  have  appeared  very  question- 
able to  Will's  mind,  if  the  sweet,  delicate,  mode.st  Susan  had  not 
thrown  an  iiiexpiical)le  air  of  refinement  over  all  she  came  near. 
She  never  spoke  much;  she  was  generally  diligently  at  work;  but 
when  she  moved  it  was  so  noiselessly,  and  when  she  did  speak, 
it  was  in  .so  low  and  soft  a  voice,  that  silence,  speech,  motion,  and 
Btillness  alike  seemed  to  remove  her  high  above  Will's  reach  into 
some  saintly  and  inaccessible  air  of  glory — high  above  his  rctcli, 
even  as  she  knew  him  I     And,  if  she  were  made  accjuainted  with  the 


10  LIZZIE   LEIGn. 

dark  secret  behind  of  his  sister's  shame,  which  was  kept  ever  pre- 
sent to  Lis  mind  by  liis  muther's  nightly  search  among  the  outcast 
and  forsaken,  would  not  Sus;m  shrink  away  from  him  with 
loathing,  as  if  he  were  tainted  by  the  involuntary  relationship  ? 
This  was  his  dread;  and  thereupon  followed  a  resolution  that  he 
would  withdraw  from  her  sweet  company  before  it  was  too  late. 
So  he  resisted  internal  temptation,  and  stayed  at  home,  and  suffered 
and  sighed.  He  became  angry  with  his  mother  for  her  untiring 
patience  in  seeking  fur  one  who  he  could  not  help  hoping  Avas 
dead  rather  than  alive.  lie  spoke  sharply  to  her,  and  received 
only  such  sad  deprecator}'  answers  as  made  him  reproach  himself, 
and  still  more  lose  sight  of  peace  of  mind.  This  struggle  could 
not  last  long  without  affecting  his  health;  and  Tom,  his  sole  com- 
panion through  the  long  evenings,  noticed  his  increasing  languor, 
his  restless  irritability,  with  perplexed  anxiety,  and  at  last  resolved 
to  call  his  mothers  attention  to  his  brother's  haggard,  careworn 
looks.  iShe  listened  with  a  startled  recollection  of  Will's  claims 
upon  her  love.  She  noticed  his  decreasing  appetite  and  half- 
checked  sighs. 

"  Will,  lad!  what's  come  o'er  thee?"  said  she  to  him,  as  he  sat 
listlessly  gazing  into  the  fire. 

"  There's  nought  the  matter  with  me,"  said  he,  as  if  annoyed 
at  her  remark. 

"  Nay,  lad,  but  there  is."  He  did  not  speak  again  to  contradict 
her ;  indeed,  she  did  not  know  if  he  had  heard  her,  so  unmoved 
did  he  look. 

"  Wouldst  like  to  go  to  Upclose  Farm?"  asked  she, 
sorrov/fuliy. 

'•  It's  ju.'it  blackberrying  time,"  said  Tom. 

Will  shook  his  head.  She  looked  at  him  awhile,  as  if  trying 
to  read  that  expression  of  despondency,  and  trace  it  back  to  its 
B^urce. 

"  Will  and  Tom  could  go,"  said  she;  "  I  must  stay  here  till 
I've  found  Inr,  thou  knowest,"  continued  she,  diopping  her  voice. 

Ho  turned  (piickly  round,  and  with  the  authority  he  at  all 
times  exorcised  over  Tom,  bade  him  bogiMie  to  bed. 

When  Tonx  hud  Iclt  the  room,  he  prepared  to  speak. 


LIZZIE  LEIGH.  1  1 


CHAPTER  11. 


"  MoTiiE'?,"  then  said  "Will,  "  why  will  you  keep  on  thinking  she's 
alive  ?  If  she  were  but  dead,  we  need  never  name  her  name 
again.  "We've  never  heard  nought  on  her  since  father  wrote  her 
that  letter;  we  never  knew  whether  she  got  it  or  not.  She'd  left 
her  place  before  then.     Many  a  one  dies  in " 

"  Oh,  my  lad  !  dunnot  speak  so  to  me,  or  my  heart  will  break 
outright,"  said  his  mother,  with  a  sort  of  cry.  Then  she  calmed 
herself,  for  she  yearned  to  persuade  him  to  her  oAvn  belief. 
'•  Thou  never  asked,  and  thou'rt  too  like  thy  father  for  me  to  tell 
without  asking — but  it  were  all  to  be  near  Lizzie's  old  place  that 
I  settled  doAvn  on  this  side  o'  Manchester ;  and  the  very  day  at 
after  we  came,  I  went  to  her  old  missus,  and  asked  to  speak  a 
word  wi'  her.  I  had  a  strong  mind  to  cast  it  up  to  her,  that  she 
should  ha'  sent  my  poor  lass  away,  without  telling  on  it  to  us 
first ;  but  she  were  in  black,  and  looked  so  sad  I  could  na'  find  in 
my  heart  to  threep  it  up.  But  I  did  ask  her  a  bit  about  our 
Lizzie.  The  master  would  have  turned  her  away  at  a  day's 
warning  (he's  gone  to  t'other  place ;  I  hope  he'll  meet  ■wi'  more 
mercy  there  than  he  showed  our  Lizzie — I  do),  and  when  the 
missus  asked  her  should  she  write  to  us,  she  says  Lizzie  shook 
her  head ;  and  when  she  speered  at  her  again,  the  poor  lass  wtnt 
do^vn  on  her  knees,  and  begged  her  not,  for  she  said  it  would 
break  my  heart  (as  it  has  done,  "Will — God  knows  it  has),"  said 
the  poor  mother,  choking  with  her  struggle  to  keep  down  her 
hard  overmastering  grief,  "  and  her  father  would  curse  her — Oh, 
God,  teach  me  to  be  patient."  She  could  not  speak  for  a  few 
minutes —  "  and  the  lass  threatened,  and  said  she'd  go  drown 
herself  in  the  canal,  if  the  missus  wrote  home — and  so 

"  Well  !  I'd  got  a  trace  of  my  cliild — the  missus  thought  she'd 
gone  to  th'  workhouse  to  be  nursed ;  and  there  I  went — and 
there,  sure  enough,  she  had  been — and  they'd  turned  her  out  as 
she  were  strong,  and  told  her  she  were  young  enough  to  work — 
but  whatten  kind  o'  work  would  be  open  to  her,  lad,  and  her 
baby  to  keep  ?  " 

Will  listened  to  his  mother's  tale  with  deep  sympathy,  not 
unmixed  with  the  old  bitter  shame.  But  the  opening  of  her 
heart  had  unlocked  his,  and  after  awhile  he  spoke — 

"  Mother  !  I  think  I'd  e'en  better  go  home.  Tom  can  stay  wi' 
thee.      I  know  I  should  stay  too,  but  I  cannot  stay  in  peace 


12  LIZZIE   LEIGH. 

SO   near — her — without   craving  to  see  her — Susan    Palmer,  I 
mean."  , 

'lias  the  old  Mr.  Palmer  thou  telled  me  on  a  daughter?' 
asked  Mrs.  Leigh. 

"  Ay,  he  has.  And  I  love  her  above  a  bit.  And  it's  because 
I  love  her  I  want  to  leave  Manchester.     That's  all."' 

Mrs,  LciLrh  tried  to  xuiderstand  this  speech  for  some  time,  but 
found  it  dilficult  of  interpretation. 

"  Why  shouldst  thou  not  tell  her  thou  lov'st  her?  Thou'rt  a 
likely  lad,  and  sure  o'  work.  Thou'lt  have  Upclose  at  my  death  ; 
and  as  for  that,  I  could  let  thee  have  it  now,  and  keej)  mysel'  by 
doing  a  bit  of  charring.  It  seems  to  me  a  very  backwards  sort 
o'  way  of  winning  hor  to  think  of  leaving  Manchester." 

"  Oh,  motlitT,  she's  so  gentle  and  so  good — she's  downright 
holy.  She's  never  known  a  touch  of  sin ;  and  can  I  ask  her  to 
marry  me,  knowing  what  we  do  about  Lizzie,  and  fearing  worse  ? 
I  doubt  if  one  like  her  could  ever  care  for  me;  but  if  she  knew 
about  my  sister,  it  would  put  a  gulf  between  us,  and  she'd 
shudder  up  at  the  thought  of  crossing  it.  You  don't  know  how 
good  she  is,  mother  !  " 

"  Will,  Will  !  if  she's  so  good  as  thou  say'st,  she'll  have  pity  on 
such  as  my  Lizzie.  If  she  has  no  pity  for  such,  she's  a  cruel 
Pharisee,  and  thou'rt  best  without  her." 

Htit  he  only  shook  his  head,  and  sighed ;  and  for  the  time  the 
conversiition  dropped. 

But  a  new  idea  sprang  up  in  Mrs.  Leigh's  head.  She  thought 
that  she  would  go  and  see  Susan  Palmer,  and  speak  up  for  Will, 
and  tell  her  the  truth  almut  Lizzie;  and  according  to  her  pity  for 
the  poor  sinner,  would  she  be  worthy  or  unworthy  of  him.  She 
resolved  to  go  the  very  next  afternoon,  but  without  telling  any 
one  of  her  ])lan.  Ac(;ordingly  she  lot)ked  out  the  Sunday  clothes 
she  had  never  before  had  the  heart  to  unpack  since  she  came  to 
Manchoster,  but  which  she  now  desired  to  appear  in,  in  order  to 
do  credit  to  Will.  She  put  on  her  old-lashionod  black  mode 
bonnet,  trimmed  with  real  lace;  her  .'icarlet  cloth  cloak,  which 
bIim  had  had  ever  since  she  was  married;  and,  always  spotle.>y<ly 
clean,  she  set  forth  on  her  unatithorised  embassy.  She  knew  the 
Palmers  lived  in  Crown  Street,  thonu:h  where  she  had  heard  it 
she  could  iu)t  tell;  and  mode.stly  a.sking  her  way,  she  arrived  in 
the  street  about  a  (juarter  to  four  o'clock.  She  stopju'd  to  «ii<piir«> 
iho  exact  number,  and  the  woman  whom  she  addressed  told  her 
that  Susui  Palmer'rt  school  would  not  bo  loosed  till  four,  and 
asked  her  to  step  in  and  wait  initil  then  at  her  liouso. 

"For,"  Raid  she,  smiling,  "them  that  wants  Suann  Palmer 
Muiita  u  kind   friend  of  our.n;   so  we,  in  a  manner,  call  cousins. 


LIZZIE   LEIGH.  13 

iSit  down,  missus,  sit  do^vn.  I'll  wipe  the  chair,  so  that  it  shanna 
dirty  your  cloak.  My  mother  used  to  wear  them  bright  cloaks, 
and  they're  ri^ht  gradely  things  again  a  green  Held." 

"  Han  ye  known  Susan  Palmer  long  ? "  asked  Mrs.  Leigh, 
pleased  with  the  admiration  of  her  cloak. 

"  Ever  since  they  corned  to  live  in  our  street.  Our  Sally  goes 
10  her  school.'* 

"  Whatten  sort  of  a  lass  is  she,  for  I  ha'  never  seen  her  ?  " 

"  Well,  as  for  looks,  I  cannot  say.  It's  so  long  since  I  first 
knowed  her,  that  I've  clean  forgotten  what  I  thought  of  her  then. 
My  master  says  he  never  saw  such  a  smile  for  gladdening  the 
heart.  But  maybe  it's  not  looks  you're  asking  about.  The  best 
thing  I  can  say  of  her  looks  is,  that  she's  just  one  a  stranger 
would  stop  in  the  street  to  ask  help  from  if  he  needed  it.  All 
the  little  childer  creeps  as  close  as  they  can  to  her ;  she'll  have  as 
many  as  three  or  four  hanging  to  her  apron  all  at  once." 

"  Is  she  cocket  at  all  ?  " 

"  Cocket,  bless  you !  you  never  saw  a  creature  less  set  up  in 
all  your  life.  Her  father's  cocket  enough.  No  !  she's  not  cocket 
any  way.  You've  not  heard  much  of  Susan  Palmer,  I  reckon,  if 
vou  think  she's  cocket.  She's  just  one  to  come  quietly  in,  and 
do  the  very  thing  most  wanted ;  little  things,  maybe,  that  any 
one  could  do,  but  that  few  would  think  on,  for  another.  She'll 
bring  her  thimble  wi'  her,  and  mend  up  after  the  childer  o' 
nights  ;  and  she  writes  all  Betty  Harker's  letters  to  her  grandchild 
out  at  service ;  and  she's  in  nobody's  way,  and  that's  a  great 
matter,  I  take  it.  Here's  the  childer  running  past !  School  is 
loosed.  You'll  find  her  now,  missus,  ready  to  hear  and  to  help. 
But  we  none  on  us  frab  her  by  going  near  her  in  school-time." 

Poor  IMrs.  Leigh's  heart  began  to  beat,  and  she  could  almost 
have  turned  round  and  gone  home  again.  Her  country  breedmg 
had  made  her  shy  of  strangers,  and  this  Susan  Palmer  appeared 
to  her  like  a  real  born  lady  by  all  accounts.  So  she  knocked 
with  a  timid  feeling  at  the  indicated  door,  and  when  it  was 
opened,  dropped  a  simple  curtsey  without  speaking.  Susan  had 
her  little  niece  in  her  arms,  curled  up  with  fond  endearment 
against  her  breast,  but  she  put  her  gently  down  to  the  ground, 
and  instantly  placed  a  chair  in  the  best  corner  of  the  room  for 
Mrs.  Leigh,  when  she  told  her  who  she  was.  "  It's  not  Wi'l  as 
has  asked  me  to  come,"  said  the  mother,  apologetically ;  "  I'd  a 
wish  just  to  speak  to  you  myself  ! " 

Susan  coloured  up  to  her  temples,  and  stooped  to  pick  up  the 
little  toddling  girl.     In  a  minute  or  two  Mrs.  Leigh  began  again. 

"  Will  thinks  you  would  na  respect  us  if  you  knew  all ;  but  I 


14  LIZZIE    LEIGH. 

think  you  could  na  help  feeling  for  us  in  ihc  sorrow  God  has  put 
upcin  us ;  so  I  just  put  on  my  l)onnet,  and  came  off  unknownst 
to  the  lads.  Every  one  says  you're  ver)'  good,  and  that  the  Lord 
has  keeped  you  from  falling  from  His  ways;  but  maybe  you've 
never  yet  been  tried  and  tempted  as  some  is.  I'm  perhaps  speak- 
ing too  plain,  but  my  heart's  welly  broken,  and  I  can't  be  choice 
in  my  words  as  tlxin  who  are  happy  can.  Well  now  !  I'll  tell 
you  the  truth.     Will  dreads  you  to  hear  it,  but  I'll  just  tell  it 

you.  You  mun  know "  l)Ut  here  the  poor  woman's  words  failed 

her,  and  she  could  do  nothing  but  sit  rocking  lierself  backwards 
and  forwards,  with  sad  eyes,  straight-gazinp  into  Susan's  face,  as 
if  they  tried  to  tell  the  tale  of  agony  which  the  quivering  lips 
refused  to  utter.  Those  wretched,  stony  eyes  forced  the  tears 
down  Susan's  cheeks,  and,  as  if  tliis  sympathy  gave  the  mother 
strength,  she  went  on  in  a  low  voice — "  I  had  a  daughter  once, 
my  heart's  darling.  Her  father  thought  I  made  too  much  on  her, 
and  that  she'd  grow  marred  staying  at  home;  so  he  said  she  mun 
go  among  strangers  and  learn  to  rough  it.  She  were  young,  and 
liked  the  thought  of  seeing  a  V)it  of  the  world ;  and  her  father 
heard  on  a  ]ilace  in  Manchester.  "Well !  I'll  not  weary  you. 
That  poor  girl  were  led  astray ;  and  first  thing  we  heard  on  it, 
was  when  a  letter  of  lier  father's  was  sent  back  by  her  missus, 
saying  she'd  left  her  place,  or,  to  speak  right,  the  master  had 
turned  her  into  the  street  soon  as  he  had  heard  of  her  condition — 
and  she  not  seventeen  !  " 

She  now  cried  aloud ;  and  Susan  wept  too.  The  little  child 
looked  up  into  their  faces,  and,  catching  their  sorrow,  ])egan  to 
whimper  and  wail.  Susan  took  it  softly  up,  and  hiding  her  liice 
in  its  little  neck,  tried  to  rest-ain  her  tears,  and  think  of  comfort 
for  the  mother.     At  last  she  said — 

*'  Where  is  she  now  ?  " 

"  Lass !  I  dunnot  know,''  said  Mrs.  Leigh,  checking  her  sobs 
to  cf>nimunicate  this  addition  to  Iter  distress.  "  Mrs.  Luniax 
telled  me  she  went " 

"  Mrs.  Loinax — what  Mr.s.  Lomnx?  " 

*'II<>r  as  lives  in  linibazon  Street.  She  telled  me  my  poor 
wench  went  to  the  workhouse  fra  there.  I'll  not  sjieak  ai!ain  the 
diud  ;  l)Ut  if  her  father  would  but  ha' lelten  me — but  he  were 
o:ie  who  had  no  notion — no,  I'll  not  8.iy  that  ;  best  say  nought. 
He  forgave  lier  on  his  death-bed.  I  daresay  I  did  na  go  th'  right 
way  to  work." 

•'  Will  you  hold  the  child  for  me  one  instant  ?"  said  Susan. 

•'  Ay,  if  it  will  como  to  mo.  Childer  used  to  be  ft>nd  on  mo 
till  I  gut  the  Bud  look  on  my  face  tliat  scares  thcin,  I  think." 


LIZZIE   LEIGH.  15 

But  the  little  girl  clung  to  Susan;  so  she  carried  it  upstairs 
with  hor.  Mrs.  Leigh  sat  by  herself — how  long  she  did  not 
know. 

Susan  came  down  with  a  bundle  of  far-worn  baby  -clothes. 

"  You  must  listen  to  me  a  bit,  and  not  think  too  much  aVjoiit 
what  I'm  going  to  tell  you.  Nanny  is  not  my  niece,  nor  any  kin 
to  me,  that  I  know  of.  I  used  to  go  out  working  l)y  the  day. 
One  night,  as  I  came  home,  I  thought  some  woman  was  follow- 
ing me;  I  turned  to  look.  The  woman,  before  I  could  see  licr 
face  (for  she  turned  it  to  one  side),  offered  me  something.  I 
held  out  my  arms  by  instinct ;  she  dropped  a  bundle  into  them, 
with  a  bursting  sob  that  went  straight  to  my  heart.  It  was  a 
baby.  I  looked  round  again;  but  the  woman  was  gone.  She 
had  run  away  as  quick  as  lightning.  There  was  a  little  packet  of 
clothes — very  few — and  as  if  they  were  made  out  of  its  mother's 
gowns,  for  they  were  large  patterns  to  buy  for  a  baby.  I 
was  always  fond  of  babies ;  and  I  had  not  my  wits  about  me, 
father  says ;  for  it  was  very  cold,  and  when  I'd  seen  as  well  as  I 
could  (fur  it  was  past  ten)  that  there  was  no  one  in  the  street,  I 
brought  it  in  and  warmed  it.  Father  was  very  angry  when  he 
came,  and  said  he'd  take  it  to  the  workhouse  the  next  morning, 
and  flyted  me  sadly  about  it.  But  when  morning  came  I  could 
not  bear  to  part  with  it;  it  had  slept  in  my  arms  all  night;  and 
I've  heard  what  workhouse  bringing-up  is.  So  I  told  father  I'd 
give  up  going  out  working,  and  stay  at  home  and  keep  school,  if 
I  might  only  keep  tlie  baby  ;  and,  after  a  while,  he  said  if  I 
earned  enough  for  him  to  have  his  comforts,  he'd  let  me ;  but 
he's  never  taken  to  her.  Now,  don't  tremble  so — I've  but  a  little 
more  to  tell — and  maybe  I'm  wrong  in  telling  it ;  but  I  used  to 
•work  next  door  to  Mrs.  Lomax's,  in  Brabazon  Street,  and  the 
servants  were  all  thick  together;  and  I  heard  about  Bessy  (thiy 
called  her)  being  sent  away.  I  don't  know  that  ever  I  saw  her; 
but  the  time  would  be  about  fitting  to  this  child's  age,  and  I've 
sometimes  fancied  it  was  hers.  And  now,  will  you  look  at  the 
little  clothes  that  came  with  her — bless  her !  " 

But  Mrs.  Leigh  had  fainted.  The  strange  joy  and  shame,  and 
gushing  love  for  the  little  child,  had  overpowered  her;  it  was 
some  time  Vjefore  Susan  could  bring  her  round.  Tliere  she  was 
all  trembling,  sick  with  impatience  to  look  at  the  little  frocks. 
Among  them  was  a  slip  of  paper  which  Susan  had  forgotten  to 
naree,  that  had  been  pinned  to  the  bundle.  On  it  was  scrawled 
in  a  round  stiff  hand — 

"  Call  her  Anne.  She  does  not  cry  much,  and  takes  a  deal  of 
notice.     God  bless  you  and  forgive  me." 


I  6  LIZZIE    LEIGH. 

The  writing  was  no  clue  at  all ;  the  name  "  Anne,"  common 
though  it  was,  seemed  something  to  build  upon.  But  Mrs.  Leigh 
recognised  one  of  the  froc-ks  instantly,  as  being  made  out  of  a  part 
of  a  gown  that  she  and  her  daughter  had  bought  together  in 
Kochdale. 

She  stood  up,  and  stretched  out  her  hands  in  the  attitude  of 
blessing  over  Susan's  bent  head. 

"  God  bless  you,  and  show  you  His  mercy  in  your  need,  as  you 
have  shown  it  to  this  little  child." 

She  took  the  little  creature  in  her  arms,  and  smoothed  away  her 
sad  looks  to  a  smile,  and  kissed  it  fondly,  saying  over  and  over 
again,  "  Nanny,  Nanny,  my  little  Nanny."  At  last  the  child  was 
soothed,  and  looked  in  her  face  and  smiled  back  again. 

*'  It  has  her  eyes,"  said  she  to  Susan. 

"  I  never  saw  her  to  the  best  of  my  knowledge.  I  think  it 
must  V)e  hers  by  the  frock.     But  where  can  she  be  ?  " 

"  God  knows,"  said  Mrs.  Leigh  ;  "  I  dare  not  think  she's  dead. 
I'm  sure  she  isn't." 

"  No ;  she's  not  dead.  Every  now  and  then  a  little  packet  is 
thrust  in  under  our  door,  with,  may  be,  two  hall-crowns  in  it ; 
once  it  was  half-a-sovereign.  Altogether  I've  got  seven-and- 
thirty  shillings  wrapped  up  for  Nanny.  I  never  touch  it,  but 
I've  often  thought  the  poor  mother  feels  near  to  God  when  she 
brings  this  money.  Father  wanted  to  set  the  policeman  to  watch, 
V>ut  I  said  No ;  for  I  was  afraid  if  she  was  watched  she  might  not 
come,  and  it  seemed  such  a  holy  thing  to  be  checking  her  in,  I 
could  not  find  in  my  heart  to  do  it." 

"  Oh,  if  we  could  but  find  her  !  I'd  take  her  in  my  arras,  and 
we'd  just  lie  down  and  die  together." 

*'  Nay,  don't  speak  so  !  "  siiid  Susan,  gently  ;  "  for  all  that's  come 
and  pone,  she  may  turn  right  at  last.  Mary  Magdalen  did,  you 
know." 

•'  Eh  !  but  I  were  nearer  right  about  thee  than  Will.  He 
thought  you  Would  never  look  on  him  again  if  you  knew  about 
Lizzie.     But  tliou'rt  not  a  Pharisee." 

"  I'm  sorry  he  thought  I  could  he  so  hard,"  said  Susan  in  a  low 
voice,  and  colouring  up.  Then  Mrs.  Lrigh  was  alarim-d,  and.  in 
lier  motherl}'  anxiety,  she  began  to  fear  lest  she  had  injurid  Will 
in  Susan's  estimation. 

"You  see  Will  thinks  so  much  of  you — gold  would  not  ho 
goo<l  enough  for  you  to  walk  on,  in  his  eye.  He  said  you'd  never 
look  at  him  as  lie  was,  let  alone  his  bi-ing  brother  to  my  jHxir 
wench.  He  loves  you  so,  it  makes  him  think  mennly  on  every- 
thing belonging  to  hiuisolf,  as  not  fit  to  come  near  ye ;  but  ho'i 


LIZZIE  LEIGH.  17 

a  good  lad,  and  a  good  son.  Tliou'lt  bo  a  happy  woman  if  thou'lt 
have  him,  so  don't  let  my  words  go  against  him — don't !  " 

lint  Snsan  hnng  her  licad,  and  made  no  answer.  She  had  not 
known  initil  now  that  Will  thonght  so  earnestly  and  seriously 
about  her;  and  even  now  she  felt  afraid  tliat  Mrs. Leigh's  words 
promised  her  too  much  happiness,  and  that  they  could  not  bo  true. 
At  anv  rate,  the  histiiict  of  modesty  made  her  shrink  from  saying 
an\-thing  which  miglit  seem  like  a  confession  of  her  own  feelings 
to  a  third  person.  Accordingly  she  turned  the  conversation  on 
the  child. 

"  I  am  sure  he  could  not  help  loving  Nanny,"  said  she. 
'There  never  was  such  a  good  little  darling;  don't  you  think 
she"d  win  his  heart  if  ho  knew  she  was  his  niece,  and  perhaps 
bring  him  to  think  kindly  on  his  sister?  " 

"  I  dunnot  know,"  said  jMrs.  Leigh,  shaking  her  head.     "  He 

has  a  turn  in  his  eye  like  his  father,  that  makes  me He's 

right  down  good  though.  But  you  see,  I've  never  been  a  good 
one  at  managing  folk  ;  one  severe  look  turns  me  sick,  and  then  I 
say  just  the  wrong  thing,  I'm  so  fluttered.  Now  I  should  like 
nothing  better  than  to  take  Nancy  home  Avith  me,  but  Tom  knows 
nothing  but  that  his  sister  is  dead,  and  I've  not  the  knack  of 
speaking  rightly  to  "Will.  I  dare  not  do  it,  and  that's  the  truth. 
But  you  mun  not  think  badly  of  Will.  He's  so  good  hissel,  that 
he  can't  understand  how  any  one  can  do  wrong ;  and,  above  all, 
I'm  sure  he  loves  you  dearly." 

"  I  don't  think  I  could  part  with  Nancy,"  said  Susan,  anxious 
to  stop  this  revelation  of  Will's  attachment  to  hei'self.  "He'll 
come  round  to  her  soon ;  he  can't  fail ;  and  I'll  keep  a  sharp  look- 
out after  the  poor  mother,  and  try  and  catch  her  the  next  time 
she  comes  with  her  little  parcels  of  money." 

"  Ay,  lass ;  we  mun  get  hold  of  her  ;  my  Lizzie.  I  love  thee 
dearly  for  thy  kindness  to  her  child  :  but,  if  thou  canst  catch  her 
for  me,  I'll  pray  for  thee  when  I'm  too  near  my  death  to  speak 
words ;  and,  while  I  live,  I'll  serve  thee  next  to  her — she  mim 
come  first,  thou  know'st.  God  l)les3  thee,  lass.  My  heart  is  lighter 
by  a  deal  than  it  was  Avhen  I  corned  in.  Them  lads  will  bo  looking- 
for  me  home,  and  I  mim  go,  and  leave  this  little  sweet  one  "  (kissing 
it).  "  If  I  can  take  courage,  I'll  tell  Will  all  that  has  come  and 
gone  between  us  two.     He  may  come  and  see  thee,  mayn't  he  ?  " 

"  Father  will  be  very  glad  to  sec  him,  I'm  sure,"  replied 
Susan.  Th'j  way  in  which  this  was  spoken  satisfied  Mrs.  Leigh's 
anxious  heart  that  sshe  had  done  Will  no  harm  by  wdiat  she  had 
Paid  ;  and,  with  many  a  kiss  to  the  little  one,  and  one  more  fervent 
tearful  blessing  on  Susan,  she  went  homewards. 

C 


IS  UZZIE   LEIGn. 


CHAPTER  iir. 

That  night  ^rrs.  Leigh  stopped  at  borne — that  only  night  for 
many  months?.  Even  Toni,  the  schohir,  looked  up  fiom  his 
books  in  amazement;  but  then  he  remembered  tliat  Will  had  nut 
been  well,  and  that  his  mother's  attention  having  been  called  to 
the  circumstance,  it  was  only  natural  she  should  ctay  to  watch 
him.  And  no  watching  could  be  more  tender,  or  more  cumpkte. 
Her  loving  eyes  seemed  never  averted  from  his  face — his  grave, 
rad,  careworn  face.  "When  Tom  went  to  bed  the  motlier  left  h»  r 
scat,  and  going  up  to  Will,  where  he  sat  looking  at  the  fire,  but 
not  seeing  it,  she  kissed  his  forehead,  and  said — 

"  Will !  lad,  I've  been  to  see  Susan  Palmer  !  " 

She  felt  the  start  under  her  hand  which  was  placed  on  his 
shoulder,  but  he  was  silent  for  a  minute  or  two.    Then  he  said, — 

"  What  took  you  there,  mother  ?  " 

"  Why,  my  lad,  it  was  likely  I  should  wish  to  see  one  you  cared 
for;  I  did  not  put  myself  forward.  I  put  on  my  Sunday  clothes, 
and  tried  to  behave  as  yo'd  ha'  liked  me.  At  least,  I  remember 
trying  at  first;   but  after,  I  forgot  all." 

She  rather  wished  that  he  would  question  her  as  to  \\liat  made 
her  forget  all.     But  he  only  said — 

"  How  was  she  looking,  mother?  " 

"Well,  thou  seest  I  never  set  eyes  on  her  before;  but  she's 
a  good,  gentle-looking  creature;  and  I  love  her  dearly,  as  I've 
rea'-on  t(^." 

Will  looked  up  with  momentary  surprise,  for  his  mother  was 
too  shy  to  be  usually  taken  with  strangers.  But,  after  all,  it  was 
naturally  in  this  case,  for  who  could  look  at  Susan  without  luving 
her?  So  still  ho  did  not  ask  anv  (piestions,  and  his  poor  mother 
had  to  take  courage,  and  try  again  to  introduce  the  subject  near 
to  lier  heart.      But  how  ? 

"  Will  !  "  said  she  (jerking  it  out  in  sudden  despair  of  her  own 
powers  to  lead  to  what  she  wanted  to  S!>y),  "  I  tolled  her  all." 

"  Mother  !  you've  ruined  me,"  said  he,  stiuiding  up,  and  staniU 
ing  opposite  to  her  with  a  stern  white  look  of  o Aright  on  his 
face. 

'*  No  !  my  own  dear  lad ;  dunnot  look  so  scared  ;  I  have  not 
ruined  you  I"  she  exclaimed,  placing  her  two  linnds  on  )iia 
hlioulders,  and  looking  fondly  into  his  face.  *'  She's  not  one  to 
harden  her  heart  against  a  mother's  sorrow.     My  own   lad,  she's 


LIZZIE   LEIGH.  19 

too  good  for  that.  She's  not  one  to  jiulproand  scorn  the  sinner. 
She's  too  deep  read  in  her  New  Testament  for  that.  Take  courage, 
Will;  and  thou  mayst,  for  I  ■watched  lier  well,  though  it  is  not 
for  one  woman  to  let  out  another's  secret.  Sit  thee  doAvn,  lad,  lur 
thou  look'st  very  white." 

He  Silt  down.  His  mother  drew  a  stool  towards  him,  and  sat 
at  his  feet. 

"  Did  you  tell  her  about  Lizzie,  then  ?  "  asked  he,  hoarse  and  low. 

"  I  did ;  I  telled  her  all !  and  she  fell  a-cryiiig  over  my  deep 
sorrow,  and  the  poor  wench's  sin.  And  then  a  light  corned  into 
lier  face,  trembling  and  quivering  with  some  new  glad  thought; 
and  what  dost  thou  think  it  was,  Will,  lad  ?  Nay,  I'll  not  mis- 
d()ul)t  but  that  thy  heart  will  give  thanks  as  mine  did,  afore  God 
and  His  angels,  for  her  great  goodness.  That  little  Nanny  is  not 
her  niece,  she's  our  Lizzie's  own  child,  my  little  grandchild." 
She  could  no  longer  restrain  her  tears ;  and  they  full  hot  and  fast, 
but  still  she  looked  into  his  face. 

"  Did  she  know  it  was  Lizzie's  child  ?  I  do  not  comprehend," 
said  he,  flushing  red. 

"  She  knows  now:  she  did  not  at  first,  but  took  the  little  help- 
less creature  in,  out  of  her  own  pitiful,  loving  heart,  guessing 
only  that  it  was  the  child  of  shame ;  and  she's  worked  for  it,  and 
kept  it,  and  tended  it  ever  sin'  it  were  a  mere  baby,  and  loves 
it  fondly.  Will !  won't  you  love  it  ?  "  asked  she,  beseechingly. 

He  Avas  silent  for  an  instant ;  then  he  said,  "  Mother,  I'll  try» 
Give  me  time,  for  all  these  things  startle  me.  To  think  of  Susan 
having  to  do  with  such  a  child  !" 

"  Ay,  Will !  and  to  think,  as  may  be,  yet  of  Susan  having  to 
do  with  the  child's  mother  t  For  she  is  tender  and  pitiful,  and 
speaks  hopefully  of  my  lost  one,  and  will  try  and  find  her  for  me, 
when  she  comes,  as  she  does  sometimes,  to  thrust  money  under, 
the  door,  lor  her  baby.  Think  of  that,  Will.  Here's  Susan,  good 
and  pure  as  the  angels  in  heaven,  yet,  like  them,  full  of  hope 
and  mercy,  and  one  Avho,  like  them,  will  rejoice  over  her  as  re- 
pents. Will,  my  lad,  I'm  not  afeard  of  you  now ;  and  I  must  speak, 
and  you  must  listen.  I  am  your  mother,  and  I  dare  to  command 
you,  because  I  know  I  am  in  the  right,  and  that  God  is  on  my 
side.  If  He  should  lead  the  poor  wandering  lassie  to  Susjin's 
door,  and  she  comes  back,  crying  and  sorryfui,  led  by  that  good 
angel  to  ua  once  more,  thou  shalt  never  sjiy  a  casting-up  word  to 
her  about  her  sin,  but  be  tender  and  helpful  towards  one  '  who 
was  lost  and  is  found  ;'  so  may  God's  blessing  rest  on  thee,  and 
BO  mayst  thou  lead  Susan  home  as  thy  wife." 

She  stood  no  longer  as  the  meek,  imploring,  gentle  mother,  but 

u2 


20  LIZZIE  LEIGH. 

firm  and  dignified,  as  if  the  interpreter  of  God's  will.  Her  manner 
Avas  so  unusual  and  solemn,  tliat  it  overcame  all  Will's  ))ride  and 
stubbornness.  He  rose  softly  while  she  was  speaking,  and  bent  his 
head,  as  if  in  reverence  at  her  words,  and  the  solemn  injunction 
Avhich  they  conveyed.  When  she  had  spoken,  he  said,  in  so  sub- 
dued a  voice  that  she  was  almost  surprised  at  the  sound,  "  Mother, 
I  will." 

"  I  may  be  dead  and  gone;  but,  all  the  same,  thou  wilt  take 
home  the  wandering  sinner,  and  heal  up  her  sorrows,  and  kid 
her  to  her  Father's  house.  My  lad  !  I  can  speak  no  more  ;  I'm 
turned  very  faint." 

He  placed  her  in  a  chair ;  he  ran  for  water.  She  opened  her 
eyes,  and  smiled. 

"  God  bless  you.  Will.  Oh  !  I  am  so  happy.  It  seems  as  if 
she  were  found  ;  my  heart  is  so  filled  wita  gladness." 

That  night  I\Ir.  Palmer  stayed  out  late  and  long.  Susan  was 
afraid  that  he  was  at  his  old  haunts  and  habits — getting  tipsy  at 
same  public-house;  and  this  thought  oppressed  her,  even  though 
she  had  so  much  to  make  her  happy  in  the  consciousness  that  Will 
loved  her.  She  sat  up  long,  and  then  she  went  to  bed,  leaving 
all  arranged  as  well  as  she  could  for  her  father's  return.  She 
looked  at  the  little  rosy,  sleeping  girl  who  was  her  bud-fellow, 
with  redoubled  tenderness,  and  with  many  a  prayerful  thought. 
The  little  arms  entwined  her  neck  as  she  lay  down,  for  Nanny 
was  a  light  sleeper,  and  was  conscious  that  she,  who  was  loved 
with  all  the  power  of  that  sweet,  childish  heart,  was  near  her, 
and  by  her,  although  she  was  too  sleepy  to  utter  any  of  her  half- 
formed  words. 

And,  by-and-by,  she  heard  her  father  come  home,  stumbling 
uncertain,  trying  first  the  windows,  and  next  the  dt^or  fastenings, 
with  many  a  loud  incoherent  murmur.  The  little  innocent 
twined  around  her  seemed  all  the  sweeter  and  more  lovely,  when 
she  thought  sadly  of  her  erring  father.  And  jiresently  he  called 
aloud  for  a  light.  She  had  left  matches  and  all  arranged  as  usual 
on  the  dresser;  Init,  fearful  of  some  accident  from  fire,  in  his 
unusually  intoxicated  state,  she  now  got  up  softly,  and  jHitting 
on  a  cloak,  went  down  to  his  assistance. 

Alas!  the  little  arms  that  were  unclosed  from  her  soft  neck 
belonged  to  a  light,  easily  awakened  sleeper.  Nanny  missed 
her  darling  Susy;  and  terrified  at  being  left  alone,  in  the  va^t 
mysterious  darkness,  which  had  no  bounds  and  seemed  infinite,  she 
slipped  out  of  bed,  and  tottered,  in  her  little  nightgown,  towards 
the  door.  There  was  a  light  l)elow,  and  there  was  Susy  and 
tafety  !      So  she   went   onwards  two    steps  towards  the   steep, 


LIZZIE   LEIGir.  21 

nV>nipt  stairs;  and  then,  dazzled  bv  sleepiness,  slio  stood,  she 
■wavered,  she  fell  !  Down  on  her  Jiead  on  the  stone  tloor  she  fell ! 
Susan  flew  to  her,  and  spoke  all  soft,  entreatinpr,  loving  words ; 
but  her  white  lids  covered  up  the  blue  violets  of  eyes,  and 
there  was  no  murmur  came  out  of  the  pale  lips.  The  warm 
tears  that  rained  dowa  did  not  awaken  her ;  she  lay  ttifF,  and 
•weary  with  her  short  life,  on  Susan's  knee.  Susan  went  sick  with 
terror.  She  carried  her  upstairs,  and  laid  her  tenderly  in  bed ; 
she  dressed  herself  most  hastily,  with  her  trembling  fingers.  Her 
father  was  asleep  on  the  settle  downstairs;  and  useless,  and 
worse  than  useless,  if  awake.  But  Susan  flew  out  of  the  door,  and 
down  the  quiet  resounding  street,  towards  the  nearest  doctor's 
house.  Quickly  she  went,  but  as  quickly  a  shadow  followed,  as  if 
impelled  by  some  sudden  terror.  Susan  rang  wildly  at  the  night- 
bell — the  shadow  crouched  near.  The  doctor  looked  out  from 
an  upstairs  Avindow. 

"  A  little  child  has  fallen  downstairs,  at  Xo.  9  Crown  Street, 
and  is  very  ill — dying,  I'm  afraid.  Please,  for  God's  sake,  sir, 
come  directly.     No.  9  Crown  Street." 

"  I'll  be  there  directly,"  said  he,  and  shut  the  window. 

"  For  that  God  you  have  just  spoken  about — for  His  sake — toll 
me,  are  you  Susan  Palmer?  Is  it  my  child  that  lies  a-dying  ?  " 
said  the  shadow,  springing  forwards,  and  clutching  poor  Susan's 
arm. 

"  It  is  a  little  child  of  two  years  old.  I  do  not  know  whose  it 
is ;  I  love  it  as  my  outi.  Come  with  me,  whoever  you  are ;  come 
with  me." 

The  two  sped  along  the  silent  streets — as  silent  as  the  night 
were  they.  They  entered  the  house;  Susan  snatched  up  the 
light,  and  carried  it  upstairs.     The  other  folIoAved. 

She  stood  with  wild,  glaring  eyes  by  the  bedside,  never  looking 
at  Susan,  but  hungrily  gazing  at  the  little,  Avhite,  still  child.  She 
stooped  down,  and  put  her  hand  tight  on  her  own  heart,  as  if  to 
still  its  beating,  and  bent  her  ear  to  the  pale  lips.  Whatever  the 
result  was,  she  did  not  speak;  but  threw  off  the  bed-clothes 
wherewith  Susan  had  tenderly  covered  up  the  little  creature,  and 
felt  its  left  side. 

Then  she  threw  up  her  arms,  with  a  cry  of  wild  despair. 

"  She  is  dead  !  she  is  dead  I  " 

"  She  looked  so  fierce,  so  mad,  so  haggard,  tliat,  for  an  instant, 
Susan  was  terrified;  the  next,  the  holy  God  had  jnit  courage  into 
her  heart,  and  her  pure  arms  were  round  that  guilty,  wretched 
creature,  and  her  toars  were  falling  fast  and  warm  upon  her 
breast.     But  she  v/ds  thrown  off  with  violence. 


22  LIZZIE   LEIGH. 

"  You  killed  her — you  slighted  lior — you  let  her  fall  down 
those  stairs  !  you  killed  her  !  " 

Susan  cleared  off  the  tliick  mist  before  her,  and,  gazing  at 
the  mother  with  lier  clear,  sweet  angel  eyes,  said,  mournfully — 

"  I  would  have  laid  down  my  own  life  for  lier." 

"  Oh,  the  murder  is  on  my  soul ! "  exclaimed  the  wild,  bereaved 
mother,  with  tlie  fierce  impetuosity  of  one  who  has  none  to  love 
her,  and  to  be  beloved,  regard  to  whom  might  teach  self-restraint. 

"  Hush  !  "  said  Susan,  her  finger  on  her  lips.  "  Here  is  the 
doctor.     God  may  suffer  her  to  live." 

The  poor  motfier  turned  sharp  round.  Tlie  doctor  mounted 
the  stair.  Ah  !  that  mother  was  right;  the  little  child  was  really 
dead  and  gone. 

And  when  he  confirmed  her  judgment,  the  mother  fell  down 
ill  a  fit.  Susan,  with  her  deep  grief,  had  to  forget  herself,  and 
f  iiget  her  darling  (her  charge  for  years),  and  question  the  doctor 
vliat  she  must  do  with  the  poor  wretch,  who  lay  on  the  floor  in 
such  extreme  of  misery. 

"  She  is  the  mother  !  "  said  she. 

"  Why  did  she  not  take  better  care  of  her  child?"  asked  he, 
almost  angrily. 

Hut  Susan  only  said,  "The  little  child  slept  with  me;  and  it 
was  I  that  left  her." 

"  1  will  go  back  and  make  up  a  composing  draught;  and  while 
1  am  away  you  must  get  her  to  bed." 

Susan  took  out  some  of  her  own  clothes,  and  softly  imdresseu 
the  stiff,  powerless  form.  Tliere  was  no  otiicr  bed  in  the  liouse 
liut  the  one  in  which  her  father  slept.  So  she  tenderly  lifted  the 
body  of  her  darling;  and  was  going  to  take  it  downstairs,  but  the 
mother  opened  her  eyes,  and  seeing  what  she  was  about,  slie 
huid — 

*'  I  am  not  worthy  to  touch  her,  I  am  so  wicked.  I  have 
Fjwken  to  you  as  I  never  should  have  spoken;  but  I  think  you 
are  very  good.  May  I  have  my  own  cliild  to  lie  in  my  arms  for 
a  little  "while?" 

Her  voice  was  so  strange  a  contrast  to  Avhat  it  had  been  before 
she  had  gone  into  the  lit,  that  Susan  hardly  recognised  it:  it  was 
i:(j\v  H(i  uiiHj)oakubly  soft,  so  irresistibly  ])leading;  the  features  t(x> 
had  lost  tiu  ir  fierce  exj)rrssion,  and  were  ahmtst  as  ]>lacid  as  death. 
Sus;in  could  not  sj)eak,  but  bIic  carried  the  little  cliild,  and  laid  it 
ill  its  motlu'r's  arms;  then,  as  she  looked  at  them,  sumetliing 
overpowered  her,  and  she  knelt  down,  cryini;  aloud — 

"()li,  niy  (iod,  my  tiod,  have  mercy  on  her,  and  forgive  and 
comfurl  her." 


LIZZIE   LEIGH.  23 

But  the  mother  kept  smiling,  and  stroking  the  little  face, 
murmuring  soft,  tender  words,  as  if  it  were  alive.  She  was  going 
mad,  Susan  thought ;  hut  she  prayed  on,  and  on,  and  ever  irtill 
she  prayed  with  streaming  eyes. 

The  doctor  came  with  the  draught.  The  mother  took  it,  with 
docile  unconsciousness  of  its  nature  as  medicine.  The  doctor  sat 
by  her;  and  soon  she  fell  asleep.  Then  he  rose  softly,  and 
beckiining  Susan  to  the  door,  he  spoke  to  her  there. 

"  You  must  take  tlie  corpse  out  of  her  arms.  She  will  not 
awake.  That  draught  will  make  her  sleep  for  many  hours.  I 
will  call  before  noon  again.     It  is  now  daylight.     Good-by." 

Susan  shut  him  out;  and  then,  gently  extricating  the  dead 
child  from  its  mother's  arms,  she  could  not  resist  making  her  own 
quiet  moan  over  her  darling.  She  tried  to  learn  off  its  little 
placid  face,  dumb  and  pale  before  her. 

Not  all  the  scalding  tears  of  care 
Shall  wash  away  that  vision  fair  ; 
Not  all  tlie  thousand  thoughts  that  r!so, 
Not  all  the  sights  tliat  dim  her  eyes, 

Shall  e'er  usurp  the  place 

Of  that  little  angel-face. 

And  then  she  remembered  what  remained  to  be  done.  Slie 
saw  that  all  was  right  in  the  house ;  her  father  was  still  dead 
asleep  on  the  settle,  in  spite  of  all  the  noise  of  the  night.  She 
went  out  through  the  quiet  streets,  deserted  still,  although  it  Avas 
broad  daylight,  and  to  where  the  Leighs  lived.  Mrs.  Leigh,  who 
kept  her  country  hours,  was  opening  her  window-shutters.  Susan 
took  her  by  the  arm,  and,  without  speaking,  went  into  the  house- 
place.  There  she  knelt  down  before  the  astonished  Mrs.  Leigh,  and 
cried  as  she  had  never  done  before ;  but  the  miserable  niglit  had 
overpowered  her,  and  she  who  had  gone  through  so  much  calmly 
now  that  the  pressure  seemed  removed  could  not  find  the  power 
to  speak. 

"  My  poor  dear!  "What  has  made  thy  heart  so  sore  as  to  come 
and  cry  a-this-ons  ?  Speak  and  tell  me.  Nay,  cry  on,  poor 
wench,  if  ihou  canst  not  speak  yet.  It  will  ease  the  heart,  and 
then  thou  canst  tell  me." 

"  Nanny  is  dead  !  "  said  Susan.  "  I  left  her  to  go  to  father, 
and  she  fell  downstairs,  and  never  breathed  again.  Oh,  that's 
mv  sorrow  !  But  I've  more  to  tell.  Iler  mother  is  come — is  in 
our  house  !      Come  and  see  if  it's  your  Lizzie." 

Mrs.  Leigh  could  not  speak,  but,  treml)ling,  put  on  her  thinga 
and  went  with  Susan  in  dizzy  haste  back  to  Crown  Street. 


24  LIZZIE   LEIGH. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

As  tbey  entered  the  house  in  Crown  Street,  they  perceived  that 
the  door  Avould  not  open  freely  on  its  hinges,  and  Susan  instinc- 
tively looked  behind  to  see  the  cause  of  the  obstruction.  She 
immediately  recognised  the  appearance  of  a  little  parcel,  ■\\Tapped 
in  a  scrap  of  newspaper,  and  evidently  contiiining  money.  She 
stooped  and  picked  it  up.  "  Look  !  "  said  she,  sorrowfully,  "  the 
mother  was  bringing  this  for  her  child  last  night." 

But  Jlrs.  Leigh  did  not  answer.  So  near  to  the  ascertaining  if 
it  were  her  lost  child  or  no,  she  could  not  be  arrested,  but  pressed 
onwards  with  trembling  steps  and  a  beating,  iluttering  heart.  She 
entered  the  bedroom,  dark  and  still.  She  took  no  heed  of  the 
Jittle  corpse  over  which  Susan  paused,  but  she  went  straight  to 
the  bed,  and,  withdrawing  the  curtain,  saw  Lizzie ;  but  not  the 
former  Lizzie,  bright,  gay,  buoyant,  and  undinimed.  This  Lizzie 
was  old  before  her  time;  her  beauty  was  gone;  deep  lines  of 
care,  and,  alas !  of  want  (or  thus  the  motlier  imagined)  were 
printed  on  the  cheek,  so  round,  and  fair,  and  smooth,  when  last 
she  gladdened  her  mother's  eyes.  Even  in  her  sleep  she  bore  the 
look  of  woe  and  despair  which  was  the  prevalent  expression  of 
her  face  by  day ;  even  in  her  sleep  she  had  iorgotten  how  to 
smile.  But  all  these  marks  of  the  sin  and  sorrow  she  had  passed 
through  only  made  her  mother  love  licr  the  more.  She  stcod 
looking  at  her  with  greedy  eyes,  which  seemed  as  though  no 
gazing  could  satisfy  their  longing ;  and  at  last  she  stooped  dowu 
and  kissed  the  ]iale,  worn  hand  that  lay  outside  the  bedclothes. 
No  touch  disturbed  the  sleeper;  the  mother  need  not  have  laid 
the  hand  so  gently  down  upon  the  counterjmne.  There  was  no 
fiign  of  life,  save  only  now  and  then  a  deep  sob-like  sigh.  Mrs. 
Leigh  sat  down  beside  the  bed,  and  still  holding  back  the  curtain, 
looked  on  and  on,  as  if  she  could  never  be  sjitisfied. 

Susan  would  liiin  have  stayed  by  her  darling  one;  but  she 
liad  many  calls  upon  her  time  and  thoughts,  and  lit'r  will  had 
now,  as  ever,  to  be  given  up  to  that  of  others.  All  Wfmed  to 
devolve  the  burden  of  their  carts  on  lior.  Her  fatlu-r,  ill- 
huinotu'cd  from  his  last  night's  intempenince,  did  not  scrujile  to 
reproach  her  with  being  the  cause  of  little  Nanny's  death;  and 
when,  after  bearing  liib  ui»braiding  meekly  for  some  time,  she 
could  no  longer  restrain  herself,  but  bepui  to  cry,  ho  wotuidcd 
her  even  more  by  his  injudicious  aUeuijJls  at  comfort ;  for  he 


LIZZIE  LEIGH.  25 

said  it  was  as  well  the  child  was  dead ;  it  was  none  of  theirs,  and 
why  should  they  be  troubled  with  it  ?  Susan  wrung  her  hands 
at  this,  and  came  and  stood  before  her  father,  and  iipplored  him 
to  forbear.  Then  she  had  to  take  all  reqtiisite  steps  for  the 
coroner's  inquest;  she  had  to  arrange  for  the  dismissal  of  her 
school;  she  had  to  summons  a  little  neighbour,  and  send  his 
willing  feet  on  a  message  to  William  Leigh,  who,  she  felt,  ought 
to  be  informed  of  his  mother's  whereabouts,  and  of  the  whole 
8tate  of  affairs.  She  asked  her  messenger  to  tell  him  to  come 
and  speak  to  her ;  that  his  mother  was  at  her  house.  She  was 
thankful  that  her  father  sauntered  out  to  have  a  gossip  at  the 
nearest  coach-stand,  and  to  relate  as  many  of  the  night's  adven- 
tures as  he  knew  ;  for  as  yet  he  was  in  ignorance  of  the  watcher 
and  the  watched,  who  silently  passed  away  the  hours  upstairs. 

At  dinner-time  Will  came.  He  looked  red,  glad,  impatient, 
excited.  Susan  stood  calm  and  white  before  him,  her  soft,  loving 
eyes  gazing  straight  into  his. 

"  Will,"  said  she,  in  a  low,  quiet  voice,  "  your  sister  is  rip- 
stairs." 

'•  My  sister !  "  said  he,  as  if  affrighted  at  the  idea,  and  losing 
his  glad  look  in  one  of  gloom.  Susan  saw  it,  and  her  heart  sank 
a  little,  but  she  went  on  as  calm  to  all  appearance  as  ever. 

"  She  was  little  Nanny's  mother,  as  perhaps  you  know.  Poor 
little  Nanny  was  killed  last  night  by  a  fall  doAVTistairs."  All 
the  calmness  was  gone;  all  the  suppressed  feeling  was  displayed 
in  spite  of  every  effort.  She  sat  down,  and  hid  her  face  from 
him,  and  cried  bitterly.  lie  forgot  everytliing  but  the  wish,  the 
longing  to  comfort  her.  He  put  his  arm  round  her  waist,  and 
bent  over  her.  But  all  he  could  say,  was,  "  Oh,  Susan,  how  can 
I  comfort  you  ?  Don't  take  on  so — pray  don't !  "  He  never 
changed  the  words,  but  the  tone  varied  every  time  he  spoke.  At 
last  she  seemed  to  regain  her  power  over  herself ;  and  she  wiped 
her  eyes,  and  once  more  looked  upon  him  with  her  own  c[uiet, 
earnest,  unfearing  gaze. 

"  Your  sister  was  near  the  house.  She  came  in  on  hearing: 
my  words  to  the  doctor.  She  is  asleep  now,  and  your  mother  is 
v.-atching  her.  I  wanted  to  tell  you  all  myself.  Would  you  like 
to  see  your  mother  ?  " 

"  No  !  "  said  he.  "  I  would  rather  see  none  but  thee.  Mother 
told  me  thou  knew'st  all."  His  eyes  were  downcast  in  their 
ehame. 

But  the  holy  and  pure  did  not  lower  or  veil  her  eyes. 

She  said,  "  Yes,  I  know  all — all  but  her  sufferings.  Think 
whut  they  must  have  been  I  " 


26  LIZZIE   LEIGir. 

He  made  answer,  low  and  stem,  *'  She  deserved  them  all ;  every 
jot." 

"  In  tlie  eye  of  God,  perhaps  she  docs.  He  is  the  Judge;  we 
are  not." 

"  Oil !  "  she  s:aid,  with  a  sudden  hurst,  "  "Will  Loiph  !  I  have 
thouaht  so  well  of  ycni ;  don't  go  and  make  me  think  you  cruel 
and  hard.  Goodness  is  not  goodness  unless  there  is  mercy  and 
tenderne&s  with  it.  There  is  your  mother,  who  has  been  nearly 
heart-broken,  now  full  of  rejoicing  over  her  child.  Think  of  your 
mother." 

"  I  do  think  of  her,"  said  he.  "  I  remember  the  promise  I 
gave  her  last  night.  Thou  shouldst  give  me  time.  I  would  do 
right  in  time.  I  never  think  it  o'er  in  quiet.  But  I  will  do 
■what  is  right  and  fitting,  never  fear.  Thou  hast  spoken  out  very 
plain  to  me,  and  misdoubted  me,  Susan ;  I  love  thee  so,  that  thy 
words  cut  me.  If  I  did  hang  back  a  bit  from  making  sudden 
promises,  it  was  because  not  even  for  love  of  thee,  would  I  say 
what  I  was  not  feeling;  and  at  first  I  could  not  feel  all  at  once  as 
thou  wouldst  have  me.  But  I'm  not  cruel  and  hard  ;  for  if  I 
had  been,  I  should  na'  have  grieved  as  I  have  done." 

He  made  as  if  he  were  going  away ;  and  indeed  he  did  feel  he 
■would  rather  think  it  over  in  (juiet.  But  Susan,  grieved  at  her 
incautious  words,  which  had  all  the  a]ip('nrance  of  harshness, 
went  a  step  or  two  nearer — paused — and  then,  all  over  blushes, 
said  in  a  low,  soft  whisper — 

"  Oh,  Will !  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  am  very  sorry.  Won't  you 
forgive  me  ?  " 

She  who  had  alwavs  drawn  back,  and  been  so  reserved,  said 
this  in  the  very  softest  manner;  with  eyes  now  uplifted  beseech- 
ingly, now  dropped  to  the  ground.  Her  sweet  confusion  told 
mf)re  than  words  could  do ;  and  Will  turned  back,  all  jovinis  in 
his  certainty  of  being  beloved,  and  took  her  in  his  arms,  ard 
kissed  her. 

"  My  own  Susan  !  "  he  said. 

Meanwhile  the  mother  watched  her  child  in  the  room  above. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  l)efore  she  awoke,  for  the  sleeping 
draiight  had  been  very  ])owerful.  The  inst.iuit  she  awoke,  hor 
eyes  were  fixed  on  her  mother's  face  with  a  gaze  as  untlinehing 
as  if  she  wore  fascinated.  Mrs.  Leigh  did  not  turn  away,  nor 
move;  for  it  wenu-d  as  if  motion  would  imlock  the  Bt«>iiy  com- 
mand over  herself  wliicli.  while  so  pirfectly  still,  she  was  enabled 
t"  pr<*»crve.  But  by-aiul-by  Lizzie  cried  out,  in  a  j)iercing  vt>ico 
of  agony — 

"Muiher,  dua't  look  at  me!    I  have  been  bo  wicked!"  and 


LIZZIE  LEI  on.  27 

instantlv  she  hid  her  face,  and  grovelled  among  the  bed-  clothes, 
and  lay  like  one  dead,  so  motionless  was  she. 

Mrs.  Leigh  knelt  down  by  the  bed,  and  spoke  in  the  most 
soothing  tones. 

"Lizzie,  dear,  don't  speak  so.  I'm  thy  mother,  darling ;  don't 
be  afeard  of  me.  I  never  left  off"  loving  thee,  Lizzie.  I  was 
always  a-thinking  of  thee.  Thy  father  lorgave  thee  afore  he 
died."  (There  was  a  little  start  here,  but  no  sound  was  heard.) 
"  Lizzie,  lass,  I'll  do  aught  for  thee  ;  I'll  live  for  thee ;  only  don't 
be  afeard  of  me.  Whate'er  thou  art  or  hast  been,  we'll  ne'er 
speak  on't.  "We'll  leave  th'  oud  times  behind  us,  and  go  back  to 
tlie  Upclose  Farm.  I  but  left  it  to  find  thee,  my  lass ;  and  God 
has  led  me  to  thee.  Blessed  be  His  name.  And  God  is  good, 
too,  Lizzie.  Thou  hast  not  forgot  thy  Bible,  I'll  be  bound,  for 
thou  Avert  always  a  scholar.  I'm  no  reader,  but  I  learnt  off"  them 
texts  to  comfort  me  a  bit,  and  I've  said  them  many  a  time  a  day 
to  mvself.  Lizzie,  lass,  don't  hide  thy  head  so ;  it's  thy  mother 
as  is  speaking  to  thee.  Thy  little  child  chmg  to  me  only  yester- 
day ;  and  if  it's  gone  to  be  an  angel,  it  will  speak  to  God  for 
thee.  Nay,  don't  sob  a  that  'as ;  thou  shalt  have  it  again  in 
heaven ;  I  know  thou'lt  strive  to  get  there,  for  thy  little  Xancy's 
sake — and  listen  !  I'll  tell  thee  God's  promises  to  them  that  are 
penitent — only  doan't  be  afeard." 

Mrs.  Leigh  folded  her  hands,  and  strove  to  speak  very  clearly, 
while  she  repeated  every  tender  and  merciful  text  she  could 
remember.  She  could  tell  from  the  breathing  that  her  daughter 
was  listening;  but  she  was  so  dizzy  and  sick  herself  when  she  had. 
ended,  that  she  could  not  go  on  speaking.  It  was  all  she  could 
do  to  keep  from  crying  aloud. 

At  last  she  heard  her  daughter's  voice. 

"  Where  have  they  taken  her  to?"  she  asked. 

*'  She  is  downstairs.  So  quiet,  and  peaceful,  and  happy  she 
!:oks." 

*  Could  she  speak  !  Oh,  if  God — if  I  might  but  have  heard 
her  little  voice  !  Mother,  I  used  to  dream  of  it.  May  I  see  her 
once  again?  Oh,  mother,  if  I  strive  very  hard  and  God  is  very 
merciful,  and  I  go  to  heaven,  I  shall  not  know  her — I  shall  not 
know  my  own  again  :  she  will  shun  me  as  a  stranger,  and  cling 
:o  Susan  Palmer  and  to  you.  Oh,  woe  !  Oh,  woe  !  "  She  shook 
with  exceeding  soitow. 

In  her  earnestness  of  speech  she  had  uncovered  her  face,  and 
tried  to  read  Mrs.  Leigh's  thoughts  through  her  looks.  And 
Avhen  she  saw  those  aged  eyes  biimming  full  of  tears,  ajid 
marked  the  quivering  lips,  she  threw  her  arms  round  the  faithtiil 


28  LIZZIE    LEIGH. 

mother's  neck,  and  wept  there,  as  she  had  done  in  many  a 
childisli  sorrow,  ]>\\t  with  a  deeper,  a  more  wretched  pirief. 

Her  motlier  hushed  her  on  lier  breast;  and  lulled  her  as  if  she 
v/ere  a  Vjuby ;  and  she  grew  still  and  quiet. 

They  sat  thus  for  a  long,  long  time.  At  last,  Susan  Palmer 
came  up  with  some  tea  and  bread  and  butter  for  Mrs.  Leigh. 
She  watched  the  mother  feed  her  sick,  imwilling  child,  with  every 
fond  inducement  to  eat  which  she  could  devise ;  they  neither  of 
them  took  notice  of  Susan's  presence.  That  night  they  lay  in 
each  other's  aims ;   but  Susan  slept  on  the  ground  beside  them. 

They  took  the  little  corpse  (the  little  unconscious  sacrifice, 
•whose  early  calling-home  had  reclaimed  her  poor  wandeiing 
mother)  to  the  hills,  which  in  her  life-time  she  had  never  seen. 
They  dared  not  lay  her  by  the  stern  grandfather  in  Milne  Kow 
churchyard,  but  they  bore  her  to  a  lone  moorland  graveyard, 
where,  long  ago,  the  Quakers  used  to  bury  their  dead.  They  laid  her 
there  on  the  sunny  slope,  where  the  earliest  spring  tluwers  blow. 

Will  and  Susan  live  at  the  Upclose  Farm  Mrs.  Leigh  and 
Lizzie  dwell  in  a  cottage  so  secluded  that,  until  you  drop  into  the 
very  hollow  where  it  is  placed,  you  do  not  see  it.  Ti>ni  is  a  school- 
master in  Rochdale,  and  he  and  Will  help  to  support  their 
mother.  J  only  know  that,  if  the  cottage  be  hidden  in  a  green 
hollow  of  the  hills,  every  sound  of  sorrow  in  the  whole  uphmd 
is  heard  there — every  call  of  sufTering  or  of  sickness  for  help  is 
listened  to  by  a  sad,  gentle-looking  woman,  who  rarely  smiks 
(and  when  she  does  her  smile  is  more  sad  than  <iiher  people's 
tears),  but  who  comes  out  of  her  seclusion  whenever  there  is  a 
shadow  in  any  household.  Many  hearts  bless  Lizzie  Leigh,  but 
she — she  prays  always  and  ever  for  forgiveness — such  forgiveness 
as  may  enable  her  to  see  her  child  once  more.  Mrs.  Leigh  is  quiet 
and  hapj)y.  Lizzie  is,  to  her  eyes,  something  precious — as  the 
lost  piece  of  silver — found  once  more.  Susjui  is  the  bright  ono 
who  Ijrings  sunshine  to  all.  Children  grow  around  her  and  call 
her  blessed.  One  is  called  Nanny  ;  her  Lizzie  olU-n  takes  to  tho 
Bunny  graveyard  in  the  uplands,  and  while  tho  little  creature 
gathers  tho  daisies,  and  makes  chains,  Lizzie  sits  by  a  liitlo 
grave  and  weeps  bitterly. 


29 


A  DARK  NIGHT'S  WORK. 


CHAPTER  I. 

In*  the  county  town  of  a  certain  shire  there  lived  (about  forty 
years  ago)  one  Mr.  Wilkius,  a  conveyancing  attorney  o£ 
considerable  standing. 

The  certain  shire  "was  but  a  small  county,  and  the  principal 
to\vn  in  it  contained  only  about  four  thousand  inhabitants ;  so  in 
saying  that  Mr.  "NVilkins  "was  the  principal  lawyer  in  Hamley,  I 
say  very  little,  unless  I  add  that  he  transacted  all  the  legal  busi- 
ness of  the  gentry  for  twenty  miles  round.  His  grandfather  had 
established  the  connection ;  his  father  had  consolidated  and 
strengthened  it,  and,  indeed,  by  his  wise  and  upright  conduct,  as 
■well  as  by  his  professional  skill,  had  obtained  for  himself  the 
position  of  confidential  friend  to  many  of  the  surrounding 
families  of  distinction.  He  visited  among  them  in  a  Avay  which 
no  mere  lawyer  had  ever  done  before  ;  dined  at  their  tables — he 
alone,  not  accompanied  by  his  wife,  be  it  observed ;  rode  to 
the  meet  occasionally  as  if  by  accident,  although  he  was  as  Avell 
mounted  as  any  squire  among  them,  and  was  often  persuaded 
(after  a  little  coquetting  about  "professional  engagements,"  and 
"being  wanted  at  the  office'')  to  have  a  run  with  his  clients; 
nay,  once  or  tmce  he  forgot  his  usual  caution,  was  first  in  at  the 
death,  and  rode  home  with  the  brush.  But  in  general  he  knew 
his  place ;  as  his  place  was  held  to  be  in  that  aristocratic  county, 
and  in  those  days.  Nor  let  be  supposed  that  he  was  in  any  way 
a  toadeater.  He  respected  himself  too  much  for  that.  He  would 
give  the  most  unpalatable  advice,  if  need  were ;  would  counsel 
an  unsparing  reduction  of  expenditure  to  an  extravagant  man ; 
would  recommend  such  an  abatement  of  family  pride  as  paved 
the  way  for  one  or  two  happy  marriages  in  some  instances; 
nay,  what  was  the  most  likely  piece  of  conduct  of  all  to  give 
offence  forty  years  ago,  he  would  speak  up  for  an  unjustly-used 
tenant ;  and  that  with  so  much  temperate  and  well-timed  wisdom 
and  good  feeling,  that  he  more  than  once  gained  his  point.  He 
had  one  son,  Edward.     This  boy  was  the  secret  joy  and  pride  of 


30  A    DARK    NIGHl'S   WORK. 

his  father's  heart.  For  himself  he  was  not  in  the  least  ambitions, 
but  it  did  cost  him  a  hard  struggle  to  acknowledge  that  his  own 
Ijusiness  was  too  lucrative,  and  brought  in  too  large  an  income,  to 
pass  away  into  the  hands  of  a  stranger,  as  it  would  do  if  he 
indulged  his  ambition  for  his  son  by  giving  him  a  college  educa- 
tion and  making  him  into  a  barrister.  This  determination  on 
the  more  prudent  side  of  the  argument  took  ])lace  while  Edward 
was  at  Eton.  The  lad  had,  perhaps,  the  largest  allowance  of 
])ocket-money  of  any  boy  at  school ;  and  he  liad  always  looked 
forward  to  going  to  Christ  Church  along  with  his  fellows,  the  sons 
of  the  squires,  his  fathers  employers.  It  was  a  severe  mf)rtitica- 
tion  to  him  to  find  that  his  destiny  was  changed,  and  that  he  had 
to  return  to  llamley  to  be  articled  to  his  liithcr,  and  to  assume 
the  hereditary  subservient  position  to  lads  whom  he  had  licked 
in  the  play-ground,  and  beaten  at  learning. 

His  father  tried  to  compensate  him  for  the  disappointment  by 
every  indulgence  which  money  could  purchase.  Edward's  horses 
were  even  finer  than  those  of  his  father ;  his  literary  tastes  were 
kept  up  and  fostered,  by  his  father's  permission  to  form  an  exten- 
sive library,  for  which  piu'pose  a  nol)le  room  was  added  to  Mr. 
Wilkins's  already  extensive  house  in  the  subiu'bs  of  Ilamley.  And 
after  his  year  of  legal  study  in  London  his  father  sent  him  to 
make  the  grand  tour,  with  something  very  like  carte  blanche  as 
to  expenditure,  to  judge  from  the  packajjes  which  were  sent  home 
from  various  parts  of  the  Continent. 

At  last  he  came  home — came  back  to  settle  as  his  father's 
partner  at  Ilamley.  He  was  a  son  to  be  proud  of,  and  right 
down  proud  was  old  Mr.  Wilkins  of  his  handsome,  accomplislud, 
gentlemanly  lad.  For  Edward  was  not  one  to  be  sjioilt  by  the 
course  of  indulgence  he  had  jiassed  through;  at  least,  if  it  had 
done  him  an  injury,  the  effects  were  at  ])resent  hidden  fn>m  view. 
He  had  no  vulgar  vices;  he  was,  indeed,  rather  too  refined  lor 
the  society  he  was  likely  to  be  thrown  into,  even  su])j>osing  that 
society  to  consist  of  the  highest  of  his  father's  employers.  He 
was  well  read,  and  an  artist  of  no  mean  jmtensions.  Above  all, 
"his  heart  w;is  in  the  right  place,"  as  his  father  used  to  observe. 
Nothing  could  exceed  the  deference  he  always  showed  to  him. 
His  mother  had  long  been  dead. 

I  do  not  know  whether  it  was  Edward's  own  ambition  or  his 
proud  father's  wishes  that  had  led  him  to  attend  the  Hamley 
usHenil)!icH.  I  should  conjecture  the  latter,  for  Edward  had  of 
liimself  loo  much  good  taste  to  wish  to  intrude  into  any  society. 
In  the  oj)inion  of  all  the  shire,  no  society  had  more  reiuHin  to 
consider  itself  select  than  that  which  met  at  evt  ry  full  moon  in  the 


A    DARK   NIGHTS   WORK.  31 

Hamley  assembly-room,  an  excrescence  built  on  to  the  princinal  inn 
in  the  town  by  the  joint  subscription  of  all  the  comity  families. 
Into  those  choice  and  mysterious  jirccincts  no  towns  person  was 
ever  allowed  to  enter ;  no  professional  man  might  set  his  foot 
therein;  no  infantry  officer  saw  the  interior  of  that  ball,  or  that 
card-room.  The  old  original  subscribers  would  fain  have  had  a 
man  prove  his  sixteen  quarterings  beftu-e  he  might  make  his  bow 
to  the  queen  of  the  night;  but  the  old  original  foimders  of  the 
Hamley  assemblies  were  dropping  ofT;  minuets  liad  vanished  with 
them,  country  dances  had  died  away;    quadrilles  were  in   hiyh 

vogue — nay,  one  or  two  of  the  high  magnates  of  shire  were 

trying  to  introduce  waltzing,  as  they  had  seen  it  in  London,  where 
ic  had  come  in  with  the  visit  of  the  allied  sovereigns,  when 
Edward  Wilkins  made  his  debut  on  these  boards.  He  had  been 
at  many  splendid  assemblies  abroad,  l)Ut  still  the  little  old  ball- 
room attached  to  the  George  Inn  in  his  native  town  was  to  him  a 
place  grander  and  more  awful  than  the  most  magnificent  saloons 
he  had  seen  in  Paris  or  Rome.  He  laughed  at  himself  for  this 
imreasonable  feeling  of  awe;  but  there  it  was  notwithstanding. 
He  had  been  dining  at  the  house  of  one  of  the  lesser  gentry,  who 
was  under  considerable  obligations  to  his  father,  and  who  was  the 
parent  of  eight  "muckie-mou'ed"  daughters,  so  hardly  likely  to  op- 
pose much  aristocratic  resistance  to  the  elder  Mr.  Wilkins's  clearly 
implied  wish  that  Edward  should  be  presented  at  the  Hamley 
assembly-rooms.  But  many  a  squire  glowered  and  looked  black  at 
the  introduction  of  Wilkins  the  attorney's  son  into  the  sacred 
precincts ;  and  perhaps  there  would  have  been  much  more  mor- 
tification than  pleasure  in  this  assembly  to  the  young  man,  had  it 
not  been  foi  an  incident  that  occurred  pretty  late  in  the  evening. 
The  lord-lieutenant  of  the  county  usually  came  with  a  large 
party  to  the  Hamley  assemblies  once  in  a  season;  and  this  night 
lie  was  expected,  and  with  him  a  fashionable  duchess  and  her 
daughters.  But  time  wore  on,  and  they  did  not  make  their 
appearance.  At  last  there  was  a  rustling  and  a  bustling,  and  in 
sailed  the  superb  party.  For  a  few  minutes  dancing  was  stopped ; 
the  earl  led  the  duchess  to  a  sofa;  some  of  their  acquaintances 
came  up  to  speak  to  them ;  and  then  the  quadrilles  were  finished 
in  rather  a  fiat  manner.  A  country  dance  followed,  in  which 
none  of  the  lord-lieutenant's  party  joined  ;  then  there  was  a  con- 
sidtation,  a  request,  an  inspi'ction  of  the  dancers,  a  message  to 
the  orchestra,  and  the  band  struck  up  a  waltz;  the  duchess's 
daughters  flew  off  to  the  music,  and  some  more  young  ladies 
seemed  ready  to  follow,  but,  alas !  there  was  a  lack  of  gentlemen 
acquainted  with  the  new-faahioncd  dance.     One  of  tlie  steward* 


32  A    DARK   night's   WORK. 

bethought  him  of  young  Wilkins,  only  just  returned  from  tho 
Continent.     Edward    was   a  beautiful   dancer,    and    waltzed   to 

admiration.    For  his  next  partner  he  had  one  of  the  Lady s; 

for  the  ducliess,  to  whom  the shire  squires  and  their  little 

county  politics  and  contempts  were  aliice  unknown,  saw  no  reasoa 
why  her  lovely  Lady  Sophy  should  not  have  a  good  partner, 
whatever  his  pedigree  might  be,  and  begged  the  stewards  to 
introduce  Mr.  Wilkins  to  her.  After  this  night  liis  fortune  was 
made  with  the  young  ladies  of  the  Hamley  assemblies.  He  was 
not  unpopular  with  the  mammas;  but  the  heavy  sijuires  still 
looked  at  him  askance,  and  the  heirs  (whom  he  Lad  licked  at 
Eton)  called  him  an  upstart  behind  his  back. 


CHAPTER  n. 


It  was  not  a  satisfactory  situation.  Mr.  Wilkins  had  given  his 
sou  an  education  and  tastes  beyond  his  position.  lie  could  not 
associate  with  either  profit  or  pleasure  with  the  doctor  or  the 
brewer  of  Ilamley ;  the  vicar  was  old  and  deaf,  the  curate  a  raw 
young  man,  half  frightened  at  the  sound  of  his  own  voice.  Then,  • 
as  to  matrimony — for  the  idea  of  his  marri.ige  was  hardly  more 
present  in  Edward's  mind  than  in  that  of  his  father — he  could 
scarcely  fancy  bringing  home  any  one  of  the  young  ladies  of 
Hamley  to  the  elegant  mansion,  so  full  of  suggestion  and  associa- 
tion to  an  educated  person,  so  inappropriate  a  dwelling  for  an 
ignorant,  uncouth,  ill-brought-up  girl.  Yet  Edward  was  fully 
aware,  if  his  fond  father  was  not,  that  of  all  the  young  ladies 
who  were  glad  enough  of  him  as  a  partner  at  the  Hamley  assem- 
blies, there  was  not  of  them  but  would  have  considered  herself 
affronted  by  an  offer  of  marriage  from  an  attorney,  the  son  and 
grandson  of  attorneys.  The  young  man  had  pirhajis  received 
many  a  slight  and  m<jrtIfication  pretty  (piictiy  during  these  years, 
which  yet  told  upon  his  character  in  after  life.  Even  at  this 
very  time  they  wi-re  having  their  effect.  He  was  of  too  sweet  a 
disposition  to  show  resi-ntnient,  as  many  inon  would  have  done. 
But  nevertheless  he  took  a  secret  plejisiu'c  in  the  power  which  his 
father's  money  gave  him.  Ho  would  buy  an  oxpeniiive  hoi-so 
alter  five  minutes'  conversation  as  to  the  jiricc,  about  which  a 
needy  heir  of  one  of  the  j)roud  ciiunty  families  had  boon  haggling 
for  tlirei'  weeks.  His  dogs  were  from  the  best  kenni'ls  in  England, 
no  matter  at  what  cost ;  his  guns  were  the  newest  and  njost  im- 
proved make  ;  and  uU  these  were  expenses  on  objects  which  weje 


A    DARK    night's    WORK.  33 

n'Monj;  those  of"  dailv  envy  to  the  squires  nnd  squires'  sons  around. 
Tfiey  did  nor  nuich  care  for  the  troiisures  of  art,  wliicli  report 
said  were  being  accumulated  in  Mr.  Wilkins's  house.  But  they 
did  ('ovet  tiie  horses  and  hounds  he  possessed,  and  the  young  mau 
knew  that  they  coveted,  and  rejoiced  in  it. 

By-and-by  he  formed  a  marriage,  which  went  as  near  as  mar- 
riages ever  do  towards  pleasing  everybody.  He  was  desperately" 
in  love  with  Miss  Lnmotte,  so  he  was  delighted  when  she  con- 
sented to  be  his  wife.  His  father  was  delighted  in  his  deliglit, 
and,  besides,  was  charmed  to  remember  that  ^Nliss  Lamotte's 
n\other  had  been  Sir  Frank  Holster's  younger  sister,  and  that, 
although  her  marriage  had  been  disowned  by  her  family,  as 
l)eneath  her  in  rank,  yet  no  one  could  efface  her  name  out  of  the 
Baronetage,  where  Lettice,  youngest  daughter  of  Sir  Mark 
Holster,  born  1772,  married  H.  Lamotte,  1799,  died  1810,  was 
duly  chronicled.  She  had  left  two  children,  a  boy  and  a  girl,  of 
whom  their  uncle.  Sir  Frank,  took  charge,  as  their^jfather  was 
worse  than  dead — an  outlaw  whose  name  was  never  mentioned. 
Mark  Ivamotte  was  in  the  army;  Lettice  had  a  dependent  position 
in  her  uncle's  lamily;  not  intentionally  made  more  dependent 
than  was  rendered  necessary  by  circumstances,  but  still  dependent 
enough  to  grate  on  the  feelings  of  a  sensitive  girl,  whcse  natural 
susceptibilty  to  slights  was  redoubled  by  the  constant  recollection 
of  her  father's  disgrace.  As  Mr.  Wilkins  well  knew,  Sir  Frank 
was  considerably  involved;  but  it  was  with  very  mixed  feelings 
that  he  listened  to  the  suit  which  would  provide  his  penniless 
niece  with  a  comfortable,  not  to  say  luxurious,  home,  and  with  a 
handsome,  accomplished  young  man  of  unblemislied  character  for 
a  husband.  He  said  one  or  two  bitter  and  insolent  things  to 
Mr  Wilkins,  even  while  he  was  giving  his  consent  to  the  match  ; 
that  was  his  temper,  his  proud,  evil  temper;  but  he  really  and 
j)ermanently  was  satisfied  with  the  connection,  though  he  would 
occasionally  turn  round  on  his  nephew-in-law,  and  sting  him  with 
a  covert  insult,  as  to  his  want  of  birth,  and  the  inferior  position 
which  he  held,  forgetting,  apparently,  that  his  own  brother-in- 
law  and  Lettice's  lather  might  be  at  any  moment  brought  to  the 
l)ar  of  justice  if  he  attempted  to  re-enter  his  native  country. 

Edward  was  annoyed  at  all  this;  Lettice  resented  it.  She 
hived  her  husband  dearly,  and  was  proud  of  him,  for  she  had 
discernment  enough  to  .see  how  superior  he  was  in  every  way  to 
her  cousins,  the  young  Holsters,  who  borrowed  his  horses,  drank 
liis  wines,  and  yet  had  caught  their  father's  habit  of  sneering  at 
his  profession.  Lettice  wished  that  Edward  would  content  him- 
self  with  a   purely  domestic  life,  would  let   himself  drop  out  of 


34  A    DARK    night's   WORK, 

the  company  of  the shire  squirearchy,  and  find  his  relax- 
ation with  her,  in  their  hixurious  library,  or  lovely  drawing- 
room,  so  full  of  white  gleaming  statues,  and  gems  of  pictures. 
But,  perhaps,  this  was  tt>o  much  to  expect  of  any  man,  especially  of 
one  who  felt  himself  fitted  in  many  ways  to  shine  in  society,  and 
who  was  social  hy  nature.  Sociality  in  that  county  at  that  time 
meant  conviviality.  I"]Jward  did  not  care  for  wine,  and  yet  he 
was  oblifred  to  drink — and  by-and-by  he  grew  to  pique  himself 
on  his  character  as  a  judge  of  wine.  His  father  by  this  time  was 
dead ;  dead,  happv  old  man,  with  a  contetited  heart — his  affairs 
Nourishing,  his  poorer  neighbours  loving  liim,  his  richer  respect- 
ing him,  his  son  and  daughter-in-law,  the  most  aftVctionate  and 
devoted  that  ever  man  had,  and  his  healthy  conscience  at  peace 
with  his  God. 

Lettice  could  have  lived  to  herself  and  her  husband  and  children. 
Edward  daily  required  more  and  more  the  stimulus  of  society. 
His  wife  wondered  how  he  could  care  to  accept  dinner  invitations 
from  pedple  who  treated  him  as  "  Wilkins  the  attorney,  a  very 
good  .sort  of  fellow,"  as  they  introduced  him  to  strangers  who 
might  be  staying  in  the  country,  but  who  had  no  power  to  appre- 
ciate the  taste,  the  talent.s,  the  impulsive  artistic  nature  which 
she  held  so  dear.  She  forgot  that  by  accepting  such  invitations 
Edward  was  occasionally  brought  into  contact  with  people  not 
merely  of  high  conventional,  but  of  high  intellectual  rank  ;  that 
when  a  certain  amount  of  wine  had  dis.'^ipated  hi.-*  sense  of  in- 
feriority of  rank  and  position,  he  was  a  Itrilliant  talker,  a  man  to 
he  listened  to  and  admired  even  by  wandering  London  statesmen, 
professional  diners-out,  or    any  great  authors    who   might    find 

themselves  visitors   in    a shire  count rv-house.      What  she 

would  have  had  him  share  from  the  pride  of  hor  heart,  she  shoidd 
have  warned  him  tojivoid  from  the  temptativms  to  sinful  extniva- 
gance  which  it  led  liim  into.  Ho  had  bcgini  to  spend  more  than  ho 
ought,  not  in  intt'llcetual — though  that  would  have  been  wrong — 
but  in  purely  sensual  things.  His  wines,  his  tal)le,  shotdd  l>e 
surh  as  no  .sipiirc's  purse  or  inxlate  cotild  command.  His  dinner- 
jiarties — .Mnall  in  ninnluT,  the  viands  rare  and  delicate  in  quality, 
.'uid  sent  up  to  table  by  an  Italian  cook — should  be  such  as  even 
the  London  stars  should  notice  with  admiration,  lie  would  have 
Lettice  dres.sed  in  the  richest  materials,  the  most  delicate*  lace; 
jewellery,  he  said,  was  beyond  their  means;  glancing  witli  proud 
liumilily  at  the  diamonds  of  the  older  hulii'.s,  and  the  alloyed 
jj«)ld  of  the  younger.  Hut  ho  managed  to  Hp(>i)d  as  nuich  on  his 
wife's  lac*' as  wouM  have  boiiL;!!;  many  a  sot  of  infi'rior  jewellery. 
Leltice  wi'U  became  it  all.     ll' as  p  upU'  .said,  her  fullier  had  been 


A    DARK   KIGHl's   WORK.  35 

nothing  but  a  Fronch  adventurer,  she  bore  traces  of  lior  nature 
in  her  Lrrace,  her  delicjicy,  her  lascinating  and  elegant  uays  of 
doing  all  tilings.  She  was  made  for  society  ;  and  yet  she  hated 
it.  And  one  day  she  went  out  of  it  altogether  and  for  evermore. 
She  had  been  well  in  the  morning  when  Edward  went  down 
to  his  office  in  Hamley.  At  noon  he  was  sent  for  by  hurried 
trembling  messengers.  When  he  got  home  breathless  and  un- 
comprehending, she  was  past  speech.  One  glance  from  her 
lovely  loving  black  eyes  showed  that  she  recognised  him  with  the 
passionate  yearning  that  had  been  one  of  the  characteristics  of 
her  love  through  life.  There  was  no  word  passed  between  them. 
He  could  not  speak,  any  more  than  could  she.  He  knelt  down  by 
her.  She  was  dying;  she  was  dead  ;  and  he  knelt  on  immovable. 
They  brought  him  his  eldest  child,  Ellinor,  in  utter  despair  what 
to  do  in  order  to  rouse  him.  They  had  no  thought  as  to  the 
effect  on  her,  hitherto  shut  up  in  the  nursery  during  this  busy 
day  of  confusion  and  alarm.  The  child  had  no  idea  of  death, 
and  her  father,  kneeling  and  tearless,  was  far  less  an  object  of 
surprise  or  interest  to  her  than  her  mother,  lying  still  and  white, 
and  not  turning  her  head  to  smile  at  her  darling. 

"  Mamma  !  mamma  !  "  cried  the  child,  in  shapeless  terror.  But 
the  mother  never  stirred  ;  and  the  father  hid  his  face  yet  deeper 
in  the  bedclothes,  to  stifle  a  cry  as  if  a  sharp  knife  had  pierced 
his  heart.  The  child  forced  her  impetuous  way  from  her  atten- 
dants, and  rushed  to  the  bed.  Undeterred  by  deadly  cold  or 
stony  immobility,  she  kissed  the  lips  and  stroked  the  glossy  raven 
hair,  mimnuring  sweet  words  of  wild  love,  such  as  had 
passed  between  the  mother  and  child  often  and  often  when 
no  witnesses  were  by ;  and  altogether  seemed  so  nearly  beside 
her.self  in  an  agony  of  love  and  terror,  that  Edward  arose,  and 
softly  taking  her  in  his  arms,  bore  her  away,  lying  back 
like  one  dead  (so  exhausted  was  she  by  the  terrible  emotion 
they  had  forced  on  her  childish  heart),  into  his  study,  a  little 
room  opening  out  of  the  grand  library,  where  on  happy  even- 
ings, never  to  come  again,  he  and  his  wife  were  wont  to  retire 
to  have  coffee  together,  and  then  perhaps  stroll  out  of  the  glass- 
door  into  the  open  air,  the  shrubbery,  the  fields — never  more  to 
be  trodden  by  those  dear  feet.  What  passed  between  father  and 
child  in  this  seclusion  none  could  tell.  Late  in  the  evening 
Ellinor's  supper  was  sent  for,  and  the  servant  who  brought  it  in 
saw  the  child  lying  as  one  dead  in  her  fatlier's  arms,  and  before 
he  left  the  room,  watched  his  master  feeding  hor,  the  girl  of  six 
years  of  age,  with  as  tender  care  as  if  she  had  been  a  Ijaby  of  six 
months. 

d2 


36  A    DARK   SIGHTS   W<;BK- 


CHAPTER  m. 

Fkom  tliMt  time  the  tie  between  father  and  daughter  prew  verj 
strong  and  tender  indeed.  Ellinur,  it  is  true,  divided  her  atfec- 
tion  between  lier  baby  sister  and  her  jmjm;  but  he,  caring  little 
for  hnbies,  had  only  a  theoretic  regard  for  his  younger  child, 
while  the  elder  absorbed  all  his  love.  Every  day  tliat  he  dined 
at  home  Ellinor  was  placed  opposite  to  him  while  he  ate  his  late 
dinner;  she  sjit  wliere  her  mother  liad  done  during  the  meal, 
although  she  had  dined  and  even  supped  some  time  before  on  the 
more  primitive  nursery  fare.  It  was  half  pitiful,  half  amusing,  to 
see  the  little  girl's  grave,  thoughtful  ways  and  modes  of  speech, 
as  if  trying  to  act  up  to  the  dignity  of"  her  place  as  her  fathers 
companion,  till  sometimes  the  little  head  nodded  off  to  slumber  in 
the  middle  of  lisping  some  wise  little  speech.  "  Old-fashione<l,'" 
the  nurses  called  her,  and  prophesied  that  she  would  not  live 
long  in  consetjuence  of  her  old-fash ionedness.  But  instead  of 
the  fulfilment  of  this  prophecy,  the  fat  bright  baby  wjis  seized 
with  fits,  and  was  well,  ill,  and  dead  in  a  day  !  ElJinor's  grief 
was  something  alarming,  from  its  quietness  and  concejilment, 
Slie  waited  till  she  was  left — as  she  thought — alone  at  nights,  and 
then  sobbed  and  cried  her  passionate  cry  tor  "  Babv,  bal»y,  come 
back  to  me- -come  back;  "  till  every  one  feared  for  the  health  of 
the  frail  little  girl  whose  childish  afl'ections  had  had  to  stand  two 
Kuch  shocks.  Her  father  put  aside  all  business,  all  pleasure  of 
every  kind,  to  win  his  darling  from  her  grief.  No  mother  could 
have  done  more,  no  tendeie.st  nurse  done  half  so  much  as  Mr. 
Wilkiiis  then  did  for  Ellinor. 

h'  it  had  not  been  for  him  she  would  have  just  died  of'  lier 
grief.  As  it  wa.s,  she  overcame  it — but  slowly,  wearily — hardiv 
letting  lierseir  love  anyone  for  some  time,  as  if  she  inatinetivelv 
feared  lert  all  her  strong  attachments  should  find  a  sudden  end  in 
death.  Her  love  —  thus  dammed  up  into  a  small  sjmce — at  last 
burwt  its  banks,  and  overflowed  on  her  fatlier.  It  was  a  rich 
reward  to  him  for  all  his  care  of  her,  and  ho  took  deliglit — 
porliaps  a  selfish  delight — in  all  the  many  pretty  ways  she 
jMTpetually  found  of  convincing  him,  if  he  had  needed  conviction, 
lljal  he  wa.s  ever  the  first  object  with  her.  The  nurse  told  him 
that  half  an  hour  t)r  so  before  the  earliest  time  at  which  ho  could 
K;  i-xpceted  home  in  the  even in^rs,  Miss  Ellinor  beyan  to  fold  up 
iter  doll'B  things  and   lull   the  iniiniiuate  treasure  to  sleep.      Thou 


A    PARK    NIGHTS   TVORK  3/ 

she  would  sit  and  listen  with  an  intensity  of  attention  for  his 
f-otstep.  Once  the  nurse  had  expressed  some  wonder  at  the 
distance  at  which  Ellinor  coidd  hear  her  father's  approach,  sayinir 
that  she  had  listened  and  could  not  hear  a  sound,  to  which  Ellinor 
liad  replied : 

"  Of  course  you  cannot ;  he  is  not  your  papa  !  " 

Then,  when  he  went  away  in  the  niorniiig,  after  he  had  kissed 
her,  Ellinor  would  run  to  a  certain  window  from  which  slie  could 
watch  him  up  the  lane,  now  hidden  behind  a  hedge,  now  reappear- 
ing through  an  open  space,  again  out  of  sight,  till  he  reached  a 
great  old  beech-tree,  where  for  an  instant  more  slie  saw  him.  And 
then  she  Avould  turn  away  with  a  sigh,  sometimes  reassuring  her 
unspoken  fears  by  saying  softly  to  hejself, 

"  He  will  come  again  to-night." 

Mr.  Wilkins  liked  to  feel  his  child  dependent  on  him  for  all  her 
pleasures.  He  was  even  a  little  jealous  of  anyone  who  devised 
a  treat  or  conferred  a  present,  the  first  news  of  which  did  not 
come  from  or  through  him. 

At  last  it  was  necessary  that  Ellinor  should  have  some  more 
instruction  than  her  good  old  nurse  could  give.  Her  father  did 
not  care  to  take  upon  himself  the  office  of  teacher,  which  he 
thought  he  foresaw  would  necessitate  occasional  blame,  an  occa- 
.<!ional  exercise  of  authority,  which  might  possibly  render  him  less 
idolized  by  his  little  girl ;  so  he  commissioned  Lady  Holster  to 
choose  out  one  among  her  many  protegees  for  a  governess  to  his 
daughter.  Now,  Lady  Holster,  who  kept  a  sort  of  amateur 
county  register-office,  was  only  too  glad  to  be  made  of  iise  in  this 
way ;  but  when  she  inquired  a  little  further  as  to  the  sort  of 
person  required,  all  she  could  extract  from  Mr.  Wilkins  was: 

"  You  know  tlie  kind  of  education  a  lady  should  have,  and 
will,  I  am  sure,  choose  a  governess  for  Ellinor  better  than  1  could 
direct  you.  Only,  please,  choose  some  one  who  will  not  marry 
me,  and  who  will  let  Ellinor  go  on  making  my  tea,  and  doing 
])retty  much  what  she  likes,  for  she  is  so  good  they  need  not  try 
to  make  her  better,  only  to  teach  her  what  a  lady  should  knoAv." 

Miss  Monro  was  selected — a  plain,  intelligent,  quiet  woman  of 
forty — and  it  was  difficult  to  decide  Avhether  slie  or  Mr.  Wilkins 
took  the  most  pains  to  avoid  each  other,  acting  with  regard  to 
Ellinor,  pretty  much  like  the  famous  Adam  and  Eve  in  the 
weather-glass:  when  the  one  came  out  the  otlier  went  in.  Miss 
Monro  had  l)een  tossed  about  and  overworked  quite  enough  in 
her  life  not  to  value  the  privilege  and  indidgence  of  her  evenings  to 
herself,  her  comfortable  schoolroom,  her  (piiet  cozy  teas,  her  book, 
or  her  letter-writing  afterwards.     \\y  mutual  agreement  she  did 


38  A    PARK    MGHt's    work. 

T!ot  intorfore  with  Ellinor  and  her  ways  and  occupations  on  the 
•  veiiinfrs  wlien  the  girl  had  not  her  lather  for  companion;  and 
these  occasions  became  more  and  more  frequent  ai  yeais  jwsscd 
on,  and  the  deep  shadow  was  lightened  which  the  sudden  death 
that  had  visited  his  hoiisehold  had  cast  over  him.  As  I  have 
said  before,  he  was  always  a  popular  man  at  dinner-parties.     Hin 

amount  of  intelligence  and  accomf)lishment  was  rare  in shire, 

and  if  it  required  more  wine  than  formerly  U^  bring  his  con- 
versation uj)  to  the  desired  point  of  range  and  brilliancy,  wine 
was  not  an  article  spared  or  grudged  at  the  county  dinner-tables. 
Occasionally  his  business  took  him  up  to  London.  Hurried  aa 
these  journeys  might  be,  he  never  returned  without  a  new  game, 
a  new  toy  of  some  kind,  to-  "make  home  pleasant  to  his  little 
maid,"  as  he  expressed  himself. 

He  liked,  too,  to  see  what  was  doing  in  art,  or  in  literature; 
and  as  he  gave  pretty  extensive  orders  for  ajivthing  he  admired, 
he  was  almost  sure  to  be  followed  down  to  Hamley  by  one  or  two 
packages  or  parcels,  the  arrival  and  o[)ening  of  which  began  stxm 
to  form  the  pleasant  epochs  in  Ellinor's  grave  though  happy  life. 

The  only  person  of  his  own  standing  with  whom  Mr.  U  ilkins 
kept  up  any  intercourse  in  Hamley  was  the  new  clergyman,  a 
bachelor,  about  his  own  age,  a  learned  man,  a  fellow  of  his 
college,  whose  fir.st  claim  on  Mr.  Wilkins's  attention  wjis  the  fact 
that  he  had  been  travelling-bachelor  for  his  university,  and  had 
consequently  been  on  tlie  Continent  about  the  very  same  two 
years  that  Mr.  Wilkins  had  been  there;  and  although  they  had 
never  met,  yet  they  had  many  common  acquaintances  and  common 
recollections  to  talk  over  of  this  period,  which,  aller  all,  had  been 
about  the  most  bright  and  hopeful  of  Mr.  Wilkins's  life. 

Mr.  Ne.ss  had  an  occasional  pupil ;  that  is  to  .say,  he  never  put 
himsell"  out  of  the  way  to  obtain  jnipils,  but  did  not  refuse  tlie 
entreaties  sometimes  made  to  him  that  he  would  prejwire  a  young 
man  for  college,  by  allowing  the  said  young  man  to  reside  and 
read  with  him.  "Ness's  men"  to<ik  rather  high  honoiirs,  for  the 
tutor,  too  iiidoh-nt  to  find  ojit  work  for  himself,  had  a  ciitain 
prido  in  doing  well  the  work  that  was  (bund  for  him. 

NVhen  Kllinor  was  somewhen'  about  f<iurleen,  a  young  Mr. 
C<»rbet  came  to  be  pupil  to  .Mr.  Nt«ss.  Her  father  always  calletl 
on  the  young  men  n-ading  with  the  clergyman,  and  asked  them 
to  liis  house.  His  hos|iitjdity  hud  in  cour.se  cf  tiuje  lost  its 
rrrhevrhr  and  elegant  charnetrr,  but  was  always  generoiis,  and 
often  profuse.  Besides,  it  was  in  his  character  to  like  the  jovous. 
thoUL'hlleKS  (•oini)any  of  the  yonng  better  than  that  of  the  old — 
given  the  smne  .imnuiit  of  relineinent  and  uducalion  in  both. 


A  DARK  night's  WORfi.  39 

ISfr.  Corbet  was  a  yoiinp:  man  of  A'ory  good  family,  from  a 
tli.^tant  county.  If  his  character  had  not  been  so  grave  and 
deliberate,  his  years  would  only  have  entitled  him  to  be  ciilled  a 
bov,  tor  he  wa^  but  eighteen  at  the  time  when  he  came  to  read 
with  Mr.  Ness.  But  many  men  of  tive-and-twenty  have  not 
rctiected  so  deeply  as  this  young  Mr.  Corbet  already  had.  He 
had  considered  and  almost  matured  his  plan  tor  life ;  had  ascer- 
tained what  objects  he  desired  most  to  accomplish  in  the  dim 
future,  which  is  to  many  at  his  age  only  a  shapeless  mist;  and 
Jiatl  resolved  on  ctrtain  steady  courses  of  action  by  which  such 
ol)jects  were  most  likely  to  be  secured.  A  yoiuiger  son,  his 
family  connections  and  lamily  interest  pre-arranged  a  legal  career 
for  him  ;  and  it  was  in  accordance  with  his  own  tastes  and  talents. 
All,  however,  which  his  father  hoped  for  him  was,  that  he  might 
l)e  able  to  make  an  income  sufficient  for  a  gentleman  to  live  on. 
Old  Mr.  Corbet  was  hardly  to  be  called  ambitious,  or,  if  he  were, 
his  ambition  was  limited  to  views  for  the  eldest  son.  But  Kalpli 
intended  to  be  a  distinguished  lawyer,  not  so  much  for  the  vision 
of  the  Avoolsack,  which  I  suppose  dances  before  the  imagination 
of  every  young  lawyer,  as  fur  the  grand  intellectual  exercise,  and 
consequent  power  over  mankind,  that  distinguished  lawyers  mav 
always  possess  if  they  choose.  A  seat  in  Parliament,  statesman- 
ship, and  all  the  great  scope  for  a  powerful  and  active  mind  that 
lay  on  each  side  of  such  a  career — these  were  the  objects  which 
Kalph  Corbet  set  before  himself.  To  take  high  honours  at  college 
was  the  first  step  to  be  ac('om])lished  ;  and  in  order  to  achieve 
this  IJalph  had,  not  persuaded — jiersuasion  was  a  weak  instrument 
which  he  despised — but  gravely  reasoned  his  lather  into  con- 
senting to  pay  the  large  sum  which  Mr.  Ness  expected  with  a 
pupil.  The  pood-natured  old  squire  was  rather  pressed  for  ready 
money,  V)Ut  sooner  than  listen  to  an  argument  instead  of  taking 
Ids  nap  after  dinner  he  would  have  yielded  anything.  But  this 
did  not  satisfy  Ralph;  his  father's  reason  must  be  convinced  of 
the  desirability  of  the  step,  as  well  as  his  weak  will  give  way. 
The  squire  listened,  look(!d  wise,  sighed ;  spoke  of  Edward's 
extravagance  and  the  girls'  e.xpenses,  grew  sleepy,  and  said. 
"  Very  true,"  "  That  is  but  rea.^onable,  certainly,"  glanced  at  tlie 
door,  and  wondered  when  his  son  would  have  ended  his  talking 
and  go  into  the  drawing-room;  and  at  length  found  himself 
writing  the  desired  letter  to  Mr.  Ness,  consenting  to  everything, 
terms  and  all.  Mr.  Ness  never  had  a  more  satisfactory  pupil ; 
one  whom  he  could  treat  more  as  an  intellectual  equal. 

Mr.  Corbet,  as  Kalph  was  always  called  in  Hamley,  was  reso- 
lute in  his  cultivation  of  himsell^  even  exceeding  wiiat  his  tutor 


40  A    I'ARK    NIGHTS   WORK. 

demanded  of  him.  He  was  preedy  of  information  in  the  hf^nrs 
not  devoted  to  absolute  study.  Mr.  Ness  enjoyed  pivintr  ndoi- 
matioii,  hut  mo.-t  of  all  he  liked  the  hard  touph  arguments  ©n  all 
metaphysical  and  ethical  questions  in  which  Mr.  Corbet  deliijhted 
to  cnpafie  him.  They  lived  together  on  terms  of  happy  equality, 
liaving  thus  much  in  common.  They  were  essentially  different, 
liowever,  although  there  were  so  many  point.s  ot  resemblance. 
Mr.  Ness  w;is  unw  rldlv  as  iar  as  the  idea  of  real  unworldline^s 
is  compatible  with  a  turn  for  self-indulgence  and  indolence; 
Avhile  Mr.  Corbet  was  deeply,  radically  worldly,  yet  fur  the 
accomplishment  of  liis  object  could  deny  himself  all  the  careless 
piejisures  natural  to  his  age.  The  tutor  and  pu[)il  a  lowed  them- 
selve.s  one  I'requent  relaxation,  that  of  Mr.  AVilkins's  compjiny. 
Mr.  Ness  would  stroll  to  the  office  after  the  si.x  hours'  hard 
reading  were  over — leaving  Mr.  CorV)et  still  bent  over  the  Uible. 
l)ook  bestrewn — and  see  what  Mr.  Wilkins's  engiigements  were. 
Jf  he  had  nothing  better  to  do  that  evening,  he  was  either  asked 
to  dine  at  the  parsonage,  or  he,  in  his  careless  hosiitable  way, 
invited  the  other  two  to  dine  with  him,  Ellinor  forming  the 
fourth  at  table,  as  far  as  seats  went,  although  her  dinner  liad 
been  eaten  early  with  Miss  Monro.  She  was  little  and  slight  of 
lier  age,  aiid  her  father  never  seemed  to  understand  how  she  was 
psus.sing  out  of  childhood.  Yet  while  in  stature  she  was  like  a 
child;  in  intellect,  in  force  of  character,  in  strength  of  clinging 
atlection,  she  was  a  woman.  There  might  be  much  of  the  sim- 
plicity of  a  child  about  her,  there  was  little  of  the  undeveloped 
girl,  varying  from  day  to  day  like  an  April  sky.  careless  as  to 
which  way  her  own  character  is  tending.  So  the  two  young 
jieople  sat  with  their  elders,  and  both  relished  tlie  company  they 
were  thus  prematurely  thrown  into.  Mr.  Corbet  tjilked  as  much 
as  either  of  the  other  two  gentlemen;  opposing  and  tlisj>uiiiig  on 
any  side,  as  if  to  find  out  how  much  he  could  urge  against 
received  opinions.  Ellinor  sat  silent;  her  dark  eyes  flashing  from 
lime  to  time  in  vehement  interest — .--ometimes  in  vehement  imlig- 
nation  if  Mr.  Corbet,  riding  a-tilt  at  everyone,  ventured  to 
attack  her  father,  lie  saw  how  this  course  excited  her,  and 
rather  liked  piu>uing  it  in  cnnsei|uence ;  he  thought  it  only 
amused  him. 

Another  way  in  wlTuh  Ellinor  and  Mr.  Corbet  were  thrown 
together  occasionally  wiu*  this:  Mr.  Ness  ami  Mr.  Wilkina 
i-harcd  the  wm^e  'J'inits  belwccn  them;  and  it  was  Eilinor's  duty 
to  Kt'ii  that  tin-  paper  was  ri'gularly  taken  fn«m  her  fat  hoi's  lioiisa 
to  the  parsonage.  Her  father  liked  to  dawdle  over  it.  Until 
Mr.  CoiIhI  liml  ciium  to   live  with   him,   Mr.  Ness  ha<l   not  uuich 


A    DARK    NIGIlf's    WOItK.  41 

cared  at  what  time  it  was  passed  on  to  him  ;  but  the  young  man 
took  a  strong  interest  in  all  public  events,  and  especially  in  all  that 
was  said  aI)out  them.  He  grew  imjiatient  if  tlie  paper  was  not 
forthcoming,  and  would  set  off  himself  to  go  for  it,  sometimes 
meeting  the  penitent  V)re.'ithless  EUinor  in  the  long  lane  which  led 
from  Hamlev  to  Mr.  Wilkins's  house.  At  first  he  used  to  receive 
her  eager  "Oh!  I  am  so  sorry,  Mr.  Corbet,  but  papa  has  only 
just  done  with  it,"  rather  gruffly.  After  a  time  he  had  the  grace 
to  tell  lier  it  did  not  signify ;  and  by-and-by  he  would  turn  back 
with  her  to  give  her  some  advice  about  her  garden,  or  her  plants — 
for  his  mother  and  sisters  were  tirst-rate  practical  gardeners,  and 
he  himselt  was,  as  he  expressed  it,  "  a  capital  consulting  physician 
for  a  sickly  plant." 

All  this  time  his  voice,  his  step,  never  raised  the  cliild's  colour 
one  shade  the  higher,  never  made  her  heart  beat  tlie  least  quicker, 
as  the  slightest  sign  of  her  father's  approach  was  wont  to  do. 
bhe  learnt  to  rely  on  Mr.  Corbet  )or  advice,  for  a  little  occasional 
symjuithy,  and  for  much  condescending  attention.  He  also  gave 
lier  more  fault-finding  than  all  the  rest  of  the  world  put  together; 
and,  curiously  enough,  she  was  grateful  to  him  for  it,  for  she 
really  was  humble  and  wished  to  improve.  He  liked  the  attitude 
of  superiority  which  this  implied  and  exercised  right  gave  him. 
Thev  were  very  good  friends  at  present.     Nothing  more. 

All  this  time  1  have  spoken  only  of  Mr.  Wilkins's  life  as  he  stood 
in  relation  to  his  daughter.  But  there  is  far  more  to  be  said  about 
it.  After  his  wife's  death,  he  withdrew  himself  from  society  for 
a  year  or  two  in  a  more  positive  and  decided  manner  than  is 
common  with  widowers.  It  was  during  this  retirement  of  his 
that  he  riveted  his  little  daughter's  heart  in  such  a  way  as  to 
influence  all  her  future  life. 

When  he  began  to  go  out  again,  it  might  liave  been  perceived — 
had  any  one  cared  to  notice — how  much  the  different  characters 
of  his  father  and  wife  had  influenced  him  and  kept  him  steady.  Not 
that  he  broke  out  into  any  immoral  conduct,  but  he  gave  up  time  to 
pleasure,  which  both  old  Mr.  Wilkins  and  Lettice  would  have 
quietly  induced  him  to  spend  in  tlie  office,  superintending  his 
business.  His  indulgence  in  hnnting,  and  all  field  sports,  had 
hitherto  been  only  occasional ;  they  now  became  habitual,  as  far 
as  the  sciisons  permitted.  He  shared  a  moor  in  Scotland  with 
one  of  the  Holsters  one  year,  persuading  himself  that  the  bracing 
air  was  good  for  Ellinor's  health.  But  the  year  afterwards  he  took 
another,  tliis  time  joining  with  a  comparative  stranger;  and  on 
this  moor  there  was  no  house  to  which  it  was  fit  to  bring  a  child 
and    her    aitendants.      He   persuaded   himself   that   by   frequent 


*a!  A    DAIIK    night's   WORK. 

journeys  he  could  make  up  for  his  absences  from  Ilamley.  But 
juurneys  cost  money ;  and  he  was  often  away  from  his  otiice 
when  im])ortant  business  required  attending  to.  'Jhere  was  some 
talk  uf  a  new  attorney  setting  uji  in  Hamley,  to  be  supported  by 
one  or  two  of"  the  more  influential  couuty  families,  who  had  found 
Wilkins  not  so  attentive  as  liis  father.  Sir  Frank  Holster  sent 
for  his  relation,  and  told  him  of  this  project,  speaking  to  him,  at 
tlie  sjmie  time,  in  pretty  round  terms  on  the  lolly  of  the  life  he 
was  leading.  Foolish  it  certainly  was,  and  as  such  Mr.  Wilkins 
was  secretly  acknowledging  it;  but  when  Sir  Frank,  lashing 
liimself,  began  to  talk  of  his  hearer's  presumption  in  joining  the 
hunt,  in  aping  tiie  mode  of  life  and  amusements  of  the  landed 
gentry,  Edward  fired  up.  lie  knew  how  mucli  Sir  Frank  was 
di])ped,  and  comparing  it  with  the  round  sum  his  own  father  liad 
left  him,  he  said  some  plain  truths  to  Sir  Frank  which  the  latter 
never  forgave,  and  henceforth  there  was  nt)  intercourse  between 
Holster  Court  and  Ford  Bank,  as  Mr.  Edward  Wilkins  had 
christened  his  father's  house  on  his  first  return  from  the  Con- 
tinent. 

The  conversation  had  two  consequences  besides  the  immediate 
one  of  the  (|uarrel.  Mi'.  Wilkins  advertised  for  a  respousible  and 
confidential  clerk  to  conduct  the  business  under  his  own  super- 
intendence; and  lie  also  wrote  to  the  Heralds'  College  to  ask  if 
he  did  not  belong  to  the  family  bearing  the  sjime  name  in  South 
Wales — those  who  have  since  reassumed  their  ancient  name  of 
De  Winton. 

Both  aj)pli(ations  were  favorably  answered.  A  skilful,  ex- 
perienced, middle-aged  clerk  was  recommended  to  him  by  one  of 
tlie  principal  legal  firms  in  London,  and  immetliately  engaged  to 
come  to  Hamley  at  his  own  terms;  which  were  pretty  high. 
But,  as  Mr.  Wilkins  sjiid  it  was  worth  any  money  to  ])ay  for  the 
relief  from  constant  responsibility  which  such  a  busine.>v«<  as  his 
involved,  some  people  remarked  that  he  had  never  apjwared  to 
feel  the  responsibility  very  much  hitherto,  as  witness  his  absences 
in  Scotland,  and  his  various  social  enpigements  when  at  home; 
it  luul  been  very  dillerent  (they  wiiil)  in  his  fathers  day.  The 
Heralds'  College  held  out  hopes  of  afliliatiiig  him  to  the  Stuith 
Wales  family,  Iml  it  would  reipiire  tune  and  money  to  luake  the 
re<|uisite  inquiries  and  substantiate  the  claim.  Now,  in  many  a 
place  there  would  be  none  t»)  contest  the  right  a  man  might  have 
to  assi;rt  tliat  he  lielonged  t<)  such  and  .sucli  a  family,  or  even 
toassume  their  arms,  liut  it  was  otherwist)  in shire.  Every- 
one was  up  in  geiu'al«>gy  ajid  lieraldry,  and  consitlert^l  filching  a 
tianie  and  a  pedigree  a  far  worse  sin  than  atiy  of  llio.so  mentioiiml 


A    DARK    night's   WORK.  A3 

in  the  CommaTidments.  There  were  those  among  them  who 
Would  doubt  and  dispute  even  the  decision  of  the  Heralds* 
College;  but  with  it,  if  in  his  favour,  Mr.  Wilkiiis  intended  to 
be  satisfied,  and  accordingly  he  wrote  in  reply  to  their  letter  to 
say,  that  of  course  he  was  aware  such  inquiries  would  take  a 
considerable  sum  of  money,  but  still  he  wished  them  to  be  made, 
and  that  speedily. 

Before  the  end  of  the  year  he  went  up  to  London  to  order  a 
brougham  to  be  built  (for  EUinor  to  drive  out  in  in  wet  weather, 
;ie  said;  but  as  going  in  a  closed  carriage  a' ways  made  her  ill,  he 
used  it  principally  himself  in  driving  to  dinner-parties),  with  the 
De  Wiuton  Wilkinses'  arms  neatly  emblazoned  on  panel  and 
harness.  Hitherto  he  had  always  gone  about  in  a  dog-cart — the 
immediate  descendant  of  his  father's  old-fashioned  gig. 

For  all  this,  the  squires,  his  employers,  only  laughed  at  him. 
and  did  not  treat  him  with  one  whit  more  respect. 

Mr.  Dunster,  the  new  clerk,  was  a  quiet,  respectable-looking 
man ;  you  could  not  call  him  a  gentleman  in  manner,  and  yet  no 
one  could  say  he  was  vulgar.  He  had  not  much  varying  expres- 
sion on  his  face,  but  a  permanent  one  of  thoughtful  consideration 
of  the  subject  in  hand,  whatever  it  might,  be,  that  would  have 
fitted  as  well  with  the  profession  of  medicine  as  with  that  of  law, 
and  was  quite  the  right  look  for  either.  Occasionally  a  bright 
flash  of  sudden  intelligence  lightened  up  his  deep-sunk  eyes,  but 
even  this  was  quickly  extinguished  as  by  some  inward  repression, 
and  the  habitually  reflective,  subdued  expression  returned  to  the 
face.  As  soon  as  he  came  into  his  situation,  he  first  began  quietly 
to  arrange  the  papers,  and  next  the  business  of  which  they  were 
the  outer  sign,  into  more  methodical  order  than  they  had  been  in 
since  old  Mr.  Wilkins's  death.  Punctual  to  a  moment  himself,  he 
looked  his  dis])leased  surprise  when  the  inferior  clerks  came 
tumbling  in  half  an  hour  after  the  time  in  the  morning;  and  his 
look  was  more  effective  than  many  men's  words;  henceforward 
the  subordinates  were  within  five  minutes  of  the  appointed  hour 
for  opening  the  office;  but  still  he  was  always  there  before  them. 
Mr.  Wilkins  himself  winced  imder  his  new  clerk's  order  and 
j)unctuality  ;  Mr.  Dunster's  raised  eyebrow  and  contraction  of 
the  lips  at  some  woeful  confusion  in  the  business  of  the  office, 
chafed  Mr.  Wilkins  more,  far  more,  than  any  open  expression  of 
opinion  would  have  done;  for  that  he  could  have  met,  and 
explained  away  as  he  fancied.  A  secret  respectful  dislike  grew 
up  in  his  bosom  against  Mr.  Dunster.  He  esteemed  him,  he 
viilued  him,  and  he  could  not  bear  him.  Year  alter  year  Mr. 
Wilkins  had  become  more  under  the  influence  of  his  feelings,  and 


44  A    DARK   KlOnx'-S   WORK. 

less  under  the  command  of  his  reason.  He  ratlier  cherished  than 
repressed  his  nervous  repugnance  to  the  harsh  measured  tones  of 
Mr.  Dunster'a  voice;  the  latter  spoke  with  a  provincial  twang 
whicli  grated  on  his  employer's  sen-sitive  ear.  He  was  annoyed  at 
a  certain  green  coat  wliich  liis  new  clerk  brought  with  him,  and  he 
watched  its  increasing  shabhiness  with  a  sort  of  childish  plejisure. 
But  by-aiul-V)V  Mr.  Wilkins  foiuid  out  that,  from  some  perversity 
of  taste,  Mr.  Dunster  always  had  his  coats,  Sunday  and  working- 
day,  made  of  this  olinoxious  colour  ;  and  this  knowledge  did  not 
diminish  his  secret  irritation.  The  worst  of  all,  perliaps,  was,  that 
Mr.  Dunster  was  really  invaluable  in  many  ways;  "a  perfect 
treasure,"  as  Mr.  Wilkins  used  to  term  him  in  sf)e;iking  of  him 
after  dinner;  but,  for  all  that,  he  came  to  hate  his  ''perfect 
treasure,"  as  he  gradually  felt  that  Dunster  had  become  so  in- 
dispensable to  the  business  that  liis  chief  could  not  do  without 
him. 

The  clients  re-echoed  Mr.  Wilkins's  words,  and  spoke  of  Mr. 
Dunster  as  invaluable  to  his  master;  a  thorough  treasure,  the 
very  saving  of  the  business.  Thev  had  not  been  better  attended 
to,  not  even  in  oUl  Mr.  Wilkins's  days;  such  a  clear  head,  such  a 
knowledge  of  law,  such  a  steady,  upright  lellow,  always  at  his 
post.  The  grating  voice,  the  drawling  accent,  the  bottle-green 
coat,  were  nothing  to  them;  far  less  noticed,  in  fact,  than 
Wilkins's  expensive  habits,  the  money  he  paid  for  his  wine  and 
horses,  and  the  nonsense  of  claiming  kin  with  the  Welsh  Wilkinsea, 

and  setting  up  his  brougham  to  drive  about shire  lanes,  and 

be  knocked  to  pieces  over  the  rough  round  paving-stones  tliere*if. 

All  these  remarks  did  not  come  near  Ellinor  to  trouble  her  lile. 
To  her,  her  dear  father  was  the  first  of  hinnan  beings ;  so  sweet, 
so  good,  so  kind,  so  charming  in  convers;ition,  so  full  of  accom- 
plishment and  information  !  To  her  healthv,  liappv  mind  every 
one  turned  their  bright  side.  She  loved  Miss  ^lonro — all  the 
servants — especially  Dixon,  the  coachman.  He  had  been  her 
father's  j)layfellow  as  a  boy,  and,  witli  all  liis  respect  and  admira- 
tion for  his  ma.ster,  the  freedom  ot'  intercourse  that  liad  been 
estiiblished  between  them  then  had  never  been  quite  lost.  Di.xoii 
was  a  tine,  stalwart  old  lellow,  and  was  as  harmonious  in  his  ways 
with  his  master  as  Mr.  Dunster  was  discordant  ;  accordingly  he 
was  a  great  favoiu'ite,  and  i-ould  sjiy  manv  a  thing  wnich  might 
liave  been  taken  as  impertinent  Irom  another  servant. 

He  wiw  Kllinor's  great  confidant  about  many  of  lier  little  plana 
and  jjrojects;  things  that  she  dared  not  speak  of  to  Mr.  Corbet, 
wMo,  after  her  father  Jind  Dixtin,  was  her  next  best  friend.  Thi."« 
intimacy  with  Dixon  displeased  Mr.  Corbet.     Ho  onco  or  twice 


A    DARK    night's    WOKK.  45 

insinuated  that  he  did  not  think  it  was  well  to  talk  so  familiarly 
a^  EUinor  did  with  a  servant — one  out  of  a  completely  different 
cla.ss — such  as  Dixon.  Ellinor  did  not  easily  take  hints;  every 
one  had  spoken  plain  out  to  her  hitherto  ;  so  ^Ir.  Corbet  had  to  say 
his  meaning  plain  out  at  last.  Then,  for  the  iirst  time,  he  saw  her 
angT}';  but  she  was  too  young,  too  childish,  to  have  words  at  will 
to  express  her  feelings;  she  only  could  say  broken  beginnings  of 
sentences,  such  as  •'  What  a  shame  !  Good,  dear  Dixon,  who  is 
as  loyal  and  true  and  kind  as  any  nobleman.  I  like  him  far 
better  than  you,  Mr.  Corbet,  and  I  shall  talk  to  him."  And  then 
she  burst  into  te:irs  and  ran  away,  and  would  not  come  to  wish 
Mr.  Corbet  good-bye,  though  she  knew  she  should  not  see  him 
again  for  a  long  time,  as  he  Avas  returning  the  next  day  to  his 
father's  house,  from  whence  he  would  go  to  Cambridge. 

He  was  annoyed  at  this  result  of  the  good  advice  he  had 
thought  himself  bound  to  give  to  a  motherless  girl,  who  had  no 
one  to  instruct  her  in  the  proprieties  in  which  his  own  sisters  were 
brought  up ;  he  left  Ilamley  both  sorry  and  displeased.  As  for 
Ellinor,  when  she  found  out  the  next  day  that  he  really  was 
gone — gone  without  even  coming  to  Ford  Bank  again  to  see  if  she 
were  not  penitent  for  her  angry  words — gone  without  saying  or 
hearing  a  word  of  good-bye — she  shut  herself  up  in  her  room, 
and  cried  more  bitterly  than  ever,  because  anger  against  herself 
was  mixed  with  her  regret  for  his  loss.  Luckily,  her  father  was 
dininjj  out,  or  he  would  have  inquired  what  was  the  matter  with 
his  darling;  and  she  would  have  had  to  try  to  explain  what  could 
not  be  explained.  As  it  was,  she  sat  with  her  back  to  the  light 
during  the  schoolroom  tea,  and  afterwards,  when  Miss  Monro  had 
settled  down  to  her  study  of  the  Spanish  language,  Ellinor  stole 
out  into  the  garden,  meaning  to  have  a  fresh  cry  over  her  own 
naughtiness  and  Mr.  Corbets  departure;  but  the  August  evening 
was  still  and  calm,  and  put  her  passionate  grief  to  shame,  hushing 
her  up,  as  it  were,  with  the  other  young  creatures,  who  were  being 
soothed  to  rest  by  the  serene  time  of  day,  and  the  subdued  light 
of  the  twilight  sky. 

There  was  a  piece  of  groimd  surrounding  the  flower-garden, 
which  was  not  shrubbery,  nor  wood,  nor  kitchen  garden — only  a 
grassy  bit,  out  of  which  a  group  of  old  forest  trees  s[)rang.  Their 
roots  were  heaved  above  ground ;  their  leaves  fell  in  autunui  so 
profu.sely  that  the  turf  was  ragged  and  bare  in  spring;  but, 
to  make  up  for  this,  there  never  was  such  a  place  for  snowdrops. 

The  routs  of  these  old  trees  were  Ellinor's  favourite  play-place; 
this  space  between  these  two  was  her  doll's  kitchen,  that  its  draw- 
ing-room, and  so  on.    Mr.  Corbet  rather  despised  her  cojitrivances 


46  A    PARK    night's   WORK. 

for  doll's  furniture,  so  she  had  not  often  brought  him  here ;  but 
Dixon  delighted  in  them,  and  contrived  and  planned  with  the 
eagerness  ol  six  years  old  rather  than  forty.  To-night  Ellinor 
went  to  this  place,  and  there  were  all  a  new  collection  of  orna- 
ments for  Miss  Dolly's  .'^itting-room  made  out  of  tir-bobs,  in  the 
prettiest  and  most  ingenious  way.  She  knew  it  was  Dixon's 
doing  and  rushed  off  in  search  of  him  to  thank  him. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  my  jiretty  ?  "  asked  Dixon,  as  soon  as 
the  pleasiint  excitement  of  thanking  and  being  thanked  was  OA'er, 
and  he  had  leisure  to  look  at  her  tear-stained  face. 

"  Oh,  I  df>n't  know  !     Never  mind,"  said  she,  reddening. 

Dixon  was  silent  for  a  minute  or  two,  while  she  tried  to  turn 
off  his  attention  by  her  hurried  prattle. 

"  There's  no  trouble  afoot  that  I  can  mend?"  asked  he,  in  a 
minute  or  two. 

'•  Oh,  no !  It's  really  nothing — nothing  at  all,"  said  she. 
"  It's  only  that  Mr.  Corbet  went  away  without  saying  good-bye 
to  me,  that's  all."  And  she  looked  as  if  she  should  have  liked  to 
cry  again. 

"  That  was  not  manners,"  said  Dixon,  decisively. 

"  But  it  was  my  fault,"  replied  Ellinor,  pleading  against  the 
condemnation. 

Dixon  looked  at  her  jiretty  sharply  from  under  his  ragged 
bushy  eyebrows. 

"  lie  had  been  giving  me  a  lecture,  and  saying  I  didn't  do  what 
his  sisters  did — just  as  if  I  were  to  be  always  trying  to  be  like 
soniebixly  else — and  I  was  cross  and  ran  awav." 

"  Then  it  was  Missy  who  wouldn't  say  good-bye.  That  was 
not  manners  in  Missy." 

"  But,  Dixttn,  1  don't  like  being  lectured  !  " 

"  1  reckon  you  ilon't  get  much  of  it.  But,  indeed,  my  pretty, 
I  daresjiy  Mr.  Corl)et  was  in  the  right;  for,  you  see,  master  is 
busy,  and  Miss  Monro  is  so  dreadful  learned,  and  your  }x»or 
mother  is  dead  and  gone,  and  you  have  no  one  to  teach  you  how 
young  ladies  goon;  and  by  all  accounts  Mr.  Corbet  comes  of  agood 
family.  I've  heaitl  sjiy  his  father  had  the  best  stud-farm  in  all 
.Shr«)pshire,  and  spared  no  money  nj)on  it;  and  the  young  ladies 
Ilia  sisters  will  have  been  taught  the  best  of  inimners;  it  might 
be  well  for  my  pretty  Ut  In-ar  how  they  go  on." 

"  You  dear  old  Dixon,  you  don't  know  anything  alnuit 
my  lecture,  and  I'm  not  going  t^)  t^^'ll  you.  Only  I  daresay 
Mr.  Corbet  miglit  be  a  little  bit  right,  though  I'm  sure  he  was 
•  great  deal  wrong." 

"  But  you'll  not  go  on   a-fretting — you  won't   now,  tin  it's  a 


A    DARK    NIGHTS    WOUK.  4/ 

pood  Vf>'inp  lady — for  master  won't  like  it,  and  it'll  make  liim 
imeasv,  and  he's  enough  of  trouble  without  your  red  eyes,  bless 
them." 

"  Trouble — papa,  trouble!  Oh,  Dixon  !  what  do  you  mean  .'" 
exclaimed  Ellinor,  her  face  taking  all  a  woman's  intensity  of 
expression  in  a  minute. 

"  Nay,  I  know  nought,"  said  Dixon,  evasively.  "  Only  that 
Dunster  fellow  is  not  to  my  mind,  and  I  think  he  potters  the 
master  sadly  with  his  fid-fad  ways" 

"I  hate  Mr.  Dunster!"  said  Ellinor,  vehemently.  '■' I  won't 
speak  a  word  to  him  the  ne.xt  time  lie  comes  to  dine  with  papa." 

"  Missy  will  do  what  papa  likes  best,"  said  Dixon,  admonish- 
ingly ;  and  with  this  the  pair  of  "  friends  "  parted. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


The  summer  afterw^ards  i\Ir.  Corbet  came  again  to  read  with 
Mr.  Ness.  He  did  not  perceive  any  alteration  in  himself,  and 
indeed  his  early-matured  character  had  hardly  made  progress 
during  the  last  twelve  months  Avhatever  intellectual  acquirements 
he  might  have  made.  Therefore  it  was  astonishing  to  him  to 
see  the  alteration  in  Ellinor  Wilkins.  She  had  shot  up  from  a 
rather  puny  girl  to  a  tall,  slight  young  lady,  with  promise  of 
great  beauty  in  the  face,  which  a  year  ago  had  only  been  remark- 
able for  the  fineness  of  the  eyes.  Her  complexion  was  clear  now, 
although  colourless — twelve  months  ago  he  would  have  called 
it  sallow — her  delicate  cheek  was  smooth  as  marble,  her 
teeth  were  even  and  white,  and  her  rare  smiles  called  out  a 
lovely  dimple. 

She  met  her  former  friend  and  lecturer  Avith  a  grave  shvness, 
for  she  remembered  well  how  they  had  parted,  and  thought  he 
could  hardly  have  forgiven,  much  less  forgotten,  her  passionate 
flinging  away  from  him.  But  the  truth  was,  after  the  first  few 
hours  of  offended  displeasure,  he  had  ceased  to  think  of  it  at  all. 
She,  poor  child,  by  way  of  proving  her  repentance,  had  tried 
hard  to  reform  her  boisterous  t-om-boy  manners,  in  order  to  show 
him  that,  although  she  would  not  give  up  her  dear  old  friend 
Dixon,  at  his  or  anyone's  bidding,  she  woidd  strive  to  profit  by 
his  lectures  in  all  things  reasonaV)le.  The  consequence  was,  that 
she  suddenly  appeared  to  him  as  an  elegant  dignified  young  ladv, 
instead  of  the  rough  little  girl  he  remembered.  Still  below  her 
Bomewhat  formal  manners  there  lurked  the  old  wild  spirit,  as  he 


48  A  PARK  night's  woiiK. 

could  plainly  see  after  a  little  more  watching;  and  he  began  to 
wish  to  call  this  out,  and  to  strive,  by  reminding  her  of  old 
days,  and  all  her  childish  frolics,  to  flavour  her  subdutil 
manners  and  speech  with  a  little  of  the  former  originality. 

In  this  he  succeeded.  No  one,  neither  Mr.  Wilkins,  nor  Misa 
Monro,  nor  Mr.  Ness,  s;i\v  what  this  young  couple  were  about — 
tlu-y  did  not  know  it  themselves;  but  before  the  summer  was 
over  they  were  desperately  in  love  with  each  other,  or  perhaps  I 
should  rather  .'^Jiy,  Kllinor  was  desperately  in  love  witli  him — he, 
as  passionately  as  he  could  be  with  anyone  ;  but  in  him  tlie 
intellect  was  superior  in  strength  to  either  affections  or  jiassions. 

The  (-auses  of  the  blindiuss  of  those  aroimd  them  were  these: 
Mr.  AVilkins  still  considered  EUiiior  as  a  little  girl,  as  his  own 
pet,  his  darling,  but  nothing  more.  Miss  Monro  was  anxious 
about  her  own  improvement.  Mr.  Ness  was  deej)  in  a  new  edition 
of  "  Horace,"  which  he  was  going  to  bring  out  with  notes.  I 
believe  Dixon  wotild  have  been  keener  sighted,  but  Ellinor  kept 
Mr.  Corbet  and  Dixon  apart  for  obvious  reasons — they  were  each 
her  dear  friends,  but  siie  knew  that  Mr.  Corbet  did  not  like 
Dixon,  and  suspected  that  the  feeling  was  mutual, 

Tlie  only  change  of  circumstances  between  this  year  and  the 
previous  one  consisted  in  this  development  of  attachment  between 
the  young  people.  Otherwise,  everytliing  went  on  apparently  as 
usual.  With  Ellinor  the  course  of  the  day  was  >;ometliing  like 
this:  up  early  and  into  the  garden  until  breakfast  time,  when 
she  made  tea  for  her  father  and  Miss  Monro  in  tlie  dining-room, 
always  taking  aire  to  lay  a  little  nosegay  of  Ireshly-gjitlicred 
liowt^rs  by  her  lather's  plate.  After  breakfast,  when  the  con- 
versiilion  had  been  on  general  and  indifferent  subjects,  Mr. 
Wilkins  withdrew  into  the  little  study  so  often  mentioned.  It 
opened  out  of  a  passage  that  ran  between  the  dining-room  and 
the  kitchen,  on  the  left  hand  of  the  hall.  Corresponding  to  tlie 
dining-room  on  the  otiier  side  of  the  hall  was  the  drawing-r»)om. 
with  its  side-window  serving  as  a  door  into  a  conservatory,  and 
this  again  opened  into  tlie  library.  Old  Mr.  Wilkins  had  adiied 
a  semicircular  projection  to  the  library,  which  was  ligiited  by  a 
dome  above,  and  showed  off  his  son's  Italian  purchases  of  sculp- 
ture. The  library  was  by  far  the  most  striking  and  agreeable 
room  in  the  house;  and  the  consequence  was  that  the  drawing- 
room  was  seldom  used,  and  had  the  aspect  of  cold  discomfort 
common  to  apartments  mrely  occupied.  Mr.  Wilkins's  study,  on 
the  other  side  of  the  house,  was  also  an  afterthoufiht,  built  only 
a  few  years  ago,  and  projecting  fi-oni  the  regularity  of  the  outride 


A    DARK   night's   'WORK.  49 

wnll ;  a  little  stone  passage  led  to  it  from  the  hall,  small,  narrow, 
and  dark,  and  out  of  which  no  other  door  opened. 

The  study  itself  was  a  hexagon,  one  side  window,  one  fireplace, 
and  the  remaining  four  sides  occupied  with  doors,  two  of  which 
have  been  already  mentioned,  another  at  the  foot  of  the  narrow 
winding  stairs  which  led  straight  into  Mr.  Wilkins's  bedroom 
over  the  dining-room,  and  the  fourth  opening  into  a  path  through 
the  shrubbery  to  the  right  of  the  flower-garden  as  you  looked 
from  the  house.  This  path  led  through  the  stable-yard,  and 
then  by  a  short  cut  right  into  Hamley,  and  brought  you  out 
close  to  Mr.  Wilkins's  office;  it  was  by  this  way  he  always  went 
and  returned  to  his  business.  He  used  the  study  for  a  smoking 
and  lounging  room  principally,  although  he  always  spoke  of  it  as 
a  convenient  place  for  holding  confidential  communications  with 
such  of  his  clients  as  did  not  like  discussing  their  business  within 
the  possible  hearing  of  all  the  clerks  in  his  office.  By  the  outer 
door  he  could  also  pass  to  the  stables,  and  see  that  proper  care 
was  taken  at  all  times  of  his  favourite  and  valuable  horses.  Into 
this  study  Ellinor  would  follow  him  of  a  morning,  helping  him 
on  with  his  great-coat,  mending  his  gloves,  talking  an  infinite 
deal  of  merry  fond  nothing;  and  then,  clinging  to  his  arm,  she 
would  accompany  him  in  his  visits  to  the  stables,  going  up  to  the 
shyest  horses,  and  petting  them,  and  patting  them,  and  feeding 
them  with  bread  all  the  time  that  her  father  held  converse  with 
Dixon.  When  he  was  finally  gone — and  sometimes  it  was  a  long 
time  first — she  returned  to  the  schoolroom  to  Miss  Monro,  and 
tried  to  set  herself  hard  at  work  on  her  lessons.  But  she  had 
not  much  time  for  steady  application;  if  her  father  had  cared 
for  her  progress  in  anything,  she  would  and  could  have  worked 
hard  at  that  .study  or  accomplishment;  but  Mr.  Wilkins,  the  ease 
and  pleasure  loving  man,  did  not  wish  to  make  himself  into  the 
pedagogue,  as  he  would  have  considered  it,  if  he  had  ever 
questioned  Ellinor  with  a  real  steady  purpose  of  ascertaining  her 
intellectual  progress.  It  was  quite  enough  for  him  that  her 
general  intelligence  and  variety  of  desultory  and  miscellaneous 
reading  made  her  a  pleasant  and  agreeable  companion  for  his 
hours  of  relaxation. 

At  twelve  o'clock,  Ellinor  put  away  her  books  with  joyful 
eagerness,  kissed  Miss  Monro,  asked  her  if  they  should  go  a 
regular  walk,  and  was  always  rather  thankful  when  it  was  de- 
cided that  it  would  be  better  to  stroll  in  the  garden — a  decision 
very  often  come  to,  for  Miss  Monro  hated  fatigue,  hated  dirt, 
hated  scrambling,  and  dreaded  rain;  all  of  which  are  evils,  the 
chances  of  which  are  never  far  distant  from  country  walks,     ^jo 

£ 


50  A    DARK   NIGHTS   WORK. 

Ellinor  danced  out  into  the  garden,  worked  away  among  her 
llowers,  played  at  the  old  games  among  tlie  roots  of  the  trees, 
and,  wlien  she  could,  seduced  Dixon  into  the  flower-garden  to 
have  a  little  consultation  as  to  the  horses  and  dogs.  For  it  was 
one  of  her  father's  few  strict  rules  that  Ellinor  was  never  to  go 
into  the  stal)le-yard  unle&s  he  were  with  her  ;  so  these  tete-a-tttes 
with  Dixon  were  always  hftld  in  the  flower-garden,  or  bit  of 
forest  ground  surrounding  it.  Miss  Monro  sat  and  basked  in 
the  sun,  close  to  the  dial,  which  made  the  centre  <if  the  gay 
fiower-beds,  upon  which  the  dining-room  and  study  windows 
looked. 

At  one  o'clock,  Ellinor  and  MLss  Monro  dined.  An  hour  was 
allowed  for  Miss  Monro's  digestion,  which  Ellinor  again  spent  out 
of  doors,  and  at  three,  lessons  began  again  and  lasted  till  five. 
At  that  time  they  went  to  dress  preparatory  for  the  sc-hoolroom 
tea  at  half-past  five.  After  tea  Ellinor  tried  to  prejiare  her 
lessons  for  the  ne.xt  day ;  but  all  the  time  she  was  listening  for 
lier  father's  footstep — the  moment  .she  heard  that,  slie  da.shed 
down  her  book,  and  Hew  out  of  the  room  to  welcome  and  kiss 
him.  Seven  was  his  dinner-hour ;  he  hardly  ever  dined  alone; 
indeed,  he  often  dined  from  home  four  days  out  of  seven,  and 
when  he  had  no  engagement  to  take  him  out  he  liked  to  have 
h)me  one  to  keep  him  company  :  Mr,  Ne.ss  ver}'  often,  Mr.  Corbet 
along  with  him  if  he  was  in  Ilaniley,  a  .stranger  friend,  or  one  of 
his  clients.  Sometimes,  reluctantly,  and  when  he  fancied  he 
could  not  avoid  the  attention  without  giving  ofience,  Mr.  Wilkins 
would  ask  Mr.  Dunster,  and  then  the  two  would  always  follow 
Ellinor  into  the  library  at  a  very  early  hour,  as  if  their  subjects 
for  tete-a-tete  conversation  were  quite  exhausted.  With  all  his 
other  vi.sitors,  Mr.  Wilkins  s;it  long  —  yes,  and  yearly  longer; 
with  Mr.  Ness,  because  they  became  interested  in  eacli  otlier's 
conversjition ;  with  some  of  the  others,  because  the  wine  was 
good,  and  the  host  hated  to  .spare  it. 

Mr.  Corbet  u.sed  to  leave  his  tutor  and  Mr.  Wilkins  and  saunter 
into  the  library.  There  .sat  Ellinor  and  Mi?s  Monro,  each  busy 
with  tljeir  embroidery.  He  would  bring  a  .et<H>l  to  Ellinor's  side, 
(piestion  and  tease  her,  interest  her,  and  they  would  become 
entirely  absorbed  in  each  other,  Miss  Monro's  sense  of  jiropricty 
In-'ing  entirely  set  at  rest  by  the  consideration  that  Mr.  Wilkins 
must  know  what  he  was  about  in  allowing  a  yoiu\g  man  to 
liecome  thus  intimate  with  his  daughter,  who,  after  all,  was  but  a 
child. 

Mr.  Corbet  liad  lately  fallen  into  tlie  habit  of  walking  up  u> 
Kord   Binik  for   The  Times  every  day,  near  twelve  o'clock,  nnd 


A    DA  UK    night's   WORK.  51 

lounging  about  in  the  uanlen  until  one ;  not  exactly  with  either 
Ellinor  or  Miss  Monro,  hut  certainly  far  more  at  the  beck  and 
call  of  the  one  than  of  the  other. 

Miss  Monro  used  to  think  he  woidd  have  been  glad  to  stay  and 
lunch  at  their  early  dinner,  but  she  never  gave  the  invitation, 
and  ho  could  n()t  well  stay  witliout  her  expressed  sanction.  Ho 
told  Ellinor  all  about  his  mother  and  sisters,  and  their  ways  of 
going  on,  and  spoke  of  them  and  of  his  father  as  of  people  she 
was  one  dav  certain  to  know,  and  to  know  intimately;  and  she 
did  not  question  or  doubt  this  view  of  things ;  she  simply 
acquiesced. 

He  had  some  discussion  with  himself  as  to  whether  he  should 
speak  to  her,  and  so  secure  her  promise  to  be  his  before  returning 
to  Cambridge  or  not.  He  did  not  like  the  formality  of  an  appli 
cation  to  Mr.  \A'ilkins,  which  would,  after  all,  have  been  the 
])roper  and  straightforward  course  to  pursue  with  a  girl  of  her 
age — she  was  barely  sixteen.  Not  that  he  anticipated  any  diffi- 
culty on  Mr.  Wilkins's  part;  his  approval  of  the  intimacy  which 
at  their  respective  ages  was  pretty  sure  to  lead  to  an  attachment, 
was  made  as  evident  as  could  be  by  actions  without  words.  But 
there  would  have  to  be  reference  to  his  own  father,  who  had  no 
notion  of  the  wliole  affair,  and  would  be  sure  to  treat  it  as  a 
boyish  fancy ;  as  if  at  tAventy-one  Ealph  was  not  a  man,  as  clear 
and  deliberative  in  knowing  his  own  mind,  as  resolute  as  he  ever 
would  be  in  deciding  upon  the  course  of  exertion  that  should  lead 
him  to  independence  and  fame,  if  such  were  to  be  attained  by 
clear  intellect  and  a  strong  will. 

No;  to  Mr.  Wilkins  he  would  not  speak  for  another  year 
or  two. 

But  should  he  tell  Ellinor  in  direct  terms  of  his  love — his 
intention  to  marry  her  ? 

Again  he  inclined  to  the  more  prudent  course  of  silence.  He 
was  not  afraid  of  any  change  in  his  own  inclinations :  of  them  he 
was  sure.  But  he  looked  upon  it  in  this  way  :  If  he  madi  a 
regular  declaration  to  her  she  woidd  be  bomid  to  tell  it  to  her 
father.  He  shoidd  not  respect  her  or  like  her  so  much  if  she  did 
not.  And  yet  this  course  would  lead  to  all  the  conversations,  and 
discussions,  and  references  to  his  own  father,  which  made  his  own 
direct  aijpeal  to  Mr.  Wilkins  appear  a  premature  step  to  him. 

Whereas  he  was  as  sure  of  Ellinor's  love  ior  him  as  if  she  had 
uttered  all  the  vows  that  women  ever  spoke;  he  knew  even 
better  than  she  did  how  fully  and  entirely  that  innocent  girlish 
heart  was  his  own.  He  was  too  proud  to  dread  her  inconstancy 
for  an  instant ;   "besides,"  as  he  went  on  to  himself,  as  if  to  make 

B    2 


52  A    DARK    night's    WORK. 

.•kasnrance  doubly  sure,  "whom  does  she  see?  Those  stupid 
llolslers,  who  ought  to  be  only  too  proud  of  having  such  a  girl 
for  their  cousin,  ignore  her  existence,  and  spoke  slightingly  of  her 
father  only  the  very  last  time  I  dined  there.    The  country  people 

in  this   precisely  Boeotian    shire  clutch  at  me   because  my 

father  goes  up  to  the  Plantagenets  for  his  pedigree— not  one  whit 
for  myfc.'lf — and  neglect  Ellinor;  and  only  condescend  to  her 
father  because  old  Wilkins  was  nobody-knows-who's  son.  So 
much  the  worse  for  them,  but  so  much  the  better  for  me  in  this 
case.  I'm  above  their  silly  antiquated  prejudices,  and  shall  be 
rnly  too  glad  when  the  fitting  time  comes  to  make  Ellinor  my 
wife.  After  all,  a  prosperous  attorney's  daughter  may  not  be 
considered  an  unsuitable  match  for  me — younger  son  as  I  am. 
Ellinor  will  make  a  glorious  woman  three  or  lour  years  hence; 
just  the  style  my  father  admires — such  a  figure,  such  limbs.  I'll 
be  patient,  and  bide  my  time,  and  watch  my  opportunities,  and 
all  will  come  right." 

So  he  bade  Ellinor  farewell  in  a  most  reluctant  and  affectionate 
nianner,  although  his  words  might  have  been  spoken  out  in 
llamloy  market-place,  and  were  little  different  from  what  he  said 
to  Miss  Monro.  Mr.  Wilkins  half  expected  a  disclosure  to  hint- 
self  of  the  love  which  he  suspected  in  the  young  man;  and  when 
that  did  not  come,  he  prepared  himself  for  a  confidence  from  Ellinor. 
But  she  had  nothing  to  tell  him,  as  he  very  well  perceived  fjom 
the  child's  open  unembarrassed  manner  when  they  were  left  alone 
together  after  dinner,  lie  had  refused  an  invitation,  and  shaken 
off  Mr.  Nei-.s,  in  order  to  have  this  confidential  tcte-a-h'te  with  his 
motherless  girl:  and  there  was  nothing  to  make  confidence  of. 
He  Wius  hal^  inclined  to  be  angry  ;  l)ut  then  he  saw  that,  although 
sad,  she  w.is  so  much  at  peace  with  herself  and  with  the  world, 
that  he,  always  an  optimist,  began  to  think  the  young  man  had 
done  wisely  in  not  tearing  open  the  rosebud  of  her  leeliugs  too 
prematurely. 

The  n(  xt  two  years  passed  over  in  much  the  same  way — or  a 
careless  spectator  might  have  thought  so.  I  have  hoaril  juxiple 
say,  that  if  you  look  at  a  regiment  advancing  with  steady  step 
over  a  plain  on  a  review-day,  you  can  hardly  tell  that  they  are  not 
merely  marking  time  on  one  spot  of  ground,  unless  you  coinj»aro 
their  positicm  with  somo  otluT  object  by  which  to  murk  their 
progress,  so  even  is  the  repetition  of  the  movement.  And  thus 
the  sad  events  of  the  future  life  of  this  father  and  daughter  were 
hardly  ]>ereoived  in  their  steady  advance,  and  yet  over  the 
monotony  luid  llat  imilormity  of  tlieir  days  sorrow  cjime  march- 
ing  down    upon   them   like  an   armed   uian.     Long   before   Mr. 


A    PARK    NIGRT's    WOllK.  53 

Wilkins  Lad  recognised  its  shape,  it  was  approaching  him  in  the 
distance — as,  in  fact,  it  is  approaching  all  of  us  at  this  very  time ; 
you,  reader,  I,  writer,  have  each  our  great  sorrow  bearing  down 
upon  us.  It  may  be  yet  beyond  the  dimmest  point  of  our  liorizon, 
but  in  the  stillness  of  the  night  our  hearts  shrink  at  the  sound  <A 
its  coming  footstep.  Well  is  it  for  those  who  fall  into  the  hands 
of  tlie  Lord  rather  than  into  the  hands  of  men  ;  but  worst  of  all 
is  it  for  him  who  has  hereafter  to  mingle  the  gall  of  remorse  with 
the  cup  held  out  to  him  by  his  doom. 

]Mr.  Wilkins  took  his  ease  and  his  pleasure  yet  more  and  more 
every  year  of  his  life ;  nor  did  the  quality  of  his  ease  and  his 
pleasure  improve;  it  seldom  does  with  self-indulgent  people.  He 
cared  less  for  any  books  that  strained  his  faculties  a  little — less 
for  engravings  and  sculptures — perhaps  more  for  pictures.  He 
spent  extravagantly  on  his  horses;  "  thought  of  eating  and  drink- 
ing." There  was  no  open  vice  in  all  this,  so  that  aiiy  awful 
temptation  to  crime  should  come  down  upon  him,  and  startle  him 
out  of  his  mode  of  thinking  and  living ;  half  the  pjftople  about 
him  did  much  the  same,  as  far  as  their  lives  were  patent  to  his 
unreflecting  observation.  But  most  of  his  associates  had  their 
duties  to  do,  and  did  them  with  a  heart  and  a  will,  in  the  hours 
when  he  was  not  in  their  company.  Yes !  I  call  them  duties, 
though  some  of  them  might  be  self-imposed  and  purely  sticial  ; 
they  were  engagements  they  had  entered  into,  either  tacitly  or 
with  words,  and  that  they  fulfilled.  From  jMr.  Hetherington,  the 
IMiister  of  the  Hounds,  who  was  up  at — no  one  knows  what  hour, 
to  go  down  to  the  kennel  and  see  that  the  men  did  their  work 
well  and  thoroughly,  to  stern  old  Sir  Lionel  Playfair,  the  upright 
magistrate,  the  thoughtful,  conscientious  landlord — they  did  their 
work  according  to  their  lights ;  there  were  few  laggards  among 
those  with  whom  Mr.  Wilkins  associated  in  the  field  or  at  the 
dinner-table.  Mr.  Ness — though  as  a  clergyman  he  was  not  so 
active  as  he  might  have  been — yet  even  Mr.  Ness  fagged  away 
with  his  pupils  and  his  new  edition  of  one  of  the  classics.  Only 
Mr.  Wilkins,  dissatisfied  with  his  position,  neglected  to  fulfil  the 
duties  thereof.  He  imitated  the  pleasures,  and  longed  for  the 
fancied  leisure  of  those  about  him ;  leisure  that  he  imagined 
would  be  so  much  more  valuable  in  the  hands  of  a  man  like 
himself,  full  of  intellectual  tastes  and  accomplishments,  than  frit- 
tered away  by  dull  boors  of  unfravelled,  uncultivated  sijuires  — 
whose  comf)any,  however,  be  it  said  by  the  way,  he  never  refused. 

And  yet  daily  Mr.  Wilkins  was  sinkintr  from  the  intellectually 
to  the  sensually  self-indulgent  m^in.  He  lay  late  in  bed,  and 
hated  Mr.  Dunster  for  his  significant  glance  at  the  oflice-clock 


54  A    DARK    night's   WORK. 

when  he  announced  to  his  master  that  such  and  such  a  client  had 
Jieen  waiting  more  than  an  hour  to  keep  an  appoiutment.  "  Why 
didn't  you  see  him  yourself,  Dunster?  I'm  sure  you  would  have 
done  quite  as  well  as  me,"  Mr.  Wilkins  sometimes  replied,  jartly 
with  a  view  of  saying  something  pleasent  to  the  man  wliom  he 
disliked  and  feared.  Mr.  Dunster  always  rejilicd,  in  a  meek 
matter-of-fact  tone,  "Oh,  sir,  they  wouldn't  like  to  talk  over  thiir 
affairs  with  a  subordinate." 

And  every  time  he  said  this,  or  some  speech  of  the  same  kind, 
the  idea  came  more  and  more  clearly  into  Mr.  Wilkins's  head,  of 
how  pleasant  it  would  be  to  himself  to  take  Dunster  int<^)  partner- 
ship, and  thus  throw  all  the  responsiblity  of  the  real  work  and 
drudgery  upon  his  clerk's  shoulders.  Importunate  clients,  who 
would  make  appointments  at  unseasonable  hours  and  would  keep 
to  them,  might  confide  in  the  partner,  though  they  would  not  in 
the  clerk.  The  great  objections  to  this  course  were,  first  and 
foremost,  Mr.  Wilkins's  strong  dislike  to  Mr.  Dunster — his 
repugnance  to  his  company,  his  dre.=<s,  his  voice,  his  wa\  s — all  of 
which  irritated  his  employer,  till  his  state  of  feeling  towards 
Dunster  might  be  called  antipathy;  next,  Mr.  Wilkins  was  fully 
aware  of  the  fact  that  all  Mr.  Dunster's  actions  and  words  were 
carefully  and  thoughtfully  pre-arranged  to  further  the  great 
unspoken  desire  of  his  life — that  of  being  made  a  {lartner  where 
he  now  was  only  a  servant.  Mr.  Wilkins  took  a  malicious 
pleasure  in  tantalizing  Mr.  Dunster  by  such  speeches  as  the  one 
I  have  just  mentioned,  which  alwa's  seemed  like  an  opening  to 
the  desired  end,  but  still  for  a  long  time  never  led  any  further. 
Yet  all  the  while  that  end  was  becoming  more  and  more  certain, 
and  at  last  it  was  reached. 

Mr.  Dujister  always  suspected  that  the  final  push  was  given  by 
some  circumstance  from  without;  some  reprimand  for  neglect — 
stime  threat  of  withdrawal  of  business  which  his  employer  had 
received;  b\it  of  this  he  could  not  lie  certain  ;  all  ho  knew  was, 
that  Mr.  Wilkins  j)n>posed  the  partnership  to  him  in  al)out  as 
imgracious  a  wa}'  as  such  an  offer  could  l»e  made;  an  ungrn- 
ciousufss  which,  after  all,  had  so  little  effivt  on  the  real  matter  in 
hand,  that  Mr.  Dunster  could  pass  over  it  with  a  private  sneer, 
while  taking  all  ptissihio  advantage  of  the  tangible  benefit  it  was 
now  in  his  power  to  accept. 

Mr.  CDrlict'"  attachment  to  Kllinor  had  been  formally  disclo.^ed 
to  her  just  belnre  this  time,  lie  had  lift  college,  enten-d  at  the 
Middle 'I'tMuple,  and  was  fagging  away  at  law,  and  f«>eling  succes.-* 
in  his  own  power;  Kllinor  was  to  "  ccmie  out"  at  the  nt'xt 
lianiley  assemblies;   and  her  lover  began   to  be  jealous   of  the 


A    DARK    MfiHTS   "WORK.  55 

possil)le  admirers  her  striking  appearance  and  piquant  conver- 
sation might  attract,  and  tliought  it  a  good  time  to  make  the 
success  of  his  suit  certain  by  spoken  words  and  promises. 

He  needed  not  have  alarmed  liimself  even  enough  to  make  him 
T.'ke  this  step,  if  he  had  been  capable  of  understanding  Ellinor's 
heart  as  fully  as  he  did  lier  appearance  and  conversation.  She 
never  missed  the  absence  of  formal  words  and  ])romises.  She 
considered  lierself  as  fully  engaged  to  him,  as  much  pledged  to 
marry  him  and  no  one  else,  before  lie  liad  asked  the  final  question, 
as  afterwards.  She  was  rather  siu-prised  at  the  necessity  for 
those  decisive  words, 

"p]llinor,  dearest,  will  you — can  you  marry  me?"  and  her 
i-eply  was— given  with  a  deep  blush  I  must  record,  and  in  a  soft 
murmuring  tone — 

"  Yes — ol),  yes — I  never  thought  of  anything  else." 

"  Then  I  may  speak  to  your  father,  may  not  I,  darling  ? " 

*'  He  knows  ;  I  am  sure  he  knows ;  and  he  likes  you  so  much. 
Oh,  how  happy  I  am  !" 

"  But  still  I  must  speak  to  him  before  I  go.  When  can  I  see 
him,  my  Ellinor  ?     I  must  go  back  to  town  at  four  o'clock." 

"  I  heard  his  voice  in  the  stable-yard  only  just  before  you 
came.     Let  me  go  and  find  out  if  he  is  gone  to  the  office  yet." 

No !  to  be  sure  he  was  not  gone.  He  was  quietly  smoking  a 
cigar  in  his  study,  sitting  in  an  easy-chair  near  the  open  window, 
and  leisurely  glancing  at  all  the  advertisements  in  The  Times. 
He  hated  gohig  to  the  office  more  and  more  since  Dunster  had 
become  a  partner;  that  fellow  gave  himself  such  airs  of  inves- 
tigation and  reprehension. 

He  got  up,  took  the  cigar  out  of  his  mouth,  and  placed  a  chair 
for  Mr.  Corbet,  knowing  well  why  he  had  thus  formally  prefaced 
liis  entrance  into  the  room  with  a — 

"  Can  I  have  a  few  minutes'  conversation  with  you,  Mr. 
Wilkins?  " 

"  Certainly,  my  dear  fellow.   Sit  down.  Will  you  have  a  cigar  ?  " 

"  No  !  I  never  smoke."  Mr.  Corbet  despised  all  these  kinds  of 
indulgences,  and  put  a  little  severity  into  his  refusal,  but  quite 
unintentionally;  for  though  he  was  thankful  he  was  not  as  other 
men,  he  was  not  at  all  the  penson  to  trouble  himself  unnecessarily 
with  their  reformation. 

"  I  want  to  sfjeak  to  you  about  Ellinor.  She  says  she  thinks 
you  must  be  aware  of  our  mutual  attachment." 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Wilkins — he  had  resumed  his  cigar,  partly 
to  conceal  his  agitation  at  what  he  knew  was  coming — "  I  believe 
1  have  had  my  suspicions.     It  is  not  very  long  since  I  was  young 


56  A    DARK    NIGUt's   WORK. 

myself."  And  he  sighed  over  the  recollection  of  Lettice,  and  his 
fresh,  hopeful  youth. 

•*  Ariel  I  liope,  sir,  as  you  have  been  aware  of  it,  and  have 
never  manifested  any  disappro^lation  of  it,  that  you  will  not  refuse 
your  consent — a  consent  I  now  ask  you  for — to  our  marriage." 

Mr.  Wilkins  did  not  speak  lor  a  little  while — a  touch,  a  thought, 
a  word  more  would  have  brought  him  to  tears;  for  at  the  last  he 
found  it  hard  to  give  the  consent  which  would  j>art  him  from  his 
only  child.  Suddenly  he  got  up,  and  putting  his  hand  into  thai 
of  the  anxious  lover  (for  his  silence  had  rendered  Mr.  Corbet 
anxious  up  to  a  certain  point  ot  perplexity — he  could  not  under- 
stand the  implied  he  would  and  he  would  not),  Mr.  Wilkins  said, 

"  Yes !  God  bless  you  both  !  I  will  give  her  to  you,  some 
day — only  it  mu.«t  be  a  long  time  first.  And  now  go  away — go 
back  to  her — for  I  can't  stand  this  much  louL'er.'' 

Mr.  Corbet  returned  to  Ellinor.  Mr.  Wilkins  sat  down  and 
buried  his  head  in  his  hands,  then  went  to  his  stable,  and  had 
Wildfire  saddled  for  a  good  gallop  over  the  country.  Mr. 
Dunster  waited  for  him  in  vain  at  the  office,  where  an  obstinate 
old  country  gentleman  from  a  distant  part  of  the  sliire  would 
ignore  Dunster's  existence  as  a  partner,  and  pertinaciously 
demanded  to  see  Mr.  Wilkins  on  important  business. 


CHAPTER  V. 

A  FEW  days  afterwards,  Ellinor's  father  bethought  himself  tliat 
same  further  communication  ought  to  take  phice  between  him 
and  his  daughter's  lover  regarding  the  approval  of  the  family  of 
the  latter  to  the  young  man's  engagement,  and  he  accordingly 
wrote  a  very  gentlemanly  letter,  saying  that  of  course  he  trusiM 
that  lialph  had  informetl  his  father  of  his  engagement  ;  that  Mr. 
Corbet  was  well  known  to  Mr.  Wilkins  by  reput^ition,  holding  tlie 
position  which  he  did  in  Shropshire,  but  that  a><  Mr.  Wilkins  diil 
not  pretend  to  be  in  the  same  station  of  life,  Mr.  Coriiet  might  j)i>s- 
sihly  never  even  haveheard  nf  his  nanu',altln.ugh  inhisown  county 
it  was  well  knowna.shav  iiig  been  for  generations  that  of  the  prin- 
cipal conveyancer  and  liind-anent  of shire;  that  liis  wife  had 

been  II  memher  of  the  old  kni'jhily  familv  of  llolstvrs.  anil  that  ho 
hims<.'lf  was  descended  froni  a  younger  branch  of  the  South  Wuies 
l)e  Wintons,  or  Wilkins;  that  Ellinor,  as  his  otdy  child,  would 
niilurally  inherit  all  his  proptrly.  but  that  in  the  meantime,  of 
cours*',  some  settlement  iu>on  ner  would  be  made,  the  imiure  ol 
which  miuht  be  decided  nearer  the  limo  of  the  marria;re. 


A    DAUK    night's   WORK.  57 

It  was  a  very  good  straiahtforward  letter  and  well  fitted  for  the 
purpose  to  which  Mr.  Wilkins  knew  it  would  be  applied — of 
being  forwarded  to  the  young  man's  father.  One  would  have 
thought  that  it  was  not  an  engagement  so  disproportionate  in 
point  of  station  as  to  cause  any  great  opposition  on  that  score; 
but,  unluckily,  Captain  Corbet,  the  heir  and  eldest  son,  had  just 
formed  a  similar  engagement  with   Lady  Maria    Brabant,   the 

daughter  of  one  of   the  proudest  earls  in  shire,  who  had 

always  resented  Mr.Wilkins's  appearance  on  the  field  as  an  insult 
to  the  county,  and  ignored  his  presence  at  every  dinner-table 
where  they  met.  Lady  Maria  was  visiting  the  Corbcts  at  the 
very  time  when  Ralph's  letter,  eaclosing  Mr.  Wilkins's,  reached 
the  paternal  halls,  and  she  merely  repeated  her  father's  opinions 
when  ^[rs.  Corbet  and  her  daughters  naturally  questioned  her  as 
to  who  these  Wiikinses  were;  they  remembered  the  name  in 
Kalph's  letters  formerly ;  the  father  was  some  friend  of  Mr. 
Xess's,  the  clerg}'man  with  whom  Ralph  had  read;  they  believed 
Ralph  used  to  dine  with  these  Wiikinses  sometimes,  along  with 
Mr.  Ness. 

Lady  ]\Iaria  was  a  goodnatured  girl,  and  meant  no  harm  in 
repeating  her  father's  words ;  touched  up,  it  is  true,  by  some  of 
the  dislike  she  herself  felt  to  the  intimate  alliance  proposed, 
which  would  make  her  sister-in-law  to  the  daughter  of  an 
"  upstart  attorney,"  "  not  received  in  the  county,"  "  always 
trying  to  push  his  way  into  the  set  above  him,"  "  claiming  con- 
nection with  the  De  Wintons  of  Castle,  who,  as  she  well 

knew,  only  laughed  when  he  was  spoken  of,  and  said  they  were 
more  rich  in  relations  than  they  were  aware  of  " — "  not  people 
papa  would  ever  like  her  to  know,  whatever  might  be  the  family 
connection." 

These  little  speeches  told  in  a  way  which  the  girl  who  uttered 
them  did  not  intend  they  should.  !^Ir3.  Corbet  and  her  daughters 
set  themselves  violently  against  this  foolish  entanglement  of 
Ralph's;  they  would  not  call  it  an  engagement.  They  argued, 
and  they  urged,  and  they  pleaded, till  the  s(iuire,  anxious  for  peace 
at  any  price,  and  always  more  under  the  sway  of  the  people  who 
were  with  him,  however  unreasonable  they  might  be,  than  of 
the  absent,  even  though  these  had  the  wisdom  of  Solomon  or  the 
prudence  and  siigacity  of  his  son  Ralph,  wrote  an  angry  letter, 
saying  that,  as  Ralph  was  of  age,  of  course  he  had  a  right  to  jilcase 
himself,  therefore  all  his  father  could  say  was,  that  the  engage- 
ment was  not  at  all  what  either  he  or  Ralph's  mother  had  ex- 
pected or  hoped;  that  it  was  a  degradation  to  the  family  just 
going  to  ally  themselves  with  a  peer  of  James  the  First's  creation; 


58  A    DATIK   NIGHTS   WORK. 

that  of  course  Ralph  must  do  what  he  liked,  but  that  if  he 
married  this  girl  he  must  never  expect  to  have  her  received  by 
the  Corbels  of  Corbet  Ilall  as  a  daughter.  The  scjuire  was 
rather  satisfied  with  his  production,  and  took  it  to  show  it  to 
his  wife;  but  she  did  not  think  it  was  strong  enough,  and 
added  a  little  postscript  : — 

"  Dear  Ralph, 

"  Though,  as  second  son,  you  are  entitled  to  Bromley  at  my 
death,  yet  I  can  do  much  to  make  the  estate  worthless.  Hitherto, 
regard  for  you  has  prevented  my  taking  steps  as  to  sale  of 
timber,  &c.,  which  would  materially  increase  your  sisters* 
portions;  this  just  measure  I  shall  infallibly  take  if  I  find  you 
persevere  in  keeping  to  this  silly  engagement.  Your  father's 
disapproval  is  always  a  sufficient  reason  to  allege." 

Ralph  was  annoyed  at  the  receipt  of  these  letters,  though  he 
only  smiled  as  he  locked  them  up  in  his  desk. 

"  Dear  old  father !  how  he  blusters  !  As  to  my  mother,  she  is 
reasonaVjle  when  I  talk  to  her.  Once  give  her  a  definite  idea  of 
what  Ellinor's  fortune  will  be,  and  let  her,  if  she  chooses,  cut 
down  lior  timber — a  threat  she  has  held  over  me  ever  since  I 
knew  what  a  rocking-horse  was,  and  which  I  have  known  to  be 
illegal  these  ten  years  past — and  she'll  come  round.  I  know 
better  than  they  do  how  Reginald  has  run  up  post-obits,  and  as 
for  that  vulgar  high-born  Lady  Maria  they  are  all  so  full  of,  why, 
she  is  a  Flanders  mare  to  my  EUinor,  and  has  not  a  silver  penny 
to  cross  herself  with,  besides!  I  bide  my  time,  you  dear  good 
peo])le!" 

He  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  reply  to  these  letters  imme- 
diatolv,n(ir  did  he  ovon  allude  to  their  contents  in  his  to  Ellinor. 
Mr.  Wilkiiis,  who  had  been  very  well  sjitisfied  with  his  own  letter 
to  the  young  man,  and  had  thought  that  it  must  be  ecpially  agree- 
able to  every  one,  was  not  at  all  suspicious  of  any  di8aj>iiroval, 
because  the  fact  oi  a  distinct  siinction  on  the  jiart  of  Mr.  Kalph 
Corbet's  frif'iids  to  his  ciigagement  was  not  ooininunicatod  to  him. 

As  for  Kllinor,  she  trt'inl)le<i  all  over  with  happiness.  Such  a 
■utnuu-r  for  tlic!  hlossoniing  of  flowers  and  ripening  of  fruit  had 
not  been  known  for  years;  it  seeineil  to  her  as  if  bountiful  loving 
Nature  wanted  to  (ill  liie  cup  of  Ellinor's  joy  to  overflowing,  and 
as  if  everything,  animate  and  inanimate,  sympathised  with  her 
happiness.  Her  father  was  well,  and  apparently  content.  Miss 
Monro  was  v»>rv  kind.  Dixon's  lameness  was  quite  gone  off. 
Only  Mr.  hunster  came  cr<H'|>ing  about  the  house,  on  pretence  of 
businumi,  seeking    out  lier  father,  and  disturbing  ail  his  leisure 


A    DAKK.    night's!   WOlUv.  59 

with  his  dust-coloured  parchment- skinned  careworn  face,  and 
seeming  to  disturb  the  smooth  cunent  of  her  daily  life  whenever 
she  saw  him. 

Ellinor  made  her  appearance  at  the  Ilamley  assemblies,  but 
witli  less  eclat  than  either  her  father  or  her  lover  expected.  Her 
beauty  and  natural  grace  were  admired  by  those  who  could  dis- 
criminate ;  but  to  the  greater  number  there  was  (what  they 
called)  "  a  want  of  style" — want  of  elegance  there  certainly  was 
not,  for  her  figure  was  perfect,  and  though  she  moved  shyly,  she 
moved  well.  Perhaps  it  was  not  a  good  place  for  a  correct  appre- 
ciation of  Miss  Wilkins;  some  of  the  old  dowagers  thought  it  a 
piece  of  presumption  in  her  to  be  there  at  all — but  the  Lad}'' 
Holster  of  the  day  (who  remembered  her  husband's  quarrel  with 
Mr.  Wilkins,  and  looked  away  whenever  Ellinor  came  near) 
resented  this  opinion.  "  Miss  Wilkins  is  descended  from 
Sir  Frank's  family,  one  of  the  oldest  in  the  county ;  the 
objection  might  have  been  made  years  ago  to  the  father,  but  as 
he  had  been  received,  she  did  not  know  Avhy  Miss  Wilkins  was 
to  be  alluded  to  as  out  of  her  place."  Ellinor's  greatest  enjoy- 
ment in  the  evening  was  to  hear  her  father  say,  after  all  was 
over,  and  they  were  driving  home — 

"  Well,  I  thought  my  Nelly  the  prettiest  girl  there,  and  I  think 
I  know  some  other  people  who  would  have  said  the  same  if  they 
could  have  spoken  out." 

"  Thank  you,  papa,"  said  Ellinor,  squeezing  his  hand,  which 
she  held.  She  thought  he  alluded  to  the  absent  Ealph  as  the 
person  who  would  have  agreed  with  him,  had  he  had  the  oppor- 
tunity of  seeing  her ;  but  no,  he  seldom  thought  mnch  of  the 
absent ;  but  had  been  rather  flattered  by  seeing  Lord  Hildebrand 
take  up  his  glass  for  the  apparent  purpose  of  watching  Ellinor. 

"  Your  pearls,  too,  were  as  handsome  as  any  in  the  room, 
child — but  we  must  have  them  re-set ;  the  sprays  are  old- 
fashioned  now.  Let  me  have  them  to-morrow  to  send  up  to 
Hancock." 

"  Papa,  please,  I  had  rather  keep  them  as  they  are — as  mamma 
wore  them." 

He  was  touched  in  a  minute. 

*'  Very  well,  darling.     God  bless  you  for  thinking  of  it !  " 

But  he  ordered  her  a  set  of  sapphires  instead,  for  the  next 
assembly. 

These  balls  were  not  such  as  to  intoxicate  Ellinor  with  success, 
and  make  her  in  love  with  gaiety.  Large  parties  came  from  the 
different  country-houses  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  danced  with 
each  other.    When  they  had  exhausted  the  resources  they  brought 


60  A  DARK  night's  work. 

with  them,  they  had  generally  a  few  dances  to  spare  for  friends 
of  the  same  standing  with  whom  they  were  most  intimate. 
Ellinor  came  with  her  father,  and  joined  an  old  card-playing 
dowager,  by  way  of  a  cliaperone — the  said  dowager  being  under 
old  business  obligations  to  the  firm  of  Wilkins  and  Son,  and 
apologizing  to  all  her  actpiaintanccs  for  her  own  weak  condescen- 
sion to  Mr.  AViikins's  foible  in  mshing  to  introduce  his  daughter 
into  society  above  her  natural  sphere.  It  was  upon  this  lady, 
after  she  had  uttered  some  such  speech  as  the  one  I  have  just 
mentioned,  that  Lady  Holster  had  come  do^Ti  with  the  j>edigree 
of  Ellinor  s  mother.  But  though  the  old  dowager  had  drawn 
back  a  little  discomfited  at  my  lady's  reply,  she  was  not  more 
attentive  to  Ellinor  in  consequence.  She  allowed  Mr.  Wilkins  to 
bring  in  his  daughter  and  place  her  on  the  crimson  solii  beside  her; 
spoke  to  her  occasionally  in  the  interval  that  elapsed  before  the 
rubbers  could  be  properly  arranged  in  the  card-rtx)m;  invited 
the  girl  to  accompany  her  to  that  sober  amusement,  and  on 
Ellinor's  declining,  and  preferring  to  remain  with  her  father,  the 
dowager  left  her  with  a  sweet  smile  on  her  plump  countenance, 
and  an  approving  conscience  somewhere  within  lier  portly  frame, 
assuring  her  that  she  had  done  all  that  could  possibly  have  been 
expected  from  her  towards  *'  that  good  Wilkins's  daughter." 
Ellinor  stood  by  her  father  watching  the  dances,  and  thankful  for 
the  occasional  chance  of  a  dance.  While  she  liad  been  sitting  by 
her  chaperone,  Mr.  Wilkins  had  made  the  tour  of  the  room,  drop- 
ping out  the  little  fact  of  his  daughter's  being  present  wherever  he 
thought  tlie  seed  likely  to  bring  forth  tlie  fruit  of  partners.  And 
some  came  because  they  liked  Mr.  Wilkins,  and  some  asked 
Ellinor  because  they  had  done  their  duty  dances  to  their  own 
jKU-ty,  and  might  please  tliemselves.  So  that  she  usually  liad 
an  average  of  one  invitation  to  every  three  dances;  and  this 
principally  towards  the  end  of  the  evening. 

But  consiiloring  her  real  beauty,  and  the  care  which  lier  father 
always  took  al)out  her  apjx'arance,  she  met  with  far  loss  than  her 
due  of  admiration.  Admiration  she  did  not  care  for;  jvirtnors 
she  did;  and  Komotiiiics  felt  mortitit'd  when  she  hatl  to  sit  or 
stand  (|ui«'t  duriiiu;  all  the  first  part  of  the  evening.  If  it  iiad  not 
been  for  her  fallH-r's  wishes  she  would  nuich  rather  have  stayed 
at  home;  but,  nt^viTtheless,  she  talked  even  to  the  irresponsive 
old  dowager,  and  fairly  chatted  to  her  fiither  when  she  got  beside 
liini,  because  slie  did  not  like  liiin  to  fancy  that  she  was  not 
enjoying  herself. 

-Viid,  itidted,  she  had  so  nuich  happiness  in  the  dailv  eourso  of 
tluH  part  of  her  life,  that,  on  looking  back  U])on  it  afterwards,  slie 


A    DARK    NICIHT's   WORK.  61 

could  not  imagine  anything  brighter  than  it  had  been.  The 
delight  of  receiving  her  lover's  letters — the  anxious  happiness  of 
replying  to  them  (always  a  little  bit  fearful  lest  she  should  not 
express  herself  and  her  love  in  the  precisely  happy  medium 
becoming  a  maiden) — the  iather's  love  and  satisfaction  in  her — 
the  calm  prosperity  of  tiie  whole  household — was  delightful  at 
the  time,  and,  looking  back  upon  it,  it  avus  dreamlike. 

Occasionally  Mr.  Corbet  came  down  to  sec  her.  He  always 
slept  on  these  occasions  at  ]Mr.  Ness's ;  but  he  was  at  Ford  Bank 
the  greater  part  of  the  one  day  between  two  nights  that  he 
allowed  himself  for  the  length  of  his  visits.  And  even  these 
short  peeps  were  not  frequently  taken.  He  was  working  hard  at 
law:  fagging  at  it  tooth  and  nail;  arranging  his  whole  life  so  as 
best  to  promote  the  ends  of  his  ambition ;  feeling  a  delight  in 
surpassing  and  mastering  his  fellows — those  who  started  in  the 
race  at  the  same  time.  He  read  EUinor's  letters  over  and  over 
again  ;  nothing  else  beside  law-books.  He  perceived  the  repressed 
love  hidden  away  in  subdued  expressions  in  her  communications, 
with  an  amused  pleasure  at  the  attempt  at  concealment.  He  was 
glad  that  her  gaieties  were  not  more  gay ;  he  was  glad  that  she  was 
not  too  much  admired,  although  a  little  indignant  at  the  want  of  taste 

on  the  part  of  the shire  gentlemen.    But  if  other  admirers  had 

come  prominently  forward,  he  would  have  had  to  take  some  more 
decided  steps  to  assert  his  rights  than  ho  had  hitherto  done  ;  for  he 
had  caused  Ellinor  to  express  a  wish  to  her  father  that  her  engage- 
ment shoidd  not  be  too  much  talked  about  until  nearer  the 
time  when  it  would  be  prudent  for  him  to  marry  her.  He  thought 
that  the  knowledge  of  this,  the  only  imprudently  hasty  step  he 
ever  meant  to  take  in  his  life,  might  go  against  his  character  for 
wisdom,  if  the  fact  became  known  while  he  was  as  yet  only  a 
student.  Mr.  Wilkins  wondered  a  little;  but  acceded,  as  he 
always  did,  to  any  of  EUinor's  requests.  Mr.  Ness  was  a  confi- 
dant, of  course,  and  some  of  Lady  ]\Iaria's  connections  heard  of 
it,  and  forgot  it  again  very  soon  ;  and,  as  it  happened,  on  one  else 
was  sufficiently  interested  in  Ellinor  to  care  to  ascertain  the  fact. 

All  this  time,  Mr.  Kalph  Corbet  maintained  a  very  quietly  de- 
cided attitude  towards  his  own  family.  He  was  engaged  to  Miss 
Wilkins;  and  all  he  could  say  was,  he  felt  sorry  that  they  dis- 
approved of  it.  He  was  not  able  to  marry  just  at  present,  and 
before  the  time  for  his  marriage  arrived,  he  trusted  that  his  family 
"would  take  a  more  reasonable  view  of  things,  and  be  willing  to 
receive  her  as  his  wife  with  all  becoming  rt'sj)ect  or  aflection. 
This  was  the  suVxslaiice  of  what  he  rejjeated  in  diflerent  tbrms  in 
reply  to    his  iiither's  angry  letters.     At    length,  his  invariable 


62  A    DARK   night's   "WORK. 

determination  made  way  with  his  father ;  the  paternal  thunder- 
ings  were  subdued  to  a  distant  rumbling  in  the  sky  ;  and  presently 
the  in<|uiry  was  broached  as  to  how  much  fortune  Miss  Wiikins 
would  have;  how  much  down  on  her  marriage;  what  were  the 
eventual  probabilities.  Now  this  was  a  point  which  Mr.  Ralph 
Corbet  himself  wished  to  be  informed  upon.  He  had  not  thought 
much  about  it  in  making  the  engagement ;  lie  had  lieen  too  young, 
or  too  much  in  love.  But  an  only  child  of  a  wealthy  attorney 
ought  to  have  something  considerable;  and  an  allowauce  so  as  to 
enal)le  the  young  couple  to  start  housekeeping  in  a  moderately 
good  part  of  town,  would  be  an  advantage  to  him  in  his  profes- 
sion. So  he  replied  to  his  father,  adroitly  suggesting  that  a  letter 
containing  certain  modifications  of  the  inquiry  which  had  been 
rather  roughly  put  in  Mr.  Corbet's  last,  should  be  sent  to  him.  in 
order  that  he  might  himself  ascertain  from  Mr.  Wiikins  wlnt 
were  Ellinors  prospects  as  regardi'd  fortune. 

The  desired  letter  came;  but  not  in  such  a  form  that  he  could 
pass  it  on  to  i\Ir.  Wiikins;  he  preferred  to  make  quotations,  and 
even  these  quotations  were  a  little  altered  and  dressed  before  he 
sent  them  on.  The  gist  of  his  letter  to  Mr.  Wiikins  was  this.  He 
stated  that  he  hoped  soon  to  be  in  a  position  to  offer  Ellinor  a 
home ;  that  he  anticipated  a  steady  progress  in  his  profession, 
and  consecjuently  in  his  income;  but  that  contingencies  might 
arise,  as  liis  liither  suggested,  which  would  deprive  him  of  the 
power  of  earning  a  livelihood,  perhaj)s  when  it  might  be  more 
required  than  it  would  be  at  first  ;  that  it  was  true  tliat,  after  his 
mother's  death  a  small  estate  in  Shroj^shire  would  come  to  him  ns 
second  son,  and  of  course  Ellinor  would  receive  the  benefit  of  this 
property,  secured  to  her  legally  as  Mr.  Wiikins  thought  best — 
that  being  a  matter  for  after  discussion — but  that  at  present  hia 
father  was  anxious,  ns  might  be  seen  from  the  extract,  to  ascer- 
tain wliether  Mr.  Wiikins  could  secure  him  from  the  contingency 
of  having  his  son's  widow  and  possible  children  thrown  upon  his 
hands,  by  giving  Ellinor  a  dowry;  and  if  so,  it  was  gently 
insinuated,  wliat  would  lie  the  amoiuit  of  the  sjuno. 

When  Mr.  Wiikins  received  this  letter  it  startled  him  out  of 
a  hapjiy  day-dream.  He  liked  Kalj)!!  Corbet  and  the  whole 
coiuiection  cpiite  well  enough  to  give  his  consent  to  nn  t>ng«go- 
ment ;  and  sometimes  t'vcn  ho  was  glad  to  think  tliat  Eilinor's 
future  was  assured,  and  that  she  would  have  a  protector  and 
friends  after  ho  was  dt-ad  and  gone.  Hut  he  did  not  want  tliem 
to  assume  their  responsiiiiliiies  so  soon.  He  liad  not  distinctly 
contemj)lated  her  marriage  as  an  event  likely  to  lmpix>n  before 
liis  death.      He  could  not  tuiderstand  how  his  own  life  would  co 


A    DAItK    NIGHT'S   WORK.  63 

.>n  witliout  her :  or  indeed  why  she  and  Ralph  Corbet  could  not 
continue  just  as  they  were  at  present.  lie  came  down  to  breakfast 
with  the  letter  in  his  hand.  By  Ellinor's  blushes,  as  she  glanced 
at  the  handwriting,  he  knew  that  she  had  heard  from  her  lover 
by  the  same  post ;  by  her  tender  caresses — caresses  given  as  if  to 
make  up  for  the  i  ain  which  the  prospect  of  her  leaving  him  was 
sure  to  cause  him- — he  was  certain  that  she  was  aware  of  the 
contents  of  the  letter.  Yet  he  put  it  in  his  pocket,  and  tried  to 
forget  it. 

He  did  this  not  merely  from  his  reluctance  to  complete  any 
arrangements  which  might  facilitate  Ellinor's  marriage.  There 
was  a  further  annoyance  connected  with  the  affair.  His  money 
matters  had  been  for  some  time  in  an  involved  state ;  he  had 
been  living  beyond  his  income,  even  reckoning  that,  as  he  always 
did,  at  the  highest  point  Avhich  it  ever  touched.  He  kept  no  regular 
accounts,  reasoning  with  himself — or,  perhaps,  I  should  rather 
say  persuading  himself — that  there  was  no  great  occasion  for 
regular  accounts,  when  he  had  a  steady  income  arising  from  his 
jirofession,  as  vvell  as  the  interest  of  a  good  sum  of  money  left 
hira  by  his  father;  and  when,  living  in  his  own  house  near  a 
country  town  where  provisions  were  cheap,  his  expenditure  for 
his  small  family — only  one  child — could  never  amount  to 
anything  like  his  incomings  from  the  above-mentioned  sources. 
But  servants  and  horses,  and  choice  wines  and  rare  fruit-trees, 
and  a  habit  of  purchasing  any  book  or  engraving  that  may  take 
the  fancy,  irrespective  of  the  price,  run  away  with  money,  even 
though  there  be  but  one  child.  A  year  or  two  ago,  Mr.  Wilkins 
had  been  startled  into  a  system  of  exaggerated  retrenchment — 
retrenchment  which  only  lasted  about  six  weeks — by  the  sudden 
bursting  of  abubble  speculation  in  which  he  had  invested  a  part  of 
his  father's  sa\'ings.  But  as  soon  as  the  change  in  his  habits,  ne- 
cessitated by  his  new  economies,  became  irksome,  he  had  comforted 
liimself  for  his  relapse  into  his  former  easy  extravagance  of 
living  by  remembering  the  fact  that  Ellinor  was  engaged  to  the 
Bon  of  a  man  of  large  property :  and  that  though  Ralph  was  only 
the  sc  cond  son,  yet  his  mother's  estate  must  come  to  him,  as  Mr. 
Ness  had  already  mentioned,  on  first  hearing  of  her  engagement. 

Mr.  ^^■ilkins  did  not  doubt  that  he  could  easily  make  Ellinor  a 
fitting  allowance,  or  even  pay  down  a  requisite  dowry;  but  the 
doin^r  so  would  involve  an  examination  into  the  real  state  of  his 
affairs,  and  this  involved  dintasteful  trouble.  He  had  no  idea 
how  much  more  than  mere  temporary  annoyance  would  arise  out 
of  the  investigation.  Until  it  was  made,  he  decided  in  his  own 
mind  that  he  would  not  speak  to  Ellinor  on  the  subject  of  her 


fi4  A    DARK    night's  "WORK 

lover's  letter.  So  for  the  next  few  days  she  was  kept  in  suspense, 
seeing  little  of  her  father ;  and  during  the  short  times  she  was  with 
him  she  was  made  aware  that  he  was  nen'ously  anxious  to  keep 
the  conversation  engaged  on  general  topics  rather  than  on  the  one 
which  she  had  at  heart.  As  I  have  already  said,  Mr.  Corbet  had 
written  to  her  by  the  same  post  as  that  on  wliich  he  sent  the 
letter  to  her  father,  telling  her  of  its  contents,  and  ])egging  her 
(in  all  those  sweet  words  which  lovers  know  how  to  iise)  to  urge 
her  fathi-r  to  compliance  for  his  sake — his,  her  lover's  — who  Avas 
pining  and  lonely  in  all  the  crowds  of  London,  since  her  loved 
presence  was  not  tlicre.  He  did  not  care  for  money,  !=ave  as  a 
means  of  hastening  their  marriage ;  indeed,  if  there  were  only 
some  income  fixed,  however  small — some  time  for  their  marriage 
fixed,  however  distant — he  could  be  patient.  He  did  not  want 
superfluity  of  wealth;  his  habits  were  simple,  as  she  well  knew  ; 
and  money  enough  would  be  theirs  in  time,  both  from  her  share 
of  contingencies,  and  the  certainty  of  his  finally  possessing 
Bromley. 

Ellinor  delayed  replying  to  this  letter  imtil  her  father  should 
have  spoken  to  her  on  the  subject.  But  as  she  i)erceived  that  he 
avoided  all  such  conversation,  the  young  girl's  heart  failed  hei-. 
She  began  to  blame  herself  for  wishing  to  leave  him,  to  reproach 
herself  for  being  accessory  to  any  step  which  made  him  shim 
being  alone  with  her,  and  look  distressed  and  full  of  care  as  he 
did  now.  It  was  the  usual  struggle  between  father  and  lover 
for  the  possession  of  love,  instead  of  the  natural  and  graceful 
resignation  of  the  parent  to  the  prescribed  course  of  things;  and, 
as  usual,  it  was  the  poor  girl  who  bore  the  sTifl'oring  for  no  fault 
of  her  own :  although  she  lilamed  herself  for  beinir  the  cause  of 
the  disturbance  in  the  previous  order  of  afljiirs.  Ellinor  had  no 
one  to  speak  to  coniidentially  but  her  father  and  her  lover,  and 
when  they  were  at  issue  she  could  talk  openly  to  lu-ither,  so  .<!he 
brooded  over  Mr.  Corbet's  unanswered  letter,  and  lier  father's 
silence,  and  became  pale  and  dispirited.  Once  or  twice  she 
looked  up  suddenly,  and  aiught  her  father's  eye  gazing  upon  her 
with  a  certain  wistful  anxiety;  but  the  instant  she  saw  this 
he  pulled  himself  up,  as  it  were,  and  would  begin  talking  gaily 
about  the  small  topics  of  the  day. 

At  length  Mr.  Corbet  grew  impatient  at  not  hearing  either  from 
Mr.  Wilkinsor  Ellinor,  and  wrote  urgently  to  the  former,  making 
known  to  him  a  new  proposal  suggested  to  him  by  his  father, 
which  was,  that  a  certain  stun  should  be  jmid  down  by  Mr. 
WilkiriK,  to  bo  applied,  under  the  inanngenient  of  trustees,  to  tho 
iiuproveineiit  of  llie  Bromley  estuie,  out  of  the  profits  of  which, 


A    DAKK   MGHTS   WORK.  65 

or  other  sources  in  the  elder  Mr.  Corbet's  hands,  a  heavy  rate  of 
interest  should  be  paid  on  this  advance,  which  Avould  secure  an 
income  to  the  young  couple  immediately,  and  considerably  iiacrease 
the  value  of  the  estate  upon  which  Ellinoi''s  settlement  was  to  bo 
made  The  terms  offered  for  this  laying  down  of  ready  money 
were  so  advantageous,  that  Mr.  Wilkins  was  strongly  tempted  to 
accede  to  them  at  once;  as  Ellinor's  pale  cheek  and  want  of 
appetite  had  only  that  very  morning  smote  upon  his  conscience, 
and  this  immediate  transfer  of  ready  money  was  as  a  sacrifice,  a 
soothing  balm  to  his  self-reproach,  and  laziness  and  dislike  to 
immediate  unpleasantness  of  action  had  its  countei'balancing 
weakness  in  imprudence.  Mr.  Wilkins  made  some  rough 
calculations  on  a  piece  of  paper — deeds,  and  all  such  tests  of 
accuracy,  being  down  at  the  office ;  discovered  that  he  could  pay 
down  the  siun  required ;  "wrote  a  letter  agreeing  to  the  proposal, 
and  before  he  sealed  it  called  Ellinor  into  his  study,  and  bade  her 
read  Avhat  he  had  been  writing  and  tell  him  what  she  thouglit  of 
it.  lie  watched  the  colour  come  rushing  into  her  white  face,  her 
lips  quiver  and  tremble,  and  even  before  the  letter  was  ended  she 
was  in  his  arms  kissing  him,  and  thanking  him  with  blushing 
caresses  rather  than  words. 

"  There,  there  !  "  said  he,  smiling  and  sighing  ;  "  that  will  do. 
Why,  I  do  believe  you  took  me  for  a  hard-hearted  father,  just' 
like  a  heroine's  father  in  a  book.  You've  looked  as  woe-begone 
this  week  past  as  Ophelia.  One  can't  make  up  one's  mind  in  a 
day  about  such  sums  of  money  as  this,  little  woman ;  and  you 
should  have  let  your  old  iiither  have  time  to  consider." 

'*  Oh,  papa ;  I  was  only  afraid  you  were  angry." 

"Well,  if  I  was  a  bit  perplexed,  seeing  you  look  so  ill  and 
pining  was  not  the  way  to  bring  me  round.  Old  Corbet,  I  must 
say,  is  trying  to  make  a  good  bargain  for  his  son.  It  is  well  for 
me  that  I  have  never  been  an  extravagant  man." 

"  But,  papa,  we  don't  want  all  this  much." 

"  Yes,  yes  !  it  is  all  right.  You  shall  go  into  their  family  as  a 
well- portioned  girl,  if  you  can't  go  as  a  Lady  Maria.  Come, 
don't  trouble  your  little  head  any  more  about  it.  Give  me  one 
more  kiss,  and  then  we'll  go  and  order  the  horses,  and  have  a  ride 
together,  by  way  of  keeping  holiday.  I  deserve  a  holiday,  don't 
I,  Nelly?" 

Some  country  people  at  work  at  the  roadside,  as  the  father 
and  daughter  passed  along,  stopped  to  admire  their  bright  happy 
looks,  and  one  spoke  of  the  hereditary  handsomeness  of  tho 
Wilkins  family  (for  the  old  man,  the  present  Mr.  Wilkins's  father, 
had  been  fine-looking  in  his  drab  breeches  and  gaiters,  and  usual 

F 


GG  A   UARK    MGUl's   WORK. 

assumption  of  a  yeoman's  dress).  Another  said  it  was  easy  for 
the  rich  to  be  handsome:  tliey  had  always  plenty  to  eat,  and 
could  ride  when  they  were  tired  of  walking,  and  had  no  care  for 
the  morrow  to  keep  them  from  sleeping  at  nights.  And,  in  sad 
acquiescence  with  their  contrasted  lot,  the  men  went  on  with 
their  hedging  and  ditching  in  silence. 

And  yet,  if  they  had  known — if  the  poor  did  know — the 
troubles  azid  temptations  of  the  rich :  if  those  men  had  foreseen 
the  lot  darkening  over  t"he  father,  and  including  the  daughter  in 
its  cloud ;    if  Mr.  Wilkins  himself  had  even  imagined  such   a 

future  possible Well,  there  was  truth  in  the  old  heathen 

saying,  "  Let  no  man  be  envied  till  his  death." 

Eliinor  had  no  more  rides  with  her  father;  no,  not  ever  again; 
though  they  had  stopped  that  afternoon  at  the  summit  of  a  breezy 
common,  and  looked  at  a  ruined  hall,  not  so  very  far  oft",  and 
discussed  whether  they  could  reach  it  that  day,  and  decided  that 
it  was  too  far  away  for  anything  but  a  huiTied  inspection,  and 
that  some  day  soon  they  would  make  the  old  place  into  the  principal 
object  of  an  excursion.  But  a  rainy  time  came  on,  when  no 
rides  were  possible ;  and  whether  it  was  the  influence  of  the 
weather,  or  some  other  care  or  trouble  that  oppressed  him,  Mr. 
Wilkins  seemed  to  lose  all  wish  for  much  active  exercise,  and 
rather  sought  a  stimulus  to  his  spirits  and  circulation  in  wine. 
But  of  this  Eliinor  was  innocently  imaware.  He  seemed  dull 
and  weary,  and  sat  long,  drowsing  and  drinking  after  dinner.  If 
the  servants  had  not  been  so  fond  of  him  for  much  previous 
generosity  and  kindness,  they  would  have  complained  now,  and 
with  reason,  of  his  irritability,  for  all  sorts  of  things  seemed  to 
annoy  him. 

"  You  should  get  the  master  to  take  a  ride  Avitli  you,  miss."  said 
Dixnn,  one  day  as  he  was  putting  Eliinor  on  her  horse.  "He's 
not  looking  well.     He'.s  studying  too  much  at  tlie  oliice." 

But  when  Eliinor  named  it  to  her  father,  he  rather  hastily 
replied  that  it  was  all  very  well  fm-  women  to  ride  out  whenever 
tliey  liked — men  had  something  else  to  do ;  and  then,  as  lie  saw 
her  look  grave  and  j)uzzled,  he  sofleiud  down  his  abrupt  siiying 
by  adding  that  Dunster  had  been  making  a  fu.ss  about  his  part- 
ner's non-attendance,  and  altogLiher  taking  a  gootl  dial  upon 
himself  in  a  very  ollensive  way,  so  that  he  thought  it  bettor  to  go 
pretty  regularly  to  the  olliee,  in  nrder  to  show  him  who  woa 
master — senior  partner,  and  head  of  the  business,  at  any  rate. 

Eliinor  sighed  a  little  over  her  dis!i])pointment  nt  lur  f.ither'.s 
preoccupation,  and  then  forgot  lier  own  little  regret  in  anger  at 
Mr.  Dunster,  who  had  seemed  all  along  to  be  a  tliom  in  licr  father's 


A    DARK    night's   "WOKK.  67 

side,  and  bad  latterly  gained  some  power  and  authority  over  him, 
the  exercise  of  which,  Ellinor  could  not  help  thinking,  was  a  very 
impertinent  line  of  conduct  from  a  junior  partner,  so  lately  only 
a  paid  clerk,  to  his  superior.  There  was  a  sense  of  something 
wrong  in  tlie  Ford  Bank  household  for  many  weeks  about  this 
time.  Mr.  Wilkins  was  not  like  himself,  and  his  cheerful  ways 
and  careless  genial  speeches  were  missed,  even  on  the  days  when 
he  was  not  irritable,  and  evidently  uneasy  with  himself  and  all 
about  him.  The  spring  was  late  in  coming,  and  cold  rain  and 
sleet  made  any  kind  of  out-door  exercise  a  trouble  and  discom- 
fort rather  than  a  bright  natural  event  in  the  course  of  the  day. 
All  sound  of  winter  gaieties,  of  assemblies  and  meets,  and  jovial 
dinners,  had  died  away,  and  the  summer  pleasures  were  as  yet 
unthought  of.  Still  Ellinor  had  a  secret  perennial  source  of 
sunshine  in  her  heart ;  whenever  she  thought  of  Ealph  she  could 
not  feel  much  oppression  from  the  present  unsjioken  and  indis- 
tinct gloom.     He  loved  her;  and  oh,  how  she  loved  him !  and 

perhaps  this  very  next  autumn but  that  depended  on  his  own 

success  in  his  profession.  After  all,  if  it  was  not  this  autumn  it 
would  be  the  next ;  and  A\-ith  the  letters  that  she  received  weekly, 
and  the  occasional  visits  that  her  lover  ran  doAvn  to  Hamley  to 
pay  Mr.  Ness,  Elhnor  felt  as  if  she  would  almost  prefer  the  delay 
of  the  time  when  she  must  leave  her  father's  for  a  husband's  roof. 


CHAPTER  YI. 


At  Easter — just  when  the  heavens  and  earth  were  looking  their 
dreariest,  for  Easter  fell  very  early  this  year — ]\Ir.  Corbet  came 
down.  I\Ir.  "Wilkins  was  too  busy  to  see  much  of  him ;  they 
were  together  even  less  than  usual,  althouph  not  less  friendly 
wlien  they  did  meet.  But  to  Ellinor  the  visit  was  one  of  un- 
mixed happiness.  Hitherto  she  had  always  had  a  little  fear 
mingled  up  with  her  love  of  J\Ir.  Corbet ;  but  his  manners  were 
softened,  his  opinions  less  decided  and  abrupt,  and  his  whole 
treatment  of  her  showed  such  tenderness,  that  the  young  girl 
basked  and  revelled  in  it.  One  or  two  of  their  conversations  had 
reference  to  their  future  married  life  in  London ;  and  she 
then  perceived,  although  it  did  not  jar  against  her,  that  lier 
lover  had  not  forgotten  liis  ambition  in  his  love.  Ho  tried  to 
inoculate  her  Avith  something  of  his  own  cravmg  for  success  in 
lite;  but  it  Avas  all  in  vain':  she  nestled  to  him,  and  told  him  she 
did  not  care  to  be  the  Lord  Chancellor's  wifo — wigs  and  wool- 

f2 


68  A   DARK   night's   WORK. 

eacks  -were  not  in  her  line ;  only  if  he  wished  it,  she  would 
wish  it. 

The  last  two  days  of  his  stay  the  weather  changed.  Sudden 
heat  burst  forth,  as  it  docs  occasionally  for  a  few  hours  even  in 
our  chilly  English  spring.  The  grey-brown  bushes  and  trees 
started  almost  with  visible  progress  into  the  tender  green  shade 
which  is  the  forerunner  of  the  bursting  leaves.  The  sky  was  of 
full  cloudless  blue.  INIr.  Wilkins  was  to  come  home  pretty  early 
from  the  office  to  ride  out  with  his  daughter  and  her  lover;  but, 
after  waiting  some  time  for  him,  it  grew  too  latp,  and  they  were 
obliged  to  give  up  the  project.  Nothing  would  serve  Ellinor, 
then,  but  that  she  must  carry  out  a  table  and  have  tea  in  the 
garden,  on  the  simny  side  of  the  tree,  among  the  roots  of  which  she 
used  to  play  when  a  child.  Miss  Monro  objected  a  little  to  this 
caprice  of  Ellinor's,  saying  that  it  was  too  early  for  out-of-door 
meals ;  but  I\Ir.  Corbet  overruled  all  objections,  and  helped  her 
in  her  gay  preparations.  She  always  kept  to  the  early  hours  of 
her  childhood,  although  she,  as  then,  regularly  sat  with  her  father 
at  his  late  dinner;  and  this  meal  al  fresco  was  to  be  a  reality  to 
her  and  Miss  Monro.  There  wis  a  place  arranged  for  her  father, 
and  she  seized  upon  him  as  he  was  coming  from  the  stable-yard, 
by  the  shrubbery  path,  to  his  study,  and  with  merry  playfulness 
made  him  a  prisoner,  accusing  him  of  disappointing  them  of  their 
ride,  and  drawing  him  more  than  half  iinwilling,  to  his  chair  by 
the  taljle.  But  he  was  silent,  and  almost  sad  :  his  presence 
damped  them  all  ;  they  could  hardly  tell  Avhy,  for  he  did  not  object 
to  anything,  though  he  seemed  to  enjoy  nothing,  and  only  to  force 
a  smile  at  Ellinor's  occasional  sjillies.  These  became  more  and 
more  rare  as  she  perceived  her  father's  depression.  She  watched 
him  anxiously.  He  perceived  it,  and  said — shivering  in  that 
strange  unaccountable  manner  which  is  j>opularlv  exjilained  by 
the  exprer>-i()n  that  some  one  is  passing  over  the  earth  that  will 
one  day  form  your  grave — 

"Ellinor!  this  is  not  a  day  for  out-of-door  tea.  I  never  folt 
so  chilly  a  spot  in  my  life.  1  cannot  keep  from  shaking  where 
1  sit.  1  nuist  leave  this  \A-mv,  my  dear,  in  spite  of  all  your 
good  tea." 

"  Oh,  papa  !  I  am  s<i  sorry.  Uut  look  how  full  tliat  hut  siuj's 
rays  come  on  this  turf.  1  thought  1  had  chosen  such  a  cai>ital 
epot ! " 

Hut  lie  got  up  and  jieisislcd  in  leaving  the  table,  although  ho 
was  evidently  sorry  tt)  spoil  the  little  ]>:uty.  lie  walked  up  and 
down  the  LMavol  walk,  close  bv  them,  talking  to  them  as  ho  kept 
pausing  liy  and  U"ying  to  cheer  them  up. 


A  DAinc  yiGur'^  woi;i:.  C9 

"Are  you  v.-ariinr  now,  ])np:i  ?"  uskcd  Ellinor. 

'•  Oh,  yes  I  AH  right.  It's  only  that  place  that  seems  so  chilly 
and  damp.     I'm  as  warm  as  a  toast  now." 

The  ne.\t  morning  ^Ir.  Corbet  left  them.  The  iinseasonal)ly 
fine  v/eather  passed  away  too,  and  all  things  went  back  to  their 
rather  gi-ey  and  dreary  aspect ;  but  Ellinor  was  too  happy  to  feel 
this  much,  kno^v^ng  what  absent  love  existed  for  her  alone,  and 
from  this  knov.dedge  unconsciously  trusting  in  the  sun  behind  the 
clouds. 

I  have  said  that  few  or  none  in  the  immediate  neighbourhood 
of  Ilamley,  beside  their  own  household  and  Mr.  Ness,  knew  of 
Ellinor's  engagement.  At  one  of  the  rare  dinner-parties  to  wliich 
she  accompanied  her  father — it  was  at  the  old  lady's  hoi;se  wlio 
chaperoned  her  to  the  a.'^semblies — she  Avas  taken  in  to  dinner  by 
a  young  clergyman  staying  in  the  neighbom-hood.  He  had  just 
had  a  small  living  given  to  him  in  his  own  county,  and  he  felt  as 
if  this  was  a  great  step  in  his  life.  lie  was  good,  innocent,  and 
lather  boyish  in  appearance.  Ellinor  was  happy  and  at  her  ease, 
and  chatted  awaj'  to  this  ^Ir.  Livingstone  on  many  little  points  of 
interest  v/hich  they  found  they  had  iu  common :  church  music, 
and  the  difficulty  they  had  in  getting  people  to  sing  in  parts; 
Salisbury  Cathedral,  which  they  had  both  seen ;  styles  of  church 
architecture,  Kuskin's  works,  and  parish  schools,  in  which  Mr. 
Jiivuigstone  was  somewhat  shocked  to  find  that  Ellinor  took  no 
great  interest.  ^Vhen  the  gentleman  came  in  from  the  dining- 
room,  it  struck  Ellinor,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  that  her 
father  had  taken  more  wine  than  was  good  for  him.  Indeed,  this 
had  rather  become  a  habit  with  him  of  late ;  but  as  he  always 
tried  to  go  quietly  off  to  his  own  room  Avhen  such  had  been  the 
case,  his  daughter  liad  never  been  aware  of  it  before,  and  the 
perception  of  it  now  made  her  cheeks  hot  with  shame.  She 
thought  that  everyone  must  be  as  conscious  of  his  altered  manner 
and  way  of  speaking  as  she  was,  and  after  a  pause  of  sick  silence, 
during  which  she  could  not  say  a  word,  she  set  to  and  talked  to 
!Mr.  Livingstone  about  parish  schools,  anything,  Avith  redoubled 
vigour  and  apparent  interest,  in  order  to  keep  one  or  two  of  the 
company,  at  least,  from  noticing  what  was  to  her  so  painfully 
obvious. 

The  effect  of  her  behaviour  was  far  more  than  she  had  intended. 
•She  kept  Mr.  Livingstone,  it  is  true,  from  observing  her  father, 
but  she  also  riveted  his  attention  on  herself.  He  had  thought 
her  very  pretty  and  agreeable  during  dinner:  but  after  dinner  he 
considered  her  bewitching,  irresistible.  He  dreamed  of  lier  all 
night,  and  wakened  up  tlic  next  morning  to  a  calculation  of  how 


70  A    DARK    NIGIlfsJ   TVORE:. 

far  his  income  would  allow  him  to  furnish  his  pretty  new  par- 
sonage with  that  crowning  blessing,  a  wife.  For  a  day  or  two  he 
did  up  little  sums,  and  sighed,  and  thought  of  EUinor,  her  face 
listening  with  admiring  interest  to  his  sermons,  her  arm  passed  into 
his  as  they  went  together  roiind  the  parish;  her  sweet  voice 
instructing  classes  in  his  schools — turn  where  he  would,  in  his 
imagination  Ellinor's  presence  rose  up  before  him. 

The  consequence  was  that  he  ^vrote  an  offer,  which  he  found  a 
far  more  perplexing  piece  of  composition  than  a  sermon ;  a  real 
hearty  expression  of  love,  going  on,  over  all  obstacles,  to  a 
straightforward  explanation  of  his  present  prospects  and  future 
hopes,  and  mnding  up  Avith  the  information  that  on  the  succeed- 
ing morning  he  Avould  caU  to  know  whether  he  might  speak  to 
Mr.  Wilkins  on  the  subject  of  this  letter.  It  was  given  to  Ellinor 
in  the  evening,  as  she  was  sitting  with  Miss  oMonro  in  the  librar}-. 
Mr.  Wilkins  was  dining  out.  she  hardly  knew  where,  as  it  was  a 
sudden  engagement,  of  which  he  had  sent  Avord  from  the  office — 
a  gentleman's  dinner-party,  she  supposed,  as  he  had  dressed  in 
Hamley  without  coming  home.  Ellinor  turned  over  the  letter 
when  it  was  brought  to  her,  as  some  peojile  do  when  they  cannot 
recogni.se  the  handwriting,  as  if  to  discover  from  paper  or  seal 
what  two  moments  would  assure  them  of,  if  they  opened  the 
letter  and  looked  at  the  signature.  Ellinor  could  not  guess  who 
had  wi-itten  it  by  any  outward  sign ;  but  the  moment  slie  saw  the 
name  "  Herbert  Livingstone,"  the  meaning  of  the  letter  llashed 
upon  hor  and  she  cokmred  all  over.  She  put  the  letter  away, 
unread,  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then  made  some  excuse  for  leaving 
the  room  and  going  upstairs.  When  safe  in  her  bed-chamber, 
she  read  the  young  man's  eager  words  with  a  sense  of  self- 
reproach.  How  must  she,  engaged  to  one  man,  have  been 
behaving  to  another,  if  this  was  the  result  of  a  single  evening's 
interview  ?  The  self-reproach  was  unjustly  bestowed  ;  but  with 
that  we  have  nothing  to  do.  She  made  herself  very  miserable ; 
and  at  last  went  down  with  a  heavy  heart  to  go  on  with  Dante, 
and  rummage  \i]-)  words  in  the  dictionary.  All  the  time  she 
seemed  to  Miss  Monro  to  be  plodding  on  with  her  Italian  more 
diligently  and  sedately  than  usual,  she  was  ])lanning  in  her  own 
mind  to  speak  to  her  father  as  .soon  as  ho  returned  (and  lie  had 
said  that  he  .should  not  be  latel,  and  beg  him  to  imdo  the  mischief 
she  had  done  by  seeing  ISIr.  Livingstone  the  next  morning,  and 
frankly  exi)laining  the  real  state  of  affairs  to  him.  But  she 
wanted  to  read  her  letter  again,  and  think  it  all  over  in  peace  ;  and 
BO,  at  !in  early  hour,  she  wished  MiiO  Moiux»  good-night,  and 
went  uj)  into  her  own  room  above  the  drawing-room,  and  over- 


A  DARK  night's:  wouk.  71 

lonkinp:  the  flowei'-garden  and  shrubbery-path  to  the  stable-yard, 
by  -wliich  her  father  was  sure  to  retiu-n.  She  went  upstairs  and 
studied  her  letter  well,  and  tried  to  recall  all  her  speeches  and 
condiiot  on  that  miserable  evening' — as  she  thought  it  then — not 
knowing  what  true  misery  was.  Her  head  ached,  and  she  put 
out  the  candle,  and  went  and  sat  on  the  windoAv-seat,  looking  out 
into  the  moonlit  garden,  watching  for  her  father.  She  opened 
the  window ;  partly  to  cool  her  forehead,  partly  to  enable  her  to 
call  down  softly  when  she  should  sec  him  coming  along.  By-and- 
by  the  door  from  the  stable-yard  into  the  shrubbery  clicked  and 
opened,  and  in  a  moment  she  saw  !Mr.  "U'ilkins  moving  through 
the  bushes;  but  not  alone,  ]Mr.  Dunster  was  with  him,  and  the 
two  were  talking  together  in  rather  excited  tones,  immediately 
lost  to  hearmg,  however,  as  they  entered  Mr.  Wilkins's  study  by 
the  outer  door. 

*'  They  have  been  dining  together  somewhere.  Probably  at 
Mr.  Hanbury's"  (the  Hamley  brewer),  thought  Ellinor.  "But 
how  provoking  that  he  should  have  come  home  with  papa  this 
night  of  all  nights  ! " 

Two  or  three  times  before  Mr.  Dunster  had  called  on  Mr.  Wil- 
kins  in  the  evening,  as  Ellinor  knew ;  but  she  was  not  quite 
aware  of  the  reason  for  such  late  visits,  and  had  never  put 
together  the  two  facts — (as  cause  and  consequence) — that  on 
sUch  occasions  her  father  had  been  absent  from  the  office  all  day, 
and  that  there  might  be  necessary  business  for  him  to  transact, 
the  urgency  of  which  was  the  motive  for  !Mr.  Dunster's  visits. 
Mr.  Wilkins  always  seemed  to  be  annoyed  by  his  coming  at  so 
late  an  hoi;r,  and  spoke  of  it,  resenting  the  intrusion  upon  his 
leisure;  and  Ellinor,  without  consideration,  adopted  her  father's 
mode  of  speaking  and  thinking  on  the  subject,  and  was  rather  more 
angry  than  he  was  whenever  the  obnoxious  partner  came  on 
business  in  the  evening.  This  night  Avas,  of  all  nights,  the  most 
ill-purposed  time  (so  Ellinor  thought)  for  a  tcte-a-tete  vnih  her 
father !  However,  there  was  no  doubt  in  her  mind  as  to  Avhat 
she  had  to  do.  So  late  as  it  Avas,  the  unAvelcome  visitor  could  not 
stop  long;  and  then  she  Avould  go  doAATi  and  haA^e  her  little  confi- 
dence Avith  her  father,  and  beg  him  to  see  Mr.  Livingstone  AA'hen 
he  came  next  morning,  and  dismiss  him  as  gently  as  might  be. 

She  sat  on  in  the  AvindoAv-seat ;  dreaming  Avaking  dreams  of 
futiu"e  happiness.  She  kept  losing  herself  in  such  thought.*',  and 
became  almost  afraid  of  forgetting  Avhy  she  sat  there.  Presently 
she  felt  cold,  and  got  up  to  fetch  a  shaAvl,  in  Avhich  she  muffled 
herself  and  resumed  her  place.  It  seemed  to  her  groAving  very 
late  ;  the  moonlight  Avas  coming  fuller  and  fuller  into  the  garden 


72  A  DARK  night's  wosk. 

and  the  blackness  of  the  shadow  was  more  concentrated  and 
stronger.  Surely  Mr.  Dunster  could  not  have  ;»one  awsiy  alonji  the 
dark  shrubbery-path  so  noiselessly  Ijut  what  she  must  have  heard 
liim  ?  No  !  there  Avas  the  swell  of  voices  coming  up  through  the 
window  from  her  father's  study :  angry  voices  they  were;  and  her 
anger  rose  sympathetically,  as  she  knew  that  her  father  was  being 
irritated.  There  was  a  sudden  movement,  as  of  chairs  pushed 
hastily  aside,  and  then  a  mysterious  unaccountable  noise — heavy, 
sudden ;  and  ihen  a  slight  movement  as  of  chairs  again;  and  then 
a  profound  stillness.  Ellinor  leaned  her  head  against  the  side  of 
the  window  to  listen  more  intently,  for  some  mysterious  instinct 
made  her  sick  and  faint.  No  sound — no  noise.  Only  by-and- 
]>y  she  heard,  what  we  have  all  heard  at  such  times  of  intent  lis- 
tening, the  beating  of  the  pulses  of  her  heart,  and  then  the  whirling 
rush  of  I)lood  through  her  head.  How  long  did  this  last  ?  She  never 
knew.  By-and-by  she  heard  her  father's  hurried  footstep  in  his 
bedroom,  next  to  hers;  but  when  she  ran  thither  to  speak  to  him, 
and  ask  him  what  was  amiss — if  anything  had  been — if  she  might 
come  to  him  now  al)0ut  Mr.  Livingstone's  letter,  she  fi>und 
that  he  had  gone  down  again  to  his  study,  and  almost  at  the  same 
moment  she  heard  the  little  private  outer  door  of  that  room  open; 
some  one  went  out,  and  then  there  were  hurried  footstejis  along  the 
shubbery-path.  She  thought,  of  coiu'se,  that  it  was  Mr.  Dunster 
leaving  the  house ;  and  went  back  for  ]Mr.  Livingstone's  letter. 
Having  foiuid  it,  she  passed  through  her  father's  room  to  the 
private  staircase,  thinking  that  if  she  went  by  the  more  regular 
way,  she  Avould  have  run  the  risk  of"  disturbing  Miss  Monro,  and 
perhaps  of  being  questioned  in  the  morning.  Even  in  passing  down 
this  remote  sbiircase,  she  trod  softly  for  fear  of  being  overheard. 
When  she  entered  the  room,  ihe  full  light  of  the  candles  dazzled 
her  lor  an  instant,  coming  out  of  the  darkness.  They  were 
flarnig  wildly  in  the  drauglit  that  came  in  through  the  open  door, 
by  which  the  outur  air  was  aihnitted;  for  a  moment  there  .seemed 
no  one  in  the  room,  and  tlu-n  she  s;iw,  with  strange  sick  horror, 
the  legs  of  some  one  lying  on  tlu!  carpet  bihind  the  table.  As  if 
compelled,  even  while  she  .shrank  from  doing  it,  she  went  round  to 
see  who  it  was  that  lay  there,  so  still  and  motionless  as  never  to 
stir  at  her  sudden  coming.  It  was  .Mr.  Dunstur  ;  his  head  proppetl 
on  chair-cushions,  his  eyes  open,  staring,  distended.  There  was 
a  strong  smell  of  brandy  and  hurlshorn  in  the  n>om ;  a  .smell  so 
])owerful  as  not  to  be  neutralized  by  the  free  current  of  night 
air  that  blew  through  the  two  open  doors.  Kllinor  coidd  not 
liave  told  whether  it  was  rea.son  or  instinct  tluit  made  her  act  n8.sho 
did  diuing  this  awful  night.     In  thinking  of   it  allej'AVrtrds,  with 


A  DAHi:  night's  ^voRK.  73 

shuddering  avoidance  of  the  haunting  memory  that;  would  corao 
and  overshadow  lier  during  many,  many  years  of  her  life,  she 
fjrew  to  lielicve  that  the  powerful  smell  of  the  spilt  brandy  abso- 
lutely intoxicated  her — an  imconscious  Rechabite  in  practice. 
»lut  something  gave  her  a  presence  of  mind  and  a  courage  not 
her  own.  And  though  she  learnt  to  think  afterwards  that  she 
had  acted  unwisely,  if  not  wrongly  and  wickedly,  yet  she  mar- 
velled, in  recalling  that  time,  how  she  could  have  then  behaved 
as  she  did.  First  of  all  she  lifted  herself  up  from  her  fascinated 
gaze  at  the  dead  man,  and  went  to  tlie  staircase  door,  by  which 
she  had  entered  the  study,  and  shut  it  softly.  Then  she  went 
back — looked  again ;  took  the  brandy-bottle,  and  knelt  down, 
and  tried  to  pour  some  into  the  mouth ;  but  this  she  foimd  she 
could  not  do.  Then  she  wetted  her  handkerchief  with  the  s{)irit, 
and  moistened  the  lips;  all  to  no  purpose;  for,  as  I  have  said 
before,  the  man  was  dead — killed  by  rupture  of  a  vessel  of 
the  brain ;  how  occasioned  I  must  tell  by-and-by.  Of  course,  all 
Ellinor's  little  cares  and  efforts  produced  no  effect;  her  father  had 
tried  them  before — vain  endeavours  all,  to  bring  back  the  precioua 
breath  of  life  !  The  poor  girl  could  not  bear  the  look  of  those 
open  eyes,  and  softly,  tenderly,  tried  to  close  them,  although  un- 
conscious that  in  so  doing  she  was  rendei'ing  the  pious  offices  of 
some  beloved  hand  to  a  dead  man.  She  was  sitting  by  the  body 
on  the  floor  when  she  heard  steps  coming  with  rushing  and  yet 
cautious  tread,  through  the  shrubbery  ;  she  had  no  fear,  although 
it  might  be  the  tread  of  robbers  and  murderers.  The  awfulnesa 
of  the  hour  raised  her  above  common  fears ;  though  she  did  not 
go  through  the  usual  process  of  reasoning,  and  by  it  feel  assured 
that  the  fe^t  which  were  coming  so  softly  and  swiftly  along  Avere 
the  same  which  she  had  heard  leaving  the  room  in  like  manner 
only  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before. 

I  lor  father  entered,  and  started  back,  almost  upsetting  some 
one  behind  him  by  his  recoil,  on  seeing  his  daughter  in  her 
moticnless  attitude  by  the  dead  man. 

"My  God,  Ellinor !  Avhat  has  brought  you  here?"  he  said, 
almost  fiercely. 

But  she  answered  as  one  stupefied, 

"  I  don't  know.     Is  he  dead  ?  " 

"Hush,  hush,  child;  it  cannot  be  helped." 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  the  solemn,  pitying,  awe-stricken  faco 
behind  her  father's — the  countenance  of  Dixon. 

"  Is  he  dead  ?  "  she  asked  of  him. 

The  man  stepped  forwards,  respectfully  pushing  his  master  on 
one  side  as  he  did  M.    He  bent  down  over  the  corpse,  and  looked, 


74  A    DARK   XIGHl's   WORK. 

and  listened,  and  then  reaching  a  candle  off  the  table,  he  dgned 
Mr.  Wilkins  to  close  the  door.  And  Mr.  Wilkins  obeyed,  and 
looked  with  an  intensity  of  eagerness  amost  amounting  to  faint- 
ness  on  the  experiment,  and  yet  he  could  not  hope.  The  flame 
'was  steady — steady  and  pitilessly  unstirred,  even  when  it  was 
adjusted  close  to  mcnith  and  nostril ;  the  head  was  raised  up  by 
one  of  Dixon.s  stalwart  arms,  while  he  held  the  candle  in  the 
other  hand.  Ellinor  fancied  that  there  was  some  trembling  on 
Dixon's  part,  and  grasped  his  "\\Tist  tightly  in  order  to  give  it 
the  requisite  motionless  firmness. 

All  in  vain.  The  head  was  placed  again  on  tlie  cushions,  the 
servant  rose  and  stood  by  his  master,  looked  sadly  on  the  dead 
man,  Avhom,  living,  none  of  them  had  liked  or  cared  for,  and 
Ellinor  sat  on,  quiet  and  tearless,  as  one  in  a  trance. 

"  HoAV  was  it,  father  ?  "  at  length  she  asked. 

He  would  fain  have  had  her  ignorant  of  all,  but  so  questioned  by 
her  lips,  so  adjured  by  her  eyes,  in  the  very  presence  of  death,  he 
could  not  choose  but  speak  t^e  truth ;  ie  spoke  it  in  convulsive 
gasps,  each  sentence  an  effort : 

"  He  taunted  me — he  was  insolent,  beyond  my  patience — I 
could  not  bear  it.  I  struck  him — I  can't  tell  how  it  was.  He 
must  liave  hit  his  head  in  falling.  Oh,  my  God !  one  little  hour 
ago  I  was  innocent  of  this  man's  blood !  "  He  covered  his  face 
\vith  his  hands. 

Ellinor  took  the  candle  again  ;  kneeling  behind  Mr.  Punster's 
head,  she  tried  the  futile  experiment  once  more. 

"  Could  not  a  doctor  do  some  good  ?  "she  asked  of  Dixon,  in  a 
hopeless  voice. 

"  No  !  "  said  he,  shaking  his  head,  and  looking  with  a  sidelong 
glance  at  his  master,  who  seemed  to  shrivel  up  and  to  shrink  away 
at  the  Ijare  suggestion.  "  Doctors  can  do  nought,  I'm  afeard. 
All  that  a  doctor  could  do,  I  take  it,  would  be  to  open  a  vein, 
and  that  I  could  do  along  with  tlie  best  of  them,  if  I  had  but  my 
fleam  here."  He  fumbled  in  his  pockets  as  he  spoke,  and,  as 
chance  Avould  it,  the  "  fleam "  (or  cattle  lancet)  was  some- 
where about  his  dress.  He  drew  it  out,  smoothed  and  tried  it  on 
his  finger.  Ellinor  tried  to  bare  the  arm,  but  turned  sick  as  she 
did  so .  Her  father  stJirted  eagerly  Ibrwanls,  and  did  what  was  neces- 
sary with  hurried  trembling  hands.  If  they  liad  cared  less  about 
the  result,  they  might  have  been  more  ai'niid  of  the  consccjuonces 
of  the  operation  in  the  hands  of  one  so  ignorant  as  Dixon.  But, 
vein  or  artery,  it  signified  little;  no  living  blood  gushed  out; 
only  a  little  watery  moisture  followed  the  cut  oP  the  fleam.  They 
laid  him  back  on  his  slranse  sad  death-couch.     Dixon  s'^oke  next. 


A    DARK    NIGHTS   WORK.  75 

"  Master  Ned  ! "'  said  he — for  lie  liad  known  Mr.  Wilkins  in 
his  days  of  bright  careless  boyhood,  and  almost  was  carried  back 
to  them  by  the  sense  of  charge  and  protection  which  the  servant's 
presence  of  mind  and  sharpened  senses  gave  him  over  his  ni aster 
on  this  dreary  night — ''  jMaster  Ned  !  we  mnst  do  snmmnt.' 

No  one  spoke.     "What  was  to  be  done  ? 

"  Did  any  folk  see  him  come  here?"  Dixon  asked,  after  a  time. 
Ellinor  looked  up  to  hear  her  father's  answer,  a  wild  hope  coming 
into  her  mind  that  all  might  be  concealed  somehow ;  she  did  not 
know  how,  nor  did  she  think  of  any  consequences  except  saving 
her  father  from  the  vague  dread,  trouble,  and  punishment  that  she 
was  aware  would  await  him  if  all  were  known. 

^Ir.  AVilkins  did  not  seem  to  hear  ;  in  fact,  he  did  not  hear  any- 
thing but  the  unspoken  echo  of  his  o^vn  last  words,  that  went 
booming  through  his  heart:  "An  hour  ago  I  was  innocent  of 
this  man's  blood  I     Only  an  hour  ago  !  " 

Dixon  got  up  and  poured  out  half  a  tumblerful  of  raw  spirit; 
from  the  brandy-bottle  that  stood  on  the  table. 

"  Drink  this,  Master  Ned  !  "  putting  it  to  his  master's  lips. 
"  Nay  " — to  Eilinor — '•  it  will  do  him  no  harm  ;  only  bring  back 
his  senses,  which,  poor  gentleman,  are  scared  away.  We  shall  need 
all  our  wits.  Now,  sir,  please  answer  my  question.  Did  anyone 
see  Measter  Dimster  come  here  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Mr.  Wilkins,  recovering  his  speech.  "  It 
all  seems  in  a  mist.  He  offered  to  walk  home  Avith  me ;  I  did 
not  want  him.  I  was  almost  rude  to  him  to  keep  him  off.  I  did 
not  want  to  talk  of  business ;  I  had  taken  too  much  ■wine  to  be 
very  clear  and  some  thin^  2t  the  office  were  not  quite  in  order, 
and  he  had  found  it  out.  If  anyone  heard  our  conversation, 
they  must  know  I  did  not  want  him  to  come  with  me.  Oh  !  Avhy 
would  he  come  ?  He  was  as  obstinate — he  would  come — and  here 
it  has  been  his  death  !  " 

Well,  sir,  what's  done  can't  be  undone,  and  I'm  sure  we'd  any 
of  us  bring  him  back  to  life  if  we  could,  even  by  cutting  off  our 
hands,  though  he  was  a  mighty  plaguey  chap  while  he'd  breath 
in  him.  But  what  I'm  tliinking  is  this  :  it'll  maybe  go  awkward 
with  you,  sir,  if  he's  found  here.  One  can't  say.  But  don't  you 
think,  miss,  as  he's  neither  kith  nor  kin  to  miss  him,  we  might 
just  bury  him  away  before  morning,  somewhere  ?  There's  bettor 
nor  four  hours  of  dark.  I  wish  we  could  put  him  i'  the  churchyard, 
but  that  can't  be ;  but,  to  my  mind,  the  sooner  we  set  about  digging 
a  place  for  him  to  lie  in,  poor  fellow,  tlio  better  it'll  l)e  for  us  all 
in  the  end.  I  can  pare  a  piece  of  turf  up  where  it'll  never  be 
missed,  and  if  master  '11  take  one  .spado,  and  I  another,  Avhy  well 


76  A   DAEK   ^•IG^T's   WORK. 

lay  Lim  softly  down,  and  cover  him  up,  and  no  one  '11  be  the 
wiser." 

There  was  no  reply  from  either  for  a  minute  or  so.  Then  Mr. 
Wilkins  said : 

"  If  my  father  could  have  known  of  my  living  to  this !     ^^^ly, 

tliey  will  try  me  as  a  criminal;  and  you,  Ellinor  ?     Dixon,  you 

are  right.     We  must  conceal   it,  or  I  must  cut  my  throat,  for  I 

never  could  live  through  it.     One  minute  of  passion,  and  my  life 

■  blasted  !  " 

''  Come  along,  sir,"  said  Dixon ;  "  there's  no  time  to  lose." 
And  they  went  out  in  search  of  tools  ;  Ellinor  following  them, 
ehivering  all  over,  but  begging  that  she  might  be  with  them,  and 
not  have  to  remain  in  the  study  with 

She  would  not  be  bidden  into  her  own  room ;  she  dreaded 
inaction  and  solitude.  She  made  herself  busy  with  carrying 
heavy  ]:)askets  of  turf,  and  straining  her  strength  to  the  utmost ; 
fetching  all  that  was  wanted,  with  soft  swift  steps. 

Once,  as  she  passed  near  the  open  study  door,  she  thought  that 
she  heard  a  rustling,  and  a  flash  of  hope  came  across  her.  Could 
lie  be  reviving?  She  entered,  but  a  moment  was  enough  to 
undeceive  her ;  it  had  only  been  a  night  rustle  among  the  trees. 
Of  hope,  life,  there  was  none. 

They  dug  the  hole  deep  and  well ;  working  with  fierce  energy 
to  quench  thought  and  remorse.  Once  or  twice  her  father  asked 
for  brandy,  wliich  Ellinor,  reassured  by  the  apparently  good 
effect  of  the  first  dose,  brought  to  him  without  a  word ;  and 
once  at  her  father's  suggestion  she  brought  food,  such  as  slie 
could  find  in  the  dining-room  -wdthout  disturbing  the  household, 
for  Dixon. 

When  all  was  ready  for  the  reception  of  the  body  in  its 
unblessed  grave,  I\Ir.  Wilkins  bade  Ellinor  go  up  to  her  owu 
room — she  had  done  all  she  could  to  help  them ;  the  rest  must  bb 
.  done  by  them  alone.  She  felt  that  it  must ;  and  indeed  both  hi>r 
nerves  and  her  bodily  strength  were  giving  way.  She  would  have 
kissed  her  iiither,  as  he  sat  wearily  at  the  head  of  the  grave — 
Dixon  had  gone  in  to  make  some  arrangement  for  carrying  the 
corpse — but  he  pushed  her  away  quiet  I)',  but  resolutely — 

"  No,  Nelly,  you  must  never  kiss  me  again  ;  I  am  a  mur- 
derer." 

"  But  I  will,  my  own  darling  papa,"  said  she,  throwing  her 
arms  passionately  round  his  neck,  and  covering  Ijis  face  with 
kisses,  ''  I  love  you,  and  I  don't  care  what  you  are,  if  y»)u  wore 
twenty  times  a  murderer,  which  you  are  not;  I  am  sure  it  was 
only  an  accident." 


A  Dark  Nlglifs  Work. 


Fagt  76. 


A   DARK    NIGHTS   'WOllK.  77 

"  Go  in,  my  child,  go  in,  and  try  to  get  some  rest.  But  go  in, 
for  we  must  finish  as  fa?t  as  we  can.  The  moon  is  down ;  it  will 
soon  be  daylight.  What  a  blessing  there  are  no  rooms  on  one 
side  of  the  house.  Go,  Nelly."  And  she  went ;  straining  herself 
up  to  move  noiselessly,  with  eyes  averted,  through  the  room 
which  she  shuddered  at  as  the  place  of  hasty  and  unhallowed 
death. 

Once  in  lier  own  room  she  bolted  the  door  on  the  inside,  and 
then  stole  to  the  window,  as  if  some  fascination  impelled  her  to 
watch  all  the  proceedings  to  the  end.  But  her  aching  eyes  couhl 
hardly  penetrate  through  the  thick  darkness,  wliich,  at  the  time 
of  the  year  of  which  I  am  speaking,  so  closely  precedes  the  dawn. 
She  could  discern  the  tops  of  the  trees  against  the  sky,  and  could 
single  out  the  well-kno\\Ti  one,  at  a  little  distance  from  the  stem 
of  which  the  grave  was  made,  in  the  very  piece  of  turf  over 
which  so  lately  she  and  lialph  had  had  their  merry  little  tea- 
making;  and  where  her  father,  as  she  now  remembered,  had 
.shuddered  and  shivered,  as  if  the  ground  on  which  his  seat  had 
then  been  placed  was  fateful  and  ominous  to  him. 

Those  below  moved  softly  and  quietly  in  all  they  did ;  but 
every  soimd  had  a  significant  and  terrible  interpretation  to  EUinor's 
cars.  Before  they  had  ended,  the  little  birds  had  begim  to  pipe 
out  their  gay  rcveillce  to  the  dawn.  Then  doors  closed,  and  all 
was  profoundly  still. 

Ellinor  threw  herself,  in  her  clothes,  on  the  bed;  and  was 
thankful  for  the  intense  weary  physical  pain  which  took  off' 
something  of  the  anguish  of  thought — anguish  that  she  fancied 
from  time  to  time  was  leading  to  insanity. 

By-and-by  the  morning  cold  made  her  instinctively  creep 
between  the  blankets ;  and,  once  there,  she  fell  into  a  dead  heavy 
sleep. 


CHAPTER  VII. 


Ellinor  was  awakened  by  a  rapping  at  her  door :  it  was  her 
maid. 

She  was  fully  aroused  in  a  moment,  for  she  had  fallen  asleep 
with  one  clearly  defined  plan  in  her  mind,  only  one,  for  all 
thoughts  and  cares  having  no  relation  to  the  terrible  event  weru 
as  though  they  had  never  Vjeen.  All  her  purpose  was  to  shield 
her  father  from  suspicion.  And  to  do  this  she  must  control 
herself — heart,  mind,  and  body  must  be  ruled  to  this  one  end. 


/8  A   DARK  night's  TVORK. 

So  she  said  to  Slason  : 

"Let  nie  lie  half  an  hour  longer;  and  beg  Miss  Monro  not  to 
■xvait  breakfast  for  me ;  but  in  half  an  hour  bring  me  up  a  cup  of 
strong  tea,  for  I  have  a  bad  headache." 

Mason  went  away.  Ellinor  sprang  up ;  rapidly  undressed  her- 
self, and  got  into  bed  again,  so  that  when  her  maid  returned  with 
her  breakfast,  there  was  no  appearance  of  the  night  having  been 
passed  in  any  unusual  manner. 

"  How  ill  you  do  look,  miss  !  "  .«aid  Mason.  *'  I  am  sure  you 
had  better  not  get  up  yet." 

Ellinor  longed  to  ask  if  her  father  had  yet  shown  himself ;  but 
this  question — so  natural  at  any  other  time — seemed  to  her  so 
suspicious  under  the  circumstances,  that  she  could  not  bring  her 
lips  to  frame  it.  At  any  rate,  she  must  get  up  and  struggle  to 
make  the  day  hke  all  other  days.  So  she  rose,  confessing  that 
she  did  not  feel  very  well,  but  trying  to  make  light  of  it,  and 
when  she  could  think  of  anything  but  the  one  aAve,  to  say  a 
trivial  sentence  or  two.  But  she  could  not  recollect  how  she 
behaA-ed  in  general,  for  her  life  hitherto  had  been  simple,  and  led 
without  any  consciousness  of  effect. 

Before  she  was  dressed,  a  message  came  up  to  say  that  I\Ir. 
Livingstone  was  in  the  drawing-room. 

Mr.  Livingstone  !  He  belonged  to  the  old  life  of  yesterday ! 
The  billows  of  the  night  had  sAvept  over  his  mark  on  the  sands 
of  her  memory ;  and  it  was  only  by  a  strong  effort  that  she  could 
remember  who  he  was — what  he  wanted.  She  sent  jNIason  down 
to  inquire  from  the  servant  who  admitted  him  whom  it  was  that 
he  had  asked  for. 

"  He  asked  for  master  first.  But  master  has  not  rung  for  his 
water  yet,  so  James  told  him  he  was  not  up.  Then  he  took 
thought  for  a  while,  and  asked  could  he  speak  to  you,  he  would 
wait  if  you  were  not  at  liberty ;  but  that  he  wislied  particular  to 
see  either  master,  or  you.  So  James  asked  him  to  sit  down  in 
the  drawing-room,  and  he  would  let  you  know." 

*'  I  must  go,"  thought  Ellinor.  "  I  will  seu'l  him  away  directly ; 
to  come,  thinking  of  marriage  to  a  house  like  this — to-day,  too  !  " 

And  she  went  dciwn  hastily,  and  in  a  hard  unsparing  mood 
towards  a  man,  whose  ailoction  I'or  her  she  thought  was  like  a 
gourd,  grown  up  in  a  night,  and  of  no  account,  but  as  a  piece  of 
foolish,  boyish  excitement. 

She  never  thought  of  her  nwn  appearance — she  had  dressed 
without  looking  in  the  glass.  Her  only  object  was  to  dismiss  her 
would-be  suitor  as  sjieedily  as  possible.  All  leolings  of  shyness, 
awkwardness,  or  maiden  modesty,  were  quenched  and  ovc.  Tie. 
In  she  went. 


A    DARK   JJIGHT's    ^70RK.  79 

He  was  standing  by  the  mantelpiece  as  she  entered.  He  made 
a  step  or  two  forward  to  meet  her ;  and  then  stopped,  petrified, 
as  it  were,  at  the  sight  of  her  hard  white  face. 

•'  Miss  Wilkins,  I  am  afraid  you  are  ill !  I  have  come  too 
1  ruly.  But  I  have  to  leave  Hamley  in  half  an  hour,  and  I 
iiiought Oh,  ]\Iiss  Wilkins  !  what  have  I  done  ?  " 

For  sl'.e  sank  into  the  chair  nearest  to  her,  as  if  overcome  by 
his  words ;  but,  indeed,  it  was  by  the  oppression  of  her  own 
thoughts :  she  Avas  hardly  conscious  of  his  presence. 

He  came  a  step  or  two  nearer,  as  if  he  longed  to  take  her  in 
his  arms  and  comfort  and  shelter  her ;  but  she  stiffened  herself 
and  arose,  and  by  an  effort  walked  towards  the  fireplace,  and 
tliere  stood,  as  if  awaiting  what  he  would  say  next.  But  he  was 
overwhelmed  by  her  aspect  of  illness.  He  almost  forgot  his  own 
Avishes,  liis  own  suit,  in  his  desire  to  relieve  her  from  the  pain, 
physical  as  he  believed  it,  imdei-  which  she  Avas  suffering.  It 
was  she  who  had  to  begin  the  sul.)j>ct. 

"  I  received  your  letter  yesterday,  I\Ir.  Livingstone.  I  Avas 
anxious  to  see  you  to-day,  in  order  that  I  might  prevent  you 
from  speaking  to  my  father.  I  do  not  say  anything  of  the  kind 
of  affection  you  can  feel  for  me — me,  Avhom  you  have  only  seen 
once.  All  I  shall  say  is,  that  the  sooner  Ave  both  forget  Avhat 
I  must  call  folly,  the  better." 

She  took  the  airs  of  a  Avoman  considerably  older  and  more 
experienced  than  himself.  He  thought  her  haughty ;  she  Avas 
only  miserable. 

"  You  are  mistaken,"  said  he,  more  quietly  and  Avith  more 
dignity  than  Avas  likely  from  his  pre\dous  conduct.  "  I  Avill  not 
allow  you  to  characterise  as  folly  Avhat  might  be  presumptuous 
on  my  part — I  had  no  business  to  express  myself  so  soon — but 
Avhich  in  its  foundation  Avas  true  and  sincere.  That  I  can  ansAver 
fur  mo.-t  solemnly.  It  is  possible,  though  it  may  not  be  a  usual 
liing,  for  a  man  to  feel  so  strongly  attracted  by  the  charms  and 
.jualities  of  a  Avoman,  even  at  first  sight,  as  to  feel  sure  that  she, 
and  she  alone,  can  make  his  happiness.  ]My  folly  consisted — 
there  you  arc  right — in  even  dreaming  that  you  could  return  my 
feelings  in  the  slightest  digree,  Avhen  you  had  only  seen  me  once; 
and  I  am  most  truly  ashamed  of  myself.  I  cannot  tell  you  hoAV 
sorry  I  am,  Avhen  I  see  Iioav  you  have  compelled  yourself  to  como 
and  speak  to  me  Avhen  you  are  so  ill." 

She  staggered  into  a  chair,  lor  Avith  all  her  Avish  fur  his  speedy 
dismissal,  she  Avas  obliged  to  be  seated.  His  hand  was  upon  the 
bell. 

"  No,  don't !  "  she  said.     "  Wait  a  minute." 


80  A  DARK  night's  ■work. 

His  eyes,  bent  upon  Iier  with  a  look  of  deep  anxiety,  touclied 
her  at  that  moment,  and  she  was  on  the  point  of  shedding  tears ; 
but  she  checked  herself,  and  i-ose  again. 

"  I  will  go,"  said  he.  "  It  is  the  kindest  thing  I  can  do.  Only, 
may  I  write?  May  I  venture  to  write  and  lu-ge  what  I  have  to 
say  more  coherently  ?  " 

"  No  ! "  said  she.  "  Don't  write.  I  have  given  you  my  answer. 
^Ye  are  nothing,  and  can  be  nothing  to  each  other.  I  am  engaged 
to  be  married.  I  should  not  have  told  you  if  you  had  not  been 
so  kind.     Thank  you.     But  go  now." 

The  poor  young  man's  face  fell,  and  he  became  almost  as  white 
as  she  was  for  the  instant.  After  a  moment's  reflection,  he  took 
her  hand  in  his,  and  said : 

"  May  God  bless  you,  and  him  too,  whoever  he  be  !  But  if 
you  want  a  friend,  I  may  be  that  friend,  may  I  not  ?  and  try  to 
prove  that  my  words  of  regard  were  true,  in  a  better  and  higher 
sense  than  I  used  them  at  first."  And  kissing  her  passive  hand, 
he  was  gone  and  she  was  left  sitting  alone. 

But  solitude  was  not  what  she  could  bear.  She  went  quickly 
upstairs,  and  took  a  strong  dose  of  sal-volatile,  even  while  she 
heard  Miss  Monro  calling  to  her. 

"  My  dear,  who  was  that  gentleman  that  has  been  closeted  with 
you  in  the  drawing-room  all  this  time  ?  " 

xVnd  then,  without  listening  to  Ellinor's  reply,  she  Avent  on  : 

"  Mrs.  Jackson  has  been  here  "  (it  was  at  Mrs.  Jackson's  house 
that  Mr.  Dunster  lodged),  "  wanting  to  know  if  wo  could  tell 
her  where  Mr.  Dunster  was,  for  he  never  came  home  last  night  at 
all.  And  you  were  in  the  drawing-room  with — who  did  you  say 
he  was  ? — that  Mr.  Livingstone,  who  might  have  come  at  a  better 
time  to  bid  good-bye;  and  he  had  never  dined  here,  had  he?  sol 
don't  see  any  reason  he  had  to  come  calling,  and  P.  P.  C.-ing, 
and  your  ])a|)a  not  up.  So  I  said  to  Mrs.  Jackson,  'I'll  send  and 
ask  Mr.  Wilkins,  if  you  like,  but  I  don't  see  any  use  in  it,  for  I 
can  tell  you  just  as  well  as  anybody,  that  Mr.  Diuister  is  not  in 
this  house,  wherever  he  may  be.'  Yet  nothing  would  satisfy  her 
but  that  some  one  must  go  and  waken  up  your  pajw,  and  ask  if 
he  could  tell  where  Mr.  Dunster  was." 

"And  did  papa?"  incjuircd  liliinor,  her  dry  throat  luiskily 
forining  the  inquiry  that  seemed  to  be  expected  from  her. 

"No!  to  be  sure  not.  IIow  sliouUl  Mr.  Wilkins  know  ?  As 
I  sniil  to  Mrs.  Jackson,  *  Mr.  Wilkins  is  not  likely  to  know  where 
Mr.  Diujster  sj>ends  his  time  when  lie  is  not  in  tlio  ollioe,  for  they 
do  not  move  in  the  sjime  rank  of  life,  my  good  woman;'  and 
Mrs.  Jackson  apologised,  but  said  that  yesterday  they  had  both 


A    DAICK    night's   -SVORE  81 

been  dininp:  at  Mr.  Hodgson's  toprether,  sli<5  believed;  and  some- 
liOAT  she  had  got  it  into  her  head  that  ]\Ir.  Dunstor  niiglit  liavo 
missed  his  way  in  coming  along  Moor  Lane,  and  might  have 
slipped  into  the  canal ;  so  she  just  thought  she  would  step  up  and 
ask  Mr.  Wilkins  if  they  flad  left  Mr.  Hodgson's  together,  or  if 
your  papa  had  driven  home.  I  asked  her  why  she  had  not  told 
me  all  these  particulars  before,  for  I  c«5uld  have  asked  your  papa 
myself  all  about  when  he  last  saw  Mr.  Dunster  ;  and  I  went  up  to 
ask  him  a  second  time,  but  he  did  nor  like  it  at  all,  for  he  was  busy 
dressing,  and  I  had  to  shout  my  questions  through  the  door,  and 
he  could  not  always  hear  me  at  first." 

"  What  did  he  say  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  he  had  walked  part  of  the  way  with  Mr.  Dunster,  and 
tlien  "ut  across  by  the  short  path  through  the  fields,  as  far  as  I 
couid  iiiiderstand  him  through  the  door.  He  seemed  very  much 
annoyed  to  hear  that  Mr.  Dimstcr  had  not  been  at  home  all  night; 
but  he  said  I  was  to  tell  ]Mr3.  Jackson  that  he  would  go  to  the 
office  as  soon  as  he  had  had  his  breakfast,  which  he  ordered  to  be 
sent  up  directly  mto  his  own  room,  and  he  had  no  doubt  it  would 
all  turn  out  right,  but  that  she  had  better  go  home  at  once. 
And,  as  I  told  her,  she  might  find  Mr.  Dunster  there  by  the  time 
she  got  there.  There,  there  is  your  papa  going  out !  He  has  not 
lost  any  time  over  hi:3  breakfast !  " 

Ellinor  had  taken  up  the  IJamley  Examiner^  a  daily  paper, 
which  lay  on  the  table, to  hide  her  face  in  the  first  instance;  but 
it  served  a  second  purpose,  as  she  glanced  languidly  over  the 
columns  of  the  advertisements. 

"  Oh !  here  are  Colonel  Macdonald's  orchideous  plants  to  bo 
sold.  All  the  stock  of  hothouse  and  stove  plants  at  Hartwell 
Priory.  I  must  send  James  over  to  liartwell  to  attend  the  sale. 
It  is  to  last  for  three  days." 

'•  But  can  he  be  spared  for  so  long  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  he  had  better  stay  at  the  little  inn  there,  to  be  on 
the  spot.  Three  days,"  and  as  she  spoke,  she  ran  out  to  the 
gardener,  who  was  sweeping  up  the  newly-mown  grass  in  the 
front  of  the  house.  She  gave  him  hasty  and  milimitcd  directions, 
only  seeming  intent — if  any  one  had  been  susjnciously  watching 
her  words  and  actions — to  hurry  him  o£E  to  the  distant  village, 
where  the  auction  was  to  take  place. 

When  he  was  once  gone  she  breathed  more  freely.  Now,  no 
one  but  the  three  cognisant  of  the  terrible  reason  of  the  disturb- 
ance of  the  turf  under  the  trees  in  a  certain  sjiot  in  the  belt 
round  the  llower-garden,  would  be  likely  to  go  into  the  place. 
Miss  Monro  might  wander  round  with  a  book  in  her  hand ;   but 

G 


g2  A   DARK.   NIGnfs   "WOIIK. 

^\S  :;:S;  -r lisl?^;^-  ^U.  .  ...  been  twenty- 

-^Si^;^::.sa.e.^^^^ 

and  spirit  -^^K^^^l^^^^T^o^lyL^ 

aspect  ---'  ^^^^-^^^^V;^^^^^^^        ,„^  ,,e  .'ho  loved  her  not 

thematter  yet  t  U.S  unpo  ^^^.^^     ^^^^  ^.^^  ^^^ 

to  perceive  that  she  ^^as  ^^   ^^^^  ^      ^^.,^^,y^ 

nund.     But  soon  -uibt.  i*.         i„^^fl„„  ponooctin"-,  for  she  was 
dose  of  soothing  medjcme  ^^^if^ ,  X\^^Siein  "v^s  Ellinor  did 

^:r^eS^n::^?^y.c  of  ^^^^         ^;^;2^ 

''' Shf  a^^kcncd  late  in  the  afternoon  with  a  start.     Her  father 
She  a^^al^cnea  ^j       ^^    to  j^Iiss  Monro's  accoxint  of  her 

y.as  standnig  ^^^^J^^J'^^^'^^^lt  one  glimpse  of  his  strangely 
indisposition  bhe  only  cau^--^t  j  y  cushions-hid  it 
altered  countenance    and  hul  her  he  ^^^^  ^^^^^^  ^^^^ 

from  memory  not  from  him      ior  ii  ^^^ 

conjectured  the  ^-^^Vre^fZtnZ^^^^^^^^^^^^^  1--  and  had 
shrinking  action,  a"^  ^^^^  J^^  'Jl  was ki^sin- his  cold,  i^issive 
r'^^^Z^T^  Si;  aluh^t;:  their  sad  eyinev.. 
'rt-tW  ^^^^^^^^  look  of  recollection  that  miust  be  m  each 

''^"Tliere'my  dear!"  said  Miss  Monro.  "Now  you  must  lie 
still  TiuT'fS  you  a  little  broth.     You  are  better  now,  are  not 

^'""you   neod   not   go  for  the   broth,  Miss   Monro,"    «iid  Mr 


A   DARK    Nl(jilix"s   WOKK.  83 

rending  their  garments  and  crj'ing  aloud.  Mr.  "Wilkins  seemed 
to  have  lost  the  power  of  careless  action  and  spcccli,  it  is  true. 
He  wished  to  leave  the  room  now  his  anxiety  about  his  daughter 
was  relieved,  but  hardly  knew  how  to  set  about  it.  He  was  obliged 
to  think  about  the  veriest  trifle,  in  order  that  by  an  effort  of  reason 
he  might  understand  how  he  should  have  spoken  or  acted  if  he 
had  been  free  fi-om  blood-guiltiness.  EUinor  understood  all  by 
intuition.  But  henceforward  the  unspoken  comprehension  of 
each  other's  hidden  motions  made  their  mutual  presence  a 
burdensome  anxiety  to  each.  ]Miss  Monro  was  a  relief;  they 
were  glad  of  her  as  a  third  person,  miconscious  of  the  secret 
which  constrained  them.  This  afternoon  her  imconsciousness 
gave  present  pain,  although  on  after  reflection  each  found  in  her 
speeches  a  cause  of  rejoicing. 

"And  Mr.  Dunster,  Mr.  Wilkins,  has  he  come  home  yet?" 

A  moment's  pause,  in  which  Mr.  "Wilkins  pumped  the  words  out 
of  his  husky  throat : 

"  I  have  not  heard.  I  have  been  riding.  I  went  on  business 
to  !Mr.  Estcourt's.  Perhaps  you  will  be  so  kind  as  to  send  and 
inquire  at  Mrs.  Jackson's." 

Ellinor  sickened  at  the  words.  She  had  been  all  her  life  a 
trutliful  plain-spoken  girl.  She  held  herself  high  above  deceit. 
Yet,  here  came  the  necessity  for  deceit — a  snare  spread  around 
her.  She  had  not  revolted  so  much  from  the  deed  which  brought 
unpremeditated  death,  as  she  did  from  these  words  of  her  father's. 
The  night  before,  in  her  mad  fever  of  affright,  she  had  fancied 
that  to  conceal  the  body  was  all  that  would  be  required ;  she  had 
not  looked  forward  to  the  long,  weary  course  of  small  lies,  to  be 
done  and  said,  involved  in  that  one  mistaken  action.  Yet,  while 
her  father's  words  made  her  soul  revolt,  his  appearance  melted 
her  heart,  as  she  caught  it,  half  turned  away  from  her,  neither 
looking  straight  at  Miss  J\Ionro,  nor  at  anything  materially  visible. 
His  hollow  sunken  eye  seemed  to  Ellinor  to  have  a  vision  of  the 
dead  man  before  it.  His  cheek  was  livid  and  worn,  and  its 
healthy  colouring  gained  by  years  of  hearty  out-door  exercise, 
was  all  gone  into  the  wanness  of  age.  His  hair,  even  to  Ellinor, 
seocraed  greyer  for  the  past  night  of  Avretchedness.  He  stooped, 
as  id  looked  dreamily  earthward,  where  formerly  he  had  stood  erect. 
It  needed  all  the  pity  called  forth  by  such  observation  to  quench 
Ellinor's  passionate  contempt  for  the  coiu-se  on  which  she  and  her 
fa  her  were  embarked,  when  she  heard  him  repeat  his  words  to 
tin;  .servant  who  came  with  her  broth. 

"  Fletcher  !  go  to  Mrs.  Jackson's  and  inquire  if  ISlr.  Dunster  is 
come  home  yet.     I  want  to  speak  to  him." 

0  2 


84  A  DAuk  night's  -vvobk. 

"  To  him !"  lying  dead  where  he  had  been  laid ;  killed  by  the 
man  Avho  now  asked  for  his  presence.  Ellinor  shut  her  eyes,  and 
lay  back  in  despair.  She  wished  she  might  die,  and  be  out  of 
this  horrible  tangle  of  events. 

Two  minutes  after,  she  was  conscious  of  her  father  and  Misa 
Monro  stealing  softly  out  of  the  room.  They  thought  that  she  slept. 

She  sprang  off  tlie  sofa  and  knelt  down. 

"  Oh,  God,"  she  prayed,  "  Thou  knowest !  Help  me  !  There 
is  none  other  help  but  Thee  !  " 

I  suppose  she  fainted.  For,  an  hour  or  more  afterwards  Miss 
Monro,  coming  in,  found  her  lying  insensible  by  the  side  of  the 
sofa. 

She  was  carried  to  bed.  She  Avas  not  delirious,  she  was  only 
in  a  stupor,  which  they  feared  might  end  in  delirium.  To  obviate 
this,  her  father  sent  far  and  wide  for  skilful  physicians,  who 
tended  her,  almost  at  the  rate  of  a  guinea  the  minute. 

People  said  how  hard  it  was  upon  Mr.  Wilkins,  that  scarcely 
had  that  •wretch  Dunster  gone  oiF,  with  no  one  knows  how  much 
out  of  the  trusts  of  the  firm,  before  his  only  child  fell  ill.  And, 
to  tell  the  truth,  lie  himself  looked  burnt  and  scared  with  afflic- 
tion. He  had  a  startled  look,  they  said,  as  if  he  never  could  tell, 
after  such  experience,  from  which  side  the  awful  proofs  of  the 
uncertainty  of  earth  would  appear,  the  terrible  phantoms  of 
unforeseen  dread.  Both  rich  and  jioor,  town  and  country,  sym- 
pathised  with  him.  The  rich  cared  not  to  press  their  claims,  or 
their  business,  at  such  a  time ;  and  only  wondered,  in  their 
superficial  talk  after  dinner,  how  such  a  good  ffllow  as  Wilkins 
could  ever  have  been  deceived  by  a  man  like  Dunster.  Even 
Sir  Frank  llolslcr  and  his  lady  forgot  their  old  quarrel,  and 
came  to  inquire  after  Ellinor,  and  sent  her  hothouse  fruit  by  tlie 
bushel. 

Mr.  Corbet  behaved  as  an  anxious  lover  should  do.  lie  wrote 
daily  to  Miss  Monro  to  beg  for  the  most  minute  bulletins;  ho 
])rocured  every  tiling  in  town  that  any  doctor  even  fancieil  might 
bo  of  service,  lie  came  down  as  soon  as  there  was  the  slightest 
hint  of  permission  that  Ellinor  might  see  him.  He  overjwwered 
her  with  tender  words  and  c;u"esses,  till  at  last  she  shrank  away 
from  them,  as  from  something  too  bewildering,  and  past  all  right 
comprehension. 

But  one  night  before  this,  when  all  windows  and  doors  .stood 
open  to  admit  the  least  breath  that  stirred  the  sultry  July  air,  a 
servant  on  velvet  tiptoe  had  stolen  up  to  Ellinor 's  open  door,  and 
had  bcokoni'd  out  of'  the  chamber  of  the  biceper  the  ever  watchful 
nurse.  Mii>3  Monro. 


A  DARK   NIGHTS  WOBK.  85 

"A  gentloman  wants  you,"  were  all  the  words  the  housemaid 
dared  to  say  so  close  to  the  bedroom.  And  softly,  softly  jNIiss 
IMonro  stepped  doAvn  the  stairs,  ivAo  the  drawing-room ;  and  there 
she  saw  j\Ir.  Livingstone.  But  she  did  not  know  him ;  she  had 
never  seen  him  before. 

*'  I  have  travelled  all  day.  1  heard  she  was  ill — was  dying. 
May  I  just  liave  one  more  look  at  lier  ?  I  Avill  not  speak ;  I  will 
hardly  breathe.     Only  let  me  sec  her  oncu  again  !  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  but  I  don't  know  avIio  you  arc ;  and 
if  you  mean  I\Iiss  Wilkins,  by  '  her,'  she  is  very  ill,  but  we  hope 
not  dying.  She  was  very  ill,  indeed,  yesterday  ;  very  dangerously 
ill,  I  may  say,  but  she  is  having  a  good  sleep,  in  consequence  of 
a  soporific  medicine,  and  we  are  really  beginning  to  hope " 

But  just  here  Miss  IMonro's  hand  was  taken,  and,  to  her  infinite 
surprise,  was  kissed  before  she  could  remember  how  imj)roper 
such  behaviour  was. 

"  God  bless  you,  madam,  for  saying  so.  Biit  if  she  sleeps,  will 
you  let  mo  see  her?  it  can  do  no  harm,  for  I  will  tread  as  if  on 
egg  shells;  and  I  have  come  so  far — if  I  might  just  look  on  her 
sweet  face.  Pray,  madam,  let  me  just  have  one  sight  of  her.  I 
will  not  ask  for  more." 

But  he  did  ask  for  more  after  he  had  had  his  Avish.  He  stole 
upstairs  after  Miss  IMonro,  who  looked  round  reproachfully  at 
him  if  even  a  nightingale  sang,  or  an  owl  hooted  in  the  trees 
outside  the  open  windows,  yet  who  paused  to  say  herself,  outside 
Mr.  Wilkins's  chamber  door, 

"  Her  father's  room ;  he  has  not  been  in  bed  for  six  nights, 
till  to-night ;  pray  do  not  make  a  noise  to  waken  him."  And  on 
into  the  deep  stillness  of  the  hushed  room,  where  one  clear  r  y 
of  hidden  lamp-light  shot  athwart  the  floor,  where  a  watcher, 
breathing  softly,  .sat  beside  the  bed — where  EUinor's  dark  head 
lay  motionless  on  the  white  pillow,  her  face  almost  as  white,  her 
form  almost  as  still.  You  might  have  heard  a  pin  fall.  After  a 
while  he  moved  to  withdraw.  Miss  Monro,  jealous  of  every 
sound,  followed  him,  with  steps  all  the  more  heavy  because  lliey 
were  taken  with  so  much  care,  down  the  stairs,  back  into  the 
drawing-room.  By  the  bed-candle  flaring  in  the  draught,  she 
Biiw  that  there  was  the  glittering  mark  of  wet  tears  on  his  check; 
and  she  felt,  as  she  said  afterwards,  "  sorry  for  the  young  man." 
And  yet  she  urged  him  to  go,  for  she  knew  that  she  might  be 
wanted  upstairs.     He  took  her  hand,  and  wrung  it  hard. 

"  Thank  you.  Slie  looked  so  changed — oh  I  she  looked  aa 
though  she  were  dead.  You  will  write — Herbert  Livingstone, 
Langham  Vicarage,  Yorkshire;  you  will  promise  mo  to  vrrite. 


86  A   DARK   night's  WORK. 

If  I  could  do  anything  for  her,  but  I  can  but  praj'.  Oh,  my 
darling ;   my  darling !   and  I  have  no  right  to  be  with  her." 

"  Go  away,  there's  a  good  young  man,'"  said  Miss  Jloaro,  all 
the  more  pressing  to  hurry  him  out  by  the  front  door,  because 
she  was  afraid  of  his  emotion  overmastering  him,  and  making 
him  noisy  in  his  demonstrations.  ''  Yes,  I  will  A\Tite ;  I  will  write, 
never  fear  !  "  and  she  bolted  the  door  behind  him,  and  was 
thankful. 

Two  minutes  afterwards  there  was  a  low  tap ;  she  undid  the 
fastenings,  and  there  he  stood,  pale  in  the  moonlight. 

"  Please  don't  tell  her  I  came  to  ask  about  her  ;  she  might  not 
like  it." 

"  No,  no !  not  I !  Poor  creature,  .^he's  not  likely  to  care  to 
hear  anything  this  long  while.  She  never  roused  at  Mr.  Corbet's 
name." 

"  Mr.  Corbet's !  "  said  Livingstone,  below  his  breath,  and  he 
turned  aiid  went  away ;   this  time  for  good. 

But  Ellinor  recovered.  She  kneAv  she  was  recovering,  when 
day  after  day  she  felt  involuntary  strength  and  appetite  return. 
Her  body  seemed  stronger  than  her  will ;  for  that  would  have 
induced  her  to  creep  into  her  grave,  and  shut  her  eyes  for  ever 
on  this  world,  so  full  of  troubles. 

She  lay,  for  the  most  part,  with  her  eyes  closed,  ver}'  still  and 
quiet ;  but  she  thought  with  the  intensity  of  one  who  seeks  for 
lost  peace,  and  cannot  find  it.  She  began  to  see  that  if  in  the 
mad  impulses  uf  that  mad  nightmare  of  horror,  they  had  all 
strengthened  each  other,  and  dared  to  be  frank  and  open, 
confessing  a  great  fault,  a  greater  disaster,  a  greater  woe — which 
in  the  first  instance  was  hardly  a  crime — their  future  course, 
though  sad  and  sorrowful,  would  have  been  a  simple  and  straight- 
forward one  to  tread.  But  it  was  not  for  her  to  undo  what  was 
done,  and  to  reveal  the  error  and  shame  of  a  father.  Only  she, 
turning  anew  to  God,  in  the  solonui  and  (juiet  watches  of  the 
night,  made  a  covenant,  that  in  her  conduct,  hor  own  personal  in- 
dividual life,  she  Avould  act  loyally  and  truthfully.  And  as  for  the 
future,  and  all  the  terrible  chances  involved  in  it,  she  would  leave 
it  in  His  hand.s — il",  indeed  (and  here  came  in  the  Tempter),  IIo 
would  watch  over  one  whose  life  hereafter  must  seem  based  ujkmi 
a  lie.  Her  only  \)\ca,  olFered  "standing  afar  itll"."  was,  "  The  lie  is 
Baid  and  done  and  over — it  was  not  for  my  own  sjike.  Can  lilial 
piety  be  so  overcome  by  the  rights  of  justice  and  tnuh,  as  to 
demand  of  me  that  I  kIiouUI  reveal  my  father's  guilt." 

Hor  father's  severe  sharp  ])uni.shment  lugan.  He  know  why 
she  sull'c.id,  what  mnde  her  yoiuig  strength  lalter  and  tremble, 


A  DAiuc  night's  work.  87 

vrhat  made  her  life  seem  nigh  about  to  be  quenched  in  death. 
Yet  he  could  not  take  his  corrow  and  care  in  the  natural 
manner.  He  was  obliged  to  think  how  every  word  and  deed 
would  be  construed.  lie  fancied  that  people  were  watching  him 
with,  suspicious  eyes,  when  nothing  was  further  from  their 
thoughts.  For  once  let  the  "  public  "  of  any  place  be  possessed 
by  an  idea,  it  is  more  difficult  to  dislodge  it  than  any  one 
imagines  who  has  not  tried.  If  Mr.  Wilkins  had  gone  into 
Ilamley  market-place,  and  proclaimed  himself  guilty  of  tlio 
manslaughter  of  Mr.  Dimster — nay,  if  he  had  detailed  all  the 
circimistances — the  people  would  have  exclaimed,  '•  Poor  man, 
he  is  crazed  by  this  discovery  of  the  unworthiness  of  the  man  he 
trusted  so ;  and  no  wonder — it  was  such  a  thing  to  have  done — 
to  have  defrauded  his  partner  to  such  an  extent,  and  then  have 
made  off  to  America  ! " 

For  many  small  circumstances,  which  I  do  not  stop  to  detail 
here,  went  far  to  prove  this,  as  we  know,  unf oimded  supposition ; 
and  Mr.  Wilkins,  who  was  known,  from  his  handsome  boyhood, 
through  his  comely  manhood,  up  to  the  present  time,  by  all  the 
people  in  Hamley,  was  an  object  of  s}'mpathy  and  respect  to  every 
one  who  saw  him,  as  he  passed  b}-,  old,  and  lorn,  and  haggard 
before  his  time,  all  through  the  evil  conduct  of  one,  London- bred, 
who  was  as  a  hard,  unlovely  stranger  to  the  popular  mind  of  thlz 
little  country  town. 

jNIr.  Wilkin.s's  o%\-n  servants  liked  him.  The  workings  of  his 
temptations  were  such  as  they  could  understand.  If  he  had  been 
liot-tempered  he  had  also  been  generous,  or  I  should  rather  say 
careless  and  lavish  with  his  money.  And  now  that  he  was 
cheated  and  impoverished  by  his  partner's  delinquency,  they 
thought  it  no  wonder  that  he  drank  long  and  deep  in  the  solitary 
evenings  which  he  passed  at  home.  It  Avas  not  that  he  was 
without  invitations.  Every  one  came  forward  to  testify  their 
respect  for  him  by  asking  him  to  their  houses.  lie  had  probably 
never  been  so  universally  popular  since  his  father's  death.  But, 
as  he  said,  he  did  not  care  to  go  into  society  while  his  daughter 
wa?  so  ill — he  had  no  spirits  for  company. 

But  if  any  one  had  cared  to  observe  his  conduct  at  home,  and  to 
draw  conclusions  from  it,  they  could  have  noticed  tliat,  anxious 
as  he  was  aboiat  Ellinor,  he  rather  avoided  than  sought  her 
presence,  now  that  her  consciousness  and  memory  were  restored. 
Nor  did  she  ask  for,  or  wish  for  him.  The  presence  of  each 
•was  a  biu'den  to  the  other.  Oh,  sad  and  woeful  night  of  May — 
overshadoAving  the  coming  summer  months  with  gloom  and  bitter 


88  A  DARK  night's  VTORK. 


CHAPTER  Vm. 

Still  youth  prevailed  over  all.  Ellinor  got  well,  as  I  have  said, 
even  when  she  -would  fain  have  died.  And  tlie  afternoon  came 
■when  she  left  her  room.  INIiss  Monro  would  gladly  have  made  a 
festival  of  her  recovery,  and  have  had  her  conveyed  into  the  unused 
dr.awing-room.  But  Ellinor  begged  that  she  might  be  taken  mto 
the  library — into  the  school-room — anywhere  (thought  she)  not 
looking  on  the  side  of  the  house  on  the  flower-garden,  which  she 
had  felt  in  all  her  illness  as  a  ghastly  pressure  lying  within  sight 
of  those  very  windows,  through  which  the  morning  sun  streamed 
right  upon  her  bed — like  the  accusing  angel,  bringing  all  hiddtu 
things  to  light. 

And  when  Ellinor  was  better  still,  when  the  Bath-chair  had 
been  sent  up  for  her  use,  by  some  kindly  old  maid,  out  of  Ilamley, 
she  still  petitioned  that  it  might  be  kept  on  the  lawn  or  town  side 
of  the  house,  away  from  the  flower-garden. 

One  day  she  almost  screamed,  when,  as  she  was  goins  to  the 
front  door,  she  saw  Dixon  standing  ready  to  draw  her,  instead  of 
Fletcher  the  servant  who  usually  went.  But  she  checked  all 
demonstration  of  feeling;  allhouyh  it  was  the  first  time  she  had 
seen  him  since  he  and  she  and  one  mere  had  worked  their  heai-ts 
out  in  hard  bodily  labour. 

lie  looked  so  stern  and  ill !  Cross,  too,  which  she  had  never 
seen  him  before. 

As  soon  as  they  were  out  of  immediate  sight  of  the  windows, 
she  asked  him  to  .stop,  forcing  herself  to  speak  to  him. 

"  Dixon,  you  look  very  poorly,"  she  said,  trembling  as  she 
spoke. 

"Ay  !"  s;iitl  he.  "We  didn't  think  much  of  it  nt  the  time, 
did  we.  Miss  Nelly?  But  it'll  be  the  death  on  us,  I'm  tiiinking. 
It  has  aged  me  above  a  bit.  All  my  lifty  years  afore  were  but 
as  a  forenoon  of  child's  play  to  that  night.  Mcaster,  too — I  could 
a-bear  a  good  deal,  but  measter  cuts  through  the  stable-yard,  and 
past  me,  wi'out  a  word,  as  if  1  wa.s  poigjn,  or  a  stinking  foumart. 
It's  that  as  is  worst,  Mi.ss  Nelly,  it  is." 

And  the  poor  man  brushed  somo  tears  from  liis  eyes  with  the 
back  ol"  liis  witliered,  furrowed  hand.  Kilinor  caught  the 
infection,  and  cried  outright,  sobbed  like  a  child,  even  wliilo  she 
held  out  her  little  white  thin  hand  to  his  gra-^^p.  For  nssoou  asho 
taw  lior  emotion,  he  was  j)oiutont  for  what  ho  had  said. 

"Don't  iKjw-  don't,"  was  all  In*  cotild  think  of  to  t:iy. 


A  D.\r»K  night's  -svokk.  89 

"Dixou!"  said  she  at  length,  "you  must  not  mind  it.  You 
must  try  not  to  mind  it.  I  see  he  docs  not  like  to  be  reminded 
of  that,  even  by  seeing  me.  He  tries  never  to  be  alone  with  me. 
IVIy  poor  old  Dixon,  it  has  spoilt  my  life  for  me;  for  I  don't 
think  he  loves  me  any  more." 

Slie  sobbed  as  if  her  heart  would  break;  and  now  it  was 
Dixon's  turn  to  be  comforter. 

"  Ah,  dear,  my  blessing,  he  loves  you  above  everything.  It's 
only  he  can't  a-bear  the  sight  of  us,  as  is  but  natural.  And  if  he 
doesn't  fancy  lioing  alone  with  you,  there's  always  one  as  does,  and 
that's  a  comfort  at  the  worst  of  times.  And  don't  ye  fret  about 
what  I  said  a  minute  ago.  I  were  put  out  because  measter  all 
but  pushed  me  out  of  his  way  this  morning,  without  never  a 
word.  But  I  were  an  old  fool  for  telling  ye.  And  I've  really 
forgotten  why  I  told  Fletcher  I'd  drag  ye  a  bit  about  to-day.  Th' 
gardener  is  l)eginning  for  to  wonder  as  you  don't  want  to  see  th' 
annuals  and  bedding-out  things  as  you  were  so  particular  about 
in  May.  And  I  thought  I'd  just  have  a  word  wi'  ye,  and  then  if 
you'd  let  me,  we'd  go  together  just  once  round  the  flower-garden, 
just  to  say  you've  been,  you  know,  aud  to  give  them  chaps  a  bit 
of  praise.  You'll  only  have  to  look  on  the  beds,  my  pretty,  and 
it  must  be  done  some  time.     So  come  along  ! " 

He  began  to  pull  resolutely  in  the  direction  of  the  flower- 
garden.  Ellinor  bit  her  lips  to  keep  in  the  cry  of  repugnance 
that  rose  to  them.  As  Dixon  stopped  to  unlock  the  door,  he 
said : 

"  It's  not  hardness,  nothing  like  it ;  I've  waited  till  I  heerd  you 
were  better;  but  it';j  in  for  a  penny  in  for  a  pound  wi'  us  all; 
and  folk  may  talk ;  and  bless  your  little  brave  heart,  you'll  stand 
a  deal  for  your  father's  sake,  and  so  will  I,  though  I  do  feel  it 
alcove  a  bit,  v.'hen  he  puts  out  his  hand  as  if  to  keep  me  off,  and 
I  only  going  to  speak  to  him  about  Clipper's  knees;  though  I'll 
o^v^l  I  had  wondered  many  a  day  when  I  was  to  have  the  good- 
morrow  master  never  misi^ed  sin'  he  Avere  a  boy  till Well ! 

and  now  you've  seen  the  beds,  and  can  s.iy  they  looked  mighty 
pretty,  and  is  done  all  as  you  wished ;  and  we're  got  out  again, 
and  Vjreathing  fresher  air  than  yon  sunlxiked  hole,  with  its 
smelling  flowers,  not  half  so  wholesome  to  snufF  at  as  good  stable- 
dung." 

So  the  pood  man  chatted  on;  not  without  the  purpose  of 
giving  Ellinor  lime  to  recover  herself;  and  partly  also  to  drown 
his  own  carcp,  which  lay  heavier  on  his  heart  than  he  could  say. 
But  he  thought  himself  rewarded  by  Eliinor's  thanks,  and  warm 
pressure  of  his  hard  hand  as  she  got  out  at  the  front  door,  and 
bade  him  good-by. 


90  A    DAKK   night's   WORK. 

The  break  to  her  days  of  weaiy  monotony  was  the  letters  she 
constantly  received  from  Mr.  Corbet.  And  yet  here  again  lurked 
the  sting.  He  was  all  astonishment  and  indignation  at  Mr. 
Dunster's  disappearance,  or  rather  flight,  to  America,  And  now 
that  she  was  growing  stronger,  he  did  not  scruple  to  express 
curiosity  respecting  the  details,  never  doubting  but  that  she  was 
perfectly  acquainted  with  much  that  he  wanted  to  know; 
although  he  had  too  much  delicacy  to  question  her  on  the  point 
which  was  most  important  of  all  in  his  eyes,  namely,  how  far  it 
had  affected  Mr.  Wilkins's  worldly  prospects;  for  the  report 
prevalent  in  Ilamley  had  reached  London,  that  Mr.  Dunster  had 
made  away  with,  or  carried  off,  trust  property  to  a  considerable 
extent,  for  all  which  Mr.  AVilkins  Avoidd  of  course  be  liable. 

It  was  hard  work  for  Kalph  Corbet  to  keeji  from  seeking  direct 
information  on  this  head  Irom  Mr.  Ness,  or,  indeed,  from  Mr. 
"Wilkins  himself.  But  he  restrained  himself,  knowing  that  in 
August  he  should  be  able  to  make  all  these  inquiries  personally. 
Before  the  end  of  the  long  vacation  he  had  hoped  to  marry 
Ellinor :  that  was  the  time  which  had  been  planned  by  them 
wlicn  they  had  mot  in  the  early  spring  before  her  illness  and  all 
this  misfortune  happened.  But  now,  as  he  wrote  to  his  fiither, 
nothing  could  be  definitely  arranged  until  he  had  paid  his  visit  to 
Hamley,  and  seen  the  state  of  affairs. 

Accordingly  one  Saturday  in  August,  he  came  to  Ford  Bank, 
this  time  as  a  visitor  to  EUinor's  home,  instead  of  to  his  old 
quarters  at  Mr.  Ness's. 

The  house  was  still  as  if  asleep  in  the  full  heat  of  the  afternoon 
sun,  as  Mr.  Corbet  drove  up.  The  window-blinds  were  down ; 
the  front  door  wide  open,  great  stands  of  heliotrope  and  rosea 
and  geraniums  stood  just  within  the  shadow  of  the  hall;  but 
through  all  the  silence  his  approach  seemed  to  excite  no  com- 
motion. He  thought  it  strange  that  he  had  not  been  watched  for, 
that  Ellinor  did  not  come  running  out  to  meet  him,  that  she 
allowed  Fletcher  to  come  and  attend  to  his  luggage,  and  usher 
him  nto  the  library  just  like  any  common  visitor,  any  morning- 
caller.  He  stiffoned  himself  up  into  a  moment's  indignant 
coldness  of  manner.  But  it  vanished  in  an  instant  when,  on  thi> 
door  being  opened,  he  wiw  Ellinor  standing  holding  by  the  table, 
looking  for  his  appearance  witli  almost  jnuiting  anxiety.  He 
thought  of  nothing  then  but  hor  evident  weakness,  lu>r  changed 
looks,  for  which  no  accoimt  of  her  illiu-ss  had  ]»rei)ared  him. 
For  she  was  deadly  white,  lips  and  all ;  and  her  dark  oy»'s  seemed 
unnaturtUly  enlarged,  while  the  eaves  in  which  they  Avore  set  \v*ro 
Btrangely  deep  and  hollow.    Her  hair,  too,  had  been  cut  off  pretty 


A  da::k  mgkt's;  work.  91 

closely  ;  she  did  not  usually  wear  a  cap,  but  with  some  faint  idea  of 
making  herself  look  belter  in  his  eye,  she  had  put  on  one  this  day, 
and  the  effect  was  that  she  seemed  to  be  forty  years  of  age ;  but 
one  instant  after  he  had  come  in,  her  pale  face  was  flooded  wilh 
crimson,  and  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  She  had  hard  Avork  to 
keep  herself  from  going  into  hysterics,  but  she  instinctively  knew 
how  much  he  would  hate  a  scene,  and  she  checked  herself  in 
time. 

•"  Oh,"  she  murmured,  "  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you ;  it  is  such  a 
comfort,  such  an  infinite  pleasure.'"  And  so  she  went  on,  cooing 
out  words  over  him.  and  stroking  his  hair  with  her  thin  fingers; 
while  he  rather  tried  to  avert  his  eyes,  he  was  so  much  afraid  of 
betraying  how  much  he  thought  her  altered. 

But  Avhen  she  came  down,  dressed  for  dinner,  this  ser.se  of 
her  change  was  diminished  to  him.  Her  short  brown  hair  had 
already  a  little  wave,  and  was  ornamented  by  some  black  lace ; 
she  wore  a  large  i)lack  lace  shawl — it  had  Ijeen  her  mother's  of 
old — over  some  delicate-coloured  muslin  dress;  her  face  was 
slightly  flushed,  and  had  the  tints  of  a  wild  rose  ;  her  lips  kept 
pale  and  trembling  with  involuntary  motion,  it  is  tiiie ;  and  as 
the  lovers  stood  together,  hand  in  hand,  by  the  window,  he  was 
aware  of  a  little  convulsive  twitching  at  every  noise,  even  while 
she  seemed  gazing  in  tranquil  pleasure  on  the  long  smooth  slope 
of  the  newly-mown  lawn,  stretching  down  to  the  little  brook 
that  prattled  merrily  over  the  stones  on  its  meny  course  to 
Hamley  town. 

He  felt  a  stronger  twitch  than  ever  before;  even  Avhile  his 
ear,  less  dehcate  than  hers,  could  distiuguish  no  peculiar  sound. 
About  two  minutes  after  ]\Ir.  Wilkins  entered  the  room.  He 
■  ime  up  to  Mr.  Corbet  with  a  warm  welcome :  some  of  it  real, 
some  of  it  assumed.  He  talked  volubly  to  him,  taking  little  or 
no  notice  of  Ellinor,  who  dropped  into  the  Ijackground,  and  sat 
doAvn  on  the  sofa  by  ]\Iiss  ]\Ionro  ;  for  on  this  day  they  Avere  all 
to  dine  together.  Ralph  Corbet  thought  that  Mr.  Wilkins  was 
a^ed;  but  no  wonder,  after  all  his  anxiety  of  A'arious  kinds: 
Mr.  Dunster's  flight  and  reported  defalcations,  Ellinor's  illness,  of 
the  seriousness  of  which  her  lover  was  now  convinced  by  her 
appearance. 

He  would  fain  have  spoken  more  to  her  during  the  diiuier  that 
ensued,  but  Mr.  Wilkins  alisorbcd  all  liis  attention,  talking  and 
questioning  on  subjects  that  left  the  ladies  out  of  the  conversation 
almost  pc-i'petually.  Mr.  Corbet  recognised  his  host's  fine  tact, 
even  while  his  persistence  in  talking  annoyed  him.  He  was  quite 
Bure  that  !Mr.  Wilkins  Avas  anxious  to  spare  his  daughter  any 


92  A   DARK   NIGnft;   WORK. 

exertion  beyond  that— to  ^vllich,  indeed,  she  seemed  scarely 
equal — of  sitting  at  the  head  of  the  table.  And  tlie  more  her 
father  talked — so  fine  an  observer  was  Mr.  Corbet — the  more 
silent  and  depressed  EUinor  appeared.  But  by-and-by  he  ac- 
counted for  this  inverse  ratio  of  gaiety,  as  he  perceived  how 
quickly  Mr.  Wilkins  had  his  glass  replenished.  And  here,  acain, 
!Mr.  Corbet  drew  his  conclusions,  from  the  silent  way  in  which, 
•without  a  word  or  a  sign  from  his  master,  Fletcher  gave  him  more 
wine  continually — wine  that  was  drained  off  at  once. 

*'  Six  glasses  of  sherry  before  dessert,"  thouLrlit  Mr.  Corbet  to 
himself.  "  Bad  habit — no  wonder  EUinor  looks  grave."  And 
when  the  gentlemen  were  left  alone,  Mr.  Wilkins  helped  himself 
even  still  more  freely ;  yet  without  the  slightest  effect  on  the 
clearness  and  brilliancy  of  his  conversation.  He  had  always 
talked  well  and  racily,  that  Ralph  knew,  and  in  this  power  he 
now  recognised  a  temptation  to  which  he  feared  that  his  future 
father-in-law  had  succumbed.  And  yet,  while  he  perceived  that 
this  gift  led  into  temptation,  he  coveted  it  for  himself ;  for  he  was 
perfectly  aware  that  this  fluency,  this  hapny  choice  of  epithets, 
was  the  one  thing  he  should  iail  in  when  he  began  to  enter  into 
the  more  active  career  of  his  profession.  But  after  some  tinr.e 
spent  in  listening,  and  admiring,  with  this  little  feeling  of  envy 
lurking  in  the  background,  j\Ir.  Corbet  became  aware  of  Mr. 
"Wilkins's  increasing  confusion  of  ideas,  and  rather  imnatural  mer- 
riment ;  and,  with  a  sudden  revulsion  from  admiration  to  disgust., 
he  rose  up  to  go  into  the  library,  where  EUinor  and  Miss  Monro 
were  sitting.  Mr.  Wilkins  accom]ianied  him,  laughing  and 
talking  somewhat  loudly.  Was  EUinor  aware  of  her  f.uher's 
state?  Of  that  Mr.  Corbet  could  not  bo  sure.  She  looked  up 
with  grave  sad  eyes  as  they  came  into  the  room,  but  with  no 
apparent  sensation  of  surprise,  annoyance,  or  shame.  When  her 
glance  met  her  father's,  I\Ir.  Corbet  noticed  that  it  seemed  to 
sober  the  latter  immediately.  He  s;'.t  down  near  the  open 
window,  and  did  not  speak,  but  sighed  heavily  from  time  to  tunc. 
Miss  Monro  took  up  a  l)ook,  in  order  to  leave  the  yoimg  people 
to  themselves;  and  after  a  little  low  murmured  conversjition, 
EUinor  went  upstairs  to  jmt  onlier  things  for  ii  stroll  through  tlio 
meadows  by  the  river-side. 

They  were  sometimes  sauntering  along  in  the  lovely  summer 
twilight,  now  resting  on  some  grassy  hedge-row  bank,  or  standing 
Btill,  looking  at  tlic  great  barges,  with  their  orini.'«on  wiils,  lazily 
floating  down  the  river,  making  ripj)les  on  the  gla«wy  ojial  sur- 
face of  the  water.  They  did  not-  talk  very  much  ;  EUinor  seemed 
disinclined  for  the  exertion ;  nnd  her  lov«.r  was  tliinking  over  Mr. 


A    DARK    NIGUT's   WORK.  03 

Wilkina's  behaviour,  with  some  suiprise  and  distaste  of  the  habit 
so  evidently  growing  upon  him. 

Tiiey  came  home,  looking  serious  and  tired :  yet  they  could 
not  account  for  their  iatigue  by  the  length  of  their  walk ,  and 
Miss  Monro,  forgetting  Autolycus's  song,  kept  fidgeting  about 
Ellinor,  and  wondering  liow  it  was  she  looked  so  pale,  if  she  had 
only  been  as  far  as  the  Ash  Meadow.  To  escape  from  this 
Avonder,  Ellinor  went  early  to  bed.  j\Ir.  Wilkins  was  gone,  no 
one  knew  where,  and  IJalph  and  Miss  Monro  were  left  to  a  half- 
hour's  tcte-a-tetc.  He  thought  he  could  easily  account  for 
EUinor's  languor,  if,  indeed,  she  had  perceived  as  much  as  he 
had  done  of  her  father's  state,  when  they  had  come  into  the 
library  after  dinner.  But  there  were  many  details  which  he  was 
anxious  to  hear  from  a  comparatively  indifferent  person,  and  as 
soon  as  he  could,  he  passed  on  from  the  conversation  about 
EUinor's  health,  to  inquiries  as  to  the  Avhole  affair  of  Mr. 
Dunster's  disappearance. 

Next  to  her  anxiety  about  Ellinor,  Miss  IMonro  liked  to  dilate 
on  the  mystery  connected  with  Mr.  Dunster's  flight ;  for  that  was 
the  word  she  employed  without  hesitation,  as  she  gave  him 
the  account  of  the  event  universally  received  anc'  believed 
in  by  the  people  of  Hamley.  How  Mr.  Dunster  had  never 
been  liked  by  any  one ;  how  evei'ybody  remembered  that 
he  could  never  look  them  straight  in  the  face ;  how  he  always 
seemed  to  be  hiding  something  that  he  did  not  want  to  have 
known  ;  how  he  had  drawn  a  large  sum  (exact  quantity  unknown) 
out  of  the  county  bank  only  the  day  before  he  left  Hamley, 
doubtless  in  preparation  for  his  escape ;  how  some  one  had  told 
Mr.  Wilkins  he  had  seen  a  man  just  like  Dmistcr  hu-king  about 
the  docks  at  Liverpool,  about  two  days  after  he  had  left  his 
lodgings,  but  that  this  some  one,  being  in  a  hurry,  had  not  cared 
to  stop  and  speak  to  the  man ;  how  that  the  affairs  in  the  ofhce 
were  discovered  to  be  in  such  a  sad  state  that  it  Avas  no  wonder 
that  Mr.  Dunster  had  absconded — he  that  had  been  so  trusted  by 
poor  dear  Mr.  Wilkins.     Money  gone  no  one  knew  how  or  where. 

"  But  has  he  no  friends  who  can  explain  his  proceedings,  and 
account  for  the  missing  money,  in  some  way?"  asked  Mr.  Corbet. 

"  No,  none.  Mr.  Wilkins  has  written  everywhere,  right  and 
left,  I  believe.  I  know  he  had  a  letter  from  INIr.  Dunstei-'s  nearest 
relation — a  tradesman  in  the  City — a  cousin,  I  think,  and  he 
could  give  no  information  in  any  way.  He  knew  that  about  ten 
years  ago  Mr.  Dunster  had  had  a  great  fancy  for  going  to 
America,  and  had  read  a  great  many  travels — all  juat  what  a 
man  would  do  before  going  off  to  a  country." 


94  A    DARK    NIGHTS    WORK. 

"  Ten  years  is  a  long  lime  beforehand,"  said  Mr.  Corbet,  half 
smiling ;  '■  shows  malice  prepense  with  a  vengeance."  But  then, 
turning  grave,  he  said  :  "  Did  he  leave  Ilamley  in  debt?" 

"  No ;  I  never  heard  of  that,"  said  Miss  Monro,  rather  un- 
willingly, for  she  considered  it  Jis  a  piece  of  loyalty  to  the 
Wilkinses,  whora  Mr.  Dunster  had  injured  (as  she  thought)  to 
blacken  his  character  as  much  as  was  consistent  with  any  degree 
of  truth. 

"  It  is  a  strange  story,"  said  Mr.  Corbet,  musing. 

"  Not  at  all,"  she  replied,  quickly ;  "  I  am  sure,  if  you  had 
seen  the  man,  with  one  or  two  side-locks  of  hair  combed  over  his 
baldness,  as  if  he  were  ashamed  of  it,  and  his  eyes  that  never 
looked  at  you,  and  his  way  of  eating  with  his  knife  when  he 
thought  he  Avas  not  observed — oh,  and  numbers  of  things! — 
you  would  not  think  it  strange." 

]Mr.  Corbet  smiled. 

"  I  only  meant  that  he  seems  to  have  had  no  extravagant  or 
vicious  habits  which  would  account  for  his  embezzlement  of  the 
money  that  is  missing — but,  to  be  siu*e,  money  in  itself  is  a 
temptation — only  he,  being  a  partner,  was  in  a  fair  way  of 
making  it  Avithoxit  risk  to  himself.  Has  Mr.  Wilkins  taken  any 
steps  to  have  him  aiTested  in  America  ?  He  might  easily  do 
that." 

"  Oh,  my  dear  !Mr.  Ealph,  you  don't  know  our  good  Mr. 
"Wilkins !  He  would  rather  bear  the  loss,  I  am  sure,  and  all  tliia 
trouble  and  care  which  it  has  brought  upon  him,  than  be  revenged 
upon  ]\Ir.  Dunster." 

"  Revenged  !  Wliat  nonsense  !  It  is  simple  justice — ^^justico 
to  himself  and  to  others — to  see  that  villainy  is  so  suHiciently 
punished  as  to  deter  others  from  entering  upon  such  courses. 
But  I  have  little  doubt  Mr.  Wilkins  has  taken  the  right  steps; 
he  is  not  the  man  to  sit  down  quietly  imder  such  a  loss." 

"  No,  indeed  !  lie  had  him  advertised  in  the  Tmes  and  in  the 
county  papers,  and  oflfored  a  reward  of  twenty  poimds  for  in- 
formation concerning  him." 

"  Twenty  pounds  was  too  little." 

"  So  I  said.  I  told  Ellinor  that  I  would  give  twenty  pounds 
myself  to  have  him  ajiprehended,  and  she,  poor  darling  !  fell 
ji-trcmbling,  and  said,  '  I  would  give  all  I  have — 1  would  give 
my  life.'  And  then  she  was  in  such  distress,  and  sobbed  so,  I 
promised  her  I  would  never  name  it  to  her  again." 

"  l*oor  child — poor  child  !  she  wants  change  of  Bccuc.  Her 
nerves  have  hern  .sjidly  shaken  by  her  iUness." 

The  next  day  was  Sunday ;  Ellinor  was  to  go  to  church  for 


A    DARK    NIGHTS   WORK.  95 

the  first  time  since  her  iUness.  Her  father  liad  decided  it  for  her, 
or  else  she  Avould  iain  liave  stayed  away — she  would  liardly 
acknowledge  why,  even  to  herself,  but  it  seemed  to  hor  as  if  the 
very  words  and  presence  of  God  must  there  search  lier  and  find 
her  out. 

She  went  early,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  her  lover,  and  trying 
to  forget  the  past  in  the  present.  They  walked  slowly  along 
between  the  rows  of  waving  golden  corn  ripe  for  the  harvest. 
Mr.  Corbet  gathered  blue  and  scarlet  flowers,  and  made  up  a  little 
rustic  nosegay  for  her.  She  took  and  stuck  it  in  her  girdle, 
smiling  faintly  as  she  did  so. 

Hamley  Church  had,  in  former  days,  been  collegiate,  and  was, 
in  consequence,  much  larger  and  grander  than  the  majority  of 
countiy-town  churches.  The  Ford  Bank  pew  Avas  a  square  one, 
downstairs:  the  Ford  Bank  servants  sat  in  a  front  pew  in  the 
gallery,  right  before  their  master.  Ellinor  was  "  hardening  her 
heart"  not  to  listen,  not  to  hearken  to  what  might  disturb  the 
wound  which  was  just  being  skinned  over,  when  she  caught 
Dixon's  face  up  above.  He  looked  looked  worn,  sad,  soured,  and 
anxious  to  a  miserable  degree ;  but  he  was  straining  eyes  and 
ears,  heart  and  soul,  to  hear  the  solemn  words  read  from  the 
pulpit,  as  if  in  them  alone  he  could  find  help  in  his  strait. 
Ellinor  felt  rebuked  and  humbled. 

She  was  in  a  tumultuous  state  of  mind  when  they  left  chui'ch ; 
she  wished  to  do  her  duty,  yet  could  not  ascertain  what  it  was. 
Who  was  to  help  her  Avith  wisdom  and  advice  ?  Assuredly  he  to 
Avhom  her  future  life  was  to  be  trusted.  But  the  case  must  be 
stated  in  an  impersonal  form.  Xo  one,  not  even  her  husband,  must 
ever  know  anything  against  her  father  fi-om  her.  Ellinor  was  so 
artless  herself,  that  she  had  little  idea  how  quickly  and  easily 
some  people  can  penetrate  motives,  and  combine  disjointed 
sentences.  She  began  to  speak  to  Kalph  on  their  slow,  saunter- 
ing walk  homewards  through  the  quiet  meadows : 

"  Suppose,  Kalph,  that  a  girl  was  engaged  to  be  maiTied " 

"  I  can  very  easily  suppose  that,  with  you  by  me,"  said  he, 
filling  up  her  pause. 

"  Oh  !  but  I  don't  mean  myself  at  all,"  replied  she,  reddening. 
"I  am  only  thinking  of  what  might  happen;  and  suppose  that 
this  girl  knew  of  some  one  belonging  to  her — Ave  will  call  it  a 
brother — who  had  done  something  Avrong,  that  would  bring 
disgrace  upon  the  whole  family  if  it  was  knoAvn — though,  indeed, 
it  might  not  have  been  so  very  Avrong  as  it  seemed,  and  as  it 
would  look  to  the  Avorld — ought  she  to  Ijreak  off  her  engagement 
for  fear  of  involving  her  lover  in  the  disgrace  ?  " 


96  A    DARK   night's   'U'ORK. 

*'  Certainly  not,  without  telling  him  her  reason  for  doing  so." 

"  Ah  !  but  suppose  she  could  not.  She  might  not  be  at  liberty 
to  do  so." 

"  I  can't  answer  supposititious  cases.  I  must  have  the  facts — 
if  facts  there  are — more  plainly  Ijcfore  me  before  I  can  give 
an  opinion.  Who  are  you  thinking  of,  Ellinor  ? "  asked  he, 
rather  abruptly. 

"  Oh,  of  no  one,"  she  answered  in  affright.  *'  Why  should  I 
be  thinking  of  any  one  ?  I  often  try  to  plan  out  what  I  should 
do,  or  what  I  ought  to  do,  if  such  and  such  a  thing  hap- 
pened, just  as  you  recollect  I  used  to  wonder  if  I  should  have 
presence  of  mind  in  case  of  fire." 

"  Then,  after  all,  you  yourself  are  the  girl  who  is  engaged, 
and  who  has  the  imaginary  brother  who  gets  into  disgrace  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  said  she,  a  little  annoyed  at  having 
betrayed  any  personal  interest  in  the  affair. 

He  was  silent,  meditating. 

"  Thfre  is  nothing  wrong  in  it,"  said  she,  timidly,  "  is  there?  " 

"  I  think  you  had  better  tell  me  fully  out  what  is  in  your 
mind,"  he  replied,  kindly.  "  Something  has  happened  which 
has  suggested  these  questions.  Are  you  putting  yourself  in  the 
place  of  any  one  about  whom  you  have  been  hearing  lately  ?  I 
know  you  used  to  do  so  formerly,  when  you  were  a  little  girl." 

"  No  ;  it  was  a  very  foolish  question  of  mine,  and  1  ought  not 
to  have  said  anything  about  it.  See !  here  is  Mr.  Ness  overtaking 
us." 

The  clergyman  joined  them  on  the  broad  walk  that  ran  by  the 
river-side,  and  the  talk  became  general.  It  was  a  relief  to  Elli- 
nor, who  had  not  attained  her  end,  but  who  had  gone  far  towards 
betraying  something  of  her  own  individual  interest  in  the  ques- 
tion she  had  asked.  IJalph  had  been  more  struck  even  by  her 
manner  than  her  words.  He  was  sure  that  sometliing  lurked 
behind,  and  had  an  idea  of  his  own  that  it  was  connected  with 
Dunster's  disajipeerance.  But  he  was  glad  that  Mr.  Ness's  joining 
them  gave  him  leisure  to  consider  a  little. 

The  end  of  his  rellections  was,  that  the  next  day,  Monday,  he 
went  into  the  town,  and  artfully  learnt  all  lie  could  hear  about 
Mr.  Dunster's  character  and  mode  of  going  on;  and  with  still 
more  skill  he  extracted  the  popular  ojjinion  as  to  the  embarrassed 
nature  of  Mr.  Wilkins's  alliiirs — embarras.<?ment  which  was  gone- 
rally  attributed  to  Dunster's  (lis;ij)pearance  with  a  good  largo  .stmi 
belonging  to  the  firm  in  his  poRses.sion.  But  Mr.  Corbet  thought 
otherwise ;  ho  had  accustomed  himself  to  seek  otil  the  baser 
motives  for  men's  conduct,  and  to  call  the  result  oi"  these  re- 


A    DAn!i.    NIGHTS    WORK.  J)7 

Bcardies  ■wisdom,  lie  rnagincd  that  Dunster  liaJ  been  well  paid 
by  Mr.  Wilkiiis  for  his  disappearance,  wliicli  was  an  easy  way  of 
accounting  lor  the  derangt-niont  of  accounts  and  loss  of  money 
tliat  arose,  in  fact,  from  INIr.  Wilkins's  extravagance  of  habits  and 
growing  intemperance. 

On  the  Monday  afternoon  he  said  to  Ellinor,  "  Mr.  Ness  inter- 
rupted us  yesterday  in  a  very  interesting  conversation.  Do  you 
remember,  love  ?  " 

Ellinor  reddened  and  kept  her  head  still  more  intently  beat 
over  a  sketch  she  was  making. 

"  Yes ;   I  recollect." 

"1  have  been  thinking  about  it.  I  still  think  she  ought  to 
tell  her  lover  that  such  disgrace  hung  over  him — I  mean,  over 
the  family  with  Avhom  he  was  going  to  connect  himself.  Of 
course,  the  only  effect  would  be  to  make  him  stand  by  her  still 
more  for  her  frankness." 

"Oh!  but,  Kalph,  it  might  perhaps  be  something  she  ought 
not  to  tell,  whatever  came  of  her  silence." 

"  Of  course  there  might  be  all  sorts  of  cases.  Unless  I  knew 
more  I  could  not  pretend  to  judge." 

This  was  said  rather  more  coolly.  It  had  the  desired  eff-'f^t. 
Ellinor  laid  down  her  brush,  and  covered  her  face  with  her  hand. 
After  a  pause,  she  turned  towards  him  and  said : 

"I  will  tell  you  this;  and  more  you  must  not  ask  me.  I 
know  you  are  as  safe  as  can  be.  I  am  the  girl,  you  are  the  lover, 
and  possible  shame  liangs  over  my  father,  if  something — oh,  so 
dreadful "  (here  she  blanched),  "but  not  so  very  much  his  fault, 
is  ever  found  out." 

Though  this  was  nothing  more  than  he  expected,  tliough  Iial{)h 
thought  that  he  was  aware  what  the  dreadful  something  might  be, 
yet,  when  it  was  acknowlegcd  in  words,  his  heart  contracted,  and 
for  a  moment  he  forgot  tlie  intent,  wistfid,  beautiful  face,  creep- 
ing close  to  his  to  read  liis  expression  aright.  But  after  tliat  his 
presence  of  mind  came  in  aid.  lie  took  hor  in  his  arms  and 
kissed  her;  murmuring  fond  words  of  sympathy,  and  promises  of 
faith,  nay,  even  of  greater  love  than  before,  since  greater  need 
she  might  have  of  that  love.  But  somehow  ho  was  glad  when 
the  dressing-bell  rang,  and  in  the  solitude  of  his  own  room  he 
could  reflect  on  what  he  had  heard ;  for  the  intelligence  had  been 
a  great  shock  to  him,  although  he  had  fancied  that  his  morning'* 
inquiries  had  prepared  him  for  it. 


98-  A    DAIIK    night's    work. 


CHAl'TKK  IX. 

Ralph  Corbet  found  it  a  very  difficult  thing  to  keep  down  liis 
curiosity  during  the  next  few  days.  It  was  a  miseral)Ie  thing  to 
have  Elliiior's  unsjiokon  secret  severing  them  like  a  phantom. 
But  he  had  given  her  his  word  that  he  would  make  no  further 
inquiries  from  her.  Indeed,  he  thought  lie  coulil  well  enough 
make  out  the  outline  of  past  events;  still,  there  was  too  much 
left  to  conjecture  for  his  mind  not  to  be  always  busy  on  the  sub- 
ject, lie  felt  inclined  to  probe  Mr.  Wilkins  in  their  after-dinner 
conversation,  in  Avhich  his  host  was  frank  and  lax  enough  on 
many  subjects.  But  once  touch  on  the  name  of  Dunster  and 
Mr,  Wilkins  sank  into  a  kind  of  suspicious  depression  of  spirits ; 
talking  little,  and  with  evident  caution  ;  and  from  time  to  time 
shooting  furtive  glances  at  his  interlocutor's  face.  Ellinor  was 
resolutely  impervious  to  any  attempts  of  his  to  bring  his  conver- 
sation with  her  back  to  the  subject  which  more  and  mor« 
engrossed  Ralj)h  Corbet's  mind.  8he  had  done  her  dutv,  as 
she  understood  it ;  and  had  received  assurances  which  she  was 
only  too  glad  to  believe  fondly  with  all  the  tender  faith  of  her 
heart.  Whatever  came  to  pass,  Kalph's  love  would  .still  be  hers; 
nor  was  he  unwarned  of  what  might  come  to  pass  in  some  dread 
future  day.  So  she  shut  her  eyes  to  what  might  be  in  store  for 
her  (and,  after  all,  the  chances  were  immeasurably  in  her  favour); 
and  she  bent  herself  with  her  whole  sti-ongth  into  enjoying  the 
present.  Day  by  day  Mr.  Corliet's  .sjarits  flagged.  He  was, 
however,  so  generally  \iniform  in  the  tenor  of  liis  talk — never 
very  merry,  and  always  avoiding  any  subject  that  might  call  out 
deep  feeling  either  on  his  own  or  any  one  else's  part,  that  few 
people  were  aware  of  his  changes  of  mood.  Ellinor  felt  them, 
though  she  would  not  acknowledge  them  :  it  was  bringing  lier 
too  mucli  face  to  face  with  the  great  terror  of  her  life. 

One  morninc:  he  announced  the  fact  of  liis  brother's  approaching 
nian'iage;  the  wedding  was  ha.stened  on  account  of  some  impend- 
ing event  in  the  duke's  family  ;  and  the  home  letter  he  had 
received  that  day  was  to  bid  his  ])re.sence  nt  Stokely  Cast  If.  and 
also  to  desire  him  to  be  at  home  by  a  certain  time  not  very  dis- 
tant, in  order  so  look  over  the  re<|uisit(!  legal  papers*,  and  to 
give  his  assent  to  pome  of  th«'n».  lie  gave  many  rea.sons  why 
this  tuilooked-for  dejmrture  of  his  was  absolutely  neces-sjiry  ;  but 
no  one  doubted  it.  He  need  not  have  aIN'ged  sueli  rtMterated 
excuses,      'J'lie    truth    was,    he    wa.s    restrained    and   luiconifor! 


A    DAUK    night's    WORK.  99' 

able  at  Ford  Bank  ever  since  Elllnor's  confidence.  He  could 
not  riL'htly  calculiite  on  the  most  desirable  course  for  his  own 
interests,  wliile  his  love  for  lier  was  constantly  being  renewed  by 
her  sweet  presence.  Away  from  her,  he  could  judge  more  wisely. 
Xor  did  he  allege  any  false  reasons  for  his  departure ;  but  the 
sense  of  relief  to  himself  was  so  great  at  his  recall  home,  that  he 
was  afraid  of  having  it  perceived  by  others;  and  so  took  the  very 
way  which,  if  others  had  been  as  penetrating  as  himself,  would 
have  betrayed  him. 

Mr.  Wilkins,  too,  had  begun  to  feel  the  restraint  of  Ralph's 
grave  watchful  presence.  Ellinor  was  not  strong  enough  to  be 
married ;  nor  was  the  promised  money  forthcoming  if  she  had 
been.  And  to  have  a  fellow  dawdling  about  the  house  all  day, 
saiuitering  into  the  flower-garden,  peering  about  everywhere,  and 
having  a  kind  of  right  to  put  all  manner  of  unexpected  questions, 
was  anything  l)Ut  agreeable.  It  was  only  Ellinor  that  clung  to  his 
presence — clung  as  though  some  shadow  of  what  might  happen 
before  they  met  again  had  fallen  on  her  spirit.  As  soon  as  he 
had  left  the  house  she  flew  up  to  a  spare  bedroom  window,  to 
Avatch  for  the  last  glimpse  of  the  fly  which  was  taking  him  into 
the  town.  And  then  she  kissed  the  part  of  the  pane  on  which 
his  figure,  waving  an  arin  out  of  the  carriage  window,  had  last 
appeared  ;  and  wont  down  slowly  to  gather  together  all  the  things 
he  had  last  touched — the  pen  he  had  mended,  the  flower  he  had 
jilayed  with,  and  to  lock  them  up  in  the  little  quaint  cabinet  that 
had  held  her  treasures  since  she  was  a  tiny  child. 

Miss  Monro  was,  perhaps,  very  wise  in  proposing  the  trans- 
lation of  a  difficult  part  of  Dante  for  a  distraction  to  Ellinor. 
The  girl  went  meekly,  if  reluctantly,  to  the  task  set  her  by  her 
good  governess,  and  by-and-by  her  mind  became  braced  by  the 
exertion. 

Ralph's  people  were  not  very  slow  in  discovering  that  some- 
thing had  not  gone  on  quite  smoothly  with  him  at  Ford  Bank. 
They  knew  his  ways  and  looks  with  family  intuition,  and  could 
easily  be  certain  tliiLS  far.  But  not  even  his  mother's  skilfulest 
wiles,  nor  his  favourite  sister's  coaxing,  could  obtain  a  wonl  or  a 
hint;  and  when  his  father,  the  squire,  who  had  heard  the  opinions 
of  the  female  part  of  the  family  on  this  head,  began,  in  his 
honest  blustering  way,  in  their  tcte-a-tctes  after  dinner,  to  hope 
that  Ralph  Avas  thinking  better  than  to  run  his  head  into  that 
confounded  Ilandey  attorney's  noose,  Ralph  gravely  required 
Mr.  Corbet  to  explain  his  meaning,  which  he  professed  not  to 
understand  so  worded.  And  when  the  squire  had,  with  much 
perplexity,  put  it  into  the  plain  terms  of  hop)ing  that  his  son 

H  2 


100  A    DAUK    MGIITc?    WOKK. 

was  thinking  of  breaking  off  his  engagement  to  Miss  Wilkina, 
Ivulph  coolly  asked  liim  if  he  Avas  aware  that,  in  that  case,  he 
should  lose  all  title  to  being  a  man  of  honour,  and  might  have  an 
action  brought  against  him  fur  breach  of  ju-omise? 

Yet  not  the  less  for  all  this  was  tlie  idea  in  his  mind  as  a 
future  possibility. 

Before  very  long  the  Corbet  family  moved  en  masse  to  Stokely 
Castle  for  the  wedding.  Of  course,  Kalph  associated  on  equal 
terms  with  the  magnates  of  the  county,  who  were  the  employers 
of  EUinor's  father,  and  spoke  of  him  always  as  "  Wilkius,"  just 
as  they  spoke  of  the  butler  as  "  Simmons."  Here,  too,  among  a 
class  of  men  higli  above  local  gossip,  and  thus  imaware  of  liis 
engagement,  he  learnt  the  popiilar  opinion  respecting  liis  future 
father-in-law ;  an  opinion  not  entirely  respectful,  though  inter- 
mingled with  a  good  deal  of  personal  hking.  "Poor  Wilkins," 
as  they  called  him,  "  was  sadly  extravagant  for  a  man  in  his 
l)Ositi()n ;  had  no  right  to  spend  money,  and  act  as  if  he  were  a 
man  of  independent  fortune."  His  liabits  of  life  were  criticised; 
and  pity,  not  free  from  blame,  was  bestowed  upon  him  for  the 
losses  he  had  sustained  from  his  late  clerk's  disappearance  and 
defalcation.  But  what  could  be  expected  if  a  man  did  not  choose 
to  attend  to  his  own  busmess? 

The  wedding  went  by,  as  grand  weddings  do,  without  let  or 
hindrance,  according  to  the  approved  pattern.  A  Cabinet  minister 
honoured  it  with  his  presence,  and,  being  a  distant  relation  of 
the  BraVjants,  remained  for  a  few  days  afler  the  grand  occasion. 
During  this  time  he  became  rather  intimate  with  Kalph  Corbet; 
many  of  their  tastes  were  in  common,  Kalph  took  a  great  interest 
in  the  manner  of"  working  out  political  questions ;  in  the  balance 
and  .state  of  parties;  and  liad  the  right  appreciation  of  the  exact 
qualities  on  which  the  minister  jiiqucd  himself.  In  retiu-n,  the 
latter  was  always  on  the  look-out  for  promising  young  men,  who, 
either  by  their  ca[)al>ility  of  speech-making  or  article-Avriling, 
might  advance  thu  views  of  his  pai1v.  IJecognising  the  ]H>wers 
he  most  valued  in  l\al|ih,  he  s])ared  no  ]wins  to  attacli  liiuj  to  liis 
.own  political  set.  When  they  separated,  it  was  with  the  full 
JuulersUmding  that  they  were  to  see  a  good  deal  of  each  other  iu 
JiOiidon. 

Th(!  holiday  l{al]ih  allowed  himself  was  passing  rapidly  away; 
liut,  before  lie  returned  to  his  cliambtrs  and  his  liard  work,  ho 
had  [ironiised  to  spend  a  few  more  davs  with  Ellinor;  and  it 
fcuitcd  him  to  go  slraight  from  the  duke's  to  Ford  Bank.  Ho 
left  the  eastle  soon  alter  breakliist  -  the  luxurious,  elegant  break- 
iMftt,  s(r\i(l    bv  domestics  who  performed   their  work  with  the 


A    DARK    night's    WOltK,  10> 

accuracy  and  perfection  of  machines.  lie  arrived  at  Ford  Bank 
liefore  the  man-servant  liad  quite  finished  the  dirtier  part  of  his 
morning's  work,  and  ho  came  to  the  glass-door  in  his  striped 
cotton  jacket,  a  Httle  soiled,  and  rolling  np  his  working  apron. 
Ellinor  was  not  yet  strong  enongh  to  get  up  and  go  out  and 
gatlier  flowers  for  tlie  rooms,  so  those  left  from  yesterday  were 
rather  faded ;  in  short,  the  contrast  from  entire  completeness  and 
exquisite  fresliness  of  arrangement  struck  forcibly  upon  Ralph's 
perceptions,  whidi  were  critical  rather  than  appreciative ;  and,  as 
his  affections  were  always  subdued  to  his  intellect,  Ellinor's  lovely 
face  and  gi-aceful  figure  flying  to  meet  liim  did  not  gain  his  full 
approval,  because  lier  hair  was  dressed  in  an  old-fashioned  way, 
her  waist  Avas  either  too  long  or  too  short,  her  sleeves  too  full  or 
too  tight  for  the  standard  of  fashion  to  which  his  eye  had  been 
accustomed  while  scanning  the  bridesmaids  and  various  highborn 
ladies  at  Stokely  Castle. 

But,  as  he  had  ahvays  piqued  himself  upon  being  able  to  put 
on  one  siile  all  superficial  worldliness  in  his  chase  after  power,  it 
did  not  do  for  him  to  shrink  from  seeing  and  facing  the  incom- 
j)leteness  of  moderate  means.  Only  marriage  upon  moderate 
means  was  gradually  becoming  more  distasteful  to  him. 

Nor  did  his  subsequent  intercourse  with  Lord  Bolton,  the 
Cabinet  minister  before  mentioned,  tend  to  reconcile  him  to  early 
matrimony.  At  Lord  Bolton's  house  he  met  polished  and  intel- 
lectual society,  and  all  that  smoothness  in  ministering  to  the 
lower  wants  in  eating  and  drinking  Avhich  seems  to  provide  that 
the  right  thing  shall  always  be  at  the  nght  place  at  the  right 
time,  so  that  the  want  of  it  shall  never  impede  for  an  instant  the 
feast  of  Avit  or  reason  ;  while,  if  he  went  to  the  houses  of  his-- 
friends,  men  of  the  same  college  and  standing  as  himself,  Avho* 
had  been  seduced  into  early  marriages,  he  was  uncomfortably 
aware  of  numerous  inconsistencies  and  hitches  in  their  menaces. 
Besides,  the  idea  of  the  possible  disgrace  that  might  befall  the 
family  with  which  he  thought  of  allying  himself  haunted  him 
with  the  tenacity  and  also  with  the  exaggeration  of  a  nightmare, 
whenever  he  had  overworked  himself  in  his  search  after  available 
and  profital)lc  knowledge,  or  had  a  fit  of  indigestion  after  the 
exquisite  dinners  he  Avas  learning  so  avcU  to  appreciate. 

Christmas  Avas,  of  course,  to  be  devoted  to  his  oavu  family ;  it 
Avas  an  imavoidable  necessity,  as  he  told  Ellinor,  Avhile,  in  reality, 
he  Avas  beginning  to  find  absence  from  his  betrothed  something 
of  a  relief.  Yet  the  Avranglings  and  folly  of  his  home,  cA'en 
blessed  by  the  i)resence  of  a  Lady  Maria,  made  him  look  forAvard 
to  Easter  at  Ford  Bank  Avith  something  of  the  old  pleasure. 


105;  A  I'Ar.K  mght's  work. 

Ellinor,  with  the  fine  tact  which  love  gives,  had  discovered  his 
annoyance  at  various  liitle  incongruities  in  tlie  household  at  the 
time  of  his  second  visit  in  the  previ<jus  autumn,  and  liad  laljoured 
to  make  all  as  perfect  as  she  could  Vjefore  his  return.  But  she 
had  much  to  struggle  against.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life  there 
was  a  great  want  of  ready  money ;  she  could  scarcely  obtain  the 
servants'  wages;  and  the  bill  for  the  spring  seeds  was  a  heavy 
weight  on  her  conscience.  For  Miss  Monro's  methodical  habits 
had  taught  her  pupil  great  exactitude  as  to  all  money  matters. 

Then  her  father's  temper  had  become  very  uncertain.  He 
avoided  being  alone  Avith  her  whenever  he  possibly  could;  and 
the  consciousness  of  this,  and  of  the  terrible  mutual  secret  which 
was  the  cause  of  this  estrangement,  were  the  reasons  why  Ellinor 
never  recovered  her  pretty  youthful  bloom  after  her  illness.  Of 
course  it  was  to  this  that  the  outside  world  attril)Uted  her  changed 
appearance.  They  would  shake  their  heads  and  say,  "  Ah,  poor 
Miss  Wilkins  1  What  a  lovely  creature  she  was  before  that 
fever!" 

But  youth  is  youth,  and  will  assert  itself  in  a  certain  elasticity 
of  body  and  spirits ;  and  at  times  Ellinor  forgot  that  fearful 
night  for  several  hours  together.  Even  wlien  her  father's  averted 
eye  brought  it  all  once  more  before  her,  she  had  learnt  to  form 
excuses  and  palliations,  and  to  regard  Mr.  Dunstcr's  death  as  only 
the  consequence  of  an  unfortunate  accident.  But  she  tried  to 
put  the  miserable  remembrance  entirely  out  of  her  mind ;  to  go 
on  from  day  to  day  thinking  only  of  the  day,  and  how  to  arrange 
it  so  as  to  cause  the  least  irritation  to  her  liither.  IShe  would  so 
gladly  have  spoken  to  him  on  the  one  subject  which  overshadowed 
all  their  intercourse;  she  fancied  that  by  speaking  she  might 
have  been  able  to  banish  the  phantom,  or  reduce  its  terror  to 
what  she  believed  to  be  the  due  jiroportion.  But  her  father  was 
evidently  determined  to  show  that  he  was  never  more  to  be 
spoken  to  on  that  subject;  and  ail  she  could  do  was  to  follow  his 
lead  on  the  rare  occasions  that  tliey  fell  into  something  like  the 
old  confidential  intercourse.  As  yet,  to  Iit-r,  he  had  never  given 
way  to  anger ;  but  before  her  he  liad  often  spoken  in  a  manner 
which  both  pained  and  terrilied  her.  Sometimes  his  eye  in  the 
midst  of  his  passion  caught  on  her  face  of  alliight  and  dismay,  and 
then  he  would  stop,  and  make  such  an  eflort  to  control  himself  as 
Bonietlnies  ended  in  tears.  Ellinor  »lid  not  understand  that  lK)lh 
these  phases  were  owing  to  his  increasing  habit  of  drinking  more 
than  he  ought  to  have  done.  She  set  them  down  as  the  direct 
eflccts  of  a  sorely  burdened  conscience;  and  strove  more  and 
more  to  plan  for  his  daily  life  at  homo,  how  it  should  go  on  with 


A   1;ARK   night's   WOItK.  103 

oiled  wheels,  neither  a  jerk  nor  a  jar.  It  was  no  wonder  she 
looked  wistful,  and  careworn,  and  old.  Miss  Monro  was  liei* 
great  comfort ;  the  total  unconscioiisncss  on  that  lady's  part  of 
anything  below  the  surface,  and  yet  her  full  and  delicate  recog- 
nition of  all  the  little  daily  cares  and  trials,  made  her  sympathy 
most  valuable  to  EUinor,  while  there  was  no  need  to  fear  that  it 
Avould  ever  give  I\liss  INIonro  that  power  of  seeing  into  the  heart 
of  things  which  it  frequently  confers  npon  imaginative  people, 
who  are  deeply  attached  to  some  one  in  sorrow. 

There  was  a  strong  bond  between  Ellinor  and  Dixon,  although 
they  scarcely  ever  exchanged  a  word  save  on  the  most  common- 
place subjects ;  but  their  silence  was  based  on  different  feelings 
from  that  which  separated  Ellinor  from  her  father.  Ellinor  and 
Dixon  could  not  speak  freely,  because  their  hearts  were  full  of 
pity  for  the  faulty  man  Avhom  they  both  loved  so  well,  and  tried 
so  hard  to  respect. 

This  was  the  state  of  the  household  to  which  IJalph  Corbet 
came  down  at  Easter,  He  might  have  been  known  in  London  as 
a  brilliant  diner-out  by  this  time;  but  he  could  not  afford  to 
throw  Ins  life  away  m  fireworks;  he  calculated  his  forces,  and 
condensed  their  power  as  much  as  might  be,  only  visiting  where 
he  was  likely  to  meet  men  who  could  help  in  his  future  career. 
He  had  been  invited  to  spend  the  Easter  vacation  at  a  certain 
country  house  which  Avould  be  full  of  such  human  stepping- 
stones;  and  he  declined  in  order  to  keep  his  word  to  Ellinor,  and 
go  to  Ford  Bank.  But  he  could  not  help  looking  upon  himself 
a  little  in  the  light  of  a  martyr  to  duty;  and  perhaps  this  view 
of  his  own  merits  made  liim  chafe  tuider  his  future  lathor-in-law's 
irritability  of  manner,  which  noAV  showed  itself  even  to  him. 
He  found  himself  distinctly  regretting  that  he  had  suflered 
himself  to  be  engaged  so  early  in  life ;  and  liaving  become 
conscious  of  the  temptation  and  not  having  repelled  it  at  once,  of 
course  it  returned  and  retiu-ned,  and  gradually  obtained  the 
mastery  over  him.  What  was  to  be  gained  by  keeping  to  his 
engagement  with  Ellinor?  He  should  liave  a  delicate  wife  to 
look  after,  and  even  more  than  the  common  additional  expenses 
of  married  life.  He  should  have  a  father-in-law  whose  character 
at  best  had  had  only  a  local  and  j)rovincial  respectability,  which 
it  was  now  daily  losing  by  habits  which  were  both  sensual  and 
vidgarising;  a  man,  too,  who  was  strangely  chaiiging  from  joyous 
geniality  into  moody  surliness.  Besides,  ho  doubted  if,  in  the 
evident  change  in  the  prosperity  of  the  family,  the  fortune  to  be 
paid  down  on  the  occasion  of  his  marriage  to  Ellinor  could  be 
forthcoming.     And  above  all,  and  around  all,  there  liovere<l  the 


104  A    DARK    night's   WOIIK. 

shadow  of  some  unrevealed  dis^ace,  which  might  come  to  light 
at  any  time  and  involve  him  in  it.  He  thought  he  had  pretty 
■well  ascertained  the  nature  of  this  possible  shame,  and  had  little 
doubt  it  would  turn  out  to  bethat  Dunster's  disappearance,  to  Ame- 
rica or  elsewhere,  had  been  an  arranged  plan  with  Mr.  Wilkin3. 
Although  Mr.  Ralph  Corbet  was  capable  of  suspecting  him  of  this 
mean  crime  (so  far  removed  from  the  impulsive  commission  of 
the  past  sin  which  was  dragging  him  daily  lower  and  lower 
down),  it  was  of  a  kind  that  was  peculiarly  distasteful  to  the 
acute  lawyer,  who  foresaw  how  such  base  conduct  would  taint  all 
whose  names  were  ever  mentioned,  even  by  chance,  in  connection 
with  it.  He  used  to  lie  miserably  tossing  on  his  sleepless  bed, 
turning  over  these  things  in  the  night  season.  He  was  tormented 
by  all  these  thoughts ;  he  would  bitterly  regret  the  past  events 
that  connected  him  with  Ellinor,  from  the  day  when  he  first  came 
to  read  with  Mr.  Ness  up  to  the  present  time.  But  when  he 
came  down  in  the  morning,  and  saw  the  faded  Ellinor  flash  into 
momentary  beauty  at  his  entrance  into  the  dining-room,  and 
■when  she  blushingly  drew  near  with  the  one  single  flower  freshly 
gathered,  which  it  had  been  her  custom  to  place  in  his  button-hole 
when  he  came  down  to  breakfast,  he  felt  as  if  his  better  self  was 
stronger  than  temptation,  and  as  if  he  must  be  an  honest  man  and 
honourable  lover,  even  against  his  wish. 

As  the  day  wore  on  the  temptation  gathered  strength.  Mr. 
Wilkins  came  down,  and  while  he  was  on  the  scene  Ellinor 
seemed  always  engrossed  by  her  father,  who  apparently  cared 
little  enough  for  all  her  attentions.  Then  there  was  a  com- 
plaining of  the  food,  Avhich  did  not  suit  the  sickly  palate  of  a 
man  who  had  drunk  hard  the  night  before ;  and  possibly  these  com- 
plaints wore  extended  to  the  servants,  and  their  incompleteness  or 
incapacity  was  thus  brought  prominently  before  the  eyes  of  Kaljih, 
who  would  have  preferred  to  eat  a  drv  crust  in  silence,  or  to  have 
gone  without  breakfast  altogether,  if  he  could  have  had  intellec- 
tual conversation  of  somehigh  order,  to  having  the  greatest  dainties 
"with  the  knowledge  of  the  care  required  in  their  prepjiration  thus 
coarsely  discussed  before  him.  }\y  the  time  such  breakfasts  were 
finished,  Ellinor  looked  thirty,  and  her  spirits  were  gone  for  tho 
<lay.  It  had  become  dillictilt  for  Kalph  to  contract  liis  mind  to 
her  small  domestic  interests,  and  she  had  little  else  to  talk  to  him 
about,  now  that  he  responded  but  curtly  to  all  her  questions  about 
himself,  and  was  weary  of  professing  a  love  which  he  was  ceasing 
to  feel,  in  all  the  passionate  nothings  which  usually  make  up  so 
jnuch  of  lovers'  t;ilk.  Tho  books  ^he  had  been  reading  wero 
old  chuvsics,  whose  place  in  literature  no  longer  admitted  of  keen 


A    DARK    night's    WORK.  105 

discussion ;  the  poor  ■\vlioiii  she  cared  for  wore  all  very  well  in 
their  way;  and,  if  they  could  liave  been  brought  in  to  illustrate 
;i  theory,  hearing  al)out  them  might  have  been  of  some  \ise  ;  but, 
as  it  was,  it  was  simply  tiresome  to  hear  day  after  day  of  Betty 
Palmer's  rhoimiatism  and  Mrs.  Kay's  baliy's  fits.  There  was  no 
talking  politics  with  her,  because  she  Avas  so  ignorant  that  she 
always  agreed  with  everything  he  said. 

lie  even  grew  to  find  luncheon  and  Miss  !Monro  not  unpleasant 
varieties  to  his  monotonous  tete-a-ictes.  Then  came  the  walk, 
generally  to  the  toA\ni  to  fetch  i\Ir.  Wilkins  from  his  office ;  and 
once  or  twice  it  was  pretty  evident  how  he  had  been  employing 
his  hours.  One  day  in  particular  his  Avalk  M'as  so  imsteady  and 
his  speech  so  thick,  that  Kalph  could  only  wonder  how  it  Avas 
that  Ellinor  did  not  perceive  the  cause ;  but  she  Avas  too  openly 
anxious  about  the  headache  of  Avhich  her  father  complained  to 
liave  been  at  all  aAvare  of  the  previous  self-indulgence  Avhich 
must  have  brought  it  on.  This  very  afternoon,  as  ill-luck  Avould 
have  it,  the  Duke  of  Hinton  and  a  gentleman  Avhom  Ealph  had 
met  in  toAvn  at  Lord  Bolton's  rode  by,  and  recognised  him ;  saAV 
Kalph  supporting  a  tipsy  man  Avith  such  quiet  friendly  interest 
as  must  shoAV  all  passers-by  that  they  Avere  previous  friends. 
Mr.  Corbet  chafed  and  fumed  inAvardly  all  the  Avay  home  after 
this  unfortunate  occurrence  :  he  A\'as  in  a  thoroughly  CA'il  temper 
before  they  reached  Ford  Bank,  but  he  had  too  much  self- 
command  to  let  this  be  very  apparent.  He  turned  into  the 
shrubbery  paths,  leaving  Ellinor  to  take  her  father  into  the 
([uietness  of  his  OAvn  room,  there  to  lie  down  and  shake  off  his 
headache. 

Kalph  Avalked  along,  ruminating  in  gloomy  mood  as  to  Avliat 
Avas  to  be  done ;  hoAv  he  could  best  extricate  himself  from  the 
miserable  relation  in  Avhich  he  had  placed  liimself  by  giA'ing  Avay 
to  impulse.  Almost  before  lie  Avas  aAA-are,  a  little  hand  stole 
Avithin  his  folded  arms,  and  Ellinor's  sweet  sad  eyes  looked  into  hif). 

"  I  have  put  papa  doAvn  for  an  hour's  rest  before  dinner,"  said 
she.     "  Ilis  head  seems  to  ache  terribly." 

Ralph  was  silent  and  unsympathising,  trying  to  nerve  himself 
up  to  be  disagreeable,  but  finding  it  diflicult  in  the  face  oE  such 
sAveet  trust. 

"  Do  you  remember  otir  conversation  last  autumn,  Ellinor?" 
he  began  at  length. 

Her  lieadsunk.  They  Avercnear  agarden-.scat,  and  she  quietly 
sat  doAvn,  Avithout  speaking. 

"  About  some  di.sgrace  Avhich  you  then  fancied  hung  over 
you  ?"     No  ansAA'er.     "  J>oes  it  still  hang  over  you  ?" 


lOG  A    DARK    night's   WORK. 

"  Yes  ! "  she  whispered,  with  a  heavy  sigh. 

"  And  yoiir  father  knows  this,  of  course  ?  " 

"  Yes!"  again,  in  the  same  tone;  and  then  silence. 

"  I  think  it  is  doing  liim  harm,"  at  length  Ralph  went  on, 
decidedly. 

"  I  am  afraid  it  is,"'  she  said,  in  a  low  tone. 

"  I  wish  you  would  tell  me  what  it  is,"  he  said,  a  little  im- 
patiently.    "  I  might  be  able  to  help  you  about  it." 

"  No  I  you  could  not,"  replied  Ellinor.  "  I  was  sorry  to  my 
very  heart  to  tell  you  what  I  did;  I  did  not  want  help;  all  that  is 
past.  But  I  wanted  to  know  if  you  thought  that  a  jjer.son  situated 
as  I  was,  was  justified  in  marrying  any  one  ignorant  of  what 
might  happen,  what  I  do  hope  and  trust  never  will." 

"  But  if  I  don't  know  what  you  are  alluding  to  in  this 
mysterious  way,  you  must  see — don't  you  see,  love  ? — I  am  in  the 
position  of  the  ignorant  man  whom  I  think  you  said  you  could 
not  feel  it  right  to  marry.  Why  don't  you  tell  me  straight  out 
what  it  is  ?  "  He  could  not  help  his  irritation  betraying  itself  in 
his  tones  and  manner  of  speaking.  She  bent  a  little  forward,  and 
looked  full  into  his  face,  as  though  to  pierce  to  the  very  heart's 
truth  of  him.  Thou  she  said,  as  quietly  as  she  had  ever  spoken 
in  her  life, — 

"  You  wish  to  break  off  our  engagement  ?  " 

He  reddened  and  grew  indignant  in  a  moment.  "  What 
nonsense  !  Just  because  I  ask  a  question  and  make  a  remark  ! 
I  think  your  illness  must  have  made  you  fanciful,  Ellinor. 
Surely  nothing  I  said  deserves  such  an  interpretation.  On  the 
contrary,  have  I  not  shown  the  sincerity  and  depth  of  my  allection 
to  you  by  clinging  to  you  through — through  everything  .' " 

lie  was  going  to  say  "through  the  wearying  opposition  of  my 
family,"  but  he  stopped  short,  for  he  knew  that  the  verv  fact  of 
Jiis  mother's  opposition  had  only  made  him  the  more  determincil 
to  have  his  own  way  in  the  first  in.stance;  and  even  now  he  did 
not  intend  to  let  out,  what  lie  liad  concealetl  np  to  this  time, 
that  his  friends  all  regretted  his  imprudent  engagement. 

Ellinor  sat  silently  gazing  out  upon  the  meadows,  but  seeing 
nothing.  Then  she  ])Ut  her  hand  into  his.  '•  I  (juite  trust  you, 
]ialj)h.  I  was  wrong  to  doubt.  1  am  afraid  I  have  grown 
fanciful  and  silly." 

He  was  rather  ])ut  to  it  for  the  right  words,  for  she  had 
])recisely  divined  the  dim  thought  that  had  overshadowt'd  his 
mind  when  she  had  looked  so  iiitcntlv  at  him.  lint  he  earessi'd  her, 
and  reassured  her  with  tond  words,  as  incoherent  as  lovers'  W(>r«l3 
generally  are. 


A    DARK    night's   WORK.  107 

By-aiicl-l>y  they  sanntere<l  lioniewards.  Wlion  they  roachod 
tlie  house,  Ellinor  left  him,  and  flew  up  to  see  how  iier  father  was. 
When  lialj)li  went  into  his  own  room  ho  was  vexed  witli  himself, 
both  for  what  lie  had  said  and  for  what  he  had  not  sjiid.  Ills 
mentil  look-out  was  not  satisfactory. 

Neither  he  nor  Mr.  Wilkins  was  in  p:ood  humour  Avith  llie 
world  in  general  at  dinner-time,  and  it  needs  little  in  such  cases 
to  condense  and  turn  the  lowering  tempers  into  one  particular 
direction.  As  long  as  Ellinor  and  Miss  Monro  stayed  in  the 
dining-room,  a  sort  of  moody  peace  had  been  kept  np,  the  ladies 
talking  incessantly  to  each  other  about  the  trivial  nothings  of 
their  daily  life,  with  an  instinctive  consciousness  that  if  they  did 
not  chatter  on,  something  would  l)e  said  by  one  of  the  gentlemen 
which  would  be  distasteful  to  the  other. 

As  soon  as  Ralph  had  shut  the  door  behind  them,  Mr.  Wilkins 
went  to  the  sideboard,  and  took  out  a  bottle  which  had  not 
jireviously  made  its  appearance. 

"Have  a  little  cognac?"  he  asked,  with  an  assumption  of 
carelessness,  as  he  poured  out  a  wine-glassful.  "  It's  a  capital 
thing  for  tlie  headache;  and  this  nasty  lowering  weather  lias 
given  me  a  racking  headache  all  day." 

"  I  am  sorry  for  it,"  said  Ralph,  ''  for  I  wanted  particularly  to 
speak  to  you  about  business — about  my  marriage,  in  fact." 

"  Well !  speak  away,  I'm  as  clear-headed  as  any  man,  if  that's 
what  you  mean." 

Ralph  bowed,  a  little  contemptuously. 

"What  I  wanted  to  say  was,  that  I  am  anxious  to  have  all 
things  arranged  for  my  marriage  in  August.  Ellinor  is  so  much 
better  now;  in  fact,  so  strong,  that  I  think  we  may  reckon  ujjon 
her  standing  the  change  to  a  London  life  pi-etty  well." 

Mr.  Wilkins  stared  at  him  rather  blankly,  but  did  not 
immediately  speak. 

"  Of  course  I  may  have  the  deeds  drawn  up  in  which,  as  V)y 
previous  arrangement,  you  advance  a  certain  jjortion  of  Ellinor's 
fortune  for  the  purposes  therein  to  be  assigned ;  as  we  settled 
last  year  when  I  hoped  to  have  been  married  in  August  ?  " 

A  thought  flitted  through  INIr.  Wiikins's  confused  l)rain  that  ho 
sliould  find  it  impossible  to  produce  the  thousands  rctiuired  without 
liaving  recourse  to  the  money  lenders,  who  were  ah-eady  making 
difhculties,  and  charging  him  usurious  interest  for  the  advances 
tliey  liad  kitely  made;  and  ho  unwisely  tried  to  obtain  a  diminu- 
tion in  the  sum  he  liad  originally  ])ro])oscd  to  give  Ellinor. 
"  Unwisely,"  berause  he  might  liaveread  Ralph's  character  better 
than  to   suppose    he  would    easily   consent    to   any    diminutiou 


108  A    DARK   NIGHTS   WORK. 

without  good  and  sufficient  reason  being  given ;  or  without  some 
promise  of  compensating  advantages  in  the  future  for  the  present 
sacrifice  asked  from  him.  But  perhaps  Mr.  Wilkins,  dulled  as 
he  was  by  wine,  thouglit  he  could  allege  a  good  and  sufficient 
reason,  for  he  said  : 

"  You  must  not  be  hard  upon  me,  Ralph.  That  promise  was 
made  before — before  I  exactly  knew  the  state  of  my  affairs  I " 

"  Before  Dunster's  disjippearance,  in  fact,"'  said  Mr.  Corbet, 
fixing  his  steady,  penetrating  eyes  on  Mr.  Wilkins's  countenance. 

"  Yes — exactly — before    Dunster's "    mumbled    out    Mr. 

Wilkins.  red  and  confused,  and  not  fmishing  his  sentence. 

"  By  the  way,"  said  Ralph  (for  with  careful  carelessness  of 
manner  he  thought  he  could  extract  something  of  the  real  nature 
of  the  impending  disgrace  from  his  companion,  in  the  state  in 
which  he  then  was ;  and  if  he  only  knew  more  about  this  danger 
he  could  guard  against  it ;  guard  others ;  perhaps  himself) — 
"  By  the  way,  have  you  ever  heard  anything  of  Dunster  since  he 
went  off  to — America,  isn't  it  thought  ?  " 

He  was  startled  beyond  his  power  of  self-control  by  the 
instantaneous  change  in  Mr.  Wilkins  which  his  question  pro- 
duced. Both  started  up ;  j\Ir.  Wilkins  white,  shaking,  and 
trying  to  say  something,  but  unable  to  form  a  sensible  sentence. 

"Good  God  !  sir,  what  is  the  matter?"  said  Ralph,  alarmed  at 
these  signs  of  physical  suffering. 

Mr.  Wilkins  sat  down,  and  repelled  his  nearer  approach  with- 
out speaking. 

"  It  is  nothing,  only  this  headache  which  shoots  through  mo  at 
times.  Don't  look  at  me,  sir,  in  that  way.  It  is  very  impleasanr 
to  find  another  man's  eyes  perpetually  fixed  upon  you." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Ralph,  coldly ;  his  short-livetl 
sympathy,  thus  repulsed,  giving  way  to  his  curiosity.  But  he 
Avaited  for  a  miiuite  or  two  without  daring  to  renew  the  con- 
versation at  the  point  where  they  had  stopped :  whether  inter- 
rupted by  bodily  or  mental  discomfort  on  the  part  of  his 
companion  he  Avas  not  quite  sure.  While  lie  hesitated  how  to 
begin  again  on  the  subject,  Mr.  Wilkins  pulled  the  bottle  ol 
brandy  to  himself  and  filled  his  glass  again,  tossing  off  the  spirit 
as  if  it  had  been  watei*.  Then  he  tried  to  look  Mr.  Corbet  full  in 
the  face,  with  a  stare  as  pertinacious  as  lie  could  make  it,  but 
very  different  from  the  keen  observant  gaze  which  was  trying  to 
read  him  through. 

"  What  were  we  talking  about  ?  "  s;iid  Ra]])h,  at  length,  with 
the  most  natin-al  air  in  the  world,  just  as  if  he  had  really  been 
forgetful  of  some  half-discussed  .sulijeet  of  interest. 


A    DAIIK    night's   "WORK.  109 

*'  Of    wliat   you'd  a    d d    deal   better    hold    your   tongue 

about,"  prrowied  out  Mr.  Wilkins,  in  a  surly  thick  voice. 

"  Sir ! ''  said  l?alph,  starting  to  his  feet  with  real  passion  at 
being  so  addressed  by  '*  Wilkins  the  attorney." 

"  Yes,"  continued  the  latter,  "  I'll  manage  my  own  affairs,  and 
allow  of  no  meddling  and  no  questioning.  I  said  so  once  before, 
and  I  was  not  minded,  and  bad  came  of  it ;  and  now  I  say  it 
again.  And  if  you're  to  come  here  and  put  impertinent 
questions,  and  stare  at  me  as  you've  been  doing  this  half -hour 
past,  why,  the  sooner  you  leave  this  house  the  better  !" 

Kalph  half  turned  to  take  him  at  his  word,  and  go  at  once  ; 
but  then  he  "gave  Ellinor  another  chance,"  as  he  worded  it  in 
his  thoughts;  but  it  was  in  no  spirit  of  conciliation  that  he  said: 

''  You've  taken  too  much  of  that  stuff,  sir.  You  don't  know 
what  you're  saying.  If  you  did,  I  should  leave  your  house  at 
once,  never  to  return." 

"You  think  so,  do  you?"  said  Mr.  Wilkins,  trying  to  stand 
uj),  and  look  dignified  and  sober.  "I  say,  sir,  that  if  you  ever 
venture  again  to  talk  and  look  as  you  have  done  to-night,  Avhy, 
sir,  I  will  ring  the  bell  and  have  you  shown  the  door  by  my 
servants.  So  now  youre  warned,  my  fine  fellow  !  "  He  sat 
down,  laughing  a  foolish  tipsy  laugh  of  triumph.  In  another 
minute  his  arm  was  held  firmly  but  gently  by  Ealph. 

"  Listen,  Mr.  Wilkins,"  he  said,  in  a  low  hoarse  voice.  "  You 
shall  never  have  to  say  to  me  twice  what  you  have  said  to-night. 
Henceforward  we  are  as  strangers  to  each  other.  As  to  Ellinor" 
— his  tones  softened  a  little,  and  he  sighed  in  spite  of  himself — 
"  I  do  not  think  we  should  have  been  happy.  I  believe  oiu* 
engagement  was  formed  Avhen  we  were  too  young  to  know  our 
own  minds,  but  I  would  have  done  my  duty  and  kept  to  my 
word ;  but  you,  sir,  have  yourself  severed  the  connection  be- 
tween us  by  your  insolence  to-niglit.  I,  to  be  turned  out  of  your 
house  by  your  servants  ! — I,  a  Corbet  of  Westley,  who  would  not 
submit  to  such  threats  from  a  peer  of  the  realm,  let  him  be  ever 
so  drunk  !"  He  was  out  of  the  room,  almost  out  of  the  house, 
before  he  had  spoken  the  last  words. 

Mr.  Wilkins  sat  still,  first  fiercely  angry,  then  astonished,  and 
lastly  dismayed  into  sobriety.  "  Corbet,  Corbet  !  Ka!ph  !  "  he 
called  in  vain ;  then  he  got  up  and  went  to  the  door,  opened  it, 
looked  into  the  fully-lighted  hall  ;  all  was  so  quiet  there  that  he 
could  hear  the  quiet  voices  of  the  women  in  the  drawing-room 
talking  together.  He  thought  for  a  moment,  went  to  the  hat- 
Btand,  and  missed  Ralph's  low-cro^vned  straw  hat. 

Then    he    sat   down    once    more    in    the   dining-room,    and 


110  A    DARK    NIGHT'S   WORK. 

endeavoured  to  make  out  exactly  what  had  passed ;  but  he  could 
not  believe  that  Mr.  CV)rbet  had  come  to  any  enduring  or  final 
resolution  to  break  off  his  engagement,  and  he  had  almost 
reasoned  himself  back  into  his  former  state  of  indignation  at 
impertinence  and  injury,  -when  Ellinor  came  in,  pale,  hurried,  and 
anxious. 

"  Papa  !  what  does  this  mean  ?  "  said  she,  putting  an  open  note 
into  his  hand.  He  took  up  his  glasses,  but  his  hand  sliook  so 
that  he  could  hardly  read.  The  note  was  from  the  Parsonage,  to 
Ellinor;  only  three  lines  sent  by  Mr.  Ness's  servant,  who  had 
come  to  fetch  Mr.  Corbet's  things.  He  had  written  three  lines 
with  some  consideration  for  Ellinor,  even  wlien  he  was  in  his  first 
flush  of  anger  against  her  father,  and  it  must  be  confessed  of 
relief  at  his  own  freedom,  tlius  brought  about  by  the  act  of 
another,  and  not  of  his  own  working  out,  Avhich  partly  saved  his 
conscience.     The  note  ran  thus : 

"  Dkar  Ellinor, — "Words  have  passed  between  your  father 
and  me  which  have  obliged  me  to  leave  his  house,  I  fear,  never 
to  return  to  it.  I  will  write  more  fully  to-morrow.  But  do  not 
grieve  too  much,  for  I  am  not,  and  never  have  been,  good  enough 
for  you.  God  bless  you,  my  dearest  Nelly,  though  I  call  you  so 
for  the  last  time. — R.  C." 

"  Papa,  what  is  it?"  Ellinor  cried,  clasping  her  hands  together, 
as  her  father  sat  silent,  vacantly  gazing  into  the  fire,  after  finishing 
the  note. 

"  I  don't  know  !  "  said  he,  looking  up  at  her  piteously  ;  "  it's 
the  world,  I  think.  Everything  goes  wrong  with  me  and  mine: 
it  went  w^rong  before  that  night — so  it  can't  be  that,  can  it, 
Ellinor?" 

'"  Oh,  papa  !  "  said  she,  kneeling  down  by  him,  her  face  hidden 
on  his  breast. 

He  put  one  arm  languidly  roiuid  her.  "  I  used  to  read  of 
Orestes  and  the  Furies  at  Eton  when  1  was  a  boy,  and  I  thought 
it  was  all  a  heathen  fiction.  Poor  little  motlierless  girl !  "  said 
he,  laying  his  other  hand  on  her  head,  with  the  caressing  gesture 
he  had  been  accustomed  to  use  when  .';he  had  been  a  little  child. 
"  Did  you  love  him  so  very  dearly,  Nolly  ?  "  he  whisiiered,  his 
cheek  against  her ;  "  for  somehow  of  late  he  has  not  siomcd  to 
]ne  good  enough  for  thee.  He  has  gut  an  inkling  that  .^something 
has  gone  wrong,  and  ho  was  very  inipiisitive — I  may  j^iy  ho 
«]uostioned  nus  in  a  relentless  kind  of  way." 

"  Oh,  ])apa,  it  was  mv  <loing,  I'm  aiiaid.  I  .sjiid  .><t)mething 
long  ago  alidut  j)ossll)le  disgnice." 


A    DARK    NinilTS   TVOUK.  Ill 

He  pushed  her  away ;  he  stood  up,  and  looked  at  her  with  the 
eyes  dilated,  half  in  fear,  half  in  fierceness,  of  an  animal  at  bay; 
lie  did  not  heed  that  his  abrupt  movement  had  almost  thrown 
her  prostrate  on  the  ground. 

"  You,  EUinor  !     You — you " 

"  Oh,  darling  father,  listen  !  "  said  she,  creeping  to  his  knees, 
and  clasping  tliem  with  her  hands.  "  I  said  it,  as  if  it  were  a 
])oPsible  case,  of  some  one  else — last  August — but  he  immediately 
applied  it,  and  asked  me  if  it  was  over  me  the  disgrace,  or 
shame — I  forget  the  words  we  used — hung;  and  what  could  I 
Kiy?" 

•'Anything — anything  to  put  him  off  the  scent.  God  help 
me,  I  am  a  lost  man,  betrayed  by  my  child  !  " 

Ellinor  let  go  his  knees,  and  covered  her  face.  Every  one 
stabbed  at  that  poor  heart.  In  a  minute  or  so  her  father  spoke 
again. 

"  I  don't  mean  what  I  say.  I  often  don't  mean  it  now.  Ellinor, 
you  must  forgive  me,  my  child  !  "  He  stooped,  and  lifted  her  up, 
and  sat  down,  taking  her  on  his  knee,  and  smoothing  her  hair  off 
her  hot  forehead.  "  Eemember,  child,  how  very  miserable  I  am, 
and  liave  forgiveness  for  me.  He  had  none,  and  yet  he  must 
have  seen  I  had  been  drinking." 

"  Di'inking,  papa!"  said  EUinor,  raising  lier  head,  and  looking 
at  him  with  sorrowful  surprise. 

"Yes.  I  drink  now  to  try  and  forget,"  said  he,  lilusliing  and 
confused. 

"  Oh,  how  miserable  we  are  ! "  cried  Ellinor,  bursting  into 
tears — "how  very  miserable!  It  seems  almost  as  if  God  had 
forgotten  to  comfort  us  ! " 

"  Hush  !  hush  ! "  said  he.  "  Your  mother  said  once  she  did 
so  pray  that  you  might  grow  up  religious ;  you  must  be  religious, 
child,  because  she  prayed  tor  it  so  often.  Poor  Lettico,  how  glad 
I  am  that  you  are  dead  !  "  Here  he  began  to  cry  like  a  child. 
Ellinor  comforted  him  with  kisses  rather  than  words.  He  jmshed 
lior  away,  after  a  while,  and  sjiid,  sharply  :  "  How  much  docs  he 
know?  I  must  make  sure  of  that.  How  much  did  you  tell 
him,  lOilinor  ?  " 

"Nothing — nothing,  indeed,  papa,  Ijut  what  I  told  you  just 
now  ! " 

"  Tell  it  me  again — the  exact  words  !  " 

"  I  will,  as  well  as  I  can  ;  but  it  was  last  August.  I  oidy  said, 
'"Was  it  right  for  a  woman  to  many,  knowing  that  disgrace  hung 
over  her,  and  kee])ing  her  lover  in  ignorance  of  it?'" 

"  That  was  all,  you  are  sure  ?  " 


112  A  DAitK  night's  woi;k. 

"  Yes.    lie  immedi?.te]y  applied  the  case  to  me — to  ourselves." 

"  And  he  never  Avanted  to  know  what  was  the  nature  of  the 
threatened  disgiace  ?  " 

"  Yes,  he  did." 

"  And  vou  told  him  ?  " 

"  No,  not  a  word  more.  He  referred  to  the  subject  acrain  to- 
day, in  the  shrubbery ;  but  I  told  liini  nolhing  more.  You  quite 
believe  me,  don't  you,  papa  ?  " 

He  pressed  her  to  him,  but  did  not  speak.  Then  he  took  the 
note  lip  again,  and  read  it  with  as  much  care  and  attention  as  he 
could  collect  in  his  agitated  state  of  mind. 

"Nelly,"  said  he,  at  length,  "he  says  true;  he  is  not  good 
enough  for  thee.  He  shrinks  from  the  thought  of  the  disgrace. 
Thou  must  stand  alone,  and  bear  the  sins  of  thy  father." 

He  shook  so  much  as  he  said  this,  that  Ellinor  had  lo  put  anv 
suffering  of  her  ovra  on  one  side,  and  try  to  confine  her  thoughts 
to  the  necessity  of  getting  her  father  immediately  up  to  bed. 
She  sat  by  him  till  he  went  to  sleep,  and  she  could  leave  him, 
and  go  to  her  OAvn  room,  to  forgetfulness  and  rest,  if  she  could 
find  those  priceless  blessings. 


CHAPTER  X. 


Mn.  ConBET  was  so  Avell  knowii  at  the  Parsonage  by  the  two  old 
servants,  that  he  had  no  dilHculty,  on  reaching  it,  after  his 
departure  from  Ford  Bank,  in  having  the  spare  bed-chamber 
made  ready  for  him,  late  as  it  was,  and  in  the  absence  of  tlie 
master,  who  had  tjiken  a  little  holiday,  now  that  Lent  and  Easter 
were  over,  for  the  purpose  of  fishing.  While  his  room  Avas 
getting  ready,  Kalph  sent  for  his  clothes,  and  by  tlie  s;ime  mes- 
senger he  despatched  the  little  note  to  Ellinor.  But  there  Avas 
the  letter  he  liad  promised  her  in  it  still  to  be  Avritteu ;  and  it 
Avas  almost  his  night's  employment  to  sjiy  cnougli,  yet  not  too 
much  ;  for,  as  he  expressed  it  to  himself,  lie  Avas  half  Avay  over 
the  stream,  and  it  Avould  be  folly  to  tiu'u  back,  for  he  had  given 
nearly  as  much  ])ain  ])c)th  to  himself  and  EMinor  by  this  time  aa 
he  should  do  by  making  the  siparation  final.  Besides,  after 
Mr.  AViikins's  speeches  that  evening  -hut  lie  Avas  candid  enoimh 
to  .-icknowledge  that,  liad  and  offensive  as  they  liad  been,  if  they 
had  stood  alone  thev  might  have  been  condoned. 
His  letter  ran  as  follows: 


A   DAllK  night's  WORK.  113 

"  Dearest  Ellikor,  for  dearest  yon  are,  and  I  think  will  ever 
be,  my  judgment  has  consented  to  a  step  which  is  giving  mo 
great  pain,  greater  than  you  will  readily  believe.  I  am  convinced 
that  it  is  better  that  we  should  part;  ibr  circumstances  have 
occurred  since  we  formed  our  engagement  which,  althougli  I  am 
imaware  of  their  exact  nature,  I  can  see  weigh  heavily  upon  you, 
and  have  materially  affected  your  father's  behaviour.  Nay,  I 
think,  after  to-night,  I  may  almost  say  have  entirely  altered  his 
feelings  towards  me.  What  these  circumstances  are  I  am  igno- 
rant, any  further  than  that  I  know  from  your  own  admission, 
that  tlioy  may  lead  to  some  future  disgi-ace.  Now,  it  may  be  my 
fault,  it  may  be  in  my  temperament,  to  be  anxious,  above  all 
things  earthly,  to  obtain  and  possess  a  high  reputation.  I  can 
only  say  that  it  is  so,  and  leave  you  to  blame  me  for  my  weak- 
ness as  much  as  you  like.  But  anything  that  might  come  in 
between  me  and  this  object  would,  I  own,  be  ill  tolerated  by  me ; 
the  A'ery  dread  of  such  an  obstacle  intervening  would  paralyse 
me.  I  should  become  irritable,  and,  deep  as  my  affection  is,  and 
always  must  be,  towards  you,  I  could  not  promise  you  a  happy, 
peaceful  life.  I  should  be  perpetually  haunted  by  the  idea  of 
what  might  happen  in  the  way  of  discovery  and  shame.  I  ani 
the  more  convinced  of  this  from  my  observation  of  your  father's 
altered  character — an  alteration  which  I  trace  back  to  the  time 
when  I  conjecture  that  the  secret  affairs  took  place  to  which  you 
have  alluded.  In  short,  it  is  for  your  sake,  my  dear  EUinor, 
even  more  than  for  my  own,  that  I  feel  compelled  to  affix  a  final 
meaning  to  the  Avords  which  your  father  addressed  to  me  last 
night,  when  he  desired  me  to  leave  his  house  for  ever.  God  bless 
you,  my  Ellinor,  for  the  last  time  my  Ellinor.  Try  to  forget  as 
soon  as  you  can  the  unfortunate  tie  which  has  bound  you  for  a 
time  to  one  so  unsuitable — I  believe  I  ought  to  say  so  unworthy 
of  you — as — Ralpu  Cordet." 

Ellinor  was  making  breakfast  Avhen  this  letter  was  given  her. 
According  to  the  wont  of  tlie  servants  of  the  respective  house- 
holds of  the  Parsonage  and  Ford  Bank,  the  man  asked  if  there 
was  any  answer.  It  was  only  custom ;  for  he  had  not  been 
desired  to  do  so,  Ellinor  went  to  the  window  to  read  her  letter ; 
tlie  man  waiting  all  the  time  respectfully  for  her  reply.  She 
went  to  the  writing-table,  and  wrote : 

"  It  is  all  right— quite  right.  I  ouglit  to  have  thought  of  it 
all  last  August.  I  do  not  lliink  you  will  forget  me  easily,  but  I 
entreat  you  never  at  any  future  time  to  blame  yourself,     I  hope 

I 


114  A  DAKK  night's  moi:k. 

you  ■will  be  happy  and  successful.  I  suppose  I  must  never  write 
to  you  again  :  but  I  shall  always  pray  for  you.  Papa  was  very 
sorry  last  night  for  having  spoken  angrily  to  you.  You  must 
forgive  him — there  is  great  need  for  forgiveness  in  this  world. — 
Ellinor." 

She  kept  putting  down  thought  after  thought,  just  to  prolong 
the  last  pleasure  of  writing  to  liim.  She  sealed  the  note,  and  gave 
it  to  the  man.  Then  she  sat  down  and  waited  for  Miss  Monro, 
who  had  gone  to  bed  on  the  previous  night  without  awaitmg 
Ellinor's  return  from  the  dining-room. 

"  I  am  late,  my  dear,"  said  Miss  Monro,  on  coming  down, 
"  but  I  have  a  bad  headache,  and  I  knew  you  had  a  pleasant  com- 
panion."    Then,  looking  round,  she  perceived  Ealph's  absence. 

"  Mr.  Corbet  not  down  yet !  "  she  exclaimed.  And  then 
Ellinor  had  to  tell  her  the  outline  of  the  facts  so  soon  likely  to 
be  made  public  ;  that  Mr.  Corbet  and  she  had  determined  to 
break  ofF  their  engagement ;  and  that  Mr.  Corbet  had  accordingly 
betaken  himself  to  the  Parsonage ;  and  that  she  did  not  expect 
him  to  return  to  Ford  Bank.  Miss  Monro's  astonishment  was 
unbounded.  She  kept  going  over  and  over  all  the  little  circum- 
stances she  had  noticed  during  the  last  visit,  only  on  yesterday, 
in  fact,  which  she  could  not  reconcile  with  the  notion  that  the 
two,  apj^arently  so  much  attached  to  each  other  but  a  few  houi-s 
before,  were  now  to  be  for  ever  separated  and  estranged.  Ellinor 
sickened  under  the  torture;  which  yet  seemed  like  tortiu'e  in  a 
dream,  from  which  there  must  come  an  awakening  and  a  relief. 
She  felt  as  if  she  could  not  bear  any  more ;  yet  there  was 
more  to  bear.  Her  father,  as  it  turned  out,  was  very  ill,  and  had 
been  so  all  night  long  ;  he  had  evidently  had  some  kind  ot  att^ick 
on  the  brain,  whether  apoplectic  or  paralytic  it  was  for  the 
doctoi's  to  decide.  In  the  hurry  and  anxiety  of  this  day  of 
misery  succeeding  to  misery,  she  alnuist  Ibrgut  to  wonder  whether 
llalph  were  still  at  the  Parsonage — still  in  llamlev;  it  was  not 
till  the  evening  visit  of  the  physician  that  she  learnt  that  he  had 
been  seen  by  Dr.  Moore  as  he  was  taking  his  place  in  the  morn- 
ing mail  to  London.  Dr.  Moore  allnded  to  his  name  as  to  i\ 
thonght  that  would  cheer  and  comfort  the  fragile  girl  during  her 
night-watch  by  lier  father's  bedside.  But  Miss  Alonio  stole  out 
after  the  doctor  to  warn  him  ttlFtho  subjcet  for  the  future,  crying 
bitterly  over  the  forlorn  jKisition  of  her  darling  us  she  spoke — 
crying  as  Ellinor  liad  never  yet  been  able  to  cry  :  though  all  the 
time,  in  the  pride  of  her  sex,  she  was  endeavouring  to  persuade 
tlio  doctor  it  was  entirely  Ellinor's  doing,  and  the  wisest  and  best 


A    DARK   night';?   WORS.  115 

tiling  she  could  have  done,  as  he  was  not  good  enough  for  her, 
only  a  poor  barrister  struggling  for  a  livelihood.  Like  many 
other  kind-hearted  people,  she  fell  into  the  blunder  of  lowering 
the  moral  character  of  those  whom  it  is  their  greatest  wish  to 
exalt.  But  Dr.  Moore  knew  EUinor  too  well  to  believe  the  whole 
of  what  ^liss  Monro  said  ;  she  would  never  act  from  interested 
motives,  and  was  all  the  more  likely  to  cling  to  a  man  because  he 
was  down  and  unsuccessful.  No  !  there  had  been  a  lovers' 
quarrel ;  and  it  could  not  have  happened  at  a  sadder  time. 

Before  the  June  roses  were  in  full  bloom,  Mr.  Wilkins  was 
dead.  He  had  left  his  daughter  to  the  guardianship  of  Mr.  Ness 
by  some  will  made  years  ago;  but  Mr.  Ness  had  caught  a 
rheumatic  fever  ^vith  his  Easter  fishings,  and  been  unable  to  be 
moved  home  from  the  little  Welsh  inn  where  he  had  been  stay- 
ing when  he  was  taken  ill.  Since  his  last  attack,  Mr.  Wilkins's 
mind  had  been  much  affected ;  he  often  talked  strangely  and 
wildly ;  but  he  had  rare  intervals  of  quietness  and  full  possession 
of  his  senses.  At  one  of  these  times  he  must  have  written  a  half- 
finished  pencil  note,  which  his  nurse  found  under  his  pillow  after 
his  death,  and  brought  to  Ellinor.  Through  her  tear-blinded 
eyes  she  read  the  weak,  faltering  words  : 

"  I  am  very  ill.  I  sometimes  think  I  shall  never  get  better, 
so  I  -wish  to  ask  your  pardon  for  what  I  said  the  night  before  I 
Avas  taken  ill.  I  am  afraid  my  anger  made  mischief  between  you 
and  Ellinor,  but  I  think  you  will  forgive  a  dyiLg  man.  If  you 
Avill  come  back  and  let  all  be  as  it  tised  to  be,  I  will  make  any 
apology  you  may  require.  If  I  go,  she  will  be  so  very  friendless  ; 
and  I  have  looked  to  you  to  care  for  her  ever  since  you  first— — " 
Then  came  some  illegible  and  incoherent  writing,  ending  with, 
"  From  my  deathbed  I  adjure  you  to  stand  her  friend ;  I  will 
beg  pardon  on  my  knees  for  anything " 

And  there  strength  had  failed  ;  the  paper  and  pencil  had  been 
laid  aside  to  be  resumed  at  some  time  when  the  brain  was  clearer, 
the  hand  stronger.  Ellinor  kissed  the  letter,  reverently  folded  it 
up,  and  laid  it  among  her  sacred  treasures,  by  her  mother's 
half-finished  sewing,  and  a  little  curl  of  her  baby  sister's  golden 
hair. 

j\Ir.  Johnson,  who  had  been  one  of  the  trustees  for  Mrs. 
Wilkins's  marriage  settlement,  a  respectable  solicitor  in  the 
county  town,  and  Mr.  Ness,  had  been  appointed  executors  of  his 
will,  and  guardians  to  Ellinor.  The  will  itself  had  been  made 
several  years  before,  when  he  imagined  himself  the  possessor  of 
a  handsome  fortune,  the  bulk  of  which  he  bequeathed  to  his  only 
child.     By  her  mother's  marriage-settlement,  Ford  Bank  was  held 

I  2 


116  A    DARK   NIGHT^S   WORK. 

jn  trust  for  the  children  of  tlie  marriage ;  the  trustees  being  Sir 
Frank  Holster  and  Mr.  Johnson.  There  were  legacies  to  his 
executors;  a  small  annuity  to  Miss  !Monro,  with  the  expression 
of  a  hope  that  it  might  be  arranged  for  her  to  continue  living 
with  Ellinor  as  long  as  the  latter  remained  unmarried ;  all  his 
servants  were  remembered,  Dixon  especially,  and  most  liberally. 

What  remained  of  the  handsome  fortune  once  possessed  by  the 
testator  ?  The  executors  asked  in  vain ;  there  was  nothing. 
They  could  hardly  make  out  what  had  become  of  it,  in  such 
utter  confusion  were  all  the  accounts,  both  personal  and  official. 
Mr.  Johnson  was  hardly  restrained  by  his  compassion  for  the 
orphan  from  throwing  up  the  executorship  in  disgust.  Mr.  Ness 
roused  himself  from  his  scholarlike  abstraction  to  labour  at  the 
examination  of  books,  parchments,  and  papers,  for  Ellinor's  sake. 
Sir  Frank  Holster  professed  himself  only  a  trustee  for  Ford 
Bank. 

INIeanwhile  she  Avent  on  living  at  Ford  Bank,  quite  unconscious 
of  the  state  of  her  father's  affairs,  but  sunk  into  a  deep,  plaintive 
melancholy,  which  affected  her  looks  and  the  tones  of  her  voice 
in  such  a  manner  as  to  distress  Miss  Monro  exceedingly.  It  was 
not  that  the  good  lady  did  not  quite  acknowledge  the  gi'cat  cause 
her  pupil  had  for  grieving — deserted  by  her  lover,  her  father 
dead — but  that  she  could  not  bear  the  outward  signs  of  how 
much  these  sorrows  had  told  on  Ellinor.  Her  love  for  the  poor 
girl  was  infinitely  distressed  by  seeing  the  daily  wasting  away, 
the  constant  heavy  depression  of  spirits,  and  she  grew  impatient 
of  the  continual  pain  of  sympathy.  If  Miss  Monro  could  have 
done  something  to  relieve  Ellinor  of  hor  woo,  she  would  have 
been  less  inclined  to  scold  her  for  giving  way  to  it. 

The  time  came  when  Miss  Monro  could  act;  and  after  that, 
there  was  no  more  irritation  on  her  part.  When  all  hope  of 
Ellinor's  having  anything  beyond  the  house  and  grounds  of  Ford 
Bank  was  gone ;  when  it  was  proved  that  all  the  legacies 
bequeathed  by  Mr.  Wilkins  not  one  farthing  could  ever  be  paid ; 
when  it  came  to  be  a  question  how  far  the  beautiful  pictures  and 
other  objects  of  art  in  the  house  were  not  legally  the  property  of 
unsatisfied  creditors,  the  state  of  her  father's  alFairs  was  com- 
municated to  Ellinor  as  delicately  as  Mr.  Ness  knew  how. 

She  was  drooping  over  her  work — she  always  drooped  now — 
and  she  left  oil'  sewing  to  listen  to  him,  leaning  hor  head  on  the 
arm  which  rested  on  the  table.  She  did  not  speak  when  he  had 
ended  his  statement.  She  was  silent  for  whole  minutes  niter- 
wards  ;  ho  went  on  speaking  out  of  very  agitation  and  awkward- 
ness. 


A    DAlUv    night's   ■WOKK.  117 

"  It  was  all  the  rascnl  Dunster's  doing,  I've  no  doubt,"  said  ho, 
trying  to  account  for  the  entire  loss  o£  Mr.  Wilkins's  fortune. 

To  his  surprise  she  lifted  up  her  ■white  stony  liice,  and  &iid 
slowly  and  iiiintly,  but  with  almost  solemn  calmness ; 

'•  Mr.  Ness,  you  nuist  never  allow  Mr.  Dunstcr  to  be  blamed 
for  this  !  " 

"  My  dear  Ellinor,  there  can  be  no  doubt  a])out  it.  Your 
father  himself  always  referred  to  the  losses  he  had  sustained  by 
Dunster's  disappearance." 

Ellinor  covered  her  face  with  her  liands.  "  (Jod  forgive  us 
all,"  she  said,  and  relapsed  into  the  old  unbearable  silence.  Mr. 
Ness  had  undertaken  to  discuss  her  i'uturo  plans  with  her,  and 
he  was  obliged  to  go  on. 

"  Now,  my  dear  child — I  have  known  you  since  you  were  quite 
a  little  girl,  you  know — we  must  try  not  to  give  way  to  feeling" 
— he  himself  was  choking ;  she  was  quite  quiet — "  but  think 
what  is  to  be  done.  You  will  have  the  rent  of  this  house,  and 
we  have  a  very  good  offer  for  it — a  tenant  on  lease  of  seven  years 
at  a  hundred  and  twenty  pounds  a  year " 

"  I  will  never  let  this  liouse,"  s?.id  she,  standing  up  suddenly, 
and  as  if  defying  him. 

"  Not  let  Ford  Bank  !  "Why  ?  I  don't  understand  it — I  can't 
have  been  clear — Ellinor,  the  rent  of  this  house  is  all  you  will 
have  to  live  on  !  " 

"  I  can't  help  it,  I  can't  leave  this  house.  Oh,  Mr.  Ness,  I 
can't  leave  this  house." 

"  My  dear  child,  you  shall  not  be  liurricd — I  know  how  hardly 
all  these  things  are  coming  upon  you  (and  I  wi.-^h  I  had  never 
seen  Corbet,  with  all  my  heart  I  do!) — this  was  almost  to  him- 
self, but  she  must  have  heard  it,  for  she  (juivered  all  over — "  but 
leave  this  house  you  must.  You  must  eat,  and  the  rent  of  this 
house  must  pay  for  your  food  ;  you  must  dress,  and  there  is 
nothing  but  the  rent  to  clothe  you.  I  will  gladly  have  you  to 
stay  at  the  Parsonage  as  long  as  ever  you  like ;  ]>ut,  in  fact,  the 
negotiations  with  Mr.  Osbaldistone,  the  gentleman  who  offers  to 
take  the  house,  are  nearly  completed " 

"  It  is  my  hou.se  !  "  said  Ellinor,  fiercely.  "  I  know  it  is  settled 
on  me." 

"  No,  my  dear.  It  is  held  in  trust  for  you  by  Sir  Frank 
Holster  and  Mr.  Johnson  ;  you  to  receive  all  moneys  and  benefits 
accruing  from  it " — he  spoke  gently,  for  he  almost  thought  her 
head  was  turned — "but  you  remember  you  arc  not  of  age,  and 
!Mr.  Johnson  and  I  liave  full  power." 
Ellinor  .sat  down,  helpless. 


118  A   DARK   NIGHTS   WORK. 

"  Leave  me,"  she  said,  at  length.  "  You  are  very  kind,  but 
you  don't  know  all.  I  cannot  stand  any  more  talking  now,"  she 
added,  faintly. 

Mr.  Ness  bent  over  her  and  kissed  her  forehead,  and  withdrew 
without  another  word.     lie  Avent  to  Miss  Monro. 

"  Well !  and  how  did  you  find  her  ?  "  was  her  first  inquiry, 
after  the  usual  greetings  had  passed  between  them.  "  It  is  really 
quite  sad  to  see  how  she  gives  way  ;  I  speak  to  her,  and  speak  to 
her,  and  tell  her  how  she  is  neglecting  all  her  duties,  and  it  does 
no  good." 

"  She  has  had  to  hear  a  still  further  sorrow  to-day,"  said  ^Ir. 
Ness.  "  On  the  part  of  ]\Ir.  Johnson  and  myself  I  have  a  very 
painful  duty  to  perform  to  you  as  well  as  to  her.  Mr.  Wilkins 
has  died  insolvent.  I  grieve  to  say  there  is  no  hope  of  your  ever 
receiving  any  of  yoiu-  annuity  !  " 

Miss  Monro  looked  very  blank.  Many  happy  little  visions 
faded  away  in  those  few  moments ;  then  she  roused  up  and  said, 
*'  I  am  but  forty  ;  I  have  a  good  fifteen  years  of  work  in  me  left 
yet,  thank  God.  Insolvent !  Do  you  mean  he  has  left  no 
money  ?  " 

"  Not  a  farthing.  The  creditors  may  be  thankful  if  they  arc 
fully  paid." 

"  And  Ellinor  ?  " 

"  Ellinor  will  have  the  rent  of  this  house,  which  is  hers  by 
right  of  her  mother's  settlement,  to  live  on." 

"  How  nuicli  will  that  be  ?  " 

"  One  hundred  and  twenty  pounds." 

Miss  Monro's  lips  went  into  a  form  prepared  for  whistling. 
Mr.  Ness  continued  : 

"  She  is  at  present  unwilling  enough  to  leave  this  house,  poor 
girl.  It  is  but  natiu'al ;  but  she  has  no  power  in  the  matter, 
even  were  there  any  other  course  open  to  her.  I  can  only  say 
how  glad,  how  honom-ed,  I  shall  feel  by  as  long  a  visit  as  you 
and  sh(^  can  be  prevailed  ujion  to  pay  nio  at  the  Parsonage." 

"  Where  is  Mr.  Corbet?"  said  Miss  INIonro. 

"  I  do  not  know.  After  breaking  olVhis  engagement  he  wroto 
me  a  long  letter,  explanatory,  as  he  called  it;  exculpatory,  as  I 
termed  it.  I  Avrote  back,  curtly  enough,  saying  tliat  I  regretted 
the  breaking-off  of  an  intercourse  whidi  had  always  been  very 
pleasant  to  me,  but  that  he  must  be  aware  that,  with  my  intimacy 
with  the  family  at  Ford  Bank,  it  would  bo  both  awkward  and 
tmpleasant  to  all  ])arties  if  ho  an<l  I  remained  on  our  previous 
footing.     Who  is  that  going  ])ast  the  win<low  ?     Ellinor  riding?" 

MisH  INbtnro  W(Mit  lo  llic  window.      "  Y(>s  !      I  am  thankful   to 


A    DARK    night's   WORK.  119 

see  her  on  horseback  again.  It  was  only  this  morning  I  advised 
lier  to  have  a  ride  !  " 

"  Poor  Dixon!  lie  ■will  sulTer  too;  his  legacy  can  no  more  be 
paid  than  the  others;  and  it  is  not  many  young  ladies  who  will 
lie  as  content  to  have  so  old-fashioned  a  groom  riding  after  them 
us  Ellinor  seems  to  be  " 

As  soon  as  Mr.  Ness  had  left,  Miss  ^Nlonro  Avent  to  her  desk  and 
wrot«  a  long  letter  to  some  friends  she  had  at  the  cathedral  town 
of  East  Chester,  where  she  had  spent  some  happy  years  of  her 
former  life.  Her  thoughts  had  gone  back  to  this  time  even  Avhile 
!Mr.  Ness  had  been  speaking;  for  it  was  there  her  father  had 
lived,  and  it  was  after  his  death  that  her  cares  in  search  of  a 
subsistence  had  begun.  But  the  recollections  of  the  peaceful 
years  spent  there  were  stronger  than  the  remembrance  of  the 
weeks  of  sorrow  and  care ;  and,  while  Ellinor's  marriage  had 
seemed  a  probable  event,  she  had  made  many  a  little  plan  of 
returning  to  her  native  place,  and  obtaining  what  daily  teaching 
she  could  there  meet  with,  and  the  friends  to  whom  she  Avas  now 
writing  had  promised  her  their  aid.  She  thought  that  as  Ellinor 
had  to  leave  Ford  Bank,  a  home  at  a  distance  might  be  more 
agreeable  to  her,  and  she  went  on  to  plan  that  they  should  live 
together,  if  possil)le,  on  her  earnings,  and  the  small  income  that 
would  be  Ellinor's.  INIiss  Monro  loved  her  pupil  so  dearly,  that, 
if  her  OAvn  pleasure  only  Avere  to  be  consulted,  this  projected 
life  Avould  be  more  agreeable  to  her  than  if  Mr.  Wilkins's  legacy 
had  set  her  in  independence,  Avith  Ellinor  aAvay  from  her,  married, 
and  A\4th  interests  in  Avhich  her  former  governess  had  but  little 
part. 

As  soon  as  'Mr.  Ness  had  left  her,  Ellinor  rang  the  bell,  and 
startled  the  serA'ant  Avho  ansAvered  it  by  her  sudden  sharp  desire 
to  have  the  horses  at  the  door  as  soon  as  possible,  and  to  tell 
Dixon  to  be  ready  to  go  out  Avith  her. 

She  felt  that  she  must  speak  to  him,  and  in  her  nervous  state 
.she  wanted  to  be  out  on  the  free  broad  common,  Avhere  no  one 
could  notice  or  remark  their  talk.  It  Avas  long  since  she  had 
ridden,  and  much  Avonder  was  excited  by  the  sudden  movement 
in  kitchen  and  stalilc-yard.  I>ut  Dixon  Avent  gravely  about  his 
Avork  of  preparation,  saying  nothing. 

They  rode  pretty  hard  till  they  reached  IMonk's  Heath,  six  or 
scA'cn  miles  aAvay  from  Ilaniley.  Ellinor  had  previously  deter- 
mined that  here  she  Avould  talk  over  the  plan  Mr.  Ness  had 
proposed  to  her  Avith  Dixon,  and  he  seemed  to  xmderstand  lier 
Avithout  any  Avords  passing  betAveen  them.  When  she  reined  in 
he  rode  up  to  her,  and  met  the  gaze  of  her  sad  eyes  with 
sympathetic,  Avistful  silence. 


120  A   DARK  night's   WOfiK. 

"  Dixon,"  said  slie,  "  they  say  I  must  leave  Ford  Bank." 

"  I  -was  afeared  on  it,  from  all  I've  lieerd  say  i'  the  town  since 
the  master's  death." 

"  Then  you've  heard — then  you  know — that  papa  has  left 
hardly  any  money — my  poor  dear  Dixon,  you  won't  have  your 
legacy,  and  I  never  thought  of  that  before  !  " 

"  Never  heed,  never  heed,"  said  he,  eagerly  ;  "  I  couldn't  have 
touched  it  if  it  had  been  there,  for  the  taking  it  would  ha'  seemed 

too  like "     Blood-money,  he  was  going  to  say,  but  he  stopped 

in  time.  She  guessed  the  meaning,  though  not  the  word  he 
would  have  used. 

"  No,  not  that,"  said  she ;  "  his  will  "was  dated  years  before. 
But  oh,  Dixon,  what  must  I  do  ?  They  -will  make  me  leave 
Ford  Bank,  I  see.    I  think  the  trustees  have  half  let  it  already." 

"  But  you'll  have  the  rent  on't,  I  reckon  ?  "  asked  he,  anxiously. 
"  I've  many  a  time  heerd  'em  say  as  it  was  settled  on  the  missus 
first,  and  then  on  you." 

"  Oh,  yes,  it  is  not  that ;  but  you  know,  imder  the  beech- 
tree  ■' 

"  Ay  !  "  said  he,  heavily.  "  It's  been  oftentimes  on  my  mind, 
waking,  and  I  think  there's  ne'er  a  night  as  I  don't  dream  of  it." 

"  But  how  can  I  leave  it !  "  Ellinor  cried.  "  They  may  do  a 
hundred  things — may  dig  up  the  shrubbery.  Oh  !  Dixon,  I  feel 
as  if  it  was  sure  to  be  found  out !  Oh !  Dixon,  I  cannot  bear 
any  more  blame  on  papa — it  will  kill  me — and  such  a  dreadful 
thing,  too  I " 

Dixon's  face  fell  into  the  lines  of  habitual  pain  that  it  had 
always  assumed  of  late  }car3  whenever  he  was  thinking  or 
remembering  anything. 

"  They  must  ne'er  ha'  reason  to  speak  ill  of  the  dead,  that's 
for  certain,"  sjxid  he.  "  The  "Wilkinses  have  been  respected  in 
Hamley  all  my  lifetime,  and  all  my  father's  before  me,  and — 
surely,  missy,  there's  ways  and  means  of  tying  tenants  up  from 
alterations  both  in  the  house  and  out  of  it,  and  I'd  beg  the 
trustees,  or  whatever  thoy's  called,  to  be  vorv  particular,  if  I  was 
you,  and  not  have  a  thing  touched  either  in  the  house,  or  the 
gardens,  or  the  meadows,  or  the  stables.  I  think,  wi'  a  word 
from  you,  they'd  maybe  keep  me  on  i'  the  stables,  and  I  could 
look  after  things  a  bit;  and  the  Day  o'  Judgment  will  come  nt 
last,  when  all  our  secrets  will  be  made  known  wi'out  our  having 
the  troulile  and  the  shaino  o'  telling  'em.  I'm  getting  rayther 
tired  o'  this  world,  Miss  Klllno"." 

"  Don't  talk  so,"  sixid  Ellinor,  tenderly.  "  I  know  how  sad  it 
is,  but,  oh  !   rcmombcr  how  I  .shall  want  a  friend  when  you're 


A    DARK    night's   WORK.  121 

pone,  to  advise  ine  .is  you  have  clone  to-day.  You're  not  feeling 
ill.  Dixou,  arc  you?"  she  continued,  anxiously. 

"  No  !  I'm  hearty  enough,  and  likely  for  t'  live.  Father  was 
eighty-one,  and  mother  above  the  seventies,  when  they  died.  It's 
only  my  heart  a3  is  got  to  feel  so  heavy ;  and  as  for  that  matter, 
so  is  yours,  I'll  be  l)Ound.  And  it's  a  comfort  to  us  both  if  we 
can  serve  him  as  is  dead  by  any  care  of  ours,  for  he  were  such  a 
bright  handsome  lad,  with  such  a  cheery  face,  as  never  should  ha' 
known  shame." 

They  rode  on  without  much  more  speaking.  Ellinor  was 
silently  planning  for  Dixon,  and  he,  not  caring  to  look  forward 
to  the  future,  was  bringing  up  before  his  fancy  the  time,  thirty 
years  ago,  when  he  had  first  entered  the  elder  ^ir.  Wilkins's 
service  as  stable-lad,  and  pretty  Molly,  the  scullery-maid,  was  his 
daily  delight.  Pretty  ^lolly  lay  buried  in  Hamley  churchyard, 
and  few  living,  except  Dixon,  could  have  gone  straight  to  her 
grave. 


CHAPTER  XI. 


In'  a  few  days  ^liss  Monro  obtained  a  most  satisfactory  reply  to 
her  letter  of  inquiries  as  to  whether  a  daily  governess  could  lind 
employment  in  East  Chester.  For  once  the  application  seemed  to 
have  come  just  at  the  right  time.  The  canons  were  most  of  them 
married  men,  with  young  families;  those  at  present  in  residence 
welcomed  the  idea  of  such  instruction  as  Miss  Monro  could  offer 
for  their  children,  and  could  almost  answer  for  their  successors  in 
office.  This  was  a  great  step  gained.  Miss  Monro,  the  daughter 
of  a  precentor  to  this  very  cathedral,  liad  a  secret  unwillingness 
to  being  engaged  as  a  teacher  by  any  wealthy  tradesman  there ; 
but  to  be  received  into  the  canons'  families,  in  almost  any 
capacity,  was  like  going  home.  Moreover,  besides  the  empty 
honour  of  the  thing,  there  were  many  small  pieces  of  patronage 
in  tl)e  gift  of  the  Chapter — such  as  a  small  house  opening  on  to 
the  Close,  which  had  formerly  belonged  to  the  verger,  but  which 
was  now  vacant,  and  was  offbred  to  Miss  Monro  at  a  nominal  rent. 
Ellinor  had  once  more  sunk  into  her  old  depressed  passive 
state;  Mr.  Ness  and  Miss  Monro,  modest  and  undecided  as  they 
both  were  in  general,  had  to  fix  and  arrange  everything  for  her. 
Iler  great  interest  seemed  to  be  in  the  old  servant  Dixon,  and  her 
great  pleasiu-o  to  lie  in  seeing  him,  and  talking  over  old  times; 
BO  her  two  friends  talked  about  her,  little  knowing  what  a  bitter, 


122  A   DARK   night's   WORK. 

Stinging  pain  her  "  pleasure  "  was.  In  vain  EUinor  tried  to  plan 
how  they  could  take  Dixou  with  them  to  East  Chester.  If 
he  had  been  a  woman  it  would  have  been  a  feasible  step;  but 
they  were  only  to  keep  one  servant,  and  Dixon,  capable  and 
versatile  as  he  was,  would  not  do  for  that  servant.  All  this  was 
what  passed  throiigh  Ellinor's  mind  :  it  is  still  a  question  whether 
Dixon  would  have  felt  his  love  of  his  native  place,  with  all  its 
associations  and  remembrances,  or  his  love  for  Ellinor,  the 
stronger.  But  he  was  not  put  to  the  proof;  he  was  only  told 
that  he  must  leave,  and  seeing  Ellinor's  extreme  grief  at  the  idea 
of  their  separation,  he  set  himself  to  comfort  her  by  every 
means  in  his  power,  reminding  her,  with  tender  choice  of  words, 
how  necessary  it  was  that  he  should  remain  on  the  spot,  in  Mr. 
Osbaldistone's  service,  in  order  to  frustrate,  by  any  small  influence 
he  might  have,  every  project  of  alteration  in  the  garden  that  con- 
tained the  dreadful  secret.  He  persisted  in  this  view,  though 
Ellinor  repeated,  with  pertinacious  anxiety,  the  care  which  Mr. 
Johnson  had  taken,  in  drawing  up  the  lease,  to  provide  against 
any  change  or  alteration  being  made  in  the  present  disposition  of 
the  house  or  grounds. 

People  in  general  were  rather  astonished  at  the  eagerness  Miss 
Wilkins  showed  to  sell  all  the  Ford  Bank  furniture.  Even  Miss 
Monro  was  a  little  scandalized  at  this  want  of  sentiment,  although 
she  said  nothing  about  it;  indeed  justified  the  step,  by  telling 
every  one  how  wisely  Ellinor  was  acting,  as  the  large,  handsome, 
tables  and  chairs  would  be  very  much  out  of  place  and  keeping 
with  the  small,  oddly-shaped  rooms  of  their  future  home  in 
East  Chester  Close.  None  knew  how  strong  was  the  instinct  of 
self-preservation,  it  may  almost  be  called,  which  impelled  Ellinor 
to  shake  olF,  at  any  cost  of  present  pain,  the  incubus  of  a  terrible 
remembrance.  She  wanted  to  go  into  an  xudiaunted  dwelling  in 
a  free,  unknown  country — she  felt  as  if  it  was  her  only  chance 
of  sanity.  Sometimes  she  thought  her  senses  wo\ild  not  hold 
together  till  the  time  when  all  these  armngements  were  ended. 
But  she  did  not  speak  to  any  one  about  her  feelings,  poor  child ; 
to  whom  could  she  speak  on  the  subject  but  to  Dixon  ?  Nt>r 
did  she  define  them  to  herself.  All  she  knew  wa.s  that  she  Avas 
as  nearly  going  mad  as  possible;  and  if  she  did,  she  feared  that 
she  might  betray  her  iiithcr's  guilt.  All  this  time  she  never 
cried,  or  varied  from  her  duW,  passive  demeanour.  And  they  were 
lilessed  tears  of  relief  that  she  shed  when  Miss  Monro,  her.solf 
weejiiiig  bitterly,  told  her  to  put  her  head  out  of  the  post-chaise 
window,  for  at  the  next  turning  of  the  road  they  would  catch 
the  last  glimpse  of  Ilamley  church  si)irc. 


A   PARK   night's  WORK.  123 

Late  one  October  evening,  Ellinor  liad  lier  first  sight  of  East 
Chester  Close,  where  slie  was  to  pass  the  remainder  of  her  life. 
l\Iiss  ^[onro  had  been  backwards  and  Ibrwards  between  Ilamley 
and  East  Chester  more  than  once,  while  Ellinor  remained  at  the 
Parsonage ;  so  she  had  not  only  the  pride  of  proprietorship  in 
the  whole  of  the  beautiful  city,  but  something  of  the  desire  of 
hospitably  welcoming  Ellinor  to  their  joint  future  home. 

"  Look  !  tlie  fly  must  take  us  a  long  round,  because  of  our 
luggage ;  but  behind  these  high  old  walls  are  the  canons'  gardens. 
That  high-pitched  roof,  with  the  clumps  of  stonecrop  on  the 
walls  near  it,  is  Canon  Wilson's,  whose  four  little  girls  I  am  to 
teach.  Hark  !  the  great  cathedral  clock.  IIow  proud  I  used  to 
be  of  its  great  boom  when  I  was  a  child  !  I  thought  all  the  other 
church  clocks  in  the  town  sounded  so  shrill  and  poor  after  that, 
which  I  considered  mine  especially.  There  are  rooks  flying  home 
to  the  elms  in  the  Close.  I  wonder  if  they  are  the  same  that  used 
to  be  there  when  I  was  a  girl.  They  say  the  rook  is  a  very  long- 
lived  bird,  and  I  feel  as  if  I  could  swear  to  the  Avay  they  are 
cawing.  Ay,  you  may  smile,  Ellinor,  but  I  understand  now 
those  lines  of  Gray's  you  used  to  say  so  prettily — 

"  I  feel  the  gales  that  from  ye  blow. 
A  momentary  bliss  bestow, 
And  breathe  a  second  spring." 

Now,  dear,  you  must  get  out.  This  flagged  Avalk  leads  to  our 
front-door ;  but  our  back  rooms,  which  are  the  pleasantest,  look 
on  to  the  Close,  and  the  cathedral,  and  the  lime-tree  walk,  and 
the  deanery,  and  the  rookery." 

It  was  a  mere  slip  of  a  house  ;  the  kitchen  being  Avisely  placed 
close  to  the  front-door,  and  so  reserving  the  pretty  view  for  the 
little  dining-room,  out  of  which  a  glass-door  opened  into  a  small 
walled-in  garden,  which  had  again  an  entrance  into  the  Close. 
Upstairs  was  a  bedroom  to  the  front,  which  Miss  Monro  had  taken 
for  herself,  because,  as  she  said,  she  had  old  associations  with  the 
back  of  every  house  in  the  High-street,  while  Ellinor  mounted  to 
the  pleasant  chamber  above  the  tiny  drawing-room,  both  of  which 
looked  on  to  the  vast  and  solemn  cathedral,  and  the  peaceful 
dignified  Close.  Ea.st  Chester  Cathedral  is  Norman,  with  a  low, 
massive  tower,  a  grand,  majestic  nave,  and  a  choir  full  of  stately 
historic  tombs.  The  whole  city  is  so  quiet  and  decorous  a  place, 
that  the  perpetual  daily  chants  and  hymns  of  ])raise  seemed  to 
sound  far  and  wide  over  the  roofs  of  tl;e  houses.  Ellinor  soon 
became  a  regular  attendant  at  all  the  morning  and  evening 
services.  The  sense  of  worship  calmed  and  soothed  her  aching 
weary  heait,  and  to  be  punctual  to  the  cathedral  hours  she  roused 


12-4  A    DARK    night's   ^VORK. 

and  exerted  herself,  when  probablj'  nothing  else  would  have  been 
sufficient  to  this  end. 

By-and-by  Miss  Monro  formed  many  acquaintances;  she 
picked  up,  or  was  picked  up  by,  old  friends,  and  the  descendants 
of  old  friends.  The  grave  and  kindly  canons,  whose  children  she 
taught,  called  \ipon  her  with  their  wives,  and  talked  over  the 
former  deans  and  chapters,  of  whom  she  had  both  a  personal  and 
traditional  knowledge,  and  as  they  walked  away  and  talked  about 
lier  silent  delicate-looking  friend  !Miss  Wilkins,  and  perhaps 
planned  some  little  present  out  of  their  fruitful  garden  or  boun- 
teous stores,  which  should  make  Miss  ISIonro's  table  a  little  more 
tempting  to  one  apparently  so  frail  as  Ellinor,  for  the  liousehold 
was  always  spoken  of  as  belonging  to  Miss  ^lonro,  the  active  and 
prominent  person.  By-and-by,  Elhnor  herself  won  her  way  to 
their  hearts,  not  by  words  or  deeds,  but  by  her  sweet  looks  and 
meek  demeanour,  as  they  marked  her  regular  attendance  at 
cathedral  service :  and  when  they  heard  of  her  constant  visits  to 
a  certain  parochial  school,  and  of  her  being  sometimes  seen 
carrying  a  little  covered  basin  to  the  cottages  of  the  poor,  they 
began  to  try  and  tempt  her,  with  more  urgent  words,  to 
accompany  Miss  Monro  in  her  frequent  tea-drinkings  at  their 
houses.  The  old  dean,  that  courteous  gentleman  and  good 
Christian,  had  early  become  great  iriends  with  Ellinor.  He 
would  watch  at  the  windows  of  his  great  vaulted  library  till  he 
saw  her  emerge  from  the  garden  into  the  Close,  and  then  open 
the  deanery  door,  and  join  her,  she  softly  adjusting  the  measure 
of  her  pace  to  his.  The  time  of  his  dejiarture  from  East  Chester 
V)ecame  a  great  blank  in  her  life,  although  she  would  never 
accept,  or  allow  Miss  ]\ronro  to  accei)t,  his  repeated  invitatitms 
to  go  and  pay  him  a  vi^^it  at  his  country-jilace.  Indeed,  luiving 
once  tasted  comparative  peace  again  in  East  Chester  Cathedral 
Close,  it  seemed  as  though  she  was  al'raid  of  ever  venturing  out 
of  those  calm  precincts.  All  Mr.  Ness's  invitations  to  visit  him  at 
his  parsonage  at  llaniley  were  declined,  although  he  was  welcomed 
at  Miss  Monro's,  on  the  occasion  of  his  annual  visit,  by  every 
means  in  their  power.  lie  slept  at  one  of  the  canon's  vacant 
houses,  and  lived  with  his  two  friends,  who  made  a  yearly  festivity, 
to  the  best  of  their  means,  in  his  honour,  inviting  such  of  the 
cathedral  clergy  as  were  in  residence :  or,  if  they  faileil,  con- 
descending to  the  town  clergy.  1'heir  friends  knew  well  that  no 
presents  were  so  acceptable  as  those  .sent  while  Mr.  Ness  was  witli 
them;  ard  from  the  dean,  who  would  send  them  a  Immper  of 
choice  fruit  and  flowers  from  O.xton  Park,  down  to  the  cur.ate, 
who  worked  in  the  sjune  schools  as  Ellinor,  and  wlio  was  n  gicat 


A    DARK    night's   WORK.  125 

fisher,  and  caught  splendid  trout — all  did  their  best  to  help  them 
to  give  a  welcome  to  the  only  visitor  they  ever  had.  The  only 
visitor  they  ever  had,  as  far  as  the  stately  gentry  knew.  There 
was  one,  however,  who  came  as  often  as  his  master  could  give 
him  a  holiday  long  enough  to  imdertake  a  journey  to  so  distant  a 
place ;  but  few  knew  of  his  being  a  guest  at  Miss  Monro's,  though 
his  welcome  there  was  not  less  hearty  than  Mr.  Ness's — this  was 
Dixon.  ElJinor  had  convinced  him  that  he  could  give  her  no  greater 
pleasure  at  any  time  than  by  allowing  her  to  frank  him  to  and 
from  East  Chester.  Whenever  he  came  they  were  together  the 
greater  part  of  the  day ;  she  taking  him  hither  and  thither  to  see 
all  the  sights  that  she  thought  would  interest  or  please  him;  but 
they  spoke  very  little  to  each  other  during  all  this  companionship. 
Miss  Monro  had  much  more  to  say  to  him.  She  questioned  him 
right  and  left  whenever  Ellinor  was  out  of  the  room.  She  learnt 
that  the  house  at  Ford  Bank  was  splendidly  furnished,  and  no 
money  spared  on  the  garden  ;  that  the  eldest  j\Iiss  Ilanbury  was 
very  well  married;  that  Brown  had  succeeded  to  Jones  in  the 
haberdasher's  shop.  Then  she  hesitated  a  little  before  making 
her  next  inquiry : 

"  I  suppose  Mr.  Corbet  never  comes  to  the  Parsonage  now  ?  " 

"  No,  not  he.  I  don't  think  as  how  Mr.  Ness  would  have  him; 
but  they  write  letters  to  each  other  by  times.  Old  Job — you'll 
recollect  old  Job,  ma'am,  he  that  gardened  for  Mr  Ness,  and 
waited  in  the  parlour  when  there  was  company — did  say  as  one 
day  he  heerd  them  speaking  about  Mr.  Corbet ;  and  he's  a  grand 
counsellor  now — one  of  them  as  goes  about  at  assize-time,  and 
speaks  in  a  wig." 

"  A  barrister,  you  mean,"  said  i\Iiss  iMonro. 

"  Ay ;  and  he's  something  more  than  that,  though  I  can't 
rightly  remember  what." 

Ellinor  could  have  told  them  both.  They  had  The  Times  lent 
to  them  on  the  second  day  after  publication  by  one  of  their 
friends  in  the  Close,  and  Ellinor,  Avatching  till  Miss  Monro's  eyes 
were  otherwise  engnged,  always  turned  with  trembling  hands  and 
a  beating  heart  to  the  reports  of  the  various  courts  of  law.  In 
them  she  foimd — at  first  rarely — the  name  she  .sought  for,  the 
name  she  dwelt  upon,  as  if  every  letter  were  a  study,  Mr.  Losh 
and  Mr.  Duncombe  appeared  for  the  jjlaintiff,  Mr.  Smythe  and 
^Ir.  Corbet  lor  the  defendant.  In  a  year  or  two  that  name 
appeared  more  frequently,  and  generally  took  the  precedence  of 
the  other,  whatever  it  might  be;  then  on  special  occasions  his 
ppeeches  were  reported  at  full  length,  as  if  his  words  wcro 
accounted  weighty  ;  and  by-and-by  she  saw  that  he  had  been 


126  A  DARK  night's  work. 

appointed  a  Queen's  comisel.  And  this  was  all  she  ever  heard  or 
saw  aboiit  him;  his  once  familiar  name  never  passed  her  lips 
except  in  hurried  ■whispers  to  Dixon,  when  he  came  to  stay  witli 
them.  Ellinor  had  had  no  idea  when  she  parted  from  Mr.  Corber 
how  total  the  separation  between  tliem  was  henceforward  to  be. 
so  much  seemed  left  imfinished,  unexplained.  It  was  .so  difficult, 
at  first,  to  break  herself  of  the  habit  of  constant  mental  reference 
to  him ;  and  for  many  a  long  year  she  kept  thinking  that  surely 
some  kind  fortune  would  bring  them  together  again,  and  all  this 
heart-sickness  and  melancholy  estrangement  from  each  other 
would  then  .seem  to  both  only  as  an  ugly  dream  that  had  passed 
away  in  the  morning  light. 

The  dean  Avas  an  old  man,  but  there  was  a  canon  who  was 
older  still,  and  whose  death  had  been  expected  by  many,  and 
speculated  upon  by  some,  any  time  for  ten  years  at  least.  Canoa 
Holdsworth  was  too  old  to  show  active  kindness  to  any  one ;  the 
good  dean's  life  was  full  of  thoughtful  and  benevolent  deeds. 
But  he  was  taken,  and  the  other  left.  Ellinor  looked  out  at  the 
vacant  deanery  with  tearful  eyes,  the  last  thing  at  niglit,  the  first 
in  the  morning.  But  it  is  pretty  nearly  the  same  witli  church 
dignitaries  as  with  kings ;  the  dean  is  dead,  long  live  tlie  dean  ! 
A  clergyman  from  a  distant  county  was  appointed,  and  all  the 
Close  was  astir  to  learn  and  hear  every  particular  connected  with 
him.  Luckily  he  came  in  at  the  tag-end  of  one  of  the  noble 
families  in  the  peerage ;  so,  at  any  i-ate,  all  his  future  associates 
could  learn  with  tolerable  certainty  that  he  was  forty-two  years 
of  age,  married,  and  with  eight  daughters  and  one  son.  The 
deanery,  formerly  so  quiet  and  sedate  a  dwelling  of  the  one  old 
man,  was  new  to  be  filled  with  noise  and  merriment.  Iron 
railings  were  being  placed  before  tliree  windows,  evidently  to  be 
the  nursery.  In  the  summer  pul>licitv  of  open  windows  and 
doors,  the  sound  of  the  busy  carpenters  was  perpetually  heard  all 
over  the  Close:  and  by-and-by  waggon-loads  of  furniture  nnd 
carriage-loads  of  people  began  to  arrive.  Neither  i\Iit.s  i\Ionro 
nor  Ellinor  felt  themselves  of  sufHciont  importance  or  station  to 
call  on  the  new  comers,  but  thoy  were  as  well  acquainted  with 
the  proceedings  of  the  family  as  if  they  liad  been  in  daily  inter- 
course ;  they  knew  that  the  eldest  Miss  Beauohamp  was  .seventeen, 
and  very  pretty,  only  one  shoulder  w;is  liigher  than  the  other; 
that  she  was  dotingly  iond  ot"  dancing,  and  talked  a  great  deal  in 
a  ti'te-a-tvte.  l)ut  not  nuich  if  her  mamma  was  by,  and  neviT  opened 
her  lips  at  all  if  the  dean  was  in  the  room;  that  the  ne.xt  sister 
was  wonderfully  clovi-r,  and  was  supjMised  to  know  all  the 
governess  could  teach  her,  and  to  have  i^rivate  lessons  in  Greek 


A    DARK   night's   WORK.  1*27 

and  mathematics  from  her  father ;  and  so  on  down  to  the  littlo 
lr.>ov  at  thu  preparatory  school  and  the  bal)y-girl  in  arms.  More- 
over, Miss  Monro,  at  any  rate,  could  have  stood  an  examination 
as  to  the  number  of  servants  at  the  deanery,  their  division  of 
work,  and  the  hours  of  their  meals.  Presently,  a  very  beautiful, 
haughty- looking  young  lady  made  her  appearance  in  the  Close, 
and  in  the  dean's  pew.  She  was  said  to  be  his  niece,  the  orphan 
(laughter  of  his  brother,  General  Beauchamp,  come  to  Kast 
Chester  to  reside  for  the  necessary  time  before  her  marriage, 
n-hich  was  to  be  performed  in  the  cathedral  by  lier  uncle,  the 
new  dignitary.  But  as  callers  at  the  deanery  did  not  see  this 
beautiful  bride  elect,  and  as  the  Beauchamps  had  not  as  yet  fallen 
into  habits  of  intimacv  with  any  of  their  new  acquaintances, 
very  little  was  known  of  the  circumstances  of  this  approaching 
■wedding  beyond  the  particulai-s  given  aliove. 

Ellinor  and  Miss  Monro  sat  at  their  drawing-room  window,  a 
little  shaded  by  the  muslin  curtains,  watching  tlie  busy  prepara- 
tions for  the  marriage,  which  was  to  take  j)lace  the  next  day. 
All  morning  long,  hampers  of  fruit  and  flowers,  boxes  from  the 
railway — for  by  this  time  East  Chester  had  got  a  railway — shop 
messengers,  hired  assistants,  kept  passing  backwards  and  forAvards 
in  the  busy  Close.  Towards  afternoon  the  bustle  subsided,  the 
scaffolding  was  up,  the  materials  for  the  next  day's  feast  carried 
out  of  sight.  It  was  to  be  concluded  that  tlie  bride  elect  was 
seeing  to  the  packing  of  her  trousseau,  helped  by  the  merry 
multitude  of  cousins,  and  that  the  servants  were  arranging  the 
dinner  for  the  day,  or  the  breakfast  for  the  morrow.  So  Miss 
]\Ionro  had  settled  it,  discussing  every  detail  and  every  probability 
as  though  she  were  a  chief  actor,  instead  of  only  a  distant, 
uncared-for  spectator  of  the  coming  event.  Ellinor  Avas  tired, 
and  now  that  there  was  nothing  interesting  going  on,  she  had 
fallen  back  to  her  sewing,  when  she  was  startled  by  Miss  Monro's 
exclamation : 

"  Look,  look  !  here  are  two  gentlemen  coming  along  the  lime- 
tree  walk  !  it  must  be  the  bridegroom  and  his  friend."  Out  of 
much  sympathy,  and  some  curiosity,  EUiiior  bent  forward,  and 
naw,  just  emerging  from  the  shadow  of  the  trees  on  to  the  full 
afternoon  sunlit  pavement,  Mr.  Corbet  and  another  gentleman ; 
the  former  clianged,  worn,  aged,  though  Avith  still  the  same  fine 
intellectual  face,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  the  younger  taller  man, 
and  talking  eagerly.  The  other  gentleman  Avas  doubtless  the 
bridegroom,  Ellinor  said  to  herself;  and  yet  her  prophetic  heart 
did  not  l)clieve  lier  Avords.  Even  before  the  bright  beauty  at 
the  deanery  looked  out  of  the  great  oriel  AviiidoAv  of  the  draAving- 


128  A    DARK   night's   WORK. 

room,  and  blushed,  and  smiled,  and  kissed  lior  hand. — a  g^esture 
replied  to  by  Mr.  Corbet  with  much  empressevietit,  while  the 
other  man  only  took  off  his  hat,  almost  a3  if  he  saw  her  there 
for  the  first  time — EUinor's  greedy  eyes  watched  him  till  he  was 
hidden  from  sight  in  the  deanery,  unheeding  Miss  Monro's  eager 
incoherent  sentences,  in  turn  euti-eating,  apologising,  comforting, 
and  upbraiding.  Then  she  slowly  turned  her  painful  eyes  upon 
Miss  Monro's  face,  and  moved  her  lips  without  a  soimd  being 
heard,  and  fainted  dead  away.  In  all  her  life  she  had  never 
done  so  before,  and  when  she  came  round  she  was  DOt  like  her- 
self; in  all  probability  the  persistence  and  Avilfulness  she,  who 
was  usually  so  meek  and  docile,  showed  during  the  next  twenty- 
four  hours,  was  the  consequence  of  fever.  She  resolved  to  be 
present  at  the  wedding;  nimibers  were  going;  she  would  be 
unseen,  unnoticed  in  the  crowd ;  but  whatever  befell,  go  she 
would,  and  neither  the  tears  nor  the  prayers  of  Miss  Monro  could 
keep  her  back.  She  gave  no  reason  for  this  determination  ;  in- 
deed, in  all  probability  she  had  none  to  give ;  so  there  was  no 
arguing  the  point.  She  was  inflexible  to  entreaty,  and  no  one 
had  any  authority  over  her,  except,  perhaps,  distant  ^Ir.  Ness. 
Miss  INlonro  had  all  sorts  of  forebodings  as  to  the  possible  scenes 
that  might  come  to  pass.  But  all  went  on  as  quietly  as  thougli 
the  fullest  sympathy  pervaded  every  individual  of  the  great 
numbers  assembled.  No  one  guessed  that  the  muffled,  veiled 
figure,  sitting  in  the  shadow  behind  one  of  the  great  pillars,  was 
that  of  one  who  had  once  hoped  to  stand  at  the  altar  with  the 
same  bridegroom,  who  now  cast  tender  looks  at  the  beautifiil 
bride  ;  her  veil  white  and  fairy-like,  EUinor's  black  and  shrouding 
as  that  of  any  nun. 

Already  Mr.  Corbet's  name  was  kno^vn  through  the  country 
as  that  of  a  great  lawyer;  people  discussed  his  speeches  an(? 
character  far  and  wide ;  and  the  well-informed  in  legal  gossip 
spoke  of  him  as  sure  to  be  oirered  a  judgeship  at  the  next 
vacancy.  So  he,  though  grave,  and  middle-aged,  and  somewhat 
grey,  divided  attention  and  remark  with  his  lovely  bride,  and  licr 
pretty  train  of  cousin  bridesmaids.  ]\Iiss  Monro  need  not  liavo 
feared  for  Ellinor:  she  saw  and  heard  all  things  as  in  a  mist — a 
dream;  as  something  she  had  to  go  through,  before  she  couli! 
waken  up  to  a  reality  of  l)rightnes8  in  which  her  youth,  and  the 
hopes  of  her  yoiuh,  should  be  restored,  and  all  these  weary  years 
of  dreaminess  and  woe  should  be  revealed  as  nothing  but  the 
nightmare  of  a  night.  She  sat  motionless  enough,  atill  enough, 
Miss  i\Ionro  by  lier,  watching  her  as  intently  as  a  keeper  watches 
a  madman,  and  with  the  same  purpose — to  prevent  any  outburst 


A    PARK    NIGHTS    WORK.  129 

even  by  bodily  strength,  if  such  restraint  be  needed.  When  all 
•was  over ;  when  the  principal  personages  of  the  ceremony  had 
filed  into  the  vestry  to  sign  their  names;  when  the  swarm  of 
townspeople  were  going  out  as  swiftly  as  their  individual  notions 
of  the  restraints  of  the  sacred  edifice  permitted ;  when  the  great 
chords  of  the  ''Wedding  March"  clanged  out  from  the  organ, 
and  the  loud  bells  pealed  overhead — Ellinor  laid  her  hand  in 
Miss  Monro's.  "  Take  me  home,"  she  said  softly.  And  Miss 
Monro  led  her  home  as  one  leads  the  blind. 


CHAPTER  XII. 


There  are  some  people  who  imperceptibly  float  away  from  their 
youth  into  middle  age,  and  thence  pass  into  declining  life  with  the 
soft  and  gentle  motion  of  happy  years.  There  are  others  Avho 
are  whirled,  in  spite  of  themselves,  down  dizzy  rapids  of  agony 
away  from  their  youth  at  one  great  bound,  into  old  age  with 
another  sudden  shock  ;  and  thence  into  the  vast  calm  ocean  where 
there  are  no  shore-marks  to  tell  of  time. 

This  last,  it  seemed,  was  to  be  EUinor's  lot.  Her  youth  had 
gone  in  a  smgle  night,  fifteen  years  ago,  and  now  she  appeared  to 
have  become  an  elderly  woman ;  very  still  and  hopeless  in  look 
and  movement,  but  as  sweet  and  gentle  in  speech  and  smile  as 
ever  she  had  been  in  her  happiest  days.  All  young  people,  when 
they  came  to  know  her,  loved  her  dearly,  though  at  first  they 
might  call  her  dull,  and  heavy  to  get  on  with  ;  and  as  for  children 
and  old  people,  her  ready  watchful  sympathy  in  their  joys  as  well 
as  their  sorrows  was  an  unfailing  passage  to  their  hearts.  After 
the  first  great  shock  of  Mr.  Corbet's  marriage  was  over,  she 
seemed  to  pass  into  a  greater  peace  than  she  had  known  for 
years;  the  last  faint  hope  of  happiness  was  gone;  it  would, 
perhaps,  be  more  accurate  to  say,  of  the  bright  happiness  she  had 
planned  for  herself  in  her  early  youth.  Unconsciously,  she  was 
being  weaned  from  self-seeking  in  any  shape,  and  her  daily  life 
became,  if  possible,  more  innocent  and  pure  and  holy.  One  of 
the  canons  used  to  laugh  at  her  for  her  constant  attendance  at 
all  the  services,  and  for  her  devotion  to  good  works,  and  call  her 
always  the  reverend  sister.  Miss  Monro  was  a  little  annoyed  at 
this  faint  clerical  joke;  Ellinor  smiled  quietly.  Miss  Monro 
disapproved  of  EUinor's  grave  ways  and  sober  severe  style  of 
dress. 

"  You  may  be  as  good  as  you  like,  my  dear,  and  yet  go  dressed 

K 


130  A   DARK   NIGHT  J>   WORK. 

in  some  pretty  colour,  instead  of  those  perpetual  blacks  and  greys, 
and  then  there  would  be  no  need  for  me  to  be  perpetually  telling 
people  you  are  only  four-and-thirty  (and  they  don't  believe  me, 
though  I  tell  them  so  till  I  am  black  in  the  face).  Or,  if  you 
Avould  but  wear  a  decent -shaped  bonnet,  instead  of  always 
Avearing  those  of  the  poky  shape  in  fashion  when  you  were 
seventeen." 

The  old  canon  died,  and  some  one  was  to  lie  appointed  in  his 
stead.  These  clerical  preferments  and  appointments  were  the 
all-important  interests  to  the  inhabitants  of  the  Close,  and  the 
discussion  of  probabilities  came  up  invariably  if  any  two  ttiet 
together,  in  street  or  house,  or  even  m  the  very  cathedral  itself. 
At  length  it  was  settled  and  announced  by  the  higher  powers. 
An  energetic,  hard-working  clergyman  from  a  distant  part  of  the 
diocese,  Livingstone  by  name,  was  to  have  the  vacant  canonry. 

Miss  Monro  said  that  the  name  was  somehow  familiar  to  her, 
and  b}^  degrees  she  recollected  the  young  curate  who  had  come 
to  inquire  after  Ellinor  in  that  dreadful  illness  she  had  had  at 
Hamley  in  the  year  1829.  Ellinor  knew  nothing  of  that  visit; 
no  more  than  Miss  Monro  did  of  what  had  passed  between  the 
two  before  that  anxious  night.  Ellinor  just  thought  it  possible  it 
might  be  the  same  Mr.  Livingstone,  and  would  rather  it  were  not, 
because  she  did  not  feel  as  if  she  could  bear  the  frequent  though 
not  intimate  intercourse  she  must  needs  have,  if  such  were  the 
case,  with  one  so  closely  associated  with  that  great  time  of  terror 
which  she  was  striving  to  bur}'  out  of  sight  by  every  effort  in 
her  power.  INIiss  Monro,  on  the  contrary,  was  busv  weaving  a 
romance  for  her  pupil ;  she  thought  of  the  passionate  interest 
displayed  by  the  fair  ycung  clergvnian  Hlleen  years  ago.  and 
believed  tliat  occasionally  men  could  be  constant,  and  hoped  that, 
if  I\Ir.  Livingstone  were  tin-  new  canon,  he  might  prove  the  ivna 
avis  which  exists  but  once  in  a  century.  He  came,  and  it  was 
the  same.  He  looked  a  little  stouter,  a  little  older,  but  had  still 
the  gait  and  aspect  of  a  young  man.  His  smooth  fair  face  was 
scarcely  lined  at  ail  with  any  mniksof  care;  the  blue  eyes  looked 
60  kindly  and  peaceful,  that  Miss  ^ftbrnro  could  scarcely  fancy 
they  were  the  same  which  she  had  soon  fast  tilling  with  tears; 
the  bland  calm  look  of  the  whole  man  needed  the  enuviblemcnt 
of  his  evident  dcvoutness  to  be  raised  into  the  tvpo  of  holy 
innocence  which  some  of  the  IJomanists  call  the  "  sacerdotal  face." 
His  entire  soul  was  in  his  work,  and  he  looked  as  little  likely  to 
step  forth  in  the  character  of  cither  a  hero  of  romance  or  « 
i'aithru!  lover  as  could  be  imairined.  Still  Miss  Monro  was  not 
discouraged;  she  remembered  the  warm,  passionate  feeling  she 


A    DARK    NIGHTS   WORK.  131 

had  once  seen  break  through  the  calm  exterior,  and  she  believed 
that  what  had  happened  once  might  occur  again. 

Of  course,  while  ail  eyes  were  directed  on  the  new  canon,  he 
liad  to  learn  who  the  possessors  of  those  eyes  were  one  by  one .; 
and  it  was  probably  some  time  before  the  idea  came  into  his 
mind  that  Miss  "Wilkins,  the  lady  in  black,  with  the  sad  pale  face, 
so  constant  an  attendant  at  service,  so  regular  a  visitor  at  the 
school,  was  the  same  Miss  "Wilkins  as  the  bright  vision  of  his 
vouth.  It  was  her  sweet  smile  at  a  painstaking  child  that 
betrayed  her — if,  indeed,  betrayal  it  might  be  called  where  there 
Avas  no  wish  or  effort  to  conceal  anything.  Canon  Livingstone 
left  the  schoolroom  almost  directly,  and,  after  being  for  an  hour 
or  so  in  his  house,  went  out  to  call  on  Mrs.  Randall,  the  person 
who  knew  more  of  her  neighbours'  affairs  than  any  one  in  East 
Chester. 

The  next  day  he  cixlled  on  Miss  Wilkins  herself.  She  would 
have  been  very  glad  if  he  had  kept  on  in  his  ignorance ;  it  was 
so  keenly  painful  to  be  in  the  company  of  one  the  sight  of  whom, 
even  at  a  distance,  had  brought  her  such  a  keen  remembrance  of 
past  misery ;  and  when  told  of  his  call,  as  she  Avas  sitting  at  her 
eewing  in  the  dining-room,  she  had  to  nerve  herself  for  the 
interview  before  going  upstairs  into  the  drawing-room,  where  he 
Avas  being  entertained  by  Miss  ]Monro  Avith  Avarm  demonstrations 
of  Avelcome.  A  little  contraction  of  the  broAv,  a  little  compression 
of  the  lips,  an  increased  pallor  on  Ellinor's  part,  was  all  that  IMiss 
]\Ionro  could  see  in  her,  though  she  had  put  on  lier  glasses  Avith 
foresight  and  intention  to  observe.  She  turned  to  the  canon ; 
his  colour  had  certainly  deepened  as  he  Avent  forAvards  Avith  out- 
stretched hand  to  meet  EUinor.  That  Avas  all  that  Avas  to  bo 
seen ;  but  on  the  slight  foi;udation  of  that  blush,  Miss  Monro 
built  many  castles ;  and  Avhen  they  faded  aAvay,  one  after  one, 
she  recognised  that  they  Avere  only  baseless  visions.  She  used  to 
put  the  disappointment  of  her  hopes  doAvn  to  Ellinor's  imA'aried 
calmness  of  demeanour,  Avhich  might  be  taken  for  coldness  of 
disposition  ;  and  to  her  steady  refusal  to  alloAv  Miss  Monro  to 
invite  Canon  Livingstone  to  the  small  teas  they  Avere  in  the  habit 
of  occasionally  giving.  Yet  he  persevered  in  his  calls  ;  aljout  once 
every  fortnight  he  came,  and  Avould  sit  an  hour  or  more,  looking 
covertly  at  his  Avatch,  as  if,  as  Miss  Monro  shrcAvdly  observed 
to  herself,  he  did  not  go  aAvay  at  last  because  he  A\-ished  to  do  so, 
but  because  he  ought.  Sometimes  Ellinor  was  pi-esent,  sometimes 
bIic  Avas  aAvay ;  in  this  latter  case  Miss  Monro  thought  she  could 
detect  a  certain  wistful  Avatcliing  of  the  door  every  time  a  noise 
was  heard  outside  the  room.     Ho  always  avoided  any  reference 

K  2 


132  A   DARK   night's  WORK. 

to  former  days  at  Hamley,  and  that,  Miss  Monro  feared,  was  a 
bad  sign. 

After  this  long  uniformity  of  years  without  any  event  closely 
touehing  on  Ellinor's  own  individual  life,  with  the  one  great 
exception  of  Mr.  Corbet's  marriage,  something  happened  which 
much  affected  her.  Mr.  Ness  died  suddenly  at  his  parsonage, 
and  Ellinor  learnt  it  first  from  Mr.  Brown,  a  clergyman,  whose 
living  was  near  Ilamley,  and  who  had  been  sent  for  by  the 
Parsonage  servants  as  soon  as  they  discovered  that  it  was  not 
sleep,  but  death,  that  made  their  master  so  late  in  rising. 

Mr.  Brown  had  been  appointed  executor  by  his  late  friend, 
and  -wrote  to  tell  Ellinor  that  after  a  few  legacies  were  paid,  she 
was  to  have  a  life-interest  in  the  remainder  of  the  small  property 
which  Mr.  Ness  had  left,  and  that  it  would  be  necessary  for  her, 
as  the  residuary  legatee,  to  come  to  Hamley  Parsonage  as  soon  as 
convenient,  to  decide  upon  certain  courses  of  action  with  regard 
to  furniture,  books,  &c. 

Ellinor  shrank  from  this  journey,  which  her  love  and  duty 
towards  her  dead  friend  rendered  necessary.  She  had  scarcely 
left  East  Chester  since  she  lir.st  arrived  there,  sixteen  or  seventeen 
years  ago,  and  she  was  timorous  about  the  very  mode  of  travelling ; 
and  then  to  go  back  to  Hamley,  whicb  she  thought  never  to  have 
seen  again  !  She  never  spoke  much  about  any  feelings  of  her 
own,  but  Miss  Monro  could  always  read  her  silence,  and  inter- 
preted it  into  pretty  just  and  forcible  words  that  afternoon  when 
Canon  Livingstone  called.  She  liked  to  talk  about  Ellinor  to 
him,  and  suspected  that  he  liked  to  hear.  She  was  almost  annoyed 
this  time  by  the  comfort  he  would  keep  giving  her;  there  was 
no  greater  danger  in  travelling  by  railroad  than  by  coach,  a  little 
care  about  certain  things  was  required,  that  was  all,  and  the 
average  number  of  deaths  by  accidents  on  railroads  was  not 
greater  than  the  average  number  when  people  travelled  by  coach, 
if  you  took  into  consideration  the  far  greater  number  of  travellers. 
Yes  !   leturning  to  the  deserted  scenes  of  one's  youth  was  very 

painful Had    Miss    Wilkins   made   any   provision 

ibi-  another  lady  to  take  her  ])lace  as  visitor  at  the  school  ?  Ho 
believed  it  was  her  week.  IVliss  Monro  was  out  of  all  jiatience 
at  his  entire  calmness  and  reasonableness.  Later  in  the  day  she 
became  more  at  peace  with  him,  when  she  received  a  kind  littlo 
note  from  Mrs.  Forbes,  a  great  friend  of  hers,  and  the  mother 
of  the  family  she  was  now  teaching,  sjiying  that  Canon  Living- 
Btoiie  had  called  and  told  her  that  Ellinor  had  to  go  on  a  very 
painful  journey,  and  that  Mrs.  Forbes  was  quite  sure  i\Iiss  Monro's 
coinpuiiionship  upon  it  would  bo  a  great  comfort  to  both,  and 


A  DARK  night's  work.  133 

that  she  could  perfectly  be  set  at  liberty  for  a  fortnight  or  so,  for 
it  ■would  fall  in  admirably  with  the  fact  th.-it"  Jeanie  was  growing 
tall,  and  the  doctor  had  advised  sea  air  this  spring  ;  so  a  month's 
holiday  would  suit  them  now  even  better  than  later  on."  Was 
this  going  straight  to  Mrs.  Forbes,  to  whom  she  should  herself 
scarcely  have  liked  to  name  it,  the  act  of  a  good,  thoughtful  man, 
or  of  a  lover  ?  questioned  Miss  Monro  ;  but  she  could  not  answer 
lier  own  inquiry,  and  had  to  be  very  grateful  for  the  deed,  •with- 
out accounting  for  the  motives. 

A  coach  met  the  train  at  a  station  about  ten  miles  from 
Hamley,  and  Dixon  was  at  the  inn  where  the  coach,  stopped, 
ready  to  receive  them. 

The  old  man  was  almost  in  tears  at  the  sight  of  them  again 
in  a  familiar  place.  He  had  put  on  his  Sunday  clothes  to  do 
them  honour  ;  and  to  conceal  his  agitation  he  kept  up  a  pretended 
bustle  about  their  luggage.  To  the  indignation  of  the  inn- 
porters,  who  were  of  a  later  generation,  he  would  wheel  it  himself 
to  the  Parsonage,  though  he  broke  down  from  fatigue  once  or 
twice  on  the  way,  and  had  to  stand  and  rest,  his  ladies  waiting 
by  his  side,  and  making  remarks  on  the  alterations  of  houses  and 
the  places  of  trees,  in  order  to  give  him  ample  time  to  recruit 
himself,  for  there  was  no  one  to  wait  for  them  and  give  tbem  a 
welcome  to  the  Parsonage,  which  was  to  be  their  temporary  home. 
The  respectful  servants,  in  deep  mourning,  had  all  prepared,  and 
gave  Ellinor  a  note  from  INIr.  Brown,  saying  that  he  purposely 
refrained  from  disturbing  them  that  day  after  their  long  journe}', 
but  would  call  on  the  morrow,  and  tell  them  of  the  arrangements 
he  had  thought  of  making,  always  subject  to  Miss  Wilkins's 
approval. 

These  were  simple  enough;  certain  legal  forms  to  be  gone 
through,  any  selection  from  books  or  furniture  to  be  made,  and 
the  rest  to  be  sold  by  auction  as  speedily  as  convenient,  as  the 
successor  to  the  living  might  wish  to  have  repairs  and  alterations 
effected  in  the  old  parsonage.  For  some  days  Ellinor  employed 
herself  in  business  in  the  house,  never  going  out  except  to  church. 
Miss  Monro,  on  the  contrary,  strolled  about  everywhere,  noticing 
all  the  alterations  in  place  and  people,  which  were  never  improve- 
ments in  her  opinion.  Ellinor  had  plenty  of  callers  (her  tenants, 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Osbaldistone  among  others),  but,  excepting  in  rare 
cases — most  of  them  belonged  to  humble  life — she  declined  to  see 
every  one,  as  she  had  business  enough  on  her  hands :  sixteen 
years  makes  a  great  difference  in  any  set  of  people.  The  old 
acquaintances  of  her  father  in  his  better  days  were  almost  all 
dead  or  removed ;  there  were  one  or  two  remaining,  and  these 


134  A    DARK    NIGHTS    WORK. 

Ellinor  received ;  one  or  two  more,  old  and  infirm,  confined  to 
their  houses,  she  planned  to  call  upon  before  leaving  Hamley. 
Every  evening,  Avhen  Dixon  had  done  his  Avork  at  Mr. 
Osbaldist one's,  he  came  up  to  the  Parsonage,  ostensibly  to  help 
her  in  moving  or  packing  books,  but  really  because  these  two 
clung  to  each  other — were  bound  to  each  other  by  a  bond  never 
to  be  spoken  about.  It  was  imderstood  between  them  that  once 
before  Ellinor  left  she  shoiild  go  and  see  the  old  place.  Ford 
Bank.  Not  to  go  into  the  house,  though  Mr.  and  Mrs 
Osbaldistone  had  begged  her  to  name  her  own  time  for  revisiting 
it  when  they  and  their  family  would  be  absent,  but  to  see  all  the 
gardens  and  grounds  once  more ;  a  solemn,  miserable  visit,  which, 
because  of  the  very  misery  it  involved,  appeared  to  Ellinor  to  be 
an  imperative  duty. 

Dixon  and  she  talked  together  as  she  sat  making  a  catalogue 
one  evening  in  the  old  low-browed  library ;  the  casement 
■windows  were  open  into  the  garden,  and  the  ]May  showers  had 
brought  out  the  scents  of  the  ncAv-leavcd  sweetbriar  bxish  just 
below.  Beyond  the  garden  hedge  the  grassy  meadows  sloped 
away  doAvn  to  the  river ;  the  Parsonage  was  so  much  raised  that, 
sitting  in  the  house,  you  could  see  over  the  boundary  hedge. 
Men  with  instruments  were  busy  in  the  meadow.  EUinor, 
pausing  in  her  Avork,  asked  Dixon  Avhat  they  were  doing. 

"  Them's  the  people  for  the  new  railway,"  said  he.  "  Nought 
would  satisfy  the  Hamley  folk  but  to  have  a  raihvay  all  to  them- 
selves— coaches  isn't  good  enough  now-a-days." 

He  spoke  with  a  tone  of  personal  offence  natural  to  a  man  wlio 
had  passed  all  his  life  among  horses,  and  considered  railway- 
engines  as  their  despicable  rivals,  conquering  only  by  stratagem. 

By-and-by  Ellinor  passed  on  to  a  subject  the  consideration  of 
which  she  had  repeatedly  urged  upon  Dixon,  and  entreated  him 
to  come  and  form  one  of  their  household  at  East  Chester.  Ho 
was  growing  old,  she  thoiiofht,  older  even  in  looks  and  feelings 
than  in  years,  and  she  would  make  him  happy  and  comfortable 
in  his  declining  years  if  he  would  but  come  and  pass  them  under 
her  care.  The  addition  which  Mr.  Ness's  bequest  made  to  her 
income  would  enalile  her  to  do  not  only  this,  but  to  relieve  i\Iis.s 
Monro  of  her  occupation  of  teachiu!::;  which,  at  the  years  she  had 
arrived  at,  was  becoming  burdensome.  When  she  proposed  the 
removal  to  Dixon  he  shook  his  head. 

"  It's  not  that  I  don't  thank  you,  and  kindly,  too ;  but  I'm  too 
old  to  go  chopping  and  changing." 

*'  But  it  would  be  no  change  to  come  back  to  me,  Dixon,"  said 
Ellinor. 


A    PARK    N1GII7"S    "VVOKK.  135 

"  Yc?,  it  "would.  I  were  born  i'  Hamley,  and  it's  i'  Hamlc-y  I 
reckon  to  die."' 

On  her  urging  him  a  little  more,  it  came  out  that  he  liad  a 
strong  feeling  that  if  he  did  not  watch  the  spot  where  the  dead 
man  lay  buried,  the  whole  would  be  discovered ;  and  that  this 
dread  of  his  had  often  poisoned  the  pleasure  of  liis  visit  to  East 
Chester. 

*'  I  don't  rightly  know  how  it  is,  for  I  sometimes  think  if  it 
wasn't  for  you,  missy,  I  should  be  glad  to  have  made  it  all  clear 
before  I  go ;  and  yet  at  times  I  dream,  or  it  comes  into  my  head  as 
I  lie  awake  with  the  rhemnatics,  that  some  one  is  there,  digging ; 
or  that  I  hear  *em  cutting  down  the  tree ;  and  then  I  get  up  and 
look  out  of  the  loft  window — you'll  mind  the  window  over  the 
stables,  as  looks  into  the  garden,  all  covered  over  wi'  the  leaves  of 
the  jargonelle  pear-tree  ?  That  Avere  my  room  when  lirst  I 
come  as  stable-boy,  and  tho'  Mr.  Osbaldistone  would  fain  give 
me  a  warmer  one,  I  allays  tell  him  I  like  th'  old  place  best.  And 
by  times  I've  getten  up  five  or  six  times  a-night  to  make  sure  as 
there  was  no  one  at  work  under  the  tree." 

Ellinor  shivered  a  little.  He  saw  it,  and  restrained  himself 
in  the  relief  he  was  receiving  from  imparting  his  superstitious 
fancies. 

"  You  see,  missy,  I  could  never  rest  a-nights  if  I  didn't  feel  as 
if  I  kept  the  secret  in  my  hand,  and  held  it  tight  day  and  night, 
so  as  I  could  open  my  hand  at  any  minute  and  see  as  it  was  there. 
Xo !  my  own  little  missy  will  let  me  come  and  see  her  now  and 
again,  and  I  know  as  I  can  allays  ask  her  for  what  I  want :  and  if 
it  please  God  to  lay  me  by,  I  shall  tell  her  so,  and  she'll  see  as 
I  want  for  nothing.  But  somehow  I  could  ne'er  bear  leaving 
Hamley.  You  shall  come  and  follow  me  to  my  grave  when  my 
time  comes." 

"  Don't  talk  so,  please,  Dixon,"  said  she. 

"  Nay,  it'll  be  a  mercy  when  I  can  lay  me  down  and  sleep  in 
peace :  though  I  sometimes  fear  as  peace  will  not  come  to  me 
even  there."  He  was  going  out  of  the  room,  and  was  now  more 
talking  to  himself  than  to  her.  "  They  say  blood  will  out,  and 
if  it  weren't  for  her  part  in  it,  I  could  wisji  for  a  clear  breast 
before  I  die." 

She  did  not  hear  the  latter  part  of  this  miimblcd  sentence. 
She  was  looking  at  a  letter  just  brought  in  and  requiring  an 
immediate  answer.  It  was  from  Mr.  Brown.  Notes  from  him 
were  of  daily  occiu-rence,  but  this  contained  an  open  letter  tlie 
v.'riting  of  which  was  strangely  familiar  to  her — it  did  not  need 
the  signature  "  Kalph  Corbet,"  to  t'-'ll  her  whom  the  letter  cume 


13G  A   DARK  MGHT's   WORK. 

from.  For  some  moments  she  could  not  i-cad  the  words.  They 
expressed  a  simple  enough  request,  and  were  addressed  to  the 
auctioneer  who  wag  to  dispose  of  the  rather  valuable  library  of 
the  late  Mr.  Ness,  and  whose  name  had  been  advertised  in 
connection  with  the  sale,  in  the  AthencFuin,  and  other  similar 
papers.  To  him  Mr.  Corbet  ^\Tote,  saying  that  he  should  be 
imable  to  be  present  when  the  books  were  sold,  but  that  he  wished 
10  be  allowed  to  buy  in,  at  anv  price  decided  upon,  a  certain  rare 
folio  edition  of  Virgil,  bound  in  parchment,  and  with  notes  in 
Italian.  The  book  was  fully  descrilied.  Though  no  Latin 
scholar,  Ellinor  knew  the  book  well — remembered  its  look  from 
old  times,  and  could  instantly  have  laid  her  hand  upon  it.  The 
auctioneer  had  sent  the  request  on  to  his  employer,  Mr.  Brown. 
That  gentleman  applied  to  Ellinor  for  her  consent.  She  saw 
that  the  fact  of  the  intended  sale  must  be  all  that  Mr.  Corbet  was 
aware  of,  and  that  he  could  not  know  to  whom  the  books 
l)elonged.  She  chose  out  the  book,  and  wrapped  and  tied  it  up 
with  trembling  hands.  He  might  be  the  person  to  untie  the  knot. 
It  was  strangely  familiar  to  her  love,  after  so  many  years,  to  be 
brought  into  thus  much  contact  with  him.  She  wrute  a  short  note 
to  Mr.  Brown,  in  which  she  requested  him  to  siiy,  as  though  from 
himself,  and  without  any  mention  of  her  name,  that  he,  as 
executor,  requested  Mr.  Corbet's  ac:eptance  of  the  Virgil,  as  a 
remembrance  of  his  former  friend  and  tutor.  Then  she  rang  the 
bell,  and  gave  the  letter  and  parcel  to  the  servant. 

Again  alone,  and  Mr.  Corbet's  open  letter  on  the  table.  She  took 
it  up  and  looked  at  it  till  the  letters  dazzled  crimson  on  the  white 
paper.  Her  life  rolled  backwards,  and  >he  was  a  trirl  again.  At 
last  she  roused  herself;  but  instead  of  destroying  the  note — it 
was  long  years  since  all  her  love-letters  from  hini  had  been 
returned  to  the  writer — she  luilocked  her  little  WTiting-case 
again,  and  placed  this  letter  can-fully  down  at  the  bottom,  among 
the  dead  rose-leaves  which  embalmed  the  note  from  her  father, 
found  after  his  death  under  his  pillow,  the  little  golden  curl  of 
her  sister's,  the  half-finished  sewing  of  her  mother. 

The  shabby  writing-case  it.-^elf  was  gi\en  her  by  her  father 
long  ago,  and  had  since  been  takrn  with  her  evervwhere.  To  be 
sure,  her  changes  of  place  had  been  but  few ;  but  if  8he  had  gone 
to  Nova  Zembla,  the  sight  of  that  little  leather  bo.\  on  awakinor 
from  her  first  sleep,  would  have  given  her  a  sense  of  home.  She 
locked  the  case  up  again,  and  frit  all  the  richer  for  that  morning. 

A  day  or  two  afterwards  she  left  llamley.  Before  she  went 
slic  coiiqu'lled  herself  to  go  round  the  gardens  and  grounds  of 
Ford  Hank.     She  had  made  Mrs.  Oabaldistoue  uuderataud  that  it 


A    DARK    night's   WOKK.  137 

would  be  painful  for  her  to  re-enter  the  house;  but  Mr. 
Osbaldistone  accompanied  her  in  her  walk. 

"  Yoii  see  how  literally  we  have  obeyed  the  clause  in  the  lease 
which  ties  us  out  from  any  alterations,"  said  he,  smiling,  "  We 
are  living  in  a  tangled  thicket  of  wood.  I  must  confess  that  I 
should  have  liked  to  cut  down  a  good  deal ;  but  we  do  not  do  even 
the  requisite  thinnings  without  making  the  proper  application  for 
leave  to  Mr.  Johnson.  In  fact,  your  old  friend  Dixon  is  jealous 
of  every  pea-stick  the  gardener  cuts.  I  never  met  with  so  faithful 
a  fellow.  A  good  enough  servant,  too,  in  his  way ;  but  some- 
what too  old-fashioned  for  my  wife  and  daughters,  who  complain 
of  his  being  surly  now  and  then."' 

"You  are  not  thinking  of  parting  with  him?"  said  Ellinor, 
jealous  for  Dixon. 

'•  Oh,  no ;  he  and  I  are  capital  friends.  And  I  believe  Mrs. 
Osbaldistone  herself  would  never  consent  to  his  leaving  us.  But 
some  ladies,  you  know,  like  a  little  more  subserviency  in  manner 
than  our  friend  Dixon  can  boast." 

Ellinor  made  no  reply.  They  were  entering  the  painted 
flower  garden,  hiding  the  ghastly  memory.  She  could  not  speak. 
She  felt  as  if,  with  all  her  striving,  she  could  not  move — just  as 
one  does  in  a  nightmare — but  she  was  past  the  place  even  as  this 
terror  came  to  its  acme ;  and  when  she  came  to  herself,  Mr. 
Osbaldistone  was  still  blandly  talking,  and  saying — 

"  It  is  now  a  reward  for  oiu*  obedience  to  your  wishes.  Miss 
Wilkins,  for  if  the  projected  railway  passes  through  the  ash-field 
yonder  we  should  have  been  perpetually  troubled  with  the  sight  of 
the  trains;  indeed,  the  sound  would  have  been  much  more  distinct 
than  it  will  be  now  coming  through  the  interlacing  branches. 
Then  you  will  not  go  in.  Miss  Wilkins?"     Mrs.  Osbaldistone 

desired  me  to  say  how  happy Ah !  I  can  understand  such 

feelings Certainly,  certainly ;  it  is  so  much  the  shortest  way 

to  the  to^vn,  that  we  elder  ones  always  go  through  the  stable-yard ; 
for  young  people,  it  is  perhaps  not  quite  so  desirable.  Ila ! 
I  Dixon,"  he  continued,  "  on  the  watch  for  the  Miss  EUinor  we  so 
often  hear  of  !  This  old  man,"  he  continued  to  Ellinor,  "  is  never 
satisfied  with  the  seat  of  our  young  ladies,  always  comparing 
their  waj-  of  riding  with  that  of  a  certain  missy " 

"  I  cannot  help  it,  sir ;  they've  quite  a  different  style  of  hand, 
and  sit  all  lumpish-like.     Now,  Miss  Ellinor,  there " 

'•  Hush,  Dixon,"  .she  said,  suddenly  aware  of  why  the  old 
servant  was  not  popular  with  his  mistress.  "  I  suppose  I  may 
be  allowed  to  ask  for  Dixon's  company  for  an  hour  or  so ;  we 
have  something  to  do  together  before  we  leave." 


138  A    DAKK    night's    WORK. 

The  consent  given,  the  two  walked  away,  as  by  previoaa 
appointment,  to  Hamley  churcliyard,  where  he  was  to  point  out 
to  her  the  exact  spot  where  he  wished  to  be  buried.  Trampling 
over  the  long,  rank  grass,  but  avoiding  passing  directly  over  any 
of  the  thickly-strewn  graves,  he  made  straight  for  one  spot — a 
little  space  of  unoccupied  ground  close  by,  where  Molly,  the 
pretty  scullery-maid,  lay : 

Sacred  to  the  Memory  of 

Mary  Greaves. 

Bom  1707.    Died  1818. 

"  We  part  to  meet  again." 

"  I  put  this  stone  up  over  her  with  my  first  savings,"'  said  lie, 
looking  at  it ;  and  then,  pulling  out  his  knife,  he  began  to  clean 
out  the  letters.  "  I  said  then  as  I  would  lie  by  her.  And  it'll  be 
a  comfort  to  think  you'll  see  me  laid  here.  I  trust  no  one'll  be 
so  crabbed  as  to  take  a  fancy  to  this  'ere  spot  of  ground.'' 

Ellinor  grasped  eagerly  at  the  only  pleasure  which  her  money 
enabled  her  to  give  to  the  old  man ;  and  promised  him  that  she 
would  take  care  and  buy  the  right  to  that  particular  piece  ot 
ground.  This  was  evidently  a  gratification  Dixon  had  fre<juently 
yearned  after;  he  kept  saying,  *'  I'm  greatly  obleeged  Xu  ye,  Miss 
Ellinor.  I  may  say  I'm  truly  obleeged."  And  when  he  saw 
them  off  by  the  coach  the  next  day,  his  last  words  were,  "  I 
cannot  justly  say  how  greatly  I'm  oV)leeged  to  you  for  that  matter 
of  the  churchyard."  It  Avas  a  much  more  easy  affair  to  give 
Miss  Monro  some  additional  comforts ;  she  was  as  cheerful  a>^ 
ever;  still  working  away  at  her  languages  in  any  spare  time,  but 
confessing  that  she  was  tired  of  the  perpetual  teaching  in  which 
her  life  had  been  spent  during  the  last  thirty  years.  Ellinor  was 
now  enabled  to  set  her  at  lil)erty  from  this,  and  she  accepted  the 
kindness  from  her  fonner  pupil  with  as  much  simple  gratitude  as 
that  with  which  a  mother  receives  a  favour  from  a  child.  "  If 
Ellinor  were  but  married  to  Canon  Livingstone,  I  should  br 
happier  than  I  have  ever  been  since  my  father  died,"  she  used  to 
say  to  herself  in  the  solitude  of  her  bedchamber,  for  talkinu: 
aloud  had  >)ecome  her  wont  in  the  early  years  of  her  isolated  lif< 
as  a  governess.  "  And  yet,"  she  went  on,  '*  I  don't  know  Avhat  1 
should  do  without  lier;  it  is  lucky  for  me  that  things  are  not  in 
my  hands,  for  a  pretty  mess  I  should  make  of  them,  onv  way  or 
another.  Dear  !  how  old  Mrs.  Cndngan  used  to  hate  that  won! 
'  mess,'  and  correct  her  granddaughti-rs  for  using  it  right  bt-foro 
my  face,  when  I  knew  I  had  wild  it  myself  only  the  moment 
before  !    Well !  those  days  are  all  over  now.    God  be  thanked  1 " 


A    DARK   NIGHTS   WOKK.  139 

In  spite  of  being  glad  that  "  things  were  not  in  her  hands," 
]Miss  Monro  tried  to  take  aflairs  into  her  charge  by  doing  all  she 
could  to  persuade  Ellinor  to  allow  her  to  invite  the  canon  to  their 
"  little  sociable  teas."'  The  most  provoking  part  was,  that  she 
was  sure  he  would  have  come  if  he  had  been  asked ;  but  she 
could  never  get  leave  to  do  so.  ''  Of  course  no  man  could  go  on 
for  ever  and  ever  Avithout  encouragement,"  as  she  confided  to 
herself  in  a  plaintive  tone  of  voice ;  and  by-and-by  many  people 
were  led  to  suppose  that  the  bachelor  canon  was  paying  attention 
to  Miss  Forbes,  the  eldest  daughter  of  the  family  to  which  the 
delicate  Jeanie  belonged.  It  was,  perhaps,  with  the  Forbeses 
that  both  Miss  Monro  and  Ellinor  were  the  most  intimate  of  all 
the  families  in  East  Chester.  Mrs.  Forbes  was  a  widow  lady  of 
good  means,  with  a  large  family  of  pretty,  delicate  daughters. 

She  herself  belonged  to  one  of  the  great  houses  in shire,  but 

had  man-ied  into  Scotland ;  so,  after  her  husband's  death,  it  was 
the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world  that  she  should  settle  in  East 
Chester ;  and  one  after  another  of  her  daughters  had  become  larst 
Miss  ^Monro's  pupil  and  afterwards  her  friend.  Mrs.  Forbes  her- 
self had  always  been  strongly  attracted  by  Ellinor,  but  it  was 
long  before  she  could  conquer  the  timid  reserve  by  which  Miss 
Wilkins  was  hedged  round.  It  was  Miss  Monro,  who  was  herself 
incapable  of  jealousy,  who  persevered  in  praising  them  to  one 
another,  and  in  bringing  them  together;  and  now  Ellinor  was  as 
intimate  and  familiar  in  Mrs.  Forbes's  household  as  she  ever 
could  be  with  any  family  not  her  own. 

Mrs.  Forbes  was  considered  to  be  a  little  fanciful  as  to  illness ; 
but  it  was  no  wonder,  remembering  how  many  sisters  she  had 
lost  by  consimiption.  !Miss  ^Monro  had  often  grumbled  at  the 
way  in  which  her  pupils  Avere  made  irregular  for  very  trifling 
causes.  But  no  one  so  alarmed  as  she,  when,  in  the  autumn 
succeeding  Mr.  Ness's  death,  Mrs.  Forbes  remarked  to  her  on 
Ellinor"s  increased  delicacy  of  appearance,  and  shortness  of 
breathing.  From  that  time  forwards  she  worried  Ellinor  (if  any 
one  so  sweet  and  patient  could  ever  have  been  Avorricd)  Avith 
respirators  and  precautions.  Ellinor  submitted  to  all  her  friend's 
Avishes  and  cares,  sooner  than  make  her  anxioiis,  and  remained  a 
prisoner  in  the  house  through  the  Avhole  of  November.  Then 
Miss  Monro's  anxiety  took  another  turn.  Ellinor's  appetite  and 
spirits  failed  her — not  at  all  an  tmnatural  conseqtience  of  so 
many  Aveeks'  confinement  to  the  house.  A  plan  was  started, 
quite  suddenly,  one  morning  in  December,  that  met  Avith  approval 
from  everyone  but  Ellinor,  Avho  Avas,  hoAnrever,  by  this  time  too 
languid  to  make  much  resistance. 


140  A   DARK   night's    WORK. 

Mrs.  Forbes  and  her  daughters  were  going  to  Rome  for  three 
or  four  months,  so  as  to  avoid  the  trying  east  winds  of  spring ; 
why  should  not  Miss  Wilkins  go  with  them?  They  urged  it, 
and  Miss  Monro  urged  it,  though  with  a  Httle  private  sinking  of 
the  heart  at  the  idea  of  the  long  separation  from  one  who  was 
almost  like  a  child  to  her.  Ellinor  was,  as  it  wore,  lifted  off  her 
feet  iind  borne  away  by  the  unanimous  opinion  of  others — the 
doctor  included — who  decided  that  such  a  step  was  highly  de-  , 
sirablo,  if  not  absolutely  necessarj-.  She  knew  that  she  had  only 
a  life  interest  both  in  her  father's  property  and  in  that  V)etjueathod 
to  her  by  Mr.  Ness.  Hitherto  she  had  not  felt  much  troubled  by 
this,  as  she  had  supposed  that  in  the  natural  course  of  events 
she  should  survive  Miss  Monro  and  Dixon,  both  of  whom  she 
looked  upon  as  dependent  upon  her.  All  she  had  to  bequeath  to 
the  two  was  the  small  savings,  which  would  not  nearly  suffice  for 
both  purposes,  especially  considering  that  Miss  Monro  had  given 
up  her  teaching,  and  that  both  she  and  Dixon  were  passing  into 
years. 

Before  Ellinor  left  England  she  had  made  every  arrangement 
for  the  contingency  of  her  death  abroad  that  Mr.  Johnson  could 
suggest.  She  had  ■written  and  sent  a  long  letter  to  Dixon ;  and 
a  shorter  one  was  left  in  charge  of  Canon  Livingstone  (she  dared 
not  hint  at  the  possibility  of  her  dying  to  Miss  Monro)  to  be  sent 
to  the  old  man. 

As  they  drove  out  of  the  King's  Cross  station,  they  passed  a 
gentleman's  carriage  entering.  Ellinor  saw  a  bright,  handsome 
lady,  a  nurse,  and  baby  inside,  and  a  gentleman  sitting  by  them 
whoae  lace  she  could  never  forget.  It  was  Mr.  Corbet  taking  his 
■wife  and  child  to  the  railway.  They  were  going  on  a  Christmas 
visit  to  East  Chester  deanery.  He  had  been  leaning  back,  not 
noticing  the  passers-by,  not  attending  to  the  other  inmates  of  the 
carriage,  probably  absorbed  in  the  cimsideration  of  some  law  case. 
Such  were  the  casual  glimpses  Ellinor  had  of  one  with  whose  life 
she  had  once  thought  hersrlf  boiuid  up. 

Who  so  proud  as  Miss  Monro  when  a  foreign  letter  came  ? 
Her  correspondent  was  not  particularly  graphic  in  her  descrip- 
tions, nor  were  there  any  adventures  to  be  described,  nor  wjxs 
the  habit  of  mind  of  Ellinor  such  as  to  make  her  clear  and  defi- 
nite in  her  own  impressions  of  what  she  saw,  ami  her  natural 
reserve  kept  her  frona  being  fluent  in  commiuncating  them  even 
to  Miss  Monro,  liut  that  lady  would  hav«  been  plea.sed  to  read 
aloud  these  letters  to  the  assfinbU'd  dean  and  canons,  and  would 
not  have  been  surprised  if  thoy  had  invited  her  to  the  chapter- 
house for  that  purpose.     To  her  circle  of   \mtravelled   hidiea, 


A    DAUK   NIGHTS   WORK.  14! 

ignorant  of  Murray,  but  laudably  desirous  of  information,  all 
Ellinor's  historical  reminiscences  and  ratlier  formal  details  were 
really  interesting.  There  was  no  railroad  in  those  days  between 
Lyons  and  Marseilles,  so  their  progress  was  slow,  and  the  passage 
of  letters  to  and  fro,  when  they  had  arrived  in  Rome,  long  and 
uncertain.  But  all  seemed  going  on  well.  Ellinor  spoke  of 
herself  as  in  better  health ;  and  Canon  Livingstone  (between 
whom  and  Miss  INIonro  great  intimacy  had  sprung  up  since 
Ellinor  had  gone  away,  and  Miss  Monro  could  ask  him  to  tea) 
confirmed  this  report  of  Miss  Wilkins's  health  from  a  letter  which 
he  had  received  from  Mrs.  Forbes.  Curiosity  about  that  letter 
was  Miss  Monro's  torment.  What  could  they  have  had  to  write 
to  each  other  about !  It  was  a  very  odd  proceeding ;  although 
the  Livingstones  and  Forbeses  were  distantly  related,  after  the 
manner  of  Scotland.  Could  it  have  been  that  he  had  offered  to 
Euphemia,  after  all,  and  that  her  mother  had  answered  ;  or,  pos- 
sibly, there  was  a  letter  from  Effie  herself,  enclosed.  It  was 
a  pity  for  Miss  Monro's  peace  of  mind  that  she  did  not  ask  him 
straight  away.  She  would  then  have  learnt  what  Canon  Living- 
stone had  no  thought  of  concealing,  that  Mrs.  Forbes  had  written 
solely  to  give  him  some  fuller  directions  about  certain  charities 
than  she  had  had  time  to  think  about  in  the  hurry  of  starting. 
As  it  was,  and  when,  a  little  later  on,  she  heard  him  speak  of 
the  possibility  of  his  going  himself  to  Eome,  as  soon  as  his  term 
of  residence  was  over,  in  time  for  the  Carnival,  she  gave  up  her 
fond  project  in  despair,  and  felt  very  much  like  a  child  whose 
house  of  bricks  had  been  knocked  down  by  the  imlucky  waft  of 
some  passing  petticoat. 

Meanwhile,  the  entire  change  of  scene  brought  on  the  exquisite 
refreshment  of  entire  change  of  thought.  Ellinor  had  not  been 
able  so  completely  to  forget  her  past  life  for  many  years  ;  it  was 
like  a  renewing  of  her  yoiith  ;  cut  so  suddenly  short  by  the 
shears  of  Fate.  Ever  since  that  night,  she  had  had  to  rouse 
herself  on  awakening  in  the  morning  into  a  full  comprehension 
of  the  great  cause  she  had  for  much  fear  and  heavy  grief.  Now, 
when  she  wakened  in  her  little  room,  fourth  piano.  No.  36, 
Babuino,  she  saw  the  strange,  pretty  things  around  her,  and  her 
mind  went  off  into  pleasant  wonder  and  conjecture,  happy  recol- 
lections of  the  day  before,  and  pleasant  anticipations  of  the  day 
to  come.  Latent  in  Ellinor  was  her  father's  artistic  tempera- 
ment ;  everything  new  and  strange  was  a  picture  and  a  delight ; 
the  merest  group  in  the  street,  a  Koman  faccluno,  with  his  cloak 
draped  over  his  shouMer,  a  pirl  going  to  market  or  carrying  her 
pitcher  back  irom  the  fountain,  everything  and  every  person  that 


142  A    DARK   XIGHT':?   WORK. 

presented  it  or  himself  to  her  senses,  gave  them  a  delicious  shuck, 
as  if  it  were  sometliing  strangely  familiar  from  Pinelli.  but 
unseen  by  her  mortal  eyes  before.  She  forgot  her  despondency, 
her  ill-health  disappeared  as  if  by  magic  ;  the  Misses  Forbes, 
Mho  had  taken  the  pensive,  drooping  invalid  as  a  companion  out 
of  kindness  of  heart,  found  themselves  amply  rewarded  by 
the  sight  of  her  amended  health,  and  her  keen  enjoyment  of 
everything,  and  the  half-quaint,  half  naive  expressions  of  her 
pleasure. 

So  March  came  round;  Lent  was  late  that  year.  The  great 
nosegays  of  violets  and  camellias  were  for  s;ile  at  the  corni-r  of 
the  Condotti,  and  the  revellers  had  no  ditficulty  in  procuring 
much  rarer  flowers  for  the  belles  of  the  Corso.  The  embassies 
had  their  balconies ;  the  attaches  of  the  Russian  Embas.sy  threw 
their  light  and  lovely  presents  at  every  pretty  girl,  or  suspicion 
of  a  pretty  girl,  who  passed  slowly  in  her  carriage,  covered  over 
with  her  white  domino,  and  holding  her  wire  mask  as  a  protection 
to  her  face  fi-om  the  showers  of  lime  confetti,  which  otherwise 
would  have  been  enough  to  blind  her ;  Mrs.  Forbes  had  her  own 
hired  balcony,  as  became  a  wealthy  and  respectable  English- 
woman. The  girls  had  a  great  basket  full  of  bouquets  with 
which  to  pelt  their  friends  in  the  crowd  below ;  a  store  of 
moccoletti  lay  piled  on  the  table  behind,  for  it  was  the  last  day 
of  Carnival,  and  as  soon  as  dusk  came  on  the  tapers  were  to  be 
lighted,  to  be  as  quickly  extinguished  by  every  means  in  every- 
one's power.  The  crowd  below  was  at  its  wikkst  pitch ;  the  rows 
of  stately  contadini  alone  sitting  immovable  as  their  jKJssiblo 
ancestors,  the  senators  who  received  Brennus  and  his  Gauls. 
Masks  and  white  dominoes,  foreign  gentlemen,  and  the  riflVart  of 
the  city,  slow-driving  carriages,  showers  of  flowers,  most  of  thorn 
fiided  1)V  this  time,  everyone  shouting  and  struggling  at  that  wild 
pitch  of  excitement  which  may  so  s<»on  turn  into  fury.  Tho 
Forbes  girls  had  given  place  at  tlu-  window  to  their  mother  and 
Ellinor,  who  were  gazing  half  amused,  half  terrified,  at  the  nuul 
parti-coloured  movement  below  ;  when  a  familiar  face  loi>ked  uj). 
smiling  a  recognition;  and  "How  shall  I  get  t(»  you?"  was  asked 
in  English,  by  the  well-known  voice  of  Canon  Livingstone.  Tlioy 
saw  him  disappear  under  the  l)alcony  on  which  they  wore  stand- 
ing, but  it  was  some  time  before  he  made  his  aj)pearance  in  tluir 
room.  And  when  ho  did,  he  was  almost  overjxiwercil  with 
greetings;  so  glad  were  they  to  see  >in  East  Chester  face. 

"When  did  you  come?  'WHiere  are  you?  What  a  }uty  you 
dill  not  come  sooner !  It  is  so  long  since  wo  have  lieard  any- 
tJiing;  do  tell  us  everything!     It  ia  three  weeks  since  wo  have 


A    DARK    NIGHTS   TTORK.  143 

had  any  letters;  those  tiresome  boats  have  been  so  irregular 
because  of  the  -weather."  "  How  was  everj-body — Miss  INIonro  in 
particular  ?  "  Ellinor  asks. 

He,  quietly  smiling,  replied  to  their  questions  by  slow  degrees. 
He  had  only  arrived  the  night  before,  and  had  been  hunting  for 
them  all  day :  but  no  one  could  give  him  any  distinct  intelligence 
as  to  their  whereabouts  in  all  the  noise  and  confusion  of  the 
place,  especially  as  they  had  their  only  English  servant  with 
them,  and  the  canon  was  not  strong  in  his  Italian.  He  was  not 
sorry  he  had  missed  all  but  this  last  day  of  Carnival,  for  he  was 
half  blinded  and  wholly  deafened,  as  it  was.  He  was  at  the 
"  Angleterre ; "  he  had  left  East  Chester  about  a  week  ago ;  he 
had  letters  for  all  of  them,  but  had  not  dared  to  bring  them 
through  the  crowd  for  fear  of  having  his  pocket  picked.  INIiss 
Monro  was  very  well,  but  very  uneasy  at  not  having  heard  from 
Ellinor  for  so  long :  the  irregularity  of  the  boats  must  be  telling 
both  ways,  for  their  English  friends  were  full  of  wonder  at  not 
hearing  from  Kome.  And  then  followed  some  well-deserved 
abuse  of  the  Koman  post,  and  some  suspicion  of  the  carelessness 
with  which  Italian  servants  posted  English  letters.  All  these 
answers  were  satisfactory  enough,  yet  Mrs.  Forbes  thought  she 
saw  a  latent  uneasiness  in  Canon  Livingstone's  manner,  and 
fancied  once  or  twice  that  he  hesitated  in  replying  to  Ellinor's 
questions.  But  there  was  no  being  quite  sure  in  the  increasing 
'darkness,  which  prevented  countenances  from  being  seen;  nor  in 
the  constant  interruptions  and  screams  which  were  going  on  in 
the  small  crowded  room,  as  wafting  handkerchiefs,  puffs  of  wind, 
or  veritable  extinguishers,  fastened  to  long  sticks,  and  coming 
from  nobody  knew  where,  put  out  taper  after  taper  as  fast  as 
they  were  lighted. 

"  You  will  come  home  with  us,"  said  Mrs.  Forbes.  "  I  can 
only  offer  you  cold  meat  with  tea;  our  cook  is  gone  out,  this 
being  a  universal  f esta ;  but  Ave  cannot  part  with  an  old  friend 
for  any  scruples  as  to  the  commissariat." 

"  Thank  you.  I  should  have  invited  myself  if  you  had  not 
been  good  enough  to  ask  me." 

When  they  had  all  arrived  at  their  apartment  in  the  Babuino 
(Canon  Livingstone  had  gone  round  to  fetch  the  letters  with 
which  he  was  entrusted),  INIrs.  Forbes  was  confirmed  in  her  sup- 
I'Osition  that  he  had  something  particular  and  not  very  pleasant 
to  say  to  Ellinor,  by  the  rather  grave  and  absent  manner  in 
uhich  he  awaited  her  return  from  taking  off  her  out-of-door 
things.  He  broke  off,  indeed,  in  his  conversation  with  Mrs. 
1-orbes  to  go  and  meet  Ellinor,  and  to  lead  her  into  the  most 
distant  window  before  he  delivered  Uor  letters. 


M4  A  DARK,  night's  work. 

"  From  what  you  said  in  the  balcony  yonder,  I  fear  you  have 
not  received  your  home  letters  regularly  ?  " 

"  No ! "  rephed  she,  startled  and  trembling,  she  hardly  knew 
why. 

"No  more  has  Miss  Monro  heard  from  you;  nor,  I  believe, 
has  some  one  else  who  expected  to  hear.  Your  man  of  business — 
I  forget  his  name." 

"  My  man  of  business !  Something  has  gone  wrong,  Mr. 
Livingstone.  Tell  me — I  want  to  know.  I  have  been  expecting 
it — only  tell  me."     She  sat  doAvn  suddenly,  as  white  as  ashes. 

"  Dear  !Miss  Wilkins,  I'm  afraid  it  is  painful  enough,  but  you 
are  fancying  it  worse  than  it  is.  All  your  friends  are  quite  well ; 
but  an  old  servant " 

"  Well ! "  she  said,  seeing  his  hesitation,  and  leaning  forwards 
and  griping  at  his  arm. 

"  Is  taken  up  on  a  charge  of  manslaughter  or  murder.  Oh  ! 
Mrs.  Forbes,  come  here  ! "' 

For  Eilinor  had  fainted,  falling  forwards  on  the  arm  she  had 
held.  When  she  came  round  she  was  lying  half  undressed  on 
her  bed ;  they  were  giving  her  tea  in  spoonfuls. 

"  I  must  get  up,"  she  moaned.     "  I  must  go  home." 

"  You  must  lie  still,"  said  Mrs.  Forbes,  firmly. 

"  You  don't  know.  I  must  go  home,"  she  repeated ;  and  she 
tried  to  sit  up,  but  fell  back  helpless.  Then  she  did  not  speak, 
but  lay  and  thought.  "  Will  you  bring  me  some  meat  ?  "  she 
whispered.  "  And  some  wine  ?  "  They  brought  her  meat  and 
wine ;  she  ate,  though  she  was  choking.  "  Now,  please,  bring 
me  my  letters,  and  leave  me  alone ;  and  after  that  I  sliould  like 
to  speak  to  Canon  Livingstone.  Don't  let  him  go,  please.  I 
won't  be  long — half  an  hour,  I  think.     Only  let  me  be  alone." 

There  was  a  hurried  feverish  sharpness  in  her  tone  that  made 
Mr.s.  Forbes  very  anxious,  but  she  judged  it  best  to  comj)ly  witli 
her  requests. 

The  letters  were  brought,  the  lights  were  arranged  so  that  she 
could  read  them  lying  on  her  bed  ;  and  they  left  her.  Then  she 
got  np  and  stood  on  her  feet,  dizzy  enough,  her  arms  cla.^ix^l  at 
the  top  of  luT  head,  her  eyes  dilated  and  staring  as  if  liK>king 
at  some  great  horror.  But  after  a  few  minutes  slio  sat  down 
suddenly,  and  began  to  nad.  Letters  were  evidently  missing. 
Some  had  been  sent  by  an  opportunity  that  had  been  delayed  on 
the  journey,  and  had  not  yet  arrivid  in  Kome.  Others  had  been 
dtsi)atched  by  the  post,  but  the  .severe  weatlier,  the  unusual 
Huow,  had,  in  tho.se  days,  before  the  railway  was  made  between 
Lyons  and  Marseilles,  put  a  stop  to  many  a  traveller's  j)Ians,  and 


A    DAKK    NIGHTS    -WORK.  145 

had  rendered  the  transmission  of  the  mail  extremely  uncertain; 
so,  much  of  that  intelligence  which  Miss  Monro  had  evidently 
considered  as  certain  to  be  known  to  Ellinor  was  entirely  matter 
of  conjecture,  and  could  only  be  guessed  at  from  what  was  told 
in  these  letters.  One  was  from  Mr.  Johnson,  one  from  Mr. 
Brown,  one  from  Miss  INIonro;  of  course  the  last  mentioned  was 
the  first  read.  She  spoke  of  the  shock  of  the  discovery  of  Mr. 
Dunster's  body,  found  in  the  cutting  of  the  new  line  of  railroad 
from  Hamley  to  the  nearest  railway  station  ;  the  body  so  hastily 
buried  long  ago,  in  its  clothes,  by  which  it  was  now  recognised — ■ 
a  recognition  confirmed  by  one  or  two  more  personal  and  in- 
destructible things,  such  as  his  watch  and  seal  with  his  initials ; 
of  the  shock  to  everyone,  the  Osbaldistones  in  particular,  on  the 
further  discovery  of  a  fleam  or  horse-lancet,  having  the  name  of 
Abraham  Dixon  engraved  on  the  handle ;  how  Dixon  had  gone 
on  Mr.  Osbaldistone's  business  to  a  horse-fair  in  Ireland  some 
weeks  before  this,  and  had  had  his  leg  broken  by  a  kick  from  an 
unruly  mare,  so  that  he  was  barely  able  to  move  about  when 
the  officers  of  justice  went  to  apprehend  him  in  Tralee. 

At  this  point  Ellinor  cried  out  loud  and  shrill. 

'•  Oh,  Dixon  !  Dixon  !  and  I  was  away  enjoying  myself." 

They  heard  her  cry,  and  came  to  the  door,  but  it  was  bolted 
inside. 

'•Please,  go  away,"  she  said;  "please,  go.  I  will  be  very 
quiet;  only,  please,  go." 

She  could  not  bear  just  then  to  read  any  more  of  Miss  Monro's 
letter ;  she  tore  open  Mr.  Johnson's — the  date  was  a  fortnight 
earlier  than  !Miss  INIonro's ;  he  also  expressed  his  wonder  at  not 
hearing  from  her,  in  reply  to  his  letter  of  January  9 ;  but  he 
added,  that  he  thought  that  her  trustees  had  judged  rightly ;  the 
handsome  sum  the  railway  company  had  offered  for  the  land 
when  their  surveyor  decided  on  the  alteration  of  the  line,  Mr. 
Osbaldistone,  &c.  &c.  She  could  not  read  any  more ;  it  was  Fate 
pursuing  her.  Then  she  took  the  letter  up  again  and  tried  to 
read ;  but  all  that  reached  her  understanding  was  the  fact  that 
Mr.  Johnson  had  sent  his  present  letter  to  Miss  Monro,  thinking 
that  she  might  know  of  some  private  opportunity  safer  than  the 
post.  Mr.  Brown's  was  just  such  a  letter  as  he  occasionally  sent 
her  from  time  to  time ;  a  correspondence  that  arose  out  of  their 
mutual  regard  for  their  dead  friend  Mr.  Ness.  It,  too,  had  been 
sent  to  Miss  Monro  to  direct.  Ellinor  was  on  the  point  of  putting 
it  aside  entirely,  when  the  name  of  Corbet  caught  her  eye  :  "  You 
will  be  interested  to  hoar  that  the  old  pupil  of  our  departed 
friend,  who  was  so  anxious  to  obtain  tlie  folio   Virgil  wth  the 

L 


1-iG  A    DAFvK    N'lGIlfs   -WORK. 

Italian  notes,  is  appointed  the  new  judge  in  room  of  Mr.  Justice 
Jenkin.  At  least  I  conclude  that  Mr.  Ralph  Corbet,  Q.C.,  is  the 
same  as  the  Virrjil  fancier." 

"  Ygp,"  said  Ellinor,  bitterly  ;  ''  he  judjred  well ;  it  would  never 
have  done."  They  wore  the  first  words  of  anythins  like  repnxich 
which  she  ever  formed  in  hc-r  own  mind  during  all  these  years. 
She  thought  for  a  few  moments  of  the  old  times :  it  seemed  to 
steady  her  brain  to  think  of  them.  Then  she  took  up  and  finished 
Miss  Monro's  letter.  That  excellent  fnend  had  done  all  which 
she  thought  Ellinor  would  have  wished  without  delay.  She  had 
■written  to  Mr.  Johnson,  and  charged  liim  to  do  everj'thing  he 
cculd  to  defend  Dixon,  and  to  spare  no  expense.  She  was 
thinking  of  going  to  the  prison  in  the  county  town,  to  see  the 
old  man  herself,  but  Ellinor  could  perceive  that  all  these  endea- 
vours and  purposes  of  Miss  Monro's  were  based  on  love  for  her 
o^vn  pupil,  and  a  desire  to  srt  her  mind  at  ease  as  far  as  she 
could,  rather  than  from  any  idea  that  Dixon  himself  could  be 
innocent.  Ellinor  put  down  the  letters,  and  went  to  the  door, 
then  turned  back,  and  locked  them  up  in  her  writing-case  with 
trembling  hands;  and  after  that  she  entered  the  drawing- rcom, 
looking  liker  to  a  ghost  than  to  a  living  woman. 

"  Can  I  speak  to  you  for  a  minute  alone?  "  Her  still,  tuneless 
Toice  made  the  words  into  a  command.  Canon  Livingstone  arose 
and  followed  her  into  the  little  dining-room.  "  Will  you  tell 
me  all  you  know — all  you  have  heard  about  my — you  know 
what  ?  " 

'•  ^liss  Monro  was  my  informant — at  least  at  first — it  was  in 
the  Times  the  day  before  I  loft.  Miss  Monro  says  it  could  only 
have  been  done  in  a  moment  of  anger  if  the  old  servant  is  really 
guilty ;  that  he  was  as  steady  and  good  a  man  a.«  she  ever  know, 
and  she  seems  to  have  a  strong  feeling  against  Mr.  Dunstor,  as 
always  giving  your  father  much  unnecessary  trouble;  in  tact, 
fihe  hints  that  his  disappearance  at  the  time  was  supposed  to  be 
the  cause  of  a  considerable  loss  of  property  to  Mr.  Wilkina." 

"  No !  "  said  Ellinor,  eagerly,  feeling  that  some  justice  ought 
to  be  done  to  the  dead  man ;  and  then  she  stopped  sliort.,  fearful 
of  saying  anything  that  should  betray  her  full  knowledge.  **  I 
mean  this,"  she  went  on ;  "  Mr.  Dunster  was  a  very  disagreeable 
man  personally — and  papa — we  none  of  us  likeil  him ;  but  he 
■was  ([uite  honest — please  remember  that." 

TIn!  canon  bowed,  and  siiid  a  few  acquiescing  words,  llo 
■waited  for  her  to  sj)eak  again. 

"  .Miss  Monro  savs  .she  is  going  to  see  Dixon  in——" 

"  Oh,  .Mr.  Livingstone,  I  can't  bear  it !  " 


A    DARK    night's    WORK.  147 

He  let  her  alone,  looking  at  her  pitifully,  as  she  twisted  and 
\\Tiing  her  hands  together  in  her  endeavoiii*  to  regain  tlie  quiet 
manner  she  had  striven  to  maint-aiu  through  the  interview.  She 
looked  up  at  him  with  a  poor  attempt  at  an  apologetic  smile : 

"  It  is  so  terrible  to  think  of  that  good  old  man  in  prison  !  " 

*'  You  do  not  believe  him  guilty  !  "  said  Canon  Livingstone,  in 
some  surprise.  "  I  am  afraid,  from  all  I  heard  and  read,  there  is 
but  little  doubt  that  he  did  kill  the  man  ;  I  trust  in  some  moment 
of  irritation,  with  no  premeditated  malice."' 

Ellinor  shook  her  head. 

"  How  soon  can  I  get  to  England  ?"  asked  she.  "  I  must  start 
at  once." 

'•  Mrs.  Forbes  sent  out  while  you  were  lying  down.  I  am 
afraid  there  is  no  boat  to  Marseilles  till  Thursday,  the  day  after 
to-morrow." 

"  But  I  must  go  sooner  !  "  said  Ellinor,  starting  up.  "  I  must 
go ;  please  help  me.     He  may  be  tried  before  I  can  get  there  !  " 

"  Alas  !  I  fear  that  will  be  the  case,  whatever  haste  you  make. 
The  trial  was  to  come  on  at  the  Hellingford  Assizes,  and  that 
town  stands  first  on  the  Midland  Circuit  list.  To-day  is  the 
27  th  of  February ;  the  assizes  begin  on  the  7th  of  March." 

*'  I  will  start  to-morrow  morning  early  for  Civita ;  there  may 
be  a  boat  there  they  do  not  know  of  here.  At  any  rate,  I  shall 
be  on  my  way.  If  he  dies,  I  must  die  too.  Oh  !  I  don't  know 
what  I  am  saying,  I  am  so  titterly  crushed  down  I  It  would  be 
such  a  kindness  if  you  would  go  away,  and  let  no  one  come  to 
me.  I  know  Mrs.  Forbes  is  so  good,  she  will  forgive  me.  I  will 
say  good-by  to  you  all  before  I  go  to-morrow  morning;  but  I 
must  think  now." 

F(jr  one  moment  he  stood  looking  at  her  as  if  he  longed  to 
comfort  her  by  more  words.  He  thought  better  of  it,  however, 
and  silently  left  the  room. 

For  a  long  time  Ellinor  sat  still ;  now  and  then  taking  up  Miss 
]M(mro"s  letter,  and  re-reading  the  few  torrible  details.  Th<^ii  she 
bethought  her  that  possibly  the  canon  mij:ht  have  brought  a  copy 
of  tlie  Times,  containing  the  e.vamination  of  Dixon  bofore  the 
■magistrates,  and  she  opened  tihe  door  and  called  to  a  passing 
servant  to  make  the  intjuiry.  She  was  quite  right  in  her  con- 
jecture ;  Dr.  Livingstone  had  had  the  pajier  in  his  pocket  during 
his  interview  with  her ;  but  he  thought  the  evidence  so  conclusive, 
that  the  perusal  of  it  would  only  be  adding  to  her  extreme  distress 
by  accelcniting  the  conviction  of  Dixon's  guilt,  which  he  believed 
ehe  must  ;irrivc  at  sooner  or  later. 

He  had  been  reading  the  report  over  with  Mrs.  Forbes  and 

L  2 


148  A    DARK    night's    WOKK. 

her  daughters,  after  his  return  from  Ellinor's  room,  and  they 
were  all  participating  in  his  opinion  upon  it,  •when  her  request 
for  the  Times  was  brought.  They  had  reluctantly  agreed,  saying 
there  did  not  appear  to  be  a  shadow  of  doubt  on  the  fact  of 
Dixon's  having  killed  Mr.  Dunster,  oidy  hoping  there  might 
prove  to  be  some  extenuating  circumstances,  which  ElUnor  had 
probably  recollected,  and  which  she  was  desirous  of  producing 
on  the  approaching  trial. 


CHAPTER  Xlir. 


Ellikor,  having  read  the  report  of  Dixon's  examination  in  the 
newspaper,  bathed  her  eyes  and  forehead  in  cold  water,  and  tried 
to  still  her  poor  heart's  beating,  that  she  might  be  clear  and 
collected  enough  to  weigh  the  evidence. 

Every  line  of  it  was  condemnatory.  One  or  two  witnesses 
spoke  of  Dixon's  unconcealed  dislike  of  Dunster,  a  dislike  which 
Ellinor  knew  had  been  entertained  by  the  old  servant  out  of  a 
species  of  loyalty  to  his  master,  as  well  as  from  personal  distaste. 
The  fleam  was  proved  beyond  all  doubt  to  be  Dixon's;  and  a 
man,  who  had  been  stable-boy  in  Mr.  Wilkins's  service,  swore 
that  on  the  day  when  Mr.  Dunster  was  missed,  and  when  the 
whole  town  was  wondering  what  had  become  of  him,  a  certain 
colt  of  Mr.  Wilkins's  had  needed  bleeding,  and  that  he  had  been 
sent  by  Dixon  to  the  farrier's  for  a  horse-lancet,  an  errand  which 
he  had  remarked  upon  at  the  time,  as  he  knew  that  Di.xon  had  a 
fleam  of  his  own. 

Mr.  Osbaldistone  was  examined.  He  kept  interrupting  himself 
perpetually  to  express  his  surprise  at  the  fact  of  so  steady  and 
well-conducted  a  man  as  Dixon  being  guilty  of  so  heinous  a 
crime,  and  was  willing  enough  to  testify  to  the  excellent  character 
which  he  had  borne  during  all  the  many  years  he  had  been  in 
his  (Mr.  Osbaldistone's)  service;  but  he  appeared  to  be  quite 
convinced  by  the  evidence  jireviously  given  of  the  prisoner's  guilt 
in  the  matter,  and  strengthened  the  case  agiiinst  him  nmtoriiUly 
by  stating  the  circumstance  of  the  old  mjm's  dogged  imwilling- 
nes.-4  to  have  the  slightest  interference  by  cultivation  with  that 
particular  piece  of  ground. 

Here  Ellinor  shuddered.  Before  her,  in  that  lionian  bed- 
c'lianibcr,  rose  the  fatal  ol)Iong  she  knew  by  heart — a  little  green 
moss  or  lichen,  and  thinly-growing  blades  of  gra.ss  scarcely  cover- 
ing the  caked  and  undisturbed  soil  under  the  old  tree.     Olj,  that 


A   r.MlK   NIGni's   WORK.  149 

ehe  had  been  in  England  when  the  surveyors  of  the  railway 
between  Ashcombe  and  Hamley  had  altered  their  Une ;  she  would 
have  entreated,  implored,  comjielled  her  trustees  not  to  have  sold 
that  piece  of  ground  for  any  sum  of  money  Avhatever.  She 
would  have  bribed  the  surveyors,  done  she  knew  not  what — but, 
now  it  was  too  late ;  she  would  not  let  her  mind  wander  oft'  to 
what  might  have  been ;  she  would  force  herself  again  to  attend 
to  the  newspaper  columns.  There  was  little  more  :  the  prisoner 
had  been  asked  if  he  could  say  anything  to  clear  himself,  and 
properly  cautioned  not  to  say  anything  to  incriminate  himself. 
The  poor  old  man's  person  was  described,  and  his  evident  emotion. 
•'  The  prisoner  was  observed  to  clutch  at  the  rail  before  him  to 
steady  himself,  and  his  colour  changed  so  much  at  this  part  of 
the  evidence  that  one  of  the  turnkeys  offered  him  a  glass  of 
water,  which  he  declined.  He  is  a  man  of  a  strongly-built  Irame, 
and  vrith  rather  a  morose  and  sullen  cast  of  countenance." 

"  My  poor,  poor  Dixon  !  "  soid  Ellinor,  laying  down  the  paper 
for  an  instant,  and  she  was  near  crying,  only  she  had  resolved  to 
shed  no  tears  tdl  she  had  finished  all,  and  could  judge  of  the 
chances.  There  were  but  a  few  lines  more :  "  At  one  time  the 
prisoner  seemed  to  be  desirous  of  alleging  something  in  his 
defence,  but  he  changed  his  mind,  if  such  had  been  the  case,  and 
in  reply  to  Mr.  Gordon  (the  magistrate)  he  only  said,  '  You've 
made  a  pretty  strong  case  out  again  me,  gentlemen,  and  it  seems 
for  to  satisfy  you;  so  I  think  I'll  not  disturb  your  minds  by 
saying  anything  more.'  Accordingly,  Dixon  now  stands  com- 
mitted for  trial  for  murder  at  the  next  Hellingford  Assizes, 
which  commence  on  March  the  seventh,  before  Baron  llushton 
and  Mr.  Justice  Corbet." 

"Mr.  Justice  Corbet!"  The  words  ran  through  Ellinor  ;<s 
though  she  had  been  stabbed  with  a  knife,  and  by  an  irrepressible 
movement  she  stood  up  rigid.  The  young  man,  her  lover  in  her 
youth,  the  old  servant  who  in  those  days  was  perpetually  about 
her — the  two  who  had  so  often  met  in  familiar  if  not  friendly  rela- 
tions, now  to  face  each  other  as  judge  and  accused  !  She  could 
not  tell  how  much  Mr.  Corbet  had  conjectured  from  the 
partial  revelation  she  had  made  to  him  of  the  impending  shame 
that  hung  over  her  and  hers.  A  day  or  two  ago  she  could  have 
remembered  the  exact  words  she  had  used  in  that  memorable 
interview ;  but  now,  strive  as  she  would,  she  could  only  recall 
facts,  not  words.  After  all,  the  Mr.  Justice  Corbet  might  not 
be  lialph.  There  was  one  chance  in  a  hundred  against  the 
identity  of  the  two. 

While  she  was  weighing  probabilities  in  her  sick  dizzy  mind, 


150  A    DARK    night's   WORK. 

she  heard  soft  steps  outside  her  bolted  door,  and  low  voices 
whispering.  It  was  the  bedtime  of  happy  people  ■with  hearts  at 
ease.  Some  of  the  footsteps  passed  lightly  on  ;  but  there  was  a 
gentle  rap  at  Ellinor's  door.  She  pressed  her  two  hot  hands  hard 
against  her  temples  for  an  instant  before  she  went  to  open 
the  door.  There  stood  Mrs.  Forbes  in  her  handsome  evening 
dress,  holding  a  lighted  lamp  iii  her  hand. 

"May  I  come  in,  my  dear?"  she  asked.  Ellinor's  stiff  dry 
lips  refused  to  utter  the  words  of  assent  which  indeed  did  not 
come  readily  from  her  heart. 

"  I  am  so  grieved  at  this  sad  news  which  the  canon  brings.  I 
can  well  understand  what  a  shock  it  must  be  to  you :  we  have 
just  been  saying  it  must  be  as  bad  for  you  as  it  would  be  to  us 
if  our  old  Donald  should  turn  out  to  have  been  a  hidden  miu"derer 
all  these  years  that  he  has  lived  with  us ;  I  really  could  have  as 
soon  suspected  Donald  as  that  white-haired  respectable  old  man 
who  used  to  come  and  see  you  at  East  Chester." 

Ellinor  felt  that  she  must  say  something.  '•  It  is  a  terrible 
shock — poor  old  man !  and  no  friend  near  him,  even  Mr.  Os- 
ba!  Jstone  givmg  evidence  again  him.  Oh,  dear,  dear  !  why  did 
I  ever  come  to  Kome  ?  " 

" Now,  my  dear,  }ou  must  not  let  yourself  take  an  exaggerated 
view  of  the  case.  Sad  and  shocking  as  it  is  to  have  been  so 
deceived,  it  is  what  happens  to  many  of  us,  though  not  to  so  terrible 
a  degree ;  and  as  to  yoiu*  coming  to  Rome  having  anj-thing  to  do 
with  it " 

(Mrs.  Forbes  almost  smiled  at  the  idea,  so  anxious  was  she  to 
banish  the  idea  of  self-reproach  from  Ellinor's  sensitive  mind,  but 
Ellinor  interrupted  hor  al>ruptly  :) 

"  Mrs.  Forbes !  did  he — did  Canon  Livingstone  tell  you  that  I 
must  leave  to-morrow  ?  I  must  go  to  England  as  fast  as  possible 
to  do  what  I  can  for  Dixon." 

"  Yes,  he  told  us  you  were  thinking  of  it,  and  it  was  partly 
that  made  me  force  myself  in  upon  you  to-night.  I  think,  my 
love,  you  are  mistaken  in  feeling  as  if  you  were  called  upon  to  do 
more  tlian  v;hat  the  canon  tells  me  Miss  Monro  has  already  done 
in  your  name — engaged  the  best  legal  advice,  and  spared  no 
expense  to  give  the  suspected  man  ever}-  chance.  What  could  you 
do  more  even  if  you  were  on  the  spot  ?  And  it  is  very  jxv^ible 
that  the  trial  may  have  come  on  hifore  }ou  got  homo.  Then 
what  could  you  ilo .'  He  would  oit her  have  boon  acquitted  or 
condenmed  ;  if  tho  former,  he  would  find  public  .sympathy  all  in  his 
favour  ;  it  always  i.s  for  the  unjustly  uccuslhI.  And  if  ho  turns 
out  to  he  guilty,  my  dear  ElliiiDr,  it  will  be  far  better  lor  you 


A    DARK   KIGHTS    WOUK.  151 

to  liave  all  the  softening  which  distance  can  give  to  such  a  dreadful 
termination  to  the  life  of  a  poor  man  whom  you  have  respected  so 
long." 

But  EUinor  spoke  again  with  a  kind  of  irritated  determination, 
very  foreign  to  her  usual  soft  docility  : 

"  Please  just  let  me  judge  for  myself  this  once.  I  am  not  im- 
grateful.  God  knows  I  don't  want  to  vex  one  who  has  been  so 
kind  to  me  as  you  have  been,  dear  Mrs.  Forbes ;  but  I  must  go — 
and  every  word  you  say  to  dissuade  me  only  makes  me  more 
convinced.  I  am  going  to  Civita  to-morrow.  I  shall  be  that 
much  on  the  way.     I  cannot  rest  here." 

Mrs.  Forbes  looked  at  her  in  grave  silence.  EUinor  could  not 
bear  the  consciousness  of  that  tixed  gaze.  Yet  its  tixity  only 
arose  from  Mrs.  Forbes'  perplexity  a.s  to  how  best  to  assist  EUinor, 
whether  to  restrain  her  by  further  advice — of  which  the  first  dope 
had  proved  so  useless — or  to  speed  her  departure.  EUinor  broke 
in  on  her  meditations  : 

"  You  have  always  been  so  kind  and  good  to  me, — go  on  being 
m — please,  do  !  Leave  me  alone  now,  dear  Mrs.  Forbes,  for  I 
cannot  bear  lalknig  about  it,  and  help  me  to  go  to-morrow,  and 
you  do  not  know  how  I  will  pray  to  God  to  bless  }'ou  ! " 

Such  an  appeal  was  irresistible.  Mrs.  Forbes  kissed  her  very 
tenderly,  and  went  to  rejoin  her  daughters,  who  were  clustered 
together  in  their  mother's  bedroom  awaiting  her  coming. 

"  WeU,  mamma,  how  is  she?     What  does  she  say?" 

"  She  is  in  a  very  excited  state,  poor  thing !  and  has  got  so 
strong  an  impression  that  it  is  her  duty  to  go  back  to  England  and 
do  all  .she  can  for  this  wretched  old  man,  that  I  am  afraid  we 
must  not  oppose  her.  I  am  afi-aid  that  she  really  must  go  on 
Thursday." 

Although  Mrs.  Forbes  secured  the  services  of  a  travelling-maid, 
Dr.  Livingstone  insisted  on  accompanying  EUinor  to  England, 
and  it  would  have  required  more  energy  than  she  possessed  at 
this  time  to  combat  a  resolution  which  both  words  and  manner 
expressed  as  determined.  She  would  much  rather  have  tra- 
velled alpne  with  her  maid;  she  did  not  feel  the  need  of  the 
services  he  offered ;  but  she  was  utterly  listless  and  broken 
down  ;  all  her  interest  was  centred  in  the  thought  of  Dixon 
and  his  approaching  trial,  and  perplexity  as  to  the  mode  in  which 
she  must  do  her  duty. 

Thf-y  emljarked  late  that  evening  in  the  tardy  Santa  Luciay 
and  EUinor  immediately  went  to  her  berth.  She  was  not  sea- 
sick ;  that  might  possibly  have  lessened  her  mental  sufferings, 
whicli  all  night  long  tormented  her.     Uigh-perched  in  an  upper 


152  A   DARK  >'IGUT.S   V^OHK. 

berth,  she  did  not  like  disturbing  the  other  occupants  of  the 
cabin  till  daylight  appeared.  Then  she  descended  and  dressed, 
and  went  on  deck ;  the  vessel  was  just  passing  the  rocky  coast 
of  Elba,  and  the  sky  was  flushed  with  rosy  light,  that  made  the 
shadows  on  the  island  of  the  most  exquisite  purple.  The  sea 
still  heaved  with  yesterday's  storm,  but  the  motion  only  added  to 
the  beauty  of  the  sparkles  and  white  foam  that  dimpled  and  ; 
curled  on  the  blue  waters.  Tlie  air  was  delicious,  after  the 
closeness  of  the  cabin,  and  Ellinor  only  wondered  that  more 
people  were  not  on  deck  to  enjoy  it.  One  or  two  stragglers  came 
up,  time  after  time,  and  began  pacing  the  deck.  Dr.  Livingstone 
came  up  before  very  long ;  but  he  seemed  to  have  made  a  rule  of 
not  obtruding  himself  on  Ellinor,  excepting  when  he  could  V>e 
of  some  use.  After  a  few  words  of  common-place  morning 
greeting,  he,  too,  began  to  walk  backwards  and  forwards,  while 
Ellinor  sat  quietly  watching  the  lovely  island  receding  fast  from 
her  view — a  beautiful  vision  never  to  be  seen  again  by  her  mortal 
eyes. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  shock  and  stound  all  over  the  vessel, 
her  progress  was  stopped,  and  a  rocking  vibration  was  felt  every- 
where. The  quarter-deck  was  filled  with  blasts  of  steam,  which 
obscured  everything.  Sick  people  came  rushing  up  out  of  tlu-ir 
berths  in  strange  tmdress;  the  steerage  jiassengers — a  motley  and 
picturesque  set  of  people,  in  many  varieties  of  gay  costume — 
took  refuge  on  the  quarter-deck,  speaking  loudly  in  all  varieties 
of  French  and  Italian  patois.  Ellinor  stood  up  in  silent,  won- 
dering dismay.  Was  the  Santa  Lucia  going  down  on  tlu*  great 
deep,  and  Dixon  unaided  in  his  peril  ?  Dr.  Livingstone  was  by 
her  side  in  a  moment.  She  could  s^carcely  sue  him  for  the 
vapour,  nor  hear  him  for  the  roar  of  the  escaping  steam. 

"  Do  not  be  unnecessarily  frightened,"  he  rej)eated,  a  little 
louder.  "  Some  accident  has  occurred  to  tlie  engines.  I  will  go 
and  make  instant  inquiry,  and  come  baik  to  you  as  .<oon  as  I  can. 
Trust  to  me." 

He  came  back  to  where  she  sat  trembling. 

"  A  part  of  the  engine  is  bri)ki'n,  through  the  carelessness  of 
these  Neapolitan  engineers;  they  say  we  must  make  for  the 
nearest  port — return  to  Civita,  in  fact." 

"But  Elba  is  not  many  miU's  away,"  said  Ellinor.  ''  If  this 
Bteam  were  but  away,  you  couM  see  it  still." 

"  And  if  we  were  landed  there  we  might  stay  on  the  island  for 
many  days ;  no  steamer  touches  there ;  but  if  we  return  to  Civita, 
■we  shall  be  in  time  for  the  Sunday  boat." 

*'  Oh,  dear,  dear  !  "  sjiid  Ellinor.     "  To-day  id  the  second— 


A   DAEK   NIGHTS  TTORK.  153 

Sunday  Avill  be  the  fourth — the  assizes  begin  on  the  seventh ; 
how  miserably  unfortunate  !  " 

"  Yes  !  "  he  said,  "  it  is.  And  these  things  always  appear  so 
doubly  unfortunate  when  they  hinder  our  serving  others !  But 
it  does  not  follow  that  because  the  assizes  begin  at  Hellingford 
on  the  seventh,  Dixon's  trial  will  come  on  so  soon.  We  may 
still  get  to  Marseilles  on  ]\Ionday  evening;  on  by  diligence  to 
Lyons;  it  will — it  must,  I  fear,  be  Thursday,  at  the  earliest, 
before  we  reach  Paris — Thursday,  the  eighth — and  I  suppose 
you  know  of  some  exculpatory  evidence  that  has  to  be  hunted 
up  ?  " 

He  added  this  unwillingly  ;  for  he  saw  that  Ellinor  was  jealous 
of  the  secresy  she  had  hitherto  maintained  as  to  her  reasons  for 
believing  Dixon  innocent ;  but  he  could  not  help  thinking  that 
she,  a  gentle,  timid  woman,  unaccustomed  to  action  or  business, 
•would  require  some  of  the  assistance  which  he  would  Imve  been 
so  thankful  to  give  her;  especially  as  tliis  untoward  accident 
would  increase  the  press  of  time  in  which  what  was  to  be  done 
•would  have  to  be  done. 

But  no.  Ellinor  scarcely  replied  to  his  half-inquiry  as  to  her 
reasons  for  hastening  to  England.  She  yielded  to  all  his  direc- 
tions, agreed  to  his  plans,  but  gave  him  none  of  her  confidence, 
and  he  had  to  submit  to  this  exclusion  from  sympathy  in  the 
exact  causes  of  her  anxiety. 

Once  more  in  the  dreary  sala,  with  the  gaudy  painted  ceiling, 
the  bare  dirty  floor,  the  innumerable  rattling  doors  and  windows  ! 
Ellinor  was  stibmissive  and  patient  in  demeanour,  because  so 
sick  and  despairing  at  heart.  Her  maid  was  ten  times  as  demon- 
strative of  annoyance  and  disgust ;  she  who  had  no  particular 
reason  for  wanting  to  reach  England,  but  who  thought  it  became 
her  dignity  to  make  it  seem  as  though  she  had. 

At  length  the  weary  time  was  over ;  and  again  they  sailed  past 
Elba,  and  arrived  at  Marseilles.  Now  Ellinor  began  to  feel  how 
much  assistance  it  was  to  her  to  have  Dr.  Livingstone  for  a 
"  courier,"  as  he  had  several  times  called  himself. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

"  WnEP.E  now  ?  "  said  the  canon,  as  they  approached  the  London 
Bridge  station. 

"  To  the  Great  Western,"  said  she  ;   "  Hellingford  is  on  that 
line,  I  see.     But,  please,  now  we  must  part." 


154  A    DARK    night":;    WORK. 

"  Then  I  may  not  go  with  you  to  Hellingford  ?  At  any  rate, 
you  will  allow  me  to  so  with  you  to  the  railway  station,  and  do 
my  Ipst  office  as  courier  in  getting  you  your  ticket  and  placing 
you  in  the  carriage." 

So  they  went  together  to  the  station,  and  learnt  that  no  train 
was  leaving  for  Helluigford  for  two  hours.  There  was  nothing 
for  it  but  to  go  to  the  hotel  close  by,  and  pass  away  the  time  as 
best  they  could. 

Ellinor  called  for  her  maid's  accoimts,  and  dismissed  her.  Some 
refreshment  that  the  canon  had  ordered  was  eaten,  and  the  table 
cleared.  He  began  walking  up  and  down  the  room,  his  arm? 
folded,  his  eyes  cast  do^^Tl.  Every  now  and  then  he  looked  at 
the  clock  on  the  mantelpiece.  When  that  showed  that  it  only 
wanted  a  quarter  of  an  hour  to  the  time  appointed  for  the  train 
to  start,  he  came  up  to  Ellinor,  who  sat  leaning  her  head  upon 
her  hand,  her  hand  resting  on  the  table. 

"  Miss  Wilkins,"  he  began — and  there  was  something  peculiar 
in  his  tone  which  startled  Ellinor — '*  I  am  sure  you  will  not 
scruple  to  apply  to  me  if  in  any  possible  way  I  cau  help  you  in 
this  Slid  trouble  of  yours?" 

"  No,  indeed  I  won't !"  said  Ellinor,  gratefully,  and  putting  out 
her  hand  as  a  token.  He  took  it,  and  held  it ;  she  Avent  on,  a 
little  more  hastily  than  before  :  ''  You  know  you  were  so  good  as 
to  say  you  would  go  at  once  and  see  Miss  Monro,  and  tell  her  all 
you  know,  and  that  I  will  write  to  her  as  soon  as  I  can." 

"  May  1  not  ask  for  one  line  .*"  he  continued,  still  holding  her 
hand. 

"Certainly:  so  kind  a  friend  as  you  shall  hear  all  I  can  tell; 
that  is,  all  I  am  at  libertv  to  tell." 

"  A  friend !  Yes,  I  am  a  friend ;  and  I  will  not  urge  any 
other  claim  just  now.     Perhaps " 

Ellinor  could  not  affect  to  misunderstand  him.  His  manner 
implied  even  more  than  his  words. 

*'No!"8he  said,  eagerly.  "'We  are  friends.  That  is  it.  I 
think  we  shall  always  be  friends,  though  I  will  tell  you  now — 
something — this  much — it  is  a  sad  secret.  God  help  me  !  I  am 
as  guilty  as  poor  Dixon,  if,  indeed,  he  is  guilty — but  he  is 
innocent — indeed  he  is  ! " 

"  If  he  is  no  more  guilty  than  you,  I  am  sure  he  is  !  Let  me 
be  more  than  your  friend,  Ellinor — let  me  know  all,  and  help 
yon  all  that  I  can,  with  the  right  uf  an  alliancctl  lm.>;band." 

"  No,  no  I"  said  she,  frightened  both  at  what  she  had  revealed, 
and  his  eager,  warm,  imploring  manner.  "  That  can  never  bo. 
You  do  not  know  the  disgrace  that  may  be  hanging  over  mo." 


I 


A    DAUK    NIGarS   "WORK.  155 

"  If  that  is  all,"  said  he.  "  I  take  my  risk — if  that  Ls  all — if  you 
only  fear  that  I  may  shrink  from  sharing  any  peril  you  may  be 
exposed  to." 

"  It  is  not  peril — it  is  shame  and  obloquy "  she  murmured. 

"  Well !  shame  and  obloquy.  Perhaps,  if  I  knew  all  I  could 
shield  you  from  it." 

"  Don't,  pray,  speak  any  more  about  it  now ;  if  you  do,  I  must 
say  '  No.' " 

She  did  not  perceive  the  implied  encouragement  in  these 
words ;  but  he  did,  and  they  sufficed  to  make  him  patient. 

The  time  was  up,  and  he  could  only  render  her  his  last 
services  as  "  courier,''  and  none  other  but  the  necessary  words 
at  starting  passed  between  them. 

But  he  went  away  from  the  station  with  a  cheerfid  heart ; 
Avhi'.e  she,  sitting  alone  and  quiet,  and  at  last  approaching  near  to 
the  place  where  so  much  was  to  be  decided,  felt  sadder  and 
sadder,  heavier  and  heavier. 

All  the  intelligence  she  had  gained  since  she  had  seen  the 
Gali'jnant  in  Paris,  had  been  from  the  waiter  at  the  Great 
Western  Hotel,  who,  after  returning  from  a  vain  search  for  an 
unoccupied  Times,  had  volunteered  the  information  that  there 
was  an  unusual  demand  for  the  paper  because  of  Hellingford 
Assizes,  and  the  trial  there  for  murder  tliat  was  going  on. 

There  was  no  electric  telegi-aph  in  those  days;  at  every  station 
EUinor  put  her  head  out,  and  enquired  if  the  murder  trial  at 
Hellingford  was  ended.  Some  porters  told  her  one  thing,  some 
another,  in  their  hurry  ;  she  felt  that  she  could  not  rely  on  them. 

*'  Drive  to  Mr.  Johnson's  in  the  High  street — quick,  quick.  I 
will  give  you  half-a-crown  if  you  will  go  quick." 

For,  indeed,  her  endurance,  her  patience,  was  strained  almost 
to  snapping:  yet  at  Hellingford  station,  where  doubtless  they 
couJd  have  told  her  the  truth,  she  dared  not  ask  the  question. 
It  was  past  eight  o'clock  at  night.  In  many  houses  in  the  little 
country  to\\Ti  there  were  unusual  lights  and  sounds.  The  in- 
habitants were  showing  their  hospitality  to  such  of  the  strangers 
brought  by  the  assizes,  as  were  lingering  there  now  that  the  business 
which  had  drawn  them  was  over.  The  Judges  had  left  the  town 
that  afternoon,  to  wind  up  the  circuit  by  the  short  list  of  a 
neighbouring  county  towTi. 

Mr.  Johnson  was  entertaining  a  dinner-party  of  attorneys  when, 
he  was  summoned  from  dessert  by  the  announcement  of  a  "  lady 
who  wanted  to  speak  to  him  immediate  and  particular." 

lie  went  into  his  study  in  not  the  best  of  tempers.  There  he 
found  his  client,  Miss  Wilkins,  white  and  ghastly,  standing  by 
the  fireplace,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  door. 


156  A    DARK    night's   '^ORK. 

"  It  is  you,  Miss  Wilkins  !     I  am  very  glad ** 

"  Dixon  ! "  said  she.     It  was  all  she  could  utter. 

Mr.  Johnson  shook  his  head. 

*'  Ah ;   that's  a  sad  piece  of  business,  and  I'm  afraid  it  has 
shortened  your  visit  at  Ivonie."' 

"Is  he ?" 

"  Ay,  I'm  afraid  there's  no  doubt  of  his  guilt.     At  any  rate, 
the  jury  found  him  gxiilty,  and " 

"  And  ! "'  she  repeated,  quickly,  sitting  down,  the  better  to  hear 
the  words  that  she  knew  were  coming 

"  He  is  condemned  to  death." 

"  When  ?  " 

"  The  Saturday  but  one  after  the   Judges  left  the  town,  I 
suppose — it's  the  usual  time." 

"  Who  tried  him  ?  " 

"  Judge  Corbet ;  and,  for  a  new  judge,  I  must  say  I  never 
knew  one  who  got  through  his  business  so  well.  It  was  really 
as  much  as  I  could  stand  to  hear  him  condemning  the  prisoner 
to  death.  Dixon  was  undoubtedly  guilt}^  and  lie  was  as  stubborn 
as  could  be — a  sullen  old  fellow  who  would  lot  no  one  help  him 
through.  I'm  sure  I  did  my  best  for  him  at  Miss  Monro's  desire 
and  for  your  sake.  But  he  would  furnish  me  with  no  particulars,  1 
help  us  to  no  evidence.  I  had  the  hardest  work  to  ket>p  him 
from  confessing  all  before  witnesses,  who  would  have  been  J 
bound  to  repeat  it  as  evidence  against  him.  Indeed,  I  nev< 
thought  he  would  have  pleaded  '  Not  Guilty.'  I  think  it  was  onlj 
with  a  desire  to  justify  himself  in  the  eyes  of  some  old  Ilamlej 
acquaintances.  Good  God,  Miss  Wilkins  I  What's  the  matter' 
You're  not  fainting!"  lie  rang  the  bell  till  the  rope  reniainec 
in  his  hands.  "  Here,  Esther  I  Jerry  !  Whoever  you  are,  com< 
•  I nick  !  Miss  Wilkins  has  fainted !  Water !  Wine !  Te  ' 
Mrs.  Ji)hiison  to  come  here  directly  !" 

Mrs.  Johnson,  a  kind,  mutherly  woman,  who  had  been  ex« 
eluded  from  the  "  gentleman's  dinner  party,*'  and  had  devott 
her  time  to  siiptfrintendiiig  the  dinner  her  husband  had  orderedJ 
came  in  answer  to  his  call  fur  assistance,  and  found  Ellinorlyinj 
back  in  her  chair  white  and  senseles."*. 

"  liessy.  Miss  Wilkins  has  faijited  ;  she  has  had  a  long  journoyJ 
and  is  in  a  fidget  about  Dixon,  the  oUl  fellow  who  was  .sentencec 
to  be  hung  for  that  murder,  you  know.  I  can't  stop  here,  1  nms 
go  back  to  those  men.  You  bring  her  roiuid,  and  see  her  to  be 
The  blue  room  is  empty  since  Ilnrner  left.  She  must  stop  here,' 
and  I'll  see  her  in  the  mttrning.  Take  care  of  her,  and  keej>  her 
mind  as  easy  as  you  can,  will  ynu,  for  she  can  do  tio  good  by 
fidgeting." 


A    DARK    NIGHTS   'WORK.  15. 

And,  knowing  that  he  left  Ellinor  in  good  hands,  and  with 
plenty  of  assistance  about  her,  he  returned  to  his  friends, 

Ellinor  came  to  herself  before  long. 

"  It  was  very  foolish  of  me,  but  I  could  not  help  it,"  said  she, 
apolorretically. 

'•No;  to  be  sure  not,  dear.  Here,  drink  this;  it  is  some  of 
Mr.  Jolmson's  best  port  wine  that  he  has  sent  out  on  purpose  for 
you.  Or  would  you  rather  have  some  white  soup — or  Avhat  ? 
We've  had  everj'thing  you  could  think  of  for  dinner,  and  you've 
only  to  ask  and  have.  And  then  you  must  go  to  bed,  my  dear 
— Mr.  Johnson  says  you  must ;  and  there's  a  well-aired  room, 
for  Mr.  Horner  only  left  us  this  morning." 

"  I  must  see  Mr.  Johnson  again,  please." 

'•  But  indeed  you  must  not.  You  must  not  worry  your  poor 
head  with  business  now  ;  and  Johnson  would  only  talk  to  you  on 
business.  No ;  go  to  bed,  and  sleep  sovmdly,  and  then  you'll 
get  up  quite  bright  and  strong,  and  fit  to  talk  about  business." 

"  I  cannot  sleep — I  cannot  rest  till  I  have  asked  Mr.  Johnson 
one  or  two  more  questions ;  indeed  I  cannot,"  pleaded  Ellinor. 

Mrs.  Johnson  knew  that  her  husband's  orders  on  such  occasions 
were  peremptory,  and  that  she  should  come  in  for  a  good  conjugal 
scolding  if,  after  what  he  had  said,  she  ventured  to  send  for  him 
again.  Yet  Ellinor  looked  so  entreating  and  wistful  that  she 
could  hardly  find  in  her  heart  to  refuse  her.  A  bright  thought 
struck  her. 

"  Here  is  pen  and  paper,  my  dear.  Could  you  not  Avrite  the 
questions  you  wanted  to  ask  ?  and  he'll  just  jot  down  the  answers 
upon  the  same  piece  of  paper.  I'll  send  it  in  by  Jerry.  He  has 
got  friends  to  dinner  with  him,  you  see." 

Ellinor  yielded.  She  sat,  resting  her  weary  head  on  her  hand, 
and  wondering  what  were  the  questions  which  would  have  come 
80  readily  to  her  tongue  could  she  have  been  face  to  face  -with 
him.     As  it  was,  she  only  •wrote  this  : 

"  How  early  can  I  see  you  to-morrow  morning  ?  WUl  you  take 
all  the  necessary  steps  for  my  going  to  Dixon  as  soon  as  possible? 
Could  I  be  admitted  to  him  to-night  ?  " 

The  pencilled  answers  were  : 

'•  Eight  o'clock.     Yes.     No." 

"  I  suppose  he  knows  best,"  said  Ellinor,  sighing,  as  she  read 
the  last  word.  "  But  it  seems  wicked  in  me  to  be  going  to  bed — 
and  he  so  near,  in  pri.son." 

When  she  rose  up  and  stood,  she  felt  the  former  dizziness 
return,  and  that  reconciled  her  to  seeking  rest  before  she  entered 
upon  the  duties  which  were  becoming  clearer  before  her,  now 


158  A  butRk  nights  work. 

that  she  knew  all  and  was  on  the  scene  of  action.  Mrs.  Johnson 
brought  her  white-wine  whey  instead  of  the  tea  she  had  asked 
for  ;  and  perhaps  it  was  owing  to  this  tliat  she  slept  so  soundly. 


CHAPTER  XV. 


When  EUinor  awoke  the  clear  light  of  dawn  was  fully  in  the 
room.  She  could  not  remember  where  she  was;  for  so  many 
mornings  she  had  wakened  up  in  strange  places  that  it  took  her 
several  minutes  before  she  could  make  out  the  geographical 
whereabouts  of  the  heavy  blue  moreen  curtains,  the  jiriut  of  the 
lord-lieutenant  of  the  county  on  the  wall,  and  all  the  handsome 
ponderous  mahogany  furniture  that  stufFt-d  up  the  room.  As 
soon  as  full  memory  came  into  her  mind,  she  started  up ;  nor 
did  she  go  to  bed  again,  although  she  saw  by  her  watch  on  the 
dressing-table  that  it  Avas  not  yet  six  o'clock.  She  dressed  her- 
self with  the  dainty  completeness  so  habitual  to  her  that  it  had 
become  an  unconscious  habit,  and  then — the  instinct  wa.s  irre- 
pi-essible — she  put  on  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  and  went  down, 
past  the  servant  on  her  knees  cleaning  the  doorstep,  out  into  the 
fresh  open  air;  and  so  she  found  her  way  down  the  High  Street 
to  Hellingford  Castle,  the  building  in  which  the  courts  of  assize ; 
were  held — the  prison  in  which  Dixon  lay  condemned  to  die. 
She  almost  knew  she  could  not  see  him  ;  yet  it  seemed  like  some  j 
amends  to  her  conscience  for  having  slept  througli  so  many  hovirt 
of  the  night  if  she  made  the  attempt.  She  went  up  to  th« 
porter's  lodge,  and  asked  the  little  girl  sweeping  out  the  place 
she  might  see  Abraham  Dixon.  The  child  stared  art  her,  and  ra 
into  the  house,  bringing  out  her  father,  a  great  burly  man.  wh< 
had  not  yet  donned  either  coat  or  waisteoat,  and  who,  cons« 
quently,  felt  the  morning  air  as  rather  nipping.  To  him  Ellinc 
repeated  her  question. 

''Him  as   is  to  be  hung  come  .Saturday   se'nnight?      Whj 
ma'am,  I'.e  nought  to  do  with  it.    You  may  go  to  the  governor'! 
house  and  try;  but,  if  you'll  excuse  me,  you'll  have  your  wnll 
ior  your  pains.     Them  in  the   (.•ondemned  cells  i;*  never 
by  nobody   without  the   sheritl's  ord«M-.       You  may  go   up 
the  governor's  hou.se  and  welcome;   but  they'll  oidy  tell  you  tb4 
same.     Yon's  the  governor's  house. 

Kllinor  fully  believed  th(»  man,  and  yet  pIio  went  on  to  thfl 
house  indicated,  as  if  she  still  hoped  that  in  her  cn.so  there  nii^h^ 
be  some  exception  to  the  rule,  wliich  she  now  renieiubored  to  ha\1 


A    DARK    NIGHTS    WORK.  159 

heard  of  before,  in  days  when  siich  a  possible  desire  as  to  see  a 
condemned  prisoner  was  treated  by  her  as  a  wish  tliat  some  people 
might  have,  did  have — people  as  far  removed  from  her  circle  of 
circumstances  as  the  inhabitants  of  the  moon.  Of  course  she  met 
with  the  same  reply,  a  little  more  abruptly  given,  as  if  every 
man  was  from  his  birth  bound  to  know  such  an  obvious  regu- 
lation. 

She  went  out  past  the  porter,  now  fully  clothed.  He  was  sorry 
for  her  disappointment,  but  could  not  help  saying,  with  a  slight 
tone  of  exultation :  ''  Well,  you  see  I  was  right,  ma'am  !  " 

She  walked  as  nearly  round  the  castle  as  ever  she  could,  look- 
ing up  at  the  few  high-barred  windows  she  could  see,  and 
wondering  in  what  part  of  the  building  Dixon  was  confined. 
Then  she  went  into  the  adjoining  churchyard,  and  sitting  down 
upon  a  tombstone,  she  gazed  idly  at  the  view  spread  below  her — 
a  view  which  was  considered  as  the  lion  of  the  place,  to  be  shown 
to  all  strangers  by  the  inhabitants  of  Hellingford.  Ellinor  did  not 
see  it,  however;  she  only  saw  the  blackness  of  that  fatal  night,  the 
hurried  work — the  lanterns  glancing  to  and  fro.  She  only  heard 
the  hard  breathing  of  those  who  are  engaged  upon  unwonted 
labour ;  the  few  hoarse  muttered  words ;  the  swaying  of  the 
branches  to  and  fro.  All  at  once  the  church  clock  above  her  struck 
eight,  and  then  pealed  out  for  distant  labourers  to  cease  their 
work  for  a  time.  Such  was  the  old  custom  of  the  place.  Ellinor 
rose  up,  and  made  her  way  back  to  Mr.  Johnson's  house  in  High 
Street.  The  room  felt  close  and  confined  in  which  she  awaited 
her  interview  with  Mr.  Johnson,  who  had  sent  down  an  apology 
for  having  overslept  himself,  and  at  last  made  his  appearance 
in  a  hurried  half-awakened  state,  in  consequence  of  his  late 
hospitality  of  the  night  before. 

"  I  am  so  sorry  1  gave  you  all  so  much  trouble  last  night," 
said  Ellinor,  apologetically.  "  I  was  overtired,  and  much  shocked 
by  the  news  1  heard." 

"  No  trouble,  no  trouble,  I  am  sure.  Xeither  Mrs.  Johnson 
nor  I  felt  it  in  the  least  a  trouble.  Many  ladies  I  know  feel  such 
things  very  trying,  though  there  are  others  that  can  stand  a  judge's 
putting  on  the  black  cap  better  than  most  men.  I'm  sure  I  saw 
some  as  composed  as  could  be  xmder  Judge  Corbet's  speech." 

"  But  about  DLxon?     He  must  not  die,  Mr.  Johnson."' 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  that  he  will,"  said  Mr.  Johnson,"  in  some- 
thing of  the  tone  of  voice  he  would  have  used  in  soothing  a 
child.  "  Judge  Corbet  said  something  about  the  possibility  of  a 
pardon.  The  jury  did  not  recommend  him  to  mercy  :  you  see, 
his  looks  went  ko  much  against  him,  and  all  the  evidence  was  so 


160  A  DARK  night's  work. 

strong,  and  no  defence,  so  to  speak,  for  he  would  not  furnish  any 
information  on  which  we  could  base  defence.  But  the  judge  did 
give  some  hope,  to  my  mind,  though  there  are  others  that  think 
differently." 

"  I  tell  you,  Mr.  Johnson,  he  must  not  die,  and  he  shall  not. 
To  whom  must  I  go?" 

"  Whew  !  Have  you  got  additional  evidence?"  with  a  sudden 
sharp  glance  of  professional  inquiry. 

"  Never  mind,"  EUinor  answered.     "  I  beg  your  pardon  .  .  . 
only  tell  me  into  whose  hands  the  power  of  life  and  death  has 
passed." 

"  Into  the  Home  Secretary's — Sir  Phillip  Homes ;  but  you 
cannot  get  access  to  him  on  such  an  errand.  It  is  the  judge  who 
tried  the  case  that  must  urge  a  reprieve — Judge  Corbet." 

"  Judge  Corbet  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  and  he  was  rather  inclined  to  take  a  mercifixl  view  of 
the  whole  case.  I  saw  it  in  his  charge.  He'll  be  the  person  for 
you  to  see.  I  suppose  you  don't  like  to  give  me  yoiu-  confidence, 
or  else  I  coiild  arrange  and  draw  up  what  will  have  to  be  said  ?  " 

"  No.  What  I  have  to  say  must  be  spoken  to  the  arbiter — to 
no  one  else.  I  am  afraid  I  answered  you  impatiently  just  now. 
You  must  forgive  me;  if  you  knew  all,  I  am  sure  you  would." 

"  Say  no  more,  my  dear  lady.  We  will  suppose  you  have 
some  evidence  not  adduced  at  the  trial.  Well ;  you  must  go  up 
and  see  the  judge,  since  you  don't  choose  to  impart  it  to  any  one, 
and  lay  it  before  him.  He  will  doubtless  compare  it  with  his 
notes  of  the  trial,  and  see  how  far  it  agrees  with  them.  Of  course 
you  must  be  prepared  wath  some  kind  of  proof;  for  Judge  Corbet 
Avill  have  to  test  your  evidence." 

"  It  seems  strange  to  think  of  him  as  the  judge,"  said  Ellinor, 
almost  to  herself. 

"  Why,  yes.     He's   but  a  young  judge.     You  knew  him   at 
Ilamley,    I  suppose?       I    remember   his   reading    there    wit" 
Mr.  Ness." 

"  Yes,  but  do  not  let  us  talk  more  about  that  time.     Tell  mi 
when  can  I  see  Dixon  ?     I  have  been  to  the  castle  already,  but! 
thoy  said  I  must  have  a  sheriiFs  ordir." 

"  To  be  sure.  I  desired  Mrs.  Johnson  to  tell  you  so  la; 
night.  Old  Ormerod  was  dining  here ;  he  is  clerk  to  the  magis- 
trates,and  1  told  him  of  your  wish.  He  said  he  would  see  Sir  Hoiirj 
Croper,  and  have  the  order  here  before  ten.  liut  all  this  time 
Mrs.  Johnson  is  waiting  breakfast  for  us.  Lot  me  take  you  int 
the  dining-room." 

It  was  very  hard  work  for   Ellinor  to  do  her  duty  as  a  guos^ 


A    DAP.Ji.   MGHli?   ViOr.K.  ICl 

and  to  allow  herself  to  be  interested  and  talked  to  on  local  affairs 
by  ber  host  and  hostess.  But  she  felt  as  if  she  had  spoken 
shortly  and  abruptly  to  Mr.  Johnson  in  their  previous  conversa- 
tion, and  that  she  must  try  and  make  amends  for  it ;  so  she  attended 
to  all  the  details  about  the  restoration  of  the  church,  and  the 
difficulty  of  getting  a  good  music-master  for  the  three  little  Miss 
Jolmsons,  with  all  her  usual  gentle  good  breeding  and  patience, 
though  no  one  can  tell  how  her  heart  and  imagination  were  full 
of  the  coming  interview  with  poor  old  Dixon. 

By-and-by  Mr.  Johnson  was  called  out  of  the  room  to  see 
Wr.  Ormerod,  and  receive  the  order  of  admission  from  him. 
Ellinor  clasped  her  hands  tight  together  as  she  listened  with 
apparent  composure  to  Mrs  Johnson's  never-ending  praise  of  the 
Hullah  system.  But  when  Mr.  Johnson  returned,  she  could  not 
help  interrupting  her  eulogy,  and  saying — 

"  Then  I  may  go  now  ?  " 

Yes,  the  order  was  there — she  might  go,  and  Mr.  Johnson 
•would  accompany  her,  to  see  that  she  met  with  no  ditficulty  or 
obstacle. 

As  they  walked  thither,  he  told  her  that  some  one — a  turnkey, 
or  some  one — would  have  to  be  present  at  the  interview ;  that 
such  was  always  the  rule  in  the  case  of  condemned  prisoners ; 
but  that  if  this  third  person  was  "  obliging,"  he  would  keep  out 
of  earshot.  Mr.  Johnson  quietly  took  care  to  see  that  the  turnkey 
who  accompanied  Ellinor  was  "  obliging." 

The  man  took  her  across  high-walled  courts,  along  stone 
corridors,  and  through  many  locked  doors,  before  they  came  to 
the  condemned  cells. 

"  I've  had  three  at  a  time  in  here,"  said  he,  unlocking  the  final 
door,  "  after  Judge  Morton  had  been  here.  We  always  called 
him  the  '  Hanging  Judge.'  But  it's  five  years  since  he  died,  and 
now  there's  never  more  than  one  in  at  a  time ;  though  once  it  was 
a  woman  for  poisoning  her  husband.  Mary  Jones  was  her 
name." 

The  stone  passage  out  of  which  the  cells  opened  was  light,  and 
hare,  and  scrupulously  clean.  Over  each  door  was  a  small  barred 
window,  and  an  outer  window  of  the  same  description  was  placed 
liigh  up  in  the  cell,  which  the  turnkey  now  opened. 

Old  Abraham  Di.xon  was  sitting  on  the  side  of  his  bed,  doing 
nothing.  His  head  was  bent,  his  frame  sunk,  and  he  did  not 
seem  to  care  to  turn  round  and  see  who  it  was  that  entered. 

Ellinor  tried  to  keep  down  her  sobs  while  the  man  went  up  to 
him,  and  laying  his  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  lightly  shaking 
him,  he  said : 

M 


162  A   DARK  night's   WORK. 

"  Here'a  a  friend  come  to  see  you,  Dixon."  Then,  turning  to 
EUinor,  he  added,  "  There's  some  as  takes  it  in  this  kind  o' 
btuoned  way,  while  others  are  as  restless  as  a  wild  beast  in  a 
cage,  after  they're  sentenced."  And  then  he  withdrew  into  the- 
passage,  leaving  the  door  open,  so  that  he  could  see  all  that 
passed  if  he  chose  to  look,  but  ostentatiously  keeping  his  eyes 
averted,  and  whistling  to  himself,  so  that  he  could  not  hear  what 
they  said  to  each  other. 

Dixon  looked  up  at  Ellinor,  but  then  let  his  eyes  fall  on  the 
ground  again;  the  increasing  trembling  of  his  shrunken  frame 
was  the  only  sign  he  gave  that  he  had  recognised  her. 

She  sat  down  by  him,  and  took  his  large  homy  hand  in  hers. 
She  wanted  to  overcome  her  inclination  to  sob  hysterical!)'  before 
she  spoke.  She  stroked  the  bony  shrivelled  fuigers,  on  which 
her  hot  scalding  tears  kept  dropping. 

"  Dunnot  do  that,"  said  he,  at  length,  in  a  hollow  voice. 
"  Dunnot  take  on  about  it ;  it's  best  as  it  is,  missj'." 

"  No,  Dixon,  it's  not  best.  It  shall  not  be.  You  know  it  shall 
not — cannot  be." 

"  I'm  rather  tired  of  living.  It's  been  a  great  strain  and 
labour  for  me.  I  think  I'd  as  lief  be  -with.  God  as  with  men. 
And  you  see,  I  were  fond  on  him  ever  sin'  he  were  a  little  lad. 
and  told  me  what  hard  times  he  had  at  school,  he  did,  just  as  if 
I  were  his  brother  !  I  loved  him  next  to  Molly  Greaves.  Dear  ! 
and  I  shall  see  her  again,  I  reckon,  come  next  Saturday  week  ! 
They'll  think  well  on  me,  up  there,  I'll  be  boiuid ;  though  I 
cannot  say  as  I've  done  all  as  I  should  do  here  below.'' 

"  But,  Dixon,"  said  Ellinor,  "  you  know  who  did  this— 
this " 

"  Guilty  o'  murder,"  said  he.  "  That's  what  they  called  it. 
Murder !     And  that  it  never  were,  choose  who  did  it." 

"  My  poor,  poor  father  did  it.  I  am  going  up  to  London  this 
afternoon ;  I  am  going  to  see  the  judge,  and  tell  him  all." 

'•  Don't  you  demean  yourself  to  that  fellow,  mis.-;y.  It's  him 
as  left  you  in  the  lurch  as  soon  as  sorrow  and  shame  came  nigh 
you." 

He  looked  up  at  her  now,  for  the  first  time ;  but  slio  went  on 
as  if  she  had  not  noticed  those  wistful,  weary  eyes. 

"  Yes  !  I  sliall  go  to  him.  I  know  who  it  is ;  and  I  am  resolved. 
After  all,  he  may  bo  better  than  a  stranger,  for  real  help ;  and  I 
.shall  never  remombor  any — anything  else,  when  I  think  of  you, 
good  faithful  friend." 

"  He  looks  but  a  wizened  old  fellow  in  his  grey  wig.  I  sliould 
baldly  ha'  known  hiui.     I  gave  him  a  look,  as  much  as  to  say, 


A   DARK   NIGHTj!   WORK.  163 

*  I  could  tell  tales  o'  you,  my  lord  judge,  if  I  chose.*  I  don't 
know  if  he  heeded  me,  though.  I  suppose  it  were  for  a  sign  of 
old  acquaintance  that  he  said  he'd  recommend  me  to  mercy.  But 
I'd  sooner  have  death  nor  mercy,  by  long  odds.  Yon  man  out 
there  says  mercy  means  Botany  Bay.  It  'ud  be  like  killing  me 
by  inches,  that  would.  It  would.  I'd  Uefer  go  straight  to  f 
Heaven,  than  live  on  among  the  black  folk."  / 

He  began  to  shake  again  :  this  idea  of  transportation,  from  its  ^ 
very  mysteriousness,  was  more  terrifying  to  liim  than  death.    He   ' 
kept  on  saying  plaintively,  "  Missy,  you'll  never  let  'em  send  me 
to  Botany  Bay  ;  I  couldn't  stand  that." 

"  No,  no  ! "  said  she.  "  You  shall  come  out  of  this  prison,  and 
go  home  with  me  to  East  Chester;  I  promise  you  you  shall.  I 
promise  you.  I  don't  yet  quite  know  how,  but  trust  in  my 
promise.  Don't  fret  about  Botany  Bay.  If  you  go  there,  I  go 
too.  I  am  so  sure  you  will  not  go.  And  you  know  if  you  have 
done  anything  against  the  law  in  concealing  that  fatal  night's 
work,  I  did  too,  and  if  you  are  to  be  punished,  I  will  be  punished 
too.  But  I  feel  sure  it  will  be  right ;  I  mean,  as  right  as  any- 
thing can  be,  with  the  recollection  of  that  time  present  to  us,  as 
it  must  always  be."  She  almost  spoke  these  last  words  to  herself. 
They  sat  on,  hand  in  hand,  for  a  few  minutes  more  in  silence. 

"  I  thought  you'd  come  to  me.  I  knowed  you  were  far  away 
in  foreign  parts.  But  I  used  to  pray  to  God.  '  Dear  Lord 
God !  '  I  used  to  say,  '  let  me  see  her  again.'  I  told  the  chaplain 
as  I'd  begin  to  pray  for  repentance,  at  after  I'd  done  praying  that 
I  might  see  you  once  again:  for  it  just  seemed  to  take  all  my 
strength  to  say  those  words  as  I've  named.  And  I  thought  as 
how  God  knew  what  was  in  my  heart  better  than  I  could  tell 
Him  :  how  I  was  main  and  sorry  for  all  as  I'd  ever  done  wrong ; 
I  allays  were,  at  after  it  was  done ;  but  I  thought  as  no  one 
could  know  how  bitter-keen  I  wanted  to  see  you."  ' 

Again  they  sank  into  silence.  Ellinor  felt  as  if  she  would  fain 
be  away  and  active  in  procuring  his  release  ;  but  she  also  per- 
ceived how  precious  her  presence  was  to  him  ;  and  she  did  not  j 
like  to  leave  him  a  moment  before  the  time  allowed  her.  His 
voice  had  changed  to  a  weak,  piping  old  man's  quaver,  and 
between  the  times  of  his  talking  he  seemed  to  relapse  into  a 
dreamy  state ;  but  through  it  all  he  held  her  hand  tight,  as 
though  afraid  that  she  would  leave  him. 

So  the  hour  elapsed,  with  no  more  spoken  words  than  thoso 
above.  From  time  to  time  Ellinor's  tears  dropped  down  upon 
her  lap ;  she  could  not  restrain  them,  though  she  scarce  knew 
why  she  cried  just  then. 


ICA  A    DAEK    NIGHTS   WORK. 

At  length  the  txirnkey  said  that  the  time  allowed  for  tlie 
interview  was  ended.  Ellinor  spoke  no  word ;  but  rose,  and 
bent  down  and  kissed  the  old  man's  forehead,  saying — 

"  I  shall  come  back  to-morrow.     God  keep  and  comfort  you  !  " 

So,  almost  without  an  articulate  word  from  him  in  reply  (he 
rose  up,  and  stood  on  his  shaking  legs,  as  she  bade  him  farewell, 
putting  his  hand  to  his  head  with  the  old  habitual  mark  of 
respect),  she  went  her  way,  swiftly  out  of  the  prison,  swiftly 
back  with  Mr.  Johnson  to  his  house,  scarcely  patient  or  strong 
enough  in  her  hurry  to  explain  to  him  fully  all  that  she  meant  to 
do.  She  only  asked  him  a  few  absolutely  requisite  questions ; 
and  informed  him  of  her  intention  to  go  straight  to  London  to 
see  Judge  Corbet. 

Just  before  the  railway  carriage  in  which  she  was  seated  started 
on  the  journey,  she  bent  forward,  and  put  out  her  hand  once  more 
to  Mr.  Johnson.  "  To-morrow  I  will  thank  you  for  all,"  she  said. 
"  I  cannot  now." 

It  was  about  the  same  time  that  she  had  reached  Hellingford 
on  the  previous  night,  that  she  arrived  at  the  Great  Western 
station  on  this  evening — past  eight  o'clock.  On  the  way  she  had 
remembered  and  arranged  many  things  :  one  important  question 
she  had  omitted  to  ask  Jlr.  Johnson ;  but  that  was  easily 
remedied.  She  had  not  enquired  where  she  could  find  Judge 
Corbet ;  if  she  had,  Mr.  Johnson  could  probably  have  given  her 
his  professional  address.  As  it  was,  she  asked  for  a  Post-Office 
Directory  at  the  hotel,  and  looked  out  for  his  private  dwellinir — 
]  28  Hyde  Park  Gardens. 

She  rang  for  a  waiter. 

"Can  I  send  a  messenger  to  Hyde  Park  Gardens?"  she  said, 
hurrying  on  to  her  business,  tired  and  worn  out  as  she  was.  "It 
is  only  to  ask  if  Judge  Corbet  is  at  home  this  evening.  If  he  is, 
I  must  go  and  see  him." 

The  waiter  was  a  little  surprised,  and  would  gladly  have  had 
her  name  to  autlmrise  the  emiuiry  ;  but  she  could  not  bear  to 
send  it;  it  would  be  bad  enough  that  first  meeting,  without  the 
feeling  that  he,  too,  had  had  time  to  recall  all  the  past  days. 
Better  to  go  in  upon  him  unj)reparod,  and  plunge  intotlie  subject. 

The  waiter  retiu'ned  with  the  answer  while  she  yet  was  jiaoing 
up  and  down  the  room  restlessly,  nerving  herself  for  the  interview. 

"The  messen<;er  has  been  to  Hyde  Park  Gardens,  nia'um. 
The  Judge  and  Lady  Corbet  are  gone  oxit  to  dinner." 

Lady  Corbet!  Of  course  Ellinor  knew  that  he  was  married. 
Had  bIic  not  been  present  at  tlie  wedding  in  East  Chester 
Cathedral  ?     But,  somcliow,  these  recent  events  had  so  carried 


A   DARK   night's  WORK.  165 

her  back  to  old  times,  that  the  intimate  association  of  the  names, 
*'  the  Judge  and  Lady  Corbet,"  seemed  to  awaken  her  out  of  some 
dream. 

"  Oh,  very  well,"  she  said,  just  as  if  these  thoughts  were  not 
passing  rapidly  through  her  mind.  "  Let  me  be  called  at  seven 
to-morrow  morning,  and  let  me  have  a  cab  at  the  door  to  Hyde 
Park  Gardens  at  eight." 

And  so  she  went  to  bed ;  but  scarcely  to  sleep.  All  night  long 
she  had  the  scenes  of  those  old  times,  the  happy,  happy  days  of 
her  youth,  the  one  terrible  night  that  cut  all  happiness  short, 
present  before  her.  She  could  almost  have  fancied  that  she  heard 
the  long-silent  sounds  of  her  father's  step,  her  father's  way  of 
breathing,  the  rustle  of  his  newspaper  as  he  hastily  turned  it  over, 
coming  through  the  lapse  of  years ;  the  silence  of  the  night.  She 
knew  that  she  had  the  little  writing-case  of  her  girlhood  with  her, 
in  her  box.  The  treasures  of  the  dead  that  it  contained,  the 
morsel  of  dainty  sewing,  the  little  sister's  golden  curl,  the  half- 
finished  letter  to  Mr.  Corbet,  were  all  there.  She  took  them  out, 
and  looked  at  each  separately ;  looked  at  them  long — long  and 
•wistfully.  "Will  it  be  of  any  use  to  me?"  she  questioned  of 
herself,  as  she  was  about  to  put  her  father's  letter  back  into  its 
receptacle.  She  read  the  last  words  over  again,  once  more : 
"From  my  death-bed  I  adjure  you  to  stand  her  friend;  I  will 
beg  pardon  on  my  knees  for  anything." 

"  I  will  take  it,"  thought  she.  "  I  need  not  bring  it  out ;  most 
likely  there  will  be  no  need  for  it,  after  what  I  shall  have  to  say. 
All  is  so  altered,  so  changed  between  us,  as  utterly  as  if  it  never 
had  been,  that  I  think  I  shall  have  no  shame  in  showing  it  him,  for 
my  own  part  of  it.  While,  if  he  sees  poor  papa's,  dear,  dear 
papa's  suffering  humility,  it  may  make  him  think  more  gently  ct 
one  who  loved  him  once  though  they  parted  in  wrath  with  each 
other,  I'm  afraid." 

So  she  took  the  letter  with  her  when  she  drove  to  Hyde  Park 
Gardens. 

Every  nerve  in  her  body  was  in  such  a  high  state  of  tension 
that  she  could  have  screamed  out  at  the  cabman's  boisterous 
knock  at  the  door.  She  got  out  hastily,  before  any  one  was 
ready  or  willing  to  answer  such  an  untimely  summons ;  paid  the 
man  double  what  he  ought  to  have  had ;  and  stood  there,  sick, 
trembling,  and  humble. 


166  A   DARK   NIGHTS   WORX. 


CHAPTER  XVI.  AND  LAST. 

"  Is  Judge  Corbet  at  home  ?  Can  I  see  him  ? "  she  asked  of  the 
footman,  who  at  length  answered  the  door. 

He  looked  at  her  curiously,  and  a  little  familiarly,  before  he 
replied, 

"  Why,  yes  !  He's  pretty  sure  to  be  at  home  at  this  time  of 
day ;  but  whether  he'll  see  you  is  quite  another  thing." 

"  Would  you  be  so  good  as  to  ask  him  ?  It  is  on  very  par- 
ticular business." 

"  Can  you  give  me  a  card  ?  your  name,  perhaps,  will  do,  if  you 
have  not  a  card.  I  say,  Simmons "  (to  a  lady's-maid  crossing 
the  hall),  "  is  the  judge  up  yet  ?'' 

"  Oh,  yes  !  he's  in  his  dressing-room  this  half-hour.  My  lady 
is  coming  down  directly.     It  is  just  breakfast -time." 

"  Can't  you  put  it  off,  and  come  again,  a  little  later?"  said  he, 
turning  once  more  to  Ellinor — white  Ellinor  !  trembling  Ellinor! 

"No!  please  let  me  come  in.  I  will  wait.  I  am  sure  Judge 
Corbet  will  see  me,  if  you  will  tell  him  I  am  here.  Miss  Wilkins. 
He  wiU  know  the  name." 

"  Well,  then  ;  will  you  wait  here  till  I  have  got  breakfast  in  ?" 
said  the  man,  letting  her  into  the  hall,  and  pointing  to  the  bench 
there.  He  took  her,  from  her  dress,  to  be  a  lady's-maid  or 
governess,  or  at  most  a  tradesman's  daughter ;  and,  besides,  he 
•was  behindhand  with  all  his  preparations.  She  came  in  and  sat 
down. 

*'  You  will  tell  him  I  am  here,"  she  said  faintly. 

"  Oh,  yes,  never  fear  :  111  send  up  word,  though  I  don't  believe 
he'll  come  to  you  before  breakfast." 

He  told  a  page,  who  ran  upstairs,  and,  knocking  at  the  judge's 
door,  said  that  a  Miss  Jenkins  wanted  to  speak  to  him. 

"  Wlw  ?"  asked  the  judge  from  tlu-  inside. 

"  Miss  Jenkins.     She  said  vou  would  know  the  name,  air." 

"  Not  I.     Tell  her  to  wait.'"' 

So  Ellinor  waited.  Presently  down  the  stairs,  with  slow 
deliberate  dignity,  came  the  handsome  Lady  Corbet,  in  her 
rustling  silks  and  ample  pt'tticmits,  carrying  her  tine  boy,  and 
followed  by  her  majestic  mirsc.  Slie  was  ill-pleased  that  any 
one  .'should  come  and  tak»'  up  litr  liusband's  time  when  he  was  at 
home,  and  suj)p<>sed  to  be  enjoying  domestic  leisure;  and  her 
imperious,  iiicDnsidcrate  nature  did  not  prompt  lier  to  any  civility 
towards  the  gentle  creature  sitting  down,  weary  and  heart-sick,  in 


i^)iB^£aBBi^%^S^^p3 

m 

^^^^^^S\  ^=^ 

m 

^^^^^m^^^i 

! 

^^. 

Tiie  SfiTut  Wi 

net 

■1. 

J'age  lo'li. 


A   DARK   night's  WORK.  167 

Jior  house.  On  the  contrary,  she  looked  her  over  as  she  slowJy 
descended,  till  EUinor  shrank  abashed  from  the  steady  gaze  of  the 
large  black  eye?.  Then  she,  her  baby  and  nurse,  disappeared 
into  the  large  dining-room,  into  which  all  the  preparations  for 
breakfast  had  been  carried. 

The  next  person  to  come  down  would  be  the  judge.  Ellinor 
instinctively  put  down  her  veil.  She  heard  his  quick  decided 
step ;  she  had  kno^vn  it  well  of  old. 

He  gave  one  of  his  sharp,  shrewd  glances  at  tlie  person  sitting 
in  the  hall  and  waiting  to  speak  to  him,  and  his  practised  eye 
recognised  the  lady  at  once,  in  spite  of  her  travel-worn  dress. 

"  Will  you  just  come  into  this  room  ? "  said  he,  opening  the 
door  of  his  study,  to  the  front  of  the  house :  the  dining-room  was 
to  the  back;  they  communicated  by  folding- doors. 

The  astute  lawyer  placed  himself  with  his  back  to  the  window; 
it  was  the  natural  position  of  the  master  of  the  apartment ;  but  it 
also  gave  him  the  advantage  of  seeing  his  companion's  face  in  full 
light.  Ellinor  lifted  her  veil ;  it  had  only  been  a  dislike  to 
a  recognition  in  the  hall  which  had  made  her  put  it  down. 

Judge  Corbet's  cotmtenance  changed  more  than  hers ;  she  had 
been  prepared  for  the  interview ;  he  was  not.  But  he  usually 
had  the  full  command  of  the  expression  on  his  face. 

"  Ellinor  !  Miss  Wilkins !  is  it  you  ?  "  And  he  went  forwards, 
holding  out  his  hand  with  cordial  greeting,  under  which  the 
embarrassment,  if  he  felt  any,  was  carefully  concealed.  She  could 
not  speak  all  at  once  in  the  way  she  wished. 

"  That  stupid  Henry  told  me  '  Jenkins  ! '  I  beg  your  pardon. 
How  could  they  put  you  down  to  sit  in  the  hall  ?  You  must 
come  in  and  have  some  breakfast  with  us ;  Lady  Corbet  will  be 
delighted,  I'm  sure."  His  sense  of  the  awkwardness  of  the  meeting 
with  the  woman  who  was  once  to  have  been  his  wife,  and  of  the 
probable  introduction  which  was  to  follow  to  the  woman  who  was 
his  actual  wife  grew  upon  him,  and  made  him  speak  a  little 
hiu-riedly.  Ellinor's  next  words  were  a  wonderful  relief ;  and  her 
soft  gentle  way  of  speaking  was  like  the  touch  of  a  cooling  balsam. 

"  Thank  you,  you  must  excuse  me.  I  am  come  strictly  on 
business,  otherwise  I  should  never  have  thought  of  calling  on  you 
at  such  an  hour.     It  is  about  poor  Dixon." 

"  Ah  !  I  thought  as  much  ! "  said  the  judge,  handing  her  a 
chair,  and  sitting  down  himself.  He  tried  to  compose  his  mind 
to  business,  but  in  spite  of  his  strength  of  character,  and  his 
present  efforts,  the  remembrance  of  old  times  Avould  come  back 
at  the  sound  of  her  voice.  He  wondered  if  he  was  as  much 
changed  in  appearance  as  she  struck  him  as  being  in  that  first 


168  A  DARK  night's   -WORK. 

look  of  recognition;  after  that  first  glance  he  rather  avoided 
meeting  her  eyes. 

"  I  knew  how  much  you  would  feel  it.  Some  one  at 
Ilellingford  told  me  you  were  abroad,  in  Rome,  I  think.  But  you 
must  not  distress  yourself  imnecessarily  ;  the  sentence  is  sure  to 
be  commuted  to  transportation,  or  something  equivalent.  I  was 
talking  to  the  Home  Secretary  about  it  only  last  night.  Lapse  of 
time  and  subsequent  good  character  quite  preclude  any  idea  of 
capital  punishment."  All  the  time  that  he  said  this  he  had  other 
thoughts  at  the  back  of  his  mind — some  curiosity,  a  little  regret, 
a  touch  of  remorse,  a  wonder  how  the  meeting  (which,  of  course, 
would  have  to  be  some  time)  between  Lady  Corbet  and  EUinor 
would  go  off;  but  he  spoke  clearly  enough  on  the  subject  in 
hand,  and  no  outward  mark  of  distraction  li-om  it  appeared. 

Ellinor  answered : 

"  I  came  to  tell  you,  what  I  suppose  may  be  told  to  any  judge, 
in  confidence  and  full  reliance  on  his  secrecy,  that  Abraham 
Dixon  was  not  the  murderer."  She  stopped  short,  and  choked  a 
little. 

The  judge  looked  sharply  at  her. 

"  Then  you  know  who  was  ?  "  said  he. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  with  a  low,  steady  voice,  looking  him  full 
in  the  face,  with  sad,  solemn  eyes. 

The  truth  flashed  into  his  mind.  He  shaded  his  face,  and  did 
not  speak  for  a  minute  or  two.  Then  he  said,  not  looking  up,  a 
little  hoarsely,  "  This,  then,  was  the  sliame  you  told  me  of  long 
ago?" 

"  1  es,"  said  she. 

Both  sat  quite  still ;  quite  silent  for  some  time.  Through  tho 
silence  a  sharp,  clear  voice  was  heard  speaking  through  the 
folding- doors. 

"  Take  the  kedgeree  down,  and  toll  the  cook  to  keep  it  hot  for 
the  judge.  It  is  so  tiresome  people  coming  on  business  hero, 
as  if  the  judge  had  not  his  proper  hours  for  being  at  chambers." 

He  got  up  hastily,  and  went  into  the  dining-room;  but  he  h:\d 
audibly  some  difliculty  in  curbing  his  wife's  irritation. 

When  he  came  back,  Ellinor  8:iid  : 

"  I  am  afraid  I  ought  not  to  have  come  here  now." 

"Oh!  it's  all  nonsense!"  said  he,  iji  a  tone  of  annoyance. 
"  Y'ou've  done  (juite  right."  He  aoatod  himself  where  he  had 
been  before;  and  again  Imlf-covered  his  fuee  with  his  hand. 

"  And  Dixon  knew  of  this.  I  believe  I  must  put  the  fact 
plainly  to  yo\i — your  father  was  the  guilty  person  .'  He  mur- 
dere<l  Dunster.''" 


A  DARK  night's   WORK.  169 

"  Yes.  If  you  call  it  murder.  It  was  done  by  a  blow,  in  the 
heat  of  passion.  No  one  can  ever  tell  how  Dunster  always 
irritated  papa,"  said  EUinor,  ia  a  stupid,  heavy  way ;  and  then 
she  sighed. 

"How  do  )'0u  know  this?"  There  was  a  kind  of  tender 
reluctance  in  the  judge's  voice,  as  he  put  all  these  questions. 
EUinor  had  made  up  her  mind  beforehand  that  something  like 
them  must  be  asked,  and  must  also  be  answered ;  but  she  spoke 
like  a  sleep-walker. 

'•  I  came  into  papa's  room  just  after  he  had  struck  Mr.  Dunster 
the  blow.  He  was  lying  insensible,  as  we  thought — dead,  as  he 
really  was." 

*'  What  was  Dixon's  part  in  it  ?  He  must  have  known  a  good 
deal  about  it.  And  the  horse-lancet  that  was  found  with  his 
name  upon  it?" 

"  Papa  went  to  wake  Dixon,  and  he  brought  his  fleam — I 
suppose  to  try  and  bleed  him.  I  have  said  enough,  have  I  not  ? 
I  seem  so  confused.  But  I  will  answer  any  question  to  make  it 
appear  that  Dixon  is  innocent." 

The  judge  had  been  noting  all  down.  He  sat  still  now  without 
replying  to  her.  Then  he  wrote  rapidly,  referring  to  his  previous 
paper,  from  time  to  time.  In  five  minutes  or  so  he  read  the  facts 
which  Ellinor  had  stated,  as  he  now  arranged  them,  in  a  legal 
and  connected  form.  He  just  asked  her  one  or  two  trivial 
questions  as  he  did  so.  Then  he  read  it  over  to  her,  and  asked 
her  to  sign  it.     She  took  up  the  pen,  and  held  it,  hesitating. 

"  This  will  never  be  made  public  ?  "  said  she. 

"  No ;  I  shall  take  care  that  no  one  but  the  Home  Secretary 
sees  it." 

"  Thank  you.     I  could  not  help  it,  now  it  has  come  to  this." 

"  There  are  not  many  men  like  Dixon,"  said  the  judge,  almost 
to  himself,  as  he  sealed  the  paper  in  an  envelope. 

"  No,"  said  Ellinor ;  "  I  never  knew  any  one  so  faithful." 

And  just  at  the  same  moment  the  reflection  on  a  less  faithful 
person  that  these  words  might  seem  to  imply  struck  both  of 
them,  and  each  instinctively  glanced  at  the  other. 

"  Ellinor  !  "  said  the  judge,  after  a  moment's  pause,  "  we  are 
friends,  I  hope  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  friends,"  said  she,  quietly  and  sadly. 

He  felt  a  little  chagrined  at  her  answer.  Why,  he  could 
hardly  tell.  To  cover  any  sign  of  his  feeling  he  went  on 
talking. 

*'  Where  arc  you  living  now?  " 

«'  At  East  Chester." 


170  A   DARK   night's  WORK. 

"  But  you  come  sometimes  to  town,  don't  you  ?  Let  us  know 
always — whenever  you  come;  and  Lady  Corbet  shall  call  on 
you.    Indeed,  I  wish  you'd  let  me  bring  her  to  see  you  to-day." 

'•  Thank  you.  I  am  going  straight  back  to  Hellingford ;  at 
least,  as  soon  as  you  can  get  me  the  pardon  for  Dixon." 

He  half  smiled  at  her  ignorance. 

*'  The  pardon  must  be  sent  to  the  sheriff,  who  holds  the  warrant 
for  his  execution.  But,  of  course,  you  may  have  every  assurance 
that  it  shall  be  sent  as  soon  as  possible.  It  is  just  the  same  as  if 
he  had  it  now." 

"  Thank  you  very  much,"  said  Ellinor,  rising. 

"  Pray  don't  go  without  breakfast.  If  you  would  rather  not 
see  Lady  Corbet  just  now,  it  shall  be  sent  in  to  you  in  this  room, 
tmless  you  have  already  breakfasted." 

"  No,  thank  you ;  I  would  rather  not.  You  are  very  kind,  and 
I  am  very  glad  to  have  seen  you  once  again.  There  is  just  one 
tiling  more,"  said  she,  colouring  a  little  and  hesitating,  "  This 
note  to  you  was  found  under  papa's  pillow  after  his  death ;  some 
of  it  refers  to  past  things ;  but  I  should  be  glad  if  you  could 
think  as  kindly  as  you  can  of  poor  papa— and  so — if  you  will 
read  it " 

He  took  it  and  read  it,  not  without  emotion.  Then  he  laid  it 
down  on  his  table,  and  said — 

"  Poor  man  !  he  must  have  suffered  a  great  deal  for  that 
night's  work.     And  you,  Ellinor,  you  have  suffered,  too." 

Yes,  she  had  suffered  ;  and  he  who  spoke  had  been  one  of  the 
instruments  of  her  suffering,  although  he  seemed  forgetful  of  it. 
She  shook  her  head  a  little  for  reply.  Then  slie  looked  up  at 
him — they  were  both  standing  at  the  time — and  sjiid: 

"  I  think  I  shall  be  hap])ier  now.  I  always  knew  it  mxist  be 
found  out.  Once  more,  good-by,  and  thank  you.  I  may  take 
this  letter,  I  suppose  ?  "  said  she,  casting  envious  loving  eyes  at 
her  father's  note,  lying  imregarded  on  tlie  table. 

"  Oh !  certainly,  certainly,"  sjiid  he ;  and  then  he  took  her 
hand  ;  he  held  it,  while  he  looked  into  lier  face.  lie  had  thought 
it  changed  when  he  had  tirst  seen  her,  but  it  was  now  almost  the 
same  to  him  as  of  yore.  Tlie  sweet  shy  eyes,  the  iiuliaitcd 
dimple  in  the  cheek,  and  sometliing  of  fever  had  brought  a  iaint 
jiink  ihish  into  her  usually  colourless  cheeks.  Marritd  judge 
though  he  was,  ho  was  not  sure  if  she  had  not  more  diarms  for 
him  still  in  her  sorrow  and  her  shabbinoss  than  the  handsumo 
Btatoly  wife  in  the  next  room,  wlioso  U>oks  had  not  been  of  iho 
pkijisantest  when  he  K-ft  her  a  few  luiimtes  bffore.  lie  sightd  a 
Jittle  regretfully  as  Ellinor  went  away.  He  had  obuiined  the 
position  he  had  struggled  for,  and  sacrificed  for;  but  now  he 


A  DARK  night's  WOKK.  171 

could  not  help  wishing  that  the  slaughtered  creature  laid  on  the 
shrine  of  his  ambition  were  alive  again. 

The  kedgeree  was  brought  up  again,  smoking  hot,  but  it 
remained  untasted  by  him ;  and  though  he  appeared  to  be  reading 
the  Times,  he  did  not  see  a  word  of  the  distinct  type.  His  wife, 
meanwhile,  continued  her  complaints  of  the  untimely  visitor, 
whose  name  he  did  not  give  to  her  in  its  corrected  form,  as  he 
was  not  anxious  that  she  should  have  it  in  her  power  to  identify 
the  call  of  this  morning  with  a  possible  future  acquaintance. 

When  ElHnor  reached  Mr.  Johnson's  house  in  HeUingford  that 
afternoon,  she  found  Miss  Monro  was  there,  and  that  she  had 
been  with  much  difficulty  restrained  by  Mr.  Johnson  from 
following  her  to  London. 

Miss  Monro  fondled  and  purred  inarticiilately  through  her  tears 
over  her  recovered  darling,  before  she  could  speak  intelligibly 
enough  to  tell  her  that  Canon  Livingstone  had  come  straight  to 
see  her  immediately  on  his  return  to  East  Chester,  and  had 
suggested  her  journey  to  HeUingford,  in  order  that  she  might  be 
of  all  the  comfort  she  could  to  EUinor.  She  did  not  at  first  let 
out  that  he  had  accompanied  her  to  HeUingford ;  she  was  a  little 
afraid  of  Ellinor's  displeasure  at  his  being  there ;  Ellinor  had 
always  objected  so  much  to  any  advance  towards  intimacy  with 
him  that  Miss  Monro  had  wished  to  make.  But  Ellinor  was 
different  now. 

"  How  white  you  are,  Nelly  !  "  said  Miss  !Monro.  "  You  have 
been  travelling  too  much  and  too  fast,  my  child." 

"  My  head  aches  !  "  said  Ellinor,  wearily.  "  But  I  must  go  to 
the  castle,  and  tell  my  poor  Dixon  that  he  is  reprieved — I  am  so 
tired  !  Will  you  ask  Mr.  Johnson  to  get  me  leave  to  see  him  ? 
He  will  know  all  about  it." 

She  threw  herself  down  on  the  bed  in  the  spare  room  ;  the  bed 
with  the  heavy  blue  curtains.  After  an  imheeded  remonstrance, 
Miss  Monro  went  to  do  her  bidding.  But  it  was  now  late  after- 
noon, and  Mr.  Johnson  said  that  it  would  be  impossible  for  him 
to  get  permission  from  the  sheriff  that  night. 

"  Besides,"  said  he,  courteously,  "  one  scarcely  knows  whether 
Miss  Wilkins  may  not  give  the  old  man  false  hopes — whether  she 
has  not  been  excited  to  have  false  hopes  herself ;  it  might  be  a 
cruel  kindness  to  let  her  see  him,  without  more  legal  certainty 
as  to  what  his  sentence,  or  reprieve,  is  to  be.  By  to-morrow 
morning,  if  I  have  properly  \mderstood  her  story,  which  was  a 
little  confused " 

"  She  is  so  dreadfully  tired,  poor  creature,"  put  in  Miss  Monro, 
who  never  could  bear  the  shadow  of  a  suspicion  that  Ellinor  was 
not  wisest,  best,  in  all  relations  and  situations  of  life. 


172  A   DABK  night's  WOBK. 

Mr.  Johnson  went  on,  with  a  deprecatory  bow :  "  Well,  then- 
it  really  is  the  only  course  open  to  her  besides — persuade  her 
to  rest  for  this  evenin?.  By  to-morrow  morninj»  I  will  have 
obtained  the  sheriff's  leave,  and  he  will  most  likely  hav3  heard 
from  London." 

"  Thank  you  !     I  believe  that  will  be  best." 

"  It  is  the  only  course,"  said  he. 

When  Miss  Monro  returned  to  the  bedroom,  EUinor  was  in 
a  heavy  feverish  slumber ;  so  feverish  and  so  uneasy  did  she 
appear,  that,  after  the  hesitation  of  a  moment  or  two.  Miss  Monro 
had  no  scruple  in  wakening  her. 

But  she  did  not  appear  to  understand  the  answer  to  her  re- 
quest ;  she  did  not  seem  even  to  remember  that  she  had  made 
any  request. 

The  journey  to  England,  the  misery,  the  surprises,  had  been  too 
much  for  her.  The  morrow  morning  came,  bringing  the  formal 
free  pardon  for  Abraham  Dixon.  The  sheriff's  order  for  her 
admission  to  see  the  old  man  lay  awaiting  her  wish  to  use  it ;  but 
she  knew  nothing  of  all  this. 

For  days,  nay  weeks,  she  hovered  between  life  and  death, 
tended,  as  of  old,  by  &Iiss  ]Monro,  while  good  Mrs.  Johnson  was 
ever  willing  to  assist. 

One  summer  evening  in  early  June  she  wakened  into  memory. 

Miss  ]\Ionro  heard  the  faint  piping  voice,  as  she  kept  her  watch 
by  the  bedside. 

"  Where  is  Dixon  ?  "  asked  she. 

*'  At  the  canon's  house  at  Bromham."  This  was  the  name  of 
Dr.  Livingstone's  country  parish. 

"Why?" 

"  We  thought  it  better  to  get  him  into  country  air  and  fresh 
scenes  at  once." 

"How  is  he?" 

"  Much  better.     Get  strong,  and  he  shall  come  to  see  you." 

"  You  are  sure  all  is  right  ?  "  said  Ellinor. 

"  Sure,  my  dear.     All  is  quite  right." 

Then  Ellinor  went  to  sleep  again  rut  of  very  weakness  and 
weariness. 

From  that  time  she  recovered  pretty  steadily.  Her  great 
desire  was  to  return  to  East  Chester  as  soon  na  possible.  Tho 
associations  of  grief,  anxiety,  and  coming  illness,  connected  with 
Ilelliiigfbrd,  made  her  wisli  to  be  once  again  in  tho  solemn,  quiet, 
Buiiny  close  of  East  Chester. 

Canon  Livingstone  came  over  to  assist  Miss  Monro  in  managing 
the  journey  with  hor  invalid.  Hut  he  did  not  intrude  himself 
upon  Ellinor,  any  njore  than  he  had  done  iu  coining  from  home. 


A  PARK  night's  wokk.  173 

The  morning  after  lier  return,  Miss  Monro  said : 

*'  Do  you  feol  strong  enough  to  see  Dixon  ?  " 

"  Yes.     Is  he  here  ?  " 

"  He  is  at  the  canon's  house.  He  sent  for  him  from  Bromham, 
in  order  that  he  miglit  be  ready  for  you  to  see  him  when  you 
•wished." 

"  Please  let  him  come  directly,"  said  Ellinor,  flushing  and 
trembling. 

She  went  to  the  door  to  meet  the  tottering  old  man ;  she  led 
him  to  the  easy-chair  that  had  been  placed  and  arranged  for 
herself;  she  knelt  down  before  him,  and  put  his  hands  on  her 
head,  he  trembling  and  shaking  all  the  while. 

"  Forgive  me  all  the  shame  and  misery,  Dixon.  Say  you  for- 
give me ;  and  give  me  your  blessing.  And  then  let  never  a  word 
of  the  terrible  past  be  spoken  between  us." 

"  It's  not  for  me  to  forgive  you,  as  never  did  harm  to  no 
one " 

"  But  say  you  do — it  will  ease  my  heart." 

"  I  forgive  thee  !  "  said  he.  And  then  he  raised  himself  to  his 
feet  with  effort,  and.  standing  up  above  her,  he  blessed  her 
solemnly. 

After  that  he  sat  down,  she  by  him,  gazing  at  him. 

"  Yon's  a  good  man,  missy,"  he  said,  at  length,  lifting  his  slow 
eyes  and  looking  at  her.     "  Better  nor  t'other  ever  was." 

"  He  is  a  good  man,"  said  Ellinor. 

But  no  more  was  spoken  on  the  subject.  The  next  day, 
Canon  Livingstone  made  his  formal  call.  Ellinor  would  fain 
have  kept  Miss  Monro  in  the  room,  but  that  worthy  lady  knew 
better  than  to  stop. 

They  went  on,  forcing  talk  on  indifferent  subjects.  At  last  he 
could  speak  no  longer  on  everything  but  that  which  he  had  most 
at  heart.  "  Miss  Wilkins  !  "  (he  had  got  up,  and  was  standing 
by  the  mantelpiece,  apparently  examining  the  ornaments  upon 
it) — "Miss  Wilkins!  is  there  any  chance  of  your  giving  me  a 
favourable  answer  now — you  know  what  I  mean — Avhat  we  spoke 
about  at  the  Great  Western  Hotel,  that  day  ?  " 

Ellinor  hung  her  head. 

"  You  know  that  I  was  once  engaged  before  ?  " 

"Yes!  I  know;  to  Mr.  Corbet — he  that  is  now  the  judge; 
you  cannot  suppose  that  would  make  any  difference,  if  that  is 
all.  I  have  loved  you,  and  you  only,  ever  since  wc  met,  eighteen 
years  ago.     Miss  Wilkins — Ellinor — put  me  out  of  suspense." 

"  I  will !  "  said  she,  putting  out  her  thin  white  hand  for  hina 
to  take  and  kiss,  almost  with  tears  of  gratitude,  but  she  seemed 
frightened  at  his  impetuosity,  and  tried  to  check  him.     "  Wait — 


174 


A   DARK   night's  WORK 


you  have  not  heard  all — my  poor,  poor  father,  in  a  fit  of  anger, 
irritated  beyond  his  bearinir,  struck  the  blow  that  killed  Mr. 
Dunster — Dixon  and  I  knew  of  it,  just  after  the  blow  was 
struck  —  we  helped  to  hide  it  —  we  kept  the  secret — my  poor 
father  died  of  sorrow  and  remorse — you  now  know  all — can  you 
still  love  me  ?  It  seems  to  me  as  if  I  had  been  an  accomplice  in 
such  a  terrible  thing  !  " 

"  Poor,  poor  Ellinor  !  "  said  he,  now  taking  her  in  his  arms  as 
a  shelter.     "  How  I  wish  I  had  kno\vn.  of  all  this  years  and  years  \ 
ago  :  I  could  have  stood  between  you  and  so  much  !  " 

Those  who  pass  through  the  village  of  Bromham,  and  pause  to 
look  over  the  laurel-hedge  that  separates  the  rectory  garden  from 
the  road,  may  often  see,  on  summer  days,  an  old,  old  man,  sitting 
in  a  wicker-chair,  out  upon  the  lawn.  He  leans  upon  his  stick, 
and  seldom  raises  his  bent  head  ;  but  for  all  that  his  eyes  are  on 
a  level  with  the  two  little  fairy  children  who  conie  to  him  in  all 
their  small  joys  and  sorrows,  and  who  learnt  to  lisp  his  name 
almost  as  soon  as  they  did  tliat  of  their  father  and  mother. 

Nor  is  Miss  Monro  often  absent ;  and  although  she  prefers  to 
retain  the  old  house  in  the  Close  for  winter  quarters,  she  generally 
makes  her  way  across  to  Canon  Livingstone's  residence  erery 
evening. 


SO  £NDS  "▲  DABK  NIGUT'S  WORK." 


ROU.ND   THE    SOFA, 


Long  ago  I  was  placed  by  my  parents  under  the  medical  treat- 
ment of  a  certain  Mr.  Dawson,  a  surgeon  in  Edinburgh,  who  had 
obtained  a  reputation  for  the  cure  of  a  particular  class  of  diseases. 
I  was  sent  with  my  governess  into  lodgings  near  his  house,  in 
the  Old  ToAivn.  I  was  to  combine  lessons  from  the  excellent 
Edinburgh  masters,  with  the  medicines  and  exercises  needed  for 
my  indisposition.  It  was  at  first  rather  di-eary  to  leave  'my 
brothers  and  sisters,  and  to  give  up  our  merry  out-of-doors  life 
with  our  coimtry  home,  for  dull  lodgings,  with  only  poor  grave 
Miss  Duncan  for  a  companion ;  and  to  exchange  oui-  romps  in 
the  garden  and  rambles  through  the  fields  for  stift'  walks  in  the 
streets,  the  decorum  of  which  obliged  me  to  tie  my  bonnet- 
strings  neatly,  and  put  on  my  shawl  with  some  regard  to 
straightness. 

The  evenings  were  the  worst.  It  was  autvmin,  and  of  com'se 
they  daily  grew  longer :  they  were  long  enough,  I  am  sure, 
when  we  first  settled  down  in  those  gray  and  drab  lodgings.  For, 
you  must  know,  my  father  and  mother  were  not  rich,  and  there 
were  a  great  many  of  us,  and  the  medical  expenses  to  be  incurred 
by  my  being  placed  imder  Mr.  Dawson's  care  were  exjiected  to 
be  considerable ;  therefore,  one  great  point  in  om*  search  after 
lodgings  was  economy.  My  father,  who  was  too  true  a  gentle- 
man to  feel  false  shame,  had  named  this  necessity  for  cheapness 
to  Mr.  Dawson ;  and  in  return,  Mr.  Dawson  had  told  him  of 
those  at  No.  G  Cromer  Street,  in  which  we  were  finally  settled. 
The  noiLse  belonged  to  an  old  man,  at  one  time  a  tutor  to  yoimg 
men  preparing  for  the  University,  in  which  capacity  he  had 
become  kaown  to  Mr.  Dawson.  But  hisi)upils  had  dropped  oft"; 
and  when  we  went  to  lodge  with  him,  I  imagine  that  his  prin- 
cipal support  was  derived  from  a  few  occasional  lessons  which 


17G  ROUND   Tili:   SOFA. 

he  gave,  and  from  letting  the  rooms  that  wc  took,  a  drawing-rooni 
opening  into  a  bed-rooiu,  out  of  which  a  smaller  chamber  led. 
His  daughter  was  his  housekeeper :  a  sou.  whom  we  never  saw, 
was  suj)po6ed  to  be  leading  the  same  life  that  his  father  had  dono 
before  him,  only  wo  nevei-  saw  or  heaixl  of  any  pupils  ;  and  there 
was  one  hard-working,  honest  little  Scottish  maiden,  square, 
stumpy,  neat,  and  plain,  who  might  have  been  any  age  from 
eighteen  to  forty. 

Looking  back  on  the  household  now,  there  was  perhaps  much 
to  admire  in  their  quiet  endm-ancc  of  decent  poverty  ;  but  at  this 
time,  their  poverty  gi-ated  against  many  of  my  tastes,  for  I  could 
not  recognize  the  fact,  that  in  a  to\\-n  the  simjjle  graces  of  frcsh 
flowers,  clean  white  muslin  cm-tains,  pretty  bright  chintzes,  all 
cost  money,  which  is  saved  by  the  adoption  of  dust-ctdound 
moreen,  and  mud-colom-ed  carpets.  There  was  not  a  penny 
spent  on  mere  elegance  in  that  room  ;  yet  there  was  everything 
considered  necessary  to  comfort :  but  after  all.  such  mere  pre- 
tences of  comfort !  a  hard,  slippery,  black  horse-hair  sofa,  wliich 
was  no  place  of  rest ;  an  old  piano,  serWng  as  a  sideboard  ;  a 
grate,  narrowed  by  an  inner  suiiplement,  till  it  hardly  held  a 
liiiudful  of  the  small  coal  which  could  scarcely  ever  be  stirred 
up  into  a  genial  blaze.  But  there  were  two  evils  worse  than 
even  this  coldness  and  baroness  of  the  rooms  :  one  was  that  we 
were  provided  with  a  latch-key,  whicli  allowed  us  to  open  tho 
front  door  whenever  we  came  home  from  a  walk,  and  go  upstairs 
without  meeting  any  face  of  welcome,  or  heai'ing  the  sound  of  a 
lunnan  voice  in  tlie  ap2»arently  deserted  house — Mr.  Mackenzie 
piqued  himself  on  the  noiselessncss  of  his  establi^hml  nt  :  and 
the  other,  which  might  almost  seem  to  neutralize  the  lirst,  was 
the  danger  we  were  always  exposed  to  on  going  tiut,  of  the  old 
man— sly,  miserly,  and  intelligent-  pojiping  out  upon  us  from 
liis  room,  close  t»)  the  left  hand  of  tlie  door,  with  some  civility 
which  we  learned  to  distrust  as  a  mere  j)retext  for  extorting  moiv 
money,  yet  which  it  was  diflicult  to  refuse :  such  as  the  vH'cr  of 
any  books  out  of  his  library,  a  gnat  temptation,  for  we  could 
see  into  the  shelf-lined  room  ;  but  just  as  we  were  on  the  point 
of  yiilding,  tliere  was  a  liint  of  tho  *•  consideration  "  to  be  ex- 
pected for  the  loan  of  b.-oks  of  so  much  higlier  a  class  than  any  to  Ik- 
oV)tained  at  tlie  circulating  library,  whielimade  us  suddenly  draw 
back.  Another  time  ho  came  out  of  liis  den  to  ofl'er  us  written 
cards,  to  distribute  among  our  ac(iuaintauco,  on  whicli  ho  under- 
took to  teach  the  very  things  1  was  to  learn  ;  but  I  woiild  rather 
have  been  the  most  ignorant  woman  that  ever  lived  (ban  tried  la 
I'jaru   anything  from  tliat  old  fox  in   breeches.     When  we  had 


BOUND   THE   SOFA.  177 

declined  all  his  proposals,  he  •went  apparently  into  dudgeon. 
Once  when  wc  had  forgotten  our  latch-key  we  rang  in  vain  for 
many  times  at  the  door,  seeing  our  landlord  standing  all  the  time 
at  the  window  to  the  right,  looking  out  of  it  in  an  absent  and 
philosophical  state  of  mind,  from  which  uo  signs  and  gestures  of 
ours  could  arouse  him. 

The  women  of  the  household  were  far  better,  and  more  really 
respectable,  thoii"  "ven  on  them  poverty  had  laid  her  heavy 
left  hand,  instead  oi  iier  blessing  right.  Miss  Mackenzie  kept 
us  as  short  in  our  food  as  she  decently  could — we  paid  so  much 
a  week  for  our  board,  be  it  observed ;  and  if  one  day  we  had 
less  appetite  than  another  om-  meals  were  docked  to  the  smaller 
standard,  imtil  Miss  Dxmcan  ventiu'ed  to  remonstrate.  The 
sturdy  maid-of-all-work  was  scrui)ulously  honest,  but  looked 
discontented,  and  scarcely  vouchsafed  us  thanks,  when  on  leav- 
ing we  gave  her  what  Mrs.  Dawson  had  told  us  would  be  con- 
sidered handsome  in  most  lodgings.  I  do  not  believe  Phenice 
ever  received  wages  from  the  Mackenzies. 

But  that  dear  Mrs.  Dawson  !  The  mention  of  her  comes  into 
my  mind  like  the  bright  sunshine  into  our  dingy  little  drawing- 
room  came  on  those  days  ; — as  a  sweet  scent  of  violets  greets  the 
sorrowfid  passer  among  the  woodlands. 

Mrs.  Dawson  was  not  Mr.  Dawson's  vriie,  for  he  was  a 
bachelor.  She  was  his  crippled  sister,  an  old  maid,  who  had, 
what  she  called,  taken  her  brevet  rank. 

After  we  had  been  about  a  fortnight  in  Edinbui-gh,  Mi-.  Daw- 
son said,  in  a  sort  of  half  doubtful  manner  to  Miss  Dimcan — 

■•  My  sister  bids  me  say,  that  every  Monday  evening  a  few 
friends  come  in  to  sit  round  her  sofa  for  an  hour  or  so, — some 
before  going  to  gayer  parties — and  that  if  yoxi  and  Miss  Great- 
orex  would  like  a  little  change,  she  would  only  be  too  glad  to 
see  you.  Any  time  from  seven  to  eight  to-night ;  and  1  must 
add  my  injunctions,  both  for  her  sake,  and  for  that  of  my  little 
patient's,  here,  that  you  leave  at  nine  o'clock.  After  all,  I  do 
not  know  if  you  will  care  to  come  ;  but  Margaret  bade  me  ask 
you  ;  and  he  glanced  up  suspiciously  and  sharjdy  at  us.  ]f 
either  of  us  had  felt  the  slightest  reluctance,  however  well  dis- 
guised by  manner,  to  accept  this  invitation,  I  am  sure  he  would 
have  at  once  detected  our  feelings,  and  withdiawn  it ;  so 
jealous  and  chary  was  he  of  anything  pertaining  to  the  apprecia- 
tion of  this  beloved  sister. 

But  if  it  had  been  to  spend  an  evening  at  the  dentist's,  I 
believe  I  should  have  welcomed  the  invitation,  so  weary  was  I 
of  the  monotony  of  the  nights  in  our  lodgings  ;  and  as  for  Misa 

N 


17b  ROUND  THE   SOFA. 

Duncan,  an  invitation  to  tea  was  of  itself  a  pure  and  nnmixed 
honour,  and  one  to  be  accepted  with  all  becoming  funn  and 
gratitude  :  so  Mr.  Dawson's  sliaip  glances  over  his  spectacle* 
failed  to  detect  anything  but  the  truest  pleasure,  and  he  went  >in. 

"  You'll  find  it  very  dull,  I  dare  say.  Only  a  few  old  fogies 
like  myself,  and  one  or  two  good  sweet  yoimg  women  :  I  never 
know  who'll  come.  Margaret  is  obliged  to  lie  in  a  darkened  room. 
— only  half-lighted  I  mean, — because  her  eyes  are  weak. — eh.  it 
will  be  very  stupid,  I  dare  say :  don't  thank  me  till  you've  been 
once  and  tried  it,  and  then  if  you  like  it,  yoirr  best  thanks  will 
be  to  come  again  every  Monday,  from  half-past  seven  to  nine, 
you  know.     Good-bye,  good-bye." 

Hitherto  I  had  never  been  out  to  a  pnrty  of  grown-up  people  ; 
and  no  court  ball  to  a  London  yoimg  lady  could  seem  more  re- 
dolent of  honour  and  pleasure  than  this  Monday  evening  to  me. 

Dressed  out  in  new  stiif  book-muslin,  made  up  to  my  tliroat,- 
a  frock  which  had  seemed  to  me  and  my  sisters  the  height  of  earthly 
grandeur  and  tinery — Alice,  our  old  nurse,  had  been  making  i' 
at  home,  in  contemplation  of  the  possibility  of  such  an  eve;  : 
diu'ing  my  stay  in  Edinburgh,  but  which  had  then  appeared  \> 
me  a  robe  too  lovely  and  angelic  to  be  overworn  sliort  of  heaviii 
— I  went  with  Miss  Dimcan  to  Mr.  Dawson's  at  the  appointed 
time.  We  entered  through  one  small  lofty  room.  perhaj)s  I 
ought  to  call  it  an  antechamber,  for  the  house  was  old-fashioneil, 
and  stately  and  giand,  the  large  square  tlrawing-room,  into  the 
centre  of  which  Mrs.  Dawson's  sofa  was  tb•a^^^l.  Ixhind  her  a 
little  was  placed  a  table  with  a  great  cluster  caudh'stick  ujiou  it, 
beai'ing  seven  or  eight  wax-lights  ;  and  that  was  all  the  light  in 
the  room,  which  looked  to  me  very  vast  and  indistinct  after  onr 
pinched-up  apartment  at  the  jMackenzie's.  Mrs.  Dawsun  niu>" 
have  been  sixty  ;  and  yet  her  face  looked  very  stift  ivnd  smooth 
and  child-like.  Her  hair  was  (juite  gray  :  it  would  have  lookt«d 
whitti  but  for  the  snowiness  of  her  cap,  and  satin  ribbon.  She 
was  wrapped  in  a  kind  of  clressing-gowu  of  French  grey  iiurinu  : 
the  fm'uiture  of  the  room  was  diej)  rose-colour,  and  white  and 
gold,— the  i)aper  which  covered  tin-  walls  was  Indian.  Ix-giiiiiini: 
low  down  with  a  profusitm  of  tropical  leaves  and  biixls  lUid 
insects,  and  gradually  diminishing  in  richness  of  detail  till  ■■■'■ 
the  top  it  ended  in  tlie  most  dtlicate  tendrils  and  most  lilr.._\ 
insects. 

Mr.  Dawfion  had  acquired  nnuli  riches  in  his  profession,  and 
his  lumso  gave  one  this  iniprt'SKiun.  lu  the  comers  <»f  the  rocniB 
were  great  jars  of  Eastern  <'hina,  fdled  with  flower-leuv«>s  lUid 
spices  ;  and  in    the  middle  of  all  tliis  wns  placed  the  sofa,  iflJ 


ROUND   THE    SOFA.  179 

which  poor  Margaret  Dawson  passed  whole  days,  and  months, 
and  years,  without  the  power  of  moving  by  herself.  By-and-bv 
Mrs.  Dawson's  maid  brought  in  tea  and  macaroons  for  ns,  anil 
a  little  cup  of  milk  and  water  and  a  biscuit  for  her.  Then  the 
door  opened.  We  had  come  very  cai-ly,  and  in  came  Edinburgli 
professors.  Edinburgh  beauties,  and  celebrities,  all  on  their  way 
to  some  other  gayer  and  later  party,  but  coming  lirst  to  see  Mrs. 
Dawson,  and  tell  her  their  hon-mcifs,  or  their  interests,  or  their 
plans.  By  each  learned  man,  by  each  lovely  girl,  she  was  treated 
as  a  dear  fi'iend,  who  knew  something  more  about  their  own 
individual  selves,  independent  of  their  repiitation  and  general 
society-character,  than  any  one  else. 

It  was  very  brilliant  and  xnvy  dazzling,  and  gave  enough  to 
think  about  and  wonder  about  for  many  days. 

Monday  after  Monday  we  went,  stationary,  silent ;  what  could 
we  find  to  say  to  any  one  but  Mrs.  3Iargaret  herself?  Winter 
passed,  .summer  was  coming,  still  I  was  ailing,  and  weary  of  my 
life  ;  bxit  still  Mr.  Dawson  gave  hopes  of  my  ultimate  recovery. 
My  father  and  mother  came  and  went ;  but  they  could  not  stay 
long,  they  had  so  many  claims  upon  them.  Mrs.  Margaret 
Dawson  had  become  my  dear  friend,  although,  perliaps,  1  had 
never  exchanged  as  many  words  with  her  as  I  had  with  Miss 
Mackenzie,  but  then  with  Mrs.  Dawson  eveiy  word  was  a  pearl 
or  a  diamond. 

People  began  to  drop  off"  from  Edinbm-gh,  only  a  few  were 
left,  and  I  am  not  sure  if  o;rr  Monday  evenings  were  not  all  the 
pleasanter. 

There  was  Mr.  Sperano,  the  Italian  exile,  banished  even  from 
France,  where  he  had  long  resided,  and  now  teaching  Italian 
with  meek  diligence  in  the  northern  city  ;  there  was  Mr.  Preston, 
the  Westmoreland  squire,  or,  as  he  preferred  to  be  called,  states- 
man, whcjst;  wife  had  come  to  Edinbm-gh  for  the  education  oi 
their  numerous  family,  and  who,  whenever  her  husband  had 
come  over  on  one  of  his  occasional  visits,  was  only  too  glad  In 
accompany  him  to  Mrs.  Dawson's  Monday  evenings,  he  and  tl)e 
invalid  lady  having  Iteen  friends  from  long  ago.  These  and 
oiu'selves  kept  steady  visitors,  and  enjoyed  ourselves  all  th«* 
more  from  having  the  more  of  ]V[rs.  Dawson's  society. 

One  evening  I  had  brought  the  little  stool  close  to  her  sofa, 
and  was  caressing  her  thin  white  hand,  when  the  thought  camo 
into  my  hcsad  and  out  I  spoke  it, 

"  Tell  me,  dear  Mrs.  Dawson,"'  s;ud  I,  "  how  long  you  havo 
been  in  Edinburgh  ;  you  do  not  speak  Scotch,  and  Mr.  Dawson 
says  he  is  not  Scotch." 

M  2 


ISO  KOUXD   THE    SOFA. 

"  No,  I  am  Lancashire — Liverpool -bom,"  said  she,  smiling. 
"  Don't  you  hear  it  in  my  broad  tongue  V" 

"  I  hear  something  different  to  other  people,  but  I  like  it  be- 
cause it  is  just  you  ;  is  that  Lancashire  ?' 

''  I  dare  say  it  is ;  tor,  though  I  am  sme  Lady  Ludlow  took 
pains  enough  to  correct  me  in  my  younger  days,  I  never  could 
get  rightly  over  the  accent." 

"  Lady  Ludlow,"  said  I,  "  what  had  she  to  do  with  you  ?  I 
hoard  you  talking  about  her  to  Lady  Madeline  Stuart  the  first 
evening  I  ever  came  here  ;  you  and  she  seemed  so  fond  of  Lady 
Ludlow  ;  who  is  she  ?"' 

"  She  is  dead,  my  child  ;  dead  long  ago." 

I  felt  sorry  I  had  spoken  about  her,  Mrs.  Dawson  looked  so 
grave  and  sad.  I  suppose  she  perceived  my  sorrow,  for  she  went 
on  and  said — 

"  My  dear,  I  like  to  talk  and  to  think  of  Lady  Ludlow  :  she 
"was  my  true,  kind  friend  and  benefactress  for  many  years :  ask 
me  what  you  like  about  her,  and  do  not  think  you  give  me  pain." 

I  grew  bold  at  this. 

"  Will  you  tell  mo  all  about  her,  then,  please  Mrs.  Dawson "?" 

"  Nay,"  said  she,  smiling,  "  that  would  be  too  long  a  story. 
Here  are  Signor  Spcrano,  and  Miss  Duncan,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Preston  arc  coming  to-night,  Mr.  Preston  told  me  ;  how  woidd 
they  like  to  hear  an  old-world  story  which,  after  all,  would  be 
no  stor}'  at  all,  neither  beginning,  nor  middle,  nor  end,  only  a 
bundle  of  recollections  '?" 

"  If  you  speak  of  me,  madame,"  said  Signor  Sperono,  '•  I  can 
only  say  you  do  me  one  great  honour  by  recotmting  in  my  pre- 
sence anything  about  any  jierson  that  has  ever  inteicsted  you." 

Miss  Duncan  tried  to  say  something  of  the  siune  kind.  In 
the  middle  of  her  confused  speech,  jMr.  and  Mrs.  Preston  came 
in,     I  sprang  up  ;  I  went  to  meit  tluin. 

"Oh,"  said  I,  "Mrs.  Dawson  is  just  going  to  tell  us  all  about 
Lady  Ludlow,  and  a  great  deal  nmre,  t>nly  she  is  afmid  it  won't 
interest  anybody  :  do  say  you  wuuld  liku  to  hear  it !  " 

Mrs.  Dawson  smiled  at  me,  and  in  rei)ly  to  their  urgency  she 
promised  to  tell  us  all  about  Lady  Ludlow,  on  condition  that 
each  one  of  us  sliouhl,  afti-r  sht^  had  ended,  narrate  something 
interesting,  wliieh  we  had  either  heard,  or  which  had  fallen 
witliin  our  own  experience.  We  all  pnmiised  willingly,  and  then 
gathenul  round  hor  sofa  to  hoar  what  she  could  tell  us  about  my 
Lady  Ludlow. 


MY    LADY    LUDLOW. 


CHAPTER  I. 


I  All  an  old  wom<an  now,  and  things  are  very  different  to  what 
they  were  in  my  youth.  Then  we,  who  travelled,  travelled  in 
coaches,  caiTying  six  inside,  and  making  a  two  days'  journey  out 
of  what  people  now  go  over  in  a  couple  of  hoiu-s  with  a  whizz 
and  a  flash,  and  a  screaming  whistle,  enough  to  deafen  one.  Then 
letters  came  in  but  three  times  a  week  :  indeed,  in  some  places 
in  Scotland  where  I  have  stayed  when  I  was  a  girl,  the  post  cam 
in  but  once  a  month ; — but  letters  were  letters  then  ;  and  we 
made  great  prizes  of  them,  and  read  them  and  studied  them  like 
books.  Now  the  post  comes  rattling  in  twice  a  day,  bringing 
short  jerky  notes,  some  without  beginning  or  end,  but  just  a 
little  sharp  sentence,  w'hich  well-bred  folks  would  think  too 
abrupt  to  be  spoken.  Well,  well !  they  may  all  be  improve- 
ments,— I  dare  say  they  are ;  but  you  will  never  meet  with  a 
Lady  Ludlow  in  these  days. 

I  will  try  and  tell  you  about  her.  It  is  no  story :  it  has,  as  1 
said,  neither  beginning,  middle,  nor  end. 

My  father  was  a  poor  clergyman  with  a  large  family.  My 
mother  was  always  said  to  have  good  blood  in  her  veins  ;  and 
when  she  wanted  to  maintain  her  position  with  the  people  she 
■was  thrown  among, — principally  rich  democratic  manufacturers, 
all  for  liberty  and  the  French  Revolution, — she  would  put  on  a 
pair  of  ruffles,  trimmed  with  real  old  English  point,  very  much 
darned  to  be  sure, — but  which  could  not  be  bought  new  for  love 
or  money,  as  the  ait  of  making  it  was  lost  years  before.  These 
ruffles  showed,  as  she  said,  that  her  ancestors  had  been  Some- 
bodies, when  the  grandfathers  of  the  rich  folk,  who  now  looked 
down  upon  her,  had  been  Nobodies, — if,  indeed,  they  had  any 
grandfathers  at  all.  I  don't  know  whether  any  one  out  of  oi\r 
own  family  ever  noticed  these  rufflep, — but  we  were  all  taught  as 
children  to  feel  rather  proud  when  my  mother  put  them  on,  and 
to  hold  up  our  heads  as  became  the  descendants  of  the  larly  who 
had  first  possessed  the  lace.    Not  but  what  my  -Ivav  fat^.or  .)itcn 


182  MY    LADY   LUDLOW. 

told  us  that  pride  was  a  great  sin ;  wc  were  never  allowed  to  be 
proud  of  anything  but  my  mother's  ruffles  :  and  she  was  so  inno- 
cently happy  when  she  put  them  on, — often,  poor  dear  creature, 
to  a  very  worn  and  threadbare  gown, — that  I  still  think,  even 
after  all  my  experience  of  life,  they  were  a  blessing  h)  the  family. 
You  will  think  that  I  am  wandering  away  from  my  Lady  Lud- 
low. Not  at  all.  The  Lady  who  had  owned  the  lace,  Ursula 
Hanbury,  was  a  common  ancestress  of  both  my  mother  and  my 
Lady  Ludlow.  And  so  it  fell  out,  that  when  my  poor  father 
died,  and  my  mother  was  Sdrely  pressed  to  know  what  to  do  viith. 
her  nine  children,  and  looked  far  and  wide  for  signs  of  willing- 
ness to  help.  Lady  Ludlow  sent  her  a  letter,  proffering  aid  and 
assistance.  I  see  tliat  letter  now  :  a  large  sheet  of  thick  yellow 
paper,  with  a  straight  broad  margin  left  on  the  left-hand  side  <if 
the  delicate  Italian  writing, — writing  which  contained  far  more 
in  the  same  space  of  paper  than  all  the  sloping,  or  mascidino 
hand-writings  of  the  present  day.  It  was  sealed  with  a  coat  cif 
arms, — a  lozenge, — for  Lady  Ludlow  was  a  widow.  My  mother 
made  us  notice  the  motto,  '•  Foy  et  Loy,"  and  told  us  where  to 
look  for  the  quarterings  of  the  Hanbury  arms  before  she  opened 
the  letter.  Indeed,  I  think  she  was  rather  afraid  of  what  the 
contents  might  be ;  for,  as  I  have  said,  in  her  anxious  love  for 
her  fatherless  children,  she  had  wTitten  to  many  people  upon 
whom,  to  tell  truly,  she  had  btit  little  claim  :  and  their  cidd,  hanl 
answers  had  many  a  time  made  her  cry,  when  she  thought  none 
of  us  were  looking.  I  do  not  even  know  if  she  had  ever  seen 
Lady  Ludlow  :  all  I  knew  of  lier  was  that  she  was  a  very  grand 
lady,  whose  grandmother  liad  been  half-sister  to  my  mothers 
great-grandmother;  l)ut  <tf  her  character  and  circumstances  I  ha<l 
heard  nothing,  and  I  doubt  if  my  motlur  was  acipiuinted  ^^^th 
them. 

I  looked  over  my  mother's  shonlder  to  read  the  httt  r :  it 
began,  "  Dear  Cousin  IMargaret  Dawson,"  and  I  think  I  felt 
hopeful  from  the  moment  I  saw  tliose  words.  She  went  on  to 
Bay, — stay,  I  think  1  can  remember  the  very  words  : 

'  Dkar  Codsin  Mauoaket  Dawson,  I  have  In'en  much  grieved 
'  to  hear  of  the  loss  you  have  sustjiined  in  the  death  of  so  gocvl  a 
'husband,  and  so  (!xc<'nent  a  chTgymaii  lus  I  have  always  heard 
'  that  my  late  cousin  Kiehard  wiub  esteemed  to  be.' 

'•  TluTe  !"  said  my  iiiothc^r,  laying  her  finger  on  the  passage, 
"read  that  aloud  to  the  little  onrs.  Let  them  hear  how  their 
fcther's  good  report  travelled  far  and  wide,  and  how  well  he  is 
sjioken  of  by  «>ue  wlioni  he  nev«'r  saw.  Corsiu  Kiehard,  how 
I'TCtliiy  her  ladyship  writes  t      (lO  on,  Margaret  !'*      She  wiped 


MY   LADY   LUDLOW.  183 

her  eyes  as  she  spoke  :  and  laid  her  fingers  on  her  lips,  to  still 
my  little  sister,  Cecily,  who,  not  understanding  anything  about 
the  important  letter,  was  beginning  to  talk  and  make  a  noise. 
'  You  say  you  are  left  with  nine  children.  I  too  should  have 
had  nine,  if  mine  had  all  lived.  I  have  none  left  but  Kudolph, 
the  present  Lord  Ludlow,  He  is  married,  and  lives,  for  the 
most  part,  in  London.  But  I  entertain  six  young  gentlewomen 
at  my  house  at  Connington,  who  are  to  me  as  daughters — save 
that,  perhaps,  I  restrict  them  in  certain  indulgences  in  dress 
and  diet  that  might  be  befitting  in  young  ladies  of  a  higher 
rank,  and  of  more  probable  wealth.  These  young  persons — 
all  of  condition,  though  out  of  means — are  my  constant  com- 
panions, and  I  strive  to  do  my  duty  as  a  Christian  lady  towards 
them.  One  of  these  young  gentlewomen  died  (at  her  own 
home,  whither  she  had  gone  upon  a  visit)  last  May,  Will  you 
do  me  the  favour  to  allow  yom-  eldest  daughter  to  supply  her 
place  in  my  household  ?  She  is,  as  I  make  out,  about  sixteen 
years  of  age.  She  will  find  companions  here  who  are  but  a 
little  older  than  herself.  I  dress  my  yoimg  friends  myself,  and 
make  each  of  them  a  small  allowance  for  pocket-money.  They 
have  but  few  opportimities  for  matrimony,  as  Connington  is  far 
removed  from  any  tovra.  The  clergyman  is  a  deaf  old  widower ; 
my  agent  is  married  ;  and  as  for  the  neighbom-ing  farmers,  they 
are,  of  course,  below  the  notice  of  the  young  gentlewomen 
under  my  protection.  Still,  if  any  young  woman  wishes  to 
marry,  and  has  conducted  herself  to  my  satisfaction,  I  give  her 
a  wedding  dinner,  her  clothes,  and  her  house-Knen.  And  such 
as  remain  ^\'ith  me  to  my  death,  will  find  a  .small  competency 
provided  for  them  in  my  will.  I  reserve  to  myself  the  option 
of  paying  their  travelling  expenses, — disliking  gadding  women, 
on  the  one  hand  ;  on  the  other,  not  wishing  by  too  long  absence 
from  the  family  home  to  weaken  natural  ties. 

'  If  my  i^roposal  pleases  you  and  your  daughter — or  rather,  if 
it  pleases   you,  for  I  trust  your  daughter  has  been  too  well 
brought  up  to  have  a  will  in  opposition  to  yoiu's — let  me  know, 
dear  cousin  Margaret  Dawson,  and  I  \\'ill  make  arrangements 
for  meeting  the  young  gentlewoman  at  Cavistock,  which  is  the 
nearest  point  to  which  the  coach  will  bring  her.' 
My  mother  dropped  the  letter,  and  sat  silent. 
"  I  shall  not  know  what  to  do  without  you,  Margaret." 
A  moment  before,  like  a  young  untried  girl  as  I  was,  I  had 
been  pleased  at  the  notion  of  seeing  a  new  place,  and  leading  a 
new  life.     But  now, — my  mother's  look  of  sorrow,  and  the  chil- 
dren's cry  of  remonstrance  :  "  Mother  ;  I  won't  go,"  I  said. 


184  MY    LADY    LUDLOW. 

"  Nay !  but  you  had  better,"  replied  she,  shaJdng  her  head. 
*'  Lady  Ludlow  has  much  power.  She  can  help  your  brothers. 
It  will  not  do  to  slight  her  oflfer." 

So  we  accepted  it,  after  much  consultation.  We  were  re- 
warded,— or  so  we  thought, — for,  aftenvards,  when  I  came  to 
know  Lady  Ludlow,  I  saw  that  she  would  have  done  her  duty 
by  us,  as  helpless  relations,  however  we  might  have  rejected  her 
Inndness, — by  a  presentation  to  Christ's  Hospital  for  one  of  my 
brothers. 

And  this  was  how  I  came  to  know  my  Lady  Ludlow. 

I  remember  well  the  afternoon  of  my  ai-rival  at  Hanbury 
Court.  Her  ladyship  had  sent  to  meet  me  at  the  nearest  post- 
town  at  which  the  mail-coach  stopped.  There  ^vas  an  old  groom 
inquiring  for  me,  the  ostler  said,  if  my  name  was  Dawson — from 
Hanbury  Court,  he  believed.  I  felt  it  rather  formidable ;  and 
first  began  to  imderstand  what  was  meant  by  going  amcng 
strangers,  when  I  lost  sight  of  the  guard  to  whom  my  mother 
had  intrusted  me.  I  was  perched  up  in  a  high  gig  with  a  hood 
to  it,  such  as  in  those  days  was  called  a  chair,  and  my  com- 
panion was  driving  deliberately  through  the  most  pastoral 
coimtry  I  had  ever  yet  seen.  By-and-by  we  ascended  a  long 
hill,  and  the  man  got  out  and  walked  at  the  horse's  head.  I 
should  have  liked  to  walk,  too,  veiy  much  indeed  ;  but  I  did  uit 
know  how  far  I  might  do  it;  and,  in  fact,  I  dai-ed  not  speak  to 
ask  to  be  helped  down  the  deep  steps  of  the  gig.  We  were  at 
last  at  the  top, — on  a  long,  breezy,  sweeping,  imenclosed  piece 
of  groimd,  called,  as  I  afterwards  learnt,  a  Chase.  The  groom 
stopped,  breathed,  patted  his  horse,  and  then  mounted  again  to 
my  side. 

"Are  we  near  Hanbiu-y  Court?"  I  asked. 

"  Near  !  Why,  Miss  !  we've  a  matter  of  ten  mile  yet  to  go." 

Once  laimched  into  conversation,  wc  went  on  pretty  glibly. 
I  fancy  he  had  been  afraid  of  beginning  to  speak  to  me,  just  as  I 
was  to  him  ;  but  he  got  over  his  shyness  with  me  sooner  than  I 
did  mine  with  him.  1  let  him  choose  the  subjects  of  conversa- 
tion, although  very  often  I  cuuld  not  imderstand  the  points  of 
interest  in  them  :  for  instance,  he  talked  for  more  thiui  a  tiuarter 
of  an  hour  t>f  a  famous  race  which  a  ce-rtain  di>g-fox  had  given 
him,  above  thirty  yeai-s  before  ;  and  spoke  e)f  all  the  covers  and 
turns  just  as  if  I  kne-w  thrm  as  will  as  he  did  ;  and  all  the-  time 
I  was  wonde-ring  what  kiuel  of  an  uiiiinal  a  dog-fox  might  be. 

After  wo  left  the  Cliase,  the  road  grow  worse.  No  one  in 
thcBe  days,  whe)  has  not  seen  tlio  byroads  of  tifty  years  ago,  ciin 
imogino  what  tliey  were.     Wo  Imd  to  ijmvrter,  as  Itandal  cjdle«d 


MY    LADY    LUDLOW.  18.5 

it,  nearly  all  the  way  along  the  detp-ruttcd,  miry  hmes  ;  and  the 
tremendous  jolts  I  occasionally  mot  with  made  my  seat  in  the 
gig  so  amstcady  that  I  could  not  look  about  mo  at  all,  1  was  so 
much  occupied  in  holding  on.  The  road  was  too  muddy  for  mo 
to  walk  without  dirtying  myself  more  than  I  liked  to  do,  just 
before  my  first  sight  of  my  Lady  Ludlow.  But  by-and-by,  when 
we  came  to  the  fields  in  which  the  lane  ended,  I  begged  Eandal 
to  help  mc  down,  as  I  saw  that  I  could  pick  my  steps  among  the 
pasture  grass  without  making  myself  unfit  to  be  seen ;  and 
Eandal,  out  of  pity  for  his  steaming  horse,  wearied  with  the  hard 
struggle  through  the  mud,  thanked  me  kindly,  and  helped  me 
down  with  a  springing  jump. 

The  pastiures  fell  gradually  down  to  the  lower  land,  shut  in  on 
cither  side  by  rows  of  high  elms,  as  if  there  had  been  a  wide 
grand  avenue  here  in  former  times.  Doflii  the  gi'assy  gorge  we 
went,  seeing  the  sunset  sky  at  the  end  of  the  shadowed  descent. 
Suddenly  wo  came  to  a  long  flight  of  steps. 

"  If  you'll  run  dowia  there.  Miss,  I'll  go  round  and  meet  you, 
and  then  you'd  better  mount  again,  for  my  lady  will  like  to  see 
you  drive  up  to  the  house." 

"  Are  we  near  the  house  ?"  said  I,  suddenly  checked  by  the 
idea. 

"  Down  there,  Miss,"  replied  he,  pointing  with  his  whip  to 
certain  stacks  of  twisted  chimneys  rising  out  of  a  group  of  trees, 
in  deep  shadow  against  the  crimson  light,  and  which  lay  just 
Ixjyond  a  great  square  la^Mi  at  the  base  of  the  steep  slope  of  a 
hundred  yards,  on  the  edge  of  which  we  stood. 

I  went  do\\'n  the  steps  quietly  enough.  I  met  Eandal  and  the 
gig  at  the  bottom ;  and,  falling  into  a  side  road  to  the  left,  we 
irove  sedately  rf)imd,  thi-ough  the  gateway,  and  into  the  great 
comt  in  front  of  the  house. 

The  road  by  which  we  had  come  lay  right  at  the  back. 

Hanbury  Court  is  a  vast  red-brick  house — at  least,  it  is  cased 
m  part  with  red  bricks  ;  and  the  gate-house  and  walls  about  the 
place  are  of  brick,— with  stonn  facings  at  every  corner,  and  door, 
and  window,  such  as  you  see  at  Hampton  Court.  At  the  back 
are  the  gables,  and  arched  doorways,  and  stone  mullions,  whiclx 
show  (so  Lady  Ludlow  used  to  tell  \is)  that  it  was  once  a  jtriory. 
There  was  a  prior's  parloiu*,  I  know — only  we  called  it  Mrs. 
Medlicott's  room  ;  and  there  was  a  tithe-bam  as  big  as  a  chiu-ch, 
and  rows  of  fish-ponds,  all  got  ready  for  the  monks'  fasting-days 
in  old  time.  But  all  this  I  did  not  see  till  afterwards.  I 
hardly  noticed,  this  first  night,  the  great  Virginian  Creeper 
(said  to  have  been  the  first  planted  in  England  by  one  of  my 


186 


MV    LADY    LUDLOW, 


liidy's  ancestors)  that  half  covered  the  front  of  the  house.  As  I 
had  been  imwilling  to  leave  the  guard  of  the  coach,  so  did  I  now 
feel  unwilling  to  leave  Kandal,  a  known  friend  of  three  hours. 
But  there  was  no  help  for  it :  in  I  must  go ;  past  the  grand- 
loolcing  old  gentleman  holding  the  door  open  for  me,  on  into  the 
great  hall  on  the  right  hand,  into  which  the  sun's  last  rays  were 
Bending  in  glorious  red  light, — the  gentleman  was  now  walking 
before  me, — up  a  step  on  to  the  dais,  as  I  afterwards  learned 
that  it  was  called, — then  again  to  the  left,  through  a  series  of 
sitting-rooms,  opening  one  out  of  another,  and  all  of  them  look- 
ing into  a  stately  garden,  glowing,  even  in  the  twilight,  vriih  the 
bloom  of  flowers.  "We  went  up  four  steps  out  of  the  last  of 
these  rooms,  and  then  my  guide  lifted  up  a  heavy  silk  curtain, 
and  I  was  in  the  presence  of  my  Lady  Ludlow. 

She  was  very  small  of  stature,  and  very  upright.  She  wore  a 
great  lace  cap,  nearly  half  her  own  height,  I  should  think,  that 
went  round  her  head  (caps  Mhich  tied  imder  the  chin,  and  which 
we  called  "  mobs,"  came  in  later,  and  my  lady  held  them  in 
great  contempt,  saying  people  might  as  well  come  down  in  their 
nightcaps).  In  front  of  my  lady's  cap  was  a  great  bow  of  white 
satin  ribbon ;  and  a  broad  band  of  the  same  ribbon  was  tied 
tight  round  her  head,  and  served  to  keep  the  cap  straight.  She 
had  a  line  Indian  muslin  shawl  folded  over  her  shoulders  and 
across  her  chest,  and  an  ajjrou  of  the  same ;  a  black  silk  mode 
gown,  made  with  short  sleeves  and  ruffles,  and  ^^■ith  the  tail 
thereof  pidled  through  the  pocket-hole,  so  as  to  shorten  it  to  a 
usefid  length  :  beneath  it  she  wore,  as  I  ct)idd  plainly  see,  a 
quilted  lavender  satin  petticoat.  Her  hair  was  snowy  white,  but 
I  hardly  saw  it,  it  was  so  covered  mth  her  cap :  her  skin,  even 
at  her  age,  was  waxen  in  texture  and  tint ;  her  eyes  were  large 
and  dark  blue,  and  must  have  been  her  gi-eat  beauty  when  she 
was  young,  for  there  was  nothing  i)articular,  as  far  as  I  can  re- 
member, either  in  mouth  or  nose.  She  had  a  great  gold-headed 
stick  by  her  chair ;  but  I  think  it  was  more  as  a  mark  of  state 
and  dignity  than  for  use  ;  for  she  had  as  light  and  brisk  a  step 
when  she  chose  as  any  girl  of  tifteeu,  and,  in  her  j)rivrtte  early 
walk  of  meditation  in  the  mornings,  would  go  as  swiftly  from 
garden  alley  to  garden  alh-y  as  any  one  t)f  us. 

She  was  standing  uj)  when  T  went  in.  I  dropped  my  curtsey 
at  the  door,  which  my  mother  had  always  taught  me  as  a  part  of 
good  manni>i-H,  and  went  tip  iristimtivfly  to  my  lady.  She  did 
not  ptit  out  her  hanil,  but  raised  herself  a  little  on  tiptoe,  and 
kiMed  me  on  both  cheeks. 

"You  are  cold,  mv  child.     You  shall  have  a  dish  of  tea  with 


MY    LADY    LUDLO\V.  187 

mc."  She  rang  a  little  band-bcll  on  the  table  by  her,  and  her 
waiting-maid  came  in  from  a  small  anteroom  ;  and,  as  if  all  had 
been  prepared,  and  was  awaiting  my  arrival,  brought  with  her  a 
small  china  service  with  tea  ready  made,  and  a  plate  of  deli- 
cately-cut bread  and  butter,  every  morsel  of  which  I  could  have 
eaten,  and  been  none  the  better  for  it,  so  hungiy  was  I  after  my 
long  ride.  The  waiting-maid  took  off  my  clonk,  and  I  sat  down, 
sorely  ahu-med  at  the  silence,  the  hushed  foot-falls  of  the  sub- 
dued maiden  over  the  thick  carpet,  and  the  soft  voice  and  clear 
pronunciation  of  my  Lady  Ludlow.  My  teaspoon  fell  against 
my  cup  with  a  sharp  noise,  that  seemed  so  out  of  place  and 
season  that  I  blushed  deeply.  My  lady  caught  my  eye  with 
hers, — both  keen  and  sweet  were  those  dark-blue  eyes  of  her 
ladyship's : — 

'•Your  hands  are  very  cold,  my  dear ;  take  off  those  gloves" 
(I  wore  thick  serviceable  doeskin,  and  had  been  too  shy  to  take 
them  off  unbidden),  "  and  let  me  try  and  wann  them — the  even- 
iugs  arc  very  chilly."  And  she  held  my  gi'cat  red  hands  in  hers, 
— soft,  warm,  white,  ring-laden.  Looking  at  last  a  little  wist- 
fully into  my  face,  she  said — "  Poor  child  !  And  you're  the 
eldest  of  nine  !  I  had  a  daughter  who  would  have  been  just  your 
age  ;  but  X  cannot  fancy  ner  the  eldest  of  nine."  Then  came  a 
pause  of  silence ;  and  then  she  rang  her  bell,  and  desired  her 
waiting-maid,  Adams,  to  show  me  to  my  room. 

It  was  so  small  that  I  think,  it  must  have  been  a  cell.  The 
walls  were  whitewashed  stoue ;  the  bed  was  of  white  dimity. 
There  was  a  small  piece  of  red  staircarpet  on  each  side  of  the 
bed,  and  two  chairs.  In  a  closet  adjoining  were  my  washstand 
and  toilet-table.  There  was  a  text  of  Scripture  painted  on  the 
wall  right  opposite  to  my  bed  ;  and  below  hung  a  print,  common 
enough  in  those  days,  of  King  George  and  Queen  Charlotte, 
with  all  their  numerous  children,  down  to  the  little  Princess 
Amelia  in  a  go-cart.  On  each  side  hung  a  small  portrait,  also 
engraved  :  on  the  left,  it  was  Louis  the  Sixteenth  ;  on  the  other, 
Marie-Antoinette.  On  the  chimney-piece  there  was  a  tinder-box 
and  a  Prayer-book.  I  do  not  remember  anything  else  in  the 
room.  Indeed,  in  those  days  people  did  not  di'cam  of  writing- 
tables,  and  inkstands,  and  portfolios,  and  easy  chaii-s,  and  what 
not.  We  were  taught  to  go  into  our  bedrooms  for  the  pui'poses 
of  dressing,  and  sleeping,  and  praying. 

Presently  I  was  summoned  to  supper.  I  followed  the  young 
lady  who  Imd  been  sent  to  call  me,  down  the  wide  shallow  stairs, 
into  the  great  hall,  through  which  I  had  first  passed  on  my  Tray 
fto  my  Lady  Ludlow's  room.  There  were  four  other  young  gentle- 


1«8  MY    LADV    LUDLOW. 

■women,  all  stauding.  aud  all  silent,  who  curtsied  to  me  when  I 
first  came  in.  TLey  were  dressed  in  a  kind  of  uniform  :  mnslin 
caps  boimd  roimd  their  heads  with  blue  ribbons,  plain  muslin 
handkerchiefs,  lavNH  aprons,  and  drab-coloured  stuff  gowns.  They 
were  all  gathered  together  at  a  little  distance  from  the  table,  on 
which  were  placed  a  couple  of  cold  chickens,  a  salad,  and  a  fruit 
tart.  On  the  dais  there  was  a  smaller  round  table,  on  which 
stood  a  silver  jug  filled  with  milk,  and  a  small  roll.  Near  that 
was  set  a  carved  chair,  A\nth  a  coimtcss's  coronet  surmoimting  the 
back  of  it.  1  thought  that  some  one  might  have  spoken  to  me  ; 
but  they  were  shy,  and  I  was  shy  ;  or  else  there  was  some  other 
reason  ;  but,  indeed,  almost  the  minute  after  I  had  come  into  the 
hall  by  the  door  at  the  lower  hand,  her  ladyship  entered  by  the 
door  opening  upon  the  dais  ;  whereupon  we  all  cm-tsied  very  low  ; 
I  because  I  saw  the  others  do  it.  She  stood,  and  looked  at  us  for 
a  moment. 

"Young  gentlewomen,"  said  she,  "make  Margaret  Dawson 
welcome  among  you  ;"  and  they  treated  me  with  the  kind  polite- 
ness due  to  a  stranger,  but  still  \dthout  any  talking  beyond  what 
was  required  for  the  purposes  of  the  meal.  After  it  was  over,  and 
grace  was  said  by  one  of  our  party,  my  lady  rang  her  hand-beU, 
and  the  servants  came  in  and  cleared  away  the  supper  things : 
then  they  brought  in  a  portable  reading-desk,  which  was  placed 
on  the  dais,  and,  the  whole  household  tron2)ing  in,  my  lady  called 
to  one  of  my  comjianions  to  come  up  and  read  the  Psalms  and 
Lessons  for  the  day.  I  remember  thinking  how  afraid  I  should 
have  been  had  I  been  in  her  ])lace.  There  were  no  prayers. 
My  lady  thought  it  schismatic  to  have  any  i)rayers  excepting  those 
in  the  Prayer-book  ;  and  would  as  sotm  have  preached  a  sermon 
herself  in  tlie  parish  chmch.  as  have  allowed  any  one  not  a  dea- 
con at  the  least  to  read  jjrayers  in  a  ])rivate  dwelling-house.  I 
am  not  sure  that  even  then  slio  would  liavc  approved  of  his  reivd- 
ing  them  in  an  unconsecrated  place. 

Slie  had  been  maid  of  honour  to  Queen  Charlotte:  a  Hanbiiry 
of  that  old  stock  tliat  flourished  in  the  days  of  the  Pliintagt  net*!, 
and  heiress  of  all  the  land  tluit  remained  to  the  family,  of  the 
great  estates  which  liad  onci'  stritclitd  into  four  sij)arate  cuuu- 
ties.  Hanbury  Court  was  hers  b}*  right.  She  had  married  Lonl 
Ludlow,  and  had  livtd  for  niiuiy  years  at  his  various  seals,  and 
away  from  her  ancestral  home.  She  liad  lost  all  liereliiKlrt  n  but 
one,  and  most  of  them  had  died  at  thesis  houses  of  Ijord  Ludlow's ; 
and,  I  dare  say,  that  gave  my  lady  a  distaste  tit  the  j)laees,  and  n 
longing  to  come  back  to  Hanbury  Comt.  wliert^  slie  had  bet  n  so 
Lappy  as  a  girl.     I  imagine  her  girlhood  had  been  the  ha]>pie6t 


MY   LADY   LUDLOW.  189 

time  of  her  life ;  for,  now  I  think  of  it,  most  of  her  opinions, 
when  I  know  her  in  later  life,  were  singulai*  enough  tlien,  but 
hail  bren  univcTsaily  prevalent  fifty  years  before.  For  instance, 
while  I  lived  at  Haubuiy  Court,  the  cry  for  education  was  begin- 
ning to  conic  up  :  Mr.  L'uikes  had  set  up  his  Sunday  Schools  ;  and 
some  clergymen  were  all  for  teaching  writing  and  arithmetic,  as 
well  as  reading.  My  lady  would  have  none  of  this  ;  it  was  level- 
ling and  revolutionary,  she  said.  Wheuayoimg  woman  came  to 
l)e  hired,  my  lady  would  have  her  in,  and  see  if  she  liked  her 
looks  and  her  dress,  and  question  her  about  her  family.  Her  lady- 
ship laid  gi-eat  stress  ui^ou  this  latter  point,  saying  that  a  girl 
who  did  not  warm  up  when  any  interest  or  curiosity  was  ex- 
pressed about  her  mother,  or  the  '•  baby"  (if  there  was  one),  was 
not  likely  to  make  a  good  servant.  Then  she  would  make  her 
put  out  her  feet,  to  see  if  they  were  well  and  neatly  shod.  Then 
she  would  bid  her  say  the  Lord's  Prayer  and  the  Creed.  Then 
she  inquired  if  she  could  \ATite.  If  she  coidd,  and  she  had  liked 
all  that  had  gone  before,  her  face  sank — it  was  a  gi'eat  disap- 
pointment, for  it  was  an  all  but  in^niolable  rule  with  her  never  to 
engage  a  servant  who  could  write.  But  I  have  known  her  lady 
ship  break  tlu-ough  it,  although  in  both  cases  in  which  she  did  so 
she  put  the  girl's  i^riuciples  to  a  fm'ther  and  unusual  test  in  ask- 
ing her  to  repeat  the  Ten  Commandments.  One  pert  young 
woman — and  yet  I  was  soriy  for  her  too,  only  she  afterwards 
man-ied  a  rich  di-aper  in  Shrewsbury — who  had  got  through  her 
trials  pretty  tolerably,  considering  she  could  write,  spoilt  all,  by 
saying  glibly,  at  the  end  of  the  last  Commandment,  "An't  please 
your  ladyship,  I  can  cast  accounts." 

"Go  away,  wench,"  said  my  lady  in  a  hurry,  "  you're  only  fit 
for  trade ;  you  Avill  not  suit  me  for  a  servant,"  The  girl  went 
away  crestfallen  :  in  a  minute,  however,  my  lady  sent  me  after 
her  to  see  that  she  had  something  to  eat  before  leaving  the  house ; 
and,  indeed,  she  sent  for  her  once  again,  but  it  was  only  to  give 
her  a  Bible,  and  to  bid  her  beware  of  French  principles,  which 
had  led  tlic  French  to  cut  oft"  their  king's  and  queen's  heads. 

The  poor,  blubbering  girl  said,  "  Indeed,  my  lady,  I  wouldn't 
hurt  a  fly,  much  less  a  king,  and  I  cannot  abide  the  French,  nor 
frogs  neither,  for  that  matter." 

But  my  lady  was  inexorable,  and  took  a  girl  who  could  neither 
read  nor  write,  to  make  up  for  her  alarm  about  the  progress  of 
education  towards  addition  and  subtraction ;  and  afterwards, 
when  the  clergyman  who  was  at  Hanbury  parish  when  I  camo 
there,  had  died,  and  the  bishoi)  had  appointed  another,  and  a 
younger  man,  in  his  stead,  this  was  one  of  the  points  on  which 


190  MY    LADY    LUDLOW. 

he  iind  my  lady  did  not  agree.  While  good  old  deaf  Mr.  Morxu- 
ford  lived,  it  was  my  lady's  custijm,  when  indisposed  for  a  ser- 
mon, to  stand  np  at  the  door  of  her  large  square  pow, — just 
opposite  to  the  reading-desk, — and  to  say  (at  that  part  of  the 
morning  service  where  it  is  decreed  that,  in  quires  and  })lace8 
v.here  they  sing,  here  followeth  the  anthem)  :  '•  Mr.  Monutford, 
I  will  not  trouble  you  for  a  discourse  this  morning."  And  we 
all  knelt  down  to  the  Litany  with  great  satisfaction  ;  for  Mr. 
Mountford,  though  ho  could  not  hear,  had  always  his  eyes  ojK-n 
about  this  part  of  the  sei-vice,  for  any  of  my  lady's  movement*. 
But  the  new  clergyman,  Mr.  Gray,  was  of  a  different  stamj).  He 
was  very  zealous  in  all  his  pai-ish  work  ;  and  my  lady,  who  was 
just  as  good  as  she  could  be  to  the  poor,  was  often  ciying  him 
up  as  a  godsend  to  the  jmrish,  and  he  never  could  send  amiss  to 
the  Court  when  he  wanted  broth,  or  wine,  or  jelly,  or  sago  for  a 
sick  person.  But  he  needs  must  take  up  the  new  hobby  of  edu- 
cation ;  and  I  could  see  that  this  put  my  lady  sadly  about  one 
Simday,  when  she  suspected,  I  know  not  how,  that  there  was 
something  to  be  said  in  his  sermon  aboxit  a  Sunday-school  which 
lie  was  i^lanning.  She  stood  up,  as  she  had  not  done  since  Mr. 
Mountford's  death,  two  years  and  better  before  this  tune,  and 
said — 

'•  Mr.  Gray,  I  will  not  trouble  you  for  a  discourse  this 
morning." 

But  her  voice  was  not  well-assiu'ed  ajid  steady  ;  and  we  knelt 
down  with  more  of  curiosity  than  satisfaction  in  our  minds. 
Mr.  Gray  preached  a  very  rousing  sermon,  on  the  necessity  of 
establishing  a  Sabbath-school  in  the  village.  My  lady  shut  her 
eyes,  and  seemed  to  go  to  sleep  ;  but  I  don't  believe  she  lost  a 
word  of  it,  though  slie  said  nothing  about  it  that  1  heard  until 
the  next  Saturday,  when  two  of  us,  as  was  the  custom,  wern  riding 
out  with  her  in  her  carriage,  and  wo  wint  t«)  see  a  poor  l>e«lridden 
woman,  who  livid  some  miles  away  at  the  other  end  of  the  cstiitc 
and  of  the  parish  :  and  as  wc  ciuue  out  of  the  cottagi'  we  met  ]VIr. 
Gray  walking  up  to  it,  in  a  great  luat.  and  looking  vt-ry  tivwd. 
My  huly  beckoned  him  to  ht-r,  and  told  him  shesliouhl  wait  and 
take  him  homo  with  her,  adding  that  she  wimdiTed  to  set-  him 
there,  so  far  from  his  luuiu-,  for  that  it  was  beyond  a  Sabbath- 
day's  jom-ney,  and,  from  what  she  hud  gatlu  red  from  his  serujon 
the  last  Sunday,  he  was  all  for  .ludaism  against  Christianity.  He 
looked  as  if  he  did  not  understand  what  she  nu-ant ;  but  t!ie  truth 
was  that,  besides  tlie  way  in  whieli  he  had  sjxikiii  uj)  tor  sehotds 
and  se.iuuding,  ho  luul  kept  tailing  Simday  th<'  Sabbath  :  and,  Rs 
her  ladyship  said,  "The  Sabbath  is  the  Sabbath,  and  that's  one 


MY   LADY    LUDLOW.  191 

thing — it  is  Satiirday ;  and  if  I  keep  it,  I'm  a  Jew,  which  Im 
not.  And  Sunday  is  Sunday :  and  that's  another  thing  ;  and  if  I 
keep  it,  Im  a  Christian,  which  I  humbly  trust  I  am." 

But  when  Mr.  Gray  got  an  inkling  of  her  meaning  in  talldng 
about  a  Sabbath-day's  jom-ney,  he  only  took  notice  of  a  part 
of  it :  he  smiled  and  bowed,  and  said  no  one  knew  bett,er 
than  her  ladyship  what  were  the  duties  that  abrogated  all  in- 
ferior laws  regarding  the  Sabbath ;  and  that  he  must  go  in 
and  read  to  old  Betty  Brown,  so  that  he  would  not  detain  her 
ladyship. 

*•  But  I  shall  wait  for  you,  Mr.  Gray,"'  said  she.  "  Or  I  will 
tiike  a  drive  roimd  by  Oakfield,  and  be  back  in  an  hom-'s  time." 
For,  you  see,  she  would  not  have  him  feel  hiu-ried  or  troubled 
with  a  thought  that  he  was  keeping  her  waiting,  while  he  ought 
to  be  comforting  and  praying  with  old  Betty. 

'•  A  very  pretty  young  man,  my  dears,"  said  she,  as  we  drove 
away.     '•  But  I  shall  have  my  pew  glazed  all  the  same." 

We  did  not  know  what  she  meant  at  the  time  ;  but  the  next 
Sunday  but  one  we  did.  She  had  the  cm-tains  all  round  the 
grand  old  Hanbury  family  seat  taken  do\Mi,  and,  instead  of 
them,  there  was  glass  up  to  the  height  of  six  or  seven  feet.  We 
entered  by  a  door,  with  a  window  in  it  that  drew  up  or  down 
just  like  what  you  see  in  carriages.  This  \\'indow  was  generally 
down,  and  then  we  could  hear  perfectly  ;  but  if  Mr.  Gray  used 
the  word  "  Sabbath,"  or  sjjoke  in  favom-  of  schooling  and 
education,  my  lady  stepped  out  of  her  corner,  and  drew  up  the 
window  with  a  decided  clang  and  clash. 

I  must  tell  you  something  more  about  Mr.  Gray.  The  pre- 
sentation to  the  living  of  Hanbury  was  vested  in  two  trustees, 
of  whom  Lady  Ludlow  was  one :  Lord  Ludlow  had  exercised 
this  right  in  the  appointment  of  Mr.  Mountford,  who  had  won 
his  lordship's  favour  by  his  excellent  horsemanshij).  Nor  was 
Mr.  Mountford  a  bad  clergyman,  as  clergymen  went  in  those 
days.  He  did  not  drink,  though  he  liked  good  eating  as  much 
as  any  one.  And  if  any  poor  jierson  was  ill,  and  he  heard  of  it, 
he  would  send  them  plates  fr(;m  his  own  dinner  of  what  he 
himself  liked  best ;  sometimes  of  dishes  which  were  almost  as 
bad  as  poison  to  sick  people.  He  meant  kindly  to  everybody 
except  dissenters,  whom  Lady  Ludlow  and  he  united  in  trying 
to  drive  out  of  the  parish ;  and  among  dissenters  he  particularly 
abhorred  Methodists — some  one  said,  l)ecause  John  Wesley  had 
objected  to  his  hvmting.  But  that  must  have  been  long  ago, 
for  whej:  I  knew  him  he  was  far  too  stout  and  too  heavy  to 
hxmt;  besides,  the  bishop  of  the  diocese  disapproved  of  hunting, 


152  31 Y    LADV   LUDLOW. 

and  had  intimated  his  disapprobation  to  the  clergy.  For  my 
own  part,  I  think  a  good  run  would  not  have  come  amiss,  even 
in  a  moral  point  of  view,  to  Mr.  Mountford.  He  ate  so  much, 
and  took  so  little  exercise,  that  we  young  women  often  heard 
of  his  being  in  terrible  passions  with  his  servants,  and  the 
sexton  and  clerk.  But  they  none  of  them  minded  him  much, 
for  he  soon  came  to  himself,  and  was  sure  to  make  them  some 
present  or  other — some  said  in  proi)ortion  to  his  anger ;  so  that 
the  sexton,  who  was  a  bit  of  a  wag  (as  all  sextons  are,  I  think), 
said  that  the  vicar's  saying,  '•  The  Devil  take  you,"  was  worth  a 
shilling  any  day,  whereas  ''  The  Deuce  "  was  a  shabby  sixjKnny 
speech,  only  fit  for  a  ciu'ate. 

There  was  a  great  deal  of  good  in  Mr.  Mountford,  too.  He 
could  not  bear  to  see  i)aiu,  or  sorrow,  or  misery  of  any  kind  ; 
and,  if  it  came  under  his  notice,  he  was  never  easy  till  he  had 
relieved  it,  for  the  time,  at  any  rate.  But  he  was  afmid  of  being 
made  uncomfortable  ;  so,  if  he  possibly  could,  lie  would  avoid 
seeing  any  one  who  was  ill  or  unhajipy ;  and  he  did  not  thank 
any  one  for  telling  him  about  them. 

"'  What  would  your  lady.ship  have  me  to  do '?"  he  once  said 
to  my  Lady  Ludlow,  when  she  wished  him  to  go  and  see  a  poor 
man  who  had  broken  his  leg.  "  I  cannot  piece  the  leg  as  the 
doctor  can ;  I  cannot  nm-se  him  as  well  as  his  wife  docs ;  I  may 
talk  to  him,  but  he  no  more  imderstands  me  tlian  I  do  the 
language  of  the  alchemists.  My  coming  puts  him  out ;  ho 
stitfens  himself  into  an  imcomfortable  i)osture,  out  of  respect  to 
the  cloth,  and  dare  not  take  the  comfort  of  kicking,  and 
swearing,  and  scolding  his  wife,  wliilo  I  am  there.  I  hear  him, 
with  my  figurative  cars,  my  lady,  heave  a  sigh  of  relief  when 
my  back  is  turned,  and  the  sirnum  that  he  thinks  I  ought 
to  have  kept  for  the  pulpit,  and  have  delivered  to  his  neigh- 
boiu's  (whoso  case,  as  he  fancies,  it  would  just  have  fitted, 
as  it  seemed  to  him  to  be  addressed  to  the  sinful),  is  all  ended, 
and  done,  for  the  day.  I  judge  others  as  myself;  I  do  ti)  them 
as  I  would  bo  done  to.  That's  Christianity,  at  any  rate.  I 
Hhould  hate — saving  your  ladyshi})'s  ])resencc— to  have  my 
Lord  Ludlow  coming  and  seeing  me,  if  I  were  ill.  'T would 
be  a  great  honour,  no  doubt ;  but  I  should  have  to  put  on  a 
clean  nightcap  for  the  occasion  ;  and  sham  ]»atienoe,  in  ortliT 
to  be  polit(\  and  not  weary  his  lordship  with  my  complaints. 
I  should  bo  twiee  as  thankful  to  him  if  ho  wt)uhl  send  me  game, 
or  a  good  fat  luunieh,  to  bring  nu;  up  to  that  piteh  of  liealtli 
and  strength  one  ouglit  to  hv  in,  to  appreciate  the  hon»>ut 
of  a  visit  from  a  nobleman.     !So  I  bliull  tnud  Jcrrv  ButUr  u 


MY   LADY   LUDLOW.  193 

good  dinner  every  day  till  he  is  strong  again ;  and  spare  the 
poor  old  fellow  my  presence  and  advice." 

My  lady  would  be  puzzled  by  this,  and  by  many  other  of  Mr. 
Mountford's  speeches.  But  he  had  been  appointed  by  my  lord, 
and  she  could  not  question  her  dead  husband's  wisdom ;  and 
slie  knew  that  the  dinners  were  always  sent,  and  often  a  guinea 
or  two  to  help  to  pay  the  doctor's  bills ;  and  Mr.  Mountford 
was  true  blue,  as  we  call  it,  to  the  back-bone ;  hated  the  dis- 
senters and  the  French ;  and  could  hardly  drink  a  dish  of  tea 
without  giving  out  the  toast  of  "  Church  and  King,  and  dovra 
with  the  Eump."  Moreover,  he  had  once  had  the  honour 
of  preaching  before  the  King  and  Queen,  and  two  of  the 
Princesses,  at  Weymouth ;  and  the  King  had  applauded  his 
sermon  aixdibly  with,^"  Very  good ;  very  good  ;"  and  that  was 
a  seal  put  upon  his  merit  in  my  lady's  eyes. 

Besides,  in  the  long  winter  Sunday  evenings,  he  would  come 
up  to  the  Court,  and  read  a  sermon  to  us  girls,  and  play  a  game 
of  picquet  with  my  lady  afterwai-ds ;  which  served  to  shorten 
the  tedium  of  the  time.  My  lady  would,  on  those  occasions, 
invite  him  to  sup  with  her  on  the  dais  ;  but  as  her  meal  was 
invariably  bread  and  milk  only,  Mr.  Mountford  preferred  sitting 
down  amongst  us,  and  made  a  joke  about  its  being  wicked  and 
heterodox  to  eat  meagre  on  Sunday,  a  festival  of  the  Church. 
We  smiled  at  this  joke  just  as  much  the  twentieth  time  we 
heard  it  as  we  did  at  the  first ;  for  we  knew  it  was  coming, 
because  he  always  coughed  a  little  nervously  before  he  made 
a  joke,  for  fear  my  lady  should  not  approve :  and  neither  she 
nor  he  seemed  to  remember  that  he  had  ever  hit  upon  the  idea 
before. 

Mr.  Mountford  died  quite  suddenly  at  last.  We  were  all 
very  sorry  to  lose  him.  He  left  some  of  his  property  (for 
he  had  a  private  estate)  to  the  poor  of  the  parish,  to  furnish 
them  with  an  annual  Christmas  dinner  of  roast  beef  and  plum- 
pudding,  for  which  he  WTotc  out  a  very  good  receipt  in  the 
codicil  to  his  will. 

Moreover,  he  desired  his  executors  to  see  that  the  vault,  in 
which  the  vicars  of  Hanbury  were  interred,  was  Avell  aired, 
before  his  coffin  was  taken  in  ;  for,  all  his  life  long,  he  had  hatl 
a  dread  of  damp,  and  latterly  he  kept  his  rooms  to  such  a  pitch 
of  warmth  that  some  thought  it  hastened  his  end. 

Then  the  other  trustee,  as  I  have  said,  presented  the  living 
to  Mr.  Gray,  Fellow  of  Lincoln  College,  Oxford.  It  was  quite 
natural  for  us  all,  a.s  belonging  in  some  sort  to  the  Hanbury 
family,  to  disapprove  of  the  otlier  trustee's  choice.     But  when 

O 


l'J4  MV    LADY    LI;DI.0\V. 

Komo  ill-natiircd  pcrsuu  circulated  the  report  that  Mr.  Gray 
was  a  Muraviau  Methodist,  I  remember  my  huly  said,  *"8he 
could  not  believe  anything  so  bad,  without  u  great  deal  of 
evidence." 


CHAPTER  II. 


Befoke  I  tell  you  about  Mr.  Ciray,  I  think  I  ought  to  make 
you  understand  something  more  of  what  we  did  all  day  long  at 
Hanbury  Court.  There  were  five  of  us  at  the  time  of  which 
I  am  speaking,  all  yoimg  women  of  good  descent,  and  allied 
(however  distantly)  to  people  of  rank.  When  we  were  not  with 
my  lady,  Mrs.  Medlicott  looked  after  V3 ;  a  gentle  little  woman, 
who  had  been  companion  to  my  lady  ft)r  many  yeai*s,  and  was 
indeed,  I  have  been  told,  some  kind  of  relation  to  her.  Mrs. 
Medlicott's  parents  had  lived  in  Germany,  and  the  consequence 
was,  she  spoke  English  with  a  very  foreign  accent.  Another 
consequence  was,  that  she  excelled  in  all  manner  of  ncedlewiirk, 
such  as  is  not  known  even  by  name  in  these  days.  8he  could 
darn  either  laco,  table-linen,  India  muslin,  or  stockings,  so 
that  no  one  could  tell  where  the  hole  or  rent  had  been.  Though 
a  good  Protestant,  and  never  missing  (Juy  Faux  day  at  church, 
she  was  as  skilful  at  tine  work  as  any  mm  in  a  Pajiist  convent. 
She  would  take  a  piece  of  French  cambric,  and  by  dmwing  out 
Kome  threads,  and  working  in  others,  it  became  delicate  lace  in 
a  very  few  hours.  She  did  the  same  by  Iltdlands  cloth,  and 
made  coarse  strong  lace,  with  which  all  my  lady's  najtkins  and 
table-linen  were  trimmed.  We  worked  under  her  during  a 
great  j)art  of  the  day,  either  in  the  still-room,  or  at  our  scwiag 
in  ft  chamber  that  opened  out  of  the  great  hall.  ^ly  lady 
desjjised  every  kind  of  work  that  would  now  be  called  Fancy- 
work.  She  considered  that  the  use  of  coloured  threads  or 
worsted  was  only  fit  to  amuse  children  ;  but  that  grown  women 
ouglit  not  to  be  taken  with  mere  bhu  s  and  reds,  but  to  irstrict 
tlieir  pleasure  in  sewing  to  making  small  and  delicate  stitches. 
She  would  Hi)eak  of  the  old  tapestry  in  the  hall  as  the  work  of 
her  ancestresses,  who  lived  before  the  Ivefoniiation,  and  were 
vonsecjuently  unactjuainted  with  ]»\ne  and  simple  tastes  in  work, 
as  well  as  in  religion.  Nor  would  my  lady  sanction  tlie  fjisliion 
of  the  day,  which,  at  the  beginning  of  tliis  century,  made  all 
the  tine  ladies  take  to  making  shoes.  She  said  that  such  work 
was  a  consecpu^ice  of  the  French  J{(»volution,  which  had  douo 
nmch  to  unniliilate  all  distinctions  <vf  rank  and  cliuiR,  And 
hence  it  was,  that  she  saw  young  ladies  of  birth  tuid  breeding 


MY   LADY   LUDI.OW.  laO 

handling  lasts,  and  awls,  and  dirty  cobblers'-wax,  like  shoe- 
makers' daughters. 

Very  frequently  one  of  us  would  be  simimoned  to  my  lady  to 
rcatl  aloud  to  her,  as  she  sat  iu  her  small  withdrawiug-room, 
some  improving  book.  It  was  generally  Mr.  Addison's  "•  Spec- 
tator ;"'  but  one  year,  I  remember,  we  had  to  read  "  Stunn's  Ec- 
flections,"  translated  fi-om  a  German  book  Mrs.  Medlicott 
recommended.  Mr.  Sturm  told  us  what  to  think  about  for  every 
day  in  the  year ;  and  very  dull  it  was ;  but  I  believe  Queen 
Charlotte  had  liked  the  book  very  much,  and  the  thought  of  her 
royal  approbation  kept  my  lady  awake  dming  the  reading. 
"  Mi"s.  Chapone's  Letters "  and  "  Dr.  Gregory's  Advice  to 
Yoimg Ladies"  composed  the  rest  of  our  library  for  week-day 
reading.  I,  for  one,  was  glad  to  leave  my  fine  sewing,  and  even 
my  reading  aloud  (though  this  last  did  keep  me  with  my  dear 
lady)  to  go  to  the  still-room  and  potter  about  among  the  preserves 
and  the  medicated  waters.  There  v.as  no  doctor  for  many  miles 
round,  and  with  Mi"s.  Medlicott  to  direct  us,  and  Dr.  Buchan  to 
go  by  for  recipes,  we  sent  out  many  a  bottle  of  physic,  which,  I 
dare  say,  was  as  good  as  what  comes  out  of  the  di-uggist's  shop. 
At  any  rate,  I  do  not  think  we  did  much  harm  ;  for  if  any  of  our 
physics  tasted  stronger  than  usual,  Mi's.  Medlicott  would  bid  us 
let  it  down  with  cochineal  and  water,  to  make  all  safe,  as  she 
said.  So  our  bottles  of  medicine  had  very  little  real  physic  in 
them  at  last ;  but  we  were  carcfid  in  putting  labels  on  them, 
which  looked  very  mysterious  to  those  who  could  not  read,  and 
helped  the  medicine  to  do  its  work.  I  have  sent  off  many  a 
bottle  of  salt  and  water  coloiu'cd  red ;  and  whenever  we  had 
nothing  else  to  do  in  the  still-room,  Mi"s.  Medlicott  woidd  set  us 
to  making  bread-pills,  by  way  of  practice  ;  and,  as  far  as  I  can  say, 
they  were  very  eflficacious,  as  before  we  gave  out  a  box  Mrs. 
Medlicott  always  told  the  jjatient  what  symptoms  to  expect ; 
and  I  hardly  ever  inquired  without  hearing  that  they  had  pro- 
duced their  effect.  There  was  one  old  man,  who  took  six  pills 
a-night,  of  any  kind  we  liked  to  give  liim,  to  make  him  sleep  ; 
and  if,  by  any  chance,  his  daughter  had  forgotten  to  let  us  Imow 
that  he  was  out  of  liis  medicine,  he  was  so  restless  and  miserable 
that,  as  he  said,  he  thought.he  was  like  to  die.  I  think  oui-s  was 
what  woidd  be  called  homoeopathic  practice  now-a-days.  Then 
wo  learnt  to  make  all  the  cakes  and  dishes  of  the  season  in  the 
still-room.  We  had  plum-ponidgc  and  rnince-pies  at  Christmas, 
fritters  and  paucsvkes  on  Shrove  Tuesday,  funnenty  on  Motliering 
Sunday,  violet-cakes  in  Passion  Week,  tansy-pudding  on  Easter 
Simday,  three-cornered  cakes   on  Trinity    Sunday,   and  so  on 

o  2 


196  MY    I.ADV    i.tDI.OW. 

through  tlie  year :  all  made  from  good  old  Church  receipts, 
handt'd  downi  fnjm  one  of  my  lady's  earliest  Protestant  ances- 
tressts.  Every  one  of  us  passed  a  portion  of  the  day  with  Lady 
Ludlow ;  and  now  and  then  we  rode  out  with  hir  in  lier  eoacb 
and  four.  She  did  not  like  to  go  out  with  a  pair  of  hoi-sos,  con- 
sidering this  rather  beneath  her  rank  ;  and,  indeed,  four  horses 
were  very  often  needed  to  pull  her  heavy  coach  through  the  stifl 
mud.  But  it  was  rather  a  cumbersome  equipage  through  the 
narrow  Warwickshire  lanes ;  and  I  used  often  to  think  it  was 
well  that  countesses  were  not  jjlentiful,  or  else  we  might  have 
met  another  lady  of  quality  in  another  coach  and  four,  where 
there  would  have  been  no  possibility  of  turning,  or  passing  each 
other,  and  very  little  chance  of  backing.  Once  when  the  idea 
of  this  danger  of  meeting  another  coimtess  in  a  narrow,  deep- 
/uttcd  lane  was  very  prominent  in  my  mind,  I  ventured  to  ask 
Mrs.  Medlicott  what  would  have  to  be  done  on  such  an  occasion  : 
and  she  told  mc  tliat  "de  latest  creation  must  back,  for  sure," 
which  jnizzled  mc  a  good  deal  at  the  time,  although  I  under- 
stand it  now.  I  began  to  find  out  the  use  of  the  "  Peerage." 
a  book  which  had  seemed  to  me  iiither  dull  before  ;  birf,  as  I  was 
always  a  coward  in  a  coach,  I  made  myself  well  acquainted 
with  the  dates  of  creation  of  our  three  Warwackshire  earls, 
and  was  happy  to  find  that  Earl  Ludlow  ranked  second,  the 
oldest  carl  being  a  hmiting  widower,  and  not  likely  to  drivo 
out  in  a  carriage. 

All  this  time  I  have  wandered  from  Mr.  Gray.  Of  course,  wo 
first  sa-v  him  in  church  when  he  read  himself  in.  He  was  very 
red-faced,  the  kind  of  re<lncss  which  goes  with  light  hair  and  a 
blushing  complexion  ;  he  looked  slight  and  short,  and  his  l)right 
light  frizzy  liuir  had  liardly  a  dash  of  j)owder  in  it.  I  remember 
my  lady  making  tliis  ol>sirvation,  and  sighing  over  it ;  for, 
though  since  tlie  famini!  in  seventeen  hundred  and  ninety-nino 
and  eighteen  hundred  there  had  been  a  tax  on  hair-powder,  yet 
it  was  reckoned  very  revolutionary  and  .Jacobin  not  to  wear  a 
good  deal  of  it.  My  lady  hardly  liked  tlii' opinions  of  any  man 
who  wore  his  own  hair;  but  tliis  she  would  say  was  rather  a  pri- 
judico  :  only  in  her  V'»uth  none  but  the  mob  liad  gone  wigless, 
and  she  could  not  get  over  the  assoi-iation  of  wigs  with  birth 
and  breeding ;  a  man's  owii  hair  with  tliat  class  of  p«'oj>le  who 
had  formed  the  rioU-rs  in  seventeen  lnnidred  juid  lighty,  when 
Lord  (jleorgo  (Jordon  luid  been  one  of  the  bugbeiu-s  of  my  ladyn 
life.  Her  husbaml  and  his  brothers,  she  told  us,  had  U'en  put 
into  breeches,  and  had  their  heads  shaved  «>u  their  m'Venth 
birthday,  each   of  tliem ;  a  liandsome  little  wig  of  the  uewot*t 


MV    LADV    LUDLOW.  197 

fasbiou  forming  the  old  Lady  Ludlow's  invariable  biitluliiy  j)rc'- 
sent  to  her  sons  as  they  each  arrived  at  that  age  ;  and  afterwards, 
to  the  day  of  their  death,  they  never  saw  their  o\to  hair.  To  bo 
without  powder,  as  some  underbred  people  were  talking  of  being 
now,  was  in  fact  to  insult  the  proprieties  of  life,  by  being  un- 
dressed. It  was  English  sans-cidottism.  But  Mr.  Gray  did 
wear  a  little  powder,  enough  to  save  him  in  my  lady"s  good 
opinion  ;  but  not  enough  to  make  her  approve  of  him  decidedly. 

The  next  time  I  saw  him  was  in  the  great  hall.  Mary  Mason 
and  I  were  going  to  di'ive  out  with  my  lady  in  her  coach,  and 
when  we  went  do\vn  stairs  ^^'ith  our  best  hats  and  cloaks  on,  wo 
foimd  Mr.  Gray  awaiting  my  lady's  coming.  I  believe  he  had 
paid  his  respects  to  her  before,  but  we  had  never  seen  him ; 
and  he  had  declined  her  invitation  to  spend  Sunday  evening  at 
the  Coiirt  (as  Mr.  Mouutford  used  to  do  pretty  regularly — and 
play  a  game  at  picquet  too — ),  which,  Mrs.  Medlicott  told  us, 
had  caused  my  lady  to  be  not  over  well  i)leased  with  him. 

He  blushed  redder  than  ever  at  the  sight  of  us,  as  we  en- 
tered the  hall  and  dropped  him  oiu'  cm-tsies.  He  coughed  two 
or  tkree  times,  as  if  he  would  have  liked  to  speak  to  us,  if  he 
could  but  have  foimd  something  to  say  ;  and  every  time  ho 
coughed  he  became  hotter-looking  than  ever.  I  am  ashamed  to 
say,  we  were  nearly  laughing  at  him  ;  half  because  we,  too,  were 
so  shy  that  we  understood  what  his  awkwardness  meant. 

My  lady  came  in,  with  her  quick  active  step  — she  always 
walked  quickly  Avhen  she  did  not  bethink  herself  of  her  cane — 
as  if  she  was  sorry  to  have  us  kept  waiting — and,  as  she  en- 
tered, she  gave  us  all  round  one  of  those  gi'aceful  sweeping 
cui'tsies,  of  which  I  think  the  art  must  have  died  out  with  her, — 
it  implied  so  much  courtesy  ; — this  time  it  said,  as  well  as  words 
could  do,  "  I  am  sorry  to  have  kept  yoii  all  waiting, — forgive 
me." 

She  went  up  to  the  mantelpiece,  near  which  Mr.  Gray  had 
been  standing  until  her  entrance,  and  cm-tseying  afi'csh  to  him, 
and  pretty  deeply  this  time,  because  of  his  cloth,  and  her  being 
hostess,  and  lie,  a  new  guest.  She  asked  him  if  he  would  not 
prefer  speaking  to  her  in  her  own  private  parlour,  and  looked  as 
though  she  wovdd  have  conducted  him  there.  But  he  burst  out 
with  his  eiTiind,  of  which  lie  was  full  even  to  choking,  and 
which  scut  the  glistening  tears  into  his  large  blue  eyes,  which 
stood  fartlicr  and  farther  out  with  his  excitement. 

"  My  lady,  I  want  to  speak  to  you,  and  to  persuade  you  to 
exert  your  kind  interest  with  Mr.  Lathom — Justice  Lathom,  of 
Hathaway  jVIanor — " 


198  MY   LADY    LUDLOW. 

"  HaxTy  Lathom  ?"'  inquired  my  lady, — as  Mr.  Gray  Btoppcxl 
to  take  the  breath  he  had  h)st  in  his  hurry, — "  I  did  not  know 
he  was  in  the  coniniission." 

"  He  is  only  just  aj)poiuted ;  he  took  the  oaths  not  a  mouth 
ago, — more's  the  pity  ! ' 

"  I  do  not  understand  why  you  should  regret  it.  The 
Lathonis  have  held  Hathaway  since  Edward  the  First,  and  Mr. 
Lathom  bears  a  good  character,  although  his  temper  is  hasty — " 

"  My  lady !  he  has  committed  Job  Grcgson  for  stealing — a 
fault  of  which  ho  is  as  innocent  as  I — and  all  the  evidence  goes 
to  prove  it,  now  that  the  case  is  brought  before  the  Bench  ;  only 
the  Squires  hang  so  together  that  they  can't  be  brought  to  see 
justice,  and  arc  all  for  sending  Job  to  gaol,  out  of  compliment 
to  Mr.  Lathom,  saying  it  his  tii-st  committal,  and  it  wont  be 
civil  to  tell  him  there  is  no  evidence  against  his  man.  For  God's 
sake,  my  lady,  speak  to  the  gentlemen  ;  they  will  attend  to  you, 
while  they  only  tell  me  to  mind  my  own  business." 

Now  my  lady  was  always  inclined  to  stand  by  her  order,  and 
the  Lathoms  of  Hathaway  Court  were  cousins  to  the  Hanburv's. 
Besides,  it  was  ratlier  a  i)oint  of  honoiu-  in  those  days  to  en- 
courage a  young  magisti-ate,  by  jiassiug  a  pretty  sharp  scntenco 
on  his  first  committals  ;  and  Job  Gregson  was  the  father  of  a 
girl  who  had  been  lately  turned  away  from  her  place  as  scullerv- 
maid  for  saucincss  to  Mrs.  Adams,  lier  ladyshij)'s  own  maid  ;  and 
Mr.  (iray  had  not  said  a  word  of  tlie  reasons  why  lie  believed  thu 
man  innocent, — for  he  was  in  sucli  a  hurry,  I  believe  lie  would 
liave  had  my  lady  drive  off  to  the  Henley  Com-t-house  then  and 
there  ; — so  there  seemed  a  good  deal  against  the  man,  and 
nothing  but  l\Ir.  Gray's  bare  word  for  him ;  and  my  lady  tlrew 
herself  a  little  up,  and  said — 

"  Mr.  Gray  !  I  do  not  see  what  reason  citlier  you  or  I  have  to 
interfere.  Mr.  Hany  Lathom  is  a  sensible  kind  of  young  man, 
well  cajiable  of  asceilaining  the  truth  without  our  help — " 

"  But  more  evidence  has  come  out  since,"  broke  in  Mr.  Gray. 
My  lady  went  a  little  stiffer,  and  spoke  a  little  more  citldly  : 

"  I  suppose  this  addititmal  evidence  is  In-fore  the  justices: 
men  of  good  family,  and  of  honour  and  credit,  v,v\\  kno\m  in  thu 
county.  They  naturally  frel  that  the  opinion  of  one  of  them- 
selves must  have  more  weight  than  the  wonls  of  a  man  like 
Job  (Jngson,  ^\ho  bears  a  very  iiidilV.reiit  character. —lias  been 
htroiigly  suspected  of  poaching,  coming  fmni  no  t)ne  knows 
where,  sqiiiittiiig  on  Hareman's  Common  -  which,  by  the  way, 
is  extra-jiaroiliial,  I  believe;  consiijutntly  you,  as  a  ehTg\-iiiuii. 
are  not  responsible  for  what  goes  on  there;   and,  althougli  inipo- 


MY    LADY    LUDLOW.  199 

litic,  there  miglit  be  some  truth  in  what  the  magistrates  said,  in 
advising  you  to  mind  your  own  business," — said  her  ladysliip, 
smiling, — "  and  they  might  be  tempted  to  bid  me  mind  mine,  if 
I  interfered,  Mr.  Gray  :  might  tlicynot?'' 

He  looked  extremely  imcomfortable  ;  half  angry.  Once  or 
twice  he  began  to  speak,  but  checked  himself,  as  if  his  worda 
would  not  have  been  w  isu  or  prudent.     At  last  he  said — 

"  It  may  seem  presimiptuous  in  me, — a  stranger  of  only  a  few 
weeks'  standing — to  set  up  my  judgment  as  to  men's  character 
against  that  of  residents — "  Lady  Ludlow  gave  a  little  bow  of 
acquiescence,  which  was,  I  think,  involuntary  on  her  paii;,  and 
which  I  don't  think  he  perceived, — "  but  I  am  convinced  that 
the  man  is  innocent  of  this  offence, — and  besides,  the  justices 
themselves  allege  this  ridiculous  custom  of  paying  a  com- 
pliment to  a  newly-appointed  magistrate  as  their  only  reason." 

That  unlucky  word  "  ridicidous  !"  It  imdid  all  the  good  his 
modest  beginning  had  done  him  with  my  lady.  I  knew  as  well 
as  words  coidd  have  told  me,  that  she  was  affi'onted  at  the 
expression  being  used  by  a  man  inferior  in  rank  to  those  whose 
actions  he  applied  it  to, — and,  truly,  it  w^as  a  great  want  of  tact, 
considering  to  whom  he  was  speaking. 

Lady  Ludlow  spoke  very  gently  and  slowly ;  she  always  did 
so  when  she  was  annoyed ;  it  was  a  certain  sign,  the  meaning  of 
which  we  had  all  leamt. 

"  I  think,  Mr.  Gray,  we  will  di*op  the  subject.  It  is  one  on 
which  we  are  not  likely  to  agi'ee." 

Mr.  Gray's  ruddy  colour  gi-ew  purple  and  then  faded  away, 
and  his  face  became  pale.  I  think  both  my  lady  and  he  had 
forgotten  om*  presence  ;  and  we  were  beginning  to  feel  too 
awkward  to  wish  to  remind  them  of  it.  And  yet  we  could  not 
help  watching  and  listening  with  the  gi-eatest  interest. 

Mr.  Gray  drew  himself  up  to  his  full  height,  with  an  uncon- 
scious feeling  of  dignity.  Little  as  was  his  stature,  and  awkward 
and  emban-asscd  as  he  had  been  only  a  few  minutes  before,  I 
remember  thinking  he  looked  almost  as  gi-and  as  my  lady  when 
he  spoke. 

"  Your  ladyshii>  must  remember  that  it  may  be  my  duty  to 
speak  to  my  parishioners  on  many  subjects  on  which  they  do 
not  agree  wdth  me.  I  am  not  at  liberty  to  be  silent,  because 
tliey  differ  in  opinion  from  me." 

Lady  Ludlow's  great  blue  eyes  dilated  with  siu'prisc,  and — I 
do  think — anger,  at  being  thus  spoken  to.  I  am  not  sure 
whether  it  was  very  wise  in  Mr.  Gray.  Ho  himself  looked 
afraid  of  the  consequeHces  but  as  if  he  was  determined  to  bear 


200  MY    LADY    LUDLOW. 

them  without  flincliiug.  For  a  minute  there  was  silcucc.  Then 
my  lady  replied — 

"  Mr.  Gray,  I  respect  your  plain  speaking,  although  I  may 
wonder  whether  a  young  man  of  your  age  and  position  has  any 
right  to  assume  that  lie  is  a  Letter  judge  than  one  with  tho 
experience  which  I  have  naturally  gained  at  my  time  of  life,  and 
in  tho  station  I  hold." 

"  If  I,  madam,  as  the  clergyman  of  this  parish,  am  not  to 
shrink  from  telling  what  I  helieve  to  be  the  truth  to  the  poor 
and  lowly,  no  more  am  I  to  hold  my  peace  in  tlie  presence  of 
the  rich  and  titled."  Mr.  CJ ray's  face  showed  that  he  was  in 
that  state  of  excitement  which  in  a  child  would  have  ended  in  a 
good  fit  of  crying.  He  looked  as  if  he  had  nerved  himself  up 
to  doing  and  saying  things,  wliich  he  disliked  above  everything, 
and  which  nothing  short  of  serious  duty  coidd  have  compelled 
liim  to  do  and  say.  And  at  sudi  times  everj*  minute  circiuu- 
stance  which  coidd  add  to  pain  comes  vi>'idly  before  one.  I 
saw  that  he  became  aware  of  our  presence,  and  that  it  added  to 
his  disccmfiturc. 

My  lady  flushed  up.  "  Are  yoii  aware,  sir,"  asked  she,  "  that 
you  have  gone  far  astray  from  tlie  original  subject  of  con- 
versation ?  But  as  yon  talk  of  your  jiarish.  allow  me  to  remind 
you  that  Ilareman's  Ccmmon  is  beyond  tlie  boimds,  and  that 
you  are  really  not  responsible  for  tlie  characters  and  lives  of  the 
squatters  on  that  unlucky  piece  of  ground." 

"  Madam,  I  sei>  I  have  only  done  hann  in  speaking  to  you 
about  the  affair  at  all.     I  beg  your  jiardon  and  take  my  leave." 

He  bowed,  and  looked  very  sad.  I.ady  Ludlow  caught  tho 
expression  of  his  face. 

"  Good  morning  !"  she  cried,  in  rather  a  louder  and  quicker 
way  than  that  in  whiih  she  had  been  sjieaking,  "  licnienibtr, 
Job  Gregson  is  a  notorious  poacher  and  evildoer,  and  you  really 
are  not  responsible  for  what  goes  on  at  Hareman's  Common." 

Ho  was  near  the  hall  door,  and  said  something  -  half  to 
himself,  which  we  heard  (being  nearer  to  him),  but  my  lady  did 
not ;  although  she  saw  that  he  spoke.  "  What  did  he  say '.'" 
sho  asked  in  a  sonunvhat  hurried  manner,  as  soon  as  the  door 
was  closed  '  T  did  not  hear."  AV(>  looked  at  each  otluT,  and 
then  I  spoke : 

"  H(!  said,  my  lady,  that  '  God  help  him  I  he  was  resjionsiblo 
for  all  the  evil  he  did  not  strive  to  overcome.'" 

My  lady  turned  sliarj)  round  away  from  us,  and  i^lary  ISIason 
■aid  ui'tirwards  slie  thought  her  ludyshi])  was  much  vcxjhI 
with    both   of  us,    for   having   b<in    pn-sent,    and   with   me   for 


MY    LADY   LUDLOW.  201 

ioaving  repeated  what  Mr.  Gray  had  said.  But  it  was  not  our 
fault  that  we  were  in  the  hall,  and  when  my  lady  asked  what 
Mr.  Gray  had  said,  I  thought  it  right  to  tell  her. 

In  a  few  minutes  she  hade  us  accompany  her  in  her  rido  in 
the  coach. 

Lady  Ludlow  always  sat  forwards  hy  herself,  and  we  girls 
backwards.  Somehow  this  was  a  rule,  which  we  never  thought 
of  questioning.  It  was  true  tliat  riding  backwards  made  some 
of  us  feel  very  imcomfortable  and  faint ;  and  to  remedy  this  my 
lady  always  drove  with  both  windows  open,  whicli  occasionally 
gave  her  the  rheumatism ;  but  we  always  went  on  in  the  old 
way.  This  day  she  did  not  pay  any  gi'cat  attention  to  the  road 
by  which  we  were  going,  and  Coachman  took  his  own  way. 
^S'e  were  very  silent,  as  my  lady  did  not  speak,  and  looked  very 
serious.  Or  else,  in  general,  she  made  these  rides  very  pleasant 
(to  those  who  were  not  qualmish  with  riding  backwards),  by 
talking  to  us  in  a  very  agreeable  manner,  and  telling  us  of  the 
different  things  which  had  happened  to  her  at  various  places, — • 
at  Paris  and  Versailles,  where  she  had  been  in  her  youth, — at 
^^"indsor  and  Kew  and  Weymouth,  where  she  had  been  with 
the  Queen,  when  maid-of-honour — and  so  on.  But  this  day  she 
did  not  talk  at  all.  All  at  once  she  put  her  head  out  of  the 
wind(jw. 

"  John  Footman,"  said  she,  "  where  are  we  ?  Surely  this  is 
Hareman's  Common." 

"  Yes,  an't  please  my  lady,"  said  John  Footman,  and  waited 
for  fm-ther  speech  or  orders.  My  lady  thought  a  while,  and  then 
said  she  would  have  the  steps  put  down  and  get  out. 

As  soon  as  she  was  gone,  we  looked  at  each  other,  and  then 
without  a  word  began  to  gaze  after  her.  We  saw  her  pick  her 
dainty  way  in  the  little  high-hccled  shoes  she  always  wore 
(because  they  had  been  in  fashion  in  her  youth),  among  the 
yellow  pools  of  stagnant  water  that  had  gathered  in  the  clayey 
soil.  John  Footman  followed,  stately,  after  ;  afraid  too,  for  all 
his  stateliness,  of  splashing  his  pure  white  stockings.  Suddenly 
ray  lady  turned  round  and  said  something  to  him,  and  he 
returned  to  the  carriage  with  a  half-pleased,  half-puzzled  air. 

My  lady  went  on  to  a  cluster  of  rude  mud  houses  at  the 
liigher  end  of  the  Common ;  cottages  built,  as  they  wcro 
occasionally  at  that  day,  of  wattles  and  clay,  and  thatched  with 
sods.  As  far  as  mc  could  make  out  from  dmnb  show,  Lady 
Ludlow  saw  enough  of  the  interiors  of  these  places  to  make  her 
hesitate  before  entering,  or  even  speaking  to  any  of  the  children 
wl'.o  were  playing  about  in  tlie  puddles.     After  a  pause,  she 


202  MY    LADY    LUDLOW. 

disappeared  into  one  of  the  cottages.  It  seemed  to  us  a  long 
time  before  she  came  out :  but  I  dure  say  it  was  not  mure  than 
eight  or  ten  minutes.  She  came  back  with  her  head  hanging 
do\m,  as  if  to  choose  her  way, — but  we  saw  it  was  more  in 
thought  and  bcwihlerment  than  for  any  such  purpose. 

She  had  not  made  up  her  mind  where  we  should  drive  to  when 
she  got  into  tlie  carriage  again.  John  Footman  stood,  bare- 
headed, waiting  for  orders. 

"  To  Hathaway.  My  dears,  if  you  are  tired,  or  if  you  have 
anything  to  do  for  Mrs.  Medlicott,  I  can  di-op  you  at  Barford 
Comer,  and  it  is  but  a  quarter  of  an  home's  brisk  walk  home."' 

But  luckily  we  could  safely  say  that  Mi's.  Medlicott  did  not 
want  us  ;  and  as  we  had  whispered  to  each  other,  as  we  sat  alone 
in  the  coach,  that  siu-ely  my  lady  must  have  gone  to  Job 
Gregson's,  we  were  far  too  anxious  to  know  the  end  of  it  all  to 
say  that  wc  were  tired.  So  we  all  set  off  to  Hathaway.  !Mr. 
Harry  Lathom  was  a  bachelor  squire,  thirty  or  thirty-five  years 
of  age,  more  at  home  in  the  field  thiui  in  the  drawing-room, 
and  with  sjiorting  men  than  with  ladies. 

My  lady  did  not  idight,  of  course  ;  it  was  Mr.  Lathom's  place 
to  wait  upon  her,  and  she  bade  the  butler, —  who  had  a  smack  of 
the  gamekeeper  in  him,  very  unlike  our  own  powdered  venerable 
fine  gentleman  at  Hanbury, — tell  his  master,  with  lur  com- 
jdiments,  that  she  wished  to  speak  to  him.  You  may  think  how 
pleased  we  were  to  find  that  we  should  hoar  all  that  was  siiid ; 
though,  I  tliink,  afterwards  we  ^\■ere  half  sorry  w  hen  we  saw  how 
our  presence  confused  the  squire,  who  would  have  found  it  bad 
enough  to  answer  my  lady's  questions,  even  witliout  two  eager 
girls  for  audience. 

"  Pray,  ]Mr.  Lathom,"  began  my  lady,  something  abruptly  for 
her, — but  she  was  very  fidl  of  her  subject, — '*  what  is  this  I 
licar  about  Job  Grcgson  ?" 

]\tr.  Lathom  looked  aimoyed  and  vexed,  but  dared  not  show  it 
in  his  words. 

"  I  gave  out  a  warrant  against  him,  my  lady,  for  theft, — that  is 
all.  You  are  doubtless  aware  of  his  cliaracter ;  a  man  who  sot« 
nets  and  springes  in  long  covi-r,  and  fishes  wherovt  r  he  U\kc(t  a 
fancy.     It  is  but  a  short  ste))  from  poiuhing  to  thieving." 

"  Tliat  is  quite  true,"  replied  Lady  Ludlow  (who  hiul  a 
horror  of  ])oa(hing  for  this  very  reason):  "but  I  imagine  you 
do  not  send  a  man  to  gaol  t»n  aeeount  of  his  bad  chameter." 

"  Jtogiies  and  vagabonds,"  said  ISIr.  Lathom.  "A  man  may 
ho  Bent  to  prison  for  Ix'iiig  a  vagabond  ;  for  no  specific  act,  but 
for  liis  "(■iicnil  mode  «)f  life." 


MY  LADY   LUDLOW.  203 

He  had  the  better  of  her  ladysliip  for  one  moment ;  but  then 
•he  answered — 

"  But  in  this  case,  the  charge  on  which  you  committed  him  is 
for  theft ;  now  his  wife  tells  me  he  can  prove  he  was  some  miles 
distant  from  Holm  wood,  where  the  robbery  took  place,  all  that 
afternoon  ;  she  says  you  had  the  evidence  before  you." 

Mr.  Lathom  here  interrupted  my  lady,  by  saying,  in  a 
somewhat  sulky  manner — 

"  No  such  evidence  was  brought  before  me  when  I  gave  the 
warrant.  I  am  not  answerable  for  the  other  magistrates'  decision, 
when  they  had  more  evidence  before  them.  It  was  they  who  com- 
mitted him  to  gaol.     I  am  not  responsible  for  that." 

My  lady  did  not  often  show  sings  of  impatience  ;  but  we  knew 
she  was  feeling  irritated,  by  the  little  perpetual  tapping  of  her 
high-heeled  shoe  against  the  bottom  of  the  carriage.  About  the 
same  time  we,  sitting  backwards,  caught  a  glimpse  of  Mr.  Gray 
through  the  open  door,  standing  in  the  shadow  of  the  hall. 
Doubtless  Lady  Ludlow's  an-ival  had  interrupted  a  conversation 
between  Mr.  Lathom  and  Mr.  Gray.  The  latter  must  have  heard 
every  word  of  what  she  was  saying ;  but  of  this  she  was  not 
aware,  and  caught  at  Mr.  Lathom's  disclaimer  of  responsibility 
•with  pretty  much  the  same  argimient  which  she  had  heard 
(through  our  repetition)  that  Mr.  Gray  had  used  not  two  houi's 
before. 

"  And  do  you  mean  to  say,  Mr.  Lathom,  that  you  don't  consider 

yourself  responsible  for  all  injustice  or  wrong-doing  that  you 

might  have  prevented,  and  have  not  ?    Nay,  in  this  case  the  first 

germ  of  injustice  was  your  own  mistake.     I  vrish  you  had  been 

with  me  a  little  while  ago,  and  seen  the  misery  in  that  poor 

1   fellow's  cottage."     She  spoke  lower,  and  Mr.  Gray  drew  near,  in 

I   a  sort  of  involuutaiy  manner ;  as  if  to  hear  all  she  was  saying. 

I   We  saw  him,  and  doiibtlcss  Mr.  Lathom  heard  his  footstep,  and 

I  knew  who  it  was  that  was  listening  bcliind  him,  and  approving 

1  of  every  word  that  uas  said.  He  gi'ew  yet  more  sidlen  in  manner ; 

j  but  still  my  lady  was  my  lady,  and  he  dared  not  speak  out  before 

j  her,  as  he  would  have  done  to  Mr.  Gray.     Latly  Ludlow,  how- 

I  ever,  caught  the  look  of  stubborness  in  his  face,  and  it  roused  her 

ias  I  had  never  seen  her  roused. 
"  I  am  sure  you  will  not  refuse,  sir,  to  accept  my  bail.  I  offer 
to  bail  the  fellow  out,  and  to  be  resi)onsible  for  his  apjiearanco  at 
i  the  sessions.     Wliat  say  you  to  that,  Mr.  Lathom  .'" 
"  The  offence  of  theft  is  not  bailable,  my  lady." 
"Not  in  ordinary  cases,  I  dare  say.     But  I  imagine  this  is  an 
f-xtraordinarj'  case.   The  iiuin  is  sc'ut  to  prison  out  of  compliment 


204  MY    LADY    LUDLOW. 

to  you,  and  agaiust  all  evidence,  as  far  as  I  can  loani.  lie  will 
have  to  rot  in  gaol  for  two  months,  and  his  wife  and  children  to 
starve.  I,  Lady  Ludlow,  offer  to  bail  him  out,  and  pledge  my- 
self for  his  appearance  at  next  quarter-sessions." 

"  It  is  against  the  law,  my  lady." 

"  Bah  !  Bah  !  Bah  !  Wlio  inakes  laws  ?  Such  as  I,  in  the  Hotwe 
of  Lords — such  as  you,  in  tlic  House  of  Commons.  We,  who 
make  the  laws  in  St.  Stephen's,  may  break  the  mere  forms  of 
them,  when  we  have  right  on  oiu-  sides,  on  our  own  land,  and 
amongst  our  own  people." 

"  The  lord-lieutenant  may  take  away  my  commission,  if  he 
heard  of  it." 

"And  a  very  good  thing  for  the  county,  Harry  Latliom  ;  and 
for  you  too,  if  he  did, — if  you  don't  go  on  more  \n8ely  than  you 
have  begim.  A  pretty  set  you  and  yoiu*  brotlier  magistrates  are 
to  administer  justice  through  the  land !  I  always  said  a  good 
despotism  was  the  best  form  of  government ;  and  I  am  twice  as 
much  in  favour  of  it  now  I  see  vhat  a  quorum  is  !  My  dears !" 
suddenly  turning  round  to  us,  "  if  it  would  not  tiro  you  to  walk 
home,  I  would  beg  Mr.  Lathom  to  take  a  seat  in  my  coach, 
and  we  would  drive  to  Henley  Gacd,  and  liave  the  poor  man  out 
at  once." 

*'  A  walk  over  the  fields  at  this  time  of  day  is  hardly  fitting  for 
young  ladies  to  take  alone,"  said  Mr.  Lathom,  anxious  no  doubt 
to  escape  from  his  tete-a-tete  drive  with  my  lady,  and  jjossibly 
not  qi'iiio  jjrepared  to  g)  to  the  illegiU  length  of  promj't 
measures,  which  she  had  in  contemplation. 

But  ]\Ir.  Gray  now  stepped  forward,  too  anxious  for  the  releasr 
of  the  j)rison(;r  to  allow  any  t)bstavle  to  intervene  which  he  could 
do  away  with.  To  see  Lady  I^udlow's  face  when  she  fii-st  per- 
ceived whom  she  had  had  for  auditor  and  spectator  of  her  inter- 
view with  Mr.  Lathom,  was  as  good  as  a  play.  She  had  been 
doing  and  saying  the  very  things  she  had  been  so  much  annoyed 
at  Mr.  (Jray's  saying  and  proposing  only  an  hour  or  two  ;i;,'o. 
She  had  Ikscu  setting  down  Mr.  Liitlitim  pretty  r.niartly,  in  tlio 
j)resenco  of  the  very  man  to  whom  she  had  spokt-n  of  that  griitle- 
nian  as  so  sensible,  and  of  such  a  standing  in  the  county,  that  it 
was  presuni])tion  to  (juestion  liis  doings.  But  K-fore  Mr.  (!niy 
had  linislied  his  offer  of  escorting  ua  back  to  llanbury  Court,  my 
lady  had  recovered  herself.  'I'lu  re  was  neither  surprise  uor  dis- 
pleasure in  lur  manner,  as  she  answtred — 

"  I  thaidc  ytiu,  Mr.  (iray.  I  was  nt)t  aware  that  you  were  lioro, 
but  I  think  1  can  understand  on  what  errand  you  came.  .\nd  see- 
ing you  here,  recalls  nu-  to  a  duly  I  owe  i\Ir.  Lathom,      Mr.  l.a» 


MY    LADY    LUDLOW.  20c 

thorn,  I  have  spoken  to  you  pretty  plainly, — forgetting,  until  I 
gaw  Mr.  Gray,  that  only  this  very  afternoon  I  diftcred  from  him 
on  this  very  question  :  taking  completely,  at  that  time,  the  same 
view  of  the  whole  subject  which  you  have  done  ;  thinking  that 
the  county  would  be  well  rid  of  such  a  man  as  Job  Gregson, 
whether  he  had  conunitted  this  theft  or  not,  Mr.  Gray  and  I  did 
Dot  part  quite  friends,"  she  continued,  bowing  towards  him  ;  "  but 
it  60  happened  that  I  saw  Job  Gregson's  wife  and  home, — I  felt 
that  Mr.  Gray  had  been  right  and  I  had  been  wTong,  so,  with  the 
famous  inconsistency  of  my  sex,  I  came  hither  to  scold  you," 
smiling  towards  Mr.  Lathom,  who  looked  half-sulkj'  yet,  and  did 
not  relax  a  bit  of  his  gravity  at  her  smile,  "  for  holding  the  same 
opinions  that  I  had  done  an  hour  before.  Mr.  Gray,"  (again  bow- 
ing towards  him)  "  these  young  ladies  will  be  very  much  obliged 
to  you  for  your  escort,  and  so  shall  I.  Mr.  Lathom,  may  I  beg 
of  you  to  accompany  me  to  Henley?" 

Mr.  Gray  bowed  very  low,  and  went  very  red  ;  Mr.  Lathom 
said  something  which  we  none  of  us  heard,  but  which  was,  I 
think,  some  remonstrance  against  the  course  he  was,  as  it  were, 
compelled  to  take.  Lady  Ludlow,  however,  took  no  notice  of  his 
murmur,  but  sat  in  an  attitude  of  polite  expeclancy;  and  as  we 
turned  otf  on  our  walk,  I  saw  Mr.  Lathom  getting  into  the  coach 
with  the  air  of  a  whipped  hoimd.  I  must  say,  considering  my 
lady's  feeling,  I  did  not  envy  him  his  ride, — though,  I  believe, 
he  was  quite  in  the  right  as  to  the  object  of  the  ride  being  illegal. 

Our  walk  home  was  very  dull.  We  had  no  fears  ;  and  would 
far  rather  have  been  without  the  awkward,  blushing  young  man, 
into  which  Mr.  Gray  had  sunk.  At  every  stile  he  hesitated, — 
sometimes  he  half  got  over  it,  thinking  that  he  could  assist  us 
better  in  that  way ;  then  he  would  turn  back  imwilling  to  go  be- 
fore ladies.  He  had  no  case  of  manner,  as  my  lady  once  said  of 
him,  though  on  any  occasion  of  duty,  he  had  an  immense  deal  of 
dignity. 


CHAPTEE  III. 

As  far  as  I  can  remember,  it  was  very  soon  after  this  that  I  first 
began  to  have  the  pain  in  my  hip,  which  has  ended  in  making  mc 
a  cripple  for  life.  I  hardly  recollect  more  than  one  walk  after 
our  return  under  Mr.  Gray's  escort  from  Mr.  Lathom's.  Indeed, 
at  the  time,  I  was  not  without  suspicions  (which  I  never  named) 
that  the  beginning  of  all  the  mischief  was  a  great  jump  I  had 
taken  from  the  top  of  one  of  the  stiles  on  that  very  occasion. 


20G  MY    LADY    LUDLOW. 

Well,  it  is  a  long  while  ago,  ami  Gcil  disposes  of  us  all,  and  I 
am  not  going  to  tire  you  out  with  telling  you  how  I  thought  and 
felt,  and  how,  when  I  saw  what  my  life  was  to  be,  1  could 
hardly  bring  myself  to  bo  patient,  but  rather  wished  to  dio  at 
once.  You  can  every  one  of  you  think  for  yourselves  what  be- 
coming all  at  once  useless  and  imablo  to  move,  and  by-and-by 
gro\^'ing  hopeless  of  cm-e,  and  feeling  that  one  must  l>e  a  burden 
to  some  one  all  one's  life  long,  would  be  to  an  active,  wilful, 
strong  girl  of  seventeen,  anxious  to  get  on  in  the  world,  so  as,  if 
possible,  to  hell)  her  brothers  and  sisters.  So  1  shall  only  say, 
that  one  among  the  blessings  which  arose  out  of  what  setniL-d  at 
the  time  a  great,  black  sorrow  was,  that  Lady  Ludlow  for  many 
years  took  me,  as  it  were,  into  her  o\\ti  especial  charge  :  and  now, 
as  I  lie  still  and  alone  in  my  old  age,  it  is  such  a  pleasure  to 
think  of  her  ! 

Mrs.  Medlicott  was  gi-eat  as  a  nurse,  and  I  am  sure  I  can  never 
be  gi'ateful  enough  to  her  memory  for  all  her  kindness.  But  she 
was  puzzled  to  know  how  to  manage  me  in  other  ways.  I  used 
to  have  long,  hard  fits  of  crying ;  and,  thinking  that  I  ought  to 
go  home — and  yet  what  could  they  do  with  me  there '? — and  a 
liundred  and  fifty  other  anxious  thoughts,  some  of  which  I  coiUd 
tell  to  Mrs.  Medlicott,  and  others  1  could  not.  Her  way  of  ct)m- 
forting  me  was  hiu'rying  away  for  some  kind  of  temjjting  or 
strengthening  food — a  basin  of  melted  calves"-foot  jelly  was,  1  am 
sure  she  thought,  a  cure  for  every  woo. 

"There  !  take  it,  dear,  take  it !"  she  would  siiy ;  '"and  dont 
go  on  fretting  for  what  can't  be  helped." 

But,  I  tliink,  she  got  i)uzzled  at  length  at  the  non-efficacy  of 
good  things  to  eat ;  and  one  day,  after  1  had  limi>cd  down  to  see 
the  doctor,  in  ]\Irs.  ]\Ic'dlicott's  sitting-room  a  room  lined  with 
cupboards,  containing  jjroscrves  and  daintiis  of  all  kinds,  which 
she  peri^etually  made,  and  never  touched  lurself — when  I  was 
returning  to  my  bed-room  to  cry  away  the  afternoon,  under  pn^- 
tence  (»f  arranging  my  clothes,  .lolm  Footman  brought  me  a  mes- 
sage from  my  lady  (witli  whom  the  doctor  had  been  having  a  con- 
versation) to  bid  me  go  to  her  in  that  private  sitting-room  at  tlio 
end  of  the  suite  of  aiiartnunts,  about  which  I  spoke  in  describing 
the  day  of  my  first  arrival  at  Hanliury.  I  had  hardly  been  in  it 
since  ;  as,  wlien  we  reatl  to  my  lady,  she  gem-ndly  s.it  in  tlic 
small  withdrawing-room  out  of  whieh  this  privati>  room  of  l:ei-s 
opened.  I  sui)i)osc  great  i)eople  do  not  recjuiiv  what  we  smaller 
p(!oj)lo  value  so  niudi,  I  mean  jtrivacy.  I  do  not  think  that 
there  was  a  rotmi  which  my  lady  oicupied  that  had  not  two  doon?, 
and  some  of  them  had  three  or  four.     Then  my  lady  luul  ulwnyi 


MY    LADY   LUDLOW.  207 

Adams  waiting  npDU  her  in  her  bed-chamber ;  and  it  was  Mrs. 
Modlicott's  duty  to  sit  within  call,  as  it  wei'c,  in  a  sort  of  ante- 
room that  led  out  of  my  lady's  own  sitting-room,  on  the  o])p<)sit9 
side  to  the  (b-awing-room  door.  To  fancy  the  house,  you  nnist 
take  a  groat  sipiare,  and  halve  it  by  a  line  ;  at  one  end  of  this 
line  was  the  hall-door,  or  public  entrance  ;  at  the  opi)osite  the 
private  cnti-ance  from  a  terrace,  which  was  terminated  at  one 
end  b;^'  a  sort  of  postern  door  in  an  old  gray  stone  wall,  beyond 
which  lay  the  fiirm  buildings  and  offices ;  so  that  people  could 
come  in  this  way  to  my  lady  on  business,  while,  if  she  were  going 
into  the  gai-den  from  her  own  room,  she  had  nothing  to  do  but  to 
pass  through  Mrs.  Medlicott's  ai)artmcnt,  out  into  the  lesser  hall, 
and  then  turning  to  the  right  as  she  passed  on  to  the  terrace,  she 
could  go  down  the  flight  of  broad,  shallow  stej^s  at  the  corner  of 
the  house  into  the  lovely  gai'den,  with  stretching,  sweej^ing  lawns, 
and  gay  flower-beds,  and  beautiful,  bossy  laui-els,  and  other 
blooming  or  massy  shrubs,  with  full-gi-0A\Ti  beeches,  or  larches 
feathering  do\vn  to  the  groimd  a  little  farther  oft".  The  whole  was 
set  in  a  frame,  as  it  were,  by  the  more  distant  woodlands.  The 
house  had  been  modernized  in  the  days  of  Queen  Anne,  I  think  ; 
but  the  money  had  fallen  short  that  was  requisite  to  carry  out  all 
the  improvements,  so  it  was  only  the  suite  of  withdra wing-rooms 
and  the  terrace-rooms,  as  far  as  the  private  entrance,  that  had  the 
new,  long,  high  windows  put  in,  and  these  were  old  enough  by 
this  time  to  be  draped  with  roses,  and  honeysuckles,  and  pyra- 
canthus,  \Hnter  and  summer  long. 

Well,  to  go  back  to  that  day  when  I  limped  into  my  lady's 
sitting-room,  trying  hard  to  look  as  if  I  had  not  been  crying, 
and  not  to  walk  as  if  I  was  in  much  pain.  I  do  not  know 
whether  my  lady  saw  how  near  my  tears  were  to  my  eyes,  but 
she  told  me  she  had  sent  for  me,  because  she  wanted  some 
help  in  arranging  the  drawers  of  her  bu  eau,  and  asked  me — 
just  as  if  it  was  a  favoui-  I  was  to  do  her — if  I  could  sit  do\vTi  in 
the  easy-chair  near  the  window — (all  quietly  arranged  befoi'e  I 
came  in,  with  a  footstool,  and  a  table  quite  near) — and  assist 
her.  You  will  wonder,  perhaps,  why  I  was  not  bidden  to  sit  or 
lie  on  the  sofa  ;  but  (although  I  found  one  there  a  morning  or 
two  afterwards,  when  I  came  down)  the  fact  was,  that  tlun;  was 
none  in  the  room  at  this  time.  I  have  even  fancied  that  the 
easy-chair  was  brought  in  on  purpose  for  mo  ;  for  it  was  not  tho 
chair  in  which  I  remembered  ray  lady  sitting  the  first  time  I 
saw  her.  That  chair  was  vciy  much  carved  and  gilded,  with  a 
countess'  coronet  at  the  top.  I  tried  it  one  day,  some  timo 
afterwards,  when  my  lady  was  out  of  tho  room,  and  I  had  a 


208  MY   LADY   LUDLOW. 

fancy  for  seeing  how  I  could  move  about,  and  very  uncomfort- 
able it  was.  Now  my  chair  (as  I  learnt  to  call  it,  and  to  think 
it)  was  soft  and  luxurious,  and  seemed  somehow  to  give  ones 
body  rest  just  in  that  part  where  one  most  needed  it. 

I  was  not  at  my  case  that  first  day,  nor  indeed  for  many  days 
afterwards,  notwithstanding  my  chair  was  so  comfortable.  Yet 
I  forgot  my  sad  pain  in  silently  wondering  over  the  meaning  of 
many  of  the  things  we  turned  out  of  those  curious  old  drawers. 
I  was  puzzled  to  know  why  some  were  kept  at  all ;  a  scrap  of 
writing  may -be,  ^Wth  only  half  a  dozen  common-place  words  writ- 
ten on  it,  or  a  bit  of  broken  riding-whip,  and  here  and  there  a 
stone,  of  wliich  I  thought  I  could  have  picked  up  twentyjust  as 
good  in  the  first  walk  I  took.  But  it  seems  that  was  just  my  igno- 
rance ;  for  my  lady  told  me  they  were  pieces  of  valuable  marble, 
used  to  make  the  floors  of  the  great  Koman  emperors'  palaces 
long  ago  ;  and  that  when  she  had  been  a  girl,  and  made  the 
grand  tour  long  ago,  her  cousin  Sir  Horace  Mann,  the  Ambassa- 
dor or  Envoy  at  Florence,  had  told  her  to  be  sure  to  go  into  the 
fields  inside  the  walls  of  ancient  Eome,  when  the  farmers  were 
preparing  the  ground  for  the  onion-sowing,  and  had  to  make 
the  soil  fine,  and  pick  up  what  bits  of  marble  she  could  find. 
She  had  done  so,  and  meant  to  have  had  them  made  into  a  table  ; 
but  somehow  that  plan  fell  through,  and  there  they  were  with 
all  the  dirt  out  of  the  oniou-ticld  ui)on  them ;  but  once  when  I 
thouglit  of  cleaning  them  with  soaj)  and  water,  at  any  rate,  she 
bade  me  not  to  do  so,  for  it  was  Koman  dirt  earth,  I  think, 
she  called  it — but  it  was  dirt  all  tlic  some. 

Tlien,  in  tliis  bureau,  wcro  many  other  things,  the  value  of 
which  I  could  understand — locks  of  hair  carefully  ticketed, 
which  my  lady  looked  at  very  sivdly  ;  and  lockets  and  bracelets 
witli  miniatures  in  thiin, — very  snuill  pictures  to  what  they 
make  now-a-days,  and  called  miniatures ;  some  of  them  had 
even  to  be  looked  at  through  a  microscope  before  you  could  see 
the  individual  expression  of  tlio  fiwes,  or  how  beautifully  they 
were  painted.  1  don't  think  that  looking  at  these  made  my  huly 
seem  so  melanclioly,  as  the  seeing  and  touching  o{  the  hair 
did.  lint,  to  bo  sure,  the  luiir  was,  as  it  were,  a  part  of  some 
beloved  body  which  she  might  never  touch  and  earess  again, 
but  wliicli  lay  beiUMith  the  turf,  all  faded  and  disfigured,  except 
perhaps  the  very  liair,  from  wliieli  the  lock  slie  luld  had  Invn 
dissevered  ;  whereas  the  pictures  wen*  but  pictures  after  all — 
likenesses,  but  not  the  very  things  themselves.  This  is  only 
my  own  conjecture,  mind.  ]\ry  lady  randy  spoke  out  her  feel- 
ings.    Tor,  to  begin  with,  she  was  i>f  ranli  :  and  I    have  heard 


MY   LADY   LUDLOW.  209 

her  say  that  people  of  rank  do  not  talk  about  their  fticlings  ex- 
cept to  their  equals,  and  even  to  them  they  conceal  them,  except 
upon  rare  occasions.  Secondly, — and  this  is  my  own  reflection, 
— she  was  an  only  child  and  an  heiress ;  and  as  such  was  more 
apt  to  think  than  to  talk,  as  all  well-brought-up  heiresses  must 
be.  1  think.  Thirdly,  she  had  long  been  a  widow,  ^vithout  any 
companion  of  her  own  ago  with  whom  it  would  have  been 
natural  for  her  to  refer  to  old  associations,  jjast  pleasures,  or 
mutual  sorrows.  Mrs.  Medlicott  came  nearest  to  her  as  a  com- 
panion of  this  sort;  and  her  lad3'shii)  talked  more  to  Mrs. 
Medlicott,  in  a  kind  of  familiar  way,  than  she  did  to  all  the  rest 
of  th'j  household  put  together.  But  Mrs.  Medlicott  was  sileit 
by  nature,  and  did  not  reply  at  any  great  length.  Adams, 
indeed,  was  the  only  one  who  spoke  much  to  Lady  Ludlow. 

After  we  had  worked  away  about  an  hour  at  the  bureau,  her 
ladyship  said  we  had  done  enough  for  one  day ;  and  as  the  time 
•was  come  for  her  afternoon  ride,  she  left  me,  ^\■ith  a  volume  of 
engravings  from  Mr.  Hogarth's  jnctures  on  one  side  of  me 
(I  don't  like  to  write  down  the  names  of  them,  though  my  lady 
thought  nothing  of  it,  I  am  sure),  and  upon  a  stand  her  great 
prayer-book  open  at  the  evening  psalms  for  tlie  day,  on  the 
other.  But  as  soon  as  she  was  gone,  I  troubled  myself  little 
•\s-ith  either,  but  amused  myself  ^vith  looking  round  the  room  at 
my  leisure.  The  side  on  which  the  fire-place  stood  was  all 
panelled, — part  of  the  old  ornaments  of  the  house,  for  there 
was  an  Indian  paper  with  birds  and  beasts  and  insects  on  it,  on 
all  the  other  sides.  There  were  coats  of  arms,  of  the  various 
families  with  whom  the  Hanbur3-s  had  intermarried,  all  over 
these  panels,  and  up  and  down  the  ceiling  as  well.  There  was 
very  little  looking-glass  in  the  room,  though  one  of  the  gi-eat 
drawing-rooms  was  called  the  "  Mirror  Koom,"  because  it  was 
lined  with  glass,  which  my  lady's  great-grandfather  had  brought 
from  Venice  when  he  was  ambassador  there.  There  were  china 
jars  of  all  shapes  and  sizes  round  and  about  the  room,  and  some 
china  monsters,  or  idols,  of  which  I  could  never  bear  the  sight, 
they  were  so  ugly,  though  I  think  my  lady  valued  them  moi'e 
than  all.  There  was  a  thick  carpet  on  the  middle  of  the  floor, 
which  was  made  of  small  pieces  of  rare  wood  fitted  into  a  pat- 
tern ;  the  doors  were  opposite  to  each  other,  and  were  composed 
of  two  heavy  tall  wings,  and  opened  in  the  middle,  moving  on 
brass  grooves  inserted  into  the  floor — they  would  not  have  opened 
over  a  carpet.  There  were  two  windows  reaching  up  nearly  to 
the  ceiling,  but  very  narrow,  and  with  deep  window-seats  in 
the  thickness  of  the  wall.     The  room  was  fxill  of  scent,  partly 

P 


210  MY   LADY   LUDLOW. 

from  the  flowers  outside,  and  partly  from  the  great  jare  of  pot- 
pourri inside.     The  choice  of  odours  was  what  my  lady  piqued 
herself  upon,  saying  nothing  showed  birth  like  a  keen  suscepti- 
bility of  smell.     We  never  named  nmsk  in  her  presence,  hor 
antipathy  to   it  was  so  well  understofxl  through  the  household  : 
her  opinion  on  the  subject  was  believed  to  be,  that  no  scent 
derived  from  an   animal  could  ever  be  of  a  sufficiently  pure 
nature  to  give  pleasm-e  to  any  person  of  good  family,  where,  of 
course,   the  delicate  perception  of  the  senses  had  been  culti- 
vated for  generations.     She  would  instance   the  way  in  which 
sportsmen  preserve  the  breed  of  dogs  who  have  shown  keen 
scent ;    and  how  such  gifts  descend    for  generations  amongst 
animals,  who  cannot  be  supposed  to  have  anything  of  ancestral 
l)ride,  or  hereditary  fancies  about  them.     Musk,  then,  was  never 
mentioned   at   Haubury  Court.      No  more  were  bergamot   or 
southern-wood,  although  vegetiible  in  their  nature.     She  con- 
sidered these  two  latter  as  betraying  a  vulgar  taste  in  the  per- 
son who  chose  to  gather  or  wear  them.     She  was  soriy  to  noticr 
sprigs  of  them  in  the  button-hole  of  any  young  man  in  whom 
she  took  an  interest,  either  because  he  was  engaged  to  a  servant 
of  hers  or  otherwise,  as  he  came  out  of  church  on  a  Sunday  aft<r- 
noon.     She  was  afraid  that  he  liked  coarse  jjleasm-cs  ;  and  I  am 
not  sm'c  if  she  did  not  think  that  his  preference  for  these  ooarso 
sweetnesses  did  not  imi)ly  a  j)robability  that  ho  would  take  to 
drinking.     But  she  distinguished  between  ^^dgar  and  common. 
Violets,  pinks,  and  sweetbriar  were  common  enough  ;  roses  and 
mignionette,  for  those  who  had  gardens,  honeysuckle  for  those 
who  walked  along  the  bowery  lanes ;  but  wearing  them  betrayed 
no  vulgarity  of  taste :   the  queen  ujion  her  throne  might  lx> 
glad  to  smell  at  a  nosegay  of  the  flowers.     A  beau-pot  (as  wo 
called  it)  of  jjinks  and  rosea  freshly  gathered  was  placed  every 
morning  that  they  were   in  bloom  on  my  lady's  own  particular 
table.     For  lasting  vegetable  odours  she  j)referred  lavender  luid 
Bweet-woodroof  to  any  extract   whatever.      Lavender   niniudid 
her  of  old  eusttmis,  slie  said,  and  of  homely  ct)ttage-ganlens.  and 
many  a  cottager  made  his  otVering  to  her  of  a  bundle  of  laven- 
der.    Sweet   woodroof,  again,  gitw   in  wild,  woiHllaiid   j»laccs, 
where   the   soil  was  line  and  the  air  delicate:  the  jioor  eliildren 
used  to  g<t  and  gatlier  it  for  lur  up  in   the  woods  on  the  higher 
lands  ;  and  for  thisserviet'  she  always  rewarded  tluni  with  briglit 
new  j)ennies,  of  which  niy  lord,  her  son,  used  to  send  lier  down 
a  bagful  fresli  from  the  IVIiiit  in  London  «-very  February. 

Attar  of  roses,  again,  she  disliked.      She  said  it  reminded  hrr 
of  the  eitv  and  of  niiiehants'  wives,  over-rich,  over-heavy  in  it« 


MY    LADY    LUDLOW.  211 

perfume.  And  lilics-of-tho-valloy  somehow  fell  imder  the  same 
condemnation.  They  were  most  graceful  and  elegant  to  look  at 
(my  lady  was  quite  candid  about  this),  flower,  leaf,  colour — 
everything  was  refined  about  them  but  the  smell.  That  was 
too  strong.  But  the  gi-eat  hereditary  faculty  on  which  my  lady 
piqued  herself,  and  with  reason,  for  I  never  met  with  any  person 
who  possessed  it,  was  the  jiower  she  had  of  perceiving  the  deli- 
cious odoiu:  arising  from  a  bed  of  strawberries  in  the  lato 
autumn,  when  the  leaves  were  all  fading  and  dying.  "  Bacon's 
Essays  "  was  one  of  the  few  books  that  lay  about  in  my  lady's 
room  ;  and  if  you  took  it  up  and  opened  it  carelessly,  it  was  sure 
to  fall  apart  at  his  "  Essay  on  Gardens."  "  Listen,"  her  ladyship 
would  say,  "  to  what  that  great  philosopher  and  statesman  says. 
'  Next  to  that,' — he  is  speaking  of  violets,  my  dear, — '  is  the  musk- 
rose,' — of  which  you  remember  the  great  bush,  at  the  comer  of 
the  soiith  wall  just  by  the  Blue  Drawing-room  windows  ;  that  is 
the  old  musk-rose,  Shakespeare's  musk-rose,  which  is  dying  out 
through  the  kingdom  now.  But  to  return  to  my  Lord  Bacon  : 
'  Then  the  strawberry  leaves,  dying  with  a  most  excellent  cordial 
smell.'  Now  the  Hanburys  can  always  smell  this  excellent 
cordial  odour,  and  very  delicious  and  refreshing  it  is.  You  see, 
in  Lord  Bacon's  time,  thei-e  had  not  been  so  many  intermarriages 
between  the  court  and  the  city  as  there  have  been  since  the  needy 
days  of  his  Majesty  Charles  the  Second  ;  and  altogether  in  the 
time  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  the  gi"eat,  old  families  of  England 
were  a  distinct  race,  just  as  a  cart-horse  is  one  creatm-e,  and 
very  useful  in  its  place,  and  Childcrs  or  Eclipse  is  another 
creature,  though  both  are  of  the  same  species.  So  the  old  families 
have  gifts  and  powers  of  a  different  and  higher  class  to  what  the 
other  orders  have.  My  dear,  remember  that  you  try  if  you  can 
smell  the  scent  of  dying  strawberry-leaves  in  this  next  autumn. 
You  have  some  of  Ursula  Hanbury's  blood  in  you,  and  that  gives 
you  a  chance." 

But  when  October  came,  I  sniffed  and  sniffed,  and  all  to  no 
purpose  ;  and  my  lady — who  had  watched  the  little  experiment 
rather  anxiously — had  to  give  me  up  as  a  hybrid.  1  was  mor- 
tified, I  confess,  and  thought  that  it  was  in  some  ostentation  of 
her  own  powers  that  she  ordered  the  gardener  to  j)lant  a  border 
of  strawberries  on  that  side  of  the  terrace  that  lay  under  her 
windows. 

I  have  wandered  away  from  time  and  place.  1  tell  you  all  the 
remembrances  I  have  of  those  years  just  as  they  come  up,  and  I 
hope  that,  in  my  old  age,  I  am  not  getting  too  like  a  certain  Mrs. 
Nickleby,  whose  speeches  were  once  read  out  aloud  to  me. 

P2 


212  MT   LADY   LUDLOW. 

I  came  by  degrees  to  be  all  day  long  iu  this  room  which  I 
have  been  describing  ;  sometimes  sitting  in  the  easy-chair,  doing 
some  little  piece  of  dainty  work  for  my  lady,  or  sometimes 
arranging  flowers,  or  sorting  letters  according  to  their  hand- 
writing, so  that  she  conld  arrange  them  afterwards,  and  destroy 
or  keep,  as  she  planned,  looking  ever  onward  to  her  death. 
Then,  after  the  sof\i  was  brought  in,  she  would  watch  my  face, 
and  if  she  saw  my  colom*  change,  she  would  bid  me  lie  down  and 
rest.  And  1  used  to  try  to  walk  upon  the  terrace  every  day  for 
a  short  time :  it  hiu't  me  very  nmch,  it  is  true,  but  the  doctor 
had  ordered  it,  and  1  knew  her  ladyshiji  wished  me  to  obey. 

Before  I  had  seen  the  backgi'oimd  of  a  great  lady's  life,  1  had 
thought  it  all  play  and  fine  doings.  But  whatever  other  grand 
people  are,  my  lady  was  never  idle.  For  one  thing,  she  had  to 
sujierintend  the  agent  for  the  large  Hanbury  estate.  1  believe 
it  was  mortaged  for  a  sum  of  money  which  had  gone  to  improvo 
the  late  lord's  Scotch  lands  ;  but  she  was  anxious  to  pay  oil"  this 
before  her  death,  and  so  to  leave  her  own  inheritance  free  of  in- 
cumbrance to  her  son,  the  present  Earl ;  whom,  I  secretly  thiidc, 
she  considered  a  greater  person,  as  being  the  heir  of  the  Hanbrnys 
(though  through  a  female  line),  than  as  being  my  Lord  Ludlow 
with  half  a  dozen  other  minor  titles. 

With  this  wish  of  releasing  her  property  from  the  mortgage, 
skilful  care  was  much  needed  in  the  management  of  it ;  and  as 
far  as  my  lady  could  go,  she  took  every  j)ains.  She  had  a  great 
book,  in  which  every  page  wa.s  ruled  into  three  divisions  ;  on  the 
first  column  was  written  the  date  and  the  name  of  the  tenant  who 
addressed  any  letter  on  business  to  her ;  on  the  second  waa 
briefly  stated  the  subject  of  the  letter,  which  generally  cont4iined 
a  request  of  some  kind.  This  request  would  be  surroimded  and 
enveloped  in  so  nuiny  words,  and  often  inserted  luuidst  so  miuiy 
odd  reasons  and  excuses,  that  Mr.  Horner  (the  steward)  would 
sometimes  say  it  was  liki;  hunting  tlimugh  a  bushel  of  chatf  to 
find  a  grain  of  wheat.  Now,  in  the  second  column  of  this  luxik, 
the  gi-ain  of  meaning  was  placed,  clean  and  dry,  lK.i'ore  her  huly- 
ship  every  morning.  She  st)metinies  would  ask  to  see  the 
(jriginiJ  letter  ;  sometimes  she  simply  answered  the  request  by 
a  "  Yes,"  or  a  "  No  ;"  lUid  often  she  woidd  send  for  leases  ai\d 
papers,  and  examine  them  well,  with  Mr.  lloriur  at  her  elltow,  to 
Bee  if  such  petitions,  as  to  1k' allowed  to  jilough  uj)  j>a.sture  liclds, 
&c.,  were  provided  for  in  tlit^  terms  of  the  original  agre»nient. 
On  every  Thursday  she  made  herself  at  liberty  to  see  her  tt mints, 
from  four  to  six  in  tlie  afternoon.  Mt>rnings  would  have  suited  my 
lady  bettor,  as  fur  as  couvouionce  went,  oud  1  bolievo  the  old 


MY    LADY   LUDLOW.  Jil3 

castom  had  been  to  have  these  levees  (as  her  ladyship  used  to 
call  them)  held  before  twelve.  But,  as  she  said  to  Mr.  Homer, 
wheu  he  urged  retiuiiing  to  the  former  hours,  it  spoilt  a  whole 
day  for  a  farmer,  if  he  had  to  dress  himself  in  his  best  and  leave 
his  work  in  the  forenoon  (and  my  lady  liked  to  see  her  tenants 
come  in  their  Simday  clothes ;  she  would  not  say  a  word,  may- 
be, but  she  would  take  her  spectacles  slowly  out,  and  put  them 
on  with  silent  gi-avity,  and  look  at  a  diiiy  or  raggedly-dressed  man 
60  solemnly  and  earnestly,  that  his  nerves  must  have  been  pretty 
strong  if  he  did  not  wince,  and  resolve  that,  however  poor  ho 
might  be,  soap  and  water,  and  needle  and  thread,  should  be  used 
before  he  again  appeared  in  her  ladyship's  anteroom).  The  out- 
lying tenants  had  always  a  supper  provided  for  them  in  the 
servants'-hall  on  Thursdays,  to  which,  indeed,  all  comers  were 
welcome  to  sit  down.  For  my  lady  said,  though  there  were  not 
many  hours  left  of  a  working  man's  day  when  their  business 
with  her  was  ended,  yet  that  they  needed  food  and  rest,  and  that 
she  should  be  ashamed  if  they  sought  either  at  the  Fighting 
Lion  (called  at  this  day  the  Hanbmy  Arms).  They  had  as 
much  beer  as  they  could  di'ink  while  they  were  eating  ;  and  when 
the  food  was  cleared  away,  they  had  a  cup  a-piece  of  good  ale, 
in  which  the  oldest  tenant  present,  standing  up,  gave  Madam's 
health ;  and  after  that  was  drunk,  they  were  expected  to  set  oft 
homewai'ds  ;  at  any  rate,  no  more  liquor  was  given  them.  The 
tenants  one  and  all  called  her  "  Madam  ;"  for  they  recognized  in 
her  the  married  heiress  of  the  Hanburys,  not  the  widow  of  a 
Lord  Ludlow,  of  whom  they  and  their  forefathers  knew  nothing  ; 
and  against  whose  memory,  indeed,  there  rankled  a  dim  imspoken 
grudge,  the  cause  of  which  was  accurately  knowTi  to  the  very  few 
who  understood  the  nature  of  a  mortgage,  and  were  therefore  aware 
that  Madam's  money  had  been  taken  to  enrich  my  lord's  poor 
land  in  Scotland.  I  am  sure— for  you  can  understand  I  was 
behind  the  scenes,  as  it  were,  and  had  many  an  opportunity  of 
seeing  and  hearing,  as  I  lay  or  sat  motionless  in  my  lady's  room 
with  the  double  doors  open  between  it  and  the  anteroom  beyond, 
where  Lady  Ludlow  saw  her  steward,  and  gave  audience  to  her 
tenants, — I  am  certain,  I  say,  that  Mr.  Horner  was  silently  as 
much  annoyed  at  the  money  that  was  swallowed  up  by  this  mort- 
gage as  any  one ;  and,  some  tijnc  or  other,  ho  had  probably 
spoken  his  mind  out  to  my  lady  ;  for  there  was  a  sort  of  offended 
reference  on  her  part,  and  respectful  submission  to  blame  on  his, 
while  every  now  and  then  tliere  was  an  implied  protest, — when- 
ever the  payments  of  the  interest  became  due,  or  whenever  my 
lady  stinted  herself  of  any  personal  expense,  such  as  Mr.  Hoiaier 


214  MY   LADY   LUDLOW, 

thought  was  only  decorous  and  becoming  in  the  heiress  of  the 
Hanburys.  Her  carriages  were  old  and  ciunbrous,  wanting  all 
the  improvements  which  had  been  adopted  by  those  of  her  rank 
throughout  the  county.  Mr.  Homer  would  fain  have  had  the 
ordering  of  a  new  coach.  The  carriage-horses,  too,  were  getting 
past  their  work ;  yet  all  the  promising  colts  bred  on  the  estate 
were  sold  for  ready  money  ;  and  so  on.  My  lord,  her  son,  was 
ambassador  at  some  foreign  place  ;  and  very  proud  we  all  wero 
of  his  glory  and  dignity  ;  but  I  fancy  it  cost  money,  and  my 
lady  would  have  lived  on  bread  and  water  sooner  than  have 
called  upon  him  to  help  her  in  paying  off  the  mortgage,  although 
he  was  the  one  who  was  to  benefit  by  it  in  the  end. 

Mr.  Homer  was  a  very  faithful  steward,  and  very  respectful  to 
my  lady  ;  although  sometimes,  I  thought  she  was  sharper  to  him 
than  to  any  one  else  ;  perhaps  because  she  knew  that,  although 
he  never  said  anything,  he  disapproved  of  the  Hanburys  being 
made  to  pay  for  the  Earl  Ludlow's  estates  and  state. 

The  late  lord  had  been  a  sailor,  and  had  been  as  extravagant 
in  his  habits  as  most  sailors  are,  I  am  told, — for  I  never  saw  the 
sea  ;  and  yet  he  had  a  long  sight  to  his  ovra  interests  ;  but  what- 
ever he  was,  my  lady  loved  him  and  his  memory,  with  about 
as  fond  and  proud  a  love  as  ever  wife  gave  husband,  I  should 
think. 

For  a  part  of  his  life  Mr.  Horner,  who  was  born  on  the  Han- 
bury  property,  had  been  a  clerk  to  an  attorney  in  Birmingham  ; 
and  these  few  yefirs  had  given  him  a  kind  of  worldly  \\'istlom, 
which,  though  always  exerted  for  her  beuetit,  was  autijnithetic  to 
her  ladyship,  who  thought  that  some  of  her  steward's  maxims 
savoiu'ed  of  trade  and  comnKire.  1  fancy  tlint  if  it  had  been 
possible,  she  would  liave  preferred  a  return  to  the  primitive 
system,  of  living  on  the  produce  of  the  land,  and  exchanging  the 
surplus  for  such  articles  as  were  needed,  without  the  intervention 
of  money. 

But  Mr.  Ilorner  was  bitten  with  new-fangled  notions,  as  she 
would  say,  though  his  new-fanghd  Udtions  were  what  folk  at  the 
present  day  wouM  think  sadly  biliindhand  ;  and  some  of  Mr. 
Gray's  ideas  fell  <>n  ]Mr.  Ilorutrs  mind  like  sparks  on  tow, 
though  they  stiulid  from  two  ditUrent  points.  Mr.  Humor 
wanted  to  make  every  man  usil'ul  and  active  in  this  world,  and 
to  direct  as  nuieh  activity  and  UMfiilncss  as  possible  to  the  im- 
j)rovement  of  the  Hanbury  estates,  and  th(>  aggrandist-nunt  of 
tho  Hanbury  fiuuily,  and  tlioroforo  ho  fell  into  tho  new  cry  for 
education. 

Mr.  Gray  did  not  care  much, — Mr.  llonur  thought  not  enough 


MY    LADY   LUDLOW.  215 

—for  this  world,  and  where  any  man  or  family  stood  in  their 
earthly  position  ;  but  he  would  have  every  one  prepared  for  tho 
world  to  come,  and  capable  of  imderstanding  and  receiving  cer- 
tain doctrines,  for  which  latter  purpose,  it  stands  to  reason,  ho 
must  have  heard  of  these  doctrines :  and  therefore  Mr.  Gray 
wanted  education.  The  answer  in  the  Catechism  that  Mr.  Horner 
was  most  fond  of  calling  upon  a  child  to  repeat,  was  that  to, 
"  What  is  thy  duty  towards  thy  neighbour  ?"  The  answer  Mr. 
Gray  liked  best  to  hear  repeated  ^\ith  unction,  was  that  to  the 
question,  "  What  is  the  inward  and  spiritual  grace  ?"  The  reply 
to  which  Lady  Ludlow  bent  her  head  the  lowest,  as  we  said  our 
Catechism  to  her  on  Sundays,  was  to,  "  What  is  thy  duty  towards 
God  ?"  But  neither  Mr,  Homer  nor  Mr.  Gray  had  heard  many 
answers  to  the  Catechism  as  yet. 

Up  to  this  time  there  was  no  Simday-school  in  Hanbury. 
]\Ir.  Gray's  desires  were  boimded  by  that  object.  Mr.  Homer 
looked  farther  on :  he  hoped  for  a  day-school  at  some  future 
time,  to  train  up  intelligent  labourers  fur  working  on  the  estate. 
My  lady  woiQd  hear  of  neither  one  nor  the  other  :  indeed,  not 
the  boldest  man  whom  she  ever  saw  would  have  dared  to  name 
the  project  of  a  day-school  within  her  hearing. 

So  Mr.  Homer  contented  himself  ^ath  quietly  teaching  a 
sharp,  clever  lad  to  read  and  wi-ite,  with  a  view  to  making  use  of 
him  as  a  kind  of  foreman  in  process  of  time.  He  had  his  pick 
of  the  farm-lads  for  this  pui-pose ;  and,  as  the  brightest  and 
sharpest,  although  by  far  the  raggedest  and  dirtiest,  singled  out 
Job  Gregson's  son.  But  all  this — as  my  lady  never  listened  to 
gossip,  or  indeed,  was  spoken  to  unless  she  spoke  first — was 
quite  unknown  to  her,  until  the  imlucky  incident  took  place 
which  I  am  going  to  relate. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


I  THINK  my  lady  was  not  awai-e  of  Mr.  Horner's  views  on  edu- 
cation (as  making  men  into  more  useful  members  of  society),  or 
the  practice  to  which  he  was  putting  his  precepts  in  taking 
Harry  Gregson  as  pupil  and  protuge  ;  if,  indeed,  she  were  aware 
of  Harry's  distinct  existence  at  all,  until  the  following  unfortu- 
nate occasion.  The  ante-room,  which  was  a  kind  of  business- 
place  for  my  lady  to  receive  her  steward  and  tenants  in,  was 
surrounded  by  shelves.  I  cannot  call  them  book-shelves, 
though  there  were  many  books  on  them  ;  but  the  contents  of  the 
folumcs  were  principally  manuscript,  and   relating   to  details 


216  MY   LADY   LUDLOW. 

connected  with  the  Hanbury  property.  There  were  also  one  or 
two  dictionaries,  gazetteers,  works  of  reference  on  the  manage- 
ment of  property ;  all  of  a  very  old  date  (the  dictionary  was 
Bailey's,  I  remcmher  ;  we  had  a  great  Johnson  in  my  lady's  room, 
but  where  lexicographers  differed,  she  generally  preferred  Bailey). 
In  this  antechamber  a  footman  generally  sat,  awaiting  orders 
from  my  lady  ;  for  she  clung  to  the  grand  old  customs,  and  de- 
spised any  bells,  except  her  owii  little  hand-bell,  as  modem 
inventions  ;  she  would  have  her  people  always  within  summons 
of  this  silvery  bell,  or  her  scarce  less  silvery  voice.  This  man 
had  not  the  sinecure  you  might  imagine.  He  had  to  reply  to  the 
private  entrance  ;  what  we  should  call  the  back  door  in  a 
smaller  house.  As  none  came  to  the  front  door  but  my  lady, 
and  those  of  the  coimty  whom  she  honoured  by  visiting,  and 
her  nearest  acquaintance  of  this  kind  lived  eight  miles  (of  bad 
road)  off,  the  majority  of  comers  knocked  at  the  nail-studded 
terrace-door ;  not  to  have  it  opened  (for  open  it  stood,  by  my 
lady's  orders,  winter  and  summer,  so  that  the  snow  often  drifted 
into  the  back  hall,  and  lay  there  in  hcajis  when  the  weather  was 
severe),  but  to  siunmon  some  one  to  receive  their  message, 
or  carry  their  request  to  be  allowed  to  speak  to  my  lady.  I 
remember  it  was  long  before  Mr.  Gray  could  be  made  to  under- 
stand that  the  great  door  was  only  open  on  state  occasions,  and 
even  to  the  last  he  would  as  soon  come  in  by  that  as  the  terrace 
entrance.  I  had  been  received  there  on  my  first  setting  foot 
over  my  lady's  threshold  ;  every  stranger  was  led  in  by  that  way 
the  first  time  they  came  ;  but  after  that  (with  the  exceptions  I 
have  named)  they  went  roiuul  by  the  terrace,  as  it  were  by  in- 
stinct. It  was  an  assistance  to  this  instinct  to  be  aware  that 
from  time  immemorial,  the  magnificent  and  fierce  Hanbury  wolf- 
hoimds,  which  were  extinct  in  every  other  2>art  of  the  island,  hud 
been  and  still  were  kept  chained  in  the  fritnt  quadrangle,  where 
they  bayed  through  a  great  part  of  the  day  and  night,  and  were 
always  ready  with  their  deej),  savage  growl  at  the  sight  of  every 
person  and  thing,  excepting  the  man  wlu)  fed  them,  my  lady's 
carriage  and  four,  and  my  lady  herself.  It  was  })retty  to  see 
her  small  figure  go  up  to  the  great,  erouching  brutes,  tluunping 
the  flags  witli  their  heavy,  wagging  tails,  and  slobbering  in  au 
ccstacy  of  delight,  at  her  ligiit  approach  and  soft  caress.  She 
had  no  fear  of  them  ;  but  slie  was  a  llnnbury  born,  and  tlie  tale 
went,  that  they  andtlu:ir  kind  kiKW  all  Hanburys  instantly,  and 
acknowledgi'il  tlicir  supremacy,  ev«r  since  tlie  ancestors  of  the 
breed  had  been  brought  from  tlut  East  by  the  great  Sir  Urirai 
Hanbury,  who  lay  with  his  logs  cruBsed  on  tliu  ultar-tomb  in  tb« 


MV    LADY    LUDLOV/.  217 

chxircb.  Moreover,  it  was  reported  that,  not  fifty  years  before, 
one  of  these  dogs  had  eatcu  up  a  child,  which  had  inadvertently 
strayed  within  reach  of  its  chain.  So  you  may  imagine  how 
most  people  preferred  the  terrace-door.  Mr.  (iray  did  not  seem 
to  care  for  tho  dogs.  It  might  bo  absence  of  mind,  for  I  have 
heard  of  his  starting  away  from  tlicir  sudden  spring  when  he  had 
unwittingly  walked  within  reach  of  their  chains :  but  it  could 
hai'dly  have  been  absence  of  mind,  when  one  day  he  went  right 
up  to  one  of  them,  and  patted  him  in  the  most  friendly  manner, 
the  dog  meanwhile  looking  pleased,  and  affiibly  wagging  his  tail, 
just  as  if  Mr.  Gray  had  been  a  Haubiuy.  We  were  all  very  much 
puzzled  by  this,  and  to  this  day  I  have  not  been  able  to  accovmt 
for  it. 

But  now  let  us  go  back  to  the  terrace-door,  and  the  footman 
sitting  in  the  antechamber. 

One  morning  wo  heard  a  parleying,  which  rose  to  such  a 
vehemence,  and  lasted  for  so  long,  that  my  lady  had  to  ring  her 
hand-bell  tu-ice  before  the  footman  hcai'd  it. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  John  ?"  asked  she,  when  he  entered. 

"  A  little  boy,  my  lady,  who  says  he  comes  from  Mr.  Horner, 
and  must  see  your  ladyshij).  Impudent  little  lad  !"  (This  last  to 
himself.) 

"  What  does  he  want  ?" 

"  That's  just  what  I  have  asked  him,  my  lady,  but  he  won't 
tell  me,  please  yom-  ladyship." 

"  It  is,  probably,  some  message  from  Mr.  Horner,"  said  Lady 
Ludlow,  with  just  a  shade  of  annoyance  in  her  manner  ;  for  it 
was  against  all  etiquette  to  send  a  message  to  her,  and  by  such 
a  messenger  too  ! 

"  No  !  please  your  ladyship,  I  asked  him  if  he  had  any  mes- 
sage, and  he  said  no,  he  had  none  ;  but  ho  must  see  your  lady- 
ship for  all  that." 

"  You  had  better  show  him  in  then,  without  more  words,"  said 
her  ladyship,  quietly,  but  still,  as  I  have  said,  ratlier  annoyed. 

As  if  in  mockery  of  the  humble  visitor,  the  footman  threw 
open  botli  battants  of  the  doo]-,  and  in  the  oiiening  there  stood  a 
lithe,  wiry  lad,  witli  a  thick  head  of  hair,  standing  out  in  every 
direction,  a.s  if  stirred  ])y  some  electrical  current,  a  short,  brown 
face,  red  now  from  aifrigiit  and  excitement,  wide,  resolute  iiioutli, 
and  briglit,  deep-set  eyes,  which  glanced  keenly  and  rapidly 
round  the  room,  as  if  taking  in  everything  (ajid  all  was  new  and 
strange),  to  be  thought  and  puzzled  over  at  some  future  time. 
He  knew  enough  ui  manners  not  to  speak  first  to  one  above  him 
in  rank,  or  else  he  was  a&aid. 


218  MY   LADY   LUDLOW. 

"  What  do  you  want  with  me  ?"  asked  my  lady  ;  in  so  gentle 
a  tone  that  it  seemed  to  surprise  and  stun  him. 

"  An't  please  your  ladyship  ?"  said  he,  as  if  he  had  been  deafl 

"  You  come  from  Mr.  Homer's :  why  do  you  want  to  see 
me  ?*'  again  asked  she,  a  little  more  loudly. 

"  Ant  please  your  ladyship,  Mr.  Horner  was  sent  for  all  on 
a  sudden  to  Warwick  this  morning." 

His  fiice  began  to  work  ;  but  he  felt  it,  and  closed  his  lips 
into  a  resolute  form. 

"  Well  ?" 

"  And  he  went  off  all  on  a  sudden  like." 

"  Well  ?" 

"  And  he  left  a  note  for  your  ladyship  with  me,  your  lady- 
ship." 

"  Is  that  all  ?     You  might  have  given  it  to  the  footman." 

"  Please  your  ladyship,  I've  clean  gone  and  lost  it." 

He  never  took  his  eyes  off  her  face.  If  ho  had  not  kept  his 
look  fixed,  he  would  have  burst  out  crying. 

"  That  was  very  careless,"  said  my  lady  gently.  "  But  I  am 
sure  you  are  very  sorry  for  it.  You  had  better  try  and  find  it ; 
it  may  have  been  of  consequence." 

"  Please,  mum — please  your  ladyship — I  can  sjiy  it  off  by 
heart." 

"  You  !  What  do  you  mean  ?"  I  was  really  afraid  now.  My 
lady's  blue  eyes  absolutely  gave  out  light,  she  was  so  much  dis- 
pleased, and,  moreover,  perplexed.  The  more  reason  ho  had  for 
affright,  the  more  his  corn-age  rose.  He  must  have  seen, — so 
sharp  a  lad  nmst  have  perceived  her  displeasure ;  but  he  went  on 
(juickly  and  steadily. 

"  Mr.  Horner,  my  lady,  has  taught  mo  to  rend,  write,  and  cast 
accomits,  my  lady.  And  hu  was  in  a  hurry,  and  he  folded  his 
paper  up,  but  ho  did  not  sciil  it ;  and  I  read  it,  my  lady  ;  luid 
now,  my  lady,  it  seems  like  as  if  I  had  got  it  off  by  heart ;"  and 
he  wont  on  with  a  high  pitched  voice,  saying  out  very  loud  what, 
I  have  no  doubt,  were  the  identical  words  of  the  letter,  date,  sig- 
nature and  all :  it  wius  merely  something  about  a  deed,  which 
required  my  lady's  signature. 

Wlien  he  had  done,  ho  stood  almost  as  if  ho  expected  com- 
mendation for  his  accurate  memory. 

My  lady's  eyes  contracted  till  the  i>ui)ils  were  as  necdlo- 
])oints  ;  it  was  a  way  she  had  when  nmch  disturbed.  Sho  looked 
at  mo,  and  said    - 

"  Miu-garut  Dawson,  what  will  this  world  come  to?"  And  then 
sho  was  silent. 


r 


CvX.Ov 


Please,  my  laOy,  I  mcaiit  no  hurui,  my  lady." 


/•ui/'-li*- 


MY   LADY   LUDLOW.  219 

The  lad,  beginning  to  perceive  ho  had  given  deep  offence, 
stood  stock  still — as  if  his  brave  will  liad  brought  him  into  this 
presence,  and  impelled  him  to  confession,  and  the  best  amends 
ho  could  make,  but  had  now  deserted  him,  or  was  extinct,  and 
left  his  body  motionless,  until  some  one  else  with  word  or  deed 
made  him  quit  the  room.  My  lady  looked  again  at  him,  and  saw 
the  fro^\-ning,  dumb-foimdering  teiTor  at  his  misdeed,  and  the 
manner  in  which  his  confession  had  been  received. 

"My  poor  lad!"  said  she,  the  angiy  look  leaving  her  face, 
"into  whoso  hands  have  you  fallen '?" 
The  boy's  lips  began  to  quiver. 

"  Don't  you  know  what  tree  we  read  of  in  Genesis'  ? — No  !  I 
hope  you  have  not  got  to  read  so  easily  as  that."  A  pause. 
"  Who  has  taught  you  to  read  and  write '?" 

"  Please,  my  lady,  I  meant  no  harm,  my  lady."    He  was  fairly 
blubbering,  overcome  by  her  evident  feeling    of   dismay  and 
regret,  the  soft  repression  of  whicli  was  more  frightening  to  him 
than  any  strong  or  violent  words  would  have  been. 
"  Who  taught  you,  I  ask  V" 

"  It  were  Mr.  Horner's  clerk  who  learned  me,  my  lady." 
"  And  did  Mr.  Homer  know  of  it  ?" 

"Yes,  my  lady.  And  I  am  sm-e  I  thought  for  to  please 
Lim." 

"  Well !  perhaps  you  were  not  to  blame  for  that.  But  I 
wonder  at  Sir.  Homer.  However,  my  boy,  as  you  have  got 
possession  of  edge-tools,  you  must  have  some  rules  how  to  use 
them.  Did  you  never  hear  that  you  were  not  to  open  letters  ?" 
"  Please,  my  lady,  it  were  open.  Mr.  Horner  forgot  for  to  seal 
it,  in  his  hurry  to  be  off." 

"  But  you  must  not  read  letters  that  are  not  intended  for  you. 
You  must  never  try  to  read  any  letters  tliat  ai-e  not  directed  to 
you,  even  if  they  be  ojK-n  before  you." 

"  Please,  my  lady,  I  thought  it  were  good  for  practice,  all  as 
one  as  a  book." 

My  lady  looked  bewildered  as  to  what  way  she  could  farther 
explain  to  him  the  laws  of  honour  as  regarded  letters. 

"You  would  not  listen,  I  am  sure,"  said  she,  "  to  anything  you 
were  not  intended  to  hear  V' 

He  hesitated  for  a  moment,  partly  because  he  did  not  fully 
comprehend  the  question.  My  lady  repeated  it.  The  light  of 
intelligence  came  into  his  eager  eyes,  and  I  could  see  that  ho 
wag  not  certain  if  he  could  tell  the  trutli. 

"  Please,  my  lady,  I  always  hearken  when  I  hoar  folk  talking 
.Wcretfi  ;  but  I  mean  no  harm." 


220  MY   LAPY   LUDLOW. 

My  poor  lady  sighed  :  she  was  not  j^rcparcd  to  begin  a  long 
way  off  in  morals.  Honour  was,  to  her,  second  nature,  and  she 
had  never  tried  to  find  out  on  what  principle  its  laws  were  based. 
So,  telling  the  lad  that  she  wished  to  see  Mr.  Horner  when  he 
returned  from  Warwick,  she  dismissed  him  with  a  despondent 
look  ;  he,  meanwhile,  right  glad  to  be  out  of  the  awivl  gentleness 
of  her  presence. 

"  What  is  to  be  done  ?"  said  she,  half  to  herself  and  half  to 
me.     I  could  not  answer,  for  I  was  puzzled  myself. 

"  It  was  a  right  word,"  she  continued,  "  that  I  used,  when  I 
called  reading  and  A\Titing  '  edge-tools.'  If  our  lower  orders 
have  these  edge-tools  given  to  them,  we  shall  have  the  terrible 
scenes  of  the  French  Kevolution  acted  over  again  in  England. 
When  I  was  a  gii-1,  ono  never  heard  of  the  rights  of  men,  one 
only  heard  of  the  duties.  Now,  here  was  Mr.  Gray,  only  last 
night,  talking  of  the  right  every  child  had  to  instruction.  I 
could  hardly  keep  my  patience  with  him,  and  at  length  we  fairly 
came  to  words  ;  and  1  told  him  I  would  have  no  such  thing  as  a 
Sunday-school  (or  a  Sabbath-school,  as  he  calls  it,  just  like  a 
Jew)  in  my  village." 

"  And  ^\■hat  did  he  say,  my  lady  ?"  I  asked  ;  for  the  struggle 
that  Beemed  now  to  have  come  to  a  crisis,  had  been  going  on  for 
some  time  in  a  quiet  way. 

"  Why,  he  gave  way  to  temper,  and  said  he  was  bound  to 
remember,  ho  was  imder  the  bishop's  authority,  not  under  mine ; 
and  implied  that  he  should  persevere  in  his  designs,  notwith- 
standing my  expressed  opinion." 

"  And  your  ladyship — "  I  haK  inquired. 

"  I  could  only  rise  and  cm'tsey,  and  civilly  dismiss  him.  ^Mien 
two  persons  have  arrived  at  a  certain  point  of  expression  on  a 
subject,  about  which  they  differ  as  materially  as  I  do  from  Mr. 
Gray,  tlio  wisest  course,  if  they  wish  to  remain  friends,  is  to 
drop  the  conversation  entirely  and  suddenly.  It  iL  ono  of  the 
few  cases  where  abruptness  is  desinible." 

I  was  sorry  for  Mr.  Gray.  He  had  been  to  see  me  sevenJ 
times,  and  had  hel])ed  lue  to  bear  my  illness  in  a  bettor  spirit 
than  I  should  have  done  without  his  good  advice  and  pmvirs. 
And  I  had  gatherrd,  from  littl(>  things  ho  said,  how  nuieh  Iiia 
iieart  was  set  upon  this  new  sehenic.  I  liked  him  so  much,  and 
I  loved  and  resj)ectc'd  my  lady  t^o  will,  that  I  could  not  bear 
them  to  be  on  tlio  eool  terms  to  which  they  were  constiuitly 
getting.      \vt  I  could  do  nothing  but  keej)  silence. 

I  sup])ose  my  lady  understood  sonu'thing  of  wliat  wa.s  passing 
in  my  mind  ;  for,  alter  a  minute  or  two,  she  wont  on  : — 


MY    LADY    LUDLOW  221 

*'  If  Mr.  Gray  knew  all  I  know,— if  he  liad  ray  experience,  ho 
would  not  be  so  ready  to  8pcak  of  setting  up  his  new  plans  in 
opposition  to  my  judgment.  Indeed,"  she  continued,  lashing 
herself  up  with  her  own  recollections,  "  times  arc  changed  when 
tlie  parson  of  a  village  comes  to  beard  the  liege  lady  in  her  omu 
house.  Why,  in  my  gi'audfather's  days,  the  parson  was  family 
chaplain  too,  and  dined  at  the  Hall  every  Sunday.  He  was  heljied 
last,  and  expected  to  have  done  first.  I  remember  seeing  liim 
take  up  his  plate  and  knife  and  fork,  and  say  with  his  mouth  full 
all  the  time  he  was  speaking  :  '  If  you  please,  Sir  Urian.  and  my 
lady,  I'll  follow  tlie  beef  into  the  liousckcepcr's  room ;'  for, 
you  sec,  imless  he  did  so,  he  stood  no  chance  of  a  second  helping. 
A  greedy  man,  that  parson  was,  to  be  sure  !  I  recollect  his 
once  eating  up  the  whole  of  some  little  bird  at  dinner,  and  by 
way  of  diverting  attention  from  his  gi-eedincss,  he  told  how  ho 
had  heard  that  a  rook  soaked  in  vinegar  and  then  dressed  in  a 
particular  way,  coidd  not  be  distinguished  from  the  bird  he  was 
then  eating.  I  saw  by  the  grim  look  of  my  gi'andfathcr's  face 
that  the  parson's  doing  and  saying  displeased  him  ;  and,  child  as 
I  was,  I  had  some  notion  of  what  was  coming,  when,  as  I  was 
riding  out  on  my  little,  white  pony,  by  my  gi-andfather's  side, 
the  next  Friday,  he  stopped  one  of  the  gamekeepers,  and  bade 
him  shoot  one  of  the  oldest  rooks  he  could  find.  I  knew  no 
more  about  it  till  Sxmday,  when  a  dish  was  set  right  before  the 
parson,  and  Sir  Urian  said  :  '  Now,  Parson  Hemming,  I  have 
had  a  rook  shot,  and  soaked  in  vinegar,  and  dressed  as  you 
described  last  Simday.  Fall  to,  man,  and  cat  it  with  as  good  an 
appetite  as  you  had  last  Sunday.     Pick  the  bones  clean,  or  by 

,  no  more  Sunday  dinners  shall  you  eat  at  my  table  !'     I 

gave  one  look  at  poor  Mr.  Hemmiug's  face,  as  he  tried  to  swallow 
the  first  morsel,  and  make  believe  as  though  lie  thought  it  very 
good  ;  but  I  could  not  look  again,  for  shame,  although  my  gi-and- 
fiithcr  laughed,  and  kept  asking  us  all  round  if  wc  knew  what 
could  have  become  of  the  parson's  appetite." 

"  And  did  he  finish  it  ?"  I  asked. 

"  0  yes,  my  dear.  What  my  grandfather  said  was  to  be  done, 
wag  done  always.  Hs  was  a  terrible  man  in  liis  anger  !  But  to 
think  of  the  diflfercnce  between  Parson  Hemming  and  Mr.  (iray  ! 
or  even  of  poor  dear  Mr.  Mountford  and  Mr.  (iray.  Mr.  Mount- 
ford  would  never  have  witlistood  ni<!  as  Mr.  Gray  did  !" 

"  And  your  ladyship  really  tliinks  tliat  it  would  not  be  right 
to  liavc  a  Sunday-school  ?"  I  asked,  feeling  very  timid  as  I  put 
the  question. 

"  Certainly  not.     As  I  told  Mr.  Gray,  I  consider  a  knowlcdgo 


222  MY    LADY    LUDLOW. 

of  the  Creed,  and  of  the  Lord's  Prayer,  as  essential  to  salvation  ; 
and  that  any  child  may  have,  whose  parents  bring  it  regularly  to 
church.  Then  tlierc  are  the  Ten  Commandments,  which  teach 
simple  duties  in  the  plainest  language.  Of  course,  if  a  lad  is 
taught  to  read  and  write  (as  that  xmfortunate  boy  has  been  who 
was  here  this  moi-ciug)  his  duties  become  complicated,  and  his 
temptations  much  greater,  while,  at  the  same  time,  he  has  no 
hereditary  principles  and  honourable  training  to  serve  as  safe- 
guards. I  might  take  uj)  my  old  simile  of  the  race-horse  and 
cart-horse.  1  am  distressed,"  continued  she,  with  a  break  in  her 
ideas,  "  about  that  boy.  The  whole  thing  reminds  me  so  much 
of  a  story  of  what  happened  to  a  friend  of  mine — Clement  de 
Crequy.     Did  I  ever  tell  you  about  him  ?" 

"  No,  yom*  ladyship,"  I  replied. 

"  Poor  Clement !  More  than  twenty  years  ago,  Lord  Ludlow 
and  I  spent  a  winter  in  Paris.  He  had  many  friends  there ; 
perhaps  not  very  good  or  very  wise  men,  but  he  was  so  kind 
that  he  liked  every  one,  and  every  one  liked  him.  We  had  im 
apartment,  as  they  call  it  there,  in  the  Eue  de  Lille ;  we  hud 
the  first-floor  of  a  grand  hotel,  with  the  basement  for  our 
servants.  On  the  floor  above  us  the  owner  of  the  house  lived, 
a  Marquise  de  Crequy,  a  widow.  They  tell  me  that  the  Crequy 
coat-of-arms  is  still  emblazoned,  after  all  these  terrible  yeiu-s, 
on  a  shield  above  the  arched  porte-cochere,  just  as  it  was  then, 
though  the  family  is  quite  extinct.  Madame  de  Crequy  had 
only  one  son,  Clement,  who  was  just  the  same  age  as  my  Urian 
— you  may  see  his  portrait  in  the  great  hall — Urian's,  I  mean." 
I  knew  that  Master  Urian  liad  been  dnn\'ned  at  sea  ;  and 
often  liad  I  looked  at  the  presentment  of  his  bonny  hopeful 
face,  in  his  sailor's  dress,  with  right  hand  outstretelied  to  a  ship 
on  the  sea  in  the  distance,  as  if  he  had  just  said,  "  Lt)ok  at  her  I 
all  her  sails  are  set,  and  I'm  just  oil'."  Poor  Master  Urian  I 
he  went  down  in  this  very  shij)  not  a  year  after  the  picture  was 
taken  !  But  now  I  will  go  buck  to  my  lady's  story.  "  I  eiui 
see  those  two  boys  playing  now,"  continued  she,  softly,  shutting 
her  eyes,  as  if  the  better  to  call  up  the  vision,  "  us  they  used 
to  do  five-and-twenty  years  ago  in  those  (dd-fushioned  French 
gardens  behind  om*  hotel.  ]\Iuny  a  time  have  I  wutehed  them 
from  my  windows.  It  was,  }>erhups,  u  better  play-phiee  tliiiu 
an  English  garden  would  huve  been,  for  then?  were  but  few 
flower-bcnls,  und  no  lawn  at  all  to  speak  about ;  but,  instead, 
terraces  and  bulustrudi's  luul  vases  uud  flights  of  stone  stejjfl 
more  in  tlus  ItiJiuii  style;  und  tlure  were  jets-d'eau,  and  littlo 
foimtaius    that    could    be    set  i)luyiiig    by   turning  water-cocki 


MY    LADY    LUDLOW.  223 

that  were  bidden  hero  and  there.  How  Clement  delighted 
in  turning  the  water  on  to  surprise  Uriau,  and  how  gracefully 
he  did  the  honoiu-s,  as  it  were,  to  my  dear,  rough,  sailor  lad  I 
Urian  was  as  daik  as  a  gipsy  boy,  and  cared  little  for  his 
appearance,  and  resisted  all  my  efforts  at  setting  off  his  black 
eyes  and  tangled  curls ;  but  Clement,  without  ever  showing 
that  he  thought  about  himself  and  his  dress,  was  always  dainty 
aud  elegant,  even  though  his  clothes  were  sometimes  but 
threadbare.  He  used  to  be  di'essed  in  a  kind  of  hunter's  green 
suit,  ojien  at  the  neck  and  half-way  down  the  chest  to  beautiful 
old  laco  frills  ;  his  long  golden  cm-Is  fell  behind  just  like  a 
girl's,  and  his  hair  in  front  was  cut  over  his  straight  dark 
eyebrows  in  a  lino  almost  as  straight.  Urian  learnt  more 
of  a  gentleman's  carefulness  and  projiricty  of  appearance  from 
that  lad  in  two  months  than  he  had  done  in  years  fi*om  all 
my  lectures.  I  recollect  one  day,  when  the  two  boys  were  in 
full  romp— and,  my  window  being  open,  I  could  hear  them 
perfectly — and  Urian  was  daring  Clement  to  some  scrambling 
or  climbing,  which  Clement  refused  to  imdcrtake,  but  in  a 
hesitating  way,  as  though  ho  longed  to  do  it  if  some  reason 
had  not  stood  in  the  way ;  and  at  times,  Urian,  w'ho  was  hasty 
and  thouglitless,  poor  fellow,  told  Clement  that  he  was  afraid. 
'  Fear  I'  said  the  French  boy,  di-awing  himself  up  ;  '  you  do 
not  know  what  you  say.  If  you  will  be  here  at  six  to-morrow 
morning,  when  it  is  only  just  light,  I  will  take  that  starling's 
nest  on  the  top  of  yonder  chimney.'  '  But  why  not  now, 
Clement  ?'  said  Urian,  putting  his  arm  roimd  Clement's  neck. 
'  Why  then,  and  not  now,  just  when  we  ai"c  in  the  humour 
for  it  V  '  Because  we  De  Crequys  are  pooz",  aud  my  mother 
cannot  afford  me  another  suit  of  clothes  this  year,  and  yonder 
stone  carving  is  all  jagged,  and  would  tear  my  coat  and 
breeches.  Now,  to-mon-ow  morning  I  could  go  up  with  nothing 
on  but  an  old  shirt.' 

" '  But -you  would  tear  your  legs.' 

" '  My  race  do  not  cai-e  for  pain,'  said  the  boy,  drawing 
liimself  from  Urian's  arm,  and  walking  a  few  stejis  away,  with 
a  becoming  pride  and  reserve  ;  for  ho  was  hurt  at  being  spoken 
to  as  if  he  were  afraid,  and  armoyed  at  having  to  confess 
the  true  reason  for  declining  the  feat.  But  Urian  was  not 
to  be  thus  batHed.  He  went  up  to  Clement,  and  put  his  arm 
once  more  about  his  neck,  and  I  could  sec  the  two  lads  as 
they  walked  down  the  terrace  away  from  the  hotel  windows : 
first  Urian  spoke  eagerly,  looking  with  imploring  fondness  into 
Clement's  face,  which  sought  the  gromid,  till  at  last  the  French 


224  MY    LADY    LUDLOW. 

boy  spoke,  and  Ly-aud-by  his  arm  was  round  Urian  too,  and 
they  paced  backwards  and  forwards  in  deep  talk,  but  gi-avely,  as 
became  men,  rather  than  boys. 

"All  at  once,  from  tlie  little  chapel  at  the  corner  of  the 
large  garden  belonging  to  the  Missions  Etmngeres,  I  heard 
the  tinkle  of  the  little  bell,  announcing  the  elevation  of  the 
host.  Down  on  liis  knees  went  Clement,  hands  ci-ossed,  eyes 
bent  down :  while  Urian  stood  looking  on  in  respectful  thought. 
"  What  a  friendship  that  might  have  been  !  I  never  dream 
of  Urian  without  seeing  Clement  too — Urian  speaks  to  me, 
or  does  something,— but  Clement  only  flits  roimd  Urian,  and 
never  seems  to  see  any  one  else  ! 

"  But  I  must  not  forget  to  tell  you,  that  the  next  morning, 
before  he  was  out  of  his  room,  a  footman  of  Madame  de  Crequy's 
brought  Urian  the  starling's  nest. 

"  Well !  we  came  back  to  England,  and  the  boys  were  to 
correspond;  and  Madame  de  Crequyand  I  exchanged  civilities; 
and  Urian  went  to  sea. 

"  After  that,  all  seemed  to  drop  away.  I  cannot  tell  you  all. 
However,  to  confine  myself  to  the  Do  Crequys.  I  had  a  letter 
from  Clement ;  I  knew  ho  felt  his  friend's  death  deeply ;  but 
I  should  never  have  learnt  it  from  the  letter  he  sent.  It  was 
formal,  and  seemed  like  chaft'  to  my  hungering  hciirt.  Toiu- 
fellow  !  I  dare  say  he  had  foimd  it  hai'd  to  write.  What  coidd 
ho — or  any  one  — say  to  a  mother  who  has  lost  her  child? 
Tlic  world  does  not  think  so,  and,  in  general,  one  must  coulbrm 
to  the  customs  of  the  world ;  but,  judging  from  my  own  ex- 
perience, I  should  say  that  reverent  silence  at  such  times  is 
the  tenderest  balm.  Madame  de  Crt-quy  wrote  too.  But  I 
knew  she  could  not  feel  my  loss  so  much  as  Clement,  and 
therefore  her  letter  was  not  such  a  disa})pointment.  She  and 
I  went  on  being  civil  and  polite  in  the  way  of  commissions, 
and  occasionally  introducing  friends  to  each  other,  for  a  year 
or  two,  and  then  we  ceased  to  have  any  intercourse.  Then 
the  terrible  Ivevolution  came.  No  one  who  did  not  live  at 
those  times  can  imagine  the  daily  expectation  of  news, — the 
liourly  terror  of  rumours  alVecting  the  fortunes  and  lives  of 
those  whom  most  of  us  had  known  as  2)leasant  hosts,  receiving 
us  with  i)eacefiil  welcome  in  their  magnificent  houses.  Of 
<'Oursc,  there  was  sin  (enough  and  suflering  enough  behind  the 
scenes ;  but  wo  Englisli  visitors  to  Paris  had  seen  little  or 
nothing  of  that, — and  I  had  sometimes  thouglit,  indeed,  ho\r 
«'ven  Death  seemed  loth  to  choose  his  victims  out  t>f  that 
brilliant   throng  whom  I  had    known.     Madomu   di'  Crt^ijuy'* 


MT    LADY   LUDLOW.  22.^ 

one  boy  lived ;  while  tlirec  out  of  my  six  were  goue  bIucg 
we  had  met !  I  do  uut  think  all  lots  arc  equal,  even  now 
that  I  know  the  end  of  her  hopes ;  but  I  do  say  that  wliatever 
our  individual  lot  is,  it  is  our  duty  to  aeeept  it,  without  com- 
paring it  with  that  of  others. 

"  The  times  were  thick  with  gloom  and  terror.  '  What  next?' 
was  the  question  we  asked  of  every  one  who  brought  us  news 
from  Paris.  Where  were  these  demons  hidden  when,  so  few 
years  ago,  we  danced  and  feasted,  and  enjoyed  the  brilliant 
salons  and  the  charming  friendships  of  Paris  ? 

"  One  evening,  I  was  sitting  alone  in  Saint  James's  Square ; 
my  lord  oflf  at  the  club  \\'ith  Mr.  Fox  and  others :  he  had  left 
me,  thinking  that  I  should  go  to  one  of  the  many  places  to 
which  I  had  been  invited  for  that  evening ;  but  I  had  no  heart 
to  go  anywhere,  for  it  was  poor  Urian's  birthday,  and  1  had 
not  even  rung  for  lights,  though  the  day  was  fast  closing  in, 
but  was  thinking  over  all  his  pretty  ways,  and  on  his  warm 
affectionate  nature,  and  how  often  I  had  been  too  hasty  in 
speaking  to  him,  for  all  I  loved  him  so  dearly ;  and  how  I 
seemed  to  have  neglected  and  dropped  his  dear  fi-iend  Clement, 
who  might  even  now  be  in  need  of  help  in  that  cruel,  bloody 
Paris.  I  say  I  was  thinking  reproachfully  of  all  this,  and 
particiUarly  of  Clement  do  Crequy  in  connection  with  Urian, 
when  Fenmck  brought  me  a  note,  sealed  with  a  coat-of-ai-ms 
I  knew  well,  though  I  could  not  remember  at  the  moment 
where  I  had  seen  it.  I  puzzled  over  it,  as  one  does  sometimes, 
for  a  minute  or  more,  before  I  opened  the  letter.  In  a  moment 
I  saw  it  was  from  Clement  de  Crequy.  '  My  mother  is  here,' 
he  said :  •  she  is  very  ill,  and  I  am  be\vildered  in  this  strange 
country.  May  I  entreat  you  to  receive  me  for  a  few  minutes  ?' 
The  bearer  of  the  note  was  the  woman  of  the  house  where  they 
lodged.  I  had  her  brought  up  into  the  anteroom,  and  questioned 
her  myself,  while  my  can-iage  was  being  brought  roimd.  They 
had  arrived  in  London  a  fortnight  or  so  before :  she  had 
not  known  their  quality,  judging  tliem  (according  to  her  kind) 
by  their  dress  and  their  luggage  ;  poor  enough,  no  doubt.  The 
lady  had  never  left  her  bedroom  since  her  arrival ;  the  young 
man  waited  upon  her,  did  everything  for  her,  never  left  her, 
in  fact ;  only  she  (the  messenger)  had  promised  to  stay  within 
call,  as  sofm  as  she  returned,  while  lie  went  out  somewhere. 
She  could  hardly  understand  him,  he  sjxjke  English  so  badly. 
He  had  never  spoken  it,  I  dare  say,  since  he  had  talked  to  my 
Urian. 


2L'n  MY  LADY   LUDI,OV. 


CHAPTEll  V. 

"  In  the  hiUTy  of  the  moment  I  scai'ce  knew  what  I  did.  J 
bade  the  housekeej^er  put  up  every  delicacy  she  had,  in  order 
to  tempt  the  invalid,  whom  yet  1  hoped  to  bring  back  with 
me  to  oin-  house.  When  the  carriage  was  ready  I  took  the 
good  woman  -svith  me  to  show  us  the  exact  way,  which  my 
coachman  professed  not  to  know ;  for,  indeed,  they  were  staying 
at  but  a  poor  kind  of  place  at  the  back  of  Leicester  Square,  of 
which  they  had  heard,  as  Clement  told  me  afterwai-ds,  from  one 
of  the  fishermen  who  had  can-ied  them  across  from  the  Dutch 
coast  in  their  disguises  as  a  Frieshmd  peasant  and  his  mother. 
They  had  some  jewels  of  value  concealed  roimd  their  persons ; 
but  their  ready  money  was  all  spent  before  I  saw  them,  imd 
Clement  had  been  unwilling  to  leave  his  mother,  even  for  the 
time  necessary  to  ascertain  the  best  mode  of  disposing  of  the 
diamonds.  For,  overcome  \vith  distress  of  mind  and  bodily 
fatigue,  she  had  reached  London  o:ily  to  take  tt)  her  bed 
in  a  sort  of  low,  nervous  fever,  in  which  her  cliief  imd  only  idea 
seemed  to  be  that  Clement  was  about  to  be  taken  from  her  to 
some  i^rison  or  other ;  and  if  he  were  out  of  her  sight,  thougli 
but  for  a  minute,  she  cried  like  a  child,  and  couhl  not  hv 
pacified  or  comforted.  The  landlady  was  a  kind,  good  woman, 
and  though  she  but  half  xmdcrstt)od  tho  case,  she  was  truly 
sorry  for  them,  as  foreigners,  and  the  mother  sick  in  a  stnmgf 
land. 

"  I  sent  her  forwai'ds  to  request  i)ermissiou  for  my  entrance. 
In  a  moment  I  saw  Clement — a  tall,  elegant  young  man,  in  a 
cmious  dress  of  coaree  cloth,  standing  at  the  open  door  of  a 
room,  and  evidently — even  btfore  he  accosted  me — striving  to 
Bootlie  the  terrors  of  his  mother  inside.  1  wi-nt  towards  him. 
and  woiUd  have  taken  his  hand,  but  he  bent  down  and  kissid 
mine. 

"  '  May  I  come  in,  madamc  ?  '  I  asked,  h)oking  at  the  jjoor 
sick  lady,  lying  in  the  dark,  dingy  bed,  lur  luad  propj)ed  up  on 
coarse  and  dirty  pillows,  and  gazing  with  atVrighled  eye.s  at  all 
that  was  going  on. 

"'Clement!  Clement!  come  to  me!'  she  cried;  and  when 
he  went  to  the  bedside  she  tumid  on  one  side,  luid  took  hit 
hand  in  both  of  hers,  and  began  stroking  it,  and  looking  up  ia 
luB  faco.     I  could  scarce  keep  back  my  teiu's. 


MY    LADY    I.UDI.OW.  227 

"  He  stood  there  quite  still,  except  that  from  time  to  time  ho 
spoke  to  her  iu  a  low  tone.  At  last  I  advanced  iuto  the  room,  so 
tliat  I  could  talk  to  him,  without  renewing  her  alarm.  I  asked  foi* 
the  doctor's  address  ;  for  I  had  heard  that  they  had  called  iu 
some  one,  at  their  landlady's  recommendation  :  hut  I  could 
hai'dly  miderstaud  Clement's  hroken  English,  and  mis- 
pronunciatiDn  of  oiu'  proper  names,  and  was  ohligcd  to  ai)ply  to 
the  woman  herself.  I  could  not  say  much  to  Clement,  for  his 
attention  was  perpetually  needed  by  his  mother,  who  never 
seemed  to  perceive  that  I  was  there.  But  I  told  him  not  to 
fear,  however  long  I  might  be  away,  for  that  I  would  retm'U 
before  night ;  and,  bidding  the  woman  take  charge  of  all  the 
heterogeneous  things  the  housekeeper  had  put  up,  and  leaving 
one  of  my  men  in  the  house,  who  could  imderstand  a  few  words 
of  French,  with  directions  that  he  was  to  hold  himself  at 
Madame  de  Crequy's  orders  imtil  I  sent  or  gave  him  fresh 
commands,  I  drove  off  to  the  doctor's.  What  I  wanted  was  his 
permission  to  remove  Madame  de  Crequy  to  my  own  house,  and 
to  learn  how  it  best  could  be  done  ;  for  I  saw  that  every 
movement  in  the  room,  every  sound  except  Clement's  voice, 
brought  on  a  fresh  access  of  trembling  and  nervous  agitation, 

"  The  doctor  was,  I  should  think,  a  clever  man  ;  but  he  had 
that  kind  of  abrupt  manner  which  people  get  who  have  much  to 
do  A\'ith  the  lower  orders. 

'•  I  told  him  the  story  of  his  patient,  the  interest  I  had  in  her, 
and  the  -n-ish  I  entertained  of  removing  her  to  my  own  house. 

"  '  It  can't  be  done,'  said  he.     '  Any  change  will  kill  her.' 

'•  '  But  it  must  be  done,'  I  replied.  '  And  it  shall  not  kill 
her.' 

'' '  Then  I  have  nothing  more  to  say,'  said  he,  turning  away 
from  the  carriage  door,  and  making  as  though  he  would  go  back 
into  the  hoiise. 

'• '  Stop  a  moment.  You  must  help  me  ;  and,  if  you  do,  yoit 
shall  have  reason  to  be  glad,  for  I  will  give  you  fifty  pounds 
down  with  i)leasurc.     If  you  won't  do  it,  anotlier  shall.' 

"  He  looked  at  me,  then  (furtively)  at  the  can'iage,  hesitated, 
and  then  said  :  '  You  do  not  mind  expense,  apparently.  I 
suppose  you  arc  a  ricli  lady  of  quality.  Such  folks  will  not 
stick  at  such  trifles  as  the  life  or  death  of  a  sick  woman  to  get 
their  o\\'n  way.  I  suppose  I  nmst  e'en  help  you,  for  if  I  dou't, 
another  will.' 

"  I  did  not  mind  what  he  said,  so  tliat  he  would  assist  me.  1 
was  pretty  sure  that  she  was  in  a  state  to  require  opiates ;  and  I 
had  not  forgotten  Christopher  Sly,  yt)u  may  be  sure,  so  1  told 

Q  2 


228  MY    I.ADY    LUDLOW. 

him  what  I  had  in  my  head.  That  in  the  dead  of  night, — &o 
quiet  time  iu  the  streets, — she  should  be  caiTied  in  a  hospital 
litter,  softly  and  warmly  covered  over,  from  the  Leicester 
Square  lodging-house  to  rooms  that  I  would  have  in  perfect 
readiness  for  lier.  As  1  planned,  so  it  was  done.  I  let 
Clement  know,  by  a  note,  of  my  design.  I  had  all  prepared  at 
home,  and  we  walked  about  my  house  as  though  shod  vdth 
velvet,  while  the  porter  watched  at  the  open  door.  At  last, 
through  tlie  darkness,  I  saw  the  lanterns  carried  by  my  men, 
who  were  leading  the  little  procession.  The  litter  looked  like  a 
hearse ;  on  one  side  walked  the  doctor,  on  the  other  Clement ; 
thej"-  came  softly  and  swiftly  along.  I  could  not  try  any  farther 
experiment ;  we  dared  not  change  her  clothes ;  she  was  laid  in 
the  bed  in  the  landlady's  coarse  niglit-gear,  and  covered  over 
warmly,  and  left  in  the  shaded,  scented  room,  ^^■ith  a  nurse  and  the 
doctor  watching  by  her,  while  I  led  Clement  to  the  dressing- 
room  adjoining,  in  which  I  had  had  a  bed  placed  for  him. 
Farther  than  that  he  would  not  go  ;  and  there  I  had  re- 
freshments brought.  Meanwhile,  he  had  shown  his  gratitude  by 
every  possible  action  (for  we  none  of  us  dared  to  speak)  :  he 
had  kneeled  at  my  feet,  and  kissed  my  hand,  and  left  it  wet 
with  his  tears.  Ho  had  thrown  iij)  his  ai-ms  to  Heaven,  and 
prayed  earnestly,  as  I  could  see  by  tlie  movement  of  his  lij)s. 
1  allowed  him  to  relieve  himself  by  tliese  dumb  exju-essions,  if 
I  may  so  call  them,  —and  then  I  left  him,  and  went  to  my  own 
rooms  to  sit  i\p  for  my  lord,  and  tell  liim  what  I  had  done. 

"  Of  course,  it  was  all  riglit  ;  and  neither  my  lord  nor  I 
(toidd  sleep  for  wondering  how  Madame  do  Crequy  would  bear 
lier  awakening.  I  had  engaged  the  doctor,  to  whose  face  and 
voice  she  was  accustomed,  to  remain  witli  lur  all  night  :  tlio 
nurse  was  experienced,  and  Clement  was  within  call.  But  it 
was  with  the  greatest  reliif  tliat  I  lieard  from  my  own  woiniui, 
wlien  slie  brought  me  my  chocolate,  that  Madame  de  Crequy 
(Monsieur  liud  said)  bad  awakened  more  tranquil  than  slie  had 
been  for  many  days.  To  be  smv,  the  whoki  aspect  of  tho 
bed-cliamber  must  have  been  more  familiar  to  her  tlian  tho 
miserable  jthice  where  I  had  fe>uud  her,  and  she  must  luivo 
intuitivi'ly  felt  lierself  among  frii-nds. 

"My  lord  was  scandali/i-d  at  CIrment's  dress,  whicli,  after  tho 
first  moment  of  seeing  liim  I  liad  forgotten,  in  thinking  of  otlior 
things,  and  ft)r  whieli  1  had  not  j)r(pantl  Lord  Ludlow.  Ho 
sent  for  liis  own  tailor,  jind  bado  him  bring  patterns  of  stulVs, 
and  engage  his  mou  to  work  niglit  and  day  till  Clement  could 
ftp])ear  us  bocamo  liis  rank.     In  short,  in  a  few  days  so  much  of 


MY    LADY    LLDLOW.  229 

tlic  traces  of  their  flight  were  rciuovcd,  that  wc  liad  ahiiost 
forgotten  the  terrible  causes  of  it,  and  ratlicr  felt  as  if  tliey  had 
coiue  on  a  vasit  to  iis  than  that  they  had  been  coraiiclled  to  fly 
their  country.  Their  diamonds,  too,  were  sold  well  by  my 
lord's  agents,  though  the  London  shops  were  stocked  with 
jewellery,  and  such  portable  valuables,  some  of  rare  and  curious 
fashion,  which  were  sold  for  half  their  real  value  by  emigrants 
who  could  not  aftbrd  to  wait.  Madame  do  Crequy  v.'as 
recovering  her  health,  although  her  strength  was  sadly  gone, 
nnd  she  would  never  be  equal  to  such  another  flight,  as  the 
perilous  one  which  she  had  gone  through,  and  to  which  she 
could  not  bear  the  slightest  reference.  For  some  time  things 
continued  in  this  state; — the  De  Crequys  still  our  honoiu'ed 
visitors, — many  houses  besides  our  o\^ti,  even  among  oui'  own 
friends,  open  to  receive  the  poor  flying  nobility  of  France, 
tlrivcn  from  their  country  by  the  brutal  republicans,  and  every 
freshly-arrived  emigrant  bringing  new  tales  of  horror,  as  if  thcso 
revolutionists  were  drunk  with  blood,  and  mad  to  devise  new 
atrocities.  One  day  Clement  ; — I  should  tell  you  he  had 
been  presented  to  our  good  King  George  and  the  sweet  Queen, 
and  they  had  accosted  him  most  graciously,  and  liis  beauty  and 
elegance,  and  some  of  the  circumstances  attendant  on  his  flight, 
made  him  be  received  in  the  world  quite  like  a  hero  of  romance : 
he  might  have  been  on  intimate  terms  in  many  a  distin- 
guished house,  had  he  cared  to  visit  much ;  but  he  accom- 
panied my  lord  and  me  with  an  air  of  indifference  and  languor, 
which  I  sometimes  fancied  made  him  be  all  the  more  sought 
after  :  Monkshaven  (that  was  the  title  my  eldest  son  bore) 
tried  in  vain  to  interest  him  in  all  young  men's  sjiorts. 
But  no  !  it  was  the  same  through  all.  His  mother  took  far 
more  interest  in  the  on-dits  of  the  London  world,  into  which 
she  was  far  too  great  an  invalid  to  venture,  than  he  did  in  the 
absolute  events  themselves,  in  which  he  might  have  been  an 
actor.  One  day,  as  T  was  saying,  an  old  Frenchman  of  a 
humble  class  presented  himself  to  our  servants,  several  of  whom 
understood  French  ;  and  through  Medlicott,  I  learnt  tliat  he 
was  in  some  way  connected  with  the  De  Crequys ;  not  with 
their  Paris-life  ;  but  I  fancy  he  had  been  intcndant  of  their 
estates  in  the  coimtry ;  estates  which  were  more  useful  as 
hunting-grounds  than  as  adding  to  their  income.  However, 
there  wns  the  old  man  ;  and  with  him,  wrapjjcd  roimd  his 
person,  he  had  brought  the  long  parchment  rolls,  and  deeds 
relating  to  their  property.  These  he  would  deliver  up  to  nono 
but  Monsieur  de  Crequy,  the  rightful  owner ;  and  Clement  was 


230  MY    LADY    LUDLOW. 

out  with  Monkshaven,  so  the  old  man  waited  ;  and  when  Clement 
came  iu,  I  told  him  of  the  steward's  arrival,  and  how  he  had 
been  cared  for  by  my  pcoi)le.  Clement  went  directly  to  see 
him.  He  was  a  long  time  away,  and  I  was  waiting  for  him  to 
di'ive  out  with  me,  fur  some  pm-pose  or  another,  I  scarce  know 
what,  but  I  remember  I  was  tired  of  waiting,  and  was  just  in 
the  act  of  ringing  the  bell  to  desire  that  he  might  be  reminded 
of  his  engagement  with  me,  when  he  came  in,  his  face  as  white 
as  the  jjowder  in  his  hair,  his  beautiful  eyes  dilated  with  horror. 
I  saw  that  he  had  heard  something  that  touched  him  even  more 
closely  than  the  usual  tales  which  every  fresh  emigrant  brought. 

"  '  What  is  it,  Clement  V  I  asked. 

"  He  clasped  his  hands,  and  looked  as  though  he  tried  to 
sj)cak,  but  could  not  bring  out  the  words. 

'"  They  have  guillotined  my  uncle  I'  said  he  at  last.  Now,  I 
knew  that  there  was  a  Count  de  Crequy ;  but  I  had  always 
imderstood  that  the  elder  branch  held  very  little  communication 
■\\atli  him ;  in  fact,  that  he  was  a  vam-ien  of  some  kind,  and 
rather  a  disgi'acc  than  otherwise  to  the  family.  So,  perhaps,  I 
was  hard-hearted  ;  but  I  was  a  little  surprised  at  this  excess  of 
emotion,  till  I  saw  that  peculiar  look  in  his  cj-es  that  many 
people  have  when  there  is  more  terror  iu  their  hearts  than  they 
dare  put  into  words.  He  wanted  me  to  understimd  something 
without  his  saying  it ;  but  how  could  1 "?  I  had  never  heai'd  of 
a  Mademoiselle  de  Crequy. 

"  '  Virginie  !'  at  last  he  uttered.  In  an  instant  I  understood 
it  all,  and  remembered  that,  if  Urian  had  lived,  he  too  might 
have  been  in  love. 

"  '  Yom-  imcle's  daughter  ?'  I  inquired. 

"  '  My  cousin,'  he  rei)lied. 

"  I  did  not  say,  '  your  betrothed,'  but  I  had  no  doubt  of  it. 
I  was  mistaken,  however. 

"  '  O  madamo  !'  ho  continued,  '  her  mother  died  long  ago—  lier 
father  now — and  she  is  in  daily  feiu-, —  alone,  deserted ' 

"  '  Is  she  in  the  Abbayo  V'  asked  I. 

"  '  No  !  she  is  iu  hiding  with  tlie  widow  of  her  father's  old 
concierge.  Any  day  they  may  searcli  tho  house  for  aristi)cmts. 
They  are  seeking  them  evi-rywlure.  Then,  not  her  life  alone, 
but  that  of  tho  old  woman,  her  hostess,  is  sacritieed.  The  old 
woman  knows  this,  and  trenddes  witli  fear.  Even  if  she  is  bmvo 
enougli  to  bo  faithful,  her  fears  would  betmy  hiT,  should  the 
house  be  searched.  Yet,  there  is  no  one  to  help  Virginie  to 
cscajte.     She  is  alone  in  Paris.' 

"  I  saw  what  was  in  his  mind.     He  was  fritting  luul  chaliug 


MY    I.ADY    UDLOW.  23. 

to  go  to  his  cousin's  assistance  ;  but  the  thought  of  his  mother  rc- 
Btrained  him.  I  would  not  have  kept  back  Urian  from  such  an 
errand  at  such  a  time.  How  should  I  restrain  him  ?  And  yet, 
perhaps,  I  did  ^^Tong  in  not  urging  the  chances  of  danger  more. 
Still,  if  it  was  danger  to  him,  was  it  not  the  same  or  even  greater 
danger  to  her  ? — for  the  French  spared  neither  age  nor  sex  in 
those  wicked  days  of  terror.  So  I  rather  fell  in  ^vith  his  M-ish, 
and  encouraged  him  to  think  how  best  and  most  prudently  it 
might  be  fidSlled ;  never  doubting,  as  I  have  said,  that  he  and 
his  cousin  were  troth-plighted. 

"  But  when  I  went  to  Madame  dc  Crequy — after  he  had  im- 
parted his,  or  rather  our  plan  to  her — I  found  out  my  mistake. 
She,  who  was  in  general  too  feeble  to  walk  across  the  room  save 
slowly,  and  \\"ith  a  stick,  was  going  from  end  to  end  with  quick, 
tottering  steps ;  and,  if  now  and  then  she  sank  apon  a  chair,  it 
seemed  as  if  she  could  not  rest,  for  she  was  up  again  in  a  mo- 
ment, pacing  along,  wringing  her  hands,  and  speaking  rapidly 
to  herself.  When  she  saw  me,  she  stopped  :  '  Madame,'  she 
said,  '  you  have  lost  your  own  boy.  You  might  have  left  mo 
mine.' 

"  I  was  so  astonished — I  hardly  knew  what  to  say.  I  had 
spoken  to  Clement  as  if  his  mother's  consent  were  secure  (as  I 
had  felt  my  own  would  have  been  if  Urian  had  been  alive  to  ask 
it).  Of  coiu'se,  both  he  and  I  knew  that  his  mother's  consent 
must  be  asked  and  obtained,  before  he  could  leave  her  to  go  on 
such  an  undertaking ;  but,  somehow,  my  blood  always  rose  at 
the  sight  or  sound  of  danger  ;  perhaps,  because  my  life  had  been 
80  peaceful.  Poor  Madame  de  Crequy  !  it  was  otherwise  with 
her ;  she  despaired  while  I  hoped,  and  Clement  trusted. 

"  '  Dear  Madame  de  Crequy,'  said  I,  '  he  will  return  safely  to 
ns  ;  every  precaution  shall  be  taken,  that  either  he  or  you,  or 
my  lord,  or  Monkshaven  can  think  of ;  but  he  cannot  leave  a  girl 
— his  nearest  relation  save  you — his  betrothed,  is  she  not "?' 

"  '  His  betrothed  !'  cried  she,  now  at  the  utmost  pitch  of  her 
excitement.  '  Virginio  betrothed  to  Clement  ? — no  !  thank  hea- 
ven, not  so  bad  as  that !  Yet  it  might  have  been.  But  made- 
moiselle scorned  my  son  !  She  woiild  have  nothing  to  do  with 
him.  Now  is  the  time  for  him  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  her  !' 
"  Clement  had  entered  at  the  door  behind  his  mother  as  shn 
thus  spoke.  His  face  was  set  and  pale,  till  it  looked  as  gray  and 
immovable  as  if  it  had  been  carved  in  stone.  He  came  forward 
and  stood  before  his  mother.  She  stop2)ed  her  walk,  threw  back 
her  haughty  head,  and  the  two  looked  each  other  steadily  in  the 
face.     After  a  minute  or  two  in  tliis  attitude,  her  proud  and  re- 


232  MY    LADY    LUDLOW. 

solute  gaze  never  flinching  or  wavering,  he  went  down  upon  one 
hnee,  and,  taking  lier  hand — her  hai'd,  stony  hand,  which  never 
closed  on  his,  but  remained  straight  and  stiti" : 

"  '  Mother,'  he  pleaded,  '  withdraw  youi-  prohibition.  Let  me 
go!' 

" '  What  were  her  words  ?'  Madame  dc  Crequy  replied, 
slowly,  as  if  forcing  her  memory  to  the  extreme  of  accuracy. 
'  My  cousin,'  she  said,  '  when  I  marry,  I  marry  a  man,  not  a 
l)etit-mailre.  I  many  a  man  who,  wliatever  his  rank  may  be. 
will  add  dignity  to  the  human  race  by  his  virtues,  and  not  be 
content  to  live  in  an  eftcminatc  court  on  the  traditions  of  past 
gi'andeur.'  She  borrowed  lier  words  from  the  infiuuous  Jean- 
Jacques  Rousseau,  the  friend  of  her  scarce  less  infamous  father, 
— nay  !  I  will  say  it, — if  not  her  words,  she  borrowed  her  prin- 
ciples.    And  my  sou  to  request  her  to  marry  him  I' 

"  '  It  was  my  father's  written  wish,'  said  Clement. 

"  '  But  did  you  not  love  her  ?  You  plead  your  father's  words, 
— words  written  twelve  years  before, — and  as  if  that  were  yoiu: 
reason  for  being  indifferent  to  my  dislike  to  the  alliance.  Tnit 
you  requested  her  to  marry  ycni, — and  she  refused  you  with  in- 
solent contempt ;  and  now  you  are  ready  to  leave  me, — leave  me 
desolate  in  a  foreign  land ' 

"  '  Desolate  !  my  mother  !  and  the  Countess  Ludlow  stands 
there !' 

"  '  Pardon,  madarac  !  But  all  the  earth,  though  it  were  full 
of  kind  hearts,  is  but  a  desolation  and  a  desert  place  to  a  motlior 
when  her  only  child  is  absent.  And  you,  Clement,  wouhl  leave 
me  for  this  Virginie, — tliis  degenerate  De  Crequy,  tainted  with 
the  atheism  of  the  Encycloix'distes  !  She  is  only  reaping  some 
of  the  fruit  of  the  liarvest  whereof  her  friends  have  sown  the 
seed.  Let  her  alone  !  Doubtless  she  has  friends  — it  may  ho 
lovers  — among  these  demons,  who,  imder  the  cry  of  liberty, 
commit  every  licence.  Let  her  alone,  Clement !  She  refused 
you  with  scorn  :  be  too  proud  to  notice  her  now.' 

"  '  Mother,  I  cannot  think  of  myself;  only  of  her.' 

"  '  Think  of  me,  then  !      1,  your  mother,  forbid  you  to  go.* 

*'  Clenuiut  bow(Hl  low,  and  went  out  of  the  room  instantly,  as 
one  blinded.  She  saw  his  groping  movenient,  and,  for  an  in- 
Htant,  1  think  lua*  lunirt  was  touched.  But  she  tiu'iied  to  me, 
and  tried  to  (exculpate  her  jtast  viok-nee  by  dilatingupon  her 
wrongs,  and  they  certainly  were  many.  The  Count,  her  hus- 
Inu-il's  younger  brother,  had  invarial)ly  tried  to  make  mischief 
between  liusband  and  wife.  He  had  been  the  cleverer  man  of 
the  two,  and  hud  possessed  I'xtraordinury  influence  over  la  r  1ms- 


MY    LADY    LUDLOW.  233 

band.  She  suspected  him  of  having  instigated  tliat  claiifie  in 
her  husband's  will,  by  which  the  Marquis  expressed  liis  wish  for 
the  marriage  of  the  cousins.  The  Count  had  had  some  interest 
in  the  management  of  the  De  Crequy  property  dm-ing  her  son's 
minority.  Indeed,  I  remembered  then,  that  it  was  through  Count 
de  Crequy  that  Lord  Ludlow  had  first  heard  of  the  apartment 
which  we  afterwai'ds  took  in  the  Hotel  de  Crequy  ;  and  tlien  the 
recollection  of  a  past  feeling  came  distinctly  out  of  the  mist,  as  it 
were  ;  and  I  called  to  mind  how,  \\  hen  we  first  took  up  om-  abode 
in  the  Hotel  de  Crequy,  both  Lord  Ludlow  and  I  imagined  that  the 
arrangement  was  displeasing  to  our  hostess ;  and  how  it  had 
taken  us  a  considerable  time  before  we  had  been  able  to  esta- 
blish relations  of  friendship  witli  lier.  Years  after  om-  visit, 
she  began  to  suspect  that  Clement  (wliom  slie  could  not  forbid 
to  visit  at  his  imcle's  house,  considering  the  terms  on  which  his 
father  had  been  with  his  brother  ;  though  she  herself  never  set 
foot  over  the  Count  de  Crecjuj^'s  threshold)  was  attaching  him- 
self to  mademoiselle,  his  cousin ;  and  she  made  cautious  in- 
quiries as  to  the  appearance,  character,  and  disposition  of  the 
young  lady.  Mademoiselle  was  not  handsome,  they  said  ;  but 
of  a  fine  figm-e,  and  generally  considered  as  having  a  very  noble 
and  attractive  presence.  In  character  she  was  daring  and  wiKul 
(said  one  set) ;  original  and  independent  (said  another).  She 
was  much  indulged  by  her  father,  who  had  given  her  something 
of  a  man's  education,  and  selected  for  her  intimate  friend  a  young 
lady  below  her  in  rank,  one  of  the  Bm-eaucracie,  a  Mademoiselle 
Necker,  daughter  of  the  Minister  of  Finance.  Mademoiselle 
de  Crequy  was  thus  introduced  into  all  the  free-thinking  salons 
of  Paris ;  among  people  who  were  always  full  of  plans  for  sub- 
verting society.  '  And  did  Clement  affect  such  people  ?'  Madame 
de  Crequy  had  asked  with  some  anxiety.  No  !  Monsieur  de 
Crequy  had  neither  eyes  nor  ears,  nor  thought  for  anything  but 
his  cousin,  while  she  was  by.  And  she '?  She  hardly  took 
notice  of  his  devotion,  so  evident  to  every  one  else.  The  proud 
creature  !  But  perhaps  that  was  her  haughty  way  of  concealing 
what  she  felt.  And  so  Madame  de  Crequy  listened,  and  ques- 
tioned, and  learnt  nothing  decided,  until  one  day  she  surju-ised 
Clement  with  the  note  in  his  hand,  of  which  she  remembered 
the  stinging  words  so  well,  in  which  Virginie  had  said,  in  reply 
to  a  proposal  Clement  had  sent  her  througli  her  father,  that 
*  When  she  married  she  married  a  man,  not  a  petit-maitre.' 

"  Clement  was  ju.stly  indignant  at  the  insulting  nature  of  the 
answer  Virginie  had  sent  to  a  proposal,  respectful  in  its  tone, 
and  which  was,  after  all,  but  the  cool,  hardened  lava  over  a 


234  MY    LADY    LLl^l.OW. 

bui'ning  heart.  He  acquiesced  iu  liis  mothers  .i  -ire,  that  he 
should  not  again  present  himself  in  liis  uncle's  s.^l-ns;  but  he 
did  not  forget  Virginie,  though  he  never  mentioned  her  name. 

"Madame  do  Crcquy  and  her  son  were  among  the  earliest 
proscrits,  as  they  were  of  the  strongest  possible  ruyalists.  and 
aristoci-ats,  as  it  was  the  custom  of  the  horrid  Sansculottes  to 
term  those  who  adhered  to  the  habits  of  expression  and  action  in 
which  it  was  their  jjridc  to  have  been  educated.  They  had  left 
Paris  some  weeks  before  they  had  arrived  in  El  gland,  and 
Clement's  belief  at  the  time  of  quitting  the  Hotel  de  Crequy  had 
certainly  been,  that  his  uncle  was  not  merely  safe,  but  rather  a 
pojiular  man  with  the  party  in  power.  And,  as  all  communication 
having  relation  to  private  individuals  of  a  reliable  kind  was  in- 
tereej^ted,  Monsieiu-  de  Crequy  had  felt  but  little  anxiety  for  his 
uncle  and  cousin,  in  comparison  with  what  he  did  for  many  other 
friends  of  very  different  opinions  in  polities,  imtil  the  day  when 
he  was  stunned  by  the  fatal  information  that  even  his  progressivi' 
imcle  was  guillotined,  and  learnt  that  his  cousin  was  imprisoned 
by  the  licence  of  the  mob,  whose  rights  (as  she  called  them)  she 
was  always  advocating. 

"  When  I  had  heard  all  this  story,  I  confess  I  lost  in  sympathy 
for  Clement  what  I  gained  for  his  mother.  Virginie's  life  did 
not  seem  to  me  worth  the  risk  that  Clement's  would  rim.  But 
when  I  saw  him — sad,  depressed,  nay,  hopeless — going  about 
like  one  oppressed  by  a  heavy  dream  which  he  cannot  shake  off ; 
caring  neither  to  eat,  drink,  nor  sleep,  yet  bearing  all  with  silent 
dignity,  and  even  trying  to  force  a  poor,  faint  smile  when  lu- 
caught  my  anxious  eyes  ;  I  turned  romid  again,  and  wondered 
how  Madame  de  Crequy  could  resist  this  mute  pleading  of  her 
son's  altci'ed  appearance.  As  for  my  Lord  Ludlow  imd  ^lonks- 
haven,  as  soon  as  they  understood  the  ease,  they  were  indignant 
that  any  mother  should  atti-mpt  to  keep  a  son  out  of  lionouraMc 
danger ;  and  it  was  honoiu-able,  and  a  clear  duty  (according  to 
them)  to  try  to  save  the  life  of  a  lielpless  orphan  girl,  his  next 
of  kin.  None  but  a  Frenchman,  said  my  lord,  would  hold  liim- 
self  bound  by  an  old  woman's  whimsies  and  fears,  even  though 
she  were  his  mother.  As  it  was,  he  was  ehating  himself  to  death 

un(l(!r  tlio  restraint.    If  ho  went,  to  be  sure,  the wretelus 

might  make  an  end  of  him,  as  thi-y  had  done  of  many  a  tine 
fellow  :  but  my  lord  would  take  heavy  odds,  that,  instiad  of 
being  guillotined,  he  would  save  tlio  girl,  and  bring  her  safe  to 
England,  just  despcnitcly  in  lovo  with  her  preservt-r,  and  tlnu 
we  would  have  a  jolly  wedding  down  at  Monksliave'i  !My  lord 
repeated  liis  ojjinion  so  ofttn   that  it  beciune  a  certain  j)rophn'y 


MY    LADY    LUDLONV.  235 

in  his  iniutl  of  what  was  to  take  place ;  and,  one  day  seeing 
Clement  look  even  jialer  and  thinner  than  lie  had  ever  done  be- 
fore, he  sent  a  message  to  Madame  do  Creq^uy,  requesting  per- 
mission to  speak  to  her  in  jn-ivate. 

'• '  For,  by  George  !'  said  he,  '  she  shall  hear  my  opinion,  and 
not  let  that  lad  of  hers  kill  himself  by  fretting.  He's  too  good 
for  that.  If  he  had  been  an  English  lad,  he  would  have  been  off 
to  his  sweetheart  long  before  this,  without  saying  with  yom-  leave 
or  by  your  leave ;  but  being  a  Frenchman,  he  is  all  for  ^neas 
and  filial  piety, — filial  fiddle-sticks  !'  (My  lord  had  rvm  away  to 
sea,  when  a  boy,  against  his  father's  consent,  I  am  sorry  to  say ; 
and,  as  all  had  ended  well,  and  he  had  come  back  to  find  both  his 
parents  alive,  I  do  not  think  he  was  ever  as  much  aware  of  his 
fault  as  he  might  have  been  imdcr  other  circumstances.)  '  No, 
my  lady,'  he  went  on,  '  don't  come  with  me.  A  woman  can 
manage  a  man  best  when  he  has  a  fit  of  obstinacy,  and  a  man  can 
persuade  a  woman  out  of  her  tantrums,  when  all  her  own  sex,  the 
whole  army  of  them,  would  fail.  Allow  me  to  go  alone  to  my 
tete-a-tete  with  madame.' 

"  What  he  said,  what  passed,  ho  never  could  repeat ;  but  he 
came  back  gi'avcr  than  he  went.  However,  the  jJoint  was  gained  ; 
Madame  de  Crequy  withdrew  her  prohibition,  and  had  given  him 
leave  to  tell  Clement  as  much. 

"  '  But  she  is  an  old  Cassandra,'  said  he.  '  Don't  let  the  lad 
be  much  with  her ;  her  talk  would  destroy  the  com'age  of  the 
bravest  man  ;  she  is  so  given  over  to  superstition.'  Something 
that  she  had  said  had  touched  a  chord  in  my  lord's  natiu'e  which 
he  inhei'ited  from  his  Scotch  ancestors.  Long  afterwards,  I 
heard  what  this  was.     Medlicott  told  me. 

"  However,  my  lord  shook  oft*  all  fancies  that  told  against  tlic 
fulfilment  of  Clement's  wishes.  All  that  aftei'noon  we  three  sat 
together,  planning ;  and  Monkshaven  passed  in  and  out,  execut- 
ing our  commissions,  and  preparing  everything.  Towards  night- 
fall all  was  ready  for  Clement's  start  on  his  joui'ney  towards  the 
coast. 

"  Madame  had  declined  seeing  any  of  us  since  my  lord's 
stonny  interview  with  her.  She  sent  word  that  she  was  fatigued, 
and  desired  repose.  But,  of  coiu'se,  before  Clement  set  off,  he 
was  bound  to  wish  her  farewell,  and  to  ask  for  her  blessing.  In 
order  to  avoid  an  agitating  conversation  between  mother  and 
j  son,  my  lord  and  1  resolved  to  be  present  at  the  interview. 
I  Clement  was  already  in  his  travelling-dress,  that  of  a  Norman 
fisherman,  whicli  Monkshaven  had,  with  infinite  trouble,  dis- 
covered in  tlie  possession  of  one  of  the  emigres  who  thronged 


236  MY   LADY   LUDLOW. 

London,  and  who  had  made  his  escape  from  the  shores  of  France 
in  this  disguise.  Clement's  plan  Avas,  to  go  down  to  the  coast  of 
Sussex,  and  get  some  of  the  tishiug  or  smuggling  boats  to  take 
him  across  to  the  French  coast  near  Dieppe.  There  again  he 
would  have  to  change  his  dress.  Oh,  it  was  so  well  planned ! 
Hit;  mother  was  startled  by  his  disguise  (of  which  we  had  not 
thought  to  forewarn  her)  as  he  entered  her  apartment.  And 
either  that,  or  the  being  suddenly  roused  from  the  heaAy  slumber 
into  which  she  was  ajit  to  fall  when  she  was  left  alone,  gave  her 
manner  an  air  of  wildncss  that  Avas  almost  like  insanity. 

''  'Go,  go  !'  she  said  to  him,  almost  jmshiug  him  away  as  ho 
knelt  to  kiss  her  hand.  '  Yirginie  is  bcckuiiiug  to  you,  but  you 
don't  see  what  kind  of  a  bed  it  is ' 

" '  Clement,  make  haste  !'  said  my  lord,  in  a  hurried  manner, 
as  if  to  interrupt  madame.  '  Tlic  time  is  later  than  I  thought, 
and  you  must  not  miss  the  morning's  tide.  Bid  your  nutther 
good-bye  at  once,  and  let  us  be  oflf.'  For  my  lord  and  Monks- 
haven  were  to  ride  with  him  to  an  inn  near  the  shore,  from 
whence  he  was  to  walk  to  his  destination.  My  lord  ahnost  took 
him  by  the  arm  to  pull  him  away ;  and  they  were  gone,  and  I 
was  left  iJone  with  Madame  de  Crequy.  When  she  hoard  the 
horses'  feet,  she  seemed  to  tind  out  the  truth,  as  if  for  the  first 
time.  She  set  her  teeth  together.  '  He  has  left  me  for  her  I'  she 
iilmost  screamed.  'Left  me  for  her  !'  she  kei)t  muttering  :  and 
then,  as  the  wild  look  came  back  into  her  eyes,  she  said,  almost 
with  exultation,  '  But  I  did  not  give  him  my  blessing  !'  " 


CHAPTEK  Vr. 


"  All  night  Madame  de  Crequy  raved  in  delirium.  If  T  could, 
I  would  have  sent  for  Clement  back  again,  I  did  send  olf  one 
man,  but  I  suiii)oso  my  directions  were  confused,  or  tluv  were 
wrong,  for  he  came  back  after  my  lord's  return,  on  the  following 
afternoon.  By  this  time  IMadame  de  Crequy  was  quiettr :  she 
was,  indeed,  asleej)  from  exhaustion  when  Lord  Ludlow  and 
INFonkshaven  came  in.  Thtv  were  in  high  spirits,  and  llieir 
hopefulness  brought  mo  round  to  a  less  disj)iritt'd  state.  All  had 
gon(i  well  :  they  had  aceomimnied  Clement  on  foot  along  tJie 
shore,  imtil  they  had  met  with  u  lugger,  wliieh  my  lord  hud  liailed  I 
in  good  nantieal  language.  Thi'  eajjtain  hud  responded  to  these 
freemason  terms  by  sending  a  bt)at  to  pick  u])  his  passenger,  and 
by  on  invitation  to  brcalcfast  sent  through  u  si)eaking-trumpet. 


MY    LADY    LUDI.OW.  237 

!  Monkslmvon  did  not  approve  of  either  tlie  meal  or  the  company, 
and  had  returned  to  the  inn,  but  my  lord  had  gone  with  Clement. 
and  breakfasted  on  board,  upon  grog,  biscuit,  fresh-caught  hsh — 
'  the  best  breakfast  he  ever  ate,'  he  said,  but  that  Nvas  probably 
ownng  to  the  appetite  his  night's  ride  had  given  him.  However, 
his  good  fellowship  had  evidently  won  the  captain's  heart,  and 
Clement  had  set  sail  mider  the  best  ausi)ices.  It  was  agreed  that 
I  should  tell  all  this  to  Madame  de  Crequy,  if  she  inquired  ; 
otherwise,  it  would  be  wiser  not  to  renew  her  agitation  by  allud- 
ing to  her  son's  joiuiiey. 

"  I  sat  with  licr  constantly  for  many  days ;  but  she  never 
spoke  of  Clement.  She  forced  herself  to  talk  of  the  little  occm*- 
rences  of  Parisian  society  in  former  days  :  she  tried  to  be  con- 
versational and  agreeable,  and  to  betray  no  anxiety  or  even 
interest  in  the  object  of  Clement's  jomuey  ;  and,  as  far  as  unre- 
mitting eflforts  could  go,  she  succeeded.  But  the  tones  of  her 
voice  were  sharp  and  yet  piteous,  as  if  she  were  in  constant  })aiu  ; 
and  the  glance  of  her  eye  hurried  and  feai-ful,  as  if  she  dared  not 
let  it  rest  on  any  object. 

"  In  a  week  we  heai'd  of  Clement's  safe  amval  on  the  French 
coast.  He  sent  a  letter  to  this  effect  by  the  captain  of  the 
smuggler,  when  the  latter  returned.  We  hoped  to  hear  again ; 
but  week  after  week  elapsed,  and  there  was  no  news  of  Clement. 
I  had  told  Lord  Ludlow,  in  Madame  dc  Croquy's  presence,  as  he 
and  I  had  arranged,  of  the  note  I  had  received  from  her  son,  in- 
forming us  of  his  landing  in  France.  She  heard,  but  she  took 
no  notice,  and  evidently  began  to  wonder  that  we  did  not  mention 
any  further  intelligence  of  him  in  the  same  manner  before  her ; 
and  daily  I  began  to  fear  that  her  pride  would  give  way,  and 
that  she  would  supplicate  for  news  before  I  had  any  to  give  her. 

"One  morning,  on  my  awakening,  my  maid  told  me  that 
Madame  de  Crequy  had  passed  a  wretched  night,  and  had  bidden 
Mcdlicott  (whom,  as  understanding  French,  and  speaking  it  pretty 
well,  thougli  with  that  horrid  German  accent,  I  had  put  about 
her)  request  that  I  would  go  to  madame's  room  as  soon  as  I  was 
dressed. 

"  I  knew  what  was  coming,  and  I  trembled  all  the  time  they 
were  doing  my  liair,  and  otherwise  an-anging  me.  I  was  not 
encouraged  by  my  lord's  speeclus.  He  had  heard  the  message, 
and  kept  declaring  that  he  would  rather  be  sliot  than  have  to  tell 
her  that  there  was  no  news  of  her  son  ;  and  yet  lie  said,  every  now 
an<l  then,  when  I  was  at  tlie  lowest  jjitch  of  uneasiness,  that  he 
never  expected  to  liear  again  :  that  some  day  soon  we  should  see 
him  walking  in   and  introducing  Mademoiselle  de  Crequy  to  us. 


238  MY  LADY   LUDLOW. 

"  However  at  last  I  was  ready,  and  go  I  rnuBt, 

"  Her  eyes  were  tixed  ou  the  door  by  which  I  entered.  I  went 
up  to  the  bedside.  She  was  uot  rouged, — she  had  left  it  off  now 
for  several  days, — she  no  longer  attempted  to  keejj  up  the  vain 
show  of  not  feeling,  and  loving,  and  fearing. 

"  For  a  moment  or  two  she  did  not  S2)eak,  and  I  was  ghid  of 
the  respite. 

"  '  Clement  ?'  she  said  at  length,  covering  her  mouth  with  a 
handkerchief  the  minute  she  had  spoken,  that  I  might  not  see  it 
quiver. 

"  '  There  has  been  no  news  since  the  first  letter,  saying  how 
well  the  voyage  was  performed,  and  how  safely  he  had  landed — 
near  Dieppe,  you  know,'  I  rejjlied  as  cheeifully  as  possible. 
'  My  lord  does  not  expect  that  we  shall  have  another  letter  ;  he 
thinks  that  we  shall  see  him  soon.' 

"  There  was  no  answer.  As  I  looked,  imcertain  whether  to 
do  or  say  more,  she  slowly  turned  herself  in  bed,  and  lay  with 
her  face  to  the  wall  ;  and,  as  if  that  did  not  shut  out  the  light 
of  day  and  the  busy,  happy  world  enough,  she  jiut  out  her  trem- 
bling hands,  and  covered  her  face  with  her  handkerchief.  There 
was  no  violence  :  hai'dly  any  sound. 

"  I  told  her  w'hat  my  lord  had  said  about  Clement's  coming 
in  some  day,  and  taking  us  all  by  siu'i^rise.  I  did  not  believe 
it  myself,  but  it  was  just  possible, — and  I  had  nothing  else  to 
say.  Pity,  to  one  who  was  striving  so  hiu"d  to  conceal  her  feel- 
ings, would  have  been  impertinent.  She  let  mc  talk  ;  but  she 
did  not  rej)ly.  She  knew  that  my  words  were  vain  and  idle,  and 
had  no  root  in  my  belief,  as  well  as  I  did  myself. 

"  I  was  very  thankful  \\  hen  Medlicott  came  in  with  Modame's 
breakfast,  and  gave  me  an  excuso  for  leaving. 

"  IJut  I  tliink  that  convi-rsution  niude  me  feel  more  anxious 
and  imiiatient  than  ever.  1  felt  almost  pledged  to  Madame  de 
Crequy  for  the  fulfilment  of  the  vision  I  had  lield  out.  She  had 
taken  entirely  to  her  bed  by  this  time  :  not  from  iUness,  but 
because  she  had  no  hope  within  her  to  stir  her  up  to  tlie  ellV>rt 
of  dressing.  In  the  same  way  she  hardly  cared  for  food.  She 
had  no  appetite, — why  eat  to  j)rolong  a  life  of  desjiair  ?  IJut 
slie  let  Medlicott  feed  her,  sooner  than  take  the  trouble  of 
resisting. 

"  And  so  it  went  on,-  for  weeks,  months, — I  couhl  hardly 
count  the  time,  it  seemed  so  long.  Mtdlicott  told  mo  slie  notierd 
a  2)reternatural  sensitiveness  of  ear  in  jMadtimo  de  Cr»'(juy,  in- 
duced l>y  tlu!  habit  of  listening  silt-ntly  for  the  slightest  unusual 
Bound  in  the  hoiise.     Medliet)tt  was  alwavs  a  minute  watcher  of 


?IY    LADY    I,M)U)\V.  230 

any  one  whom  she  cared  about ;  and,  one  day,  slio  made  mo 
notice  by  a  sign  madame's  acutcness  of  hearing,  althougli  the 
quick  expectation  was  but  evinced  for  a  moment  in  the  turn 
of  the  eye,  the  hushed  breath — and  then,  when  the  imusual  foot- 
sti'i)  tiu'ned  into  my  lord's  apartments,  the  soft  quivering  sigh, 
and  the  closed  eyelids. 

"  At  length  the  intendant  of  the  Dc  Crequy  estates, — the  old 
man,  you  will  remember,  whose  information  resi)ecting  Virginio 
de  Crequy  first  gave  Clement  the  desire  to  retm-n  to  Paris, — 
came  to  St.  James's  Square,  and  begged  to  speak  to  me.  I  made 
haste  to  go  down  to  him  in  the  housekeeper's  room,  sooner  than 
that  he  should  be  ushered  into  mine,  for  fear  of  madamc  hearing 
any  soimd. 

"  The  old  man  stood — I  see  him  now — with  Jiis  hut  held  be- 
fore him  in  both  his  hands  :  he  slowly  bowed  till  his  face  touched 
it  when  I  came  in.  Such  long  excess  of  com-tesy  augured  ill. 
He  waited  for  me  to  speak. 

"  '  Have  you  any  intelligence  ?'  I  inquired.  He  had  been 
often  to  the  house  before,  to  ask  if  we  had  received  any  news ; 
and  once  or  twice  I  had  seen  him,  but  this  was  the  first  time  ho 
had  begged  to  see  me. 

"  '  Yes,  madame,'  he  replied,  still  standing  vnth  his  head  bent 
down,  like  a  child  in  disgi-ace. 
"  '  And  it  is  bad  !'  I  exclaimed. 

"  '  It  is  bad.'  For  a  moment  I  was  angiy  at  the  cold  tone  in 
which  my  words  were  echoed  ;  but  directly  afterwards  I  saw  the 
large,  slow,  heavy  tears  of  age  falling  down  the  old  man's  cheeks, 
and  on  to  the  sleeves  of  his  poor,  threadbare  coat. 

"  I  asked  him  how  he  had  heard  it :  it  seemed  as  though  I 
could  not  all  at  once  bear  to  hear  what  it  was.  He  told  me  that 
the  night  before,  in  crossing  Long  Acre,  he  had  stumbled  upon 
an  old  acquaintance  of  his ;  one  who,  like  himself,  had  been  a 
dependent  upon  the  De  Crequy  family,  but  had  managed  their 
Paris  afi'airs,  wliilc  Flechier  had  taken  charge  of  their  estates  in 
the  country.  Both  were  now  emigrants,  and  living  on  the  pro- 
ceeds of  such  small  available  talents  as  they  possessed.  Flechier, 
as  I  knew,  earned  a  very  fair  livelihood  by  going  about  to  dress 
salads  for  dinner  parties.  His  compatriot,  Le  Febvre,  had  begun 
to  give  a  few  lessons  as  a  dancing-master.  One  of  them  took  the 
other  home  to  his  lodgings ;  and  there,  wlicn  their  most  im- 
mediate personal  adventures  had  ])een  hastily  talked  over,  camo 
the  inquiry  from  Flechier  as  to  Monsieur  de  Crequy. 

"  '  Clement  was  dead — guillotined.  Virginie  was  dead — 
guillotined.' 


240  MY   LADY    LLDLOW. 

"  When  riecliicr  had  told  me  thus  much,  he  could  not  speak 
for  sobbing  ;  and  I,  myself,  could  hardly  tell  how  to  restrain  my 
tears  sufficiently,  until  I  could  go  to  my  own  room  and  be  at 
liberty  to  give  way.  Ho  asked  my  leave  to  bring  in  his  fi-iend 
Le  Febvre,  who  was  walking  in  the  square,  awaiting  a  possible 
summons  to  tell  his  story.  I  heard  afterwards  a  good  many  de- 
tails, which  filled  up  the  account,  and  made  me  feel — which 
brings  me  back  to  the  point  I  started  from — how  unfit  the  lower 
orders  arc  for  being  trusted  indiscriminately  with  the  dangerous 
powers  of  education.  I  have  made  a  long  preamble,  but  now  I 
am  coming  to  the  moml  of  my  story." 

My  lady  was  trying  to  shake  otf  the  emotion  which  she  evi- 
dently felt  in  recm-ring  to  this  sad  history  of  Monsieur  de 
Crequy's  death.  She  came  behind  me,  and  arranged  my  pil- 
lows, and  then,  seeing  I  had  been  crying — for,  indeed,  I  was 
weak-spirited  at  the  time,  and  a  little  served  to  unloose  my  tears 
— she  stooped  do^^'n,  and  kissed  my  forehead,  and  said  '*  Poor 
child  !"'  almost  as  if  she  thanked  me  for  feeling  that  old  gi-ief  of 
hers. 

"  Being  once  in  France,  it  was  no  difficult  thing  for  Clement 
to  get  into  Paris.  The  difficulty  in  those  ilays  was  to  leave,  not 
to  enter.  He  came  in  dressed  as  u  Norman  pea- ant,  in  charge  of 
a  load  of  fruit  and  vegetables,  with  which  one  of  the  Seine 
barges  was  freighted.  He  worked  hard  with  his  companions  in 
landing  and  arranging  their  produce  on  the  quays ;  and  then, 
when  they  dispersed  to  get  their  breakfasts  at  some  of  the  esta- 
minets  near  the  old  ]\Iarche  aux  Fleurs,  he  sauntered  up  a  street 
whicli  conducted  him,  by  many  an  odd  turn,  through  the  Quar- 
tier  Latin  to  a  horrid  back  alley,  leading  out  of  the  Kue  rEcolo 
de  Medecine  ;  some  atrocious  place,  as  I  have  heard,  not  for 
from  the  shadow  of  that  terrible  Abbaye,  where  so  many  of  the 
best  blood  of  France  awaited  their  deatlis.  But  here  some  (.dd 
man  lived,  on  whose  fidelity  Clc^ment  thought  that  he  might  rely. 
I  am  not  sure  if  he  had  not  been  gardener  in  those  very  giu'dcns 
behind  tlie  Hotel  Crequy  whire  C'li'nunt  and  l^rian  used  to  ])lay 
togctlier  years  before.  But,  wliati'ver  the  old  man's  dwtlling 
might  be,  Clement  was  only  too  glad  to  reach  it,  you  may  Ik- 
sure.  He  had  been  kept  in  Noniiaiidy,  in  all  sorts  of  disguises, 
for  many  days  after  landing  in  Dieppe,  through  the  dilVuidty  of 
entering  Paris  unsuspected  by  the  miuiy  ruffians  who  were 
always  on  the  look-out  for  aristocrats. 

'•  The  <d(l  gardener  was,  I  belit>ve,  both  faitliful  and  tried, 
nnd  slK:ltered  Clement  in  his  garret  as  well  lus  might  Ik-.  Before 
be  could  stir  out,  it  was  necessary  to   procure  a  fresh  di.'Jguiso, 


MY    LADY    LUDLOW,  211 

and  one  more  in  character  witli  an  iuliahitant  of  Paris  tliau  tliat. 
■  of  a  Norman  carter  was  procured  ;  and  after  waiting  in-doors  for 
I  one  or  two  days,  to  sec  if  any  suspicion  was  excited,  Clement 
1  set  off  to  discover  Yirginie. 

;       "  He  found  her  at  the  old  concierge's  dwelling,     Madame 

I  Bahette  was  the  name  of  this  woman,  who  must  have  been  a  less 

faithful— or  ratlicr,  perhaps,  I  should  say,  a  more   interested  — 

friend    to    her    guest    than    the   old   gardener   Jaques   was   to 

Clement. 

"  I  have  seen  a  miniature  of  Virginie,  which  a  French  lady 
of  quality  hajjpcned  to  have  in  her  possession  at  the  time  of  her 
flight  from  Paris,  and  which  she  brought  witli  her  to  England 
unwittingly  ;  for  it  belonged  to  the  Count  de  Creqiiy,  mth  wliom 
shewas  slightly  acquainted.     I  shoidd  fancy  from  it,  that  Vir- 
ginie was  taller  and  of  a  more  powerful  figure  for  a  woman  than 
her  cousin  Clement  was  for  a  man.     Her  dark-brown  hair  was 
i  ai-ranged  in  short  curls— the  way  of  dressing  the  hair  announced 
I  the  politics  of  the  individual,  in  those  days,  just  as  patches  did 
^  in  my  gi-andmothcr's  time  ;  and  Virginie's  hair  was  not  to  my 
j  taste,  or  according  to  my  principles  :  it  was  too  classical.     Her 
j  large,  black  eyes  looked  out  at  you  steadily.  One  cannot  judge  of 
the  shape  of  a  nose  fi-om  a  full-face  miniature,  but  the  nostrils 
I  were  clearly  cut  and  largely  opened.     I  do  not  fancy  her  nose 
1  could  have  been   pretty ;  but  her  mouth  had  a  character  all  its 
jown,  and  which  would,  I  think,  have  redeemed  a  plainer  face.  It 
I  \yas  wide,  and  deep  set  into  the  cheeks  at  the  corners  ;  the  upper 
'  lip  was  very  much  arched,  and  hardly  closed  over  the  teeth  ;  so 
that  the  whole  face  looked  (from  the  serious,  intent  look  in  the 
eyes,  and  the  sweet  intelligence  of  the  mouth)  as  if  she  were 
listening  eagerly  to  something  to  which  her  answer  was  quite 
I  ready,  and  would  come  out  of  those  red,  opening  lips  as  soon  as 
'ever  you  had  done  speaking,  and  you  longed  to  know  what  she 
would  say. 

I  "  Well :  this  A^'irginie  de  Creqxiy  was  living  with  Madame 
iBabette  in  tlie  conciergerie  of  an  old  French  inn,  somewhere  to 
Ithe  north  of  Paris,  so,  far  enough  from  Clement's  refuge.  Tlio 
mnhad  been  frequented  by  fanners  from  Brittany  and  such  kind 
jof  people,  in  tlie  days  when  that  sort  of  intercoui-se  went  on 
Ihetween  Paris  and  the  provinces  which  had  nearly  stopped  now. 
IFcw  Bretons  came  near  it  now,  and  the  inn  had  fallen  into  tlio 
■hands  of  Madame  Babette's  brother,  as  payment  for  a  bad  wino 
iebt  of  the  last  proprietor.  He  put  his  sister  and  her  child  in, 
po  keep  it  open,  as  it  were,  and  sent  all  the  ])eople  he  could  to 
ificupy    the  half-fumished   rooms   of   the    house      They  paid 

R 


242  MY   LADY   LUDLOW. 

Babette  for  their  lodging  every  morniug  as  they  went  out  t<> 
breakfast,  and  returned  or  not  as  tbey  chose,  at  night.  Every 
three  days,  the  wine-merchant  or  his  son  came  to  Madame  Ba- 
bette, and  she  accounted  to  them  for  the  money  she  had  re- 
ceived. She  and  her  child  occupied  the  portci-'s  office  (iu 
which  the  lad  slept  at  nights)  and  a  little  miserable  bed-room 
which  opened  out  of  it,  and  received  all  the  light  and  air  that  was 
admitted  through  the  door  of  communication,  which  was  half 
glass.  Madame  Babette  must  have  had  a  kind  of  attachment  for 
the  De  ( 'requys — her  De  Crequys,  you  imderstaud — Virginie's 
father,  the  Count ;  for,  at  some  risk  to  herself,  she  had  warned 
both  him  and  his  daughter  of  the  danger  impending  over 
them.  But  he,  infatuated,  would  not  believe  that  his  dear  Human 
Race  could  ever  do  him  harai ;  and,  as  long  as  he  did  not  fear, 
Yirginie  was  not  afraid.  It  was  by  some  ruse,  the  nature  of 
which  I  never  heard,  that  Madame  Babette  induced  Yirginie  to 
come  to  her  abode  at  the  very  hour  in  which  the  Count  had  been 
recognized  in  the  streets,  and  hiu-ried  off"  to  the  Lauterne.  It 
was  after  Babette  had  got  her  there,  safe  shut  up  in  the  little 
back  den,  that  she  told  her  what  had  befollen  her  father.  From 
that  day,  Yirginie  had  never  stirred  out  of  the  gates,  or  crossed 
the  threshold  of  the  porter's  lodge.  I  do  not  say  that  Madame 
Bal)ette  was  tired  of  her  continual  presence,  or  regretted  the 
impulse  which  made  her  rush  to  the  De  Crequy's  well-known 
house — after  being  compelled  to  fonn  one  of  the  mad  crowds 
tliat  saw  the  Count  do  Crequy  seized  and  hung  and  huriy  his 
daugliter  out,  through  alleys  and  backways,  until  at  length  sliO 
had  the  orphan  safe  in  her  own  dark  sleeping-room,  and  could 
tell  her  tale  of  horror :  but  IMadame  Babette  was  poorly  paid 
for  her  ])ortcr's  work  by  her  avaricious  brother  ;  and  it  was 
liard  enough  to  find  food  for  herself  and  her  gi'owing  boy  ;  and, 
though  the  poor  girl  ate  little  enough,  I  dare  say,  yet  Ihire 
seemed  no  end  to  the  burthen  tliat  INladame  Babutte  had  im- 
])oscd  upon  herself:  the  Do  Crt'quys  wire  })lundered,  mined,  had 
l)Ccome  an  extinct  race,  all  but  a  lonely  friendless  girl,  in  broken 
health  and  spirits ;  and,  though  she  lent  no  positive  encounigc- 
iiicnt  to  Ills  suit,  yet.  at  the  time,  when  CU'ment  reappeai'ed  in 
]*uris,  Madame  Babc;tte  was  beginning  to  think  that  Yirginie 
might  do  worse  than  encourage  11h>  attentions  of  Blonsiiur  ]\Iorin 
Fils,  lier  nepliew,  and  the  wine  nierehaut's  son.  Of  course,  he 
iiud  his  father  had  the  entree  into  the  eonciergorie  of  the  hotel 
(hat  belonged  to  them,  in  right  of  being  both  ])roprietors  and  I 
lehitions.  Tlie  son,  I^lorin.  liad  sec^n  Yirginie  in  fliis  manner. 
He  was   fully  aware   that   she   was  far  above   him  in   rank,  and 


MY    LADY    LLDLOW.  243 

guessed  from  her  whole  aspect  that  she  had  lost  her  natural  pro- 
tectors by  the  terrible  guillotine  ;    but  he  did  not  know  her 
exact  name  or  station,  nor  could  he  persuade  his  aunt  to  tell 
'  him.  However,  he  fell  head  over  cars  in  love  with  her,  whether 
;  she  were  princess  or  peasant ;  and  though  at  first  there  was 
I  something  about  her  which  made  his  passionate  love  conceal 
itself  with  shy,  awkward  reserve,  and  then  made  it  only  appear 
in  the  guise  of  deep,  respectful  devotion  ;  yet,  by-and-by, — by 
the  same  process  of  reasoning,  I   suijpose,  that  his  aimt  had 
gone  through  even  before  him— Jean  Morin  began  to  let  Hope 
oust  Despair  from  his  heart.     Sometimes  he  thought — perhaps 
years  hence — that  solitary,  fi-iendless  lady,  pent  up  in  squalor, 
might  turn  to  him  as  to  a  friend  and  comforter— and  then — and 

then .     Meanwhile  Jean  Morin  was  most  attentive  to  his 

aunt,  whom  he  had  rather  slighted  before.  He  would  linger  over 
theaccoimts;  would  bring  her  little  presents;  and,  above  all, 
he  made  a  pet  and  favoiu*ite  of  Pierre,  the  little  cousin,  wIkj 
could  tell  him  about  all  the  ways  of  going  on  of  Mam'selle 
Cannes,  as  Virginie  was  called.  Pierre  was  thoroughly  aware  ot 
the  drift  and  cause  of  his  cousin's  inquiries ;  and  was  his  ardent 
partisan,  as  I  have  heard,  even  before  Jean  Morin  had  exactly 
acknowledged  his  wishes  to  himself. 

"  It  must  have  required  some  patience  and  much  diplomacy, 
before  Clement  de  Crequy  foimd  out  the  exact  place  where  hia 
cousin  was  hidden.  The  old  gardener  took  the  cause  very  much 
to  heart ;  as,  judging  from  my  recollections,  1  imagine  he  would 
have  forwarded  any  fancy,  however  wild,  of  Monsieur  Clement's. 
(I  will  tell  you  afterwards  how  I  came  to  know  all  these  parti- 
culars so  well.) 

"  After  Clement's  retm*n,  on  two  succeeding  days,  fi'om  his 
dangerovis  search,  without  meeting  with  any  good  result,  Jacques 
entreated  Monsieur  de  Crequy  to  let  him  take  it  in  hand.  He 
represented  that  he,  as  gardener  for  the  space  of  twenty  yeai'S  and 
more  at  the  Hotel  de  Crequy,  had  a  right  to  be  acquainted  with 
all  the  successive  concierges  at  the  Coimt's  house  ;  that  he  should 
i  not  go  among  them  as  a  stranger,  but  as  an  old  friend,  anxious 
to  renew  pleasant  intercom-se ;  and  that  if  the  Intendant's  story, 
which  he  had  told  Monsieur  de  Crequy  in  England,  was  true,  that 
mademoiselle  was  in  hiding  at  the  house  of  a  former  coucitrge, 
why,  something  relating  to  her  would  surely  drop  out  in  the 
course  of  convei-sation.  So  he  persuaded  Clement  to  remain  in- 
doors, while  he  set  off  on  his  round,  with  no  appai-ent  object  but 
to  gossip. 

"At  night  he  came  home, — liaving  seen  mademoiselle.      He 


244  MY    LADY    LUDLOW. 

told  Clement  much  of  the  story  relating  to  Madame  Babcttc  that 
I  have  told  to  you.  Of  course,  he  had  heard  nothing  of  the  am- 
bitious hopes  of  Morin  Fils, — hardly  of  his  exist<^;nce,  I  should 
think.  Madame  Babette  had  received  him  kindly  ;  although,  for 
some  time,  she  had  kept  him  standing  in  the  carriage  gateway 
outside  her  door.  But,  on  his  complaining  of  the  draught  and 
his  rheumatism,  she  had  asked  him  in  :  first  looking  round  with 
some  anxiety,  to  see  who  was  in  the  room  behind  her.  No  one 
was  there  when  he  entered  and  sat  down.  But,  in  a  minute  or  two, 
a  tall,  thin  yoimg  lady,  vrith  g^eat,  sad  eyes,  and  pale  cheeks, 
rsame  from  the  inner  room,  and,  seeing  him,  retired.  '  It  is  Ma- 
demoiselle Cannes,'  said  Madame  Babette,  rather  unnecessarily; 
for,  if  he  had  not  been  on  the  watch  for  some  sign  of  Mademoi- 
selle de  Crequy,  he  would  hardly  have  noticed  the  entrance  and 
withdrawal. 

"  Clement  and  the  good  old  gardener  were  always  rather  per- 
plexed by  Madame  Babette's  evident  avoidance  of  all  mention  ol 
the  De  Crequy  family.  If  she  were  so  much  interested  in  one 
member  as  to  be  willing  to  undergo  the  pains  and  penalties  of  a 
domiciliary  viwit,  it  was  strange  that  she  never  inquired  after  the 
existence  of  her  charge's  friends  and  relations  from  one  who 
might  very  probably  have  heard  something  of  them.  They  settled 
that  Madame  Babette  must  believe  that  the  Marquise  and  Ch-ment 
were  dead ;  and  admired  her  for  her  reticence  in  never  speaking 
of  Virginie.  The  truth  was,  I  suspect,  that  she  was  so  desirous 
(if  her  nephew's  success  by  this  time,  that  she  did  not  like  letting 
any  one  into  the  secret  of  Virginie's  whereabouts  who  might 
interfere  with  their  plan.  However,  it  was  ai-ranged  between 
(Element  and  his  humble  friend,  tliat  the  former,  dressed  in  the 
jjcasant's  clothes  in  whicli  ho  had  entcrwl  Paris,  but  smartened  up 
in  one  or  two  particulars,  as  if,  although  a  countryman,  he  hatl 
money  to  spiu'e,  should  go  and  engage  a  skeping-room  in  the  old 
Breton  Inn;  where,  as  1  told  you,  accommodation  for  the  night 
was  to  be  had.  This  was  accordingly  tlone,  without  exciting 
Miulame  Babuttc's  suspicions,  for  she  wius  miaccjuainted  with  the 
Normandy  accent,  and  ct)nsc(iuintly  did  not  pcrciive  the  exag- 
gemtiou  of  it  which  ^lonsieur  dc  Cn'quy  lulopttd  in  order  to  dis- 
guise his  piu-e  I'arisian.  But  after  he  had  for  two  nights  slept  in 
a  queer  dark  closet,  at  the  end  of  one  of  the  numerous  sliort  gal- 
leries in  the  llottd  Duguesdin,  and  ])aid  his  money  for  such 
acconmiodation  each  morning  at  tlie  little  bureau  luuler  the  win- 
dow of  tlie  conciergerie,  he  found  liiniself  no  nearer  to  his  object, 
lie  stood  outside  in  the  gateway  :  I\Iadame  Babette  «>pened  a  ]>uue 
in  her  window,  eounted  out  the  change,  gave  polite  tlianks,  aixl 


MY    LADY    LUDLOW.  245 

shut  to  the  pane  with  a  clack,  before  he  could  ever  find  out  what 
to  say  that  might  be  the  means  of  ojieuing  a  conversation.  Once 
in  the  streets,  lie  was  in  danger  from  the  bloodthirsty  mob,  who 
were  ready  in  those  days  to  hunt  to  death  every  one  who  looked 
like  a  gentleman,  as  an  aristocrat :  and  Clement,  depend  upon  it, 
looked  a  genthiuian,  whatever  di-ess  lie  wore.  Yet  it  was  uuwiso 
to  traverse  Paris  to  his  old  friend  the  gardener's  grenier,  so  he 
had  to  loiter  about,  where  I  hardly  know.  Only  he  did  leave  the 
Hotel  Duguesclin,  and  he  did  not  go  to  old  Jacques,  and  there 
was  not  another  house  in  Paris  open  to  him.  At  the  end  of  two 
days,  he  had  made  out  Pierre's  existence  ;  and  he  began  to  try  t(» 
make  friends  with  the  lad.  Pierre  was  too  sharj)  and  shrewd  not 
to  suspect  something  from  the  confused  attempts  at  friendliness. 
It  was  not  for  nothing  that  the  Nonnan  farmer  lounged  in  the 
court  and  doorway,  and  brought  home  presents  of  galette.  Pierre 
accepted  the  galette,  reciprocated  the  civil  speeches,  but  kept 
his  eyes  open.  Once,  returning  home  pretty  late  at  night,  he 
surprised  the  Xorman  studying  the  shadows  on  the  blind,  which 
was  drawn  down  when  Madame  Babette's  lamp  was  lighted.  On 
going  in,  he  foimd  Mademoiselle  Cannes  with  his  mother,  sitting 
by  the  table,  and  helping  in  the  family  mending. 

"  Pierre  was  afraid  that  the  Norman  had  some  view  upon  the 
money  which  his  mother,  as  concierge,  collected  for  her  brotlier. 
But  the  money  was  all  safe  next  evening,  when  his  cousin, 
Monsieur  Morin  Fils,  came  to  collect  it.  Madame  Babette  asked 
her  nephew  to  sit  down,  and  skilfully  barred  the  passage  to  the 
inner  door,  so  that  Virginie,  had  she  been  ever  so  much  disposed, 
could  not  have  retreated.  She  sat  silently  sewing.  All  at  once 
the  little  party  were  startled  by  a  very  sweet  tenor  voice,  just 
close  to  the  street  window,  singing  one  of  the  airs  out  of  Beau- 
marchais'  operas,  which,  a  few  years  before,  had  been  popular  all 
over  Paris.  But  after  a  few  moments  of  silence,  and  one  or  two 
remarks,  the  talking  went  on  again.  Pierre,  however,  noticed  an 
increased  air  of  abstraction  in  Virginie,  who,  1  suppose,  was 
recurring  to  the  last  time  that  she  had  heard  the  song,  and  did 
not  consider,  as  her  cousin  had  hoped  she  would  have  done,  what 
were  the  words  set  to  the  air,  which  he  imagined  slie  would 
remember,  and  which  would  have  told  her  so  nmch.  For,  only 
a  few  years  before,  Adam's  opera  of  Richard  le  Roi  had  made  the 
story  of  tlie  minstrel  Bloudel  and  om-  English  Coeur  de  Lion 
familiar  to  all  the  opera-going  part  of  the  Parisian  public,  and 
Cl^miint  liad  bethought  him  of  establishing  a  communication 
with  Virginie  by  some  sucli  means. 

"  The  next  night,   about  tlie  same  hour,  the  same  voice  w;ia 


24G  MY    LADY    LUDLOW. 

singing  cmtsicle  the  window  again.  PiciTC,  whn  had  been  irritated 
1>V  the  ijroeoeding  the  evening  before,  as  it  ha<l  diverted  Virginie's 
attention  from  his  cousin,  who  hsul  been  doing  his  utmost  to  make 
liiniself  agreeable,  rushed  out  to  the  door,  just  as  the  Norman  was 
ringing  the  bell  to  be  admitted  for  the  night.  Pierre  looked  uj» 
and  down  the  street ;  no  one  else  was  to  be  seen.  The  next  di\v, 
the  Norman  mollified  him  somewhat  by  knocking  at  the  door 
of  the  conciergerie.  and  begging  Monsieur  Pien-e's  acceptance 
of  some  knee-buckles,  which  had  taken  the  country  farmer's 
fancy  tlie  day  before,  as  he  had  been  gazing  into  the  shojis.  but 
which,  being  too  small  for  his  purpose,  he  took  the  liberty  of 
f 'tiering  to  Monsieur  PieiTC.  Pierre,  a  French  boy,  inclined  to 
foppery,  was  chai-med,  ravished  by  the  beauty  of  the  present  and 
with  monsieur's  goodness,  and  he  began  to  adjust  them  to  his 
breeches  immediately,  as  well  as  he  could,  at  least,  in  his  mother's 
absence.  The  Norman,  whom  Pierre  kept  carefully  on  the  outside 
of  the  thresliold,  stood  by,  as  if  amused  at  the  boy's  eagerness. 

"  '  Take  care,'  said  he,  clearly  and  distinctly  ;  '  take  care,  my 
little  friend,  lest  you  become  a  fop  ;  and,  in  that  case,  some  day, 
years  hence,  when  your  heart  is  devoted  to  some  yoimg  lady,  she 
may  be  inclined  to  say  to  you' — here  he  raised  his  voice — '  No, 
thank  you ;  when  I  marry,  I  many  a  man,  not  a  petit-maitre  ;  I 
marry  a  man,  who,  whatever  his  position  may  be,  will  add  dig- 
nity to  the  human  race  by  his  virtues.'  Farther  than  that  in  his 
quotation  Clement  darud  not  go.  His  sentiments  (so  much 
above  the  apparent  occasion)  met  with  applause  from  Pierre, 
who  liked  to  contomiilato  hinisilf  in  the  light  of  a  lover,  even 
though  it  should  bo  a  rejected  one,  and  who  liaih-d  the  mention 
of  the  words  '  virtues '  and  '  dignity  of  the  humau  race  '  as  bo- 
lunging  to  the  cant  of  a  good  citizen. 

"  But  Clement  was  more  anxious  to  know  how  the  invisible 
lady  took  his  R}>eech.  There  was  no  sign  at  the  time.  P>ut 
when  he  returned  at  night,  he  heard  a  voice,  low  singing,  Miind 
Madame  Babettc,  as  she  handed  hiui  his  candle,  the  very  air  ho 
had  sung  without  etYect  for  two  nights  past.  As  if  ho  hiul 
caught  it  up  from  her  muniiuring  voice,  ho  sang  it  loudly  and 
clearly  as  ho  crossed  tlie  court. 

"irere  is  (mr  opera-singer!'  exclaimed  I^ladiuno  BaWtte. 
'  Wliy,  tlio  Norman  gnizi«>r  sings  like  Boupre,'  niuning  a 
favourite  singer  at  the  neighbouring  theatre. 

"  Pi(>rre  was  struck  by  the  reniurk,  and  ([uietly  resolved  to  look 
after  the  Noniiau  ;  but  again,  1  believe,  it  was  more  because'  of 
his  mother's  deposit  of  money  than  with  any  thouglit  of  Virginio. 

•'  However,  Uie  next  morning,  to  tho  wonder  of  both  mother 

i 


MY   LADY   LUDLOW.  247 

nnd  S(tn,  Madcinoiscllc  Cannes  proposed,  with  much  hc8itatit;n, 
t*)  go  out  and  make  some  little  i)iU'chaKe  for  herself.  A  month 
«ir  two  ago,  this  was  what  Miwlame  Babettc  had  been  never  weary 
of  lU'ging.  But  now  she  was  as  much  surjirised  as  if  she  hud  ex- 
pected Virginic  to  remain  a  prisoner  in  her  rooms  all  the  rest  of 
lier  life.  I  suppose  she  liad  hoped  that  her  first  time  of  quitting 
it  would  be  w'hen  she  left  it  for  Monsieur  Morin's  house  as  his 
wife. 

"  A  quick  look  from  Madame  Babettc  towards  Pierre  was  all 
that  was  needed  to  encourage  the  boy  to  follow  her.  He  went  out 
cautiously.  She  was  at  the  end  of  the  street.  She  looked  up 
and  down,  as  if  waiting  for  some  one.  No  one  was  there. 
Back  she  came,  so  swiftly  that  she  nearly  caught  Pierre  befort; 
he  could  retreat  through  the  porte-cochere.  There  he  looked 
out  again.  The  neighbourhood  was  low  and  wild,  and  strange  ; 
and  some  one  spoke  to  Yirginie, — nay,  laid  his  hand  upon  her 
arm, — whose  dress  and  aspect  (he  had  emerged  out  of  a  side- 
street)  Pierre  did  not  know  ;  but,  after  a  start,  and  (Pieixe  could 
fancy)  a  little  scream,  Virginie  recognised  the  stranger,  and  the 
two  turned  up  the  side  street  whence  the  man  had  come.  Pierre 
stole  swiftly  to  the  comer  of  this  street ;  no  one  was  there  :  they 
had  disappeared  up  some  of  the  alleys.  Pierre  returned  home 
to  excite  his  mother's  infinite  surprise.  But  they  had  hardly 
done  talking,  when  Virginie  returned,  with  a  colour  and  a 
radiance  in  her  face,  which  they  had  never  seen  there  since  her 
father's  death." 


CHAPTER  VII. 


"  I  HA\T!;  told  you  that  I  heard  much  of  this  story  from  a 
friend  of  the  Intendant  of  the  Dc  Crequys,  whom  he  met  with  in 
London.  Some  yeai-s  afterwards — the  summer  before  my  lord's 
death  —  I  was  travelling  with  him  in  Devonshire,  and  we  went  to 
see  the  French  prisoners  of  war  on  Dartmfior.  We  fell  into 
conversation  with  one  of  them,  w  hom  I  found  out  to  be  the  very 
Pierre  of  whom  I  had  heard  l)cfore,  as  having  been  involved  iu 
the  fatal  stoi-y  of  Clement  and  Virginie,  and  by  him  I  was  told 
much  of  their  last  days,  and  thus  I  learnt  how  to  have  some 
spnpathy  w^ith  all  those  who  were  concerned  in  tliose  terrible 
events  ;  yes,  even  with  the  yovmger  Morin  himself,  on  whose 
behalf  Pierre  spoke  warmly,  oven  after  so  long  a  time  had 
elapsed. 

*'  For  when  the  younger  Morin  called  at  the  i)orter'8  lodge, 


248  MY    LADY    LUDLOW. 

cu  the  evening  of  the  day  when  Virginic  had  gone  out  for  the 
first  time  after  so  luany  mouths'  confinement  to  the  conciorgerie, 
he  was  struck  with  the  improvement  in  her  appearance.  It 
seems  to  have  hardly  been  that  he  thought  her  beauty  greater ; 
for,  iu  addition  to  the  fact  that  she  was  not  beautiful,  Morin  had 
arrived  at  that  poiut  of  being  enamoured  when  it  docs  not  sig- 
nify whether  the  beloved  one  is  plain  or  handsome^ she  has 
enchanted  one  pair  of  eyes,  which  henceforward  see  her  through 
their  own  medium.  But  Morin  noticed  the  faint  increase  of 
colour  and  light  in  her  eoimtenanee.  It  was  as  though  she  had 
broken  through  her  thick  cloud  of  hopeless  sorrow,  and  was 
dawning  forth  into  a  happier  life.  And  so,  whereas  during  her 
grief,  he  had  revered  and  respected  it  even  to  a  point  of  silent 
symjjathy,  now  that  she  was  gladdened,  his  heart  rose  on  tlie 
wings  of  sti'eugthened  hopes.  Even  in  the  dreai-y  monotony  of 
this  existence  in  his  Aunt  Babette's  conciergurie.  Time  had  not 
failed  in  his  work,  and  now,  perhaps,  soon  he  might  humbly 
strive  to  help  Time.  The  very  next  day  he  returned — on  some 
pretence  of  business— to  the  Hotel  Duguesclin,  and  made  his 
aunt's  room,  rather  than  his  aimt  herself,  a  present  of  roses  and 
geraniums  tied  up  in  a  bouquet  \ntli  a  tricolor  ribbon.  Virginie 
was  iu  the  room,  sitting  at  the  coarse  sewing  she  liked  U>  do  for 
Madame  Babette.  He  saw  her  eyes  brighten  at  the  sight  nf  the 
flowers  :  she  asked  his  aunt  to  let  her  ariunge  them  ;  he  saw  her 
untie  the  ribbt)n,  and  witli  a  gesture  of  dislike,  throw  it  on  the 
ground,  and  give  it  a  kick  with  her  little  foi>t,  and  even  in  this 
girlish  manner  of  insulting  his  dearest  pivjudiees,  he  fomul 
bomething  to  admire. 

"  As  he  was  coming  out,  Pierre  stopped  him.  The  lad  had 
been  trying  to  arrest  his  cousin's  attention  by  futile  grimaces 
and  signs  played  oft'  Ixhind  Virginie's  back ;  but  Monsieur 
Morin  saw  notliing  but  IMadtiuoiselle  Cannes.  Hnwever,  Pienv 
was  not  to  be  battled,  and  Moi'sieur  Morin  found  him  in  waiting 
just  outside  the  threshold.  With  his  finger  tm  his  lips,  Pierre 
walked  on  tijttoe  by  his  companion's  sido  till  they  would  have 
been  li>ng  pasi  sight  or  hearing  of  the  couoiergerie,  even  had  the 
inhabitants  devoted  themselves  to  the  pm'iK)6e8  of  spying  or 
list(!ning. 

"  '  rimt !'  said  Pierre,  at  last.     '  She  goes  out  wjJking.' 

"  '  Wtsll  V  said  Monsieiu"  ]\Iorin,  half  curious,  half  annoyed  at 
lieing  disturbed  in  the  deliei(»U8  rcverio  of  the  futui-e  into  which 
he  longed  to  fall. 

"  '  Well !  It  is  not  well.     It  is  ImuI.' 

"  '  Why  i'   I  do  not  ask  who  she  is,  but  I  have  my  ideas.    iSh< 


MY    LADY    LUDLOW.  24!i 

IB  an  lU'istocrat.  Do  the  people  about  here  begin  to  susperi 
her  ?' 

"  '  No,  no  !'  saitl  Pierre.  '  But  she  goes  out  walking.  She 
has  gone  these  two  mornings.  I  have  watched  her.  She  meets 
a  man — she  is  fi-ituds  ^^^th  him,  for  she  talks  to  him  as  eagerly 
as  he  does  to  her — miimma  cannot  tell  who  he  is.' 

"  '  Has  my  aunt  seen  him  V 

" '  No,  not  so  much  as  a  fly's  wing  of  him.  I  myself  have 
only  seen  his  back.  It  strikes  me  like  a  familiar  back,  and  yet 
I  cannot  think  who  it  is.  But  they  separate  with  sudden  darts, 
like  two  birds  wlio  have  been  together  to  feed  their  young  ones. 
One  moment  they  are  in  close  talk,  their  heads  together  chuck- 
otting ;  the  next  he  has  turned  up  some  bye-street,  and  Made- 
moiselle Cannes  is  close  upon  mo — has  almost  caught  me.' 

"  '  But  she  did  not  see  you?'  inquired  Monsieur  Morin,  in  so 
altered  a  voice  that  Pierre  gave  hid  one  of  his  quick  penetrating 
looks.  He  was  struck  by  the  way  in  which  his  cousin's  features 
—  always  coarse  and  common-place — had  become  contracted  and 
pinched  ;  struck,  too,  by  the  livid  look  on  his  sallow  complexion. 
But  as  if  Morin  was  conscious  of  the  manner  in  which  his  face 
belied  his  feelings,  he  made  an  effort,  and  smiled,  and  patted 
Pierre's  head,  and  thanked  him  for  his  intelligence,  and  gave 
him  a  five-franc  piece,  and  bade  him  go  on  ^-ith  his  observa- 
tions of  Mademoiselle  Cannes'  movements,  and  report  all  to 
him. 

"  Pierre  retui-ned  home  with  a  light  heart,  tossing  up  his  five- 
franc  piece  as  he  ran.  Just  as  he  was  at  the  conciergerie  door, 
a  great  tall  man  bustled  past  him,  and  snatched  his  money  away 
from  him,  looking  back  with  a  laugh,  which  added  insult  to 
injury.  Pierre  had  no  redi'css ;  no  one  had  ^vitnesscd  the  impu- 
dent theft,  and  if  they  had,  no  one  to  be  seen  in  the  street  was 
strong  enough  to  give  him  redi'ess.  Besides,  Pierre  had  seen 
enough  of  the  state  of  the  streets  of  Paris  at  that  time  to  know- 
that  friends,  not  enemies,  were  required,  and  the  man  had  a  bad 
air  about  him.  But  all  these  considerations  did  not  keep  Pierre 
from  bursting  out  into  a  fit  of  crying  when  he  was  once  more 
under  his  mother's  i-oof ;  and  Virginie,  who  was  alone  there 
(Madame  Babette  having  gone  out  to  make  her  daily  pm-chases), 
might  have  imagined  him  pommeled  to  death  by  the  loudness  of 
his  sobs. 

"'What  is  the  matter?'  asked  she.  'Speak,  my  child. 
What  hast  thou  done  ?' 

" '  He  has  robbed  mo  !  he  has  robbed  me  !'  was  all  Pierre 
could  gulp  out. 


2.'jO  MX    LADY    I.IDI.OW. 

"  *  Robbed  tlicc  !  and  of  what,  my  poor  boy  ?'  said  Virginic, 
stroking  bis  hair  gently. 

"'Of  my  five-franc  piece — of  a  fivo-fi-anc  piece,'  said  Pierre, 
correcting  himself,  and  leaving  out  tlic  word  my,  half  fearful 
Jest  Virginic  shoidd  inquire  how  he  became  possessed  of  such  a 
sum,  and  for  what  services  it  had  been  given  him.  But,  of 
course,  no  such  idea  came  into  her  head,  for  it  would  huvo  been 
impertinent,  and  she  was  gentle-born. 

"  '  Wait  a  moment,  my  lad,'  and  going  to  the  one  small  drawer 
in  the  inner  apartment,  which  held  all  her  few  possessions,  she 
brought  back  a  little  ring  — a  ring  just  with  one  ruby  in  it — 
whicli  she  had  worn  in  the  days  when  she  cared  to  wear  jewels. 
'  Take  this,'  said  she,  '  and  run  with  it  to  a  jeweller's.  It  is  but 
a  poor,  valueless  thing,  but  it  will  bring  you  in  your  five  francs, 
at  any  rate.     Go  !  I  desire  you.' 

"  '  But  I  cannot,'  said  the  boy,  hesitating  ;  some  dim  sense  of 
honour  flitting  through  his  misty  morals. 

"'Yes,  you  must!'  she  continued,  urging  him  with  her  hand 
to  the  door.  '  Eun  !  if  it  brings  in  more  than  live  francs,  yon 
shall  return  the  surplus  to  me.' 

"  Thus  tempted  by  her  urgency,  and,  I  suppose,  reasoning 
with  himself  to  the  effect  that  he  might  as  well  have  the  money, 
and  then  see  whether  ho  thought  it  right  to  act  as  a  spy  upon  her 
or  not — the  one  action  did  not  pledge  him  to  the  other,  nor  yet 
(lid  she  make  any  conditions  with  her  gift — Pierre  went  oft' witli 
her  ring  ;  and,  after  repaying  himself  his  five  francs,  ho  was 
enabled  to  bring  Virginic  back  two  more,  so  well  had  he  managed 
his  affairs.  But,  altliough  the  whole  transaction  did  nut  have 
Jiiiu  bound,  in  any  way,  to  discover  or  forward  Virginie's  wishes, 
it  did  le4ive  him  pledged,  according  to  his  code,  to  act  ac- 
cording to  her  advantage,  and  ho  considered  himself  the  judge 
of  the  best  course  to  be  pursued  to  this  end.  And,  moreover, 
tliis  litthi  kindness  attached  liim  to  her  })ersonally.  lie  began 
ta  think  how  pleasant  it  would  be  to  have  so  kind  and  generous  a 
jtersou  for  a  relation  ;  lu)w  easily  his  troubles  might  be  borno 
if  lie  had  always  such  a  ready  lu-lper  at  hand  ;  how  much  ho 
should  like  to  make  her  like  him,  and  come  to  him  for  the  pro- 
tection of  his  masculine  power  !  First  of  all  his  duties,  as  her 
Belf-appoiuttil  scjnire,  came  the  necessity  of  finding  out  who  her 
strange  new  acquaintanctt  was.  Thr.s,  you  see,  he  arrived  at  the 
same  end,  via  supjjosed  duty,  that  he  was  previiiusly  phdged  to 
via  interest.  1  fancy  a  good  nunil)i'r  of  us,  when  any  line  of 
action  will  promote  our  own  interrst,  can  niakt*  ourselves  believo 
that  reasons  exist  which  compel  us  to  it  as  a  duty. 


MY   LADY   LUDLOW.  2.31 

"  In  tlie  course  of  a  very  few  days.  Pierre  had  ro  circumvented 
Virginic  as  to  have  discovered  that  her  new  friend  was  no  other 
than  the  Nonnan  fanner  in  a  difleixait  dress.  This  was  a  great 
j)iece  of  knowledge  to  imjiart  to  Morin.  But  Pierre  was  not 
ju-cparcd  for  the  immediate  physical  effect  it  had  on  his  cousin, 
florin  sat  suddenly  down  on  one  of  the  scats  in  the  Boulevards 
— it  was  there  Pierre  had  met  with  him  accidentally — when  he 
heard  who  it  was  that  Virginie  met.  I  do  not  suppose  the  man 
had  the  faintest  idea  of  any  relationship  or  even  previous  ac- 
quaintanceship hetween  Clement  and  Virginie.  If  he  thought 
of  anything  beyond  the  mere  fact  presented  to  him,  that  his  idol 
was  in  communication  with  another,  yoimgcr,  handsomer  man 
than  himself,  it  must  have  been  that  the  Norman  farmer  had 
seen  her  at  the  conciergcrie,  and  had  been  attracted  by  her,  and, 
as  was  hut  natm-al,  had  tried  to  make  her  acquaintance,  and  had 
succeeded.  But,  from  what  Pierre  told  me,  I  should  not  think 
that  even  this  much  thought  passed  through  Morin's  mind.  He 
seems  to  have  been  a  man  of  rare  and  concentrated  attachments ; 
violent,  though  restrained  and  undemonstrative  passions ;  and, 
above  all,  a  capability  of  jealousy,  of  which  his  dark  oriental 
complexion  must  have  been  a  type.  I  could  fancy  that  if  he  had 
mari'ied  Virginie,  he  would  have  coined  his  life-blood  for  luxuries 
to  make  her  happy ;  would  have  watched  over  and  petted 
her,  at  every  sacrifice  to  himself,  as  long  as  she  would  have  been 
content  to  live  with  him  alone.  But,  as  Pierre  expressed  it  to 
me  :  '  When  I  saw  what  my  cousin  was,  when  I  learned  his  nature 
too  late,  1  perceived  that  he  would  have  strangled  a  bird  if  she 
whom  he  loved  was  attracted  by  it  from  him.' 

"  When  PieiTc  had  told  Morin  of  his  discovery,  Morin  sat 
down,  as  T  said,  quite  suddenly,  as  if  he  had  been  shot.  Ho 
found  out  that  the  first  meeting  between  the  Norman  and  Virginie 
was  no  accidental,  isolated  circumstance.  Pierre  was  torturing 
liim  witli  his  accounts  of  daily  rendezvous  :  if  but  for  a  moment, 
they  were  seeing  each  other  every  day,  sometimes  twice  a  day. 
And  Virginie  could  speak  to  this  man,  though  to  himself  she 
was  coy  and  reserved  as.hardly  to  utter  a  sentence.  Pierre  caught 
thest;  broken  words  while  his  cousin's  complexion  gi-ew  more  and 
more  livid,  and  then  purple,  as  if  some  great  effect  were  produced 
on  his  circulation  by  the  news  he  had  just  heard.  Pierre  was 
80  startled  by  his  cousin's  wandering,  senseless  eyes,  and  other- 
wise disordered  looks,  that  he  rushed  into  a  neighbouring  cabaret 
for  a  glass  o{  absinthe,  which  he  paid  for,  as  he  recollected 
afterwards,  with  a  portion  of  Virginie's  five  francs.  By-and-by 
Morin  recovered  his  natural  appearance  ;  but  ho  was  gloomy 


'^^52  MY    LADY    LUDLOW. 

nud  silent ;  and  all  that  Pierre  could  get  out  of  him  was.  that 
the  Nunnau  faruitr  should  mit  sleep  autjther  night  at  the  Hotel 
Duguescliu,  giving  him  such  opi)ortiuiities  of  passing  and  re- 
passing hy  the  conciergerie  door.  He  was  too  much  absorbed  in 
his  own  thoughts  to  repay  Pierre  the  half  franc  he  had  spent  on 
the  absinthe,  which  Pierre  perceived,  and  seems  to  have  noted 
down  in  the  ledger  of  his  mind  as  on  Virginie's  balance  of 
favour. 

"  Altogether,  he  was  much  disappointed  at  his  cousin's  mode  of 
receiving  intelligence,  which  the  lad  thought  worth  another  five- 
franc  piece  at  least ;  or,  if  not  paid  for  in  money,  to  be  paid  for 
in  open-mouthed  confidence  and  expression  of  feeling,  that  he 
was,  for  a  time,  so  far  a  partisan  of  Yirginie's — xmconscious 
Virginie — against  his  cousin,  as  to  feel  regret  when  the  Norman 
retm-ned  no  more  to  his  night's  lodging,  and  when  Yirginie's 
eager  watch  at  the  crevice  of  the  closely-diawn  blind  ended  only 
with  a  sigh  of  disappointment.  If  it  had  not  been  for  his  mother's 
l)reseuce  at  the  time,  Pierre  thought  he  shoidd  have  told  her  all. 
But  how  far  was  his  mother  in  his  cousin's  confidence  as  regarded 
the  dismissal  of  the  Norman  '? 

"  In  a  few  days,  however,  Pierre  felt  almost  sure  that  they  had 
established  some  new  means  of  communication.  Virginie  went 
out  for  a  short  time  every  day  ;  but  though  Pierre  followed  her 
as  closely  as  he  could  without  exciting  her  observation,  he  wjis 
unable  to  discover  what  kind  of  intercourse  she  held  with  the 
Norman.  She  went,  in  general,  the  same  short  round  among 
the  little  shoi)S  in  the  neighbt)urht)od  ;  not  entering  any,  but 
stopi)iiig  at  tuo  or  three.  Pierre  afterwiuds  remembered  that 
she  had  invariably  paused  at  the  nosugays  disjdayed  in  a  certain 
window,  and  studied  them  long;  but,  then,  she  stoi>ped  and 
looked  at  caps,  liats,  fashions,  ctnifeetioiury  (all  of  the  humblo 
kind  common  in  that  ([uarter),  so  how  should  he  have  known  that 
any  particular  attraction  existed  among  the  fio\veii>  ?  Morin  caiuo 
more  regularly  than  ever  to  liis  aunts  ;  but  Virginie  was  ap- 
})arently  unconscious  tliat  she  was  the  attraction.  She  looked 
healthi»!r  and  more  hopeful  than  she  had  done  for  months,  lUid 
her  mannirs  to  all  were  gi^ntler  and  not  so  reserved.  Almost  »u« 
if  she  wished  to  maniftist  lur  gratitude  to  jMadame  Babitte  for 
lier  long  continuance  of  kindness,  the  lu'cessity  for  whuh  wjia 
nearly  inded,  Virginie  showed  an  unusual  almrity  in  rt  ndering 
the  old  woman  any  littlo  service  in  iicr  power,  mid  ividtutly 
tried  to  respond  to  ^lonsiour  Morin's  civilities,  he  b«>ing  ^ladantO 
r.al>ette  K  nephew,  witli  a  soft  graeiousness  wliieli  mu.st  havo 
made  one  of  her  princijial  charms;   lor  all  who  kn»>w  her  speak 


MY    LADY    LUDLOW.  2o3 

of  the  fasciuation  of  her  marmers,  so  ^\'iIlniug  and  attentive  to 
others,  while  yet  her  oj)iniou8,  and  often  her  actions,  were  of  so 
decided  a  character.  For,  as  I  have  said,  her  beauty  was  by  no 
means  great  ;  yet  every  man  who  came  near  her  seems  to  have 
fallen  into  the  sphere  of  her  influence.  Monsieur  Morin  was 
deeper  than  ever  in  love  with  her  during  these  last  few  days  :  he 
was  worked  up  into  a  state  capable  of  any  sacrifice,  cither  of 
himself  or  others,  so  that  he  might  obtain  her  at  last.  He  sat 
'  devouring  her  with  his  eyes'  (to  use  PieiTc's  expression)  when- 
ever she  coxUd  not  sec  him  ;  but,  if  she  looked  towards  him,  he 
looked  to  the  grovmd — any^vhere — away  from  her  and  almost 
stammered  in  his  replies  if  she  addressed  any  question  to  him.' 

"  He  had  been,  I  should  think,  ashamed  of  his  extreme  agita- 
tion on  tlie  Boulevards,  for  Pierre  thought  that  he  absolutely 
shunned  him  for  these  few  succeeding  days.  He  must  havo 
oelieved  that  he  had  driven  the  Norman  (my  poor  Clement !)  off 
the  field,  by  banishing  him  from  his  inn  ;  and  thought  that  the 
intercourse  between  him  and  Yirginie,  which  he  had  thus  inter- 
rupted, was  of  so  slight  and  transient  a  character  as  to  be  quenched 
by  a  little  difficulty. 

"  But  he  ai^pcai-s  to  have  felt  that  he  had  made  but  little  way, 
and  he  awkwardly  tmncd  to  Pierre  for  help — not  yet  confessing 
his  love,  though  ;  he  only  tried  to  make  friends  again  with  the 
lad  after  their  silent  estrangement.  And  Pierre  for  some  time 
did  not  choose  to  perceive  his  cousin's  advances.  He  would 
reply  to  all  the  roundabout  questions  Morin  put  to  him  respecting 
household  conversations  when  he  was  not  present,  or  household 
•)ccui)ations  and  tone  of  thought,  without  mentioning  Virginie's 
name  any  more  than  his  questioner  did.  The  lad  would  seem 
to  suppose,  that  his  cousin's  strong  interest  in  their  domestic  ways 
of  going  on  was  all  on  accoimt  of  Madame  Babette.  At  last  he 
worked  his  cousin  up  to  the  point  of  making  him  a  confidant ; 
and  then  the  boy  was  half  frightened  at  the  torrent  of  vehement 
w<u-ds  he  had  unloosed.  The  lava  came  dovra  with  a  greater  rush 
for  having  been  pent  up  so  long.  Morin  cried  out  his  words  in 
a  hoarse,  passionate  voi(;e,  clenched  his  teeth,  his  fingers,  and 
Boemed  almost  convulsed,  as  he  spoke  out  his  terrible  love  for 
Virginie,  which  would  lead  him  to  kill  her  sooner  than  see  her 
another's  ;  and  if  anr)ther  stepped  in  between  him  and  her  ! — and 
then  he  smiled  a  fierce,  triumphant  smile,  but  did  not  say  any 
more. 

"•  Pierre  was,  as  I  said,  half-frightened  ;  but  also  half-admir- 
ing. This  was  really  love — a  '  grande  passion,' — a  really  fine 
diiunatic  thing,—  like  the  plays  they  acted  at  the  little  theatre 


254  MY   LADY   LUDLOW. 

yonder.  He  had  a  dozen  timoR  the  sympathy  mth  his  cousin 
now  that  he  had  had  before,  and  readily  swore  by  the  infernal 
gods,  for  they  were  far  too  enlightened  to  believe  in  one  God,  or 
Christianity,  or  anything  of  the  kind, — that  he  would  devote 
himself,  body  and  soul,  to  forwarding  his  cousin's  views.  Then  his 
cousin  took  him  to  a  shop,  and  bought  him  a  smart  second-hand 
watch,  on  which  they  scratched  the  word  Fidelite,  and  thus  was 
the  compact  sealed.  .  Pierre  settled  in  his  «\mi  mind,  tliat  if  he 
were  a  woman,  he  should  like  to  be  beloved  as  Yirginie  was,  by 
his  cousin,  and  that  it  would  be  an  extremely  good  thing  for  her 
to  be  the  wife  of  so  rich  a  citizen  as  Morin  Fils, —  and  for  Pierre 
himself,  too,  for  doubtless  their  gratitude  would  lead  them  to  give 
him  rings  and  watches  ad  infinitiun. 

"  A  day  or  two  afterwards,  Yirginie  was  taken  ill.  Madame 
Babette  said  it  was  because  she  had  persevered  in  going  out  in 
all  weathers,  after  confining  herself  to  two  waiin  rooms  for  so 
long ;  and  very  probably  this  was  really  the  cause,  for,  from 
Pierre's  account,  she  must  have  been  suffering  from  a  feverish 
cold,  aggi'avated,  no  doubt,  by  her  imi)atiencc  at  Madame 
Babette's  familiar  prohibitions  of  any  more  walks  until  she  wa.s 
better.  Every  day,  in  spite  of  her  trembling,  aching  limbs,  she 
would  fain  have  aiTanged  her  dress  for  her  walk  at  the  usual 
time ;  but  Madame  Babette  Avas  fully  prepared  to  put  physical 
obstacles  in  her  way,  if  she  was  not  obedient  in  remaining  tran- 
quil on  the  little  sofa  by  the  side  of  the  fire.  The  third  day,  she 
called  Pierre  to  her,  when  his  mother  was  not  attending  (having, 
in  fact,  locked  up  Mademoiselle  Cannes'  out-of-door  things). 

"  '  See,  my  child,'  said  Virginie.  '  Tlu)u  must  do  me  a  great 
favour.  Go  to  the  gardener's  shuj)  in  the  Eue  des  Buns-Enfans, 
and  look  at  the  nosegays  in  the  window.  I  long  for  pinks  ;  they 
arc  my  favourite  flower.  Here  arc  two  fi-ancs.  If  thou  seest  a 
nosegay  of  pinks  displayed  in  the  window,  if  it  bo  ever  so  faded, 
—nay,  if  thou  soi'st  two  or  three  nosegays  of  pinks,  romcmlH.'r, 
buy  them  all.  and  bring  them  to  nu',  1  liave  st)  gi-eat  a  desire  for 
tlie  smell.'  She  fell  back  weak  and  exhausted.  Pii^rre  hurried 
«iut.  Now  was  the  time  ;  here  was  the  clue  to  the  h>ng  inspec- 
tion of  the  nosegay  in  this  very  shoj). 

"Sure  enough,  there  was  a  drooping  nosegay  of  pinks  in  llio 
window.  Pierre  went  in,  and,  with  all  his  impatience,  he  mado 
lus  good  a  l)argaiu  as  lu;  could,  urging  that  the  flowers  were  faded, 
and  good  for  nothing.  At  hist  he  })urehased  lliem  at  a  very 
moderate!  price.  And  now  you  will  learn  the  bad  eonst^juences 
of  teaeliiiig  tlie  lowc^r  orders  anything  beyond  what  is  imniediat«'ly 
Jieceasai'y  to  enable  tlieni  to  earn  tlitir  daily  briad  !       The  silly 


MY    LADY    LUDLOW.  25.', 

Count  de  Crtquy, — be  who  had  been  Hcnt  to  his  bloody  rest,  by 
the  very  canaille  of  whom  he  thought  so  much, — he  who  hiul 
made  Virginie  (indirectly,  it  is  true)  reject  such  a  man  as  her 
cousin    Clement,    by  inflating  her   mind  with  his   bubbles    of 
theories, — this  Count  de  Crequy  had  long  ago  taken  a  fancy  to 
PieiTC,  as  he  saw  the  bright  sharp  child  playing  about  his  court- 
yard.     Monsieur  de  Crequy  had  even  begxm  to  educate  the  boy 
himself,  to  try  to  work  out  certain  opinions  of  his  into  practice, 
— but  the  drudgery  of  the  aftair  wearied  him,  and,  beside,  Babette 
had  left  his  employment.    Still  tlie  Count  took  a  kind  of  interest 
in  his  former  pupil ;  and  made  some  sort  of  an-angement  by  which 
PieiTe  was  to  be  taught  reading  and  writing,  and  accounts,  aud 
Heaven  knows  what  besides, — Latin,  I  dare  say.    So  Pierre,  in- 
stead of  being  an  innocent  messenger,  as  he  ought  to  have  been 
— (as  Mr.  Homers  little  lad  Grcgson  ought  to  have  been  this 
morning) — could  read  wTiting  as  well  as  either  yon  or  I.     So 
what  does  he  do,  on  obtaining  the  nosegay,  but  examine  it  well. 
The  stalks  of  tlie  flowers  were  tied  up  with  slips  of  matting  in 
wet  moss,      Pierre  undid  the  strings,  unwrapped  tlie  moss,  and 
out  fell  a  piece  of  wet  paper,  with  the  ^vriting  all  blurred  with 
moisture.     It  was  but  a  torn  piece  of  ^vri ting-paper,  ajjparcntly, 
but  Pierre's  -wicked  mischievous  eyes  read  what  was  written  on 
it, — wTitten  so  as  to  look  like  a  fragment, — '  Ready,  every  and 
any  night  at  nine.      All  is  jirepared.      Have  Tio  fright.      Trust 
one  who,  whatever  hopes  he  might  once  have  had,  is  content  now 
to  serve  you  as  a  faithful  cousin  ;'  and  a  place  was  named,  which 
I  forget,  but  which  Pierre  did  not,  as  it  was  evidently  the  ren- 
dezvous.   After  the  lad  had  studied  every  word,  till  he  could  say 
it  oflf  by  heart,  he  placed  the  paper  where  he  had  found  it, 
enveloped  it  in  moss,  and  tied  the  whole  up  again  carefully. 
Virginie's  face  coloured  scarlet  as  she  received  it.     She  kept 
smelling  at  it,  and  trembling  :  but  she  did  not  untie  it,  although 
Pierre  suggested  how  much  fresher  it  would  be  if  the  stalks  were 
immediately  put  into  water.     But  once,  after  his  back  had  been 
tmned  for  a  minute,  he  saw  it  imtied  when  he  looked  round 
again,  and  Virginie  was  blushing,  and  hiding  something  in  her 
bosom. 

"  Pierre  was  now  all  impatience  to  set  off  and  find  his  cousin. 
But  his  mother  seemed  to  want  him  for  small  domestic  pm'j)Gse8 
even  more  than  usual ;  and  he  had  chafed  over  a  multitude  t)f 
errands  connected  with  the  Hotel  before  ho  could  set  off  and 
search  for  his  cousin  at  his  u^ual  haunts.  At  last  the  two  met  ; 
and  Pierre  related  all  tlie  events  of  tlie  morning  to  Morin.  He 
said  the  note  off  word  by  w(jrd.     (That  lad  this  morning  had 


256  MY    LADY    LUDLOW. 

Romething  of  the  magpie  look  of  Pierre — it  made  me  sliutlJer  to 
see  him,  and  hear  hira  repeat  the  note  by  heart.)  Then  Morin 
asked  him  to  tell  him  sill  over  again.  Pierre  was  struck  by 
Morin's  heavy  sighs  as  he  repeated  the  story.  "^Tien  he  come 
the  second  time  to  the  note,  Morin  tried  to  write  the  words  down  ; 
but  either  he  was  not  a  good,  ready  scholar,  or  his  fingei-s 
trembled  too  much.  PieiTe  hardly  remembered,  but,  at  any  rate, 
the  lad  had  to  do  it,  ^Wtli  his  wicked  reading  and  writing.  "Wlieu 
this  was  done,  Morin  sat  heavily  silent.  Pierre  would  have  pre- 
fern^d  the  expected  outburst,  for  this  impenetrable  gloom  per- 
plexed and  baffled  him.  He  had  even  to  speak  to  his  cousin  to 
rouse  him  ;  and  when  he  replied,  what  he  s;\id  had  so  little 
api)arent  connection  with  the  subject  which  Pierre  had  expected 
to  tind  uppermost  in  his  mind,  that  he  was  half  afraid  that  his 
cousin  had  lost  his  wits. 

"  '  My  Aunt  Babette  is  out  of  coflfee.' 

" '  I  am  sure  I  do  not  Icnow,'  said  Pierre. 

"  '  Yes,  she  is.  I  heard  her  say  so.  Tell  her  that  a  friend  of 
mine  has  just  opened  a  shop  in  the  Rue  Stiint  Antoinc,  and  that 
if  she  will  join  me  there  in  an  hour,  I  will  supply  her  \\'ith  a 
good  stock  of  coflfee,  just  to  give  my  friend  encouragement.  His 
name  is  Antoine  Meyer,  Number  One  himdred  and  Fifty,  at  the 
sign  of  the  Cap  of  Liberty.' 

'' '  I  could  go  with  you  now.  I  can  carry  a  few  pounds  of 
coflfee  better  than  my  mother,'  said  PieiTC,  all  in  got>d  faith.  He 
t(dd  me  he  should  never  forget  the  look  on  his  cousin's  face,  as 
lie  turned  roiuid,  and  bade  him  begone,  and  pve  his  mother  the 
message  without  another  word.  It  had  evidently  sent  him  home 
promptly  to  obey  his  cousin's  command.  Morin's  message  per- 
plexed Madame  Babette. 

"  '  How  could  hti  know  I  was  out  of  coffee  ?'  said  she.  '  I  am  ; 
but  I  only  used  the  last  uj)  this  morning.  How  could  Victor 
know  about  it  ?' 

" '  I  am  sure  I  can't  tell,'  said  Pierre,  who  by  this  time  had 
recovered  his  usual  self-possession.  'All  I  know  is,  tliat 
monsieur  is  in  a  jirctty  temper,  and  that  if  you  are  not  sliarp  to 
your  time  at  tliis  Antoine  INIeyer's  you  are  likely  to  come  in  for 
some  of  his  bhu  k  h)oks.' 

"  '  Well,  it  is  very  kind  of  him  to  offer  to  give  mo  some  coffee, 
to  be  surc! !     But  how  could  he  know  I  was  out  ?' 

"Pierre  hurried  liis  mother  oil'  iiii})atit'iitly,  for  ho  was  certain 
that  the  offer  of  tlie  coffe*  was  only  u  liliiid  to  Kom<>  hidden  pur- 
jxtse  on  his  cousin's  jiart ;  and  he  made  no  doubt  that  when  his 
mother  had  been  infoniud  nf  what  liis  cousin's  real  intention 


Mv  i.AiiY  i.rDi.ow.  257 

was,  he,  Pierre,  could  extract  it  from  lior  by  coaxlug  or  bullying. 
But  ho  was  mistaken.  Madame  Babettc  retiu'iicd  home,  grave, 
depressed,  silent,  and  loaded  with  the  best  coffee.  Some  timo 
afterwiu-ds  he  learnt  why  his  cousin  had  sought  for  this  inter- 
view. It  was  to  extract  from  her,  by  promises  and  threats,  the 
real  name  of  IMam'sclle  Canms,  which  would  give  him  a  clue  to 
the  true  ap])ellation  oi  The  Faithfvd  Cousin.  He  concealed  this 
second  piu'pose  from  his  aunt,  who  had  been  quite  unaware  ol 
his  jealousy  of  the  Norman  farmer,  or  of  his  identitication  of  him 
with  any  relation  of  Virginie's.  But  iMadame  Babette  instinc- 
tively shi-ank  from  giving  him  any  information  :  she  must  have 
felt  that,  in  the  lowering  mood  in  which  she  found  him,  his 
desire  for  gi'cater  knowledge  of  Virginie's  antecedents  boded  her 
110  good.  And  yet  he  made  his  aunt  his  confidante — told  her 
what  she  had  only  susjiccted  before — that  he  was  deeply  en- 
amoured of  Mam'selle  Cannes,  and  would  gladly  marry  her.  He 
spoke  to  Madame  Babette  of  his  father's  hoarded  riches ;  and 
of  the  share  which  he,  as  partner,  had  in  them  at  the  present 
time  ;  and  of  the  prospect  of  the  succession  to  the  whole,  which 
he  had,  as  only  child.  He  told  his  aunt  of  the  i)rovision.  for  her 
(Madame  Babctte's)  life,  which  he  would  make  on  the  day  when 
ne  married  3Iam'sello  Cannes.  And  yet — and  yet — Babette  saw 
that  in  his  eye  and  look  which  made  her  more  and  more  reluc- 
tant to  confide  in  him.  By-and-by  he  tried  threats.  She  should 
leave  the  concicrgeric,  and  find  employment  where  she  liked. 
Still  silence.  Then  he  gi-ew  angry,  and  swore  that  he  would 
inform  against  her  at  the  bm-cau  of  the  Directory,  for  harbom-ing 
an  aristocrat ;  an  aristocrat  he  knew  Mademoiselle  was,  whatever 
her  real  name  might  be.  His  aimt  shoidd  have  a  domiciliary 
visit,  and  see  how  she  liked  that.  The  officers  of  the  Govern- 
ment were  the  people  for  finding  out  secrets.  In  vain  she 
reminded  him  that,  by  so  doing,  he  would  expose  to  imminent 
danger  the  lady  whom  he  had  professed  to  love.  He  told  her,  with 
a  sullen  relapse  into  silence  after  his  vehement  outpom-ing  of 
passion,  never  to  trouble  herself  about  that.  At  last  he  wearied 
out  the  old  woman,  and,  frightened  alike  of  herself,  and  of  him, 
she  told  him  all,— that  Mam'selle  Cannes  was  Mademoiselle 
Virginie  do  Crequy,  daughter  of  the  Count  of  that  name.  Who 
was  tl>e  Count  ?  Younger  brother  of  the  Marquis.  Where  was 
the  Marquis  ?  Dead  long  ago,  leaving  a  widow  and  child.  A 
son  ?  (eagerly).  Yes,  a  son.  Where  was  he  ?  Parbleu  !  how 
ahould  she  know  ? — for  her  com'agc  returned  a  little  as  the  talk 
went  away  from  the  only  person  of  the  De  Cn'cjuy  family  that 
she  cared  about.      But.  by  dint  of  some  small  glasses  out  of  a 

8 


258  MY    LADY    LUDLOW. 

bottle  of  Antoine  ^Meyer's,  she  told  him  more  uhoiit  the  Do 
Crecpiys  than  slic  liked  aftcrwui-ds  to  remember.  For  the  exhi- 
laration of  the  bi'audy  lasted  but  a  very  short  time,  and  she  came 
home,  as  I  have  said,  depressed,  vnth  a  presentiment  of  coming 
evil.  She  would  nut  answer  Pierre,  but  cuti'ed  him  about  in  a 
manner  to  which  tlie  spoilt  boy  was  quite  unaccustomed  His 
cousin's  short,  angiy  words,  and  sudden  withdrawal  of  confidence. 
— his  mother's  miwonted  crossness  and  faidt-finding.  all  made 
Virginie's  kind,  gentle  treatment,  more  than  over  channing  to 
the  lad.  He  half  resolved  to  tell  her  how  lie  had  been  acting  as 
a  spy  upon  her  actions,  and  at  wIkjsc  desire  he  liad  done  it.  But 
lie  \\as  afraid  of  Morin,  and  of  the  vengeance  which  he  was  sure 
would  fall  ui)on  him  for  any  breach  of  confidence.  Towanls 
half-past  eight  that  evening — Pierre,  watching,  saw  Yirginie 
arrange  several  little  things — she  was  in  the  inner  room,  but  lie 
sat  where  he  could  see  her  through  the  glazed  partition.  His 
mother  sat  —  apparently  sleeping  —  in  the  great  easy-chair  : 
Virginie  moved  about  softly,  for  fear  of  disturbing  lier.  She 
made  up  one  or  two  little  parcels  of  the  few  things  she  could  call 
her  own  :  one  packet  she  concealed  about  herself, — the  others 
she  directed,  and  left  on  the  slielf.  '  She  is  going,'  thought 
Pierre,  and  (as  he  said  in  giving  me  the  account)  his  licart  gave 
a  spring,  to  think  that  he  should  never  see  her  again.  If  either 
l»s  mother  or  his  cousin  had  been  more  kind  to  him,  he  might 
have  endeavoured  to  intercept  her ;  but  as  it  was,  he  held  his 
breath,  and  wlicn  she  came  out  he  pretended  to  read,  scarcely 
knowing  wliether  he  wished  her  to  succeed  in  the  purpose  whie'i 
he  was  almost  sure  she  envertained,  or  not.  She  stopped  by  him. 
and  passed  her  hand  over  his  hair.  Ho  told  me  that  his  eyes 
filled  witli  tears  at  this  caress.  Then  she  stood  for  a  moment, 
looking  at  the  sleeping  Madame  l>abette,  and  stooped  down  and 
softly  kissed  her  on  the  ft)reliead.  IMerre  dreaded  lest  his  motlur 
sliould  awake  (for  by  this  time  the  wayward,  vacillating  boy  must 
have  been  quite  on  Virginie's  side),  but  the  brandy  she  liad  drunk 
made  her  slumber  heavily.  Yirginie  went.  Pierre's  lieart  lieat 
fast.  He  was  sure  his  cousin  would  try  to  intercept  her;  but 
liow,  he  could  not  imagine.  He;  longed  to  run  out  and  see  tin; 
catastrophe,-  but  lie  had  let  the  iiioiiuiit  slip  ;  ho  was  also  afniid 
of  reawakening  hi^  mother  to  lur  unusual  slato  of  anger  mid 
vi'deuco." 


ilY    LADY    LUDLOW.  259 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"  PiEURE  went  OH  i)rcten(ling  to  read,  but  in  reality  listening 
\\-itli  acute  tension  of  ear  to  every  little  soiind.  His  perceptions 
became  so  sensitive  in  this  respect  that  he  was  incapable  of 
moasirring  time,  every  moment  had  seemed  so  full  of  noises, 
from  the  beating  of  his  heart  up  to  the  roll  of  the  heavy  carts 
in  the  distance.  He  wondered  whether  Yirginie  woidd  have 
reached  the  i)lace  of  rendezvous,  and  yet  he  was  unable  to 
compute  the  passage  of  minutes.  His  mother  slejit  soundly : 
that  was  v.cll.  By  this  time  Virginie  must  have  met  the 
'  iiiithful  cousin  :'  if,  indeed,  Morin  had  not  made  his  apjtcar- 
ance. 

"  At  length,  he  felt  as  if  he  could  no  longer  sit  still,  awaiting 
the  issue,  but  must  run  out  and  see  what  course  events  liad 
taken.  In  vain  his  mother,  half-rousing  herself,  called  after 
him  to  ask  wliither  he  was  going  :  he  was  already  out  of  hearing 
before  she  had  ended  her  sentence,  and  he  ran  on  until,  stopped 
by  the  sight  of  Mademoiselle  Cannes  walking  along  at  so  swift 
a  pace  that  it  was  almost  a  run ;  while  at  her  side,  resolutely 
keeping  by  her,  Morin  was  striding  abreast.  Pierre  had  just 
turacd  the  comer  of  the  street,  when  he  came  upon  them. 
Virginie  would  have  passed  him  without  recognizing  him,  she 
was  in  such  passionate  agitation,  but  for  Morin's  gesture,  by 
which  he  would  fain  have  kept  Pierre  from  interrapting  them. 
Then,  wJien  Virginie  saw  the  lad,  she  cauglit  at  his  ann, 
and  thanked  God,  as  if  in  that  boy  of  twelve  or  fom-teen  slie 
held  a  protector.  Pierre  felt  her  tremble  from  head  to  foot, 
and  was  afraid  lest  she  would  fall,  tliore  where  she  stood,  in  the 
hard  rcjugh  street. 

"  '  Begone,  Pierre  !'  said  Morin. 

*' '  1  cannot,'  replied  Pien-e,  who  indeed  was  licid  firmly 
by  Virginie.  'Besides,  I  won't,'  he  added.  'Who  lias  been 
frightening  mademoiselle  in  this  way?'  asked  lie,  very  much 
inclined  to  brave  iiis  cousin  at  all  hazards. 

'' '  Mademoiselle  is  not  accustomed  to  walk  in  the  streets 
lone,'  said  Monn,  sulkily.     '  She  came  upon  a  crowd  attracted 

■  the  arrest  of  an  aristocrat,  and  tlieir  cries  ahxrmcd  1k». 
I  ofi'ered  to  take  charge  of  her  home.  Mademoiselle  should  not 
walk  in  these  streets  alone.  Wc  are  not  like  the  cold-blocded 
l«(>ple  of  the  Faubourg  Saint  Germain.' 


2C^0  MY    I.ADY   LUDLOW. 

"Virginie  did  not  speak,  rierre  doubted  if  slie  heard  a 
word  of  wliat  they  were  sayiug.  She  leaut  ujiou  him  more  and 
more  heavily 

"'Will  mademoiselle  condesotind  to  take  my  arm?'  said 
Morin,  with  sulky,  and  yet  Innnble,  uneouthness.  1  diu-e  sjiy 
he  woidd  have  given  worlds  if  he  might  have  had  that  little 
hand  within  his  unn ;  but,  though  she  still  kejit  silence,  she 
shuddered  up  away  from  him,  as  you  shrink  from  toucJiing 
a  toad.  He  had  said  something  to  her  dm'iug  that  walk, 
you  may  be  sure,  which  had  made  her  Iciathe  him.  He  marked 
and  understood  the  gcstui'C.  He  held  himself  aloof  while  Pierre 
gave  her  all  the  assistance  he  could  in  their  slow  progress 
homewards.  But  Morin  accompanied  her  all  the  same.  He 
had  played  too  desperate  a  game  to  be  baulked  now.  He  had 
given  information  against  the  ci-devant  !!\Iarquis  de  Crequy.  as 
a  returned  emigre,  to  be  met  with  at  such  a  time,  in  such  a 
place.  Morin  had  hoped  that  all  sign  of  the  arrest  woiUtl  have 
been  cleared  away  before  Virginie  reached  the  spot — so  swiftly 
were  terrible  deeds  done  in  tliesc  days.  But  Clement  defended 
liimself  desperately  :  Virginie  was  i)unctual  to  a  second  ;  imd, 
though  the  wounded  man  was  borne  oft"  to  the  Abbaye,  amid  ti 
crowd  of  the  unsympathising  jeerers  who  mingled  with  the 
armed  officials  of  the  Directory,  Morin  feared  lest  Virginie  had 
recognized  him ;  and  he  would  hav(>  preferred  that  she  shoidd 
have  thought  that  the  'faithful  cousin'  was  faithless,  than  that 
she  should  have  seen  him  in  bloody  danger  on  her  account,  I 
suppose  he  fancied  that,  if  Virginie  never  saw  m*  heard  more  of 
him,  her  imagination  would  not  dwell  on  his  simple  dis- 
api)earance,  as  it  would  do  if  she  knew  what  he  was  sutiering 
for  her  sake. 

"  At  any  rate,  Pierre  saw  tliat  his  cousin  was  deeply  niortifiecl 
by  the  wlnde  tenor  of  his  behaviour  during  their  walk  home. 
When  they  arrived  at  Madame  Babctte's,  Virginie  fell  fainting 
on  the  ftoor  ;  her  strength  hud  but  just  sufficed  for  this  exertion 
of  reaching  the  shelter  of  the  house.  Her  lirst  sign  of  restoring 
consciousness  consisted  in  avoidance  of  ]\Iorin.  He  had  becu 
most  assiduous  in  his  eflbrts  to  bring  lur  roinid  ;  quite  tender 
in  his  way,  Picrn;  said;  and  tiiis  niarkid,  instinctive  repugnauco 
to  him  eviileiitly  gave  him  extreme  pain.  J  supposi'  Frenchuuu 
Mv  more  demonstrative  tlian  we  are  ;  for  Pierre  declared  that 
ho  saw  his  cousin's  eyes  till  with  tears,  as  she  shrank  away  from 
his  touch,  if  lit;  tried  to  arrange  tlie  shawl  they  hud  laid  under 
Iicr  head  like  a  j)illow,  or  as  she  shut  her  lyis  when  he  passed 
boforo  her.     Madame  Babette  was  urgent  with  her  to  go  and  lio 


MY    I.ADY    LIDI.OW.  26l 

rtowTi  on  tlio  hill  in  the  iimcr  room ;  but  it  was  some  time 
before  she  was  strong  enough  to  rise  and  do  this. 

''  When  ]\ra(hua('  IJabetto  retm-ncd  from  ai-ranging  the  girl 
comfortably,  tlie  time  rehitions  sat  down  in  silence;  a  silcnct 
wliieli  Pierre  thought  would  never  be  broken.  He  wanted  his 
mother  to  ask  his  cousin  what  had  happened.  But  Madame 
Babcttc  was  afraid  of  her  nephew,  and  thought  it  more  discreet 
to  wait  for  such  crumbs  of  intelligence  as  he  might  think  fit  to 
throw  to  her.  But,  after  she  had  twice  reported  Virginic  to  Iwj 
asleep,  without  a  word  being  uttered  in  rei)ly  to  her  whispci'S 
by  either  of  her  companions,  Morin's  powers  of  self-contain- 
ment gave  way. 

"  '  It  is  hai'd  !'  he  said. 

" '  What  is  hard  V'  asked  IMadame  Babette,  after  slie  had 
paused  for  a  time,  to  enable  him  to  add  to,  or  to  finish,  his 
sentence,  if  he  pleased. 

" '  It  is  hard  for  a  man  to  love  a  woman  as  I  do,"  he  went  on, 
'I  did  not  seek  to  love  her,  it  came  iipon  me  before  I  was  aware 
— before  I  had  ever  thought  about  it  at  all,  I  loved  her  better 
than  all  the  world  beside.  All  my  life,  before  I  knew  her,  seems 
a  dull  blank.  I  neither  know  nor  care  for  what  I  did  before 
then.  And  now  there  are  just  two  lives  before  me.  Either  I 
have  her,  or  I  have  not.  That  is  all :  but  that  is  everything. 
And  what  can  I  do  to  make  her  have  me  ?  Tell  me,  aunt,'  and 
he  caught  at  Madame  Babette's  arm,  and  gave  it  so  sharj^  a 
shake,  that  she  half  screamed  out,  Pierre  said,  and  evidently 
grew  alamicd  at  her  nephew's  excitement. 

"  '  Hush,  Victor  I'  said  she.  '  There  are  other  women  in  the 
world,  if  this  one  will  not  have  you.' 

"  '  None  other  for  me,'  he  said,  sinking  back  as  if  hopeless. 
'  I  am  plain  and  coarse,  not  one  of  the  se(;nted  darlings  of  the 
aristocrats.  Say  that  I  am  ugly,  brutish ;  I  did  not  make 
myself  so,  any  more  than  I  made  myself  love  her.  it  is  my 
fate.  But  am  I  t(j  submit  to  the  consequences  of  my  fate 
without  a  struggle  ?  Not  I.  As  strong  as  my  love  is,  so  sti-ong 
is  my  will.  It  can  be  no  strf)nger,'  continued  he,  gloomily. 
'Aunt  Babette,  you  nnist  helji  me — y<m  must  make  her  love  me,' 
He  was  so  fierce  here,  that  I'ierre  said  he  did  not  wonder  that 
his  mother  was  frightened. 

"  '  I,  Victor  !'  she  exclaimed.  '  T  make  her  love  you  ?  How  can 
I  ?  Ask  me  t(j  sjjcak  for  you  to  JLidomoisellc  Uidot,  or  to  j\[ade- 
moisello  Cauchois  even,  or  to  such  as  they,  ami  I'll  do  it,  and 
welcome.  But  t(j  IMademoiselle  de  Crequy,  wliy  you  don't  know 
the  diflfercnce  !     Those  people  — the  old  nobility  i  mean — whj 


i'G2  Mv  lahy  i.udi.uv.'. 

they  dou't  Icnow  a  man  from  a  dog,  out  of  their  own  rauk  I  Aud 
no  wonder,  fi)r  the  young  gentlemen  of  quality  are  treated  difle- 
rcutly  to  us  from  their  very  birth.  If  she  had  you  to-morrow, 
you  would  be  miserable.  Let  me  alone  for  knowing  the  aris- 
tocracy. I  have  not  been  a  concierge  to  a  duke  and  three  eoimts 
for  nothing.    I  tell  you,  all  your  ways  are  different  to  her  ways.' 

'• '  I  would  change  my  '"  ways,"  as  j'ou  call  them.' 

•' '  Bo  reasonable,  Victor.' 

'• '  No,  I  will  not  be  reasonable,  if  by  that  you  mean  giving 
her  up.  I  tell  you  two  lives  are  before  me  ;  one  with  her,  one 
without  her.  But  the  latter  will  be  but  a  short  career  for  both 
of  us.  You  said,  aunt,  that  the  talk  wont  in  thd  conciergerie  of 
lier  father's  hotel,  that  she  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  this 
cousin  whom  I  put  out  of  the  way  to-day  ?' 

'•  •  So  the  servants  said.  How  could  1  Icnow  ?  All  I  know  is, 
that  he  left  off  coming  to  our  hotel,  and  that  at  one  time  before 
then  he  had  never  been  two  days  absent.' 

'• '  So  much  tlie  better  for  him.  He  suffers  now  for  ha\-ing  come 
between  me  aud  my  object — in  trying  to  snatch  her  away  out  of 
my  sight.  Take  you  warning,  Pierre !  I  did  not  like  your 
meddling  to-uiglit.'  And  so  lie  went  off",  lea\'ing  Madame 
Babctte  rocldng  herself  backwards  aud  forwards,  in  all  the 
depression  of  spirits  consequent  ujjon  the  reaction  after  the 
brandy,  and  upon  lier  knowledge  of  her  nephew's  thi'eatencd 
pm-pose  combined. 

"  In  telling  yoxi  most  of  this,  I  have  simply  repeated  Pierre's 
account,  whicli  I  wrote  down  at  the  time,  lint  here  what  he  had 
to  say  came  to  a  sudden  break  ;  for,  the  next  morning,  when 
Madame  Babctte  rose,  Virginio  was  missing,  and  it  was  some 
time  before  either  she,  or  Pierre,  or  3Ioi-in,  could  get  the 
slightest  clue  to  the  missing  girl. 

'•And  now  I  must  take  up  tho  story  as  it  was  told  to  the 
lutendant  Fh'chier  by  the  ohl  gardener  Jacques,  with  whom 
Clement  had  been  lodging  on  his  lirst  arrival  in  Paris.  The  (dd 
man  could  not,  I  dare  say,  remembir  half  as  nnich  of  what  had 
ljai)2>encd  as  I'ierre  did  ;  the  fornu'r  had  tlie  dulled  memory  <»f 
age,  wliile  Pierre  had  evidently  thouglit  over  the  whole  series 
of  events  as  a  story  -as  a  l»lay,  if  one  may  call  it  si>  -  during 
the  siditary  hours  in  his  after-lifi'.  wherever  they  were  passed, 
whetlier  in  lonely  canq)  watclies.  <>r  in  the  foreign  prison,  where 
ho  had  to  drag  out  many  years.  Clement  had,  as  I  said,  returned 
to  the  gardener's  garret  after  he  had  been  dismissid  from  the 
Hotel  Dugni'hclin.  There  were  several  reasons  for  his  thuB 
doubling  back.     One  was,  that  lie  put  nearly  the  whole  breadth 


MV    LADV    LUDLOW.  263 

of  Paris  between  liim  and  an  enemy  ;  though  why  Morin  was  au 
eueir.v,  and  to  what  extent  he  etvrried  his  dislike  oi-  hatred, 
Clement  could  not  tell,  of  course.  Tlie  next  reason  for  rctiuning 
to  Jacques  was,  no  doubt,  the  conviction  that,  in  multijjlying  his 
residences,  he  niidtii)lied  the  chances  against  liis  being  suspected 
and  recognized.  And  then,  again,  the  old  man  was  in  his  secret, 
and  his  ally,  although  perhajjs  but  a  feeble  kind  of  one.  It  was 
through  Jacques  that  the  plan  of  ct)nnnmiication,  by  means  of  a 
nosegay  of  pinks,  had  been  devised  ;  and  it  was  Jacques  who  pro- 
cured him  the  last  disguise  that  Clement  was  to  use  in  Paris — as 
he  hoped  and  trusted.  It  was  that  of  a  respectable  shopkeeper  of 
no  particular  class  ;  a  dress  that  would  have  seemed  perfectly 
suitable  to  the  young  man  who  would  naturally  have  worn  it ; 
and  yet,  as  Clement  put  it  on,  and  adjusted  it — giving  it  a  soii; 
of  tiuisli  and  elegance  which  I  always  noticed  about  his  a])pear- 
ance.  and  which  1  believed  was  innate  in  the  wearer — 1  have  no 
doubt  it  seemed  like  the  usual  apparel  of  a  gentleman.  No 
coarseness  of  textm-e,  nor  clumsiness  of  cut  could  disguise  the 
nobleman  of  thirty  descents,  it  ajipeared  ;  for  immediately  on 
arriving  at  the  place  of  rendezvous,  he  was  recognized  by  the 
men  ])laccd  there  on  Morin's  information  to  seize  him.  Jacques,^ 
following  at  a  little  distance,  with  a  bundle  under  his  aim  con- 
taining articles  of  feminine  disguise  for  Yirginie,  saw  four  men 
attemjit  Clement's  arrest — saw  him,  quick  as  lightning,  draw  a 
sword  liitherto  concealed  in  a  clumsy  stick — saw  his  agile  tigui-e 
spring  to  his  guard, — and  saw  him  defend  himself  with  tlie  rapi- 
dity and  art  of  a  man  skilled  in  arms.  But  wliat  good  did  it  do  ? 
as  Jacques  pitcously  used  to  ask,  Mousiem-  FlL-chier  told  me, 
A  gi-eat  blow  from  a  heavy  club  on  the  sword-arm  of  Monsieur 
de  Crequy  laid  it  helpless  and  immovable  by  his  side.  Jacques 
always  thought  that  that  blow  came  from  one  of  the  spectators, 
who  by  this  time  had  collected  roiuid  the  scene  of  the  ati'ray. 
The  next  instant,  his  master — his  little  marquis — ^was  down 
among  the  feet  of  the  crowd,  and  though  he  was  uj)  again  before 
he  had  received  much  damage — so  active  and  liglit  was  my  jioor 
Clement — it  was  not  before  the  old  gardener  had  hobbled  for- 
wards, and,  with  many  an  old-fashioned  oath  and  ciirsc,  pro- 
claimed himself  a  partisan  of  the  losing  side — a  follower  of  a 
ci-devant  aristocrat.  It  was  quite  enough.  He  received  one  or 
two  good  blows,  which  were,  in  fact,  aimed  at  his  master ;  and 
then,  almost  Ijcfore  he  was  aware,  ho  found  his  arms  ])inioned 
behind  him  with  a  woman's  garter,  wliicli  one  of  tlic;  viragos  in 
the  crowd  liad  made  no  scruple  of  pulling  off  in  pulilic,  as  soon 
as  .slic  heard  for  what  purpose  it  was  wanted.     Poor  Jacques  wag 


264  MY    LADY    LUDLOW. 

stunned  and  unhappy, — his  maKtcr  was  out  of  sight,  fii  before  ; 
and  the  ohl  gardener  searce  knew  whither  they  were  tiiking  him. 
His  head  ached  from  the  blows  which  had  falkn  upon  it ;  it 
was  growing  dark — June  day  though  it  was, — and  when  iirst  lie 
seems  to  have  become  exactly  aware  of  what  had  happened  to  him. 
it  was  when  he  was  turned  into  one  of  the  larger  rooms  of  the 
Abbaye,  in  which  all  were  put  who  had  no  other  allotted  place 
wherein  to  sleep.  One  or  two  iron  lamps  hung  from  the  ceiling 
by  chains,  giving  a  dim  light  for  a  little  circle.  Jactjues 
stumbled  forwards  over  a  sleeping  body  lying  on  the  gi-ound. 
The  sleeper  wakened  wp  enough  to  complain  ;  and  the  apology-  of 
the  old  man  in  reply  caught  the  ear  of  his  master,  who,  until  this 
time,  could  hardly  have  been  aware  of  the  straits  and  difficulties 
of  his  faithful  Jacques.  And  there  they  sat, — agiiinst  a  pillar,  the 
live-long  night,  holding  one  another's  hands,  and  each  restminiug 
expressions  of  pain,  for  fear  of  adding  to  the  other's  distress. 
That  night  made  them  intimate  friends,  in  spite  of  the  difiereuce  of 
age  and  rank.  The  disappointed  hopes,  the  acute  sufl'eriug  of  the 
l>resent,  the  apprehensions  of  the  future,  made  them  seek  solace  in 
talking  of  the  past.  Monsieiu*  de  Crequy  and  the  giu-dener  found 
themselves  disputing  with  interest  in  which  chimney  of  the  stuck 
the  starling  used  to  build. — the  starling  whose  nest  Clement 
sent  to  Urian,  you  remember, — and  discussing  the  merits  ef 
dift'erent  espalier-pears  which  grew,  and  may  grow  still,  in  the  old 
garden  of  the  Hotel  de  Crequy.  Towards  morning  both  fill 
asleep.  The  old  man  wakened  first.  His  frame  was  deadeiud 
to  suti'eriug,  I  sujiposc,  for  he  felt  relieved  cf  his  pain  ;  but 
Clement  moaned  and  cried  in  feverish  slumber.  His  broken  arm 
was  beginning  to  inflame  his  blood.  He  was,  besides,  much 
injured  by  some  kicks  from  the  crowd  as  he  fell.  As  the  old  man 
looked  sadly  on  the  white,  baked  lips,  and  the  flushed  duiks, 
contorted  with  suti'eriug  even  in  his  sleip,  Chnient  gavo  a  sliarp 
cry,  which  disturbed  liis  miserable  iieiglibours.  all  slumbiring 
around  in  uneasy  attitudes.  They  bade  liim  with  cur.sts  be  silint ; 
and  tlun  turning  round,  tried  again  to  forget  their  own  inisiry 
in  sleep.  For  you  see.  the  bloodthirsty  canaille  had  not  been 
sated  with  guillotining  and  liaiigiiig  all  tlie  nobility  they  could 
find,  but  were  now  inforiiiing.  right  and  h'ft,  even  against  each 
other  ;  and  when  Clement  and  Jacques  were  in  the  prison,  there 
were  few  of  gentle  lilood  in  tlie  j)lace.  ami  fi  wer  still  of  geiitlu 
maniKirs.  At  the  sound  of  the  an;,'iy  words  and  threats,  Jaetpics 
Ihouglit  it  best  to  awaken  his  masti  r  ri-mu  his  feveri.sh  uneoiii- 
fortalih)  sleej),  lest  lie  should  provoke  nmre  enmity  ;  and,  tenderly 
lifting  hlin  up,  he  tried  to  adjust  liis  own  liody,  so  that  it  should 


MV    LADY    LUULOW.  2fi5 

serve  as  a  rest  and  a  pillow  for  the  younger  man.  The  motion 
aroused  Clement,  and  he  began  to  talk  in  a  strange,  feverish  way, 
of  Virginie,  too, — whose  name  he  would  not  have  breathed  in 
such  a  place  had  he  been  quite  himself.  But  Jacques  had  as 
mucli  delicacy  of  feeling  as  any  lady  in  the  land,  although,  mind 
you,  he  knew  neither  how  to  read  nor  ^^Tite, — and  bent  his  head 
low  down,  so  that  his  master  might  tell  him  in  a  whisper  what 
messages  he  was  to  take  to  Mademoiselle  dc  Crequy,  in  case — 
Poor  Clement,  he  knew  it  must  come  to  that !  No  escape  for  him 
now,  in  Noiman  disguise  or  otherwise  !  Either  by  gathering 
fever  or  guillotine,  death  was  sure  of  his  prey.  Well  1  when  that 
happened,  Jacques  was  to  go  and  find  Mademoiselle  de  Crequy, 
and  tell  her  that  her  cousin  loved  her  at  the  last  as  he  had  loved 
her  at  the  first ;  but  that  she  should  never  have  heard  another 
word  of  his  attachment  from  his  living  lips  ;  that  he  knew  he 
was  not  good  enough  for  hex-,  his  queen  ;  and  that  no  thought  of 
earning  her  Iovq  by  his  devotion  had  prompted  his  return  to 
France,  only  that,  if  possible,  he  might  have  the  great  privilege 
of  serving  her  whom  he  loved.  And  then  he  went  oft'  into  ram- 
bling talk  about  petit-maitres,  and  such  kind  of  expressions,  said 
Jacques  to  Flochier,  the  intendant,  little  knowing  what  a  clue 
that  one  word  gave  to  much  of  the  poor  lad's  sutiermg. 

"  The  simimer  morning  came  slowly  on  in  that  dark  prison, 
and  when  Jacques  could  look  round — his  master  was  now  sleep- 
ing on  his  shoulder,  still  tie  uneasy,  starting  sleep  cf  fever, — ho 
saw  that  there  were  many  women  among  the  prisoners,  (I  have 
heard  some  of  those  who  have  escai)ed  from  the  prisons  say,  that 
the  look  of  despair  and  agony  that  came  into  the  faces  of  the 
l)risoners  on  first  wakening,  as  the  sense  of  their  situation  grew 
upon  them,  was  what  lasted  the  longest  in  the  memory  of  the 
survivors.  This  look,  they  said,  passed  away  from  the  wcmen's 
faces  sooner  than  it  did  from  those  of  the  men.) 

"  Poor  old  Jacques  kept  falling  asleep,  and  i)lucking  himself 
up  again  for  fear  lest,  if  he  did  not  attend  to  his  master,  some 
harm  might  come  to  the  swollen,  heli>less  arm.  Yet  his  weariness 
grew  upf)n  him  in  spite  of  all  his  eiforts,  and  at  last  he  felt  as  if 
he  must  give  way  to  the  irresistible  desire,  if  only  for  five 
minutes.  But  just  tlien  there  was  a  bustle  at  the  door.  Jacques 
opened  his  eyes  wide  to  look. 

"  '  The  gaoler  is  early  with  breakfast,'  said  scmie  one,  lazily. 

"  '  It  is  the  darkness  of  this  accursed  place  that  makes  us 
think  it  early,'  said  another. 

"  All  this  time  a  parley  was  going  on  at  the  door.  Some  one 
came  in;  nf)t  the  gaoler-  a  woman.     The  door  was  shut  to  and 


200  MV    LALV    I.LDLUW. 

locked  behind  her.  She  only  advanced  a  step  or  two,  for  it  was 
too  sudden  a  change,  ont  of  tlie  light  into  that  dai'k  shadow,  for 
liny  one  to  see  clearly  for  the  first  few  minutes.  Jacques  had  his 
eyes  fairly  ojjeu  now,  and  was  wide  a\va,ke.  It  was  Mademoi- 
selle do  Crequy,  looking  bright,  clear,  and  i-esolute.  The  faithful 
heart  of  the  old  man  read  that  look  like  an  open  page,  llt-r 
cousin  should  not  die  there  on  her  behalf,  without  at  least  the 
comfort  of  her  sweet  presence. 

"  '  Here  he  is,'  he  whispered  as  her  gown  would  have  touched 
Lira  in  passing,  without  her  perceiving  him,  in  the  heavy  obscu- 
rity of  the  jilace. 

"  '  The  good  God  bless  you,  my  friend !'  she  mui-mured,  as 
she  saw  the  attitude  of  the  old  man,  propped  against  a  pillar,  and 
holding  Clement  in  his  arms,  as  if  the  young  man  had  been  a  help- 
less baby,  while  one  of  the  poor  gardener's  hands  supported  the 
broken  limb  in  the  easiest  position.  Virginie  sat  down  by  the  oM 
man,  and  held  out  her  anus.  Softly  she  moved  Clement's  head 
to  her  own  shoulder ;  softly  slie  transferred  the  task  of  holding 
the  arm  to  herself.  Clement  lay  on  the  floor,  but  she  sni)ported 
him,  and  Jacques  was  at  liberty  to  arise  and  stretch  and  shake  his 
stiff,  weary  old  body.  He  then  sat  down  at  a  little  distance,  and 
watched  the  pair  until  he  fell  asleep.  Clement  had  nmttertd 
'  Virginie,'  as  they  half- roused  him  by  their  movements  out  of 
his  stupor ;  but  Jacques  thought  he  was  only  dreaming ;  nor  did 
he  seem  fully  awake  when  once  his  eyes  opened,  and  he  looked 
full  at  Virgiuie's  face  bending  over  him,  and  growing  crimson 
mider  his  gaze,  though  she  never  stirred,  for  fear  of  hurting  him 
if  she  moved.  Clement  looked  in  silence,  until  his  heavy  eye- 
lids came  slowly  down,  and  he  fell  into  his  opi>ressivo  slumber 
again.  Either  he  did  not  recognize  her,  or  she  came  in  too 
completely  as  a  part  of  his  sleeping  visions  for  him  to  be  dis- 
turbed by  her  ajjpearance  there. 

"  WJien  Jacques  awoke  it  was  full  daylight — at  least  as  full  as 
it  would  ever  bo  in  that  place.  His  breakfast  the  gaol-allow- 
anco  of  bread  and  vin  ordinaire — was  by  his  side.  He  must  have 
slept  soundly.  He  looked  for  his  master.  He  and  Virginie  hail 
recognized  each  other  now,-  hearts,  as  well  lus  ui>pearani-f. 
They  were  smiling  into  each  t)ther's  faces,  as  if  lliat  dull, 
vaulted  room  in  tlie  grim  Abbaye  were  the  suuuy  gardt  us  of 
Versailles,  with  nnisie  and  fi^stivity  all  abroad.  Ai)parenlly  tin  y 
had  much  to  say  to  each  other;  for  whisjiered  questions  lUid 
answers  never  ciascd. 

"  Virginie  had  made  a  sling  for  tlie  poor  broken  arm  ;  nay. 
i^Iic  liatl  ol)taim  d  two  S2>lint»  is  of  wood  in  sonu;  way,  ami  one  of 


MV  i.ADV  i,ri)[.()\v.  '2C)7 

tbi'ir  fillow-prisoners — baving,  it  appeared,  some  knowled^'cf  of 
I  Burgorv  — liad  set  it.  Jacques  felt  more  Jespondiiig  bv  far  tbaii 
I  they  did.  foi-  be  was  sufforiiig  from  tbe  nigbt  be  bad  jjussed, 
I  wbicb  tobl  ujion  bis  aged  frame ;  wbile  tbey  must  bave  beard 
!  Bomc  good  news,  as  it  seemed  to  bim,  so  brigbt  aud  bappy  did 
,  tbey  look.  Yet  Clement  was  still  in  bt)dily  jiain  aud  suffering,  and 
!  Tirginie,  by  bcr  ovm  aet  and  deed,  was  a  prisoner  in  tbat  dread- 
ful Abbaye,  wbenco  tbe  only  issue  was  tbe  guillotine.  But  tbey 
were  togetber  :  tbey  loved  :  tbey  understood  eaeb  otbcr  at  lengtb. 
"  ^V"ben  Virginie  saw  tbat  Jacques  was  awake,  and  languidly 
immcbing  bis  breakfast,  slie  rose  from  tbe  wooden  stool  on 
wbicb  sbe  was  sitting,  and  went  to  bim,  bolding  out  botli  bands, 
aud  refusing  to  allow  bim  to  rise,  wbile  slie  tbanked  bim  witb 
pretty  eagerness  for  all  bis  kindness  to  Monsieur.  Monsicm* 
himself  came  towards  bim,  follo^nng  Virginie,  but  witb  totter- 
ing steps,  as  if  his  bead  was  weak  and  dizzy,  to  thank  tbe  poor 
old  man,  who  now  on  his  feet,  stood  between  them,  ready  to  cry 
while  they  gave  him  credit  for  faithful  actions  which  he  felt  to 
have  been  almost  involuntary  on  bis  part, — for  loyalty  Avas  like 
an  instinct  in  tbe  good  old  days,  before  yonr  educational  ca-nt 
had  come  up.  And  so  two  days  went  on.  The  only  event  was 
the  morning  call  for  the  victims,  a  certain  number  of  whom 
were  summoned  to  trial  every  day.  And  to  be  tried  was  to  bo 
condemned.  Every  one  of  the  prisoners  became  grave,  as  the 
hour  for  their  summons  approached.  Most  of  the  victims  Avent 
to  their  doom  with  uncomplaining  resignation,  and  for  a  while 
after  their  departm'e  there  was  conij^arative  silence  in  tbe 
prison.  But,  by-and-by — so  said  Jacques — the  conversation 
or  amusements  began  again.  Human  nature  cannot  stand  the 
peri)etual  pressure  of  such  keen  anxiety,  without  an  effort  to  re- 
lieve itself  by  thinking  of  something  else.  Jacques  said  tbat  Mon- 
sieur and  Madcimoiselle  were  for  ever  talldng  together  of  tlie  past 
days, — it  was  'Do  you  remember  this?'  or,  'Do  you  remember 
that  ?'  perpetually.  He  sometimes  thought  they  forgot  where 
they  wci-e,  and  wliat  was  before  them.  But  Jacques  did  not,  and 
everyday  he  trembled  more  and  more  as  tbe  list  was  called  over. 
"  The  thii'd  moniing  of  their  incarceration,  the  gaoler  brought 
in  a  man  whom  Jacques  did  not  recognize,  and  tliereforc  did  not 
at  on(;c  observe  ;  for  lie  was  waiting,  as  in  duty  bound,  npon  his 
master  and  his  sweet  young  lady  (as  b*»  always  called  her  in  re- 
peating tlie  story).  He  thought  that  tbe  new  introduction  was 
some  friend  of  tlie  gaoler,  as  tbe  two  seemed  well  accjuaiiited,  and 
the  latter  stayed  a  few  minutes  talking  witli  bis  visitor  iK-forc 
leaving  him  in  prison.     So  Jacques  was  sm-prised  when,  after  a 


268  MY    LADY    LULL'jW. 

short  time  liad  olaj)SC(],  lie  looked  roiiml,  aud  saw  the  fierce  stare 
with  whicli  tlie  stranf^er  was  regarding  Mousieur  and  Mademoi- 
selle de  Crequy,  as  the  i)air  sat  at  breakfast, — the  said  breakfast 
being  laid  as  well  as  Jacques  kuew  how,  on  a  bench  fastened 
into  the  prison  wall, — Virginic  sitting  on  her  low  sti»ol,  and 
Clement  half  lying  on  the  ground  by  lier  side,  and  submitting 
gladly  to  be  fed  by  her  pretty  white  fingers ;  for  it  was  one  of 
her  fancies,  Jacques  said,  to  do  all  she  could  for  him,  in  consi- 
deration of  his  broken  arm.  And,  indeed,  Clement  was  wasting 
away  daily  ;  for  he  had  received  other  injuries,  internal  and  more 
serious  than  that  to  his  arm,  dui'ing  the  melee  which  had  ended 
in  his  captiu'e.  The  stranger  made  Jacques  conscious  of  his 
presence  by  a  sigh,  which  was  almost  a  groan.  All  three  pri- 
soners looked  romid  at  the  soimd.  Clement's  face  expressed  little 
but  scornful  indifference ;  but  Yirginie's  face  froze  into  stony 
hate.  Jacques  said  he  never  saw  such  a  look,  and  hoped  that 
he  never  should  again.  Yet  after  that  first  revelation  of  feeling, 
her  look  was  steady  and  fixed  in  another  direction  to  that  in 
whicli  the  stranger  stood, —  still  motionless — still  watching.  Ho 
came  a  step  nearer  at  last. 

*'  '  Mademoiselle,'  he  said.  Xot  the  quivering  of  an  eyelash 
showed  that  she  heard  him.  '  Mademoiselle  !'  he  said  again,  with 
nn  intensity  of  beseeching  that  made  Jacques  -not  knowing 
who  he  was — almost  jiity  him,  wlieii  he  saw  his  young  lady's 
obdurate  face. 

"  There  was  perfect  silence  for  a  si)ace  of  time  which  Jacques  i 
could  not  measure.     Then  again  the  voice,  hesitatingly,  saying, 
'  Mimsieur!'     Clement  could  not  hold  the  same  icy  coimteuance  i 
as  Virginie  ;  ho  tm-ncd  his  head  with  an  impatient  gesture  ofi 
disgust ;  but  even  that  emboldened  the  man. 

"  '  Monsieur,  do  ask  mademoiselle  to  listen  to  me,-  just  two  ■ 
words.' 

"'  Mademoiselle  de  Crequy  only  listens  to  whom  she  chooses.*. 
Very  haughtily  my  Clement  would  say  that,  I  am  sm-e. 

"  '  But,  mademoiselle,'  lowering  his  voice,  and  coming  a  stop] 
or  two  nearer.  Virginie  must  have  felt  his  approach,  though  I 
she  did  not  see  it ;  for  she  drew  herself  a  little  on  one  side,  80« 
as  to  put  as  much  space  as  possible  between  him  and  lu-r.— 
'  Mademoiselle^  it  is  not  too  late,  I  can  snv  •  m>u  ;  but  to-- 
morrow  y(ur  nanu'  is  down  on  the  list,  I  can  save  you,  if  yo>i 
will  listen.' 

"  Still  no  word  or  sign,  Jat'qucs  did  not  undi-r^t  ind  thcafVuir.i 
Why  was  she  so  obdnrite  to  one  who  might  be  ready  t«>  includsl 
Clement  in  tlie  jiroposal,  as  far  as  Jacciius  knew  '.•' 


MY    LADY   LUDLOW.  200 

"  The  mail  witbJrew  a  little,  but  did  uot  oU'cr  to  leave  llie 
prison.  lie  never  took  his  eyes  oil'  Virginie  ;  he  seemed  to  be 
Bufloiing  from  some  acute  and  terrible  pain  as  he  watched  her. 

"  Jacques  clcai'cd  away  the  breakfast-things  as  well  as  he 
could.     l'uriiosel3%  as  I  suspect,  lie  passed  near  the-  man. 

"  '  Hist !'  said  the  stranger.  '  You  are  Jacques,  the  gardener, 
arrested  for  assisting  an  anstocrat.  I  know  the  gaoler.  You  shall 
cscjipo,  if  you  will.  Only  take  this  message  from  me  to  made- 
moiselle. You  heard.  She  will  not  listen  to  me  :  I  did  not  want 
her  to  come  liL-re.  I  never  knew  she  was  here,  and  she  will  die 
to-morrow.  They  will  put  her  beautiful  round  throat  under  the 
guillotine.  Tell  her,  good  old  man,  tell  her  how  sweet  life  is  ; 
and  how  I  can  save  her ;  and  how  I  will  rot  ask  for  more  than 
just  to  sec  her  from  time  to  time.  She  is  so  young  ;  and  death  is 
annihilation,  you  Ivnow.  Why  does  she  hate  me  so  '?  I  want  to 
save  her ;  I  have  done  her  no  harm.  Good  old  man,  tell  her 
how  terrible  death  is  ;  and  that  she  will  die  to-morrow,  unless 
she  listens  to  me.' 

"  Jacques  saw  no  harm  in  repeating  this  message.  Clement 
listened  in  silence,  watching  Yii'ginie  with  an  air  of  infinito 
tenderness. 

"  '  Will  you  not  try  him,  my  cherished  one  ?'  he  said. 
*  Towards  you  he  may  mean  well '  (which  makes  me  think  that 
Virginie  had  never  repeated  to  Clement  the  conversation  which 
she  had  overheard  that  last  night  at  Madame  Babette's)  ;  '  you 
would  be  in  no  worse  a  situation  than  you  were  before  !' 

"  '  No  worse,  Clement  ■  and  I  should  have  known  what  you 
were,  and  have  lost  you.     My  Clement !'  said  she,  reproachfully. 

"  '  Ask  him,'  said  she,  turning  to  Jacques,  suddenly,  '  if  he 
can  save  Monsieur  de  Crequy  as  well, — if  he  can  ? — 0  Clement, 
we  might  escape  to  England  ;  we  are  but  young.'  And  she  hid 
her  face  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Jacques  retm-ned  to  the  stranger,  and  asked  him  Virginie's 
question.  His  eyes  were  fi.xed  on  the  cousins ;  he  was  very 
pale,  and  the  twitchings  or  contortions,  which  must  have  been  in- 
voluntary whenever  he  was  agitated,  convulsed  his  whole  body. 

•*  He  made  a  long  pause.  '  I  will  save  mademoiselle  and  mon- 
sieur, if  she  will  go  straight  from  prison  to  the  mairie,  and  be  my 
wife.' 

"  '  Your  wife  !'  Jacques  could  not  heli)  exclaiming,  '  That  she 
will  never  be  —never  !' 

"  '  Ask  her  !'  said  Morin,  lioarscly. 

"  But  almost  before  Jacques  thought  he  could  have  fairly 
nttered  the  words,  Clement  caught  their  meaning. 


270  ?rv  i.ADV  i.UDi.ow. 

"  '  Begone !'  said  lie ;  '  not  one  word  more'  Virginia 
touched  the  old  man  as  he  was  moving  away.  '  Toll  liim 
he  docs  not  know  how  he  makes  uiu  welcome  death.'  And 
smiling,  as  if  triimiphant,  she  turned  again  to  Clement. 

"  Tlie  stranger  did  not  speak  as  Jacques  gave  him  the  mean- 
ing, not  the  words,  of  their  replies.  He  was  going  away,  hut 
stopj)cd.  A  minute  or  two  afterwards,  lie  beckoned  to  Jacques. 
The  old  gardener  seems  to  have  thought  it  undesirable  to  throw 
away  even  the  chance  of  assistance  from  such  a  man  as  this,  for 
he  went  forward  to  speak  to  him. 

"  '  Listen  !  I  have  influence  with  the  gaoler.  He  shall  let 
thee  pass  out  with  the  victims  to-morrow.     No  one  v  ill  notice 

it,  or  miss  thee .     They  will  be  led  to  trial, — even  at  the 

last  moment,  I  ^vill  save  her,  if  she  sends  me  word  slie  relents. 
Speak  to  her,  as  the  time  draws  on.  Life  is  very  sweet,— tell 
her  how  sweet.  Speak  to  him  ;  he  will  do  more  witli  her  than 
thou  canst.  Let  him  m-ge  her  to  live.  Even  at  the  last,  I  will 
be  at  the  Palais  de  Justice, — at  the  Grevc.  I  have  followers, — 
I  have  interest.  Come  among  the  crowd  that  follow  the 
victims, — I  shall  sec  thee.  It  will  be  no  worse  for  him,  if  she 
escapes' 

"  '  Save  my  master,  and  I  will  do  all.'  said  Jacques. 

"  '  Only  on  my  one  condition,'  said  Morin,  doggedly  ;  and 
Jacques  was  hopeless  of  that  condition  ever  being  fultilled. 
But  he  did  not  see  why  his  own  life  might  not  be  8;ived.  By 
remaining  in  prison  until  the  next  day,  he  should  have  rendered 
every  service  in  his  j)()wer  to  his  master  and  the  young  lady. 
He,  poor  fellow,  slirauk  from  death  ;  and  ho  agi'ced  with  Morin 
to  escape,  if  ho  could,  by  the  means  IMorin  had  suggested,  and  to 
bring  him  word  if  IMademoisidlc  de  Crequy  relented.  (Jacques 
had  no  expectation  that  she  would  ;  but  I  fancy  he  did  not  think 
it  nocessary  to  tell  Morin  of  this  conviction  of  his.)  This 
bargaining  with  so  base  a  man  for  so  slight  a  tiling  as  life,  was 
the  only  flaw  that  I  heard  of  in  the  old  gardener's  bi-haviour.  Of 
course;,  the  mere  reopening  of  the  subject  was  enough  to  stir 
Virginie  to  disphasmv.  Clement  urged  her,  it  is  true  ;  but  the 
liglit  he  had  gained  upon  ]\Iorin's  motions,  nuule  him  rather  try  to 
set  tlie  case  before  her  in  as  fair  a  manner  as  possible  than  use  any 
2)ersuasive  argnnuMits.  And,  even  as  it  was,  what  hi-  said  on  tlio 
subjcict  made  Virginit;  shed  tears  the  tirst  that  had  falhn  from 
lier  since  she  entered  the  prison.  So,  they  were  smnmoned  >uid 
went  togc'tlier,  at  tlie  fatal  c»Jl  of  the  nnister-roll  of  viitinis  tho 
next  morning.  Hi',  fieble  from  his  wounds  and  his  iiijund 
health  ;   she,  calm  ami  serene,  or.ly  pititioiiing  to  br  alh)\ved  to 


MY    LADY    LI  D LOW.  271 

walk  uoxt  to  Lini,  in  onlci'  that  she  miglit  hold  him  up  when  ho 
turned  faint  and  giddy  from  his  extreme  suffering. 

'•  Together  they  stood  at  the  bar ;  together  they  were 
condcnnied.  As  the  words  of  judgment  were  pronoimced, 
Yirginio  tm-ncd  to  Ch'ment,  and  embraeed  him  witli  passionate 
fondness.  Then,  making  him  lean  on  her,  they  marehed  out 
towards  the  Phxce  de  hx  Grevc. 

'•  Jacques  was  free  now.  He  had  tokl  Morin  how  fruitless 
his  efforts  at  persuasion  had  been  ;  and  scareely  caring  to  note 
the  effect  of  his  information  upon  the  man,  he  had  devoted 
liimsclf  to  watching  Monsieur  and  Mademoiselle  de  Crequy. 
And  now  he  followed  them  to  the  Place  do  la  Greve.  He  saw 
them  mount  the  platform ;  saw  them  Icneel  dow7i  together  till 
plucked  up  by  the  impatient  officials  ;  could  see  that  she  was 
urging  some  request  to  the  executioner  ;  the  end  of  which 
seemed  to  be,  that  Clement  advanced  first  to  the  guillotine,  was 
executed  (and  just  at  this  moment  there  was  a  stir  among  the 
crowd,  as  of  a  man  pressing  forivard  towards  the  scaffold). 
Then  she,  standing  with  her  face  to  the  guillotine,  slowly  made 
the  sign  of  the  cross,  and  knelt  down. 

"  Jacques  covered  liis  eyes,  blinded  with  tears.  The  rejiort  of 
A  pistol  made  him  look  uj).  She  was  gone — another  victim  in  her 
place — and  where  there  had  been  a  little  stir  in  the  crowd  not  five 
minutes  before,  some  men  were  carrj-iug  off"  a  dead  body.  A  man 
had  sliot  himself,  they  said.     Pierre  told  me  who  that  man  was." 


CHAPTER  IX. 

After  a  pause,  I  vcntm-ed  to  ask  what  became  of  IMadame  do 
Crequy,  Clement's  mother. 

"  She  never  made  any  inquiry  about  him,"  said  my  lady. 
*'  She  must  have  known  that  he  was  dead  ;  though  how,  wo 
never  could  tell.  Medlicott  remembered  afterwards  that  it  was 
about,  if  not  on — Medlicott  to  tliis  day  declares  that  it  waa  on 
the  very  Monday,  June  the  nineteenth,  when  her  son  wa£ 
executed,  that  Madame  do  Crequy  left  off  her  rouge  and  took  to 
her  bed,  as  one  l)ereaved  and  hopeless.  It  certainly  was  about 
that  time;  and  Medlicott — who  was  deeply  impressed  by  that 
dream  of  Madame  de  Crequy 's  (the  relation  of  wliich  I  told  you 
had  had  such  an  effect  on  my  loi'd),  in  which  she  had  seen  the 
figure  of  Virginie^as  the  only  light  object  amid  much  sur- 
rounding darkness  as  of  night,  smiling  and  beckoning  Clement 
on — on — till  at  length  tlie  briglit  j)liantom  stopped,  motionless, 


-/  li  MY    LADY    I.I  DI.OW. 

and  ^Eiulauic  de  Crcquy's  eyes  bofjtin  tr>  penetrate  the  niuiky 
ilarkness,  and  to  see  closing  around  licr  the  gloomy  drii)ping 
walls  which  she  had  once  seen  and  never  forgotten — the 
walls  of  the  vault  of  the  chapel  of  the  De  Crequys  in  Saint 
(jrcrmain  TAuxerrois  ;  and  there  the  two  last  of  the  Crequys 
laid  them  dowTi  among  their  forefathers,  and  Madame  de  Crequy 
had  wakened  to  the  soimd  of  the  gi*eat  door,  which  led  to  the 
open  air,  being  locked  upon  her — I  say  Medlicott,  who  was 
predisposed  by  this  dream  to  look  out  for  the  supernatural, 
always  declared  that  Madame  de  Cr('quy  was  made  conscious  in 
some  mysterious  way,  of  her  son's  death,  on  the  very  day  and 
hour  when  it  occurred,  and  that  after  that  she  h;ul  no  more 
anxiety,  but  was  only  conscious  of  a  kind  of  stupefying  despair.'' 

"  And  what  became  of  her,  my  lady  ?"  I  again  asked. 

"  What  could  become  of  her  ?"  replied  Lady  Ludlow.  "  She 
never  could  be  induced  to  rise  again,  though  she  lived  more 
than  a  year  after  her  son's  departm-e.  She  kept  her  bed  ;  her 
room  darkened,  her  face  turned  towards  the  wall,  whenever  any 
one  besides  Medlicott  was  in  the  room.  She  hardly  ever  spoke, 
and  would  have  died  of  starvation  but  for  Medlicott's  tender 
care,  in  putting  a  morsel  to  her  lips  every  now  and  then,  feediiig 
her,  in  fact,  just  as  an  old  bird  feeds  her  yoiing  ones.  In  the 
height  of  summer  my  lord  and  I  left  London.  We  would  fain 
have  taken  her  with  us  into  Scotland,  but  the  doctor  (wo  had 
the  old  doctor  from  Leicester  Square)  forbade  her  removal ;  and 
this  time  he  gave  such  good  reasons  against  it  that  1  acquiesced, 
Medlicott  and  a  maid  were  left  with  her.  Every  cai'e  was  taken 
of  her.  She  siu'vivcd  till  our  return.  Indeed,  I  thought  she 
was  in  much  the  same  state  as  I  had  left  her  in,  when  I  camo 
back  to  London.  But  Medlicott  spoke  of  her  as  much  weaker  ; 
and  one  moj-iiing  on  awakening,  they  told  mo  she  was  dead.  I 
sent  for  Medlicott,  who  was  in  sad  distress,  she  had  Ixcomo  so 
fond  of  her  charge.  She  said  that,  about  two  o'clock,  she  had 
been  awakened  by  unusual  restlessness  on  Madame  de  Crcquy's 
part ;  that  she  had  gone  to  her  bedside,  and  found  the  ]>oor  lady 
feebly  but  i)erpetuully  moving  her  wasted  anu  up  and  down  — 
and  saying  to  herself  in  a  wailing  voice  :  '  1  did  not  bU^ss  him 
when  ho  left  me — I  did  not  bless  him  when  ho  left  mo  I' 
Medlicott  gave  her  a  sjioonful  or  two  of  jelly,  luid  sat  by  her, 
stroking  her  hand,  and  soothing  her  till  she  soomcd  to  fall 
asleep.      IJut  in  the  morning  she  was  dead." 

"  It  is  a  sad  story,  your  ladyshiit,"  said  I,  after  a  while. 

"Yes  it  is.      I'eoplo  seldom   arriv(>  at  Jiiy  age  without  liavinf» 
matched  the  beginning,  middlf,  and  end  of  many  Ivvi  s  and  leany 


MY    LADY    LIDI.OW.  273 

fortunes.  We  do  not  talk  about  them,  perhaps  ;  for  they  aro 
often  so  sacred  to  us,  from  having  touched  into  the  very  (juiek 
of  our  owu  hearts,  as  it  were,  or  into  those  of  others  who  are 
dead  and  gone,  and  veiled  over  from  human  sight,  tliat  we 
cannot  tell  the  tale  as  if  it  was  a  mere  story.  But  young  people 
should  remember  that  we  have  liad  this  solemn  experience  of 
life,  on  which  to  base  our  opinions  and  form  our  judgments,  so 
that  they  are  not  mere  uutried  theories.  1  am  not  alluding  to 
Mr.  Homer  just  now,  for  he  is  nearly  as  old  as  I  am — within 
ten  years,  I  dare  say — but  I  am  thinking  of  Mr.  Gray,  with  his 
endless  plans  for  some  new  thing — schools,  education,  Sabbaths, 
and  what  not.     Now  he  has  not  seen  what  all  tliis  leads  to." 

"  It  is  a  pity  he  has  not  heard  your  ladyship  tell  the  story  of 
poor  Monsieur  do  Crequy." 

"  Xot  at  all  a  pity,  my  dear.  A  young  man  like  him,  who, 
both  by  position  and  age,  must  have  had  his  experience 
confined  to  a  very  narrow  circle,  ought  not  to  set  up  his 
opinion  against  mine  ;  he  ought  not  to  require  reasons  from  me, 
nor  to  need  such  explanation  of  my  arguments  (if  I  condescend 
to  argue),  as  going  into  relation  of  the  circumstances  on  which 
my  arguments  arc  based  in  my  own  mind,  would  be." 

"  But,  my  lady,  it  might  convince  him,"  I  said,  with  perhaps 
injudicious  perseverance. 

"  And  wliy  should  he  be  convinced  V"  she  asked,  with  gentle 
inquiry  in  her  tone.  "  He  has  only  to  acquiesce.  Though  he 
is  appointed  by  Mr.  Croxton,  I  am  the  lady  of  the  manor,  as  ho 
must  know.  But  it  is  with  Mr.  Homer  that  I  must  have  to  do 
about  this  unfortunate  lad  Gregson.  I  am  afraid  there  will  be  no 
method  of  making  him  fc)rget  his  unlucky  knowledge.  His  poor 
brains  will  be  intoxicated  with  the  sense  of  his  powers,  without 
any  counterbalancing  principles  to  guide  him.  Poor  fellow  !  I 
am  quite  afraid  it  will  cud  in  his  being  liangcd !" 

The  next  day  IMr.  Homer  came  to  apologize  and  exjilain.  Ho 
was  evidently — as  I  could  tell  from  his  voice,  as  he  spoke  to  my 
lady  in  the  next  room — extremely  annoyed  at  her  ladyship's 
discovery  of  the  educatif)n  he  had  been  giving  to  this  l)oy.  My 
lady  spoke  witli  gn  at  authority,  and  witli  reasonable  grf)Tmds  of 
complaint.  Mr.  Horner  was  well  acquainted  with  her  thoughts 
on  the  subject,  and  had  acted  in  defiance  of  her  wishes.  Ho 
acknowledged  as  much,  and  sliould  on  no  accomit  have  done  it, 
in  any  other  instance,  without  her  leave. 

"  Which  I  could  never  have  granted  you,"  said  my  lady. 

But  tliis  boy  had  extraordinary  capabilities ;  wouhl,  in  fact, 
liave  tauglit  liiinsclf  r.iucli  that  was  IkhI.  if  he  liad  not  been  rc8- 


274  MY   LADY    LIDLOW. 

cued,  antl  aiiotlicr  direction  ^jiven  to  liis  puwci"s.  Aud  in  all 
Mr.  Horner  had  done,  he  had  had  her  ladyship's  service  iu  view. 
The  business  was  getting  almost  beyond  his  power,  so  many 
letters  and  so  nuich  account-keeinng  was  required  by  the  com- 
plicated state  in  which  things  were. 

Lady  Ludlow  felt  what  was  coming— a  reference  to  ths  mort- 
gage for  the  beneiit  of  my  lords  Scottish  estates,  which,  she  was 
perfectly  aware,  Mr.  Homer  considered  as  having  been  a  most 
unwise  proceeding — and  she  hastened  to  observe — 

"All  this  may  be  very  ti-ue,  Mr.  Horner,  and  I  am  sure  I 
should  be  the  last  jjcrson  to  wish  yon  to  overwork  or  distress 
yoiu-self ;  but  of  that  we  will  talk  another  time.  What  I  am 
now  anxious  to  remedy  is,  if  possible,  the  state  of  this  poor 
little  Gregsou"s  mind.  Woidd  nut  hard  work  in  the  fields  be  a 
wholesome  and  excellent  way  of  enabling  him  to  forget  ?" 

"  I  was  in  hopes,  my  lady,  that  you  would  have  permitted  mo 
to  bring  him  uj)  to  act  as  a  kind  of  clerk,"  said  Mr.  Homer, 
jerking  out  his  project  abruptly. 

"  A  what  ■?"  asked  my  lady,  in  infinite  surprise. 

"  A  kind  of — of  assistant,  in  the  way  of  copying  letters  and 
doing  up  accounts.  He  is  ah-eady  an  excellent  jjeumau  and  vi.  ry 
quick  at  figures." 

"  Mr.  Horner,"  said  my  lady,  with  dignity,  ''  the  son  of  a 
poacher  and  vagabond  ought  never  to  have  been  able  to  cojty 
letters  relating  to  the  Hanbury  estates  ;  and,  at  any  nite.  ho 
shall  not.  I  wonder  how  it  is  that,  knowing  the  use  he  has 
made  of  his  jiower  of  reading  a  letter,  you  should  viiitinv  to  pro- 
pose such  an  employment  for  him  as  would  n-cjuire  his  being  in 
your  confidence,  and  you  the  trusted  agtiit  of  this  family.  ^^  hy, 
•every  secret  (and  every  ancient  and  honounible  fjunily  has  its 
secrets,  as  you  know,  Mr.  Horner  !)  would  beleiunt  ott'by  hiaii, 
and  rei)catt;d  to  the  first  comi'r  I" 

"  I  should  have  hoped  to  havotraimd  him,  my  hidy,  to  under- 
stand tlie  rules  of  discretion." 

"  Trained  !  Train  a  barn-door  fowl  to  Im  a  pheasant,  Mr. 
Horner !  That  woidd  be  the  easier  ta.sk.  lUit  you  did  right  to 
sjjeak  of  discretion  ratlurlliun  liononr.  Discretion  looks  to  tlio 
consequences  of  actions  honour  looks  to  the  action  it.srlt',  and 
is  an  instinct  rather  than  a  virttu'.  After  all,  it  is  possibh'  you 
might  have  trained  him  to  be  discreet.  ' 

]\lr.  Horner  was  silmt.  i\ly  lady  was  softi>nod  by  his  not 
reidying,  and  began  as  she  always  did  in  sudi  cases,  t*>  fi'4ir  lot 
she  had  been  too  liarsh.  1  could  tell  that  by  lur  voice  and  b^ 
her  nc!xt  speech,  as  well  as  if  1  had  sii  ii  lur  lace. 


MY    LADY    LUDI.OW.  275 

"But  I  aia  soiTV  you  are  fcelinsj  the  pressure  of  tlio  afliiirs; 
I  am  quite  aware  that  I  liave  entailed  much  adilitional  trouble 
upon  you  by  some  of  my  measui-es  :  I  must  try  and  provide  you 
with  some  suitable  assistance.  Coi)ying  letters  and  doing  up 
accoimts,  I  think  you  said  V" 

Mr.  Homer  had  certainly  had  a  distant  idea  of  turning  the 
little  boy,  in  jn-ocess  of  time,  into  a  clerk ;  but  he  had  rather 
urged  this  i)ossibility  of  futui'c  usefulness  beyond  ^vhut  he  had 
at  tirst  intended,  in  speaking  of  it  to  my  lady  as  a  palliation  of 
his  oftence.  and  he  certainly  was  very  much  inclined  to  rcti'act 
his  statement  that  the  Ictter-AVTiting,  or  any  other  business,  had 
increased,  or  that  he  was  in  the  slightest  want  of  help  of  any  kind, 
when  my  lady  after  a  pause  of  consideration,  suddenly  said — 

"  I  have  it.  Miss  Galindo  will.  I  am  sm-e,  be  glad  to  assist 
you.  I  will  speak  to  her  myself.  The  payment  we  should 
make  to  a  clerk  would  be  of  real  service  to  her  !" 

I  could  hardly  help  echoing  Mr.  Homer's  tone  of  surprise  as 
he  said — 

'•  Miss  Galindo  !" 

Foi\  you  must  be  told  who  Miss  Galindo  was ;  at  least,  told 
as  much  as  I  know.  Miss  Galindo  had  lived  in  the  village  for 
many  years,  keeping  house  on  the  smallest  possible  means,  yet 
always  managing  to  maintain  a  servant.  And  this  servant  was 
invariably  chosen  because  she  had  some  inlirmity  that  made  her 
undesirable  to  every  one  else.  I  believe  Miss  Galindo  had  had 
lame  and  blind  and  hump-backed  maids.  She  had  even  at  one 
time  taken  in  a  girl  hopelessly  gone  in  consumption,  because  if 
not  she  would  have  had  to  go  to  the  workhouse,  and  not  have  had 
enough  to  eat.  Of  com-se  the  poor  creatui-e  could  not  perform 
a  single  duty  usually  required  of  a  servant,  and  Miss  Galindo 
herself  was  both  servant  and  nurse. 

Her  present  maid  was  scarcely  four  feet  high,  and  bore  a 
ten-ible  character  for  ill-temper.  Nobody  but  Miss  Galindo 
would  have  kept  her;  but,  as  it  was,  mistress  and  servant 
squabbled  perpetually,  and  were,  at  heart,  the  best  of  friends. 
For  it  was  one  of  Miss  Galindo"s  peculiarities  to  do  all  manner 
of  kind  and  self-denying  actions,  and  to  say  all  manner  of  pro- 
voking things.  Lame,  blind,  deformed,  and  dwarf,  all  came  in 
for  scoldings  witliout  numVjer  :  it  was  <mly  the  consunqitive  girl 
that  never  had  heard  a  sharp  word.  I  don't  think  any  of  her 
servants  liked  her  the  worse  for  Iier  peppery  temper,  and  pas- 
sionate odd  ways,  for  they  knew  her  real  and  beautiful  kindness 
of  heart  ;  and.  besides,  she  liad  so  great  a  turn  for  huniom*, 
that  very  often  her  speeches  amused  as  much  or  more  than  they 


276  MY    LADY    LUDLOW. 

irritated  ;  and  on  the  other  side,  a  piece  of  witty  impudence 
from  lier  servant  would  occasionally  tii-kle  her  so  much  and  s<» 
suddenly,  tliat  she  would  burst  out  laughing  in  tlie  middle  of 
her  passion. 

But  the  talk  about  Miss  Galindo's  choice  and  management  of 
her  servants  was  confined  to  village  gossip,  and  liad  never 
readied  my  Lady  Ludlow's  ears,  though  doubtless  Mr.  Honicr 
was  well  acquainted  with  it.  What  my  lady  knew  of  her 
amounted  to  this.  It  was  the  custom  in  those  days  for  the 
wealthy  ladies  of  the  coimty  to  set  on  foot  a  rei)ository.  as  it 
was  called,  in  the  assizc-to\\Ti.  The  ostensible  manager  of  this 
repository  was  generally  a  decayed  gentlewoman,  a  clergyman's 
widow,  or  so  fijrth.  She  was,  however,  controlled  by  a  com- 
mittee of  ladies ;  and  paid  by  them  in  proportion  to  the  amount 
of  goods  she  sold ;  and  tliese  goods  were  the  small  mauul'netures 
of  ladies  of  little  or  no  fortune,  whose  names,  if  they  chose  it, 
were  only  signified  by  initials. 

Poor  water-colour  drawings,  indigo  and  Indian  ink  ;  screens, 
ornamented  witli  moss  and  dried  leaves  ;  paintings  on  velvet, 
and  such  faintly  ornamental  works  were  displayed  on  one  side 
of  the  shoj).  It  was  always  reckoned  a  mark  of  charaiteristic 
gentility  in  the  repository,  to  have  only  common  heavy-framed 
sash-windows,  which  admitted  very  little  light,  so  I  never  was 
quite  certain  of  the  merit  of  these  Works  of  Art  as  they  were 
entitled.  But,  on  the  other  side,  wlicre  the  Useful  AVork  placard 
was  put  up,  there  was  a  gi-eat  variety  of  articles,  of  whoso 
unusual  excellence  every  one  might  ju«lge.  Such  fine  sewing, 
and  stitching,  and  button-luding  !  Such  bundles  of  soft  deli- 
cate knitted  stockings  and  socks  ;  and.  above  all,  in  Lady  Lud- 
low's eyes,  such  liaidvs  of  the  finest  sjuin  flaxen  thread  ! 

And  the  most  (hlieate  dainty  work  of  all  was  done  l>y  ^liss 
(ialindo,  as  Lady  Ludlow  very  well  knew.  Yet,  fitr  all  their 
fine  sewing,  it  sometimes  happened  that  INIiss  Galindo's  pat- 
terns were  of  an  old-fashioned  kind  ;  and  the  dozen  night-eaj>s, 
maybe,  on  the  mat(>rials  for  which  she  had  exju'nded  boiia-lido 
money,  and  on  the  making-up,  no  little  time  and  eye-sight,  would 
lie  for  months  in  a  yellow  neglected  lieap  ;  and  at  sndi  times,  it 
was  said,  IMiss  (ialindo  was  more  amusing  than  usual,  more  full 
of  dry  drollery  and  liuniour ;  just  as  at  the  tinu'S  when  an  order 
nuiw  in  to  X.  (the  initial  she  had  chosen)  for  a  stuck  «>f  wtll- 
jtaying  lIiingR,  slio  sat  and  stormed  at  her  servant  as  she  stiti-lud 
away.     She  herself  explained  her  practice  in  this  way  :    - 

"  When  evervtliiug  gois  wrong,  on(>  wouhl  give  up  breathing 
if  one  could  not  iiglitci:  .ine's  litart  by  a  joke.      15iit  when   Ivo 


MY    I.ADY    LLDl.OW.  277 

to  sit  Ktill  from  morniug  till  uiglit,  I  must  have  sometliiug  to  stir 
my  blood,  or  I  should  go  oflf  into  an  apoi)lc.\y ;  so  1  set  to,  and 
quarrel  with  Sally." 

Such  were  Miss  Galindo's  means  and  manner  of  living  in  her 
own  house.  Out  of  doors,  and  in  the  village,  she  was  not 
popular,  although  she  would  have  been  sorely  missed  had  she 
left  the  place.  But  she  asked  too  many  home  questions  (not  to 
say  impertinent)  respecting  the  domestic  economies  (for  even  the 
very  poor  liked  to  spend  their  bit  of  money  their  own  way),  and 
would  oi)en  cupboards  to  lind  out  hidden  extravagances,  and 
question  closely  respecting  the  weekly  amount  of  butter,  till  one 
day  she  met  with  what  would  have  been  a  rebuff  to  any  other 
person,  but  which  she  rather  enjoyed  than  otherwise. 

She  was  going  into  a  cottage,  and  in  the  doorway  met  the  good 
woman  chasing  out  a  duck,  and  apjiarently  imconscious  of  her 
visitor. 

''Get  out,  Miss  Galindo  I"'  she  cried,  addressing  the  duck. 
"  Get  out !  0,  I  ask  your  i)ardon,"  she  continued,  as  if  seeing 
the  lady  for  the  first  time.  "  It's  only  that  weary  duck  will  come 
in.     Get  out  Miss  Gal "  (to  the  duck). 

'■  And  so  you  call  it  after,  me,  do  you  ?"  inquired  her  visitor. 

"  0,  yes,  ma'am  ;  my  master  would  have  it  so,  for  he  said,  sure 
enough  the  unlucky  bird  was  always  poking  hcrseK  where  she 
was  not  wanted." 

"  Ha,  ha  !  very  good  !  And  so  your  master  is  a  wit,  is  he  ? 
Well  I  tell  him  to  come  uj)  and  sjieak  to  me  to-night  about  my 
parlour  chimney,  for  there  is  no  one  like  him  for  chimney  doc- 
toring.' 

And  the  master  went  uji,  and  was  so  won  over  by  Miss 
Galindo's  merry  ways,  and  sharji  insight  into  tlie  mysteries  of 
his  various  kinds  of  business  (he  was  a  mason,  chimney-sweeper, 
and  ratcatcher),  that  he  came  home  and  abused  his  wife  the  next 
time  she  called  the  duck  the  name  by  which  he  himself  had 
christened  her. 

But  odd  as  Miss  Galindo  was  in  general,  she  could  be  as  well- 
bred  a  lady  as  .any  one  wlien  she  chose.  And  choose  she  always 
did  when  my  Lady  Ludlow  was  by.  Indeed,  i  don't  know  the 
man,  woman,  or  child,  tliatdid  not  instinctively  turn  out  its  best 
side  to  her  ladyship.  So  she  had  no  notion  of  tlio  qualities 
which,  1  am  sure,  made  Mr,  Homer  think  that  Miss  (ialiudo 
would  be  most  unmanageable  as  a  clerk,  and  heartily  wish 
that  the  idea  had  never  come  into  my  lady's  lunid.  But 
there  it  was ;  and  he  had  annoyed  her  ladyslii])  already  more 
than  he  liked  to-day,  so  he  could  not  din'ctly  contradict  her, 


27 S  MY   1>ADY    LUDLOW. 

but  only  urge  difficulties  which  he  hoped  might  prove  insuper- 
able. But  every  one  of  them  Lady  Ludlow  knocked  down. 
Letters  to  copy  ?  Doubtless.  Miss  Galindo  could  come  up 
to  the  Hall ;  she  should  have  a  room  to  herself ;  she  ^\T()te  a 
beautiful  hand  ;  and  writing  would  save  her  eyesight.  "  Capa- 
bility with  regard  to  accounts  V"  My  lady  would  answer  for 
that  too  ;  and  for  more  than  Mr.  Homer  seemed  to  think  it  neces- 
sary to  inquire  about.  Miss  Galindo  was  by  birth  and  breeding 
a  lady  of  the  strictest  honom',  and  woidd,  if  possible,  forget  the 
substance  of  any  letters  that  jmssed  through  her  hands  ;  at  any 
rate,  no  one  would  ever  hear  of  tliem  again  from  her.  ''  Eemu- 
neration?"  Oh!  as  for  that.  Lady  Ludlow  woidd  herself  take 
care  tliat  it  was  managed  in  the  most  delicate  manner  possible. 
She  would  send  to  invite  Miss  Galindo  to  tea  at  the  Hall  that 
very  afternoon,  if  Mr.  Homer  would  onh'  give  her  ladyship  the 
slightest  idea  of  the  average  length  of  time  that  my  lady  was  to 
request  Miss  Galindo  to  sacrifice  to  her  daily.  "  Three  hours  I 
Very  well."  Mr.  Horner  looked  very  grave  as  he  passed  tlie 
windows  of  the  room  where  I  lay.  I  don't  think  he  liked  thi; 
idea  of  Miss  Galindo  as  a  clerk. 

Lady  Ludlow's  invitations  were  like  royal  commands.  In- 
deed, the  village  was  too  quiet  to  allow  the  inhabitants  to  have 
many  evening  engagements  of  any  kind.  Now  and  then,  Mr. 
and  jNIrs.  Horner  gave  a  tea  and  sujiper  to  the  principal  tenants 
and  their  wives,  to  which  the  clergpnan  was  in\'ited,  and  Miss 
Galindo,  j\rrs.  Medlicott,  and  one  or  two  other  spinsters  and 
widows.  The  glory  of  the  supper-table  on  tliese  occasions  was 
invariably  furnished  by  her  ladyship  :  it  was  a  cold  roasted 
peacock,  with  his  tail  stuck  out  as  if  in  life.  Mrs.  Medlicott 
would  take  uj)  the  whole  morning  arranging  the  feathers  in  tlu; 
proper  semicirck^,  and  was  always  pleased  witli  the  wonder  and 
admiration  it  excited.  It  was  considered  a  due  reward  and 
fitting  compliment  to  her  exertions  that  Mr.  Horner  always  took 
her  in  to  supper,  and  placed  lur  opjxjsite  to  the  niagnifictnt 
dish,  at  whieli  she  sweetly  smiled  all  the  time  they  wi-re  at  tabh'. 
But  sinee  jMrs.  Horner  hud  had  the  ])iiralytic  stroke  these  j)arti(  t? 
had  b(!en  given  up;  and  Miss  (ialindo  wrote  a  note  to  Lady 
Ludlow  in  reply  to  Ik  r  invitation,  saying  that  she  was  entirL-ly 
disi'ngugcd,  and  would  have  great  ])leasurt!  in  doing  hei>elf  the 
liononr  of  waiting  U])on  her  ladysliij). 

Wlioever  visited  my  lady  took  tlnir  meals  with  her,  sitting  on 
the  dais,  in  the  presence  «>f  all  my  former  eomjmnions.  So  I 
did  not  si'o  Miss  Galindo  tmtil  some  time  after  lea;  as  the 
young  geuthiwonien  hud  Imd  to  bring  her  tiieir  sewing  and  spin- 


MY  I.AHY  1-rni.oNv.  279 

ning,  to  licai"  tlie  irmarks  of  so  competent  a  judge.  At  length 
her  ladyship  hrouglit  her  visitor  into  the  room  wlierc  I  lay, — it 
was  one  of  my  bad  days,  I  remember, — in  order  to  have  her 
littlo  bit  of  private  conversation.  Miss  Galiudo  was  dressed  in 
her  best  gown,  I  am  sm-e,  but  I  had  never  seen  anything  like  it 
except  in  a  pictiu'e,  it  was  so  old-fashioned.  Slic  wore  a  white 
muslin  apron,  delicately  embroidered,  and  put  on  a  littlo 
crookedly,  in  order,  as  she  told  us,  even  Lady  Ludlow,  before 
the  evening  was  over,  to  conceal  a  spot  whence  the  colour  had 
been  discharged  by  a  lemon-stain.  This  crookedness  had  an 
odd  effect,  especially  when  I  saw  that  it  was  intentional ;  indeed, 
she  was  so  anxious  about  her  apron's  right  adjustment  in  tho 
wrong  place,  that  she  told  us  straight  out  why  she  wore  it  so, 
and  asked  her  ladyship  if  the  spot  was  properly  hidden,  at  the 
same  time  lifting  uji  licr  ajn-on  and  shomng  her  how  large  it 
was. 

"  'When  my  father  was  alive,  I  always  took  his  right  arm,  so, 
and  used  to  remove  any  spotted  or  discolom-ed  breadths  to  the 
left  side,  if  it  was  a  walking-dress.  That's  the  convenience  of  a 
gentleman.  But  widows  and  spinsters  must  do  what  they  can, 
Ah,  my  dear  (to  me) !  when  you  are  reckoning  u-p  the  blessings 
in  yoiu-  lot, — though  you  may  think  it  a  hard  one  in  some  re- 
spects,— don't  forgot  how  little  your  stockings  want  darning,  as 
you  are  obliged  to  lie  do^n  so  much !  I  would  rather  knit  two 
pairs  of  stockings  than  darn  one,  any  day." 

"  Have  you  been  doing  any  of  your  beautiful  knitting  lately  ?" 
asked  my  lady,  who  had  now  arranged  Miss  Galindo  in  tho 
pleasantest  chair,  and  taken  her  own  little  wicker-work  one,  and, 
having  her  work  in  her  hands,  was  ready  to  try  and  ojien  tho 
subject. 

"  No,  and  alas  !  youi-  ladyship.  It  is  partly  the  hot  weather's 
fault,  for  people  seem  to  forget  that  winter  must  come  ;  and 
partly,  I  suppose,  that  every  one  is  stocked  who  has  the  money 
to  pay  four-and-sixpence  a  i)air  for  stockings." 

"  Then  may  I  ask  if  you  have  any  time  in  yom*  active  days  at 
liberty  ?"  said  my  lady,  dramng  a  little  nearer  to  her  jiroposal, 
which  I  fivncy  she  found  it  a  little  awkward  to  make. 

"  Why,  the  village  keeps  me  busy,  yoiu:  ladyship,  when  I 
have  neitlier  knitting  or  sewing  to  do.  You  know  I  took  X.  for 
my  letter  at  tho  repository,  because  it  stands  for  Xantii)pe,  who 
was  a  great  scold  in  old  times,  as  I  have  learnt.  ]5ut  I'm  snre 
I  don't  know  how  the  world  would  get  on  without  scolding, 
your  ladyship.  It  would  go  to  sleep,  and  tho  e^m  would  stand 
still." 


280  -MV    LADY    LLDI.OW. 

"  I  don't  tliiuk  I  could  bear  to  scold,  Miss  Gnlindo,"  said  her 

ladysliip,  smiling. 

'•  No  !  becauso  3'Oiir  ladysliip  lias  people  to  do  it  for  you. 
IJegging  your  pardon,  my  lady,  it  seems  to  me  the  geuciiility  of 
people  may  be  divided  into  saints,  scolds,  and  sinners.  Now, 
yoiur  ladyship  is  a  saint,  because  you  have  a  sweet  and  holy- 
nature,  in  the  first  place  ;  and  liave  people  to  do  yoiu-  anger  and 
vexation  for  you,  in  the  second  place.  And  Jonathan  Walker 
is  a  sinner,  because  he  is  sent  to  prison.  But  here  am  I.  half 
way,  having  but  a  poor  kind  of  disposition  at  best,  and  yet 
hating  sin,  and  all  that  leads  to  it,  such  as  wasting,  and  cxti-ava- 
gance,  and  gossiping, — and  yet  all  this  lies  right  under  my  nose 
in  the  village,  and  I  am  not  saint  enough  to  be  vexed  at  it ;  and 
so  I  scold.  And  though  I  had  rather  be  a  saint,  yet  I  think  I 
do  good  in  my  way." 

"  No  doubt  you  do,  dear  IMiss  Galindo,"  said  Lady  Ludlow 
"  But  I  am  sorry  to  heai*  that  there  is  so  much  that  is  bad  going 
on  in  the  village, — very  sorry." 

"  0,  yoiu"  ladyshij) !  then  I  am  sorry  I  bruuglit  it  out.  It 
v/as  only  by  way  of  saj'ing,  that  when  I  liave  no  particular  work 
to  do  at  home,  I  take  a  turn  abroad,  and  set  my  neighbi)urs  to 
riglits,  just  by  way  of  steering  clear  of  Satan. 

Fur  Siitaii  lintls  some  mischief  still 
For  idle  luiiulsi  to  do, 

you  know,  my  Lady." 

There  was  no  leading  into  the  subject  by  delicate  dogi'cet;,  for 
Miss  Galindo  was  evidently  so  fimd  of  talking,  that,  if  asked  a 
(piestion,  she  made  her  answer  so  long,  that  before  she  came  to 
an  end  of  it,  slie  had  wandered  far  away  from  the  original  start- 
ing point.  So  Lady  Ludlov,-  plunged  at  once  into  what  she  had 
to  say. 

"  Miss  Galindo,  I  have  a  great  favour  to  ask  of  you." 

"My  lady,  I  wish  I  could  tell  you  what  a  pleasure  it  is  to 
hear  you  say  so,"  replied  Miss  (ialindo,  almost  with  tears  in  her 
ej'es ;  so  glad  were  we  all  to  do  anything  for  her  ladyship, 
which  could  bo  called  a  frvo  sei'vice  and  not  merely  a  duty. 

"It  is  this.  Mr.  IIt)ruer  tells  me  that  the  busini'-^^s-letters, 
relating  to  tlie  estate,  ari'  multiplying  so  much  that  he  tinds  it 
impossible  to  copy  them  all  hinisi  If,  mid  I  therefore  retjuire  tho 
services  of  some  conlideiitial  and  discieit  person  to  copy  these 
letters,  and  occasionally  to  go  through  certain  actumuts.  Now, 
there  is  a  very  pleasant  littU>  sitting-room  very  near  t<»  Mr. 
Jlorner's  oilice  (you  know  i\lr.  llonur's  olVice  on  tho  otlier  side 
of  the  stone  hall  "),  and  if  I  could  prevail  u])on  you  to  come  hero 


MV    LADY    ].LDLO\V.  281 

to  broiikfiist  and  afterwards  sit  Ibcro  fur  three  hours  every 
luorninj^.  ^Mr.  Horner  sht)uld  bring  or  send  yon  the  papers " 

Lady  Ludlow  stopji-'d.  Miss  Galindo's  coimtenaucc  had 
fiillcn.  There  was  some  gi'cat  obstacle  in  her  nrind  to  her  ^\-ish 
for  obliging  Lady  Ludlow. 

'•  What  would  Sally  do  ?"'  she  asked  at  length.  Lady  Ludlow 
had  not  a  notion  who  Sally  was.  Nor  if  she  had  had  a  notion, 
would  she  have  had  a  conception  of  the  perjjlexities  tliat  iiom-ed 
into  Miss  Galindo's  mind,  at  the  idea  of  leaving  her  rougli  for- 
getfid  dwaif  without  the  perpetual  monitorship  of  her  mistress. 
Lady  Ludlow,  accustomed  to  a  household  where  everything 
went  on  noiselessly,  perfectly,  and  by  clock-work,  conducted  by 
a  number  of  higlily-paid,  well-chosen,  and  accomplished  ser- 
vants, had  not  a  conccj^tion  of  the  nature  of  the  rough  material 
from  which  her  servants  came.  Besides,  in  her  establishment, 
80  that  the  result  was  good,  no  one  inquired  if  the  small 
economies  had  been  observed  in  the  production.  AVhereas  every 
penny— every  halfpenny,  was  of  consequence  to  ]\Iiss  Galindo ; 
and  visions  of  squandered  drops  of  milk  and  wasted  crusts  of 
bread  tilled  her  mind  with  dismay.  But  she  swallowed  all  her 
apprehensions  down,  out  of  her  regard  for  Lady  Ludlow,  and 
desire  to  be  of  service  to  her.  No  one  knows  how  great  a  trial 
it  was  to  her  when  she  thought  of  Sally,  imchecked  and  im- 
scolded  for  three  hoiu'S  every  morning.      But  all  she  said  was — - 

" '  Sally,  go  to  the  Deuce.'  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  lady,  if  I 
was  talking  to  myself;  it's  a  habit  I  have  got  into  of  keeping 
my  tongue  in  practice,  and  I  am  not  quite  aware  when  I  do  it. 
Three  hours  every  morning  !  I  shall  be  only  too  proud  to  do 
what  I  can  fur  your  ladyship  ;  and  I  hope  Mr.  Horner  will  not 
be  too  imjjatient  with  me  at  first.  You  loiow,  perhaps,  that  I 
was  nearly  being  an  authoress  once,  and  that  seems  as  if  I  was 
destined  to  '  emi)loy  my  time  in  writing.'  " 

"  No,  indeed ;  we  must  return  to  the  subject  of  the  clerkship 
afterwards,  if  you  i)lease.  An  authoress,  Miss  Galindo  !  You 
surprise  me  I" 

"But,  indeed,  I  was.  All  was  quite  ready.  Doctor  Burney 
used  to  teach  me  music  :  not  that  I  ever  could  learn,  but  it  was  a 
fancy  of  my  poor  fatlier's.  And  his  daughter  wrote  a  book,  and 
they  said  she  was  but  a  very  young  lady,  and  nothing  biit  a 
music-master's  daugliter  ;  so  why  should  not  I  try  ?" 

"Well?" 

"Well !  I  got  paper  and  half-a-hundred  good  pens,  a  bottle 
of  ink,  all  ready " 

"And  then—-" 


282  311"    LADY    LUDLOW. 

'*  0,  it  ended  in  my  having  nothing  to  say,  wliou  I  sat  down 
to  write.  But  sometimes,  when  I  get  hold  of  a  book,  1  wonder 
i\hy  I  let  such  a  poor  reason  ato-p  me.      It  does  not  others." 

"  But  I  think  it  was  very  well  it  did,  !JIiss  Galindo,"  said  her 
ladyship.  "  I  am  extremely  against  women  usurping  men's 
employments,  as  they  arc  very  apt  to  do.  But  perhaps.  aft<.T  all. 
the  notion  of  \\Titing  a  book  improved  youi*  hand.  It  is  one  of 
the  most  legible  I  ever  saw." 

"  I  despise  z's  ^\-ithout  tails,"  said  Miss  Galindo,  with  a  good 
deal  of  gratified  pride  at  my  lady's  praise.  Presently,  my  lady 
took  her  to  look  iit  a  curious  old  cabinet,  which  Lord  Ludlow 
had  picked  \i])  at  the  Hague  ;  and  while  they  were  out  of  the  room 
on  this  errand,  I  suppose  the  (question  of  remunei-ation  was 
settled,  for  I  heard  no  more  of  it. 

When  they  came  back,  they  were  talking  of  Mr.  Gray.  Miss 
Galindo  was  unsj)aring  in  her  expressions  of  oi)inion  about  him  : 
going  much  farther  than  my  lady — in  her  language,  at  least. 

"  xV  little  blushing  man  like  him,  Avho  can't  say  bo  to  a  goose 
without  hesitating  and  colouring,  to  come  to  this  village — which 
is  as  good  a  village  as  ever  lived — and  cry  us  down  for  a  set  ol 
sinners,  as  if  we  had  all  committed  murder  and  tliat  other  thing  ! 
— I  have  no  2)atience  \\-ith  him,  my  lady.  And  then,  how  is  he 
to  help  us  to  heaven,  by  teaching  \is  our,  a  b,  ab — b  a,  ba  ? 
And  3'ot,  by  all  accounts,  that's  to  save  poor  children's  souls. 
O,  I  knew  yom"  ladyship  would  agree  with  me.  I  am  sure  my 
mother  was  as  good  a  c-rc^atm-e  as  ever  breathed  the  blessed  air  ; 
and  if  she's  not  gone  to  heaven  I  don't  want  to  go  there  :  and 
she  could  not  sjiell  a  letter  decently.  And  does  Mr.  Gray  think 
God  took  note  of  that  ?  " 

"  I  was  sure  you  would  agree  with  me,  Miss  Galindo,"  said  my 
lady.  "  You  and  I  can  rona'nd)er  how  this  talk  about  education 
—  Konsscau,  and  his  writings  stirred  up  the  French  i)et>i)li'  to 
their  IJeign  of  Terror,  and  all  tluise  blotuly  scenes.  ' 

"  I'm  afraid  that  liousseau  and  Jlr.  (Iruy  are  birds  of  a  feather,"' 
replied  Miss  (ialindo,  shaking  her  head.  "  And  yet  there  is 
some  good  in  the  young  man  too.  He  sat  up  all  night  willi 
Billy  Davis,  when  his  wife  was  fairly  worn  out  with  nursing  him." 

"  Did  he,  indeed  I"  said  my  lady,  her  face  lighting  up,  as  it 
always  did  when  she  heard  of  any  kind  or  generous  action,  n«) 
matter  who  performed  it.  "  AVhat  a  jntyhe  is  bitten  with  theso 
new  revolutionary  ideas,  and  is  so  nnich  for  disturbing  tlic 
established  order  of  society  !" 

Wlieii  J\Iiss  Galindo  went,  she  left  so  favonrablo  an  inipresRi(m 
of  her  visit  on  my  lady,  tluit  slic  said  to  me  with  a  plea.<5ed  s/nilf  — 


MY    LADY    LUDLOW,  283 

"  I  think  I  hav6  provided  Mr.  Horner  witli  a  far  better  clerk 
ihan  he  wouhl  have  made  of  that  hid  (iregson  in  twenty  years. 
And  I  will  send  the  lad  to  my  lords  grieve,  in  Scotland,  that  ho 
may  be  kept  out  of  harm's  way." 

But  something  happened  to  the  lad  before  this  puriiosc  could 
be  accomplished. 


CHAPTER  X. 


The  next  morning.  Miss  Galindo  made  her  appearance,  and,  by 
some  mistake,  unusual  to  my  lady's  well-trained  servants,  was 
shown  into  the  room  where  I  was  trying  to  wallv  ;  for  a  certain 
amount  of  exercise  was  prescribed  for  me,  painful  although  the 
exertion  had  become. 

She  brought  a  little  basket  along  with  her ;  and  while  the 
footman  was  gone  to  inquire  my  lady's  washes  (for  I  don't  think 
that  Lady  Ludlow  expected  Miss  Galindo  so  soon  to  assume  her 
clerkship  ;  nor,  indeed,  had  Mr.  Horner  any  work  of  any  kind 
ready  for  his  new  assistant  to  do),  she  launched  out  into  conver- 
sati<in  with  me. 

"  It  was  a  sudden  summons,  my  dear  !  However,  as  I  have 
often  said  to  myself,  ever  since  an  occasion  long  ago,  if  Lady 
Ludlow  ever  honoiu's  me  by  asking  for  my  right  hand,  I'll  cut  it 
ofiF,  and  wrap  the  stump  up  so  tidily  she  shall  never  find  out 
it  bleeds.  But,  if  I  had  had  a  little  more  time,  I  could  have 
mended  my  pens  better.  You  sec,  I  have  had  to  sit  up  pretty  late 
to  get  these  sleeves  made  " — and  she  took  out  of  her  basket  a  pair 
of  brown-holland  over-slccves,  very  much  such  as  a  grocer's 
apprentice  wears — "  and  I  had  only  time  to  make  seven  or  eight 
pens,  out  of  some  quills  Farmer  Thomson  gave  me  last  autmun. 
As  for  ink,  I'm  thankful  to  say,  that's  alwaj'^s  ready  :  an  oimce 
of  steel  tilings,  an  ounce  of  imt-gall,  and  a  pint  of  water  (tea,  if 
you're  extravagant,  whicii,  thank  Heaven  !  I'm  not),  jiut  all  in 
a  bottle,  and  hang  it  up  behind  the  house  door,  so  that  the  whole 
gets  a  good  shaking  every  time  you  slam  it  to— and  even  if  you 
are  in  a  passion  and  bang  it,  as  Sally  and  I  often  do,  it  is  all  the 
better  for  it — and  tliere's  my  ink  ready  for  use  ;  ready  to  write 
my  lady's  will  with,  if  need  be." 

"O,  Miss  Galindo  I"'  said  I,  "don't  talk  v,o  ;  my  lady's  will  I 
and  she  not  dead  yet.' 

"  And  if  she  wore,  what  would  be  the  use  of  talking  of  making 
her  will  ?  Now,  if  you  were  Sally,  I  should  say,  '  Answer  rac 
that,  you  goose!'    But,  as  ytm're  a  roLition  of  my  lady's,  I  must 


284  MY    l..\D\    LLDLOW. 

lie  civil,  and  onl}'  sny,  '  I  cau't  think  bow  you  can  talk  so  like  a 
fool !'     To  be  sure,  poor  thing,  you're  lame  !" 

I  do  not  know  how  long  she  would  have  gone  on  ;  but  my 
lady  came  in,  and  I,  released  from  my  duty  of  entertaining  Miss 
( ialiudo,  made  my  limping  way  into  the  next  room.  To  tell  the 
truth,  I  was  rather  afraid  of  Miss  Galindo's  tongue,  for  I  never 
knew  what  she  would  say  next. 

After  a  while  my  lady  came,  and  began  to  look  in  the  bureau 
for  something  :  and  as  she  looked  she  said — 

"  I  think  Mr.  Ilorncr  must  have  made  some  mistake,  when  he 
said  he  had  so  much  work  that  he  almost  recjuired  a  clerk,  for 
this  morning  he  cannot  ftnd  anything  for  Miss  Galindo  to  do  ; 
and  there  she  is,  sitting  witli  her  pen  behind  her  ear,  waiting 
for  something  to  write.  I  am  come  to  tind  her  my  mothers 
letters,  for  I  should  like  to  have  a  fair  copy  made  of  them.  O, 
here  they  are :  don't  trouble  yourself,  my  dear  child." 

When  my  lady  returned  again,  she  sat  down  and  began  to  talk 
of  Mr.  Gray. 

"  Miss  Galindo  says  she  saw  him  going  to  ludd  a  i)rayer-mect- 
ing  in  a  cottage.  Now  that  really  makes  me  unliapj)v.  it  is  so 
like  what  Mr.  Wesley  used  to  do  in  my  younger  days  ;  and  since 
tlien  we  have  had  rebellion  in  the  American  colonics  and  the 
French  licvolution.  You  may  depend  ui)on  it,  my  dear,  making 
religion  and  education  common — vulgarising  them,  as  it  were — 
is  a  bad  thing  for  a  nation.  A  man  who  hears  prayers  read  in 
the  cottage  where  he  has  just  supped  on  bread  and  bacon,  forgets 
the  rcsjiect  due  to  a  church  :  he  begins  to  think  that  one  place 
is  as  good  as  another,  and,  bv-and-by.  that  (^ne  i)erson  is  as  good 
as  another ;  and  after  that,  I  always  tind  that  i)eo])le  begin  to 
talk  of  their  riglits,  instead  of  tliiidving  of  thi'ir  duties.  I  wish 
Mr.  Gray  had  been  more  tractable,  and  had  left  well  alone. 
What  do  you  think  I  heard  this  morning  ?  Why  that  the  Homo 
Hill  estate,  which  niches  into  the  llanbury  property,  was  bought 
l>y  a  Baptist  l»aker  from  liirmiugham  .'" 

"•  A  Baptist  baker  !"  I  exelaijiied.  I  had  never  sti-n  a  Dissen- 
ter, to  my  knowledge  ;  but,  having  always  heard  them  spoken 
(»f  with  horror,  I  looked  uj)on  them  almost  as  if  they  were  rhi- 
noc(!roses.  I  wanted  to  see  a  live  Dissiiitcr,  I  believe,  and  yet  I 
wislied  it  were  over.  I  was  almost  .surprised  wluii  1  heard  lliat  any 
i)f  them  were  engaged  in  such  peaceful  occupations  as  baking. 

"Yes  !  solMr.  Horner  tells  me.  A  Mr.  Lambc,  I  Ixlieve.  But. 
at  any  rate,  he  is  a  Bai)ti:-t,  and  has  been  in  trade  What  with 
his  schisnuitism  and  IVlr.  (iray's  nicthodism,  1  am  afnii  1  all  tlio 
jiiiiiiitive  character  of  this  jdace  will  vanish." 


MY    LADY    LUDLOW.  28.5 

Fi'om  what  1  could  hear,  IVIr.  Gray  Beenicd  to  be  taking  his 
own  way  :  at  any  rate,  more  than  ho  liad  done  when  he  first  came 
to  the  villafie,  when  his  natural  timidity  had  made  him  defer  t(j 
my  lady,  and  seek  her  consent  and  sanction  l)etore  embarking  in 
any  new  plan.  But  newness  was  a  (juality  Lady  Ludlow  espe- 
cially disliked.  Even  in  tlie  fashions  of  dress  and  furniture, 
she  clung  to  the  old,  to  the  modes  which  had  prevailed  when  she 
was  young  ;  and  though  she  liad  a  deep  personal  regard  for 
Queen  Charlotte  (to  whom,  as  1  have  ah'cady  said,  she  had  been 
maid-of-honour),  yet  there  was  a  tinge  of  Jacobitism  about  her, 
such  as  made  her  extremely  dislike  to  hear  Prince  Charles  Edward 
called  tlie  young  Pretender,  as  many  loyal  people  did  in  those 
days,  and  made  her  fond  of  telling  of  the  thorn-tree  in  my  lord's 
park  in  Scotland,  w  hich  had  been  planted  by  bonny  Queen  Maiy 
herself,  and  before  which  every  guest  in  the  Castle  of  Monks- 
haven  was  expected  to  stand  bare-headed,  out  of  respect  to  the 
memory  and  misfortunes  of  the  royal  planter. 

We  might  play  at  cards,  if  we  so  chose,  on  a  Sunday  ;  at  least,  I 
suppose  we  might,  for  my  lady  and  Mr.  Mountford  used  to  do 
so  often  when  1  first  went.  But  we  must  neither  play  cards,  nor 
read,  nor  sew  on  the  fifth  of  November  and  on  the  tliirticth  of 
January,  but  must  go  to  chm'ch,  and  meditate  all  the  rest  of  the 
day — and  very  hard  work  meditating  was.  I  would  far  rather 
have  scoured  a  room.  That  was  the  reason,  I  suppose,  why  a 
passive  life  was  seen  to  be  better  discipline  for  me  thnn  an 
active  one. 

But  I  am  wandering  away  from  my  lady,  and  her  dislike  to 
all  innovation.  Now,  it  seemed  to  me,  as  far  as  I  heard,  that 
Mr.  Gray  was  full  of  nothing  but  new  things,  and  that  what  he 
first  did  was  to  attack  all  oiu-  established  institutions,  both  in  the 
village  and  the  parish,  and  also  in  the  nation.  To  be  sure,  I 
heard  of  his  ways  of  going  on  principally  from  Miss  Galindo, 
who  was  apt  to  speak  more  strongly  than  accurately, 

"  There  ho  goes,"  she  said,  "  clucking  up  the  children  just  like 
an  old  hen,  and  trying  to  teacli  them  about  their  salvation  and 
their  souls,  and  I  don't  knf)w  what— things  that  it  is  just  blas- 
phemy to  speak  about  out  of  church.  And  he  potters  old  peoi)lc 
about  reading  their  Bibles.  I  am  sure  I  don't  want  to  speak 
disrespectfully  about  the  Holy  Scriptures,  but  I  found  old  Job 
Horton  busy  reading  liis  Bible  yesterday.  Says  I,  '  What  arc 
you  reading,  and  where  did  you  get  it,  and  wlio  gave  it  you?' 
So  he  made  answer,  'That  ho  was  reading  Susannah  and  the 
Elders,  for  that  he  l:ad  read  Bel  'uid  tiio  Dragon  till  lie  could 
^Viiy  iv^nr  say  it   iJl'  1)V   licart,  and   incy  were   two  nn  pretty 


2ftH  MY    LAUY    I.UDI-OW. 

stories  as  civcr  he  hud  read,  and  that  it  was  a  caution  to  liini  what 
bad  old  cliai)s  there  were  in  the  world.'  Now,  as  Job  is  bed- 
ridden, I  don't  think  he  is  likely  to  meet  with  the  Elders,  and  I 
say  that  I  think  repeating  his  Creed,  the  Comnmndments,  and 
the  Lord's  Prayer,  and,  maybe,  throwing  in  a  verse  of  the  Psalms, 
if  ho  wanted  a  bit  of  a  change,  would  have  done  him  fiir  more 
good  than  his  pretty  stories,  as  he  called  them.  And  what's  the 
next  thing  our  young  parson  does  ?  Why  he  tries  to  make  us  all 
feci  pitiful  for  the  black  slaves,  and  leaves  little  pictm-es  of 
negroes  about,  with  the  question  jirinted  below,  '  Am  I  not  a  man 
and  a  brother?'  just  as  if  I  was  to  be  hail-fellow-well-met 
with  every  negro  footuiuu.  They  do  say  he  takes  no  sugar  in 
his  tea,  because  he  thinks  he  sees  spots  of  blood  in  it.  Now  1 
call  that  superstition. 

The  next  day  it  was  a  still  worse  story. 

'•  Well,  my  dear  !  and  how  are  you  ?  My  lady  sent  me  in  to 
sit  a  bit  with  you,  while  Mr.  Horner  looks  out  some  papci-s 
for  me  to  copy.  Between  ourselves,  Mr.  Steward  Horner  does 
not  like  having  me  for  a  clerk.  It  is  all  very  well  he  does  not ; 
for,  if  he  were  decently  civil  to  me,  1  might  want  a  chaperone, 
you  know,  now  jioor  Mrs.  Horner  is  dead."'  This  was  one  of 
Miss  (ialindo's  grim  jtjkus.  "  Jis  it  is,  I  try  to  make  him  forget 
I'm  a  woman,  1  do  everything  as  ship-shape  as  a  ma.seuline  man- 
clerk.  1  see  he  can't  tind  a  fault— WTiting  good,  spelling  correct, 
sums  all  right.  And  then  lie  squints  uj)  at  me  aWIIi  the  tail  of 
his  eye,  and  looks  glummer  than  ever,  just  because  I'm  a  wonum 
— as  if  1  could  help  that.  1  have  gone  good  lengths  to  set  liis 
mind  at  ease.  1  have  stuck  my  pen  behind  my  ear,  1  have  made 
him  a  bow  instead  of  a  cxu-tsey,  1  have  whistled — not  a  tune,  1  can't 
jiipc  up  that— nay,  if  you  won't  tell  my  lady.  1  don't  mind  tell- 
ing you  tliat  I  have  said  'Confound  it!'  and  'Zounds!'  I  ciui't 
get  any  farther.  For  all  that,  Mr.  Horner  won't  forget  I  am  a 
lady,  and  so  1  am  not  half  tlie  use  1  might  hv,  and  if  it  were  ni>t 
to  please  my  Lady  Ludlow,  Mr.  Horner  and  his  books  might  go 
hang  (see  how  natural  that  came  out !).  And  there  is  an  oixier 
for  a  dozen  nighteai)s  for  a  bride,  and  I  am  st>  afmid  I  shan't 
have  tinui  to  do  them.  Worst  of  all.  there's  Mr.  (Iniy  tiking 
advantage  of  my  absenci^  to  seduce  Sally  !" 
"  To  seduce  Sally  !  Mr.  (iniy  !" 

'•  Pooh,  pooh,  child!  Tlurc's  many  a  kind  of  seductiiui.  Mr. 
Gray  is  seducing  Sully  to  want  to  go  to  church.  There  has  lie  biH!n 
twice  at  my  house,  wliile  1  liave  been  away  in  the  mornings, 
talking  to  S<xlly  about  tht;  static  of  iicr  soul  r.nd  that  sort  of  tiling. 
Hut  wlicii  1  found  tliu  ni^'at  all  niastt  d  to  a  cintier,  I  said,  *  ConiO, 


31Y    LADY    LUDLOW.  287 

Sally,  kt's  have  no  more  prjiying  wh(>n  beef  is  dfiwn  ;it  tlic  fire 
rniv  at  six  o'clock  in  the  luoniing  and  nine  at  night,  and  1  won't 
hinder  yon.'  So  she  sauced  me,  and  said  something  aljont 
Martha  and  Mary,  implying  that,  because  she  had  let  the  beef 
get  so  overdone  that  I  declare  J  could  hardly  find  a  bit  for  Nancy 
Pole's  sick  grandchild,  she  had  chosen  the  better  part.  1  was 
very  much  put  about,  I  own,  and  perhaps  j'ou'll  be  shocked  nt 
what  1  said — indeed,  I  don't  know  if  it  was  right  myself — but  1 
told  her  I  hfid  a  soul  as  well  as  she,  and  if  it  was  to  be  saved  by 
my  sitting  still  and  thinking  about  salvation  and  never  doing  my 
duty,  1  thought  I  had  as  good  a  right  as  she  had  to  be  Maiy, 
and  save  my  soul.  So,  that  afternoon  1  sat  quite  still,  and  it 
■was  really  a  comfort,  for  I  am  often  too  busy,  I  know,  to  pray  as 
I  ought.  There  is  first  one  person  wanting  me,  and  then  another, 
and  the  house  and  the  food  and  the  neighbom-s  to  see  after.  So, 
when  tea-time  comes,  there  enters  my  maid  with  her  hump  on 
her  back,  and  her  soid  to  be  saved.  '  Please,  ma'am,  did  you 
order  the  pound  of  butter?' — 'No,  Sally,'  I  said,  shaking  my 
head, '  this  morning  I  did  not  go  round  by  Hale's  fiirm,  and  this 
afternoon  I  have  been  emj)loyed  in  spiritual  things.' 

"  Now,  our  Sally  likes  tea  and  bread-and-butter  above  every- 
thing, and  dry  bread  was  not  to  her  taste. 

'•  "•  I'm  thankfid,'  said  the  impudent  hussy,  '  that  you  have 
taken  a  tm-n  towards  godliness.  It  will  be  my  prayers,  I  trust, 
that's  given  it  you.' 

"  I  was  determined  not  to  give  her  an  oj^ening  towards  the 
carnal  subject  of  butter,  so  she  lingered  still,  longing  to  ask " 
leave  to  run  for  it.  But  I  gave  her  none,  and  munched  my  dry 
bread  myself,  thinking  what  a  famous  cake  I  could  make  for 
little  Ben  Pole  with  the  bit  of  butter  wc  were  saving  ;  and  when 
Sally  had  had  her  butterless  tea,  and  was  in  none  of  the  best  of 
tempers  because  Martha  had  not  bethought  herself  of  the  butter, 
I  just  quietly  said  — 

"  '  Now,  Sally,  to-morrow  we'll  try  to  hash  that  beef  well,  and 
to  remember  the  butter,  and  to  work  out  om-  salvation  all  at  the 
same  time,  for  I  don't  see  why  it  can't  all  be  done,  as  God  has  set 
us  to  do  it  all.'  But  I  heard  her  at  it  again  about  Mary  and 
Martha,  and  I  have  no  doubt  that  Mr.  Gray  will  teach  her  to 
consider  me  a  lost  sheep." 

I  had  heard  so  many  little  speeches  about  Mr.  Gray  from  one 
person  or  another,  all  speaking  against  him,  as  a  mischief-maker,  a 
8etter-up  of  new  doctrines,  and  of  a  fimciful  standard  of  life  (and 
you  may  bo  sure  that,  where  Lady  Ludlow  led,  Mrs.  Medlicott 
and  Adams  were  certain  to  follow,  each  in  their  dilFercnt  ways 


288  MY    LADY    LUDLOW. 

showing  the  influence  my  lady  had  over  them),  that  I  believe  I 
had  gi'own  to  consider  him  as  a  very  instrument  of  evil,  and  to 
expect  to  perceive  in  his  face  marks  of  his  presumption,  antl 
arrogance,  and  impertinent  interference.  It  was  now  many  weeks 
since  1  had  seen  him,  and  when  he  was  one  morning  slio^Ti  into 
the  blue  drawing-room  (into  which  I  had  been  removed  for  a 
change),  I  was  quite  sui-priscd  to  see  how  innocent  and  awkward 
a  young  man  he  ajipeared,  confused  even  more  than  I  was  at  our 
unexpected  tete-a-tete.  He  looked  thinner,  his  eyes  more  eager, 
his  expression  more  anxious,  and  his  coloiu:  came  and  went  more 
than  it  had  done  when  I  had  seen  him  last.  1  tried  to  make  a, 
little  conversation,  as  I  was,  to  my  own  sm-prise,  more  at  my 
3ase  than  he  was ;  but  his  thoughts  were  evidently'  too  much 
preoccupied  for  him  to  do  more  than  answer  me  with  mono- 
syllables. 

Presently  my  lady  came  in.  Mr.  Gray  twitched  and  coloured 
more  than  ever ;  but  plunged  into  the  middle  of  liis  subject  at 
once. 

"  My  lady,  I  cannot  answer  it  to  my  conscience,  if  I  allow  the 
children  of  this  village  to  go  on  any  longer  the  little  heathens 
that  they  are.  I  must  do  something  to  alter  their  condition.  I 
am  quite  aware  that  your  ladyship  disapproves  of  many  of  the 
plans  which  have  suggested  themselves  to  me :  but  nevertheless 
1  must  do  something,  and  1  am  come  now  to  yom*  ladyship  to  ask 
respectfully,  but  firmly,  what  you  would  advise  me  to  do." 

His  eyes  were  dilated,  and  1  could  almost  have  said  they  were 
full  of  tears  with  his  eagerness.  But  1  am  sure  it  is  a  bad  plan 
to  remind  people  of  decided  opinions  which  they  have  once 
expressed,  if  you  wish  them  to  modify  tliose  opinions.  Now, 
Mr.  Gray  had  done  this  with  my  lady  ;  and  though  I  do  not 
mean  to  say  she  was  obstinate,  yet  she  was  not  one  to  retract. 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment  or  two  before  she  rejjlied. 

"  You  ask  me  to  suggest  a  remedy  for  an  evil  of  the  existence 
of  which  I  am  not  conscious,"'  was  lier  answer  very  coldly,  very 
gently  given,  "  In  Mr.  ]\Iountford"s  time  1  heard  no  such  com- 
plaints :  whenever  I  see  the  village  children  (and  tliey  are  not 
iinfn  (|Uout  visitors  at  this  house,  on  one  ju'etext  or  another),  they 
are  well  and  decently  behaved."' 

"Oh,  mad  nil,  you  cannot  judge,"  he  broke  in.  '' Tlu\v  are 
trained  to  respect  you  in  word  and  died  ;  you  are  the  higliest 
they  ever  look  u])  to  ;  they  have  no  notion  of  a  higher," 

"  Nay,  Mr.  (Jray,"  said  my  lady,  smiling,  "  tliey  »u-e  as  loyally 
disposed  as  any  children  can  b<'.  Tluy  come  up  hei"o  every 
fourth  of  .lun(,  sind  drink  liis  Majesty's  healtli.  anl  have  buns, 


Mv  i.AL>v  Li:i);.o\v.  2H9 

ana  (as  Margai-ot  Dawson  can  testify)  tboy  take  a  gi-cat  and 
Sluuily '""'''  "'  '^''  ^''''"'''  ^  """  '^'""'  ^^'^"^  ^^  "^« 
ai^nftic^  '"'''^'""'  "^  ^'''"^'  ''^  something  liiglicr  than  any  cai-llily 

My  lady  culonved  at  the  mistake  slic  had  made  ;  for  she  her- 
selt  was  tndy  pious.  Yet  when  she  resumed  the  subject  it 
seemed  to  me  as  if  her  tone  was  a  little  sharper  than  before 

•  feuch  want  of  reverence  is,  I  should  say,  the  clergyman's  fault 
lou  must  excuse  me,  Mr.  Gray,  if  1  speak  plainly/' 
torn..!  totlfn/  '"''*  P^'^."^-«P-^khig.  I  myself  am  not  accus- 
tomed to  those  CQiK^monies  and  forms  which  are,  I  suppose,  tho 
etiquette  in  youi-  ladyship  s  rank  of  life,  and  which  seem  to  h^dcre 
you  m  from  any  power  of  mine  to  touch  you.  Amon-  these 
wi  h  whom  I  have  jessed  my  life  hitherto,  it  has  been  the  cult  mo 
speak  plainly  out  what  we  have  felt  eai-nestly.  So,  instead  of  need- 
ing any  apology  from  your  ladyship  for  straightforward  speaking 
I  ^Mll  meet  what  you  say  at  once,  and  admit  that  it  is  thi  clergy- 
man s  fault,  IB  a  great  measm-e,  when  the  children  of  his  paiS. 
sx-ear,  and  curse,  and  are  brutal,  and  ignorant  of  aU  savins  draco  ' 
uay  some  of  them  of  tlie  very  name  of  God.  And  beca°use  this 
gui  t  of  mine,  as  the  clergyman  of  this  parish,  lies  heavy  on  my 

WlT  TT"^  ^J"^!'''^'  ^"'  ^'''''  ^''^  '^  ^™^-«^'  till  I  anf  utterly 
be^vlldered  how  to  do  good  to  children  who  escape  from  me  as  if 

capable  of  any  crime,  but  tliose  requiring  wit  or  sense,  I  come 
to  you  who  seem  to  me  all-powerful,  as  far  as  material  po^v 
goes-for  your  ladyship  only  knows  the  sm-face  of  things Tnd 

sue"  'ouh  afh  r"  "  ^'^'"" '"''-'''-'''  ''^'^  "^  -*^^  ^^--'  "' 
sucn  out\.ara  help  as  you  can  give. 

Mr.  Gray  had  stood  up  and  sat 'down  once  or  twice  while  he 
had  been  speaking  in  an  agitated,  nervous  kind  of  way,  and  now 

irembled  an  or '  ''  '  ''''''''  ''  ''  ^-'^"^^-  ^^*-  ^^^-^  ^^^ 

tre^^ed^'"'^^  '™'°  ^"''  ""   ^^''''  ''^  '™*"''  ^"^^  ^"^^^^^^^  "»^^1'   ^li«- 

mlf^':  ^'''^''"  '"'''^'^''^i  ;  V  *r  '"^■•^  >'""  ^^'^  ^«t  ^-eU  ;  and  that 
makes  ^you  exaggerate  childish  faults  into  positive  evils.  It  is 
always  the  case  with  us  when  we  are  not  Strong  in  health.     I 

vour  ';  /Tl':?     "^  ^""^''^^  '^  '"''^  "^^'"'^^'^^  y«"  -"--o^-k 

S  LrVe  ^i-::^' "^"'^'^ "'  "^^*  ^^^  ^-^^-^  -  ^^1 — 

Aii,l  my  lady  smiled  very  kindly  and  pleasantly  at  him    as  ho 
«at,  a  i  ttle  panting,  a  little  flushed,  trying  to  recover  his  brca«' 


200  MV    LAUY    LLDLOW. 

I  am  sure  tliat  now  they  were  brought  face  to  face,  she  liad 
quite  for;^otten  all  the  ott'enco  she  Inul  taken  at  liis  doings  when 
she  hcai'd  of  them  from  others  ;  and,  indeed,  it  was  enough  to 
soften  any  one's  heart  to  see  that  young,  almost  boyish  face, 
looking  in  such  anxiety  and  distress. 

"  Oh,  my  lady,  what  shall  I  do '?"  he  asked,  as  soon  as  hi- 
could  recover  breath,  and  M'ith  such  an  air  of  humility,  that  1 
am  sure  no  one  who  had  seen  it  could  have  ever  thouglit  him 
conceited  again.     "  The  evil  of  this  world  is  too  strong  for  mo. 

I  can  do  so  little.     It  is  all  in  vain.     It  was  only  to-day " 

and  again  the  cough  and  agitation  returned. 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Gray,"  said  my  lady  (the  dly  before  I  could 
never  have  believed  she  could  liavc  called  him  My  dear),  "you 
must  take  the  advice  of  an  old  woman  about  yourself.  You  aro 
not  lit  to  do  anything  just  now  but  attend  to  yoiu*  own  health  : 
rest,  and  see  a  doctor  (but,  indeed,  I  will  take  care  of  that),  and 
when  you  are  jiretty  strong  again,  yoii  will  tind  that  you  havo 
been  magnifying  evils  to  yourself." 

"  But,  ray  lady,  I  cannot  rest.  The  evils  do  exist,  and  the 
bm'den  of  their  continuance  lies  on  my  shoulders.  I  have  no 
place  to  gather  tlie  children  together  in,  that  I  may  teach  them 
the  things  necessary  to  salvation.  Tlie  rooms  in  my  o\ra  house 
ai"e  too  small ;  but  I  have  tried  them.  I  have  money  of  my  own  ; 
and,  as  your  ladyshij)  knows,  I  tried  to  get  a  piece  of 
leasehold  property,  on  which  to  build  a  school-house  at  my  u\\i\ 
cxi)ense.  Your  ladyship's  lawyer  comes  forward,  at  your  instruc- 
tions, to  enforce  some  old  feudal  right,  by  whieli  no  building  is 
allowed  on  leasehold  property  without  the  sanction  of  tlii'  lady 
of  the  manor.  It  may  be  all  very  true  ;  but  it  was  a  cruel  tiling 
to  do, — that  is,  if  your  ladyshii)  had  known  (which  1  am  sure 
ycu  do  not)  the  real  moral  and  spiritual  state  of  my  pot)r 
jjarishioners.  And  now  I  come  to  you  to  kiu)w  what  I  am  to 
do.  Rest !  I  cannot  rest,  while  children  whom  I  could  possibly 
save  are  being  left  in  their  ignorance,  their  blasph(>my,  their 
xmcleanness,  their  cruelty.  It  is  known  through  tlie  village  that 
your  ladyship  disap])rove8  of  my  elforts,  and  t)j)posi'S  all  my 
plans.  If  yuu  think  tliem  wnmg,  foolish,  ill-digested  (I  liavo 
been  a  student,  living  in  a  collegia  and  eschewing  all  socitty 
but  that  of  pious  men,  until  now  :  1  may  not  judge  tor  the  best, 
in  my  igiioiiuu-e  of  this  sinful  liiiiiian  naturt;),  tell  me  of  better 
plans  ami  wiser  j)rojects  for  ace()in}ilisliiiig  my  end  ;  but  do  not 
bid  iii(!  rest,  witli  Sistaii  eomjiassing  nie  round,  and  stealing 
fcoids  away." 

'*  I\Ir.  (« ray,"  said  my  lady,  '•  there  may  be  some  truth  in  what 


MY    LADi    LUDLOW.  291 

yoa  have  saitl.  I  Jo  not  deny  it,  though  I  think,  in  yoiir  pre- 
siut  stntc  of  indisposition  and  excitcna-nt,  you  exaggerate  it 
much.  I  believe— nay,  the  experience  of  a  pretty  long  life  has 
con%'ineed  me— that  education  is  a  bad  thing,  if  given  indiscri- 
minately. It  unfits  the  lower  orders  for  their  duties,  the  duties 
to  whicli  they  are  called  by  God ;  of  submission  to  those 
placed  in  autliority  over  them  ;  of  contentment  with  tliat  state  of 
life  to  which  it  has  pleased  G«id  to  call  them,  and  of  ordering 
themselves  lowly  and  reverently  to  all  their  betters.  I  have  made 
this  conviction  of  mine  tolerably  evident  to  you ;  and  have  ex- 
pressed distinctly  my  disapprobation  of  some  of  your  ideas. 
You  may  imagine,  then,  that  I  was  not  well  pleased  when  I  foimd 
that  you  had  taken  a  rood  or  more  of  Farmer  Hale's  land,  and 
were  laying  the  foundations  of  a  school-house.  You  had  done 
this  without  asking  for  my  permission,  which,  as  Farmer  Hales 
liege  lady,  ought  to  have  been  obtained  legally,  as  well  as  asked 
for  out  of  courtesy.  I  put  a  stop  to  what  I  believed  to  be  calcu- 
lated to  do  harm  to  a  village,  to  a  population  in  which,  to  say 
the  least  of  it,  I  may  be  disposed  to  take  as  much  interest  as  you 
can  do.  How  can  reading,  and  writing,  and  the  multiplication- 
table  (if  you  choose  to  go  so  far)  prevent  blasphemy,  and  un- 
cleanness,  and  cruelty  ?  Really,  Mr.  Gray,  I  hardly  like  to 
express  myself  so  strongly  on  the  subject  in  your  present  state 
of  health,  as  I  should  do  at  any  other  time.  It  seems  to  me  that 
books  do  little ;  character  much  ;  and  character  is  not  formed 
from  books," 

"  I  do  not  think  of  character  :  I  think  of  souls.  I  must  get 
some  hold  upon  these  children,  or  what  ^"ill  become  of  them  in 
the  next  world  ?  I  nmst  be  found  to  have  some  power  beyond 
what  they  have,  and  which  they  are  rendered  capable  of  ai>pre- 
ciating,  before  they  will  listen  to  me.  At  present  physical  force 
is  all  they  look  up  to  ;  and  I  have  none." 

"  Xay,  Mr.  Gray,  by  your  own  admission,  they  look  up  to 
me. 

"  They  would  not  do  anything  your  ladysliip  disliked  if  it 
was  likely  to  come  to  your  knowledge  ;  but  if  they  could  con- 
ceal it  from  you,  the  knowledge  of  your  dislike  to  a  particidar 
line  of  conduct  would  never  make  them  cease  fr(jm  pursuing  it." 

"  Mr.  Gray  "^surprise  in  her  air,  and  some  little  indignation 
— "  they  and  their  fatliers  have  lived  cm  tlie  Hanbury  lands  for 
generations  I" 

'*  I  cannot  help  it,  madam.  I  am  telling  you  the  truHi, 
whether  you  believe  me  or  not."  There  was  a  j^ause  ;  my  lady 
looked  perplexed,  and   somewhat  ruffled  ;    Mr.  Gray  as  though 

V  -l 


292  MY   LADY   LLDLOW. 

Hopeless  and  wearied  out.  "  Then,  my  lady,"  said  lie,  at  last 
risiii"  as  he  spoke,  "  you  can  suggest  nothing  to  ameliomte  the 
state'^of  things  which,  1  do  assure  you,  docs  exist  on  your  lauds 
und  among  your  tenants.  Surely,  you  will  not  object  to  my 
isiiK:  Farmer  Hale's  great  barn  every  Sabbath  ?  He  ^nll  allow 
me  the  use  of  it,  if  your  ladyship  will  grant  yom-  pcTmission 

"  You  are  not  fit  for  any  extra  work  at  present,  (and  indeed 
lie  had  been  coughing  very  much  all  through  the  conversation). 
"  Give  me  time  to  consider  of  it.  Tell  mo  what  you  wish  to 
teach  You  will  be  able  to  take  care  of  your  health,  and  grow 
stronger  while  1  consider.  It  shall  not  be  the  worse  for  you,  it 
von  leave  it  in  mv  hands  for  a  time. '  _  -^  j       ^  * 

My  lady  spokc\ery  kindly  :  but  he  was  in  too  excited  a  state 
to  rcco<mize  the  kindness,  while  the  idea  of  delay  was  evidently 
a  sore  in-itation.  I  heard  him  say  :  "  And  I  have  so  little  time  ui 
which  to  do  my  work.     Lord  !  lay  not  this  sin  to  my  chai-ge 

But  mv  lady  was  speaking  to  the  old  butler,  for  whom,  at  he 
sign,  I  had  rmig  the  bell  some  little  time  before.     Is  ow  she  tiuned 

'^"''^Mr  Gray,  I  find  I  have  some  bottles  of  Malmsey,  of  the 
vintage  of  seventeen  hundred  and  seventy-eight  yet  lett. 
Malmsey,  as  perhaps  you  know,  used  to  be  considered  a  specihr 
for  coughs  arising  from  weakness.  You  must  permit  me  to  send 
you  half-a-dozen  bottles,  and,  depend  upon  it,  you  will  t.ike  a 
more  cheerful  view  of  life  and  its  duties  Irelorc  you  have  hnished 
them  especially  if  you  will  be  so  kind  as  to  see  Dr.  lre%oi, 
1  is  coming  L  see  me  in  the  course  of  the  week.  By  the  time 
you  are  strong  enough  to  work,  I  will  try  and  find  some  means 
of  preventing  the  children  fium  using  such  bad  lauguixgc,  and 

*)thcrwise  annoying  you."  , 

"  Mv  lady,  it  is  the  sin,  and  not  the  annoyance.     1  ^^lsll  i 
.ould  make  ycni  understand."    He  spoke  with  some  ""P'^tienee  ; 
Poor  fellow  !  ho  was  too  weak,  exhausted,  and  nervou.^         1  am 
,wM-tVctlv  well  •  I  can  set  to   work  to-morrow;  I  will  ilo  any- 
Mn^^^^^^^^  oppressed  with  the  thought  of  how  little  I  ani 

doing.     I  do  not  want  your  wine.     Liberty  to  act  in  the  manner 
I  think  right,  will  do  me  far  more  good.     But  it  is  ot  no  use 
It  is  preordained  that  I  am  to  be  nothing  but   a  cumberer  of 
The  ground.     I  beg  your  ladyship's  pard.m  ior  t  ns  call. 

it.   stood   up.  and  then  tun,,.!  diz/y.     My  lady  looked   on 
deeply  hurt,  a.l.l  not  a  litth-  ollVuded.      He  held  out  1'-  hand  to 
her   and  I  eould  s.«e  that  she  luid  a  httle   hesitation  beloie  sho 
took  it.    He  then  saw  me,  I  almost  think  for  the  firs    t.nie  ;  and 
put  out  his  hand  once  more,  dnw  it  back,  as  if  imdecided,  put 


MY    LADY    LUDI.OW.  2f>3 

it  out  again,  and  finally  took  hold  of  mine  for  an  iustaut  in  his 
damp,  listU'ss  hand,  and  was  gone. 

Lady  Liitllow  was  dissatisfied  with  botli  him  and  hcrsidf,  I 
was  sure.  Indeed,  I  was  dissatisfied  with  the  result  of  the  inter- 
view myseK.  But  my  lady  was  not  one  to  speak  out  her  feel- 
ings on  the  subject ;  nor  was  I  one  to  forget  myself,  and  begin 
on  a  topic  which  she  did  not  begin.  She  came  to  me,  and  was 
very  tender  with  me  ;  so  tender,  that  that,  and  the  thoughts  of 
Mr.  Gray's  sick,    hopeless,  disappointed  look,  nearly  made  mc 

••  lou  arc  tired,  little  one,"  said  my  lady.  "  Go  and  lie  down 
in  my  room,  and  hear  what  Medlicoit  and  I  can  decide  upon  in 
the  way  of  strengthening  dainties  for  that  poor  young  man,  who 
is  killing  himself  with  his  over-sensitive  conscientiousness."' 

'•  Oh,  mj--  lady  !"  said  I,  and  then  I  stopped. 

"  "Well,     ^^^lat  ?"  asked  she. 

"  If  you  would  but  let  him  have  Farmer  Hale's  barn  at  once, 
it  would  do  him  more  good  than  all." 

"  Pooh,  pooh,  child !"  though  I  don't  think  she  was  dis- 
pleased, "  he  is  not  fit  for  more  work  just  now.  I  shall  go  and 
write  for  Dr.  Trevor." 

And,  for  the  next  half-hour,  we  did  nothing  but  aiTange  phy- 
sical comforts  and  cures  for  poor  Mr.  Gray.  At  the  end  of  tho 
time,  Mrs.  Medlicott  said — 

"  Has  your  ladysliip  heard  that  Harry  Gregson  has  fallen  from 
a  tree,  and  broken  liis  thigh-bone,  and  is  like  to  be  a  cripple 
for  life  ?" 

"  Harry  Gregson  !  That  black-oycd  lad  who  read  my  letter  ? 
It  all  comes  from  over-education  !" 


CHAPTER  XI. 


r>UT  I  don't  see  how  my  lady  could  think  it  was  over-education 
that  made  Harry  Gregson  break  Jiis  thigh,  for  the  manner  iu 
which  he  met  with  the  accident  was  this : — 

Mr.  Homer,  who  had  fallen  sadly  out  of  liealth  since  his 
wife's  death,  had  attached  himself  greatly  to  Harry  (iregson. 
Now,  Mr.  Horner  had  a  cold  manner  to  every  one,  and  never 
spoke  more  than  was  necessary,  at  the  best  of  times.  And, 
latterly,  it  had  not  been  the  best  of  times  with  him.  I  dare  say, 
he  had  had  some  causes  for  anxiety  (of  whicli  I  knew  nothing) 
about  my  lady's  affairs ;  and  lie  was  evidently  annoyed  by  my 


294  MY    LADY    LUDLOW. 

lady's  wbim  (as  he  oucc  inadvertently  called  it)  of  placing  'Mian 
Galindo  rnider  liiiu  in  the  i)nsition  of  a  clerk.  Yet  he  had 
always  been  friends,  in  his  quiet  way,  with  Miss  Galindo,  and 
she  devoted  herself  to  her  new  occuj^atiou  vrith  diligence  and 
punctuality,  although  more  than  once  she  had  moaned  to  me 
over  the  orders  for  needlework  which  had  been  sent  to  her,  and 
which,  owing  to  her  occupation  in  the  service  of  Lady  Ludlow, 
she  had  been  unable  to  fulfil. 

The  only  living  creature  to  whom  the  staid  Mr.  Horner  could 
be  said  to  be  attached,  was  Harry  Gregson.  To  my  lady  he  was 
a  faithful  and  devoted  servant,  looking  keenly  after  her  interests, 
and  anxious  to  forward  them  at  any  cost  of  trouble  to  himself. 
But  the  more  shrewd  Mr.  Horner  was,  the  more  probability  was 
there  of  his  being  annoyed  at  certain  peculiarities  of  opinion 
which  my  lady  held  witli  a  quiet,  gentle  pertinacity ;  against 
which  no  arguments,  based  on  mere  worldly  and  business  calcu- 
lations, made  any  w-ay.  This  frequent  opposition  to  \-iews  which 
Mr.  Horner  entertained,  although  it  did  not  interfere  with  the 
sincere  respect  which  the  lady  and  the  steward  felt  for  each 
other,  yet  prevented  any  warmer  feeling  of  aflfection  from  coming 
in.  It  seems  strange  to  say  it,  but  1  must  repeat  it — the  only 
person  for  whom,  since  his  wife's  death,  Mr.  Horner  seemed  to 
feel  any  love,  was  the  little  imp  Harry  Gregson,  with  his  bright, 
watchful  eyes,  his  tangled  hair  hanging  right  down  to  his  eye- 
brows, for  all  the  world  like  a  Skyo  terrier.  This  lad,  half 
gipsy  and  whole  poacher,  as  many  people  esteemed  him,  himg 
about  the  silent,  respectable,  staid  Mr.  Horner,  and  fidlowed 
his  steps  with  something  of  the  aflectionate  fidelity  of  the  dog 
which  he  resembled.  I  susj)ect,  this  demonstration  of  attach- 
ment to  his  person  on  Harry  Gregson's  part  was  what  won  Mr. 
Horner's  regard.  In  the  first  instance,  the  steward  had  only 
chosen  the  lad  out  as  the  cleverest  instrunieut  he  could  find  for 
his  purjiose  ;  and  I  don't  mean  to  say  lliut,  if  Harry  had  not 
been  almost  as  shrewd  as  Mr.  Hornir  himself  was,  both  by 
original  disposition  and  subsequent  experience,  the  steward 
would  hav(5  taken  to  him  as  he  did,  let  the  lad  have  shown  ever 
SI)  much  afi'ection  for  him. 

Ihit  even  to  Hurry  3Ir.  Horner  was  silent.  Still,  it  was  pleusjint 
to  find  himself  in  many  ways  so  riudily  understood  ;  to  perceive 
that  tlie  crniiibs  of  knowledge*  he  let  full  wi're  picked  up  by 
his  litthi  follower,  and  hoarded  lik(>  gold  :  that  lit  re  was  one  to 
hate  tlu!  jjcrsons  and  things  wlioni  Mr.  Horner  cohlly  disliked, 
nnd  to  reverence  and  admire  all  those  for  whom  he  had  any 
rogard.     Mr.  Honu  r  hud  never  Ii:ul  a  cliild,  and  luieonsciously, 


MY    LADY    LUDLOW.  29.") 

I  supposo,  ponietliiug  of  the  paternal  feeling  ]iacl  begun  to 
(le/clop  itstilf  in  bini  towards  HaiTy  Grcgson.  1  board  one  or 
trto  things  from  ditibrent  i)eoplo,  wliich  have  always  made  mo 
fancy  tiiat  Mr.  Homer  seci'otly  and  almost  iinconscionsly  hoped 
that  Harry  Gregson  might  be  trained  so  as  to  be  first  his  clerk, 
and  next  his  assistant,  and  finally  his  successor  in  his  steward- 
ship to  the  Hanbury  estates. 

Harry's  dif;grace  with  my  lady,  in  consequence  of  his  reading 
the  letter,  was  a  deei)cr  blow  to  Mr.  Horner  than  his  quiet 
manner  would  ever  have  led  any  one  to  suppose,  or  than  Lady 
Ludlow  ever  dreamed  of  inflicting,  1  am  sure. 

Probably  Harry  had  a  short,  stern  rebuke  from  Mr.  Homer 
ut  tlie  time,  for  his  manner  was  always  hard  even  to  those  he 
cared  for  the  most.  But  Harry's  love  was  not  to  be  daimted 
or  quelled  by  a  few  shaq)  words.  I  dare  say,  from  what  I  heard 
of  them  afterwai'ds,  that  Harry  accompanied  Mr.  Horner  in  his 
walk  over  the  farm  the  very  day  of  the  rebuke ;  liis  jn-esencc 
apparently  unnoticed  by  the  agent,  by  whom  his  absence  would 
have  been  painfully  felt  nevertheless.  That  was  the  way  of  it, 
us  I  have  been  told.  Mr.  Horner  never  bade  Hurry  go  with 
him  ;  never  thanked  him  for  going,  or  being  ut  his  heels  ready 
to  nm  on  any  errands,  straight  as  the  crow  flies  to  his  point, 
aud  back  to  heel  in  as  short  a  time  us  possible.  Yet,  if 
Harry  were  away,  Mr.  Horner  never  inquired  the  reason  from 
any  of  the  men  who  might  be  supposed  to  know  Avhether  he  was 
detained  by  his  father,  or  otherwise  engaged ;  ho  never  asked 
Harry  himself  where  he  had  been.  But  Miss  Galindo  said  that 
those  labom-ers  who  knew  Mr.  Horner  well,  told  her  that  he  was 
always  more  quick-eyed  to  shortcomings,  more  savage-like  in 
fault-finding,  on  those  days  when  the  lad  was  absent. 

Miss  Galindo,  indeed,  was  my  great  authority  for  most  of  tho 
village  news  which  I  heard.  She  it  was  who  gave  me  tho 
particulars  of  poor  Harry's  accident. 

"  You  see,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "  the  little  poachci"  has  taken 
some  unaccountable  fancy  to  my  master."  (This  was  the  name 
by  which  Miss  Galindo  always  spoke  of  "Mr.  Horner  to  me,  ever 
since  she  had  been,  as  she  called  it,  uppcjinted  his  clerk.) 

"  Now,  if  1  had  twenty  hearts  to  lose,  1  never  could  spare  a 
bit  of  ono  of  them  iov  that  good,  gray,  square,  severe  man.  But 
rliff'ercnt  people  have  difierent  tastes,  and  here  is  that  little  imj) 
of  a  gipsy-tinker  ready  to  turn  slave  for  my  master ;  and,  odd 
<'iiough,  my  master, — who,  I  should  have  said  beforehand,  would 
liave  made  short  work  of  imp,  and  imp's  family,  and  have 
Kent  Hall,  the  Bang- beggar,  after  them  in  no  time  -my  master, 


296  MY   LADY    LUDLOW. 

as  they  tell  me,  is  in  his  way  quite  fond  of  the  lad,  and  if  ho 
could,  without  vexing  my  lady  too  much,  he  would  have  made 
him  what  the  folks  here  call  a  Latiuer.  However,  last  night, 
it  seems  that  there  was  a  letter  of  some  importance  forgotten  (I 
can't  tell  you  what  it  was  about,  my  dear,  though  I  know 
perfectly  well,  but  '  service  ohlirje,'  as  well  as  '  noblesse,'  and  you 
must  take  my  word  for  it  that  it  was  important,  and  one  that  I 
am  sm-priscd  my  master  could  forget),  till  too  late  for  the  post. 
(The  poor,  good,  orderly  man  is  not  what  he  was  before  liis. 
wife's  death.)  Well,  it  seems  that  he  was  sore  annoyed  by  his 
forgetfulncss,  and  well  he  miglit  be.  And  it  was  all  the  mon; 
vexatious,  as  he  had  no  one  to  blame  but  himself.  As  for  that 
matter,  I  always  scold  somebody  else  when  I'm  in  fault ;  but  I 
suppose  my  master  would  never  think  of  doing  that,  else  it's  ;• 
mighty  relief.  However,  he  could  eat  no  tea,  and  was  altogether 
jjut  out  and  gloomy.  And  the  little  faithful  imp-lad,  perceiving 
all  this,  I  suppose,  got  up  like  a  page  in  an  old  ballad,  and  Siiid 
he  would  run  for  his  life  across  coimtry  to  Cumberford,  and  SKt 
if  he  could  not  get  there  before  the  bags  were  made  up.  t^o 
my  master  gave  him  the  letter,  and  nothing  more  was  heard 
of  the  poor  fellow  till  this  morning,  for  the  father  thought  his 
son  was  sleeping  in  Mr.  Horner's  barn,  as  he  does  occasionally, 
it  seems,  and  my  master,  as  was  very  uatui-al,  that  he  had  gone 
to  his  father's." 

"  And  he  had  fallen  down  the  old  stone  quarry,  had  ho  not  V"' 
"  Yes,  sure  enough.  Mr.  (iray  had  been  up  here  fretting 
my  lady  with  some  of  his  new-fangled  schemes,  and  bccauM- 
the  young  man  coidd  not  have  it  all  his  own  way,  from  what 
I  xmderstand,  he  was  put  out,  and  thought  he  wttuld  go  honu- 
by  the  back  lane,  instead  of  through  tho  village,  wlieixj  the 
folks  woukl  notice  if  the  parson  looked  ghun.  But,  however, 
it  was  a  mercy,  and  I  don't  mind  saying  so,  ay,  and  meaning 
it  too,  though  it  may  be  like  metliodi.sni ;  for,  as  ^Ir.  Ciniv 
walked  by  tlic  quarry,  he  heard  a  groan,  and  at  lirst  he  thought 
it  was  a  lamb  fallen  down  ;  and  he  stood  still,  and  then  ho 
heard  it  again  ;  and  then  I  suppose,  he  looki'd  down  and  saw 
Harry.  So  he  let  himself  down  by  tho  boughs  of  the  trees  to 
the  ledge  whc^ro  Harry  lay  half-dead,  antl  with  his  poor  thigh 
broken.  There  he  had  lain  ever  since  the  night  before  :  lie 
had  been  returning  to  tell  tln^  master  that  ho  had  safely  jxisletl 
the  lett(  r,  and  tlio  lirst  words  he  said,  when  they  re<'overed 
him  from  tho  exliausted  state  he  was  in,  were"  (Miss  (ialindo 
tried  liard  not  to  whimper,  as  slie  said  it),  "'It  was  in  time, 
sir.     I  see'd  it  put  in  the  bag  with  my  own  eyes.'" 


MV    I.AUV    LUDLOW.  297 

"  But  wlicio  is  lie  ?■'  asked  I.  "  How  did  Mr.  C!ray  get  him 
out  ?" 

"Ay!  there  it  is,  you  sec.  Why  the  ohl  gentlcrnan  (I  daren't 
Bay  Devil  in  Lady  Ludlow's  house)  is  uot  so  black  as  he  is 
painted ;  aud  Mr.  Gray  must  have  a  deal  of  good  in  him,  as  I 
say  at  times ;  and  tlien  at  wthcrs,  when  he  has  gone  against  mo, 
I  can't  bear  him,  aud  think  hanging  too  good  for  him.  But  ho 
lifted  the  poor  lad,  as  if  he  had  been  a  baby,  I  suppose,  and 
carried  liim  up  the  great  ledges  that  were  formerly  used  for 
steps ;  and  laid  him  soft  aud  easy  on  the  wayside  gi-ass,  and 
ran  home  and  got  help  aud  a  door,  aud  had  him  carried  to  his 
house,  and  laid  on  his  bed  ;  and  then  somehow,  for  the  first 
time  either  he  or  any  one  else  perceived  it,  he  himself  was  all 
over  blood — his  own  blood — he  had  broken  a  blood-vessel ; 
and  there  he  lies  in  the  little  dressing-room,  as  white  and  as 
still  as  if  he  were  dead ;  and  the  little  imp  in  Mr.  Gray's  own 
bod,  sound  asleep,  now  his  leg  is  set,  just  as  if  linen  sheets  and 
a  feather  bed  were  his  native  element,  as  one  may  say.  Eeally,. 
now  he  is  doing  so  well,  I've  no  patience  with  him,  lying  there 
where  Sir.  Gray  ought  to  be.  It  is  just  what  my  lady  always 
prophesied  wouhl  come  to  pass,  if  there  was  any  confusion  of 
ranks." 

•'  Poor  Mr.  Gray !"  said  I,  thinking  of  his  flushed  face,  and 
liis  feveiish,  restless  ways,  when  he  had  been  calling  on  my 
lady  not  an  hour  before  his  exertions  on  Harrj^'s  behalf.  And 
I  told  Miss  Galindo  how  ill  I  had  thought  him. 

"  Yes,"  said  she.  "  Aud  that  was  the  reason  my  lady  liad 
sent  for  Doctor  Trevor.  Well,  it  has  fiillen  out  admirably,  for 
he  looked  well  after  that  old  donkey  of  a  Prince,  and  saw  th;it 
he  made  no  blunders." 

Now  "  that  old  donkey  of  a  Prince "  meant  the  village 
surgeon,  !\rr.  Prince,  between  whom  and  Miss  Galindo  there 
was  war  to  the  knife,  as  they  often  met  in  the  cottages,  when 
there  was  illness,  and  she  had  her  queer,  odd  recipes,  Avhieh  he, 
with  his  grand  pharmacopoeia,  held  in  infinite  contempt,  and 
the  consequence  of  tlieir  squabbling  had  been,  not  long  before 
this  very  time,  that  he  had  established  a  kind  of  rule,  that  into 
whatever  sick-room  Miss  Galindo  was  admitted,  there  he  re- 
fused to  visit.  But  Miss  Galindo's  prescriptions  and  visits 
cost  nothing,  aud  were  often  backed  by  kitchen-physic  ;  so, 
though  it  was  true  that  she  never  came  but  slic  scolded  about 
something  or  other,  she  was  generally  preferred  as  metlical 
attendant  to  Mr.  Prince. 

"Yes,  the  old  donkey  is  obliged  to  tolerate  me,  and  be  civil 


29S  3IY    LADY    LUDLOW. 

to  me ;  for,  you  sec,  I  got  tlieie  first,  aud  bad  possession,  as  it 
•vere,  aud  yet  my  lord  the  doukey  likes  the  credit  of  attending 
the  i)arsou,  and  being  in  consultiition  with  so  iTrp-nd  a  county- 
town  doctor  as  Doctor  Trevor.  And  Doctor  Trevor  is  an  old 
friend  of  mine  "  (she  sighed  a  little,  some  time  I  may  tell  you 
why),  "  and  treats  me  with  infinite  bowing  and  respect ;  so  the 
donkey,  not  to  be  out  of  medical  fashion,  bows  too,  though  it  is 
sadly  against  the  grain  ;  and  he  pulled  a  face  as  if  he  liad 
heard  a  slate-i)encil  gritting  against  a  slate,  when  I  told  Doctor 
Trevor  I  meant  to  sit  up  with  the  two  lads,  for  I  call  Mr.  Gray 
little  more  than  a  lad,  and  a  pretty  conceited  one,  too,  at 
times." 

"  But  why  should  you  sit  up.  Miss  Galindo  ?  It  will  tire 
you  sadly." 

"  Not  it.  You  see,  their)  is  Gregson's  motlier  to  keep  quiet  : 
for  she  sits  by  her  lad,  fretting  and  sobbing,  so  that  I'm  afraid 
of  her  disturbing  BIr.  Gray ;  and  there's  Mr.  Gray  to  keej) 
quiet,  for  Doctor  Trevor  says  his  life  depends  on  it ;  and  there 
is  medicine  to  be  given  to  the  one,  and  bandages  to  be  attended 
to  for  the  other ;  and  the  wild  horde  of  gipsy  brothers  and 
sisters  to  bo  turned  out,  and  the  father  to  be  held  in  from 
.showing  too  nmch  gi'atitude  to  Mr.  Gray,  who  can't  bear  it. — 
and  who  is  to  do  it  all  but  me  ?  The  only  servant  is  old  lame 
Betty,  who  onoc  lived  with  me,  and  troiihl  leave  me  because  she 
said  I  was  always  bothering — (tliere  was  a  good  deal  of  truth 
iu  what  she  said,  I  grant,  but  she  need  not  have  said  it ;  a  good 
deal  of  truth  is  best  let  alone  at  the  bottom  of  the  well),  and 
what  can  she  do, — deaf  as  ever  she  can  be,  too  V" 

So  Miss  Galindo  went  her  ways ;  but  not  the  less  was  slie  at 
her  post  iu  the  morning  ;  a  little  crosscr  and  more  silent  than 
usual ;  but  the  tirst  was  not  to  be  wondered  at,  and  the  last  was 
rather  a  blessing. 

Lady  Ludlow  had  been  cxtrenu'ly  anxious  botli  about  IVIr. 
Gray  aud  Harry  Gregsim.  Kind  and  thouglitfiil  in  any  ease  of 
illness  and  accident,  she  always  was  ;  but  somehow,  iu  this,  the 
feeling  that  she  was  not  (juite  what  shall  I  call  it  V  "  friends" 
seems  liardly  the  riglit  word  to  use,  as  to  the  possible  feeling 
bet\v(H^n  the  Countess  Lirdh)\vand  th(^  little  vagabond  messenger, 
who  liad  only  once  been  in  lier  presence.—  that  she  h.ad  hardly 
parted  from  either  as  she  could  liave  wished  to  do,  had  deatli 
been  near,  made  her  more  than  usually  anxious.  Doctor  Tri'Vi>r 
was  not  to  spare  obtaining  the  best  medical  advice  the  county 
could  uiibrd ;  whatever  he  ordt^nnl  iu  the  way  of  di»'t,  was  to  bo 
projiared  under  Mrs.  Medlicott'H  own  eyo,  and  sent  tlowu  froiu 


MY   LADV   LUDLOW.  '-.'!)0 

tlir  Hull  to  the  I'.irsouugc.  As  Mr.  Horuor  Imd  given  sume- 
\vh;it  similar  directions,  iu  the  case  of  Harry  Gregson  at  least, 
there  was  rather  a  multiplicity  of  counsellors  and  dainties,  than 
any  lack  of  them.  And,  the  second  night,  Mr.  Horner  insisted 
on  taking  the  superintendence  of  the  nursing  himself,  and  sat 
and  snored  by  Harry's  bedside,  while  the  poor,  exhausted 
mother  lay  by  her  child, — thinking  that  she  watched  him,  but 
in  reality  last  alecp,  as  Miss  Galindo  told  us ;  for,  distrusting 
any  one's  powers  of  watching  and  nursing  biit  her  own,  she  had 
stolen  across  the  quiet  village  street  in  cloak  and  dressing-goA\ii, 
and  found  Mr.  Gray  in  vain  trying  to  reach  the  cui^  of  barley- 
water  which  Mr.  Horner  had  placed  just  beyond  his  reach. 

In  consequence  of  Mr.  Gray's  illness,  we  had  to  have  a 
strange  curate  to  do  duty ;  a  man  who  dropped  his  h's,  and 
hurried  through  the  service,  and  yet  had  time  enough  to  stand 
in  my  lady's  way,  bowing  to  her  as  she  came  out  of  church, 
and  so  subsei'vient  in  manner,  that  I  believe  that  sooner  than 
remain  unnoticed  by  a  coimtess,  he  would  have  preferred  being 
scolded,  or  even  cuffed.  Now  I  foimd  out,  that  great  as  was 
my  lady's  liking  and  apin'oval  of  respect,  nay,  even  reverence, 
])eing  paid  to  her  as  a  person  of  quality, — a  sort  of  tribute  to 
her  Order,  which  she  had  no  indi\'idual  right  to  remit,  or, 
indeed,  not  to  exact, — yet  she,  being  personally  simple,  sincere, 
and  holding  herself  in  low  esteem,  could  not  cndm-e  anything 
like  the  servility  of  Mr.  Crosse,  the  temporary  curate.  She 
grew  absolutely  to  loathe  his  perpetual  smiling  and  bo\\'ing ; 
his  instant  agi'eement  with  the  slightest  opinion  she  uttered ; 
his  veering  round  as  she  blew  the  wind.  I  have  often  said  that 
my  Lady  did  not  talk  much,  as  she  might  have  done  had  she 
lived  among  her  equals.  But  wc  all  loved  her  so  much,  that 
we  had  learnt  to  interpret  all  her  little  ways  pretty  truly  ;  and 
1  knew  what  particular  turns  of  her  head,  and  contractions  of 
licr  delicate  fingers  meant,  as  well  as  if  she  had  exi)ressed  her- 
self in  words.  I  began  to  suspect  that  my  lady  would  be  very 
thankful  to  have  INIr.  Gray  about  again,  and  doing  his  duty 
even  with  a  conscientiousness  that  might  amount  to  worrying 
himself,  and  fidgeting  others ;  and  although  Mr.  Gray  might 
bold  her  opinions  in  as  little  esteem  as  tliose  of  any  simjjle 
gentlewoman,  slie  was  too  sensible  not  to  feed  how  much  flavoiu* 
there  was  in  his  conversation,  compared  to  tliat  of  Mr.  Crosse, 
who  was  only  her  tasteless  echo. 

As  for  Miss  Galindo,  she  was  utterly  and  entirely  a  partisan 
of  Mr.  Gray's,  almost  ever  since  she  liad  begun  to  nur.so  him 
iluriu'r  his  illness. 


300  MY   LADY   LUDLOW. 

"  You  know,  I  never  set  up  for  reasonableness,  my  lady.  So 
I  don't  pretend  to  say,  as  I  might  do  if  I  were  a  scnsiblo 
•.vonian  and  all  that, — that  I  am  convinced  by  3Ir.  Gray's 
argimicnts  of  this  thing  or  t'other.  For  one  thing,  you  see, 
poor  fellow  !  he  has  never  been  able  to  argue,  or  hai-dly  indeed 
to  speak,  for  Doctor  Trevor  has  been  very  peremptory.  So 
there's  been  no  scope  for  arguing  !  But  what  I  mean  is  this :-  - 
AVhen  I  see  a  sick  man  thinking  always  of  others,  and  never  of 
himscK ;  j^atient,  humble — a  trifle  too  much  at  times,  for  I've 
caught  him  praying  to  be  furgiveu  for  having  neglected  his 
work  as  a  parish  priest,"  (Miss  Galiudo  was  making  horrible 
faces,  to  keep  back  tears,  squeezing  up  her  eyes  in  a  way  which 
woiild  have  amused  me  at  any  other  time,  but  when  she  was 
speaking  of  Mr.  Gray) ;  "  when  I  see  a  do\Miright  good,  re- 
ligioiis  man,  I'm  apt  to  think  he's  got  hold  of  the  right  clue, 
and  that  I  can  do  no  better  than  hold  on  by  the  tails  of  his 
coat  and  shut  my  eyes,  if  we've  got  to  go  over  doubtful  places 
on  our  road  to  Heaven.  So,  my  lady,  you  must  excuse  me,  if, 
when  he  gets  about  again,  he  is  all  agog  about  a  Simday-schct'l, 
for  if  he  is,  I  shall  be  agog  too,  and  j'erhaps  twice  as  bad  as 
him,  for,  you  see,  I've  a  strong  constitution  compared  to  his, 
and  strong  ways  of  speaking  and  acting.  And  1  tell  your 
ladyship  this  now,  because  I  tliiuk  from  your  rank — and  still 
more,  if  I  may  say  so,  for  all  your  kindness  to  me  long  ag*). 
down  to  this  very  day — you've  a  right  to  be  fii'st  told  of  any- 
thing about  me.  Change  of  oj^inion  I  can't  exactly  call  it,  for 
I  don't  see  the  good  cif  schools  and  teaching  A  B  C,  any  mon^ 
than  I  did  before,  only  Mr.  Gray  does,  so  I'm  to  shut  my  eyes, 
and  leap  over  the  ditch  to  the  side  of  education.  I've  tidd 
Sally  already,  that  if  she  does  not  mind  her  work,  but  stands 
gossiping  with  Nelly  Mather,  I'll  teach  her  her  lessons ;  and  l'v»> 
never  caught  her  witli  old  Nelly  since." 

I  think  Miss  Galindo's  desertion  to  Mr.  Gray's  opinions  in 
this  matter  hurt  my  lady  just  a  little  bit ;  but  she  only  said — 

"  Of  course,  if  theparishoiiers  wisli  for  it,  Mr.  Gray  must  have 
his  Sunday-school.  I  shall,  in  tliat  case,  withdraw  my  o})po- 
sition.    I  am  sorry  I  cannot  altir  my  oijiniims  as  easily  as  ytm." 

My  lady  nuule  herself  smile  us  she  said  this.  Miss  (uilindo 
saw  it  was  an  effort  to  do  so.  She  thought  a  minute  before 
she  spoke  again. 

"Your  ladyship  bus  not  si'cn  lllr.  Gray  as  intimately  as  I 
liavo  done.  That's  tmv.  tliinuj.  But,  as  for  the  pai-i.shioners, 
they  will  fdlow  your  ladyshiii's  lead  in  everything;  so  there  is 
u<)  chance!  of  tlicir  wishing  for  ii  Sujidav-school." 


MY    LAUV    I.UDI.OW.  301 

"  I  liavo  never  iIdiic  anything  to  make  tlicm  fcJlow  my  lead, 
as  you  call  it,  ]\Iiss  Galindo,"  said  my  lady,  gravely. 

"Yes,  you  have,"  rci)licd  Miss  Galindo,  blmitly.  And  then, 
correcting  herself,  she  said,  "  Begging  your  ladyslii^j's  i)ardon. 
you  have.  Your  ancestors  have  lived  here  time  out  of  mind, 
and  have  o\\-ned  the  land  on  which  their  forefathers  have  lived 
ever  since  there  were  forefathers.  You  yoiu'sclf  were  bom 
amongst  them,  and  have  been  like  a  little  queen  to  them  ever 
since,  I  might  say,  and  they've  never  known  your  ladyship  do 
anything  but  what  was  kind  and  gentle ;  but  I'll  leave  fine 
speeches  about  your  ladyship  to  Mr.  Crosse.  Only  you,  my 
lady,  lead  the  thoughts  of  the  parish  ;  and  save  some  of  them  a 
world  of  Irouble,  for  they  could  never  tell  what  was  right  if 
they  had  to  think  for  themselves.  It's  all  quite  right  that  they 
should  be  guided  by  you,  my  lady, — if  only  you  Nvould  agree 
with  Mr.  Gray." 

"  Well,"  said  my  lady,  "  I  t(jld  liim  only  the  last  day  that  he 
was  here,  that  I  would  think  about  it.  I  do  believe  I  coiild 
make  up  my  mind  on  certain  subjects  better  if  I  were  left  alone, 
than  while  being  constantly  talked  to  about  them." 

My  lady  said  this  in  her  usual  soft  tones  ;  but  the  words  had 
a  tinge  of  imjiatiencc  about  them  ;  indeed,  she  was  more  ruffled 
than  I  had  often  seen  her  ;  but,  checking  herself  in  an  instant, 
she  said — 

"  You  don't  know  how  Mr.  Ilorncr  drags  in  this  subject  of 
education  apropos  of  everything.  Not  that  he  says  much  about 
it  at  any  time  :  it  is  not  his  way.  But  he  cannot  let  the  thing 
alone." 

"  I  know  wh}',  my  lady,"  said  Miss  Galindo.  "  That  poor  lad, 
Hariy  Gregson,  will  never  be  able  to  earn  his  livelihood  in  any 
active  way,  but  will  be  lame  for  life.  Now,  Mr.  Horner  thinks 
more  of  Harry  tlian  of  any  one  else  in  the  world, — except, 
perhaps,  your  ladyshii^."  Was  it  not  a  j^retty  companionship) 
for  my  lady  ?  "  And  he  has  schemes  of  his  own  for  teaching 
Harry  ;  and  if  IMr.  Gray  could  but  have  his  school,  Mr.  Homer 
and  he  think  Harry  might  be  schoolmaster,  as  your  ladyship 
would  not  like  to  have  him  coming  to  you  as  steward's  clerk. 
I  wisli  your  ladyship  would  fall  into  this  plan  ;  Mr.  Gray  has 
it  so  at  heart." 

Miss  Galindo  looked  wistfully  at  my  lady,  as  she  said  this. 
But  my  lady  only  said,  drily,  and  rising  at  the  same  time,  as  if 
to  end  the  conversation— 

"  So  !  Mr.  Homer  and  Mr.  Gray  seem  to  have  gone  a  long 
way  in  advance  of  my  consent  to  their  plans." 


302  MV    I.ADY    l.lDl.OW. 

"  There  !"  exclaimed  Miss  Galiiuio,  as  my  lady  left  tlic  room, 
with  an  apohjgy  for  going  away ;  "'  I  have  gone  and  duno 
mischief  with  my  long,  stupid  tongue.  To  be  sure,  people  plan 
a  long  way  ahead  of  to-day  ;  mcjre  especially  when  one  is  a  sick 
man,  lying  all  through  tlie  weary  day  on  a  sofa." 

"  My  lady  will  soon  get  over  lier  annoyance,"  said  I,  as  it  were 
apologetically.  I  only  stoi)ped  Miss  Galindo's  self-reproaches 
to  draw  down  her  wrath  upcjn  myself. 

"And  lias  not  she  a  right  to  be  annoyed  with  mc,  if  she  likes, 
and  to  keep  annoyed  as  long  as  she  likes  ?  Am  I  complaining 
of  her,  that  you  need  tell  me  that  V  Let  me  tell  you.  I  have 
known  my  lady  tliese  thirty  years  ;  and  if  she  were  to  take  me 
by  the  shoidders,  and  turn  me  out  of  the  house,  I  should  only 
love  her  the  more.  So  don"t  you  think  to  come  between  ns  with 
any  little  mincing,  jieace-making  si)ceches.  I  have  been  a 
mischief-making  parrot,  and  I  like  her  the  better  for  being  vexed 
with  me.  So  good-bye  to  you,  Miss ;  and  wait  till  you  know 
Lady  Ludlow  as  well  as  I  do,  before  you  next  think  of  telling 
me  she  will  soon  get  over  her  annoyance !"  And  oft'  Miss 
Miss  Galindo  went. 

I  could  not  exactly  tell  what  I  had  done  WTong ;  but  I  took 
care  never  again  to  come  in  between  my  lady  and  her  by 
any  remark  about  the  one  to  the  otlicr ;  for  I  saw  thot  some 
most  powcrfid  bond  of  gi-ateful  ufteetion  made  Miss  Galindo 
almost  worship  my  lady. 

Meanwhile,  Harry  Gregson  was  limping  a  little  about  in  tho 
village,  still  tiuding  his  home  in  Mr.  (iray's  house  ;  for  there  ho 
could  most  conveniently  be  kei)t  under  the  doctor's  eye,  and 
receive  the  recpiisitc  care,  and  enjoy  the  requisite  nourishment. 
As  soon  as  he  was  a  little  better,  lie  was  to  go  to  !Mr.  Horner's 
l:ousc  ;  but,  as  the  steward  livid  some  distance  out  of  tlio  way, 
and  was  mueli  from  home,  he  had  agreed  to  leave  Harry  at  the 
liouso  ;  to  which  he  had  lirst  been  taken,  until  he  was  quite 
strong  again  ;  and  the  more  willingly,  I  suspect,  from  what 
I  lieard  afterwards,  because  Mr.  («ray  gave  up  all  the  little 
strength  of  s])eaking  which  he  had,  to  teaching  Harry  in  the 
very  manner  which  ]\[r.  Horner  most  desired. 

As  for  Gregson  tlie  father  lie — wild  man  of  the  woods, 
jxtaclier,  tinker,  jack-of-all-tiiuhs  -  was  getting  tamed  liy  lliis 
kindness  to  his  eliihl.  Hitlierto  his  liand  had  been  against  every 
man,  as  every  man's  had  been  against  him.  That  utVair  btforo 
the  justice,  whicli  f  told  you  about,  wlien  IMr.  Gray  and  even  my 
lady  had  interested  themselves  to  get  him  releasid  from  unjust 
imjirisoninent,  was  the  lirst  bit  of  justice  he  had  ever  nx  t  with  ; 


MY    I,AL)Y    LUDLOW.  303 

it  attracted  him  to  tlic  people,  and  attached  him  to  the  spoi 
on  which  he  had  but  sijuattcd  for  a  time.  I  am  not  sure  if  any 
of  the  villagers  wore  f^rateful  to  him  for  remainin;^  in  tlieir 
neiglibom-hood,  instead  of  decamping  as  he  had  often  done 
bL-fi)re,  for  good  reasons,  doubtless,  of  personal  safety.  Harry 
was  only  one  out  of  a  brood  of  ten  or  twelve  children,  some  of 
whom  had  earned  for  tliemselvcs  no  good  character  in  service  : 
one,  indeed,  had  been  actually  transported,  for  a  robbery 
committed  in  a  distant  part  of  the  county ;  and  the  talc  was  yet 
told  in  the  village  of  liow  Grcgsou  the  father  came  back  from  tho 
trial  in  a  state  of  wild  rage,  striding  though  the  place,  and 
uttering  oaths  of  vengeance  to  himself,  his  great  black  eyes 
gleaming  out  of  his  matted  hair,  and  his  arms  working  by  his 
side,  and  now  and  then  tossed  up  in  his  impotent  despair.  As 
I  heard  the  account,  liis  wife  followed  him,  child-laden  and 
weeping.  After  this,  they  had  vanished  from  the  country  for  a 
time,  leaving  their  mud  liovel  locked  up,  and  the  door-key,  as  tho 
neighbours  said,  buried  in  a  hedge  bank.  The  (iregsons  had 
reappeared  mucli  about  the  same  time  that  Mr.  Gray  came  to 
Hanbury.  He  liad  either  never  heard  of  their  evil  character,  or 
considered  that  it  gave  them  all  tho  more  claims  upon  his 
Christian  care  ;  and  the  end  of  it  was,  that  this  rough,  imtamed, 
strong  giant  of  a  heathen  was  loyal  slave  to  the  weak,  hectic, 
nervous,  self-distrustful  jiarson.  Gregson  had  also  a  kind  of 
gi-umbling  respect  for  Mr.  Horner  :  he  did  not  quite  like  tho 
steward's  monopoly  of  his  Harry  :  tho  mother  submitted  to  that 
with  a  better  grace,  swallowing  down  her  maternal  jealousy  in 
the  prospect  of  her  child's  advancement  to  a  better  and  moro 
respectable  positi(jn  than  that  in  which  his  parents  had  struggled 
through  life.  But  Mr.  Horner,  the  steward,  and  Gregson, 
the  poacher  and  squatter,  had  come  into  disagreeable  contact  too 
often  in  fomier  days  for  them  to  be  perfectly  cordial  at  any  future 
time.  Even  now,  when  there  was  no  immediate  cause  for  anything 
but  gratitude  for  his  child's  sake  on  Gregson's  part,  he  woidd  skulk 
out  of  Mr.  Horner's  way,  if  he  saw  him  coming  ;  and  it  took 
all  Mr.  Horner's  nattn-al  reserve  and  acquired  self-restraint  to  kcei> 
him  from  occasionally  holding  up  liis  father's  life  as  a  warning 
to  Harry.  Now  (iregson  had  nothing  of  tliis  desire  for 
avoidance  witli  regard  to  Mr.  Gray.  The  poaclier  liad  a  feeling 
of  physical  protection  towards  the  parson  ;  while  tlie  latter  had 
shown  the  moral  courage,  without  wliich  Gn^gson  would  never 
have  respected  him,  in  coming  right  df)wn  upon  him  more  than 
once  in  the  exercise  of  unlawful  pursuits,  and  simj)ly  and  boldly 
tolling  him   he  was  doing  wrong,  with  such  a  quiet    reliauco 


ol)4  MY    LADY    LinLOW. 

npun  Grcg.son's  better  feeling,  at  the  same  time,  that  the  str^iiL! 
poacher  could  not  hiivc  lifted  a  finger  against  Mr.  Gray,  though 
it  had  been  to  save  himself  from  being  apprehended  and  taken  to 
the  lock-ups  the  very  next  hour.  He  had  rather  listened  to  the  par- 
son's bold  words  with  an  approving  smile,  much  as  Mr.  Gulliver 
might  have  hearkened  to  a  lecture  fi-om  a  Lilliputian.  But  when 
brave  words  passed  into  kind  deeds,  (iregson's  lioart  nmtcly 
acknowledged  its  master  and  keeper.  And  the  beauty  of  it  all  was, 
that  Mr.  Gray  knew  nothing  of  the  good  work  he  had  done,  or 
recognized  himself  as  the  instrimient  which  God  had  employed. 
He  thanked  God,  it  is  true,  fervently  and  often,  that  the  work 
v.as  done  ;  and  loved  the  wild  man  for  his  rough  gratitude  ;  but 
it  never  occurred  to  the  poor  young  clergyman,  lying  on  his  sick- 
bed, and  praying,  as  Miss  Graliudo  had  told  us  he  did,  to  be  forgiven 
for  his  improfitable  life,  to  think  of  Gregson's  reclaimed  soul  as 
anything  with  which  he  had  had  to  do.  It  was  now  more  than 
three  months  since  Mr.  Gray  had  been  at  Hanbury  Court. 
During  all  that  time  he  had  been  confined  to  his  house,  if  not 
to  his  sick-bed,  and  he  and  my  lady  had  never  met  since  their 
last  discussion  and  diiierence  about  Farmer  Hale's  barn. 

This  was  not  my  dear  lady's  fault  ;  no  one  coidd  have  been 
more  attentive  in  every  way  to  the  slightest  possible  want  ol 
cither  of  the  invalids,  especially  of  Mr.  Gray.  And  she  vrould 
have  gone  to  see  him  at  his  own  house,  as  she  sent  him 
word,  but  tliat  her  foot  had  slipped  upon  the  polished  oak 
staircase,  and  her  ancle  had  been  sprained. 

So  we  liad  never  seen  Mr.  Gray  since  his  illness,  when  one 
November  day  he  was  annoimced  as  wishing  to  6i)eak  to  my  lady. 
She  was  sitting  in  her  room — the  room  in  wliich  I  lay  now 
pretty  constantly — and  I  rememl)er  she  looked  starthd,  when 
word  was  brought  to  her  of  Mr.  (rray's  being  at  tlie  Hall. 

Slie  could  not  go  to  him,  she  was  too  himo  fur  that,  so  she 
bade  him  be  shown  into  where  she  sat. 

"  Such  a  day  for  him  to  go  (lut  I"  she  exclaimed,  looking  at 
the  fog  whicli  had  cvc\)t  uj)  to  tlu' windows,  and  was  sapping  tlio 
little  remaining  life  in  tlie  brilliant  Virginian  creeper  leavis  that 
<lniperied  the  house  on  the  terrace  side. 

He  came  in  white,  trembling,  liis  largo  eyes  wild  and  dilated. 
He  liastened  up  to  Lady  Liullow's  chair,  and,  to  my  surprise, 
took  one  of  l:rr  hands  and  kissed  it,  without  speaking,  yet 
s]\aking  all  over. 

"  Mr.  (iray !"  said  she,  quickly,  witli  sharp,  trcjuulous 
ai)preliension  of  some  unknown  evil.  "  AVhit  is  it  ?  Thtre  is 
SDUiothing  unusual  about  you." 


MY    LADY    LUDLOW.  305 

"  SomotLing  iinusiial  has  occurred,"  replied  he,  forcing  his 
words  to  be  calm,  as  with  a  great  effort.  "  A  gentleman  canio 
to  my  house,  not  half  an  hoiu*  ago — a  Mr.  Howard.  He  camo 
.straight  from  Yioiina." 

"  My  son  !"  said  my  dear  lady,  stretching  out  her  arms  iu 
dumb  questioning  attitude. 

'•  The  Lord  gave  and  the  Lord  tiikcth  away.  Blessed  be  the 
name  of  the  Lord." 

But  mv  poor  lady  could  not  eclu)  tlio  words.  He  was  the 
last  remaining  child.  And  once  slie  hud  been  the  joyful  mother 
of  nine. 

CHAPTER  XII. 

I  AM  ashamed  to  say  what  feeling  became  strongest  in  my  mind 
al)out  this  time  ;  next  to  the  sympathy  we  all  of  us  felt  for  my 
dear  lady  in  her  deep  sorrow,  I  mean ;  for  that  was  greater  and 
stronger  than  anything  else,  however  contradictory  you  may 
tliink  it,  when  yon  hear  all. 

It  might  arise  from  my  being  so  far  from  well  at  the  time,  which 
produced  a  diseased  mind  in  a  diseased  body  ;  but  I  was  abso- 
lutely jealous  for  my  father's  memory,  when  I  saw  how  many 
signs  of  grief  there  were  for  my  lord's  death,  he  having  done 
next  to  notliing  for  the  village  and  parish,  which  now  clianged, 
as  it  were,  its  daily  coiirse  of  life,  because  his  lordship  died  in 
a  far-off  city.  My  father  had  spent  the  best  years  of  his 
manhood  in  labouring  hard,  body  and  soul,  for  the  people 
amongst  whom  he  lived.  His  family,  of  course,  claimed  the 
first  place  in  his  heart ;  he  would  have  been  good  for  little,  even 
in  the  way  of  benevolence,  if  they  had  not.  But  close  after 
them  he  cared  for  his  parishioners,  and  neighbours.  And  yet, 
when  he  died,  though  the  church-bells  tolled,  and  smote  upon 
our  hearts  with  hard,  fresh  pain  at  every  beat,  the  sounds  of 
every-day  life  still  went  on,  close  i)rcssing  around  us, — carts 
and  carriages,  sti'cet-cries,  distant  barrel-organs  (the  kindly 
neighV)()in-s  kept  them  out  of  our  street) :  life,  active,  noisy  life, 
pressed  on  our  acute  consciousness  of  Death,  and  jarred  upon  it 
as  on  a  quick  nerve. 

And  when  we  went  to  church, — my  father's  own  church, — 
though  the  pulpit  cushions  were  black,  and  many  of  the  congre- 
gation had  put  on  some  humble  sign  of  mourning,  yet  it  did  not 
alter  the  whole  material  aspect  of  the  place.  And  yet  what  was 
L(»rd  Ludlow's  relation  to  Hanbury,   conqjared  to  my  fatliev's 

Work  and  place  in ? 

X 


306  MY    LADY   LUDI-O'W. 

O  !  it  Mas  very  wicked  in  me  !  I  think  if  I  had  seen  my  lady, 
— if  1  had  dared  to  ask  tu  go  to  her,  1  should  not  have  felt  - 
miserable,  so  discontented.  But  she  sat  in  her  own  room,  hmii; 
with  black,  all,  even  over  the  shutters.  She  saw  no  light  but  that 
wliich  was  artificial — candles,  lamps,  and  the  like — for  more  than 
a  month.  Only  Adams  went  near  lier.  Mr.  (ii-ay  was  not  ad- 
mitted, tliough  he  called  daily.  Even  ^Irs.  ^ledlicott  did  not  see 
\er  for  near  a  fortnight.  The  siglit  of  my  lady's  gi-iefs,  or  rather 
die  recollection  of  it,  made  Mrs.  jNIedlicott  talk  far  more  than 
was  her  wont.  She  tokl  us,  with  many  tears,  and  much  gesticula- 
tion, even  speaking  German  at  times,  when  her  English  woidd 
not  flow,  that  my  lady  sat  there,  a  white  tigm-e  in  the  middle  of 
the  darkened  room  ;  a  shaded  lamp  near  her,  the  liglit  of  which 
fell  on  an  open  Bible, —  the  great  family  Bible.  It  was  not 
open  at  any  chapter  or  consoling  verse  ;  Init  at  the  i)age  whereou 
were  registered  the  births  of  her  nine  children.  Five  had  died 
in  infancy, — sacrificed  to  the  cruel  system  v>hich  forbade  the 
mother  to  suckle  her  babies.  Four  had  lived  longer  ;  Urian  had 
been  the  first  to  die,  Ughtred-Mortimar,  Earl  Ludlow,  the  last. 

My  lady  did  not  cry,  Mrs.  Medlicott  said.  She  was  quite  com- 
posed; very  still,  very  silent.  She  put  aside  everything  that 
.savoured  of  mere  business  :  sent  people  to  I\Ir.  Horner  for  tliat. 
But  she  was  proudly  alive  to  every  possible  form  which  might 
do  honom*  to  the  last  of  her  race. 

In  those  days,  expresses  were  slow  things,  and  forms  still 
slower.  Before  my  lady's  directions  could  reach  Vienna,  my 
lord  was  buried.  Tliere  was  some  talk  (so  IMrs.  ^Medlicott  s;\id) 
about  taking  the  body  up,  and  bringing  him  to  Hanbury.  But 
his  executors, — connections  (m  the  liUdlow  side, — demurr(.d  to 
this.  If  he  were  removed  to  England,  he  must  be  cai-ried  on  to  ' 
Scotland,  and  interrt'd  with  his  INIonkshaven  forefathers.  My 
lady,  deeply  hurt,  withdrew  from  the  discussion,  before  it  dege- 
nerated to  an  unseendy  contest,  lint  all  the  mt)re,  for  this  un- 
derstood mortification  of  my  lady's,  did  the  whole  village  and  ! 
estate  of  Hanbury  assume  every  outward  sign  of  mourning,  'i'ho 
church  bells  tolknl  morning  and  evening.  The  church  itself  was 
draped  in  Idaek  inside.  Hatchments  were  jilaccd  everywluro, 
wliere  liatelniients  could  be  put.  All  the  tenantry  spoke  iu 
huslied  voices  for  more  than  a  week,  scarcely  daring  to  observe 
tliat  all  flesh,  even  tliat  of  an  l']arl  Ludlow,  and  the  last  of  the 
Ilanburys,  was  but  grass  after  all.  Tlie  very  Fighting  Lion 
closed  its  front  door,  front  sliuttirs  it  had  none,  and  those  who 
needed  drink  st(d(!  in  at  tlie  back,  and  were  silent  and  maudlin 
over  their   ciiiis,  instead   t)f  riotous  and   m>isy.     3Iiss  (lalindu'l 


MV    LADV    J.UULOW.  30? 

eyes  were  swollen  up  with  crying,  and  slio  told  nio,  with  a  fresh 
i)urst  of  tears,  that  even  hunipbackeil  Sally  had  bc!cn  fcnuid  sob- 
bing over  her  Bible,  and  using  a  pocket-handkerchief  for  tho 
first  time  in  her  life  ;  her  aprons  having  hitherto  stood  her  in 
the  necessary  stead,  but  not  being  suilieieutly  in  accordance  mth 
etiquette  to  be  used  when  mom-ning  over  an  earl's  premature 
decease. 

If  it  was  this  way  out  of  the  Hall,  "  you  might  work  it  by  tho 
rule  of  three,"  as  Miss  Galindo  used  to  say,  and  judge  what  it 
was  in  the  Hall.  We  none  of  us  spoke  but  in  a  whisper  :  we  tried 
not  to  eat :  and  indeed  the  shock  had  been  so  really  great,  and 
wc  did  really  care  so  much  for  my  lady,  that  for  some  days  wo 
had  but  little  api)etite.  But  after  that,  1  fear  our  sympathy  gi'ew 
weaker,  while  our  ilesh  grew  stronger.  But  we  still  spoke  low, 
and  om-  hearts  ached  whenever  wc  thought  of  my  lady  sitting 
there  alone  in  the  darkened  room,  with  the  light  ever  falling  on 
that  one  solemn  page. 

We  wished,  0  how  I  wished  that  she  would  see  Mr.  Gray  ! 
But  Adams  said,  she  thought  my  lady  ought  to  have  a  bishop 
come  to  see  her.  Still  no  one  had  authority  enough  to  send  for 
out;. 

Mr.  Horner  all  this  time  was  suffering  as  much  as  any  one. 
He  was  too  faithful  a  servant  of  the  great  Haubury  family, 
though  now  the  family  had  dwindled  down  to  a  fragile  old  lady, 
not  to  moum  acutely  over  its  j^robablc  extinction.  He  had,  be- 
sides, a  deeper  symjiathy  and  reverence  with,  and  for,  my  lady, 
in  all  things,  than  probably  he  ever  cared  to  show,  for  his  man- 
ners were  always  mcasm-ed  and  cold.  He  suffered  from  sorrow. 
He  also  suffei-ed  from  wrong.  My  lord's  executors  kept  writing 
to  him  continually.  My  lady  refused  to  listen  to  mere  business, 
saying  she  intrusted  all  to  him.  But  tlic  "  all  "  was  more  com- 
plicated than  I  ever  thoroughly  understood.  As  for  as  I  compre- 
hended the  case,  it  was  something  of  this  kind  :— There  had  been  a 
mortgage  raised  on  my  lady's  property  of  Hanbury,  to  enable  my 
lord,  her  husband,  to  spend  money  in  cultivating  his  Scotch 
estates,  after  some  new  fashion  that  required  cai)ital.  As  long 
as  my  lord,  her  son,  lived,  who  was  to  succecjd  to  both  the 
estates  after  her  death,  this  did  not  signify  ;  so  she  had  said  and 
felt ;  and  shehad  refused  to  take  any  steps  to  secure  the  reimy- 
ment  of  cai)ital,  or  even  the  payment  of  the  interest  of  the  moi"t- 
gago  from  the  possible  rej)resentativcs  and  possessors  of  the 
Scotch  estates,  to  the  possible  owner  of  tlie  Ilanbiuy  ju'operty ; 
saying  it  ill  becauje  her  to  calculate  on  the  contingency  of  her 
B-n'sdeatli. 

X  2 


308  MV    I.ADV    LUDI.UW. 

But  he  hiul  (lied  cLildlcss.  unnuinitd.  The  heir  of  the  Moulis- 
haven  property  was  an  Ediuburgli  advocate,  a  fiu--a\vay  kiusiuan 
of  my  lord's  :  the  Hanbury  property,  at  my  lady's  death,  would 
go  to  the  descendants  of  a  third  son  of  the  Squire  Hanbury  in 
the  days  of  Queen  Anne. 

This  complication  of  aifairs  was  most  grievous  to  Mr. 
Horner.  He  had  always  been  opposed  to  the  mortgage  ;  had 
hated  the  payment  of  the  interest,  as  obliging  my  lady  topi-actisc 
certain  economies  which,  tliough  she  took  cai'e  to  make  them  as 
personal  as  possible,  he  disliked  as  derogatory  to  the  fiunily. 
Poor  Mr.  Horner  !  He  was  so  cold  and  hard  in  his  manner,  so 
curt  and  decisive  in  his  speech,  that  I  don't  think  we  any  of  us 
did  him  justice.  Miss  Galindo  was  almost  the  tirst.  at  this  time, 
to  speak  a  kind  word  of  him,  or  to  take  thought  of  him  at  all. 
any  farther  than  to  get  out  of  his  way  when  we  saw  liim 
approaching. 

"  I  don't  think  Mr.  Horner  is  well,"  she  s^iid  one  day.  about 
thi'ce  weeks  after  we  had  heard  of  my  lord's  death.  '•  He  sits 
resting  his  head  on  his  hand,  and  hardly  heai'S  me  when  I  sj)eiik 
to  him." 

But  I  thought  no  more  of  it,  as  Miss  Galindo  did  lutiKime  it 
again.  My  lady  came  amongst  ns  once  more.  From  elderly  sho 
had  become  old  ;  a  little,  frail,  old  lady,  in  heavy  black  drajtory, 
never  speaking  about  nor  alluding  to  her  great  sorrow  ;  tjuietir. 
gentler,  paler  than  ever  before ;  and  her  eyes  dim  with  much 
weeping,  never  witnessed  by  mortal. 

She  had  seen  Mr.  Gray  at  the  expiration  of  the  month  of  deep 
retirement.  But  1  do  not  think  that  even  to  him  she  had  said  one 
word  of  her  owti  particular  individual  sorrow.  All  mention  ot 
it  seemed  buried  deep  for  evermore.  One  day,  ]\Ir.  Horner  sent 
word  that  he  was  too  much  indisposid  to  attend  to  his  usual 
business  at  the  Hall ;  but  he  wrote  down  some  dirccti(Mis  aud 
requests  to  Miss  (Jalindo,  saying  that  he  would  be  at  his  oftico 
early  the  next  morning.      The  next  morning  he  was  dead. 

Miss  Galindo  told  my  lady.  IMiss  (lalindit  lierself  crieil  plen- 
tifully, but  my  lady,  altliough  very  much  distressed,  could  not 
cry.  It  seciiud  a  physical  impossibility,  as  if  she  had  shed  all 
the  tears  in  lier  power.  Moreover,  1  almost  tliink  her  wonder 
was  far  greater  that  sho  herself  lived  than  that  i\Ir.  Horner 
died.  It  was  almost  natural  that  so  faithful  a  servant  shotdd 
l»reak  his  heart,  wlien  the  family  he  belonged  ti>  lost  tlieir  stay, 
thoir  heir,  and  their  last  hope. 

Yes!  Mr.  Horner  wasa  faitliful  servant.  1  do  not  tliink  th<re 
are  many  so  fuitlifnl  now  ;  but  i»erhaps  that  is  an   old  woman's 


MV    LADY    l.UDLOW.  :i09 

f.incv  of  mine.  When  bis  will  came  to  be  cxaniiucil,  it  was  dis- 
covered that,  soon  after  Hurry  Grogsou's  accident,  Mr.  Horner 
bad  left  tbo  few  thousands  (three,  I  think,)  of  which  he  was  pos- 
sessed, in  trust  for  Harry's  benefit,  desiring  his  executors  to 
see  that  the  lad  was  well  educated  in  certain  things,  for  which 
Mr.  Homer  had  thought  that  he  bad  6]l0^^^l  especial  aptitude ; 
and  there  was  a  kind  of  implied  apology  to  my  lady  in  one  sen- 
tence, where  he  stated  that  Harry's  lameness  would  prevent  his 
being  ever  able  to  gain  his  living  by  the  exercise  of  any  mere 
bodily  faculties,  "  as  had  been  Anshed  by  a  lady  whose  wishes  " 
he,  the  testator,  "  was  bound  to  regard." 

But  there  was  a  codicil  in  the  will,  dated  since  Lord  Ludlow's 
death — feebly  written  by  Mr.  Homer  himself,  as  if  in  prepara- 
tion only  for  some  more  formal  manner  of  bequest :  or,  jierhaps, 
onl}'  as  a  mere  temporary  arrangement  till  he  could  see  a 
lawyer,  and  have  a  fresh  will  made.  In  this  he  revoked  his 
previous  bequest  to  Harry  Gregson.  He  only  left  two  hundred 
poiuids  to  Mr  Gray  to  be  used,  as  that  gentleman  thought  best, 
for  Henry  Gregson's  benefit.  With  this  one  exception,  he  be- 
queathed all  the  rest  of  his  savings  to  my  lady,  with  a  hope  that 
they  might  form  a  nest-egg,  as  it  were,  towards  the  paying  off" of 
the  mortgage  which  had  been  such  a  grief  to  him  during  his  life. 
1  may  not  repeat  all  this  in  lawyer's  phrase  ;  I  heard  it  through 
Miss  Gralindo,  and  she  might  make  mistakes.  Though,  indeed, 
she  was  very  clear-headed,  and  soon  earned  the  respect  of  Mr. 
Smithson.  my  lady's  lawyer  from  Warwick.  Mr.  Sniithson  knew 
Miss  Galindo  a  little  before,  both  personally  and  by  reputation  ; 
but  I  don't  think  he  was  prepared  to  find  her  installed  as 
steward's  clerk,  and,  at  first,  he  was  inclined  to  treat  her,  in 
this  capacity,  with  polite  contempt.  But  Miss  Galindo  was  both 
a  lady  and  a  spirited,  sensible  woman,  and  she  could  put  aside 
her  self-indulgence  in  eccentricity  of  speech  and  manner  when- 
over  she  chose.  Nay  more  ;  she  was  usually  so  talkative,  that 
if  she  had  not  been  amusing  and  warm-hearted,  one  might  have 
thought  her  wearisome  occasionally.  But  to  meet  Mr.  Smithson 
she  came  out  daily  in  her  Sunday  go^\•n  ;  she  said  no  more  than 
was  required  in  answer  to  his  questions ;  her  books  and  papers 
were  in  thoi-ough  order,  and  methodically  kept ;  her  stattments 
of  matters-of-fact  accurate,  and  to  be  relied  on.  She  waa 
amusingly  conscious  of  her  victory  over  his  contempt  of  a 
woman-clerk  and  his  preconceived  opinion  of  her  unpractical 
eccentricity, 

"  Let  me  alone,"  said  she,  one  day  when  sho  came  in  to  sit 
awhile  with  me.     "  That  man  is  a  good  man — a  sensible  man  ^ 


310  MY    LADY    LUDLOW. 

and  I  have  no  doubt  he  is  a  good  lawyer  ;  but  he  can't  fathom 
women  yet.  1  make  no  doubt  he'll  go  back  to  Warwick,  and 
never  give  credit  again  to  those  peojde  who  made  him  think  n^.u 
half-cracked  to  begin  with.  O.  my  dear,  he  did  !  He  showe/l  it 
twenty  times  worse  than  my  poor  dear  master  ever  did.  It  wah 
a  form  to  bo  gone  through  to  please  my  lady,  and,  for  her  sake, 
he  would  hear  my  statements  and  see  my  books.  It  was  keeping 
a  woman  out  of  harm's  way,  at  any  i-ate,  to  let  her  fiUicy  herscll 
useful.  1  read  the  man.  And,  1  am  thankful  to  say,  he  cannot 
read  mo.  At  least,  only  one  side  of  me.  When  1  see  an  end  ti> 
be  gained,  1  can  behave  myself  accordingly.  Here  was  a  man 
who  thought  that  a  woman  in  a  black  silk  govm  was  a  resjK'ct- 
able,  orderly  kind  of  person  ;  and  I  was  a  woman  in  a  black  silk 
gown.  He  believed  that  a  woman  could  not  wTite  straight  lines, 
and  required  a  man  to  tell  her  that  two  and  two  made  four.  1 
was  not  above  ruling  my  books,  and  had  Cocker  a  little  more  at 
my  fingers'-  ends  than  ho  had.  15ut  my  gi-eat€st  triumph  has 
been  holding  my  tongue.  He  would  have  thought  nothing  of 
my  books,  or  my  sums,  or  my  black  silk  go^\^l,  if  1  had  spoken 
imaskcd.  So  1  have  bmned  more  sense  in  my  bosom  these  ten 
days  than  ever  I  have  uttered  in  the  whole  course  of  my  life 
before.  I  have  been  so  curt,  so  abrupt,  so  abominably  didl,  that 
I'll  answer  for  it  he  thinks  mo  worthy  to  be  a  man.  But  1  must 
go  back  to  him,  my  dear,  so  good-bye  to  ct)nversation  and  you." 
But  though  Mr.  Smitlison  miglit  be  Siitisfied  with  Miss 
Galindo,  1  am  afraid  she  was  the  only  piu't  of  the  affair  witli 
which  he  was  content.  Everything  else  went  wrong.  1  could 
rot  say  who  told  mo  so — but  the  conviction  t»f  this  seemed  to 
pervade  the  house.  1  never  knew  how  much  we  had  all  looked 
up  to  the  silent,  gruff  Mr.  Homer  for  decisions,  luitil  he  was 
gone.  My  lady  herself  was  a  j)retty  good  woman  of  business,  as 
women  of  business  go.  Her  father,  seeing  that  she  woidd  bo 
the  heiress  of  the  Hanbury  prt)perty,  had  given  her  a  training 
which  was  thouglit  unusual  in  tliose  days,  and  slie  liked  to  feel 
herself  queen  regnant,  and  to  have  to  decide  in  all  cases  between 
herself  and  her  tenantry.  But,  ))(rha])s,  Mr.  Horner  wtudd  have 
done  it  more  wisely;  n«it  but  wliat  she  always  attended  to  hiui 
at  last.  She  would  begin  by  saying,  pretty  clearly  and  promptly, 
what  she  would  have  done,  and  what  she  would  not  have  done. 
If  Mr.  llorner  approved  of  it,  he  bow»'d,  atid  set  about  obrying 
her  directly  ;  if  he  disa])proV(d  of  it,  he  bowid,  and  lingi-nil  so 
lojig  before  he  obcyid  lu'r,  that  she  forcrd  his  ojtiniou  out  of 
him  with  lier  "Well,  Mr.  Horner  I  and  what  liavo  you  to  sjiy 
ajjainstit?"     For  she  alwavs  niidiistood  his  silence  as  well  ah 


MY    LADY    LUDLOW.  311 

if  ho  had  spoken.  But  the  estate  was  pressed  for  ready  money, 
and  Mr.  Honur  had  fn-own  gloomy  and  languid  since  the  death 
of  his  wife,  and  even  his  own  personal  ati'airs  were  not  in  the 
order  in  which  tlicy  had  been  a  year  or  two  before,  for  his  old 
clerk  had  gradually  become  superannuated,  or,  at  any  rate, 
unable  by  the  superHuity  of  his  own  energy  and  wit  to  supply 
the  spirit  that  was  wanting  in  Mr.  Horner. 

Day  after  day  Mr.  Suuthson  seemed  to  gi-ow  more  fidgety, 
more  annoyed  at  the  state  of  aftairs.  Like  every  one  else  em- 
ployed by  Lady  Ludlow,  as  far  as  I  could  learn,  he  had  an 
hereditary  tie  to  the  Hanbury  family.  As  long  as  the  Smith- 
sons  had  been  lawyers,  they  had  been  lawj^ers  to  the  Hanburys  ; 
always  coming  in  on  all  gi-eat  fsimily  occasions,  and  better  able 
to  imderstand  the  characters,  and  connect  the  links  of  what  had 
once  been  a  large  and  scattered  family,  tliau  any  individual 
thereof  had  ever  been. 

As  long  as  a  man  was  at  the  head  of  the  Hanburys,  the 
law\'ei-s  had  simply  acted  as  servants,  and  had  only  given  their 
advice  when  it  was  required.  But  they  had  assmued  a  different 
position  on  the  memorable  occasion  of  the  mortgage  :  they  had 
remonstrated  against  it.  My  lady  had  resented  this  remon- 
strance, and  a  slight,  imspoken  coolness  had  existed  between  her 
and  the  fatlier  of  this  Mr.  Smithson  ever  since. 

I  was  very  sorry  for  my  lady.  Mr.  Smithson  was  inclined  to 
blame  Mr.  Horner  for  the  disorderly  state  in  which  he  found 
some  of  the  outlying  fanns,  and  for  the  deficiencies  in  the  annual 
payment  of  rents.  Mr.  Smithson  had  too  much  good  feeling  to 
put  this  blame  into  words  ;  but  my  lady's  quick  instinct  led  her 
to  reply  to  a  thought,  the  existence  of  which  slie  perceived  ;  and 
she  quietly  told  the  truth,  and  explained  how  slie  had  interfered 
repeatedly  to  prevent  Mr.  Horner  from  taking  certain  desirable 
steps,  which  were  discordant  to  her  hereditary  sense  of  right  and 
wrong  between  landlord  and  tenant.  She  also  spoke  of  the 
want  of  ready  money  as  a  misfortune  that  could  be  remedied,  by 
more  economical  personal  expenditure  on  her  own  part ;  by 
which  individual  saving,  it  was  possible  that  a  reduction  of  fifty 
poimds  a  year  might  have  been  accomplished.  .But  as  soon  as 
Mr.  Smithson  touched  on  larger  economies,  such  as  either 
affected  the  welfare  <if  others,  or  the  honour  and  standing  of  tlie 
great  House  of  Hanbury,  slie  was  inflexible.  Her  establislnnent 
consisted  of  somewhere  about  forty  servants,  of  whom  nearly  as 
many  as  twenty  were  unable  to  perform  their  work  properly,  and 
yet  would  have  l)een  liurt  if  they  had  been  dismissed  ;  so  they 
had  the  credit  of  fulfilling  duties,  while  my  lady  jiaid  and  kept 


312  MV    LAUV    LUDLOW. 

their  substitutes.  Mr.  Sniithsou  made  a  calculatidu,  aud  would 
have  saved  some  hundreds  a  year  by  pensiouiug  oflf  these  old 
servants.  But  my  lady  would  not  hear  of  it.  Then,  again,  I 
know  privately  that  lie  urged  her  to  allow  some  of  us  to  return 
to  our  homes.  Bitterly  we  should  have  regretted  the  separation, 
fi'om  Lady  Ludlow  ;  but  we  woidd  liave  gone  back  gladly,  had 
we  kno\\ii  at  the  time  that  her  circumstances  required  it  :  but 
she  would  not  listen  to  the  proposal  for  a  moment. 

"  If  I  cannot  act  justly  towards  every  one,  I  will  give  up  a 
plan  which  has  been  a  source  of  much  satisfaction  ;  at  least,  I 
will  not  carry  it  out  to  such  an  extent  in  fiitm-e.  But  to  these 
young  ladies,  who  do  me  the  favour  to  live  with  me  at  present,  I 
stand  pledged.  I  cannot  go  back  from  my  word,  Mr.  Smithsou. 
We  had  better  talk  no  more  of  this." 

As  she  spoke,  she  entered  the  room  where  I  lay.  She  and 
Mr.  Smithson  were  coming  for  some  papers  contained  in  the 
bureau.  They  did  not  know  I  was  there,  and  I^Ir.  Smithson 
started  a  little  when  he  saw  me.  as  he  must  have  been  aware  that 
1  had  overheard  sometliing.  But  my  lady  did  not  change  a 
muscle  of  her  fiice.  All  tlie  world  might  overliear  her  kind, 
just,  pure  sayings,  and  she  had  no  fear  of  their  misconstruction. 
She  came  up  to  me,  and  kissed  me  on  the  forehead,  and  then 
went  to  search  for  the  required  jiapere. 

"  I  rode  over  the  Couingtou  farms  yesterday,  my  lady.  1 
must  say  I  was  quite  gi-ieved  to  sec  the  condition  they  are  in  ; 
all  the  land  that  is  not  waste  is  utterly  exhausted  with  working 
successive  white  crops.  Not  a  pinch  of  manure  laid  on  the 
ground  for  years.  I  must  say  that  a  gi'oater  contrast  could 
never  have  been  presented  than  that  between  Harding's  farm  aud 
the  next  fields — fences  in  ixifect  order,  rotation  crojis,  sheep 
eating  dowTi  the  turnijis  on  the  waste  lands— everything  that 
could  be  desired." 

"  Whose  farm  is  that  ?"  asked  my  lady, 

"  Why,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  it  was  on  none  of  your  ladyships 
that  I  saw  such  good  methods  adopted.  I  hoped  it  was,  I 
Ktoppcd  my  horse  to  inquire.  A  (lueer-lookiug  man.  sitting  cm 
liis  horse  like  a  tailor,  watching  liis  men  with  a  couph'  of  the 
sliarpest  eyes  I  ever  saw.  and  dropping  liis  lis  at  every  word, 
unswenid  my  (juestion,  and  told  me  it  was  his.  1  could  not  go 
on  asking  him  who  he  was;  but  i  fell  into  conversation  with 
liini,  and  1  gathered  that  he  had  earned  some  nnmey  in  trade  in 
Minningliani,  and  had  bought  the  estate  (five  hundred  acres,  1 
think  he  said,)  on  whicli  ln'  was  l)orii.  and  now  was  setting  hiui- 
Belf  to  cultivate  it  in  downright  earnest,  going  to  llidkliam  and 


MY    LADY    LIDI.OW.  313 

Wobiirn,  and  half  the  couutiy  over,  to  get  himself  up  ou  tho 
Bubject." 

"  It  would  be  Brooke,  tliat  disseutiug  baker  from  I'irming- 
ham,"  said  my  lady  in  her  most  icy  tone.  "  Mr.  Smithson,  1  am 
sorry  I  have  been  detaining  you  so  long,  but  I  think  these  arc 
the  letters  you  wished  to  see." 

If  her  ladyshij)  thought  by  this  speech  to  quench  ]Mr. 
Smithson  she  was  mistaken.  Mr.  Sinithson  just  looked  at  the 
letters,  and  went  on  with  the  old  subject. 

"  Now,  my  lady,  it  struck  me  that  if  you  had  such  a  man  to 
take  poor  Horner's  place,  he  would  work  the  rents  and  the  land 
round  most  satisfactorily.  I  should  not  despair  of  inducing  this 
very  man  to  imdertake  the  work.  I  should  not  mind  speaking 
to  him  myself  on  the  sxibject,  for  wo  got  cai)ital  friends  over  a 
snack  of  luncheon  that  he  asked  me  to  share  with  him." 

Lady  Ludlow  fixed  her  eyes  on  Mr.  Smithson  as  he  spoke, 
and  never  took  them  oft'  his  face  until  he  had  ended.  She  was 
silent  a  minute  before  she  answered. 

"  You  arc  very  good,  Mr.  Smithson,  but  I  need  not  trouble 
you  with  any  such  arrangements.  I  am  going  to  write  this 
afternoon  to  Captain  James,  a  friend  of  one  of  my  sons,  who 
has,  1  hear,  been  severely  wounded  at  Trafalgar,  to  request  him 
to  honour  me  by  accepting  Mr.  Horner's  situation." 

"  A  Captain  James  !  A  cajitain  in  the  navy  !  going  to  manage 
your  ladyship's  estate !" 

"  If  he  will  be  so  kind.  1  shall  esteem  it  a  condescension  on 
his  part ;  but  1  hear  that  he  Mill  have  to  resign  his  profession, 
liis  state  of  health  is  so  bad,  and  a  country  life  is  especially 
l)rescribed  for  him.  I  am  in  some  hoi)es  of  tempting  him  here, 
as  I  learn  he  has  but  little  to  depend  on  if  he  gives  up  his  pro- 
fession." 

'•  A  Captain  James  !  an  invalid  cajitain  !" 

*'  You  think  I  am  asking  too  great  a  favour,"  continued  my 
lady.  (I  never  could  tell  how  far  it  was  simplicity,  or  how  far 
a  kind  of  innocent  malice,  that  made  her  misinterpret  Mr. 
Smithson's  words  and  looks  as  she  did.)  "  But  he  is  not  a  post- 
captain,  only  a  commander,  and  liis  pension  will  be  but  small. 
I  may  bo  able,  by  oflering  him  country  air  and  a  healthy  occu- 
l)ation,  to  restore  him  to  health." 

"  Occupation  !  My  lady,  may  I  ask  how  a  sailor  is  to  manage 
land  ?     Why,  your  tenants  will  laugli  him  to  scorn." 

"  My  tenants,  I  trust,  will  not  behave  so  ill  as  to  laugh  at  any 
one  I  choose  to  set  over  them.  Captain  James  has  had  experi- 
ence in  managing  men.     Ho  has  remarkable  practical  talents, 


314  MY    LADY    JXDLUW. 

and  great  common  sense,  as  I  hear  from  every  one.  But.  \\Lat- 
ever  lie  may  be,  the  afi'air  rests  between  him  and  myself.  1  eau 
only  say  1  shall  esteem  myself  fortunate  if  he  comes." 

There  was  no  more  to  be  said,  after  my  lady  spoke  in  this 
manner.  I  had  heard  her  mention  Captain  James  before,  as  a 
middy  who  had  been  very  kind  to  her  son  Urian.  I  thought  1 
remembered  then,  that  she  had  mentioned  that  his  family  eir- 
cumstances  were  not  very  prosperous.  But,  1  confess,  that  little 
as  I  knew  of  the  management  of  land,  I  quite  sided  with  Air. 
Smithson.  He,  silently  prohibited  Irom  again  speaking  to  my 
lady  on  the  subject,  opened  his  mind  to  Miss  Galindo,  from 
whom  I  was  pretty  sure  to  hear  all  the  opinions  and  news  of  the 
household  and  village.  She  had  taken  a  great  fancy  to  me,  be- 
cause she  said  I  talked  so  agreeably.  I  believe  it  was  because  I 
listened  so  well. 

"  Well,  have  you  heard  the  news,"  she  began,  "  about  this 
Captain  James  ?  A  sailor, — with  a  wooden  leg,  I  have  no  doubt. 
What  would  the  pot)r,  deal',  deceased  master  have  said  to  it,  if  he 
had  known  who  was  to  be  his  successor  !  My  dear,  I  have  often 
thought  of  the  postman's  bringing  me  a  letter  lus  one  of  the  plea- 
sm-cs  I  shall  miss  in  heaven.  But,  really,  I  think  Mr.  Homer 
may  be  thankful  he  has  got  out  of  the  reach  of  news  ;  or  else  ho 
would  hear  of  Mr.  Smithson's  having  made  up  to  the  Birmingham 
baker,  and  of  this  one-legged  cai)tain,  coming  to  dot-and-go-one 
over  tlie  estate.  1  suppose  he  will  look  after  the  labounrs 
througli  a  sjiy-glass.  I  only  lu)pe  he  won't  stick  in  the  mud  witli 
his  wooden  leg  ;  for  J,  for  one,  wont  help  liim  out.  Yes,  I 
would,"  said  she,  correcting  herself;  "I  would,  for  jiiy  lady's 
sake." 

"  But  are  you  sure  he  has  a  w  oodon  leg  ?"'  asked  I.  "  I  heai'd 
Lady  Ludlow  tell  Air.  Smithson  about  him,  and  she  only  spoke 
of  him  as  womided." 

"Well,  sailors  are  almost  always  womided  in  the  leg.  Look 
at  Greenwich  Hospital  I  1  should  say  there  were  twenty  one- 
legged  2)eiisi()ners  to  one  without  an  arm  there.  But  say  hi'  has 
got  half-a-dozen  legs  :  what  lias  he  to  do  with  miuiaging  land  ?  1 
sliall  think  him  very  impudent  if  he  comes,  taking  advantage  of 
my  lady's  kind  luart." 

However,  come  he  did.  In  a  niontli  from  that  time,  the  car- 
riage was  sent  to  meet  Captain  Janus  ;  just  as  tline  yiai's  befort> 
it  liad  been  sent  to  meet  me.  His  ccmiing  had  bein  so  much 
talked  about  that  we  were  nil  as  curious  as  jiussible  to  see  him, 
and  to  know  how  so  unusual  an  exprriment.  as  it  seemed  to  us. 
Would  answer.       J'.ut,  before  1  tell  you  anytliing  alu>ut  our  new 


MY    LADY   LUDLOW.  31. J 

agcut,  1  ranst  speak  of  sumcihiiiij;  quite  as  iutijrcstmg,  and  I  i-ealiy 
think  tiuitc  as  importaut.  Aiitl  this  was  my  Luly's  making  friends 
with  Harry  Gregsou.  I  do  belicvo  she  did  it  for  Mr.  Hornoi-s 
sake  ;  bnt,  of  course,  T  can  only  conjecture  wliy  my  lady  did 
anything.  But  1  lieard  one  day,  from  Mary  Legurd,  that  my  lady 
had  sent  for  Harry  to  come  and  see  her,  if  he  was  well  enough 
to  walk  so  far  ;  and  the  next  day  he  was  shown  into  the  room  he 
had  been  in  once  before  under  such  unlucky  circumstances. 

The  lad  looked  pale  enough,  as  he  stood  propping  himself  ui> 
on  his  crutch,  and  the  instant  my  lady  saw  him,  she  bade  John 
Footman  place  a  stool  for  him  to  sit  down  upon  while  she  sjioke 
to  him.  It  might  be  his  paleness  that  gave  his  whole  face  a 
more  relined  and  gentle  look ;  but  I  suspect  it  was  that  the  boy 
was  apt  to  take  inii)ressions,  and  that  Mr.  Horner's  grave,  dig- 
nified ways,  and  Mr.  Gray's  tender  and  quiet  manners,  had  altered 
him ;  and  then  the  thoughts  of  illness  and  death  seem  to  tm-n 
many  of  us  into  gentlemen,  and  gentlewomen,  as  long  as  such 
thoughts  are  in  our  minds.  We  cannot  speak  loudly  or  angi'ily 
at  such  times ;  vre  are  not  apt  to  be  eager  about  mere  worldly 
things,  for  our  very  awe  at  oiu*  quickened  sense  of  the  nearness 
of  the  invisible  world,  makes  us  calm  and  serene  about  the  petty 
trifles  of  to-day.  At  least,  1  know  that  was  the  exjilanation  Mr. 
Gray  once  gave  me  of  what  we  all  thought  the  great  improvement 
in  Harry  Gregson's  way  of  behaving. 

IMy  lady  hesitated  so  long  about  what  she  had  best  say,  that 
Harry  grew  a  little  frightened  at  her  silence.  A  few  months  ago 
it  would  have  siu'prised  me  more  than  it  did  now ;  but  since  my 
lord  her  son's  death,  she  had  seemed  altered  in  many  ways, — 
more  uncertain  and  distrustful  of  herself,  as  it  were. 

At  last  she  said,  and  1  think  the  tears  were  in  her  eyes  :  "  My 
pof)r  little  fellow,  yon  have  had  a  narrow  escai^c  witli  your  life 
since  J  saw  you  last." 

To  this  there  was  nothing  to  be  said  but  "  Yes ;"  and  again 
there  was  silence. 

"  And  you  have  lost  a  good,  kind  friend,  in  Mr.  Homer." 

The  boy's  lips  worked,  and  1  think  he  said,  "Please,  don't." 
But  I  cant  be  sure ;  at  any  rate,  my  lady  went  on  : 

"  And  so  have  I, — a  good,  kind  friend,  he  was  to  both  of  us ; 
and  to  you  he  wished  to  sliow  his  kindness  in  even  a  more 
gcncrf)us  way  than  he  has  do}ie.  Mr.  Gray  has  told  you  about 
liis  legacy  to  you,  has  lie  not  V  ' 

Tliere  was  no  sign  of  eager  joy  on  tlic  lad's  face,  as  if  he 
realised  the  power  and  iilcasnre  of  having  wliat  to  him  must  have 
seemed  like  a  fortune. 


316  Ml    LADi'    LUDLOW. 

"  Mr.  Giay  siiitl  as  how  lie  had  left  mu  a  inattLir  of  monev." 
"  Yes,  he  has  left  you  tv-o  huudifil  puuiid-s." 
"  But  I  wouhl  ratlicr  have  had  liiiii  alive,  my  lady,"  he  bm-.st 
out,  sobbiug  as  if  his  heart  would  break. 

"  My  lad,  1  believe  you.  We  would  rather  have  had  our  dead 
alive,  would  we  not '?  and  there  is  nothing  in  money  that  can 
comfort  us  for  their  loss.  But  you  know — Mr.  Gray  has  told 
you — who  has  appointed  all  our  times  to  die.  Mr.  Horner  was 
a  good,  just  man ;  and  has  done  well  and  kindly,  botli  by  mo 
and  you.  You  perhaps  do  not  know  "  (and  now  I  understood 
what  my  lady  had  been  making  up  her  mind  to  say  to  Harry,  all 
the  time  she  was  hesitating  liow  to  begin)  "  that  Mr.  Horner,  at 
( me  time,  meant  to  leave  you  a  great  deal  more  ;  probably  all  he 
liad,  v,i.ih.  the  exception  of  a  legacy  to  his  old  clerk,  Morrison. 
But  he  knew  that  this  estate — on  whieli  my  forefathers  liad  lived 
for  six  hundred  years — was  in  debt,  and  that  I  had  no  innnediati' 
chance  of  paying  ott"  this  debt ;  and  yet  he  felt  that  it  was  a  very 
fiad  thing  for  an  old  projierty  like  this  to  belong  in  jiart  to  thosi- 
other  men,  who  had  lent  the  money.  You  imderstand  me,  I 
think,  my  little  man  ?"  said  she,  questioning  Harry's  face. 

He  had  left  ofl'  crying,  and  was  trying  to  understand,  with  all 
his  might  and  main  ;  and  I  think  he  had  got  a  pretty  good 
general  idea  of  the  state  of  atiUirs  ;  though  j)robably  ho  was 
jiuzzled  by  the  term  "  the  estate  being  in  debt."'  But  ho  was 
ftufiiciently  interested  to  want  my  lady  to  go  on ;  and  he  nodded 
his  head  at  her,  to  signify  this  to  her. 

"  So  Mr.  Horner  took  the  money  which  be  once  meant  to  be 
yours,  and  has  left  the  greater  part  of  it  to  me,  with  the  inten- 
tion of  ]ielj)ing  me  to  jJay  off  this  debt  I  have  told  you  about.  It 
will  go  a  long  way,  and  I  shall  try  hard  to  siive  the  rest,  and  then 
I  shall  die  haj)2)y  in  leaving  the  land  free  from  debt.  '  She  j)aused. 
*'  But  1  shall  not  die  hapjn'  in  thinking  of  you.  I  do  not  know 
if  having  money,  or  even  having  a  great  estate  and  much  honour, 
is  a  good  thing  for  any  of  us.  But  (rod  sees  lit  that  some  of  us 
should  be  called  to  this  condition,  and  it  is  our  duty  then  tu 
stand  by  our  posts,  like  brave  soldiers.  Now.  'Mr.  Honur 
intended  you  to  have  this  money  first.  I  shall  only  call  it  bor- 
rowing from  you,  Harry  (iregson,  if  I  take  it  and  use  it  to  pay 
off  the  debt.  1  shall  pay  Mr.  Gray  interest  on  this  money, 
because  ho  is  to  stand  as  your  giiurdian,  as  it  were,  till  you  come 
of  age  ;  and  ho  must  fix  what  oiiglit  to  be  done  with  it,  so  as  t»> 
lit  you  for  spending  the  principal  rightly  when  the  estate  can 
repay  it  yon.  I  suppost',  now,  it  will  be  right  for  you  ti»  bi? 
<!dueated.      That  will  bi'  anotlur  snare  that  will  ennie  with  voiir 


MY    LADY    LLDl.OW.  317 

money.  But  have  courage,  Harry.  Bdtli  education  and  money 
may  be  used  rightly,  if  we  only  pray  against  the  temptations  they 
bring  with  them." 

Harry  could  make  no  answer,  though  I  am  sure  he  understood 
it  all.  My  lady  wanted  to  get  him  to  talk  to  her  a  little,  by  way 
of  becoming  acquainted  witli  what  was  passing  in  his  mind  ;  and 
she  asked  him  what  he  would  like  to  have  done  with  his  money, 
if  he  could  have  part  of  it  now  V  To  such  a  simple  question, 
involving  no  talk  about  feelings,  his  answer  came  readily  enough. 

"  Build  a  cottage  for  father,  with  stairs  in  it,  and  give  Mi-. 
Gray  a  school-house.  O,  father  does  so  want  Mr.  ( iray  for  to  have 
his  wish  !  Father  saw  all  the  stones  lying  quarried  and  hewn 
on  Farmer  Hale's  land  ;  Mr.  Gray  had  paid  for  them  all  himself. 
And  father  said  he  would  work  night  and  day,  and  little  Tommy 
should  carry  mortar,  if  the  parson  would  let  him,  sooner  than  that 
he  should  be  fretted  and  frabbed  as  he  was,  ^-ith  no  one  giving 
him  a  helping  hand  or  a  kind  word." 

Harry  knew  nothing  of  my  ladys  part  in  the  affair ;  that  was 
Very  dear.     My  lady  kept  silence. 

*•  Jf  1  might  have  a  piece  of  my  money,  I  would  buy  land  fi-om 
;Mr.  Brooke  ;  he  has  got  a  bit  to  sell  just  at  the  corner  of  Hendon 
Lane,  and  I  would  give  it  to  Mr.  Gray ;  and,  perhaps,  if  your 
ladyship  thinks  1  may  be  learned  again,  1  might  gi'ow  up  into  the 
schoolmaster." 

"  You  are  a  good  boy,"  said  my  lady.  "  But  there  are  more 
things  to  be  thought  of,  in  carrying  out  such  a  plan,  than  you 
are  aware  of.     However,  it  shall  be  tried." 

"  The  school,  my  lady  ?"  I  exclaimed,  almost  thinking  she  did 
not  know  what  she  was  saying. 

•'Yes,  the  school.  For  Mr.  Horner's  sake,  for  Mr.  Gray's 
sake,  and  last,  not  least,  for  this  lad's  sake,  I  will  give  the  new 
plan  a  trial.  Ask  Mr.  Gray  to  come  up  to  me  this  afternoon 
about  the  land  he  wants.  He  need  not  go  to  a  Dissenter  for  it. 
And  tell  your  father  he  shall  have  a  good  share  in  the  building 
of  it,  and  Tommy  shall  carry  the  mortar." 

"  And  I  may  be  schoolmaster  ?"  askc4  Harry,  cagerl}-. 

"We'll  see  about  that,"  said  my  lady,  amused.  "It  will  bo 
some  time  before  that  plan  comes  to  pass,  my  little  fellow." 

And  now  to  return  to  Captain  James.  My  first  account  of 
him  was  from  Miss  (ialindo. 

''  He's  not  above  thirty  ;  and  I  must  just  pack  up  my  pens  and 
my  paper,  and  be  oil":  fur  it  would  be  the  height  of  imjjropriety 
for  me  to  be  staying  here  as  his  clerk.  It  was  all  very  well  in 
the  old  niaster's  days.     But   here  am    I,  not  tifly  till  next  May, 


318  MY   LADY    LUDLOW. 

and  this  young,  uniuarricd  man,  who  is  not  even  a  widower  I 
O,  there  would  be  no  end  of  gossip.  Besides  he  looks  us  as- 
kance ut  me  as  I  do  at  him.  ]My  black  silk  gown  had  no  eft'ect. 
He's  afraid  I  shall  marry  liira.  But  1  won't ;  he  may  feel  him- 
self quite  safe  from  that.  And  IMr.  Smithson  has  been  recom- 
mending a  clerk  to  my  lady.  She  woidd  f\ir  rather  keep  mv 
on  ;   but  I  can't  stoj).     I  really  could  not  tliiiik  it  proper." 

'  What  sort  of  a  looking  man  is  he  ?" 

"  O,  nothing  jiarticular.  Sliort,  and  brown,  and  sunbm-nt.  I 
did  not  think  it  became  me  to  look  at  him.  "Well,  now  for  the 
nightcajis.  I  should  liavc  grudged  any  one  else  doing  them,  for 
I  have  got  such  a  pretty  pattern !" 

But  when  it  came  to  Miss  Galindo's  leaving,  there  was  a  great 
misunderstanding  between  her  and  my  lady.  Miss  Galindo  ha^l 
imagined  that  my  lady  had  asked  her  as  a  favour  to  copy  the 
letters,  and  enter  the  accounts,  and  had  agi'ced  to  do  the 
work  without  the  notion  of  being  paid  fov  so  doing.  She  had, 
now  and  then,  grieved  over  a  very  profitable  order  for  neodh- 
work  2)assing  out  of  her  hands  on  accoiuit  oi  her  not  having 
time  to  do  it,  becaiise  of  her  occupation  at  the  Hall ;  but  she  had 
never  hinted  this  to  my  lady,  but  gone  on  cheerfully  at  her 
writing  as  long  as  her  clerksliip  was  required.  My  lady  was 
annoyed  that  she  had  not  made  her  intention  of  j)aying  ]\Iiss 
Galindo  more  clear,  in  the  first  conversation  she  had  had  with 
her ;  but  I  supjiose  that  she  had  been  too  delicate  to  Ik;  very 
explicit  with  regard  to  money  matters  ;  and  now  Miss  Galindo 
was  quite  hurt  at  my  lady's  wanting  to  pay  her  for  what  she  had 
done  in  such  right-down  good-^Nill. 

"  No,"  Miss  Galindo  said  ;  ''  my  own  dear  lady,  you  may  be 
as  angry  with  me  as  you  like,  but  don't  oft'er  mo  money.  Think 
<  if  six-and-twenty  years  ago.  and  ])oor  Arthur,  luid  as  you  were  to 
me  then  !  Besides,  1  wanted  nu>ney — 1  don't  disguise  it— for  a 
l)articular  purpose;  and  when  I  found  that  ((.Jod  bless  you  for 
iisking  me!)  I  could  do  you  a  service,  1  turned  it  over  in  my 
mind,  and  1  gave  up  one  jthm  and  took  up  another,  and  it's  all 
settled  now.  Bessy  is  to  h'ave  sehoid  and  come  and  live  with  nir. 
Don't,  pleasL',  offer  me  money  again.  You  don't  know  how  glad 
I  havo  been  to  do  anything  for  you.  Have  not  I,  ISIargarot 
Dawson?  Did  you  nut  hear  me  say,  one  day,  I  would  lut  oti'my 
liand  for  my  lady  ;  for  am  1  a  stock  or  a  stone,  that  I  should  for- 
get kindness?  O,  I  havo  been  so  glad  to  work  for  you.  And 
now  Bessy  is  coming  here  ;  and  no  one  knows  anything  about 
hor     as  if  slie  had  done  anything  wrong,  ])oor  child  I" 

"  Dear  Miss  Galindo,"  replied  my  lady,  "  I  will  never  ask  you 


MY    LADY    LUULOW.  oJ9 

to  talco  money  again.  Only  I  tliouglit  it  wus  quite  uutlerstood 
between  us.  And  you  know  you  have  taken  money  for  a  stit 
of  morning  WTappers,  bcft)re  now." 

"  Yes,  my  lady  ;  but  that  was  not  confidential.  Now  I  was 
60  proud  to  have  something  to  do  for  you  conlidcntially." 

''  But  who  is  Bessy  ?"  asked  my  lady.  "  1  do  not  luiderstand 
who  she  is,  or  why  she  is  to  come  and  live  with  you.  Dear  Miss 
Galindo.  you  must  honour  me  by  being  conlidential  with  me  in 
your  tmii !' 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

I  H.\D  always  understood  that  Miss  Galindo  had  once  been  in 
much  better  circimistances,  but  I  had  never  liked  to  ask  any 
questions  resjjecting  her.  But  about  this  time  many  things  came 
out  respecting  her  former  life,  which  1  will  try  and  arrange  :  not 
however,  in  the  order  in  which  1  heai'd  them,  but  rather  as 
they  occuiTcd. 

Miss  Galindo  was  the  daughter  of  a  clergyman  in  Westmore- 
land. Her  father  was  tlie  yoimger  brother  of  a  baronet,  his 
ancestor  having  been  one  of  those  of  James  the  First's  creation. 
This  baronet-uncle  of  Miss  Galindo  was  one  of  the  queer,  out- 
of-the-way  people  who  were  bred  at  that  time,  and  in  that  north- 
ern district  of  England.  I  never  heard  much  of  him  from  any 
one,  besides  this  one  gi'eat  fact :  that  he  had  early  di.s<ij>peared 
from  his  family,  which  indeed  only  consisted  of  a  brother  and 
sister  who  died  unmarried,  and  lived  no  one  knew  where, — 
somewhere  on  the  Continent,  it  was  supposed,  for  he  had  never 
returned  from  the  grand  tcnir  which  he  had  been  sent  to  make, 
according  to  tlic  general  fashion  of  the  day,  as  soon  as  he  had 
left  Oxford,  lie  corresponded  occasionally  with  his  brother  the 
clergyman  :  but  the  letters  passed  through  a  banker's  hands  ; 
the  banker  being  pledged  to  secrecy,  and,  as  he  told  Mr.  Galindo, 
having  tlie  j)enalty,  if  he  broke  his  pledge,  of  losing  tlie  whole 
profitable  business,  and  of  having  the  management  of  the  ba- 
ronet's aflairs  taken  out  of  his  hands,  without  any  advantage 
accniiug  to  tlie  inquirer,  for  Sir  Lawrence  had  told  IVFcssrs. 
Graham  that,  in  case  his  place  of  r(!sidencc  was  revealed  by 
them,  not  only  woidd  ho  cease  to  bank  with  them,  but  instantly 
take  measures  to  bailie  any  future  inquiries  as  to  his  where- 
abouts, by  removing  to  some  distant  C(juntry. 

Sir  Lawrence  paid  a  certain  sum  of  money  to  his  brother's 
account  every  year  ;  but  tlie  time  of  tliis  payment  varied,  and  it 
was  sometimes  eighteen  or  nineteen  months  between  the  deposits ; 


320  MY   LADY    LUDLOW. 

then,  again,  it  would  not  be  above  a  quarter  of  the  time,  showing 
that  he  intended  it  to  be  annual,  but,  as  this  intention  was  never 
expressed  in  words,  it  Avas  impossible  to  rely  upon  it,  and  a 
great  deal  of  this  money  was  swallowed  up  by  the  necessity  Mr. 
Galindo  felt  himself  under  of  living  in  the  large,  old,  rambling 
family  mansion,  which  had  been  one  of  Sir  Lawrence's  rarely 
expressed  desires.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Galindo  often  planned  to  live 
upon  their  own  small  fortune  and  the  income  derived  from  the 
living  (a  vicarage,  of  which  the  great  tithes  went  to  Sir  Lawrence 
as  lay  imj)ropriator),  so  as  to  put-by  the  payments  made  by  the 
baronet,  for  the  benefit  of  Lam-eutia — our  Miss  Galindo.  But  I 
suppose  they  foimd  it  difficult  to  live  economically  in  a  large 
house,  even  though  they  had  it  rent  free.  They  had  to  keep  up 
with  hereditary  neighbours  and  friends,  and  could  hai-dly  help 
doing  it  in  the  hereditary  manner. 

One  of  these  ncighboius,  a  Mr.  Gibson,  had  a  son  a  few  year; 
older  than  Lam-entia.  The  families  were  sufficiently  intimate  for 
the  yoimg  pcojile  to  see  a  good  deal  of  each  other :  and  I  was 
told  that  this  young  Mr.  Mark  Gibson  was  an  im usually  prepos- 
sessing man  (he  seemed  to  have  imjircsscd  every  one  who  spoke 
of  him  to  me  as  being  a  handsome,  manly,  kind-hearted  fellow), 
just  what  a  girl  would  be  sure  to  find  most  agreeable.  The  pai'cnts 
either  forgot  that  their  children  were  growing  up  to  man's  and 
woman's  estate,  or  thought  that  the  intimacy  and  probable  attach- 
ment would  be  no  bad  thing,  even  if  it  did  lead  to  a  marriage. 
Still,  nothing  was  ever  said  by  yotuig  Gibson  till  later  on,  when 
it  was  too  late,  as  it  tiu-ned  out.  He  went  to  and  from  Oxford  ; 
he  shot  and  fished  with  Mr.  Galindo,  or  came  to  the  Mere  to  skiito 
in  winter-time  ;  was  asked  to  accompany  Mr.  (ialindo  to  the  Hall, 
as  the  latter  returned  to  the  quiet  dinner  with  his  wife  and 
daughter;  and  so,  and  so,  it  went  on,  nobody  nnuh  knew  how, 
until  one  day,  when  j\Ir.  Galindo  received  a  fonnal  htter  frdui 
his  brother's  bankers,  annouiieing  Sir  Lawrence's  death,  of  uialaria 
fever,  at  Albano,  and  congratulating  Sir  Hubert  ou  his  accession 
to  the  estates  and  the  baronetcy.  The  king  is  dead — ''  Long 
live  tlu!  king  !"  as  I  have  since  heard  tliat  the  French  exj)ress  it. 

Sir  Hubrrt  and  his  wife  were  greatly  surjirised.  Sir  Lawrence 
was  but  two  years  (dder  tlian  his  brotlur  ;  and  they  had  never 
iieard  of  any  illness  till  tluy  luiird  of  liis  drath.  Tliey  were 
sorry  ;  very  much  shocked  ;  but  still  a  little  elated  at  the  siieees- 
sion  to  the  baronetcy  and  istates.  The  London  banki'rs  had 
nianagcul  everything  well.  Tliin-  was  a  large  sum  of  ready 
money  in  tluir  liands,  at  Sir  Hubert's  service,  until  he  sliould 
touch  his  rents,  tlie  nnt-roll  being  eight  thouBaud  a-year.     .\nd 


MY    LADY    LUDLOW.  321 

only  Laiirentia  to  inherit  it  all !  Her  mother,  a  poor  clergyman's 
daughter,  began  to  plan  all  sorts  of  fine  marriages  for  her ;  nor 
was  her  father  much  behind  his  wife  in  his  ambition.  They  took 
her  up  to  London,  when  they  went  to  buy  new  carriages,  and 
dresses,  and  furniture.  And  it  was  then  and  there  she  made  my 
lady's  acquaintance.  How  it  was  that  they  came  to  take  a  fancy 
to  each  other,  I  cannot  say.  My  lady  was  of  the  old  nobility, — 
grand,  compose,  gentle,  and  stately  in  her  ways.  Miss  Galiiido 
must  always  have  been  hurried  in  her  manner,  and  her  energy 
must  have  shown  itself  in  inquisitiveness  and  oddncss  even  lu 
her  youth.  But  I  don't  pretend  to  account  for  things :  I  only 
narrate  them.  And  the  fixct  was  this  : — that  the  elegant,  fasti- 
dious coimtess  was  attracted  to  the  country  girl,  who  on  her  part 
almost  worshipped  my  lady.  My  lady's  notice  of  their  daughter* 
made  her  parents  think,  I  suppose,  that  there  was  no  match  that 
she  might  not  command ;  she,  the  heiress  of  eight  thousand  a-year, 
and  visiting  aboiit  amoLg  earls  and  dukes.  So  when  they  camo 
back  to  their  old  Westmoreland  Hall,  and  Mark  Gibson  rode  over 
to  oifer  his  hand  and  his  heart,  and  prospective  estate  of  nine 
hundred  a-year,  to  his  old  companion  and  playfellow,  Laiu-entia, 
Sir  Hubert  and  Lady  Galindo  made  very  short  work  of  it.  They 
refused  him  plumply  themselves ;  and  when  he  begged  to  be 
allowed  to  speak  to  Laurcutia,  they  foimd  some  excuse  for  refus- 
ing him  the  opportunity  of  so  doing,  imtil  they  had  talked  to  her 
themselves,  and  brought  up  every  argument  and  fact  in  their 
power  to  convince  her — a  plain  girl,  and  conscious  of  her  plain- 
ness— that  Mr.  Mark  Gibson  had  never  thought  of  her  in  the 
way  of  marriage  till  after  her  father's  accession  to  his  fortune  ; 
and  that  it  was  the  estate — not  the  young  lady — that  he  was  in 
love  with.  I  suppose  it  will  never  be  known  in  this  world  liow 
far  this  supposition  of  theirs  was  true.  My  Lady  Ludlow  had 
always  spoken  as  if  it  was ;  but  perhaps  events,  which  came  to 
her  knowledge  about  this  time,  altered  her  oiiiuion.  At  any  rate, 
the  end  of  it  was,  Laurentia  refused  Mark,  and  almost  broke  licr 
heart  in  doing  so.  He  discovered  the  suspicions  of  Sir  Hubert 
and  Lady  Galindo,  and  that  they  had  persuaded  their  daugliter 
to  share  in  them.  So  he  flung  off  with  high  words,  saying  that 
they  did  not  know  a  true  heart  when  they  met  witli  one  ;  and  that 
although  he  had  never  oflered  till  after  Sir  Lawrence's  death,  y(!t 
that  his  father  knew  all  along  that  ho  had  been  attached  to 
Laurentia,  only  that  lie,  being  the  eldest  of  five  children,  and 
having  as  yet  no  profession,  liad  had  to  conceal,  rather  tlian  to 
express,  an  attachment,  wliich,  in  tliosc  days,  lie  liad  believed  was 
reciprocated.    He  had  always  meant  to  study  f<n'  the  bar,  and  the 

Y 


322  MY   LADY    LUDLOW, 

end  of  all  be  had  hoped  for  had  been  to  cam  a  moclei'atc  income, 
which  he  might  ask  Laurcutia  to  share.  This,  or  something  like 
it,  was  what  be  said.  But  his  reference  to  his  father  cut  two  ways. 
Old  Mr.  Gibson  was  known  to  be  very  keen  about  money.  It 
was  just  as  likely  that  he  would  urge  Mark  to  make  love  to  the 
heiress,  now  she  was  an  heiress,  as  that  he  would  have  restrained 
him  previously,  as  Mark  said  he  had  done.  Wlicn  this  was 
rcjieatcd  to  Mark,  he  became  proudly  reserved,  or  sidlcn,  and 
said  that  Lam'cntia,  at  any  rate,  might  have  known  him  better. 
He  left  the  coimtry,  and  went  up  to  London  to  study  law  soou 
afterwards  ;  and  Sir  Hubert  and  Lady  Galindo  thought  they  were 
well  rid  of  him.  But  Laurcntia  never  ceased  reproaching  herself, 
and  never  did  to  her  dying  day,  as  I  believe.  The  words,  "  She 
might  have  known  me  better,"  told  to  her  by  some  kind  friend  or 
other,  rankled  in  her  mind,  and  were  never  forgotten.  Her  father 
and  mother  took  her  up  to  London  the  next  year ;  but  she  did 
not  care  to  visit — dreaded  going  out  even  for  a  drive,  lest  sho 
should  see  Mark  Gibson's  reproachful  eyes — pined  and  lost  hoi 
health.  Lady  Ludlow  saw  this  change  with  regret,  and  Avas  told 
the  cause  by  Lady  Galindo,  who  of  coiu'se,  gave  her  own  version 
of  Mark's  conduct  and  motives.  My  lady  never  sjiokc  to  Miss 
Galindo  about  it,  but  tried  constantly  to  interest  and  please  her 
It  was  at  this  time  that  my  lady  told  Miss  Galindo  so  much  about 
her  own  early  life,  and  about  Hanbury,  that  Miss  Galindo 
resolved,  if  ever  she  could,  sho  would  go  and  sec  the  old  placo 
which  her  friend  loved  so  well.  The  end  of  it  all  was,  that  she 
came  to  live  there,  as  we  know. 

But  a  great  change  was  to  come  first.  Before  Sir  Hubert  and 
Lady  Galindo  had  left  Loudon  t)n  this,  their  second  Ansit,  they 
had  a  letter  from  the  lawyer,  whom  they  emidoyed,  saying  that 
Sir  Lawrence  had  left  an  heir,  his  legitimate  child  by  an  Italian 
woman  of  low  rank  ;  at  least,  legal  claims  to  the  title  and  jiro- 
perty  had  been  sent  into  him  on  the  bt\v  -"^  behalf.  Sir  Lawrence 
had  always  been  a  man  of  adventurous  and  artistic,  rather  than 
of  luxurious  tastes ;  and  it  was  suppost'd,  when  all  came  to  bo 
I)roved  at  tlio  trial,  that  hc^  was  captivated  l)y  the  frei',  beautiful 
life  they  lead  in  Italy,  and  had  married  this  Neai)olitan  fisher- 
man's daughter,  who  liad  peoph;  about  lier  slu'ewd  eni>ugh  to  see 
that  tlic  ceremony  was  legally  pirformed.  She  and  her  husband 
had  wand(!red  about  the  shores  of  the  Mediterranean  for  yeare, 
leading  a  hai)i)y,  careless,  irri-sponsible  life,  inuiuiunbiTed  by 
any  duties  excerpt  tliose  connected  with  a  rather  nunu'rous  family. 
It  was  enough  for  her  that  they  never  wanted  money,  and  that 
hex  husband's  h)ve  was  alwavt:  continued  to  lier.     Sho  hated  the 


SlY    LADY    LUDLOW.  323 

name  of  England — wicked,  cold,  heretic  England — and  avoided 
the  mention  of  any  subjects  connected  with  her  husband's  early 
life.  So  tliat,  when  he  died  at  Albano.  she  was  iJmost  i-oused  out 
of  her  vehement  grief  to  anger  with  the  Italian  doctor,  who 
declai'cd  that  he  must  write  to  a  certain  address  to  announce  the 
deatli  of  Lawrence  Galindo.  For  some  time,  she  feared  lest 
English  barbarians  might  come  down  upon  her,  making  a  claim  to 
the  children.  She  liid  herself  and  them  in  the  Abruzzi,  living 
npon  tlie  sale  of  what  furniture  and  jewels  Sir  Lawrence  liad  died 
possessed  of.  Wlien  these  failed,  she  rctm-ned  to  Naples,  which 
she  had  not  visited  since  her  marriage.  Her  father  was  dead  ; 
but  her  brother  inherited  some  of  his  keenness.  He  interested 
the  i)riests,  who  made  inquiries  and  foimd  that  the  Galindo 
succession  was  worth  securing  to  an  heir  of  the  true  faith. 
They  stirred  about  it,  obtained  advice  at  the  English  Embassy ; 
and  lience  that  letter  to  the  lawyers,  calling  upon  Sir  Hubert  to 
relinquish  title  and  property,  and  to  refund  what  money  he  had 
expended.  He  was  vehement  in  his  opposition  to  this  claim.  He 
could  not  bear  to  think  of  his  brother  having  married  a  foreigner 
— a  papist,  a  fishennan's  daughter  ;  nay,  of  his  having  become  a 
papist  himself.  He  was  in  despair  at  the  thought  of  his  ancestral 
prcqierty  going  to  the  issue  of  such  a  marriage.  He  fought  tooth 
and  nail,  making  enemies  of  his  relations,  and  losing  almost  all 
liis  own  private  property  ;  for  he  would  go  on  against  the  lawyer's 
advice,  long  after  every  one  was  convinced  cxcejjt  himself  and 
his  wife.  At  last  he  was  conquered.  He  gave  wp  his  living  in 
gloomy  despair.  He  would  have  changed  his  name  if  he  could, 
so  desirous  was  he  to  obliterate  all  tie  between  himself  and  the 
mongrel  papist  baronet  and  his  Italian  mother,  and  all  the 
succession  of  children  and  nurses  who  came  to  take  jjcssession 
of  the  Hall  soon  after  ]Mr.  Hubert  Galindo's  departure,  stayed 
there  one  winter,  and  then  flitted  back  to  Naples  Avith  gladness 
and  delight.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hubert  Galindo  lived  in  London. 
He  had  obtained  a  curacy  somewhere  in  the  city.  They  would 
have  been  thankful  nr)w  if  Mr.  Mark  Gibson  had  renewed  his 
otfer.  No  one  could  accuse  him  of  mercenary  motives  if  he  liad 
done  so.  Because  he  did  not  come  forward,  as  they  wislied,  they 
bi'ought  his  silence  up  as  a  justification  of  what  they  had 
previously  attril)uted  to  him.  I  don't  know  what  Miss  Galindo 
thought  herself;  but  Lady  Ludlow  has  told  mc;  how  she  shrank 
from  liearing  her  jianmts  abuse  him.  Lady  Ludlow  supposed 
that  he  was  aware  that  thej'^  were  living  in  London.  His  father 
must  have  known  the  fact,  .and  it  was  curious  if  he  liad  never  named 
it  to  his  son.      Besides,  the  name  was  very  uncommon  ;  and  it 

T  2 


;i24  MY    LADY    LIDLOW. 

was  unlikely  that  it  should  never  come  across  him,  in  the  adver- 
tisements of  charity  scnnons  which  the  new  and  rather  eloquent 
cm-ate  of  Saint  Mark's  East  was  asked  to  preach.  All  this  time 
Lady  Ludlow  never  lost  sight  of  them,  for  Miss  Galindo's  sake. 
And  when  the  father  and  mother  died,  it  was  my  lady  who  upheld 
Miss  Galindo  in  her  determination  not  to  api)ly  for  any  jn-ovision 
to  her  cousin,  the  Italian  baronet,  but  rather  to  live  upon  the  hun- 
dred a-year  which  had  been  settled  on  her  mother  and  the  children 
of  his  son  JIubci-t's  marriage  by  the  old  gi-andfather,  Sir  Lawrence. 

Mr.  ]\Lirk  Gibson  had  risen  to  some  eminence  as  a  barrister 
on  the  Northern  Circuit,  but  had  died  unmarried  in  the  lifetime 
of  his  father,  a  victim  (so  people  said)  to  intemperance.  Doctor 
Trevor,  the  physician  who  had  been  called  in  to  Mr.  Gray  and 
Harry  Grcgson,  had  married  a  sister  of  his.  And  that  was  all 
iny  lady  knew  about  the  Gibson  iixmily.     But  who  was  Bessy  ? 

That  mystery  and  secret  came  out,  too,  in  process  of  time. 
Miss  Galindo  had  been  to  Warwick,  some  years  before  I  amvcd 
at  Ilanbury,  on  some  kind  of  business  or  shopping,  which  can 
only  be  transacted  in  a  county  town.  There  v.as  an  old  West- 
moreland connection  between  her  and  Mrs.  Trevor,  though  I 
believe  the  latter  was  too  yoimg  to  have  been  made  aware  of  her 
brother's  ofter  to  Miss  Galindo  at  the  time  when  it  took  jdacc  ; 
and  such  affairs,  if  they  arc  unsuccessful,  are  seldom  spoken 
about  in  the  gentleman's  family  afterwards.  But  the  CJibsons 
and  Galindos  had  l)ecn  county  neighbours  too  long  for  the  con- 
nection not  to  bo  kept  up  between  two  members  settled  far  away 
from  tlieir  early  homos.  IMiss  Galindo  always  desired  her 
parcels  to  bo  sent  to  Dr.  Tri!Vor's,  when  she  went  to  Warwick 
for  shopping  purchases.  If  slic  were  going  any  joumev,  and  the 
coach  did  not  come  through  Warwick  as  soon  as  she  arrived  (in 
my  lady's  coach  or  otherwise)  from  Hanbury,  she  went  to  Doc- 
tor Trevor's  to  wait.  She  was  as  nnich  expected  to  sit  down  to 
the  household  meals  as  if  she  had  been  one  of  the  family  :  and 
in  after-years  it  was  Mrs.  Trevor  v.ho  managed  her  repository 
business  for  her. 

So,  on  tlie  day  T  spoke  of,  sin;  had  gone  to  D<H'tor  Trevor's 
to  rest,  and  jxjssibly  to  dine.  The  post  in  those  times,  ciuno  in 
at  all  lumrs  of  tlie  morning :  and  Doctor  Trevor's  letters  had 
not  arrived  mitil  after  his  dt-parturo  on  his  morning  round. 
Miss  Galindo  was  sitting  down  <o  dinner  with  IMrs.  Trevor  and 
her  seven  ehildnii,  when  tln^  Ddctur  came  in.  He  was  flurried 
and  uncomfortable,  and  Inirried  tlio  children  away  as  soon  as  he 
decently  could,  'i'hen  (rather  feeling  Miss  Galindo's  preseneo 
an  advantage,  botli  as  a  present  rcstniint  on  the  violence  of  his 


MY    l.AOY    LUDLOW.  325 

wife's  grief,  and  as  a  consoler  when  he  was  absent  on  his  after- 
noon round),  he  told  Mrs.  Trevor  of  her  brother's  death.  Ho 
had  been  taken  ill  on  circuit,  and  hud  hurried  back  to  his  cham- 
bers in  London  only  to  die.  She  cried  terribly ;  but  Doctor 
Trevor  said  afterwards,  he  never  noticed  that  Miss  Galindo  cared 
much  about  it  one  way  or  another.  She  heljjed  him  to  soothe 
his  wife,  promised  to  stay  with  her  all  the  afternoon  instead  of 
returning  to  Hanbury,  and  afterwards  oflfered  to  remain  with  her 
while  the  Doctor  went  to  attend  the  funeral.  When  they  heard 
of  the  old  love-story  between  the  dead  man  and  Miss  Galindo, — 
brought  up  by  mutual  friends  in  Westmoreland,  in  the  review 
which  we  are  all  inclined  to  take  of  the  events  of  a  man's  life 
when  he  comes  to  die, — they  tried  to  remember  Miss  Galindo's 
speeches  and  ways  of  going  on  during  this  visit.  She  was  a 
little  pale,  a  little  silent ;  her  eyes  were  sometimes  swollen,  and 
her  nose  red  ;  but  she  was  at  an  age  when  such  appearances  are 
generally  attributed  to  a  bad  cold  in  the  head,  rather  than  to  any 
more  sentimental  reason.  They  felt  towards  her  as  towards  an 
old  friend,  a  kindly,  useful,  eccentric  old  maid.  She  did  not 
expect  more,  or  wish  them  to  remember  that  she  might  once 
have  had  other  hopes,  and  more  youthful  feelings.  Doctor 
Trevor  thanked  her  very  warmly  for  staying  with  his  wife,  when 
he  returned  home  from  London  (where  the  funeral  had  taken 
place).  He  begged  Miss  Galindo  to  stay  with  them,  when  the 
children  were  gone  to  bed,  and  she  Avas  preparing  to  leave  the 
husband  and  wife  by  themselves.  He  told  her  and  his  wife 
many  particulars — then  paused — then  went  on — 

"  And  Murk  has  left  a  child  —a  little  girl 

"  But  he  never  was  married  !"  exclaimed  IMrs.  Trevor. 

"A  little  girl,"  continued  her  husband,  '•  Avhoso  mother,  I 
conclude,  is  dead.  At  any  rate,  the  child  was  in  possession  ol 
his  chambers  ;  she  and  an  old  nurse,  who  seemed  to  have  the 
charge  of  everything,  and  has  cheated  poor  Mark,  I  should 
fancy,  not  a  little," 

"But  tlie  child!''  asked  Mrs.  Trevor,  still  almost  breathless 
with  astonishment.     "  How  do  you  kucnv  it  is  his  ?" 

'■  The  nurse  told  me  it  was,  with  gi'eut  appearance  of  indigna- 
tion at  my  doubting  it.  I  asked  the  little  thing  her  name,  and 
all  I  could  get  was  '  Bessy  !'  and  a  cry  of  '  Me  wants  i)apa  !' 
The  nurse  said  the  mother  was  dead,  and  slie  laiew  no  more 
about  it  than  that  !Mr.  (iibson  had  engaged  her  to  take  care  of 
the  little  girl,  calling  it  his  cliild.  One  or  two  of  his  lawyer 
friends,  wliom  I  met  with  at  tlie  funeral,  told  me  they  wcro 
aware  of  the  existence  of  tlie  child." 


326 


MY    I.ADV    I.L'DLOW. 


"  ^^^lat  is  to  be  iloue  with  licr  r"  asked  Mrs.  Gibson. 

"  Nay,  I  don't  know,"  replied  he.  '•  Mark  has  hardly  left 
assets  enough  to  pay  his  debts,  and  your  lather  is  not  inclined 
to  come  forward." 

That  night,  as  Doctor  Trevor  sat  in  his  study,  after  his  wife 
had  gone  to  bed.  Miss  Galiudo  knocked  at  his  door.  She  and 
he  liad  a  long  conversation.  The  result  was  that  he  accom- 
panied Miss  Galindo  up  to  town  the  next  day  ;  that  they  took 
possession  of  the  little  Bessy,  and  she  was  brought  down,  and 
piaced  at  nurse  at  a  farm  in  the  country  near  AVarwick,  Miss 
Galindo  imdertaking  to  pay  one-half  of  the  expense,  and  to 
furnish  her  with  clothes,  and  Dr.  Trevor  undertaking  that  tho 
remaining  half  should  be  fui'nished  by  the  Gibson  family,  or  by 
himself  in  their  default. 

Miss  Galindo  was  not  fond  of  children  ;  and  I  dare  say  she 
dreaded  taking  this  child  to  live  with  her  for  more  reasons  than 
one.  My  Lady  Ludlow  could  not  endiue  any  mention  of  illegiti- 
mate children.  It  was  a  ju-inciple  of  hers  that  society  ought  to 
ignore  them.  And  I  believe  Miss  Galindo  had  always  agi'eed  with 
her  until  now,  when  the  thing  came  home  to  her  womanly  heart. 
Still  she  shrank  from  having  this  child  of  some  sti-ange  woman 
under  her  roof.  She  went  over  to  see  it  from  time  to  time  ;  she 
worked  at  its  clothes  long  after  every  one  thought  she  was  in  bed  ; 
and,  when  the  time  came  for  Bessy  to  be  sent  to  school.  Miss 
Galindo  laboiu'cd  away  more  diligently  tlum  ever,  in  order  to  pay 
the  increased  expense.  For  the  Gibson  family  had,  at  tiist,  paid 
their  i)art  of  the  compact,  but  with  unwillingness  luid  giudging 
hearts  ;  then  they  had  left  it  off  altogether,  and  it  fell  hard  on 
Dr.  Trevor  with  his  twelve  children  ;  and.  latterly.  Miss  Cialindo 
had  taken  upon  herself  almost  all  the  burden.  One  can  hardly 
live  and  labour,  and  i)lau  and  make  sacritices,  for  any  Ininitui 
creature,  without  learning  to  love  it.  And  Bessy  loved  IMissj 
(Jalindo,  too,  for  all  the  poor  girl's  scanty  i)leasuri'S  cjuue  from 
her,  and  Miss  (ialindo  had  always  a  kind  word,  and.  latterly, 
many  a  kind  caress,  for]\Lirk  (Jibsons  child  ;  whereas,  if  she  went 
to  Dr.  Trevor's  for  her  lu)liday,  slie  was  overlooked  and  neglected 
in  that  bustling  family,  who  seiiiud  to  think  that  if  sliu  liud 
comfortable  l)oard  and  lodging  under  tluir  roof,  it  was  enougli. 

I  am  sure,  now,  that  I\Iiss  (Jalindo  had  often  longt-d  to  have 
Bessy  to  live;  witli  her  ;  but,  as  long  as  slie  could  pay  for  her 
being  at  school,  she  did  not  likt?  to  take  so  bold  a  step  as 
bringing  lur  lionie,  knowing  what  the  effect  of  the  conse(|Uent 
exidanation  would  he.  on  my  lady.  And  as  the  girl  was  now 
nioro  than   seventeen,  and   jiast  thi>  age  when  young  ladies  ar.- 


MY    LADY    LUDLOW,  3:27 

nsually  kept  at  school,  and  as  there  vas  no  gi-cat  demand  for 
governesses  in  those  days,  and  as  Bessy  had  never  been  taught 
any  trade  by  which  to  earn  her  own  living,  why  I  don't  exactly 
see  what  could  have  been  done  but  for  Miss  Galindo  to  bring 
her  to  her  own  home  in  Hanbury.  For,  although  the  child  had 
gi-own  up  lately,  in  a  kind  of  unexpected  manner,  into  a  yoimg 
woman.  Miss  Galindo  might  have  kept  her  at  school  for  a  year 
longer,  if  she  coidd  have  afibrded  it ;  but  this  was  impossible 
when  she  became  Mr.  Horner's  clerk,  and  relinquished  all  the 
payment  of  her  repository  work  ;  and  perhaps,  after  all,  she 
■was  not  sorry  to  be  comi^eiled  to  take  the  stcj)  she  was  longing 
for.  At  any  rate,  Bessy  came  to  live  with  Miss  Galindo,  in  a 
very  few  weeks  from  the  time  when  Cajitain  James  set  Miss 
Galindo  free  to  sujicrinteud  her  own  domestic  economy  again. 

For  a  long  time,  1  knew  nothing  about  this  new  inhabitant  of 
Hanbuiy.  My  lady  never  mentioned  her  in  any  way.  This 
■was  in  accordance  with  Lady  Ludlow's  well-known  principles. 
She  neither  saw  nor  heard,  nor  was  in  any  way  cognisant  of  the 
existence  of  those  who  had  no  legal  right  to  exist  at  all.  If 
Miss  Galindo  had  hoped  to  have  an  exception  made  in  Bessy's 
favour,  she  was  mistaken.  My  lady  sent  a  note  inviting  Miss 
Galindo  herself  to  tea  one  evening,  about  a  mouth  after  Bessy 
came  ;  but  Miss  Galindo  "  had  a  cold  and  could  not  come." 
The  next  time  she  was  invited,  she  "  had  an  engagement  at 
home  " — a  step  nearer  to  the  absolute  truth.  And  the  third  time, 
she  "  had  a  young  friend  staying  with  her  whom  she  was  imable 
to  leave."  My  lady  accepted  every  excuse  as  bona  fide,  and  took 
no  fm'ther  notice.  I  missed  Miss  Galindo  very  much  ;  we  all 
did  ;  for,  in  the  days  when  she  was  clerk,  she  was  sui-e  to  come 
in  and  find  the  opportimity  of  saying  something  amusing  to  some 
of  us  before  she  went  away.  And  1,  as  an  invalid,  or  i)erhai)S 
from  natui-al  tendency,  was  particularly  fond  of  little  bits  of 
village  gossip.  There  was  no  Mr.  Horner — he  even  had  come 
in,  now  and  then,  with  fomial,  stately  jjieces  of  intelligence — 
and  there  was  no  Miss  Galindo  in  these  days.  I  missed  her 
much.  And  so  did  my  lady,  I  am  sure.  Behind  all  her  quiet, 
sedate  manner,  I  am  certain  her  heart  ached  sometimes  for  a  few 
Avtn-ds  from  Miss  (ialindo,  who  seemed  to  have  absented  herself 
altogetlier  from  the  Hall  now  Bessy  was  come. 

Captain  James  might  be  very  sensible,  and  all  that ;  but  not 
oven  my  lady  could  call  him  a  substitute  for  the  old  familiar 
friends.  He  was  a  tliorough  sailor,  as  sailors  were  in  those  days 
— swore  a  good  deal,  drank  a  good  deal  (without  its  ever 
aflccting   him  in  the  least),  and  was  very  promitt   and  kind- 


323  MY    LADY    LUDLOW. 

licartcd  in  all  Ills  actions  ;  but  he  was  rot  accustomed  to  women, 
as  my  lady  once  said,  and  would  judge  in  all  things  for  himself. 
My  lady  had  expected,  I  think,  to  find  some  one  who  would  take 
his  notions  on  the  management  of  her  estate  from  her  ladyship's 
own  self ;  but  Ik;  spoke  as  if  he  were  responsible  for  the  good 
management  of  the  whole,  and  must,  consequently,  b  •  allowed 
full  liberty  of  action.  He  had  been  too  long  in  command  over 
men  at  sea  to  like  to  be  directed  by  a  woman  in  anything  ho 
imdei'took,  even  though  that  woman  was  my  lady.  I  suppose 
this  was  the  common-sense  my  lady  spoke  of ;  but  when  com- 
mon-sense goes  against  us,  I  don't  think  we  value  it  quite  so 
much  as  we  ought  to  do. 

Lady  Ludlow  was  proud  of  her  personal  superintendence  of 
her  own  estate.  She  liked  to  tell  us  how  her  tixthcr  used  to 
take  her  with  him  in  his  rides,  and  bid  her  observe  this  and  that, 
and  on  no  accoimt  to  allow  such  and  such  things  to  be  done.  But 
I  have  heard  that  the  first  time  she  told  all  this  to  Captain 
James,  he  told  her  point-blank  that  he  had  heard  from  3Ir. 
Smithson  that  the  fiirms  were  much  neglected  and  the  rents 
sadly  behind-hand,  and  that  he  meant  to  set  to  in  good  earnest 
and  study  agriculture,  and  see  how  he  could  remedy  the  state  ol 
things.  My  lady  would,  I  am  sure,  be  greatly  surprised,  but 
wluit  could  she  do  '?  Here  was  the  very  man  she  had  chosen 
herself,  setting  to  with  all  his  energy  to  conquer  the  defect  of 
ignorance,  which  was  all  that  those  who  had  presumed  to  oflfer 
her  ladyship  advice  had  ever  had  to  say  against  him.  Captain 
James  read  Arthur  Young's  "Tom-s"  in  all  his  spare  time,  as 
long  as  he  was  an  invalid ;  and  shook  his  head  at  my  lady's 
accounts  as  to  how  the  land  had  been  crojqied  or  left  fallow  from 
time  immemorial.  Then  he  set  to,  and  tried  too  many  new 
experiments  at  once.  ]\Iy  lady  looked  on  in  dignified  silence  ; 
but  all  the  farmers  and  tenants  were  in  an  uproar,  and  j)rophe- 
sied  a  himdred  failm-es.  Perhaps  fifty  did  occur ;  tliey  were 
«)nly  half  as  many  as  Lady  Ludow  had  feai-ed  ;  but  they  were 
twice  as  many,  four,  eight  tiiiics  as  many  as  the  captain  had 
anticipated.  His  openly-expressed  disappointment  made  him 
popular  again.  The;  rough  country  ]H'oj)li'  eould  not  have  under- 
stood silent  and  dignified  regret  at  the  failure  of  his  plans  but 
they  sympathized  witli  a  man  who  swore  at  his  ill  success  — 
sympathized,  even  while  thry  cliuekled  over  his  discomfiture. 
Mr.  Brooke,  the  retired  tradesman,  did  not  eeaso  blaming  liim 
for  not  succeeding,  and  for  swearing.  "  But  what  could  yon 
expect  from  a  sailor?"  Mr.  Brooke  asked,  even  in  my  liuly's 
hearing  ;  though  he  might  have  known  Captain  James  was  my 


MV    LADY    LUDLOW.  329 

Iftdy's  own  personal  choice,  from  tlic  old  fricudsliip  Mr.  Urian 
I'.acl  always  shoMii  for  him.  I  think  it  was  this  speech  of  tho 
Piinninghaiu  baker's  that  made  my  lady  determine  to  stand  by 
Cajjtain  James,  and  encourage  him  to  try  again.  For  she  would 
not  allow  that  her  choice  had  been  an  unwise  one,  at  the  bidding 
(as  it  were)  of  a  dissenting  tradesman  ;  the  only  person  in  the 
neighbourhood,  too,  who  had  flaunted  about  in  coloured  clothes, 
when  all  the  world  was  in  mourning  for  my  lady's  only  son. 

Captain  James  would  have  thrown  the  agency  up  at  once,  if 
my  lady  had  not  felt  herself  bound  to  justify  the  wisdom  of  her 
choice,  by  urging  him  to  stay.  He  was  much  touched  by  her 
confidence  in  him,  and  swore  a  great  oath,  that  the  next  year  he 
would  make  the  hand  such  as  it  had  never  been  before  for  pro- 
duce. It  was  not  my  lady's  way  to  rcj)eat  anything  she  had 
licard,  especially  to  anotlier  person's  disadvantage.  So  I  don't 
tliink  she  ever  told  Captain  James  of  Mr.  Brooke's  speech  about 
a  sailor's  being  likely  to  mismanage  the  jirojierty  ;  and  the 
captain  was  too  anxious  to  succeed  in  this,  the  second  year  of 
liis  trial,  to  be  above  going  to  the  flourishing,  shrewd  Mr.  Ijrooke, 
and  asking  for  his  advice  as  to  tlie  best  method  of  working  the 
estate.  I  dare  say,  if  Miss  Galindo  had  been  as  intimate  as 
fonnerly  at  the  Hall,  we  should  all  of  us  liave  heard  of  this  new 
acquaintance  of  the  agent's  long  before  we  did.  As  it  was,  I  am 
sm-e  my  lady  never  dreamed  that  the  captain,  who  held  opinions 
that  were  even  more  Church  and  King  than  her  omti,  could  ever 
have  made  friends  with  a  Baptist  baker  from  Birmingham,  even 
to  serve  her  ladyship's  own  interests  in  the  most  loyal  manner; 

We  heard  of  it  first  from  IVIr.  Gray,  Avho  came  now  often  to  see 
my  lady,  for  neither  he  nor  slie  could  forget  the  solemn  tic  which 
the  fact  of  his  being  the  person  to  acquaint  her  with  my  lord's 
death  had  created  between  them.  For  true  and  holy  words 
spoken  at  that  time,  though  having  no  reference  to  aught  below 
the  solemn  subjects  of  life  and  deatli,  had  made  her  withdraw 
her  opposition  to  Mr.  Gray's  wisli  about  establishing  a  village 
school.  Slie  liad  sighed  a  little,  it  is  true,  and  was  even  yet  more 
apprehensive  than  liopcful  as  to  the  result  ;  but  almost  as  if  as  a 
memorial  to  my  lord,  she  had  allowed  a  kind  of  rough  school- 
house  to  be  l)uilt  on  the  green,  just  ])y  the  clnu-ch  ;  and  had 
gently  used  tlie  power  she  undoubtedly  had,  in  expressing  her 
strong  wish  that  the  boys  nn'ght  only  bo  taught  to  read  and 
write,  and  tlie  first  four  rules  of  aritlnuctic  ;  while,  the  girls  were 
oidy  to  learn  to  read,  and  to  add  up  in  their  heads,  and  the  rest 
of  the  time  to  work  at  mending  their  own  clothes,  knitting 
stockings  and   spinning.      My  lady  presented  the  school  with 


330  MY    LAI>Y    LUDLOW. 

more  si)inuing-wliccls  tlian  tliorc  wore  girls,  and  requested  that 
there  might  be  a  rule  that  they  should  have  spun  so  many  hanks 
of  flax,  aud  knitted  so  many  pairs  of  stoekiugs,  before  they  ever 
were  taught  to  read  at  all.  After  all,  it  was  but  making  the  best 
of  a  bad  job  with  my  poor  lady—  but  life  was  not  what  it  had 
been  to  her.  I  remember  well  the  day  that  Mr.  Gray  pidled 
some  delieately  fine  yarn  (and  1  was  a  good  judge  of  those  things) 
out  of  his  pocket,  aud  laid  it  and  a  capital  pair  of  knitted  stock- 
ings before  my  lady,  as  the  first-fruits,  so  to  say,  of  his  school. 
I  recollect  seeing  her  put  on  her  Bpectaclcs,  and  carefully  ex- 
amine both  jiroductions.     Then  she  passed  them  to  me. 

"  This  is  well,  Mr.  Gray.  I  am  much  pleased.  You  arc 
fortunate  in  yom*  schoohnistress.  She  has  had  both  proper 
knowledge  of  womanly  things  and  much  patience.  WTio  is  she  ? 
One  out  of  oiu-  village  ?" 

"  My  lady,"  said  Mr.  Gray,  stammering  and  colouring  in  his 
old  fixshion,  "  Miss  Bessy  is  so  very  kind  as  to  teach  all  those 
sorts  of  things — Miss  Bessy,  and  Miss  Galindo,  sometimes." 

My  lady  looked  at  him  over  her  sjiectacles :  but  she  only 
repeated  the  words  "  Miss  Bessy,"  and  paused,  as  if  trying  to 
remember  who  such  a  j^ersou  could  be  ;  and  he,  if  he  had  then 
intended  to  say  more,  was  quelled  by  her  manner,  and  dropjied 
the  subject.  He  went  on  to  say,  that  he  had  thought  it  is  duty 
to  decline  the  subscription  to  his  school  otiered  by  Mr.  Br(H)ke, 
because  he  was  a  Dissenter ;  tliat  he  (Mr.  Gray)  feared  that 
Cajitain  James,  through  whom  Mr.  Brooke's  otl'er  of  money  had 
been  made,  was  offended  at  his  refusing  to  accejjt  it  from  a  man 
who  held  heterodox  ojjinions  ;  nay,  whom  Blr.  Gray  suspected  of 
being  inflected  Iry  Dodwell's  heresy. 

"  1  think  there  must  be  some  mistake,"  said  my  lady,  "  or 
I  have  misunderstood  you.  Cajitain  James  would  never  be 
sufficiently  with  a  schismatic  to  be  employed  by  tliat  man  Brooke 
in  distril)uting  his  charities.  1  should  have  doubted,  until  now, 
if  Captain  James  knew  him." 

"Indeed,  my  lady,  he  not  only  knows  liini,  but  is  intimate 
witli  liim,  1  regret  to  say.  1  have  rejjeatedly  seen  the  captain 
and  Mr.  ]5rooke  walking  togetlu-r ;  going  through  the  fiilds  to- 
getlier ;  and  people  do  say " 

My  lady  looked  u])  in  interrogation  at  Mr.  Gray's  pause. 

"  i  disapi)r()vc  of  gossij),  and  it  may  l)e  untrue  ;  but  people  do 
say  that  Cajitain  .Tames  is  very  attentive  to  Miss  Brooke." 

"  Inqxjssible  !"  said  my  lady,  indignantly.  "Captain  Janica 
is  a  loyal  and  religious  man.  .1  l)tgyt)ur  pardon  Mr.  Gra}',  but 
it  is  impossible." 


aiY    LADY    LUDLOW.  331 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


Like  mauy  other  things  which  have  been  clcclared  to  bo  im- 
ixjssible,  this  report  of  Captiiiu  Jumcs  being  attentive  to  Bliss 
Brooke  tiu-ned  out  to  be  very  true. 

The  mere  idea  of  her  agent  being  on  the  slightest  possible 
terms  of  acquaintance  with  the  Dissenter*,  the  tradesman,  the 
Birmingham  democrat,  who  had  come  to  settle  in  our  good, 
orthodox,  aristoci'atic,  and  agricidtm-al  Hanbury,  made  my  lady 
very  uneasy.  Miss  Galindo's  misdemeanour  in  having  taken 
Miss  Bessy  to  live  with  her,  faded  into  a  mistake,  a  mere  error  of 
judgment,  in  comparison  with  Ca])tain  James's  intimacy  at  Yeast 
House,  as  the  Brookes  called  their  ugly  square-built  fann.  My 
lady  talked  hcrscK  quite  into  comj^lacency  with  Miss  Galindo, 
and  even  Miss  Bessy  was  named  by  her,  the  first  time  1  had  ever 
been  aware  that  my  lady  recognized  her  existence  ;  but — 1  recol- 
lect it  was  a  long  rainy  afternoon,  and  I  sat  with  her  ladyship, 
and  we  had  time  and  oi)portunity  for  a  long  uninterrupted  talk — 
whenever  we  had  been  silent  for  a  little  while  she  began  again, 
with  something  like  a  wonder  how  it  was  that  Caj)tain  James 
could  ever  have  commenced  an  acquaintance  with  '"that  man 
Brooke."'  My  lady  recapitulated  all  the  times  she  could  remem- 
ber, that  anything  had  occurred,  or  been  said  by  Captain  James 
which  she  could  now  understand  as  throwing  light  upon  the 
subject. 

''  He  said  once  that  he  was  anxious  to  bring  in  the  Is^oi-folk 
system  of  cropping,  and  sjiokc  a  good  deal  about  Mr.  Coke  of 
Holkham  (who,  by  the  way,  was  no  more  a  Coke  than  1  am — 
collateral  in  the  female  line — which  counts  for  little  or  nothing 
among  the  gixat  old  commoners'  fiunilies  of  piu'c  blood),  and 
his  new  ways  of  cidtivation  ;  of  course  new  men  bring  in  new 
ways,  but  it  does  not  follow  that  cither  arc  better  than  the  old 
ways.  However,  Cajjtain  James  has  been  very  anxious  to  try 
turnips  and  bone  manure,  and  he  really  is  a  man  of  sucli  good 
sense  and  energy,  and  was  so  sorry  last  year  about  the  failure, 
that  I  consented ;  and  now  I  begin  to  see  my  error.  I  liave 
always  heard  that  town  bakers  adulterate  their  flour  with  bone- 
dust  ;  and,  of  course.  Captain  James  would  be  aware  of  this,  and 
go  to  Brooke  to  inquire  where  the  article  was  to  be  jnirchased." 

My  lady  always  ignored  the  fact  wliicli  had  somt;times,  I 
puspect,  been  brought  under  her  very  eyes  dui-iug  her  drives, 


332  MY    LADY   LUDLOW. 

tliat  Mr.  Brooke's  few  fields  were  in  a  state  of  far  higher  cul- 
tivation than  her  own  ;  so  she  could  not,  of  course,  perceive  that 
there  was  any  wisdom  to  be  gained  from  asking  the  advice  of  tho 
tradesman  turned  farmer. 

But  by-and-by  this  fact  of  her  agent's  intimacy  with  tlie  person 
wliom  in  the  whole  world  she  most  disliked  (with  that  sort  of 
dislike  in  which  a  large  amount  of  imcomfortableness  is  combined 
— the  dislike  which  conscientious  peoi)le  sometimes  feel  to 
another  \\-ithout  knowing  why,  and  yet  which  they  cannot  in- 
dulge in  with  comfort  to  themselves  without  ha\-ing  a  moral 
reason  why),  came  before  my  lady  in  many  shapes.  For,  indeed 
I  am  sure  that  Captain  James  was  not  a  man  to  conceal  or  be 
ashamed  of  one  of  his  actions.  I  cannot  fancy  his  ever  lowering 
his  strong  loud  clear  voice,  or  having  a  contidental  conversation 
with  any  one.  When  his  crops  had  failed,  all  the  village  had 
knoNvn  it.  He  complained,  he  regretted,  he  was  angry,  or  owned 
himself  a fool,  all  down  the  village  street;  and  the  conse- 
quence was  that,  although  he  was  a  far  more  passionate  man  than 
Mr.  Horner,  all  the  tenants  liked  him  far  better.  People,  in 
general,  take  a  kindlier  interest  in  any  one,  tlie  workings  ot 
whose  mind  and  heart  they  can  watch  and  xmderstand,  than  in 
a  man  who  only  lets  you  know  wliat  he  has  been  thinking  about 
and  feeling,  by  what  he  does.  But  Harry  Gregson  was  faithful 
to  the  memory  of  Mr.  Horner.  Miss  Galindo  has  told  me  that 
she  used  to  watch  him  hobble  out  of  the  way  of  Caj)taiu  James,  as 
if  to  accept  his  notice,  however  good-naturedly  given,  wiuild  have 
been  a  kind  of  treachery  to  his  former  benefactor.  But  Gregson 
(the  father)  and  tlie  new  agent  ratlier  took  to  each  other  ;  and  ono 
day,  much  to  my  surprise,  1  heard  tliat  the  "  jioachiug,  tinkering 
vagabond,"  as  the  peoi)le  used  to  call  Gregson  when  I  lirst  had 
come  to  live  at  Hanbury,  had  been  ai^pointed  gamekeeper ;  Mr. 
Gray  standing  godfather,  as  it  were,  to  his  trustworthiness, 
if  lie  were  trusted  with  anything ;  which  1  thought  at  tlie  time 
was  rather  an  experinu-nt,  t)nly  it  answered,  as  many  of  !Mr.  (iniy's 
deeds  of  daring  did.  It  was  curious  lutw  he  was  growing  to  be 
a  kind  of  autocrat  in  the  village ;  and  how  unconscious  ho  was 
of  it.  He  was  as  shy  and  awkward  and  nervous  as  ever  in  any 
atfair  that  was  not  of  some  moral  consequence  to  him.  But  as 
soon  as  he  was  convinced  that  a  thing  was  right,  he  "shut  his 
eyes  and  ran  and  butted  at  it  like  a  ram,"  as  Captain  ilanics  onco 
expressed  it,  in  talking  over  soiiuthiiig  ^Ir.  (Iray  liad  done. 
Peojdo  in  the  village  said,  "  they  never  knew  what  the  pai-sou 
would  be  at  next ;"  or  tliey  might  liave  said,  '•  wlure  his  rever- 
ence would  next  turn  ii])."'      Vnr  1  Imvc  licard   of  his   nuinhing 


MY    LADY    LUDLOW.  333 

Hglit  iuto  the  middle  of  ii  set  of  poachers,  gathered  together  for 
Bome  desperate  midnight  enter])rise,  or  walking  into  a  public- 
house  that  lay  just  beyond  the  bounds  of  my  lady's  estate,  and 
in  that  extra-parochial  piece  of  ground  I  named  long  ago,  and 
■which  was  considered  the  rendezvous  of  all  the  ne'er-do-weel 
characters  for  miles  round,  and  where  a  parson  and  a  constablo 
were  held  iu  much  the  same  kind  of  esteem  as  imwelcomo 
visitors.  And  yet  Mr.  Gray  had  his  long  tits  of  depression,  iu 
which  he  felt  as  if  he  were  doing  nothing,  making  no  way  in 
his  work,  useless  and  unprofitable,  and  better  out  of  the  w^orld 
than  in  it.  In  comparison  \nth  the  work  he  had  set  himself  to 
do,  what  he  did  seemed  to  be  nothing.  I  suppose  it  was  con- 
stitutional, those  attacks  of  lowness  of  spirits  which  he  had  about 
this  time  ;  perhaps  a  part  of  the  nervousness  wliicli  made  him 
always  so  awkward  when  he  came  to  the  Hall.  Even  Mrs. 
Medlicott,  who  almost  worshipped  the  groimd  he  trod  on,  as  the 
saying  is,  owned  that  Mr.  Gray  never  entered  one  of  my  lady's 
rooms  vs-ithout  knocking  down  something,  and  too  often  breaking 
it.  He  would  much  sooner  have  faced  a  desperate  poacher  than 
a  young  lady  any  day.     At  least  so  we  thought. 

I  do  not  know  how  it  was  that  it  came  to  pass  that  my  lady 
became  reconciled  to  Miss  Galindo  about  this  time.  Whether 
it  was  that  her  ladyship  was  weary  of  the  unspoken  coolness 
with  her  old  friend  ;  or  that  the  specimens  of  delicate  sewing 
and  fine  si)iuuing  at  the  school  had  mollified  her  towards  Miss 
Bessy  ;  but  1  was  suprised  to  learn  one  day  that  Miss  Galindo 
and  her  young  friend  were  coming  that  very  evening  to  tea  at 
the  Hall.  This  information  was  given  mc  by  Mrs.  Medlicott, 
as  a  message  from  my  lady,  who  fm-ther  went  on  to  desire  that 
certain  little  preparations  should  be  made  iu  her  own  private 
sitting-room,  in  which  the  greater  part  of  my  days  were  spent. 
From  the  nature  of  these  jireparations,  I  became  quite  awaro 
that  my  lady  intended  to  do  honour  to  her  expected  visitors. 
Indeed,  Lady  Ludlow  never  forgave  by  halves,  as  I  have  known 
some  people  do.  Whoever  was  coming  as  a  visitor  to  my  lady, 
peeress,  or  poor  nameless  girl,  there  was  a  certain  amoimt  of 
preparation  required  in  order  to  do  them  fitting  honour.  I  do 
not  mean  to  say  that  the  preparation  was  of  the  same  degi-ce  of 
importance  in  each  case.  1  daro  say,  if  a  peeress  had  como 
to  visit  us  at  the  Hall,  the  covers  would  have  been  taken  off  tho 
furniture  in  the  white  drawing-room  (they  never  were  uncovered 
all  the  time  I  stayed  at  tho  Hall),  because  my  lady  would  wish 
to  offer  her  the  ornaments  and  luxuri(!S  which  this  grand  visitor 
(who  never  came— I  wish  she  had !  I  did  so  want  to  sec  that 


334  MT  LADY   LUDLOW. 

furnihire  uncovered !)  was  accustomed  to  at  huiiic.  and  to  present 
tliem  to  licr  in  the  i)ost  order  in  wliich  my  lady  could.  The 
same  rule,  mollified,  held  good  \s'ith  Miss  Galindo.  Certain  things, 
in  which  my  lady  knew  she  took  an  interest,  were  laid  out 
ready  for  her  to  examine  on  this  very  day  ;  and,  what  was  more, 
great  books  of  prints  were  laid  out,  such  as  I  remembered  my 
lady  had  had  brought  forth  to  beguile  my  ov.-n  early  days  of 
illness, — Mr.  Hogarth's  works,  and  the  like, — which  I  was  sure 
were  put  out  for  Miss  Bessy. 

No  one  Imows  how  curious  I  was  to  see  this  mysterious  Miss 
Bessy — twenty  times  more  mysterious,  of  course,  for  want  of  her 
siu'name.  And  then  again  (to  try  and  accoimt  for  my  great 
curiosity,  of  which  in  recollection  1  am  more  than  half  ashamed), 
I  had  been  leading  the  quiet  monotonous  life  of  a  crippled 
invalid  for  many  ycars,^ — shut  up  from  any  sight  of  new  faces  ; 
and  this  was  to  be  the  face  of  one  whom  I  had  thought  about 
so  much  and  so  long, — Oh  !  1  think  I  might  be  excused. 

Of  course  they  drank  tea  in  the  great  hall,  with  the  four 
young  gentlewomen,  who,  with  myself,  formed  the  small  bevy 
now  under  her  ladyship's  charge.  Of  those  who  were  at  Han- 
bury  when  first  I  came,  none  remained;  all  were  married,  or 
gone  once  more  to  live  at  some  home  which  could  be  called 
their  own,  whether  the  ostensible  head  were  father  or  brother. 
I  myself  was  not  without  some  hopes  of  a  similar  kind.  My 
brother  Harry  was  now  a  cm-ate  in  Westmoreland,  ajid  wanted 
me  to  go  and  live  with  him,  as  eventually  I  did  for  a  time.  But 
that  is  neitlicr  here  nor  there  at  present.  What  1  am  talking 
about  is  Miss  Bessy. 

After  a  reasonable  time  had  elapsed,  occupied  as  I  well  knew 
by  the  meal  in  the  great  hall, — the  measured,  yet  agreeable  con- 
versation afterwards, — and  a  certain  2)romenade  arv)und  the  hall, 
and  through  the  drawing-rooms,  with  jiauses  before  ditli-rent 
pictures,  the  history  or  subject  of  each  of  whieli  was  inviu-iably 
told  by  rry  lady  to  every  new  visit  >r, — a  sort  of  giving  tliem  the 
freedom  of  the  old  i\xmily-seat.  by  describing  the  kind  and  nature 
of  the  great  progenitors  who  liud  liv(<l  there  before  tlu!  narnitor, 
— I  lieard  the  steps  ai)proaehing  my  lady's  room,  where  I  lay. 
I  think  1  was  in  sueli  a  state  of  nervous  expectation,  that  if  I 
could  have  moved  easily,  I  should  have  g(U  uj)  and  run  away. 
And  yet  1  need  not  have  been,  for  Miss  tlalindo  was  not  in  the 
least  altered  (her  noso  a  httlo  redder,  (o  be  sun>,  but  then  that 
)night  ojily  luiv(!  had  a  tenn)orary  i-ause  in  tlu?  private  crying  1 
know  she  would  have  had  before  coming  to  seo  her  deiu-  Liidy 
Ludlow  onco  again).     But  I  oould  almost  have  pushed   Miss 


MY   LADY    LUDLOW.  335 

Gftlindo  away,  as  she  intercepted  me  in  my  view  of  the  myste- 
rious Miss  Bessy. 

Miss  Bessy  Avas,  as  I  knew,  only  about  eighteen,  but  she 
looked  older.  Dark  hair,  dark  eyes,  a  tall,  fimi  figure,  a  good, 
sensible  tace,  with  a  serene  expression,  not  in  the  least  disturbed 
by  what  1  had  been  thinking  must  bo  such  au-fid  circumstances 
as  a  first  introduction  to  my  lady,  who  had  so  disapproved  of 
her  very  existence  :  those  are  the  clearest  impressions  1  remem- 
ber of  my  first  interview  with  ]\riss  Bessy.  She  seemed  to 
observe  us  all,  in  her  quiet  manner,  quite  as  much  as  I  did  her ; 
but  she  spoke  very  little ;  occupied  herself,  indeed,  as  my  lady 
had  planned,  with  looking  over  the  great  books  of  engravings.  I 
think  I  must  have  (foolishly)  intended  to  make  her  feel  at  her  ease, 
by  my  patronage  ;  but  she  was  seated  far  away  from  my  sofa,  in 
order  to  command  the  light,  and  really  seemed  so  tmconcerncd 
at  her  unwonted  circmnstanccs,  that  she  did  not  need  my  counte- 
nance or  kindness.  One  thing  I  did  like — her  watchful  look  at 
Miss  Galindo  from  time  to  time  :  it  showed  that  her  thoughts 
and  sympathy  were  ever  at  Miss  Galindo's  service,  as  indeed  they 
well  might  be.  When  Miss  Bessy  spoke,  her  voice  was  full  and 
clear,  and  what  she  said,  to  the  pm-pose,  tho^igh  thei'e  was  a  slight 
provincial  accent  in  her  way  of  speaking.  After  a  while,  my 
lady  set  us  two  to  play  at  chess,  a  game  which  I  had  lately  learnt 
at  3Ir.  Gray's  suggestion.  Still  v.e  did  not  talk  much  together, 
though  we  were  becoming  attracted  towards  each  other,  1  fancy. 

"  You  will  jilay  well,"  said  she.  "You  have  only  learnt  about 
six  months,  have  you  ?  And  yet  you  can  nearly  beat  me,  who 
have  been  at  it  as  many  years." 

"  I  began  to  learn  last  November.  I  remember  Mr.  Gray's 
bringing  me  '  Philidor  on  Chess,'  one  very  foggy,  dismal  day." 

What  made  her  look  up  so  suddenly,  with  bright  inquiry  in 
her  eyes  ?  What  made  her  silent  for  a  moment,  as  if  in  thought, 
and  then  go  on  with  something,  1  know  not  what,  in  quite  an 
altered  tone  ? 

My  lady  and  jVIiss  Galindo  went  on  talking,  while  1  sat 
thinking.  1  heard  Captain  James's  name  mentioned  pretty 
frequently  ;  and  at  last  my  lady  put  down  her  work,  and  said, 
almost  witli  tears  in  her  eyes  : 

''  I  could  not — I  cannot  believe  it.  He  must  be  aware  she  is 
a  schismatic  ;  a  l)aker"s  daughter  ;  and  ho  is  a  gentleman  by 
virtue  and  feeling,  as  well  as  by  his  profession,  though  his  man- 
ners may  be  at  times  a  little  rough.  My  dear  Miss  Galindo, 
wliat  will  this  world  come  to  ?" 

Miss  Galindo  might  possibly  be  aware  of  her  o\\"u  .share  ic 


J36 


MY    LADY   LUDI.OSV. 


bringing  the  world  to  the  pass  wliich  now  dismayed  my  lady, — 
for  of  course,  tbougli  all  was  now  over  and  forgiven,  yet  Miss 
Bessy's  being  received  into  a  resi^ectable  maiden  lady's  bouse, 
was  one  of  tlic  portents  as  to  tbe  world's  future  wbich  alanned 
ber  ladysbip  ;  and  Miss  Galindo  knew  tliis, — but,  at  any  rate, 
sbc  bad  too  lately  been  forgiven  berself  not  to  plead  for  mercy 
for  tbe  next  oJBfender  against  my  lady's  delicate  sense  of  fitness 
and  propriety, — so  sbe  rei^lied  : 

"  indeed,  my  lady,  I  bavc  long  left  off  trying  to  conjecture 
wbat  makes  Jack  fancy  Gill,  or  Gill  Jack.  It's  best  to  sit  down 
quiet  imdcr  tbe  belief  tbat  marriages  are  made  for  us,  somewbero 
out  of  tbis  world,  and  out  of  tbe  range  of  tins  world's  reason  and 
laws.  I'm  not  so  sui'C  tbat  I  sbould  settle  it  do\Mi  tbat  tbey 
were  made  in  beaven  ;  t'otber  place  seems  to  me  as  likely  a 
worksbop  ;  but  at  any  rate,  I've  given  up  troubling  my  bead  as 
to  wby  tbey  take  place.  Captain  James  is  a  gentleman  ;  I  make 
no  doubt  of  tbat  ever  since  1  saw  bim  stop  to  pick  up  old  Goody 
Blake  (wben  sbc  tumbled  down  on  tbe  slide  last  winter)  and  tbcn 
swear  at  a  little  lad  wbo  was  laugbing  at  ber,  and  cuif  him  till 
be  tumbled  down  crying ;  but  we  must  have  bread  somebow, 
and  though  I  like  it  better  baked  at  home  in  a  good  sweet  brick 
oven,  yet,  as  some  folks  never  can  get  it  to  rise,  I  don't  see  wby 
a  man  may  not  be  a  baker.  You  sec,  my  lady,  I  look  upon 
baking  as  a  simple  trade,  and  as  such  lawful.  There  is  no 
machine  comes  in  to  take  away  a  man's  or  woman's  power  of 
earning  their  living,  like  the  spinning-jonny  (the  old  busybody 
that  sbe  is),  to  knock  nj)  all  our  good  old  women's  livelihood, 
and  send  them  to  their  graves  before  their  time.  There's  an 
invention  of  tbe  enemy,  if  you  will  !" 

"  That's  very  true  !"  said  my  lady,  shaking  l)er  head. 

"  But  baking  bread  is  wliolesome,  straight-forward  elbow- 
work.  Tiiey  have  not  got  to  inventing  any  contrivance  ftir  tbat 
yet,  thank  Heaven  !  Jt  does  not  seem  to  nie  natural,  nor  accord- 
ing to  Scripture,  that  iron  and  steel  (whose  brows  can't  sweat) 
sliould  be  made  to  do  man's  work.  And  so  I  say,  all  those  trades 
where  inm  and  steel  do  the  work  ordained  to  man  at  the  Fall,  are 
luilawful,  and  I  never  stand  up  for  tliem.  But  sjiy  tliis  baker 
Brooke  did  knead  bis  bread,  and  make  it  rise,  and  tlien  that 
peoidc,  wlio  bad,  perhaps,  no  good  ovens,  came  to  him,  and  bought 
bis  good  liglit  bread,  and  in  this  maniu'r  be  turned  an  lionest 
penny  ami  got  rich  ;  why,  all  I  say.  my  lady,  is  tbis,  I  dare  say 
lie  would  have  been  born  a  Ilanbury,  or  a  lord  if  lie  could  ;  and 
if  1  0  was  not,  it  is  no  fault  of  liis,  that  I  can  sec,  tbat  ho  niaibi 
gooti  broad  (being  a  baker  by  trad(>),  and  got  money,  and  bought 


MY   LADY   LUDLOW.  337 

his  lixncl.  It  was  his  niisfortime,  not  his  fiUilt,  that  ho  was  not 
a  person  of  quality  by  birth." 

"  That's  very  true,*'  said  my  huly,  after  a  nioinent's  pause  for 
consideration.  "  But,  although  he  was  a  baker,  he  miglit  have 
been  a  Churchman.  Even  your  eloquence,  Miss  Galindo,  shan't 
convince  me  that  that  is  not  his  o^Mi  fault." 

"  I  don't  SCO  even  that,  begging  your  pardon,  my  lady,"  said 
Miss  Galindo,  emboldened  by  the  first  success  of  her  eloquence. 
'"  When  a  Baptist  is  a  baby,  if  I  understand  their  creed  aright, 
he  is  not  baptized  ;  and,  consequently,  he  can  have  no  godfathers 
and  godmothers  to  do  anything  for  him  in  his  baptism  ;  you 
agree  to  that,  my  lady  ?" 

My  lady  would  rather  have  known  what  her  acquiescence 
would  lead  to,  before  acknowledging  that  she  could  not  dissent 
fi'om  this  first  proposition ;  still  she  gave  her  tacit  agreement 
by  bowing  her  head. 

"  And,  you  know,  our  godfathers  and  godmothers  are  expected 
to  promise  and  vow  three  things  in  our  name,  when  we  are  little 
babies,  and  can  do  nothing  but  squall  for  ourselves.  It  is  a  great 
privilege,  but  don't  let  us  be  hard  upon  those  who  have  not 
had  the  chance  of  godfathers  and  godmothers.  Some  people, 
we  know,  are  bom  with  silver  simoons, — that's  to  say,  a  godfather 
to  give  one  things,  and  teach  one's  catechism,  and  see  that  we're 
confirmed  into  good  church-going  Christians, — and  others  with 
wooden  ladles  in  their  mouths.  These  poor  last  folks  must  just 
be  content  to  be  godfatherless  orjihans,  and  Dissenters,  all  their 
lives ;  and  if  they  arc  tradespeople  into  the  bargain,  so  much 
the  worse  for  them  ;  but  let  us  be  humble  Christians,  my  dear 
lady,  and  not  hold  our  heads  too  high  because  we  were  bom 
orthodox  quality." 

"  You  go  on  too  fast.  Miss  Galindo  !  I  can't  follow  yon- 
Besides,  I  do  believe  dissent  to  be  an  invention  of  the  Devil's. 
Why  can't  they  believe  as  we  do  ?  It's  very  wi-ong.  Besides, 
it's  schism  and  heresy,  and,  you  know,  the  Bible  says  that's  as 
bad  as  witchcraft." 

My  lady  was  not  convinced,  as  I  could  see.  After  Miss 
Galindo  had  gone,  she  sent  Mrs.  Medlicott  for  certain  books  out 
of  the  great  old  library  up  stairs,  and  had  them  made  up  into  a 
parcel  under  her  own  eye. 

"  If  Captain  James  comes  to-morrow,  I  will  speak  to  him 
about  these  Brookes.  I  have  not  hitherto  liked  to  speak  to  him, 
because  I  did  not  wish  to  hiu-t  liim,  by  supposing  there  could  bo 
any  truth  in  the  reports  about  his  intimacy  witli  them.  But 
now   I    will   try  and  do  my  ^uty   by  him  and  them.     Suj-cly, 

z 


338  MY    LADY    LUDLOW. 

this  j:;reat  body  of  divinity  will  bring  tliem  back  to  the  truo 
church/' 

"  I  could  not  tell,  for  though  my  lady  read  me  over  the  titles,  I 
was  not  any  the  wiser  as  to  their  contents.  Besides,  I  was 
much  more  anxious  to  consult  my  lady  as  to  my  own  change  of 
place.  I  showed  her  the  letter  T  had  that  day  received  from 
Harry  ;  and  we  once  more  talked  over  the  expediency  of  my 
going  to  live  with  him,  and  trying  what  entire  change  of  air 
would  do  to  re-establish  my  failing  health,  I  could  say  any- 
thing to  my  lady,  she  was  so  sure  to  understand  me  rightly.  For 
one  thing,  she  never  thought  of  herself,  so  I  had  no  fear  of  hui-ting 
her  by  stating  the  truth.  I  told  her  how  happy  my  years  had  been 
while  i)assed  imder  her  roof  ;  but  that  now  1  had  begun  to  wonder 
whether  I  had  not  duties  elsewhere,  in  making  a  home  for 
Harry, —  and  whether  the  fulfilment  of  these  duties,  quiet  ones 
they  must  needs  be  in  the  case  of  such  a  cripple  as  myself, 
would  not  prevent  my  sinking  into  the  querulous  habit  of 
thinking  and  talking,  into  which  I  found  myself  occasionally 
falling.  Add  to  which,  there  was  the  prospect  of  benefit  from 
the  moi'e  bracing  air  of  the  north. 

It  was  then  settled  that  my  departure  from  Hanbury,  my 
happy  home  for  so  long,  was  to  take  place  before  many  weeks 
had  passed.  And  as,  when  one  period  of  life  is  about  to  be  shut 
up  for  ever,  we  are  sure  to  look  back  upon  it  with  fund  regret, 
so  I,  happy  enough  in  my  future  prospects,  could  not  avoid 
recurring  to  all  the  days  of  my  life  in  the  Hall,  from  the  time 
when  I  came  to  it,  a  shy  awkwaid  girl,  scarcely  past  childhood, 
to  now,  when  a  gi"o^\Ti  woman, —  past  childhood — almost,  from 
the  very  character  of  my  illness,  j)ast  youth, — I  was  looking 
forward  to  leaving  my  lady's  house  (as  a  residence)  for  ever. 
As  it  has  turned  out,  I  never  saw  either  her  or  it  again.  Like  a 
piece  of  sea-wi-eck,  1  have  drifti-d  nway  from  those  days  :  quiet, 
happy,  eventless  days, — very  happy  to  remember  ! 

1  thought  of  good,  jovial  Mr.  I^Iountfonl, —  and  his  regrets 
that  hf!  might  not  keep  a  pack,  "  a  very  small  jiack,"  of  liarriers, 
and  his  merry  ways,  and  liis  love  of  good  eating  ;  of  the  first 
coming  of  Mr.  Oray,  and  my  lady's  attempt  to  quench  Lie 
scmnons,  when  they  tendi'd  to  enforce  any  duty  eunuected  with 
education.  And  now  wc  liad  an  absolute  school-house  in  tho 
village:  and  since  I\[iss  Bessy's  drinking  tea  at  the  Hall,  my 
lady  had  been  twice  inside  it,  to  give  din;etions  about  some  fino 
yarn  slie  was  liaving  spun  for  tablc-napory.  And  lier  ladyship 
had  so  outgrown  liir  old  custom  of  dispensing  with  sermon  or 
iliscouise,   that   even  dui-ing  the  temporary  preaching  of  IVFr. 


MY    LADV    LUDLOW.  S39 

Crosse,  she  had  never  had  recourse  to  it,  though  I  believe  she 
would  have  had  all  the  congregation  on  her  side  if  she  had. 

And  Mr.  Horner  was  dead,  and  Captain  James  rcignod  in  his 
stead.  Good,  steady,  severe,  silent  Mr.  Homer !  with  his 
clock-like  regulai-ity,  and  his  snuft-coloured  clothes,  and  silver 
buckles  !  I  have  often  wondered  which  one  misses  most  when 
they  are  dead  and  gone, — the  bright  creatures  full  of  life,  who 
are  hither  and  thither  and  everywhere,  so  that  no  one  can 
reckon  upon  their  coming  and  going,  with  whom  stillness  and 
the  long  quiet  of  the  grave,  seems  utterly  irreconcilable,  so 
full  are  they  of  vivid  motion  and  passion,— or  the  slow,  serious 
people,  whose  movements — nay,  whose  very  words,  seem  to  go 
by  clockwork ;  who  never  appear  much  to  aiiect  the  course  of  our 
life  while  they  are  with  us,  but  whose  methodical  ways  show 
them.selves,  when  they  are  gone,  to  have  been  intertwined  with 
our  very  roots  of  daily  existence.  I  think  I  miss  these  last  the 
most,  although  I  may  have  loved  the  former  best.  Captain  James 
never  was  to  me  what  Mr.  Homer  was,  though  the  latter  had 
hardly  changed  a  dozen  words  with  me  at  the  day  of  his  death. 
Then  Miss  Galindo  I  I  remembered  the  time  as  if  it  had  been 
only  yesterday,  when  she  was  but  a  name — and  a  very  odd  ono 
— to  me ;  then  she  was  a  queer,  abruj)t,  disagreeable,  busy  old 
maid.  Now  I  loved  her  dearly,  and  1  found  out  that  I  was 
almost  jealous  of  Miss  Bessy. 

Mr.  Gray  I  never  thought  of  with  love  ;  the  feeling  was 
almost  reverence  with  which  I  looked  upon  him.  I  have  not 
wished  to  speak  much  of  myself,  or  else  I  could  have  told  you 
how  much  he  had  been  to  me  during  these  long,  weary  years  of 
illness.  But  he  was  almost  as  much  to  every  one,  rich  an'^ 
poor,  from  my  lady  down  to  Miss  Galindo's  Sally. 

The  village,  too,  had  a  different  look  about  it.  I  am  sure  I 
could  not  tell  you  what  caused  the  change  ;  but  there  were  no 
more  lounging  young  men  to  form  a  group  at  the  cross-road,  at 
a  time  of  day  when  young  men  ought  to  be  at  work.  I  don't 
say  this  was  all  Sir.  Gray's  doing,  for  there  really  was  so  much 
to  do  in  the  fields  that  there  was  but  little  time  for  lounging 
now-a-days.  And  the  children  were  hushed  up  in  school, 
and  better  behaved  out  of  it,  too,  than  in  the  days  when  I 
used  to  \xi  able  to  go  my  lady's  eiTands  in  the  village.  I  went 
80  little  about  now,  that  I  am  sure  I  can't  tell  who  Miss 
Galindo  found  to  scold  ;  and  yet  she  looked  so  well  and  so 
happy  that  I  think  she  must  have  had  her  accustomed  portion 
of  that  wholesome  exercise. 

Before  I  left  Hanbury,  the  rumour  that  Captain  James  was 


340  MY    LADY   LUDLOW. 

going  to  marry  Miss  Brooke,  Baker  Brooke's  oldest  daugLter, 
who  bad  only  a  sister  to  share  his  property  with  her,  was 
confirmed.  He  himself  announced  it  to  my  lady ;  nay,  more, 
Avith  a  courage,  gained,  I  suppose,  in  his  former  profession, 
where,  as  I  have  heard,  he  had  led  liis  ship  into  many  a  post  of 
danger,  he  asked  her  ladyship,  the  Countess  Ludlow,  if  he 
might  bring  his  bride  elect,  (the  Baptist  baker's  daughter  I)  and 
present  her  to  my  lady  ! 

I  am  glad  I  was  not  present  when  he  made  this  request ;  I 
should  have  felt  so  much  ashamed  for  him,  and  I  coiild  not 
have  helped  being  anxious  till  I  heard  my  lady's  answer,  if  I 
had  been  there.  Of  coiu-se  she  acceded ;  but  I  can  fancy  the 
grave  surprise  of  her  look.    I  wonder  if  Captain  James  noticed  it. 

I  hardly  dared  ask  my  lady,  after  the  inter\-iew  had  taken 
place,  what  she  thought  of  the  bride  elect ;  but  1  hinted  my 
curiosity,  and  she  told  me,  that  if  the  young  person  had  applied 
to  Mrs.  Medlicott,  for  the  situation  of  cook,  and  Mrs.  Medlicott 
had  engaged  her,  she  thought  that  it  would  have  been  a  very 
suitable  arrangement.  I  understood  from  this  how  little  she 
thought  a  marriage  with  Captain  James,  B.N.,  suitable. 

About  a  year  after  1  left  Hanbury,  I  received  a  letter  from 
Miss  Galindo  ;  I  think  I  can  find  it. — Yes,  this  is  it. 

'Hanlury,  May4,  1811. 

Dear  Margaret, 
'  You  ask  for  news  of  us  all.  Don't  you  know  there  is  no 
'  news  in  Hanbmy  ?  Did  you  ever  hear  of  an  event  here  ?  Now, 
'  if  you  have  answered  '■  Yes,"  in  your  own  mind  to  thesti 
'  questions,  you  have  fiillen  into  my  trap,  and  never  were  more 
'  mistaken  in  your  life.  Hanbury  is  full  of  news  ;  and  we  have 
'more  events  on  our  hands  than  we  know  what  to  do  with.  I 
'will  take  them  in  the  order  of  the  newspapers— births,  deaths, 
'and  marriages.  In  the  matter  of  births,  Jenny  Lucas  has  hiwl 
'twins  not  a  week  ago.  Sadly  too  much  of  a  good  thing,  you'll 
'  say.  Very  true  :  but  then  they  died  ;  so  their  birth  did  not 
'  much  signify.  My  cat  has  kittened,  too ;  she  bus  had  three 
'  kittens,  which  again  you  may  observe  is  too  much  of  a  good 
'thing  ;  and  so  it  would  be,  if  it  were  not  for  the  next  item  of 
♦  intelligence  I  shall  lay  before  you.  Captain  and  Mrs.  Jiunes 
'  have  taken  the  old  house  next  Pearson's  ;  and  the  house  is 
'  overrun  with  mice,  which  is  just  as  fortunate  for  mo  a*  tlio 
•King  of  Egypt's  rat-ridden  kingdom  was  to  Dick  Wliittington. 
'  For  my  cat's  kittening  decided  mc  to  go  and  call  on  thi'  briile,  in 

hopes  she  wanted  a  cat ;  which  slie  did  like  a  scnsihU'  woman. 


MY   LADY    LUDLOW.  341 

*  as  I  do  believe  she  is,  iu  spite  of  Baj)tisin,  Bakers,  Bread,  and 
'  Birmiughani,  and  souictliing  worse  than  all,  wliich  yoii  sliall 

*  hear  about,  if  you'll  only  be  jiaticnt.  As  I  had  got  my  best 
'  bonnet  on,  the  one  I  bought  wlien  poor  Lord  Ludlow  was  last 
'  at  Hanbury  iu  '99 — I  thought  it  a  great  condescension  in 
'  myself    (always   remembering    the    date   of  the  Galindo    l)a- 

*  ronetcy)  to  go  and  call  on  the  bride  ;  tliough  I  don't  think  so 
'  much  of  myself  in  ray  every-day  clothes,  as  you  know.     But 

*  who  should  I  find  there  but  my  Lady  Ludlow  !     Sho  looks  as 

*  frail  and  delicate  as  ever,  but  is,  I  think,  in  better  heart  over 
'  since  that  old  city  merchant  of  a  Hanbury  took  it  into  his  head 

*  that  he  was  a  cadet  of  the  Hauburys  of  Hanbury,  and  left  her 
'  that  handsome  legacy.  I'll  warrant  you  that  the  mortgage  was 
'  paid  otf  pretty  fast ;  and  Mr.  Horner's  money — or  my  lady's 
'  money,  or  Harry  Gregson's  money,  call  it  wliich  you  will — is 
'  invested  in  his  name,  all  right  and  tight :  and  they  do  talk  of 
'  his  being  captain  of  his  school,  or  Grecian,  or  something,  and 

*  going  to  college,  after  all !  Harry  Grcgson  the  jioacher's  son  ! 
'  Well !   to  be  sure,  wc  are  living  iu  strange  times  ! 

'  But  I  have  not  done  with  the  marriages  yet.  Captain  James's 
'  is  all  very  well,  but  no  one  cares  for  it  now,  we  are  so  full  of 
'  Mr,  Gray's.  Yes,  indeed,  Mr.  Gray  is  going  to  be  married, 
'  and  to  nobody  else  but  my  little  Bessy  !  I  tell  her  she  will 
'  have  to  nurse  him  half  the  days  of  her  life,  he  is  such  a  frail 
'  little  body.  But  she  says  ohe  does  not  care  for  that ;  so  that 
'  his  body  holds  his  soul,  it  is  enough  for  her.  She  has  a  good 
'  spirit  and  a  brave  heart,  has  my  Bessy  !  It  is  a  great 
'  advantage  that  she  won't  have  to  mark  her  clothes  over  again  ; 
'  f(jr  when  she  had  Imitted  herself  her  last  set  of  stockings,  I 
'  told  her  to  put  G  for  Galindo,  if  she  did  not  choose  to  i)ut  it 
'  for  Gibson,  for  she  should  be  my  child  if  she  was  no  one  else's. 
'  And  now  you  sec  it  stands  for  Gray.  So  thei'c  arc  two 
'  marriages,  and  wliat  more  would  you  have  ?  And  she  promises 
'  to  take  anotlier  of  my  kittens. 

'  Now,  as  to  deaths,  old  Farmer  Hale  is  dead — poor  old  man, 

*  I  should  think  his  wife  thought  it  a  good  riddance,  for  he  beat 
'  her  every  day  tliat  he  was  drunk,  and  he  was  never  sober,  in 
'  spite  of  Mr.  Gray.  I  don't  think  (as  1  tell  liim)  that 
'  Mr.  Gray  would  ever  have  found  courage  to  speak  to  Bessy  as 

*  long  as  Fanner  Hale  lived,  he  tdok  the  old  gentleman's  sins  so 
'much  to  lieart,  and  seemed  to  think  it  was  all  liis  fault  for  not 
'being  able  to  make  a  sinner  into  a  saint.  Tin;  parisli  bull  is 
'dead  too.  1  never  was  so  glad  in  my  life.  But  tliey  say  we 
'are   to   have   a    new    one   in   his    •  lace.     In   the;    meantime  I 


342  MY    LADY    LUDLOW. 

cross  tlae  common  in  peace,  which  is  very  convenient  just  now^ 
when  I  have  so  olteu  to  go  to  Mr.  Gray's  to  see  about  furnishing. 
'  Now  you  think  I  have  tokl  you  all  the  Hanbury  news,  don't 
you  ?  Not  so.  The  very  greatest  thing  of  all  is  to  come.  I 
won't  tantalize  you,  but  just  out  with  it,  for  you  would  never 
guess  it.  My  Lady  Ludlow  has  given  a  party,  just  like  any 
plcbciaii  amongst  us.  We  had  tea  and  toast  in  the  blue 
drawing-room,  old  John  Footman  waiting  with  Tom  Digglcs,  the 
lad  that  used  to  frighten  away  crows  in  Farmer  Hale's  fields, 
following  in  my  lady's  livery,  hair  powdered  and  ever^-thing. 
Mrs.  Medlicott  made  tea  in  my  lady's  owii  room.  My  lady 
looked  like  a  sj^lendid  fairy  queeu  of  matiu'c  age,  in  black 
velvet,  and  the  old  lace,  which  I  have  never  seen  her  wear  before 
since  my  lords  death.  But  the  company  ?  you'll  say.  Why,  we 
had  the  parson  of  Clover,  and  the  parson  of  Headleigh,  and  the 
parson  of  Merribauk,  and  the  thi-ec  i)arsonesses  ;  and  Farmer 
Doukiu,  and  two  Miss  Donldns  ;  and  Mr.  Gray  (of  course), 
and  myself  and  Bessy  ;  and  Captain  and  Mrs.  James  ;  yes,  and 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Brooke  ;  think  of  that !  1  am  not  siu-e  the 
parsons  liked  it ;  but  ho  was  there.  For  he  has  been  helinug 
Captain  James  to  get  my  lady's  land  into  order  ;  and  then  his 
daughter  married  the  agent ;  and  Mr.  Gray  (who  ought  to 
know)  says  that,  after  all.  Baptists  arc  not  such  bad  peojilo  ; 
and  he  was  right  against  them  at  one  time,  as  you  may 
remember.  Mrs.  Brooke  is  a  rough  diamond,  to  be  sure. 
People  have  said  that  of  me,  I  know.  But,  being  a  (ialindo, 
I  learnt  manners  in  my  youtli  and  can  take  them  up  when  1 
choose.  But  Mrs.  Brooke  never  learnt  manners,  I'll  be  boimd. 
When  John  Footman  handed  her  the  tray  with  the  tea-cujis, 
she  looked  up  at  him  as  if  she  were  sorely  jnizzled  by  tliat  way 
of  going  on.  I  was  sitting  next  to  lier,  su  I  jiretended  nut  to 
see  her  perplexity,  and  put  her  cream  and  sugiu-  in  for  lur. 
and  was  all  ready  to  pop  it  into  her  hands, — when  who  slmuld 
come  up,  but  thut  impudent  lad  Tom  Diggles  (I  call  him  lad, 
for  all  his  hair  is  powdered,  for  you  know  that  it  is  not  natural 
gray  hair),  witli  his  tray  full  of  cakes  aiul  what  not,  all  as  good 
as  Mrs.  Medlicott  could  make  them.  By  tliis  time,  I  should 
tell  you,  all  the  parsoncsses  were  looking  at  Mrs.  Brooke,  for 
she  had  shown  her  want  of  breeding  beforo  ;  and  tlio 
parsoness(!S,  who  were  just  a  step  above  her  in  nuinners.  wci-e 
very  much  inclined  to  smile  at  lur  doings  and  sayings.  Wi-ll  ! 
what  does  she  do,  but  jndl  out  a  clean  Bandanna  poekrt- 
handkerchief,  all  red  and  yellow  silk,  spread  it  t)ver  her  best 
silk  gown  ;  it  was,  like  enough,  a  new  one.  for  I  liad  it  from 


MY    LADY    LUDLOW.  343 

'  Sivlly,  who  had  it  from  her  cousin  Molly,  who  is  dairy-woman 
'  at  the  Brookes',  that  the  Brookes  were  mighty  sct-uj)  with  an 
'  invitation  to  drink  tea  at  the  Hall.  There  we  were,  Tom 
'  Digglcs  even  on  the  grin  (I  wonder  how  long  it  is  since  he  was 
'  own  hrothcr  to  a  scarecrow,  only  not  so  decently  dresscdj  and 
'  Mrs.  Parsoncss  of  Hcadleigh, — I  forget  her  name,  and  it's  no 
'  matter,  for  she's  an  ill-bred  crcatm*e,  1  hope  Bessy  will  behave 
'  herself  better— was  right-down  bursting  with  laughter,  and  as 
'  near  a  hee-haw  as  ever  a  donkey  was,  when  w'hat  does  my  lady 
'  do  '.-'  Ay  !  there's  my  owii  dear  Lady  Ludlow,  God  bless  her  ! 
'  She  takes  out  her  own  poeket-handkerc-hief,  all  snowy  cambric, 
'  and  lays  it  softly  downi  on  her  velvet  lap,  for  all  the  world  as 
'  if  she  did  it  eveiy  day  of  her  life,  just  like  Mrs.  Brooke,  the 
'  bakers  wife  ;  and  when  the  one  got  up  to  shake  the  crumbs 
'  into  the  tirc-place,  the  other  did  just  the  same.  But  with  such  a 
'  grace  !  and  such  a  look  at  us  all !  Tom  Diggles  w  ent  rod  all 
'  over  ;  and  Mi"s.  Parsoness  of  Hcadleigh  scarce  spoke  for  the 
'  rest  of  the  evening  ;  and  the  tcai'S  came  into  my  old  silly  eyes  ; 
'  and  jMr.  Gray,  who  was  before  silent  and  awkward  in  a  way 
'  which  I  tell  Bessy  she  must  cure  him  of,  was  made  so  happy 
by  this  pretty  action  of  my  lady's,  that  he  talked  away  all  the 
rest  of  the  evening,  and  was  the  life  of  the  company. 
'  Oh,  Margaret  Dawson !  I  sometimes  wonder  if  you're  the 
'  better  off  for  leaving  us.  To  be  sm-e  you're  with  your  brother, 
'  and  blood  is  blood.  But  when  I  look  at  my  lady  and 
'  Mr.  Gray,  for  all  they're  so  different,  I  would  not  change  places 
'  with  any  in  England.' 

Alas  I  alas  I  I  never  saw  my  dear  lady  again.  She  died  in 
eighteen  hundred  and  foiu'teen,  and  Mr.  Gray  did  not  long 
survive  her.  As  I  dare  say  you  know,  the  Reverend  Henry 
Gregson  is  now  vicar  of  Hanbmy,  and  his  wife  is  the  daughter 
of  Mr.  Gray  and  Miss  Bessy. 


As  any  one  may  guess,  it  had  taken  Mrs.  Dawson  several 
Monday  evenings  to  narrate  all  this  history  of  the  days  of  her 
youth.  Miss  Duncan  thought  it  would  be  a  good  exercise  for 
me,  botli  in  memory  and  composition,  to  write  out  on  Tuesday 
mornings  all  tliat  I  had  heard  the  night  before ;  and  thus  it 
came  to  pass  that  I  have  tlie  manuscrijjt  of  "  My  Lady  Ludlow  " 
now  lying  by  me. 


344  MY   LADY   LUDJ.ONV. 


Mb.  Dawson  had  often  come  iu  and  out  of  the  room  during  the 
time  that  his  sister  had  been  telling  us  about  Lady  Ludlow. 
He  would  stop,  hiuI  listen  a  little,  and  smile  or  sigh  iis  the  case 
might  be.  The  Monday  after  the  dear  old  lady  had  wound  up 
lier  talc  (if  tale  it  could  be  called),  we  felt  rather  at  a  loss  what 
to  talk  about,  we  had  grown  so  accustomed  to  listen  to  Mrs. 
Dawson.  I  remember  I  was  saying,  "  Oh,  dear !  I  wish  some 
one  would  tell  ns  another  story  !'  when  her  brother  said,  as  if 
in  answer  to  my  speech,  that  he  had  draAra  up  a  paper  all  ready 
for  the  Philosophical  Society,  and  that  i)erhaps  we  might  care 
to  hear  it  before  it  was  sent  off:  it  was  in  a  great  measure 
compiled  from  a  French  book,  published  by  one  of  the  Acade- 
mics, and  rather  dry  in  itself;  but  to  which  ]Mr.  Dawson's 
attention  had  been  directed,  after  a  toiu'  he  hud  made  in 
England  during  the  past  year,  in  which  he  had  noticed  small 
wallcd-up  doors  iu  unusual  parts  oi  some  old  parish  churches, 
and  had  been  told  that  they  had  formerly  been  appropriated  to 
the  use  of  some  half-heathen  race,  who,  before  the  days  ot 
gipsies,  held  the  same  outcast  pariah  position  in  most  of  the 
countries  of  western  Em-ope.  Mr.  Dawson  had  been  recom- 
mended to  the  French  book  which  he  named,  as  containing  the 
fullest  and  most  authentic  account  of  this  mysterious  nice,  tho 
Cagots.  I  did  not  think  I  should  like  hearing  this  paper  ns 
much  as  a  story ;  but,  of  course,  as  he  meant  it  kindly,  wo 
were  bound  to  submit,  and  1  foimd  it,  on  tho  whole,  more 
interesting  than  I  anticipated. 


AN    ACCURSED    RACE 


We  have  our  prejudices  in  England.  Or,  if  that  assertion 
offends  any  of  my  readers,  I  will  modify  it :  wc  have  Lad  om- 
prejudices  in  England.  Wc  Lave  tortured  Jews  ;  we  have  burnt 
Catholics  and  Protestants,  to  say  nothing  of  a  few  witches  and 
^'izards.  We  have  satirized  Puritans,  and  wc  have  dresscd-up 
Guys.  But,  after  all,  I  do  not  think  wc  have  been  so  bad  as  our 
Continental  friends.  To  be  siu-c,  our  insular  position  has  kept 
us  free,  to  a  certain  dcgi-cc,  from  the  im-oads  of  alien  races ; 
who,  driven  from  one  land  of  refuge,  steal  into  another  equally 
imAvdlling  to  receive  them  ;  and  Avhere,  for  long  centimes,  their 
presence  is  barely  endured,  and  no  pains  is  taken  to  conceal 
the  repugnance  which  the  natives  of  "  pure  blood  "  experience 
towards  them. 

There  yet  remains  a  remnant  of  the  miserable  people  called 
Cagots  in  the  valleys  of  the  P}T:enees ;  in  the  Landes  near 
Bourdeaux ;  and,  stretching  up  on  the  west  side  of  France, 
their  numbers  become  larger  in  Lower  Brittany.  Even  now, 
the  origin  of  these  families  is  a  word  of  shame  to  them  among 
their  neighbours ;  altliough  they  are  protected  by  the  law, 
which  confirmed  them  in  the  equal  rights  of  citizens  about  the 
end  of  the  last  ccntuiy.  Before  then  they  had  lived,  for 
hundreds  of  years,  isolated  fi-om  all  those  who  boasted  of  jiure 
blood,  and  they  had  been,  all  this  time,  oppressed  by  cruel 
local  edicts.  They  were  truly  what  they  were  popularly  called. 
The  Accursed  liace. 

All  distinct  traces  of  their  origin  are  lost.  Even  at  the  close 
of  that  period  which  we  call  the  Middle  Ages,  this  was  a 
problem  wliich  no  one  could  solve  ;  and  as  the  traces,  which 
even  then  were  faint  and  uncertain,  have  vanished  away  one  by 
one,  it  is  a  complete  mystery  at  the  present  day.  Why  they 
were  accursed  in  the  first  instance,  wliy  isolated  from  their 
kind,  no  one  knows.  From  the  earliest  accounts  of  tlieir  state 
that  are  yet  remaining  to  us,  it  seems  that  the  names  which 
ihcy  gave  each  other  were  ignored  by  tlie  ]i()])ulation  they  lived 


346  AN   ACCURSED    EACE. 

amongst,  who  spoke  of  tliem  as  Crcstiaa,  or  Cagots,  just  as  we 
speak  of  animals  by  their  generic  names.  Their  houses  or  huts 
were  always  placed  at  some  distance  out  of  the  villages  of  the 
country-folk,  who  unwillingly  called  in  the  services  of  the 
Cagots  as  carpenters,  or  tilers,  or  slaters — trades  which  seemed 
appropriated  by  this  unfortmiate  race — who  were  forbidden  to 
occupy  land,  or  to  bear  arms,  the  usual  occui)ations  of  those 
times.  They  had  some  small  right  of  pasturage  on  the  common 
lands,  and  in  the  forests :  but  the  nmnbcr  of  their  cattle  and 
live-stock  was  strictly  limited  by  the  earliest  laws  relating 
to  the  Cagots.  They  were  forbidden  by  one  act  to  have  more 
than  twenty  sheep,  a  pig,  a  ram,  and  six  geese.  The-  pig  was 
to  be  fattened  and  killed  for  winter  food ;  the  fleece  of  the 
sheep  was  to  clothe  them ;  but  if  the  said  sheep  had  lambs, 
they  were  forbidden  to  eat  them.  Their  only  privilege  arising 
from  this  increase  was,  that  they  might  choose  ouf-  the  strongest 
and  finest  in  preference  to  keeping  the  old  sheep.  At  Mai-tin- 
mas  the  authorities  of  the  commune  came  romid,  and  coxmted 
over  the  stock  of  each  Cagot.  If  he  had  more  than  his  appointed 
number,  they  were  forfeited ;  half  went  to  the  commime,  and 
half  to  the  baillie,  or  chief  magistrate  of  the  commune.  The 
poor  beasts  were  limited  as  to  the  amount  of  common  land 
which  they  might  stray  over  in  search  of  grass.  AVhile  the 
cattle  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  corumune  might  wander  hither 
and  thither  in  search  of  the  sweetest  herbage,  the  deepest 
shade,  or  the  coolest  pool  in  which  to  stand  on  the  hot  days, 
and  lazily  switch  their  dappled  sides,  the  Cagot  sheep  and  pig 
had  to  learn  imaginary  bounds,  beyond  which  if  they  strj\yed, 
any  one  might  snap  them  uj),  and  kill  them,  reserving  a  part  of 
the  flesh  for  his  own  use,  but  gi-aciously  restoring  the  inferior 
parts  to  their  original  owner.  Any  damage  done  by  the  sheep 
was,  however,  fairly  ai>praised,  and  the  Cagot  paid  no  more  for 
it  than  any  other  man  would  have  done. 

Did  a  Cagot  leave  his  poor  cabin,  and  ventm-e  into  the  towns, 
even  to  render  services  required  of  him  in  the  way  of  his  trade 
ho  was  bidden,  by  all  the  municii)al  laws,  to  stand  by  and 
remember  his  rude  old  state.  In  all  the  to\ms  and  villages  in 
tlic  large  districts  extending  on  both  sides  of  the  Pyrenees-  in 
all  that  i)art  of  Si)ain— they  were  forbidden  to  buy  or  sell 
anytliing  eatable,  to  walk  in  the.  middle  (esteemed  the  better) 
pai't  of  the  streets,  to  come  within  the  gates  biforo  sunrise,  or 
to  be  found  after  sunset  witlnn  tlie  walls  of  the  town.  Hut 
Btill,  as  tlio  Cagots  were  good-looking  men,  and  (although  tliey 
bore  certain  natural  marks  of  their  casti",  of  which  1  shall  speak 


AN  ACCURSED   RACE.  347 

by-and-by)  were  not  easily  distinguished  by  casual  paesers-by 
from  other  men,  they  were  comiiellcd  to  wear  some  distinctive 
peculiarity  whicli  should  arrest  the  eye ;  and,  in  the  gi-eater 
number  of  towns,  it  was  decreed  that  the  outward  sign  of  a 
Cagot  should  be  a  piece  of  red  cloth  sewed  conspicuously  on 
the  front  of  his  cb'css.  In  other  towns,  the  mark  of  Cagoterio 
was  the  foot  oi  a  duck  or  a  goose  hung  over  their  left  shoulder, 
so  as  to  be  seen  by  any  one  meeting  them.  After  a  time,  the 
more  convenient  badge  of  a  piece  of  yellow  cloth  cut  out  in  tho 
shape  of  a  duck's  foot,  was  adopted.  If  any  Cagot  was  found 
in  any  town  or  village  without  his  badge,  he  had  to  pay  a  fine 
of  five  sous,  and  to  lose  his  dress.  He  was  expected  to  shrink 
away  from  any  passer-by,  for  fear  that  their  clothes  should 
touch  each  other ;  or  else  to  stand  still  in  some  corner  or  by- 
place.  If  the  Cagots  were  thirsty  dm-ing  the  days  which  they 
passed  in  those  towns  where  their  presence  was  barely  suffered, 
they  had  no  means  of  quenching  their  thirst,  for  they  were 
forbidden  to  enter  into  the  little  cabarets  or  taverns.  Even  tho 
water  gushing  out  of  the  common  fountain  was  prohibited  to 
them.  Far  away,  in  their  ou*n  squalid  village,  there  was  tlio 
Cagot  fountain,  and  they  were  not  allowed  to  drink  of  any  other 
water.  A  Cagot  woman  ha\ang  to  make  piu'chascs  in  the  town, 
was  liable  to  be  flogged  oiit  of  it  if  slie  went  to  buy  anything 
except  on  a  Monday — a  day  on  which  all  other  people  who 
could,  kept  their  liouses  for  fear  of  coming  in  contact  with  the 
accursed  race. 

In  the  Pays  Basque,  the  prejudices — and  for  some  time  the 
laAvs — ran  stronger  against  them  than  any  which  I  have  hitherto 
mentioned.  The  Basque  Cagot  was  not  allowed  to  possess 
slieei).  He  might  keep  a  pig  for  jirovision,  but  his  pig  had  no 
right  of  pasturage.  He  might  cut  and  carry  grass  for  the  ass, 
which  was  the  only  other  animal  he  was  permitted  to  o^\^l ;  and 
tliis  ass  was  permitted,  because  its  existence  was  rather  an 
advantage  to  the  oppressor,  Avho  constantly  availed  himself  of 
the  Cagot's  mechanical  skill,  and  was  glad  to  have  him  and  his 
tools  easily  conveyed  from  one  place  to  another. 

The  race  was  repidsed  by  tho  State.  Under  the  small  lf)cal 
govei-nments  they  could  hold  no  post  wliatsoever.  Ajid  tliey 
were  barely  tolerated  by  the  Cliurch,  altliough  tliey  were  good 
Catholics,  and  zealous  frequenters  of  tlic  mass.  They  might 
only  enter  tlie  churches  by  a  small  door  set  apart  for  them, 
through  which  no  one  of  the  pure  race  ever  passed.  Tliis  door 
was  low,  so  as  to  compel  tluni  to  make  an  obeisance.  It  was 
occasionally  surrounded  by  sculpture,  which  invaiiably  rcprc- 


348  AX   ACCURSED   RACE. 

sentcd  an  oak-braucli  with  a  dove  above  it.  When  they  were 
once  in,  they  might  not  go  to  the  holy  water  used  by  others. 
They  had  a  benitier  of  their  own ;  nor  were  they  allowed  ti> 
share  in  the  consecrated  bread  when  that  was  handed  roimd  to 
the  believers  of  the  pure  race.  The  Cagots  stood  afar  off,  near 
the  door.  There  were  certain  boundaries — imaginary  lines — 
on  the  nave  and  in  the  isle?,  which  they  might  not  jiass.  In  one 
or  two  of  the  more  tolerant  of  the  Pyrenean  villages,  the  blessed 
bread  was  offered  to  the  Cagots,  the  priest  standing  on  one  side 
of  the  boimdary,  and  giving  the  pieces  of  bread  on  a  long  w'ooden 
fork  to  each  person  successively. 

When  the  Cagot  died,  he  was  interred  apart,  in  a  plot  ot 
burying-ground  on  the  north  side  of  the  cemetery.  Under  such 
laws  and  prescriptions  as  I  have  described,  it  is  no  wonder  that 
he  was  generally  too  jioor  to  have  much  property  for  his  children 
to  inherit ;  but  certain  descriptions  of  it  wex'c  forfeited  to  the 
commune.  The  only  possession  which  all  who  were  not  of  his 
o^vn  race  refused  to  touch,  was  his  furniture.  That  was  tainted, 
infectious,  unclean — fit  for  none  but  Cagots. 

When  such  were,  for  at  least  three  centuries,  the  prevalent 
usages  and  opinions  with  regard  to  this  oppressed  race,  it  is  not 
suprising  that  we  read  of  occasional  outbursts  of  ferocious  vio- 
lence on  their  part.  In  the  Basses- Pyrenees,  for  instance,  it  is 
only  about  a  hundred  years  since,  that  the  Cagots  of  Rehouilhcs 
rose  up  against  the  inhabitants  of  the  neighbouring  town  of 
Lourdes,  and  gut  the  better  of  them,  by  their  magical  powers,  as  it 
is  said.  The  peo2)le  of  Lom-des  were  conquered  and  slain,  and 
their  ghastly,  bloody  heads  served  the  triunii)hant  Cagnts  for  balls 
to  play  at  niuejjins  with  !  The  local  i)arliaments  had  begun,  by 
this  time,  to  perceive  how  «)pi)ressive  was  the  ban  of  jiublic  opinion 
under  which  the  Cagots  lay,  and  were  not  inclined  to  enforce  too 
severe  a  innushmcnt.  Accordingly,  the  decree  of  the  parliament 
of  Toulouse  condemned  only  the  leading  Cagots  concerned  in  this 
affray  to  be  put  to  death,  and  that  henceforward  and  for  ever  no 
Cagot  was  to  be  jiermitted  to  inter  the  town  of  Lotuxles  by  any 
gate  l)ut  tliat  called  Capdet-poiutct  :  they  were  only  to  be  allowed 
to  walk  under  the  rain-gutters,  and  neither  to  sit,  eat,  nor  drink 
in  the  town.  If  they  failed  in  observing  any  of  these  ruh  s.  the 
parliament  decreed,  in  the  spirit  of  Sliylock,  that  the  disobedient 
Cagots  should  have  two  strips  of  tUsh,  weighing  never  moro 
than  two  ounces  a-pit'ce,  cut  out  from  each  side  of  their  sj)inos. 

In  tlie  fourteiiuth,  fiftienth,  and  sixteentli  centuries,  it  was  con- 
Bidercd  no  more  a  crime  to  kill  a  C^agot  than  to  destroy  obnoxious 
vermin.     A  "  nest  of  Caigots,"  as  the  old  accounts  plinwc  it,  hud 


AN  ACCURSED   KACK.  849 

assembled  in  a  deserted  castle  of  Mauvczin,  about  tho  year  six- 
teen hundred  ;  and,  certainly,  tbcy  made  themselves  not  very 
ajirecable  neighbours,  as  they  seemed  to  enjoy  their  reputation 
of  magicians  ;  and,  by  some  acoustic  secrets  which  were  known 
to  them,  aU  sorts  of  meanings  and  groanings  were  heard  in  tho 
neighbouring  forests,  very  much  to  the  alarm  of  the  good  jieoplc 
of  the  pure  race ;  who  coidd  not  cut  oflf  a  withered  braucli  for 
firewood,  but  some  unearthly  sound  seemed  to  fill  the  air,  nor 
drink  water  which  was  not  poisoned,  because  the  Cagots  would 
persist  in  filling  their  pitchers  at  the  same  nmning  stream. 
Added  to  these  gi-ievances,  the  various  pilfcrings  perpetually 
going  on  in  the  ueighbom-hood  made  the  inhabitants  of  the 
adjacent  to\Mis  and  hamlets  believe  that  they  had  a  very  sufii- 
cient  cause  for  wishing  to  murder  all  the  Cagots  in  the  Chateau 
dc  Mauvezin.  But  it  was  smTounded  by  a  moat,  and  only 
accessible  by  a  drawbridge ;  besides  which,  the  Cagots  were 
fierce  and  vigilant.  Some  one,  however,  proposed  to  get  into 
their  confidence ;  and  for  this  purpose  he  pretended  to  fall  ill 
close  to  their  path,  so  that  on  returning  to  their  stronghold 
they  perceived  him,  and  took  him  in,  restored  him  to  health, 
and  made  a  friend  of  him.  One  day,  when  they  were  all  playing 
at  ninepins  in  the  woods,  their  treacherous  friend  left  the  party 
on  pretence  of  being  thirsty,  and  went  back  into  the  castle, 
di-awing  up  the  bridge  after  he  had  passed  over  it,  and  so 
cutting  off  their  means  of  escape  into  safety.  Then,  going  u^) 
to  the  highest  part  of  the  castle,  he  blew  a  horn,  and  the  pure 
race,  who  were  lying  in  wait  on  the  watch  for  some  such  signal, 
fell  upon  the  Cagots  at  their  games,  and  slew  them  all.  For 
this  murder  I  find  no  pimishment  decreed  in  the  parliament  of 
Toulouse,  or  elsewhere. 

As  any  interman-iage  with  the  pure  race  was  strictly  for- 
bidden, and  as  there  were  books  kept  in  every  commune  in 
which  the  names  and  habitations  of  the  reputed  Cagots  were 
written,  these  tmfortunate  people  had  no  hope  of  ever  becoming 
blended  with  the  rest  of  the  population.  Did  a  Cagot  marriage 
take  place,  the  couple  were  serenaded  with  satirical  songs. 
They  also  had  minstrels,  and  many  of  their  romances  are  still 
current  in  Brittany ;  but  they  did  not  attempt  to  make  any 
reprisals  of  satire  or  abuse.  Their  disposition  was  amiable, 
and  their  intelligence  great.  Indeed,  it  required  both  theso 
qualities,  and  their  great  love  of  mechanical  labour,  to  mako 
their  lives  tolerable. 

At  last,  they  began  to  petition  tliat  they  might  receivo  somo 
protection  from  the  laws ;  and,  towards  the  end  of  the  seven- 


3.>0  AX    ACCURSED    RACE. 

tecnth  century,  the  judicial  power  took  their  side.  But  they 
gained  little  by  this.  Law  could  not  prevail  against  custom  : 
and,  in  the  ten  or  twenty  years  just  preceding  tlio  fii-st  French 
revolution,  the  prejudice  in  France  against  the  Cagots  amounted 
to  fierce  and  i)ositive  abhorrence. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  sixteenth  century,  the  Cagots  of 
Navarre  complained  to  the  Pope,  that  they  were  excluded  from 
the  fellowship  of  men,  and  accm-sed  by  the  Church,  because  their 
ancestors  had  given  help  to  a  certain  Comit  EajTuond  of  Toulouse 
in  his  revolt  against  the  Holy  See.  They  entreated  his  holiness 
not  to  visit  upon  them  the  sins  of  their  fathers.  The  Po])e  issued 
a  bull — on  the  thirteenth  of  May,  fifteen  hundred  and  fifteen — 
ordering  them  to  be  well-treated  and  to  be  admitted  to  the  sanio 
privileges  as  other  men.  He  charged  Don  Juan  de  Santa  Maria 
of  Pampeluna  to  see  to  the  execution  of  this  bull.  But  Don  Juan 
was  slow  to  lieli^,  and  the  poor  Si)anish  Cagots  gi-ew  impatient, 
and  resolved  to  try  the  secular  power.  They  accordingly  applied 
to  the  Cortes  of  Navarre,  and  were  opposed  on  a  variety  of 
grounds.  First,  it  was  stated  that  their  ancestors  had  hiul 
"  nothing  to  do  with  Eaymt)nd  Count  of  Toulouse,  or  with  any 
such  knightly  personage  ;  that  they  were  in  fi\ct  desceudiuits  of 
Gehazi,  servant  of  Elisha  (second  book  of  Kings,  fifth  chaj^tcr, 
twenty-seventh  verse),  who  had  been  accursed  by  his  ma.ster  for 
his  fraud  upon  Naaman,  and  doomed,  he  and  his  descendants,  to 
be  lepers  for  evermore.  Name,  Cagots  or  Gahets ;  Gahets, 
Gehazites.  What  can  be  more  clear '?  And  if  that  is  not  enough, 
and  you  tell  us  that  the  Cagots  ai'e  not  lepers  now  ;  we  reply  that 
there  are  two  kinds  of  lei)rosy,  one  perceptible  and  the  other 
imperceptible,  even  to  the  person  suftering  from  it.  Beside.^  it 
is  the  country  talk,  tliat  where  the  Cagot  treads,  the  grass  withers, 
proving  the  imnatural  lieat  of  his  body.  INIany  credible  and  trtist- 
worthy  witnesses  will  also  tell  you  that,  if  a  Cagi>t  ludds  a 
freshly-gathered  ai)])le  in  his  hand,  it  will  slirivel  and  wither  up 
in  an  hour's  time  as  much  as  if  it  had  been  kept  for  a  wli()lo 
•vinter  in  a  dry  room.  They  are  born  witli  tails  ;  although  the 
parcnits  are  cunning  (enough  to  pinch  them  off  immediately.  Do 
you  doubt  this  ?  If  it  is  not  true,  why  do  the  children  of  the  jturo 
race  delight  in  sewing  on  sheep's  tails  to  the  dress  of  any  Cagot 
wlio  is  so  absorbed  in  his  work  as  not  to  perceive  them  ?  And 
tlieir  bodily  smell  is  so  horrible  and  detestabh>  that  it  shows  tliat 
they  must  be  heretics  of  some  vile  and  pernicious  description,  for 
do  we  not  read  of  tin-  incenso  of  good  workers,  and  the  fnigranco 
of  holiness  ?" 

ISuch  were  literally  the  arguments  by  which  the  Cagots  wero 


AN   ACCUKSEU    KACE.  351 

thrown  b;uk  into  a  •worse  position  than  ever,  as  far  as  rcgunlcd 
their  rights  as  citizens.  The  Pope  insisted  that  they  sliould 
receive  all  their  ecclesiastical  i)rivileges.  The  Spanish  priests 
said  nothing  ;  but  tacitly  refused  to  allow  the  Cagots  to  mingle 
Avith  the  rest  of  the  faithful,  cither  dead  or  alive.  The  accursed 
race  obtained  laws  in  their  favom-  fi-um  the  Emperor  Charles  tlic 
Fifth  ;  which,  however,  there  was  no  one  to  carry  into  effect.  As 
a  sort  of  revenge  for  theii*  want  of  submission,  and  for  their 
impertinence  in  daring  to  complain,  their  tools  were  all  taken 
away  from  them  by  the  local  authorities :  an  old  man  and  all  his 
family  died  of  stai'vation,  being  no  longer  allowed  to  fish. 

They  could  not  emigrate.  Even  to  remove  their  poor  mud 
habitations,  from  one  spot  to  another,  excited  anger  and  suspicion. 
To  be  sure,  in  sixteen  hundred  and  ninety-live,  the  Spanish 
government  ordered  the  alcaldes  to  search  out  all  the  Cagots, 
and  to  expel  them  before  two  months  had  expired,  under  pain  of 
having  fifty  ducats  to  pay  for  every  Cagot  remaining  in  Si)ain  at 
tlie  expiration  of  that  time.  The  inhabitants  of  the  villages  rose 
up  and  flogged  out  any  of  the  miserable  race  who  miglit  be  in  theix 
neighboiu-hood  ;  but  the  French  were  on  their  guard  against  this 
enforced  irruption,  and  Tcfused  to  permit  them  to  enter  France, 
Numbers  were  hunted  up  into  the  inhospitable  Pyrenees,  and 
there  died  of  stai'vation,  or  became  a  jirey  to  wild  beasts.  They 
were  obliged  to  wear  both  gloves  and  shoes  w'hen  they  were  thus 
put  to  flight,  otherwise  the  stones  and  herbage  they  trod  upon 
and  the  balustrades  of  the  bridges  that  they  handled  in  crossing, 
would,  according  to  poi)ular  belief,  have  become  poisonous. 

And  all  this  time,  there  was  nothing  remarkable  or  disgusting 
in  the  outward  appearance  of  this  imfortunate  people.  There  was 
nothing  about  them  to  countenance  the  idea  of  their  being  lepers 
- — the  most  natural  mode  of  accounting  for  the  abhorrence  in 
v/hicli  they  were  held.  They  were  repeatedly  examined  by  learned 
doctors,  whose  experiments,  although  singular  and  rude,  appear 
to  have  been  made  in  a  spirit  of  humanity.  For  instance,  the 
surgeons  of  the  king  of  Navarre,  in  sixteen  hmidred,  bled  twenty- 
two  Cagots,  in  order  to  examine  and  analyze  their  blood.  They 
were  young  and  healthy  people  of  botli  sexes ;  and  the  doctors 
seem  to  have  expected  that  they  should  have  been  able  to  extract 
some  new  kind  of  salt  from  their  blood  which  might  accomit  for 
the  wonderful  heat  of  their  bodies.  But  their  blood  was  just  like 
that  of  other  people.  Some  of  these  medical  men  have  left  us  a 
description  of  the  general  appearance  of  this  unfortunate  race,  at 
a  time  when  they  were  more  niunorous  and  less  intennixed  than 
they  are  now.     The  families  existing  in  the  south  and  west  of 


352  AN  ACCURSED   RACE. 

France,  who  arc  reputed  to  Lc  of  Cagot  descent  at  this  day,  are, 
like  their  ancestors,  tall,  largely  made,  and  powerful  in  frame ; 
fair  and  ruddy  in  complexion,  with  gray-blue  eyes,  in  which  some 
observers  sec  a  pensive  heaviness  of  look.  Their  lips  are  thick, 
but  well-formed.  Some  of  the  reports  name  their  sad  expression 
of  countenance  with  surprise  and  suspicion — "  They  are  not  gay, 
like  other  folk."  The  wonder  would  be  if  they  were.  Dr.  Guyon, 
the  medical  man  of  the  last  century  who  has  left  the  clearest 
report  on  the  health  of  the  Cagots,  speaks  of  the  vigorous  old  ago 
they  attain  to.  In  one  family  alone,  he  found  a  man  of  sevcnty- 
foiir  years  of  age  ;  a  woman  as  old,  gathering  cherries ;  and 
another  woman,  aged  eighty-three,  was  lying  on  the  gi"ass.  having 
her  hair  combed  by  her  great-grandchildi-tu.  Dr.  Guyon  and 
other  surgeons  examined  into  the  subject  of  the  horribly  infectious 
smell  whicli  the  Cagots  were  said  to  leave  behind  them,  and  upon 
everything  they  touched  ;  but  they  could  perceive  nothing  imusual 
on  this  head.  They  also  examined  their  ears,  which  according 
to  common  belief  (a  belief  existing  to  this  day),  were  dilierently 
shaped  from  those  of  other  people  ;  being  roimd  and  gristly,  with- 
out the  lobe  of  flesh  into  which  the  ear-ring  is  inserted.  They 
decided  that  most  of  the  Cagots  whom  they  examined  had  the 
ears  of  this  round  shape  ;  but  they  gravely  added,  that  they  saw 
no  reason  why  this  should  exclude  them  from  the  good-will  of 
men,  and  from  the  power  of  holding  office  in  Churcli  and  State. 
They  recorded  the  fact,  tliat  the  children  of  the  ti>\ras  ran  baaing 
after  any  Cagot  who  had  been  compelled  to  come  into  the  streets 
to  make  purchases,  in  allusion  to  this  peculiai'ity  of  the  shajie  of 
the  ear,  which  bore  some  resembhince  to  the  ears  of  the  slieep  as 
they  are  cut  by  the  shepherds  in  this  district.  Dr.  Guyon  names 
the  case  of  a  beautiful  Cagot  girl,  who  sung  most  sweetly,  and 
prayed  to  be  allowed  to  sing  canticles  in  the  organ-loft.  The 
organist,  more  musician  than  bigot,  allowed  her  to  come;  but  the 
indignant  congi'egation,  finding  <.)ut  whence  proceeded  that  ehiir, 
fresh  voice,  rushed  uj)  to  the  organ-loft,  and  chased  the  girl 
out,  bidding  her  "remember  her  ears,"  and  not  commit  the  sacri- 
lege of  singing  praises  to  (Jod  along  with  the  juire  race. 

But  this  medical  report  of  Dr.  (iuyon's — bringing  facts  and 
arguments  to  confirm  his  ojtinion,  that  there  was  no  idiysical 
reason  why  the  Cagots  should  not  be  received  on  tirnis  of  social 
equality  by  tlu!  rest  of  the  world  -did  no  more  for  his  clitiitu 
than  the  legal  decrees  promulgated  two  centuries  before  had  done. 
The  French  proved  the  truth  of  the  saying  in  Iludibn^s — 

Ho  thut'H  o(iuviiu-('(I  itptinst  his  will 
Id  of  tliu  BiUiK'  «;iinion  btilL 


AX    ACCUK.SPID    HAfE.  353 

Aijfi,  indeed,  ibo  bcicg  con^'inced  by  Dr.  Guyon  that  tbcy  ougLt 
to  receive  Caputs  as  fellow-creatiires,  only  made  th(;m  more  rabid 
in  dec-laring  tbat  they  would  not.  One  or  two  little  occurrences 
whicli  ai"c  recorded,  sbow  tbat  tbe  bitterness  of  the  repugnance 
to  the  Cugots  was  in  full  force  at  the  time  just  preceding  the  first 
French  revolution.  There  was  a  M.  d'Abedos,  the  curate  of 
Lombcs,  and  brother  to  the  seigneur  of  the  neighbouring  castle, 
who  was  living  in  seventeen  hundred  and  eighty  ;  he  \vas  well- 
educated  fur  the  time,  a  travelled  man,  and  sensible  and  moderate 
in  all  respects  but  that  of  his  abhorrence  of  the  Cagots :  he  would 
insult  them  from  the  very  altai-,  calling  out  to  them,  as  they  stood 
afar  oft",  "  Oh  !  ye  Cagots,  damned  for  evermore  !"  One  day,  a 
half-blind  Cagot  stumbled  and  touched  the  censer  borne  before 
this  Abbe  de  Lourbcs.  He  was  immediately  turned  out  of  the 
<hurch,  and  forbidden  ever  to  re-enter  it.  One  docs  not  know- 
how  to  account  for  the  fact,  that  the  very  brother  of  this  bigoted 
jtbbe,  the  seigneur  of  the  village,  went  and  man-ied  a  Cagot  girl ; 
Ijut  so  it  was,  and  the  abbe  brought  a  legal  process  against  him, 
and  had  his  estates  taken  from  him,  solely  on  account  of  his 
uiarriage,  which  reduced  him  to  the  condition  of  a  Cagot,  against 
whom  the  old  law  was  still  in  force.  The  descendants  of  this 
Seigneur  do  Lourbes  are  simple  peasants  at  this  very  day,  work- 
ing on  the  lands  which  belonged  to  their  gi'andfather. 

This  2)rejudice  against  mixed  mai'riages  remained  prevalent 
imtil  very  lately.  The  tradition  of  the  Cagot  descent  lingered 
among  the  people,  long  after  the  laws  against  the  accursed  race 
were  abolished.  A  Breton  girl,  within  the  last  few  years,  having 
I'vo  lovers  each  of  reputed  Cagot  descent,  employed  a  notary  to 
oxtvmine  their  pedigrees,  and  see  which  of  the  two  had  least  Cagot 
in  him ;  and  to  that  one  she  gave  her  hand.  In  Brittany  the 
prejudice  seems  to  have  been  more  virident  than  anywhere  else. 
31.  Emile  Souvestre  records  proofs  of  the  hatred  borne  to  them 
in  Brittany  so  recently  as  in  eighteen  hundicd  and  thirty-five, 
.lust  lately  a  baker  at  Ilennebon,  having  married  a  girl  of  Cagot 
descent,  lost  all  his  custom.  The  godfather  and  godmother  of 
:i  Cagot  child  became  Cagots  themselves  by  the  Breton  laws, 
unless,  indeed,  the  poor  little  baby  died  before  attaining  a  certain 
number  of  days.  They  had  to  eat  the  butchers' meat  condemned 
us  unhealthy  ;  but,  for  some  miknow  n  reason,  they  were  considered 
to  have  a  right  to  every  cut  leaf  turned  upside  down,  with  its 
cut  side  towaids  the  door,  and  miglit  enter  any  house  in  which 
they  saw  a  loaf  in  this  position,  and  carry  it  away  with  tlicni. 
About  thii-ty  yc  ars  ago,  there  was  the  skeleton  of  a  hand  hanging 
up  as  an   '..iferiiig  in  a  Breton  church  near  Quimperle,  and  tho 

A    A 


354  AN    ACCURSED    RACE. 

tradition  was,  that  it  was  the  hand  of  a  rich  Cagot  who  had  dared 
to  take  holy  wattr  out  of  tlio  usual  bi'niticr,  sonic  time  at  thr 
beginning  of  tlie  reign  of  Louis  the  Sixteenth  ;  which  an  old 
soldier  witnessing,  he  lay  in  wait,  and  the  next  time  the  oficnder 
api)roaehed  the  b('nitier  lie  cut  oft'  his  hand,  and  hung  it  uj).  drip- 
ping with  blood,  as  an  ollbring  to  the  i)ati\tn  saint  of  the  church. 
The  poor  (^'agots  in  Brittany  petitioned  against  their  opprobrious 
name,  and  begged  to  be  distinguished  by  tlie  appelation  of  Malan- 
drins.  To  English  cars  one  is  much  tlie  same  as  the  other,  as 
neither  conveys  any  meaning  ;  but,  to  this  day,  the  descendants 
of  the  Cagots  do  not  like  to  have  this  name  applied  to  them,  pre- 
ferring that  of  Malandrin. 

The  French  Cagots  tried  to  destroy  all  the  records  of  their 
pariah  descent,  in  the  commotions  of  seventeen  liundrcd  and 
eighty-nine ;  but  if  writings  have  disappeai'cd,  the  tradition  yet 
remains,  and  points  out  such  and  such  a  family  as  ('agot,  or 
Malandrin,  or  Oiselier,  according  to  the  old  terms  of  abhorrence. 

There  are  various  ways  in  which  learned  men  have  attempted 
to  account  for  the  universal  repugnance  in  which  this  well-made, 
powerful  race  arc  held.  Some  say  that  the  antipathy  to  them 
tf)ok  its  rise  in  the  days  when  leprosy  was  a  dreadfully  prevalent 
disease  ;  and  that  the  Cagots  are  more  liable  than  any  other  nun 
to  a  kind  of  sldn  disease,  not  precisely  leprosy,  but  resembling 
it  in  some  of  its  symptons ;  such  as  dead  whiteness  of  complexion, 
and  su'cdlings  of  the  face  and  extremities.  There  was  also  sonu 
resemblance  to  the  ancient  Jewish  custom  in  respect  to  h'pers,  in 
the  habit  of  the  people;  who  on  meeting  a  Cagot,  called  out. 
'•  Cagote  ■?  Cagotc  ?"  to  which  they  were  bound  to  reply,  '"  Pcrlutc  ! 
pcrlute  !"  Leprosy  is  not  properly  an  infectious  coiniilaint,  in 
spite  of  the  horror  in  which  the  Cagot  furniture,  and  the  cloth 
woven  by  them,  are  held  in  some  places ;  the  disordir  is  heredi- 
tary, and  hence  (say  this  body  of  wise  men,  who  have  troubhd 
themselves  to  account  for  the  origin  of  (^igoterie)  the  reasonable- 
ness and  the  justice  of  preventing  any  mixed  marriages,  by  wliii-h 
this  terrible  tendency  to  leprous  eonij)laints  might  be  sjuvad  far 
and  wide.  Another  authority  says,  that  though  tlie  Cagots  aif 
liiKi-looking  men,  liard-woikiiig,  and  good  meclianics,  yet  they 
bear  in  their  faces,  and  show  in  tlicir  actions,  reasons  for  the 
detestation  in  which  they  are  lield  :  tlii'ir  glance,  if  you  meet  it. 
is  tli(!  jettatura,  or  evil-eye,  and  they  are  spiteful,  and  cruel,  and 
deceitful  above  all  other  men.  All  these  tjualities  they  derivd 
from  ilicir  ancestor  (Jehazi,  tho  servant  of  Elisha,  together  with 
their  tendency  to  leprosy. 

Again,  it  is  said  that  tliey  are  descended  from  the  Arian  (Jothp 


AN    ACCURSED    liACE.  3o.J 

who  wero  pcrraittiHl  to  live  in  certain  j^laccs  iu  Guieniie  and 
Laiigaedoc,  after  their  defeat  by  Kinf^  Clovis,  on  condition  that 
they  abjured  their  heresy,  and  kept  themselves  sei)arate  from  all 
other  men  for  ever.  The  jn-incipal  reason  alleged  in  support  of 
tliis  supposition  of  their  Gothic  descent,  is  the  si)ecious  one  of 
derivation, — Chiens  Gots,  Cans  Gots,  Cagots,  equivalent  to  Dogs 
of  Goths. 

Again,  they  were  thought  to  be  Saracens,  coming  from  Syria. 
In  contii-mation  of  this  idea,  was  the  belief  that  all  Cagots  were 
possessed  by  a  horrible  smell.  The  Lombards,  also,  were  an 
unfragrant  race,  or  bo  reputed  among  the  Italians :  witness  Pope 
Stephen's  letter  to  ( 'harlemagne,  dissuading  him  from  marrying 
Bertha,  daughter  of  Didicr,  King  of  Lombardy.  The  Lombards 
boasted  of  Eastern  descent,  and  were  noisome.  The  Cagots  wero 
noisome,  and  therefore  must  be  of  Eastern  descent.  What  could 
be  clearer  ?  In  addition,  there  was  the  proof  to  be  derived  from 
the  name  Cagot,  which  those  maintaining  the  opinion  of  their 
Saracen  descent  held  to  bo  Chiens,  or  CJhasseurs  des  Gots,  because 
the  Saracens  chased  the  Goths  out  of  Spain.  JMoreovcr,  the 
Saracens  were  originally  i\Iahometans,  and  as  such  obliged  to 
bathe  seven  times  a-day :  whence  the  badge  of  the  duck's  foot. 
A  duck  was  a  water-bird :  Mahometans  bathed  in  the  water. 
Proof  upon  proof! 

In  Brittany  the  common  idea  was,  they  were  of  Jewish 
descent.  Their  unpleasant  smell  was  again  pressed  into  service. 
The  Jews,  it  was  well  known,  had  this  physical  infirmity,  which 
might  be  cured  either  by  bathing  in  a  cei-tain  fountain  in  Egypt 
— whicli  was  a  long  way  from  Brittany — or  by  anointing  them- 
selves with  the  blood  of  a  Christian  child.  Blood  gushed  out  of 
the  body  of  every  ( "agot  on  Good  Friday.  No  wonder,  if  tliey 
were  of  Jewdsh  descent.  It  was  the  only  way  of  accounting  for 
so  portentous  a  fact.  Again  ;  the  Cagots  were  capital  carpenters, 
which  gave  the  Bretons  every  reason  to  believe  that  their  ances- 
tors were  the  very  Jews  who  made  the  cross.  When  first  the 
tide  of  emigration  set  from  Brittany  to  America,  tlie  oj^prcsscd 
Cagots  crowded  to  the  ports,  seeking  to  go  to  some  new  country, 
wlu-re  tlieir  race  might  be  unknown.  Here  was  another  proof  of 
tlieir  descent  from  .Vbraham  and  his  nomadic  people ;  and,  the 
forty  years'  wandering  in  the  wilderness  and  the  Wandering  Jew 
himself,  were  pressed  into  the  service  to  jirovo  that  the  ( 'agots 
derived  tlieir  restlessness  and  love  of  change  from  their  ancestors, 
the  Jews.  Tlie  Jews,  also,  2>ractised  arts-magic,  and  the  <  'agots 
sold  bags  of  wind  to  the  Breton  sailors,  enchanted  maidens  to 
love  them — maid<!ns  who  never  would  have  cared  for  them,  unless 


356  AX    ACCURSED    RACE. 

tlioy  had  been  previously  enchanted — made  holhnv  rocks  and  trees 
give  out  strange  and  unearthly  noises,  and  sold  the  magical  herh 
called  bon-sucees.  It  is  true  enough  that,  in  all  the  early  acts 
of  the  fom'toenth  century,  tlie  same  laws  apply  to  Jews  as  to 
Cagots,  and  the  ai)pellations  soem  used  indiscriminately  ;  but  their 
fair  complexions,  their  remai'kable  devotion  to  all  the  ceremonies 
of  the  Catholic  (."hiu'cli,  and  many  other  circumstances,  conspire 
to  forbid  our  believing  them  to  be  of  Hebrew  descent. 

Another  very  plausible  idea  is,  that  they  are  the  descendants 
of  unfortunate  individuals  atllicted  with  goitres,  which  is,  even 
to  this  day,  not  an  uncommon  disorder  in  tlie  gorges  and  valleys 
f)f  the  Pyi'cnecs.  Some  have  even  derived  the  word  goitre  from 
Got,  or  Goth ;  but  their  name,  Crestia,  is  not  milike  Cretin, 
and  the  same  sjiiiptoms  of  idiotism  were  not  imusual  among 
the  Cagots  ;  although  sometimes,  if  old  tradition  is  to  be  credited, 
their  malady  of  the  brain  took  rather  the  form  of  violent  delirium, 
which  attacked  them  at  new  and  full  moons.  Tiien  the  work- 
men laid  down  their  tools,  and  rushed  off  from  their  labour  to 
play  mad  pranks  up  and  down  the  country.  Perpetual  motion 
was  required  to  alleviate  tlie  agony  of  fury  that  seized  upon  the 
Cagots  at  such  times.  In  this  desire  for  rapid  movement,  the 
attack  resembled  the  Neapolitan  tarantella  ;  while  in  tlie  mad 
deeds  they  performed  during  such  attacks,  tliey  were  not  unliko 
the  northern  Berserker,  in  Buarn  esiiecially,  those  suffering 
from  this  madness  were  dreaded  by  the  pure  race  ;  the  Bcaruais, 
going  to  cut  their  wooden  clogs  in  the  great  forests  that  lay 
around  the  base  of  the  Pyrenees,  feared  above  all  things  to  go 
too  near  the  periods  when  the  Cagoutelle  seized  on  the  opjiressed 
and  accursed  iieople  ;  from  whom  it  was  then  the  oppressors'  turn 
to  fly.  A  man  was  living  within  the  memory  of  some,  wlio  had 
married  a  Cagot  wife  ;  he  used  to  beat  her  right  soundly  when 
lie  saw  the  first  symptoms  of  tlie  Cagoutelle,  and,  having  reduced 
her  to  a  wholesome  state  of  exhaustion  and  insensibility,  lie  locked 
her  up  until  the  moon  had  altered  her  shai>o  in  the  luavens. 
If  lie  had  not  taken  such  «lecided  steps,  say  the  oldest  iiihabi- 
tiiiits,  there  is  no  knowing  what  might  have  happened. 

From  the  thirteenth  to  the  end  of  tlie  nineteenth  century, 
there  are  facts  enough  to  prove  the  universal  abhorrence  in  which 
this  unfortunate  race  was  held  ;  whether  called  Cagots,  or  (Jahets 
ill  J*yreneau  districts,  Caqueaux  in  Brittany,  or  Vaqueros  in 
Asturias.  The  groat  French  revidution  brought  some  good  out 
of  its  fermentation  of  the  people  :  the  more  intelligent  among 
them  tried  to  ovt;rconie  the  invjudice  against  the  Cagots. 

In  seventeen  hundred  and  eighteen,  there  wiis  a  fiunoiis  cause 


AX    ACCURSED    ItACE.  307 

tined  at  Biarritz  rolating  to  Cagot  rights  and  privileges.  Then; 
was  a  wealtliy  miller,  Etieniio  Arnauld  by  uainc,  of  the  race  of 
Gotz,  Quagotz,  Bisigotz,  Astragotz,  or  Gahetz,  as  his  people  arc 
described  in  the  legal  docuiiicnt.  He  married  a  i  heiress,  a  Gotto 
(or  Cagot)  of  Biarritz  ;  and  the  ucwly-marricd  well-to-do  couple 
saw  no  reason  why  they  should  stand  near  the  Ji  or  in  the  chiu'ch,- 
nor  why  he  should  not  hold  some  civil  office  in  the  commune,  of 
which  he  was  the  principal  inliabitant.  Accordinglj%  he  peti- 
tioned the  law  that  he  and  his  wife  might  be  allowed  to  sit  in 
the  gallery  of  the  chiu-ch,  and  that  he  might  be  relieved  fi'om  his 
civil  disabilities.  This  wealthy  white  miller,  Etienne  Arnauld, 
pursued  his  rights  with  some  vigour  against  the  Baillie  of  La- 
bourd,  the  dignitiuy  of  the  neighbourhood.  Whereupon  the 
inhabitants;  of  Biarritz  met  in  the  oj)cn  air,  on  the  eighth  of  May, 
to  the  number  of  one  hundred  and  tifty  ;  approved  of  the  conduct 
of  the  Baillie  in  rejecting  ^Vinauld,  made  a  subscription,  and  gave 
all  power  to  their  lawyers  to  defend  the  cause  of  the  pure  race 
against  Etienne  Arnauld — ''  that  stranger,"  who,  having  married  ji 
girl  of  Cagot  blood,  ought  alscj  to  be  expelled  from  the  holy  places. 
This  lawsuit  was  carried  thi-ough  all  the  local  coui'ts,  and  ended  by 
an  appeal  to  tlie  highest  court  in  Paris  ;  where  a  decision  was 
given  against  Basque  suj>erstitions ;  and  Etienne  Arnauld  was 
thenceforward  entitled  to  enter  the  gallery  of  the  chm-ch. 

Of  com'se,  the  inhabitants  of  Biarritz  were  all  the  more  fero- 
cious for  having  been  conquered  ;  and,  fom*  years  later,  a  carpen- 
ter, named  Miguel  Legaret,  suspected  of  Cagot  descent,  having 
placed  himself  in  the  church  among  other  people,  was  dragged 
out  by  the  abbe  and  two  of  the  jurcts  of  the  parish.  Legaret 
defended  himself  with  a  sharp  knife  at  the  time,  and  went  to  law 
afterwards  ;  the  end  of  which  was,  that  the  abbe  and  his  two 
accomplices  were  condemned  to  a  public  confession  of  penitence, 
to  be  uttered  while  on  their  knees  at  the  church  door,  just  after 
high-mass.  They  appealed  to  the  parliament  of  Bourdeaux 
against  this  decision,  but  met  with  no  better  success  than  the 
opponents  of  the  miller  Ai'nauld.  Legaret  was  confii'mcd  in  his 
right  of  standing  where  he  woidd  in  the  parish  church.  That 
a  living  Cagot  had  equal  rights  with  other  men  in  the  town  of 
Biarritz  seemed  now  ceded  to  them  ;  but  a  dead  Cagot  was  a 
different  thing.  The  inhabitants  of  pure  blood  struggled  Ion" 
and  hard  to  be  interred  apart  from  the  abhorred  race.  The 
Cagots  were  equally  persistent  in  claiming  to  have  a  common 
burying-ground.  Again  the  texts  of  tlu!  (31d  Testament  wcro 
referred  to,  and  the  pu;e  blood  quot<xltriumpliantly  the  precedent 
ol  Uzziah  the  leper  (twenty-sixth  chapter  of  the  second  book  of 


358  AN   ACCURSED    RACE. 

Chronicles),  who  was  bxmcd  in  the  field  of  the  Sepulchics  of  tho 
Kings,  not  in  the  sepulchres  tlienisclvcs.  The  Cagots  i)k'aded 
that  they  were  healthy  and  able-bodied  ;  with  no  taint  of  leprosy 
near  them.  They  were  met  by  the  strong  argiinicnt  so  difticult 
to  be  refuted,  which  I  quoted  before.  Leprosy  was  of  two  kinds, 
perceptible  and  imperceiitible.  If  the  Cagots  were  suflering 
from  the  latter  kind,  who  could  ttll  whether  they  were  free  from 
it  or  not  ?    That  decision  must  be  left  to  the  judgment  of  others. 

One  sturdy  Cagot  family  alone,  Bclone  by  name,  kept  up  a 
lawsuit,  claiming  the  privilege  of  common  sepultm-e,  for  forty- 
two  years  ;  although  the  cure  of  BiaiTitz  had  to  i)ay  one  hundred 
livres  for  every  Cagot  not  interred  in  the  right  place.  The  in- 
habitants indemnified  the  cui-atc  for  all  these  fines. 

M.  de  Eomagne,  Bishoj)  of  Tarbes,  who  died  in  seventeen 
hundred  and  sixty-eight,  was  tlie  first  to  allow  a  Cagot  to  fill  any 
office  in  the  Church.  To  be  sure,  some  were  so  spiritless  as  to 
reject  office  when  it  was  offered  to  them,  because,  by  so  claiming 
their  equality,  they  had  to  pay  the  same  taxes  as  other  men,  in- 
stead of  the  Eancaie  or  pole-tax  levied  on  tlie  Cagots  ;  the  col- 
lector of  which  had  also  a  riglit  to  claim  a  piece  of  bread  of  a 
certain  size  for  his  dog  at  every  Cagot  dwelling. 

Even  in  the  present  ceutm\v,  it  lias  been  necessary  in  some 
churches  for  the  archdeacon  of  the  district,  followed  by  all  In's 
clergy,  to  pass  out  of  the  small  door  previously  ai)propriatod  to 
the  Cagots,  in  order  to  mitigate  the  sui)crstition  wliieh,  even  so 
lately,  made  the  people  refuse  to  mingle  with  them  in  the  house 
of  God.  A  Cagot  once  played  the  congri'gation  at  Larroque  a 
trick  suggested  by  what  I  havo  just  named,  lie  slily  locked  the 
great  parish-door  of  the  church,  while  the  greater  i)art  of  tlie 
inhabitants  were  assisting  at  mass  inside  ;  i)ut  gravel  into  tho 
lock  itself,  so  as  to  i)rcvent  tlie  use  of  any  duplicate  key, —  and 
had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  the  proud  ])ure-blooded  peoi>le  file 
otit  with  bended  head,  thi'ough  the  small  low  dt)or  used  by  the 
abhorred  Cagots. 

We  arc  naturally  shocked  at  discovering,  from  facts  such  as 
these,  the  causeless  rancour  with  which  innocent  and  industrious 
people  were  so  recently  jiersecuted.  The  moiiil  of  the  history 
of  the  accursed  race  may,  perhajis,  behest  conveyed  in  the  words 
of  an  epitajjli  on  jVIrs.  ]\Iary  Hand,  who  lies  buried  in  the  church- 
yard of  Stratford-on-Avon  : — • 

Wliiit  fiiults  you  jMiw  ill  1110, 

I'my  strivi'  t<i  himii ; 
And  look  tit  lioiiic :  tluTo':! 

SoiiiftliiiiLr  to  l>c  (lone. 


359 


For  some  time  prist  I  Lad  obsorvcd  that  IMiss  Duncr.u  made  a 
good  deal  of  occupation  for  liersclf  in  writiug,  but  that  she  did 
uot  like  me  to  notice  her  emplojnucnt.  Of  course  this  made  me  all 
the  more  cm-ions  ;  and  many  wore  my  silent  conjectures — somo 
of  them  so  near  the  truth  that  I  Avas  not  much  surprised  when, 
after  Mr.  J)a\vson  liad  finished  reading  his  Paper  to  us,  sho 
hesitated,  coughed,  and  abruptly  introduced  a  little  formal 
speech,  to  the  effect  that  she  had  noted  down  an  old  Welsh  story 
the  i)articulars  of  which  had  often  been  told  her  in  her  j-outli,  as 
she  lived  close  to  the  place  where  the  events  occurred.  Every- 
body pressed  her  to  read  the  manuscript,  which  she  now  produced 
from  her  reticule ;  but,  when  on  the  point  of  beginning,  her 
nervousness  seemed  to  overcome  her,  and  she  made  so  many 
ajiologies  for  its  being  the  first  and  only  attempt  slie  had  ever 
made  at  that  kind  of  composition,  that  I  began  to  wonder  if  we 
ehould  ever  arrive  at  the  story  at  all.  At  length,  in  a  liigli- 
pitchftd,  ill-assured  voice,  she  read  out  the  title  : 

"TffE  Doom  of  the  Griffiths." 


THE    DOCM    OF    THE    GRIFFITHS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

I  HAVE  always  been  much  interested  by  tlic  traditions  wliich  arc 
Bcattored  up  and  down  North  Wales  relating  to  Owen  Glendower 
(Owain  (Jlendwr  is  the  national  spelling  of  the  name),  and  I  fully 
enter  into  the  feeling  which  makes  the  Welsh  peasant  still  look 
upon  him  as  the  hero  of  his  country.  There  was  gi-eat  joy  among 
many  of  tlie  inhabitants  of  the  principality,  when  tlie  subject  kI 
the  Welsh  prize  poem  at  Oxford,  some  fifteen  or  sixteen  years 
ago,  was  announced  to  be  "Owain  GlcndwT."  It  was  the  umst 
jiroudly  national  subject  that  had  been  given  for  years. 

Perhajjs,  some  may  not  be  aware  that  this  redoubted  chieftain 
is,  even  in  the  present  days  of  enlightenment,  as  famous  among 
his  illiterate  countrymen  for  his  magical  powers  as  for  liis  patriot 
ism.     He  says  himself — or  Shakespeare  says  it  for  him,  which  ij* 
much  the  same  thing — 

•At  my  nativity 

Tlic  front  of  heaven  was  full  of  Gcry  shapes 

Of  burning  cressets 

.     .     .     .     I  can  call  spirits  from  tho  vasty  dt  (■]>.' 

And  few  among  tho  lower  orders  in  tl»o  principality  would 
think  of  asking  Hotspur's  iiTCVcrent  question  in  reply. 

Among  otlier  traditions  preserved  rehitivo  to  this  part  of  tho 
V/elsh  liero's  character,  is  tho  old  family  prophecy  which  gives 
title  to  this  tale.  When  Sir  David  (Jam,  "as  black  a  traitor  as 
if  he  had  been  born  in  Builtli,"  sought  to  niui'der  Owen  at 
Machynlleth,  there  was  one  witli  him  whoso  name  (Jlendwr 
little  dreamed  of  having  associated  with  his  enemies.  IJliys 
ap  fJryfydd,  his"  (dd  familiar  friend,"  his  relation,  liismore  than 
brotlier,  had  consented  unto  his  blood.  Sir  David  (Jam  miglit 
be  forgiven,  but  one  whom  he  had  loved,  and  who  liad  bvtmyeil 
him,  could  never  bo  forgiven.  (Jh'udwr  was  too  deejdy  read  in 
th(!  liunian  lieart  to  kill  him.  No,  he  ht  him  live  on,  tlie  lonth- 
ing  and  scorn  of  his  compatriots,  and  the  victim  of  bitter  remors«>. 
The  mark  of  Cain  was  upon  him. 


THK    DOO.AI    OF    TIIK    GltlFFlTHS.  3G 1 

But  before  he  went  foitli — while  he  yet  stood  a  jn-isontr, 
cowering  beneath  liis  conseieneo  before  Owain  Glendwr — that 
chieftain  passed  a  doom  upon  liini  and  his  race  : 

"  I  doom  thee  to  live,  because  I  know  tliou  wilt  pray  for  death. 
Thou  shalt  live  on  beyond  the  uatm-al  term  of  the  life  of  man, 
the  scorn  of  all  good  men.  The  vei'V  children  shall  point  to 
*hee  with  hissing  tongue,  and  say,  '  There  goes  one  who  would 
have  shed  a  brother's  blood  !'  For  I  loved  thee  more  than  a 
brother,  oh  Rhysap  Gryfydd  !  Thou  shalt  live  on  to  see  all  of 
thy  house,  except  the  weakling  in  arms,  perish  by  the  sword. 
Thy  race  shall  be  acciu'scd.  Each  generation  shall  see  their 
lands  melt  away  like  snow  ;  yea  their  wealth  shall  vanish,  thongli 
they  may  labour  night  and  day  to  heaj)  uj)  gold.  And  when 
nine  generations  have  passed  from  the  face  of  the  earth,  thy 
blood  shall  no  longer  flow  in  the  veins  of  any  human  being.  In 
those  days  the  last  male  of  thy  race  shall  avenge  me.  The  son 
shall  slay  the  father." 

Such  was  the  traditionary  accomit  of  Owain  Glendwi-'s  speech 
to  his  once-tnistcd  friend.  And  it  was  declared  that  the  doom 
had  been  fullilled  in  all  things  ;  that  live  in  as  miserly  a  manner 
as  they  would,  the  Griffiths  never  were  wealthy  and  prosperous 
— indeed  that  their  worldly  stock  diminished  without  any  visible 
cause. 

But  the  lapse  of  many  years  had  almost  deadened  the  wonder- 
inspiring  power  of  the  whole  ciu'sc.  It  was  only  brought  forth 
from  the  hoards  of  Memory  when  some  untoward  event  happened 
to  the  Griffiths  family  ;  and  in  the  eighth  generation  the  faith 
in  the  prophecy  was  nearly  destroyed,  by  the  marriage  of  the 
Griffiths  of  that  day,  to  a  Miss  Owen,  who,  unexpectedly,  by  the 
<leath  of  a  brother,  became  an  heiress — to  no  considerable  amoimt, 
to  be  sui-e,  but  enough  to  make  the  prophecy  appear  reversed. 
The  hcu'ess  and  her  husband  removed  from  his  small  patrimonial 
estate  in  Merionethshire,  to  her  heritage  in  Caernarvonshire,  and 
for  a  time  the  projihccy  lay  dormant. 

If  you  go  from  Tremadoc  to  Criceaeth,  you  pass  by  the  paro- 
chial chmch  of  Ynysynhanarn,  situated  in  a  boggy  valley  running 
from  the  mountains,  which  shoulder  uj)  to  the  Kivals,  down  to 
Cardigan  Bay.  This  tract  of  land  has  every  appearance  of  having 
been  redeemed  at  no  distant  period  of  time  from  the  sea,  and  has 
all  the  desolate  rankness  often  attendant  upon  such  marshes. 
But  the  valley  beyond,  similar  in  character,  had  yet  more  of 
gloom  at  the  time  of  which  I  write.  In  the  higher  part  there  were 
large  plantations  of  firs,  set  too  closely  to  attain  any  size,  and  re- 
ciuining  stunted  in  height  and  s<rubl)y  in  a])iie:irance.     Indeed, 


3:t2  THE    DOOM    OF    TIIK    GIUFFITRS, 

niiiny  of  the  smaller  and  more  weakh'  had  died,  and  the  Lark  bod 
fallen  down  on  the  brown  soil  neglected  and  nnnoticed.  These 
trees  had  a  ghastly  ajipcaranee,  with  their  whitt'  triuikp,  seen  by 
the  dim  liglit  wliieli  strugghul  through  the  thick  boughs  above. 
Nearer  to  the  sea,  the  vaUey  assumed  a  nif ire  open,  though  hardly 
a  more  cheerful  cliaracter ;  it  looked  dark  and  overhmig  by  sea- 
fog  through  the  gi-eater  part  of  the  year,  and  even  a  farm-house, 
which  usually  imparts  something  of  eheerfidness  to  a  landscape, 
failed  to  do  so  liere.  This  valley  formed  the  gi'cater  ])art  of 
the  estate  to  which  Owen  Griffiths  became  entitled  by  right  of 
bis  wife.  In  the  higher  part  of  the  valley  was  situated  the  family 
mansion,  or  rather  dwelling-house,  for  '*  mansion  "  is  too  grand 
a  word  to  apply  to  the  clumsy,  but  substantially-built  Bodowen. 
It  was  square  and  heavy-looking,  with  just  that  much  pretension 
to  ornament  necessary  to  distinguish  it  from  the  mere  farm- 
house. 

In  this  dwelling  Mrs.  Owen  Griffiths  bore  her  husband  two 
sons — Llewcllpi,  the  future  Squire,  and  l^obert,  who  was  early 
destined  for  the  Church.  The  only  diffirenee  in  their  situation, 
up  to  the  time  when  Ivobert  was  entered  at  Jesus  College,  was. 
that  the  elder  was  invariably  indulged  by  all  around  him,  while 
Eobcrt  was  thwarted  and  indulged  by  turns ;  that  Llewellyn 
never  learned  anything  from  tlie  poor  Welsh  i)arson,  who  was 
nominally  his  private  tutor ;  while  occasionally  Squire  Griffiths 
made  a  great  jioint  of  eiiforeing  Roberts  diligence,  telling  him 
that,  as  he  had  his  bread  to  earn,  he  nmst  jiay  attention  to  his 
learning.  There  is  no  knowing  how  far  the  very  irrtgular  edu- 
cation he  had  received  would  have  carried  IvolRrt  through  his 
college  examinations;  but,  luckily  for  him  in  this  respect,  before 
.such  a  trial  of  his  learning  came  round,  he*  lieard  of  tlie  death  of 
liis  elder  brother,  after  a  short  illness,  bntught  on  by  a  hard 
drinking-bout.  Of  course,  Kobert  was  summoned  honu>,  and  it 
seemed  (piite  as  much  of  course,  nt)w  tliat  there  was  no  necessity 
for  him  to  "  earn  his  bread  by  liis  learning."'  tliat  he  should  not 
return  to  Oxford.  So  tlu;  half-i'dueated,  but  not  miintelligent, 
young  man  contiiuied  at  home,  during  the  short  remainder  of  his 
parent's  lifcitime. 

ilis  was  not  an  uncommon  character.  In  general  lie  was  mild, 
indcdeiit,  and  t;asily  managed  ;  but  once  thoroughly  roused,  his 
])assions  were  vehemiiit  and  fearful.  He  seemed,  indeed,  almost 
afraid  of  himself,  and  in  common  liardly  dared  to  give  way  to 
justiiialile  anger  so  much  did  he  dread  losing  his  .st^lf-confrol. 
Had  lie  been  judiciously  educated,  he  would,  jirobably,  have 
distinguished  liimscir  in  tliose  bi;nielits  of  literature  wliich  call 


THE    DOOM    Ol'   THE    laUFFITHS.  363 

£or  Listc  and  imaginatiou,  rather  than  any  exertion  of  reflection 
(ir  judgment.  As  it  was,  liis  literary  taste  showed  itself  in 
making  collections  of  Cambrian  antiquities  of  every  doscri2)tion, 
till  his  stock  of  Welsh  MSS.  would  have  excited  the  envy  of  Dr. 
Pugh  himself,  had  he  been  alive  at  the  time  of  wliich  I  write. 

There  is  one  characteristic  of  Robert  Griffiths  wliich  1  have 
omitted  to  note,  and  which  was  peculiar  among  his  class.  He 
was  no  hard  drinker  ;  whether  it  was  that  his  head  was  easily 
aflccted,  or  that  his  partially-refined  taste  led  him  to  disliko 
intoxication  and  its  attendant  circumstances,  I  cannot  say  ;  but 
at  five-and-twenty  Iiobert  Griffiths  was  habitually  sober — a 
thing  so  raxe  in  Llyn,  that  he  was  almost  shunned  as  a  cluuiish, 
imsociable  being,  and  passed  much  of  his  time  in  solitude. 

About  this  time,  he  had  to  appear  in  some  case  that  was  tried 
at  the  Caernarvon  assizes  ;  and  while  there,  was  a  guest  at  the 
liouse  of  his  agent,  a  shi-ewd,  sensible  Welsh  attorney,  with  ono 
daughter,  who  had  charms  enough  to  captivate  llobert  Griffiths. 
Though  he  remained  onh'  a  few  days  at  her  fothcrs  house,  they 
were  sufficient  to  decide  his  affections,  and  short  was  the  period 
allowed  to  elapse  before  he  brought  home  a  mistress  to  Bodowen. 
The  new  Mrs.  Gi-iffiths  was  a  gentle,  yielding  person,  full  of 
love  toward  her  husband,  of  whom,  nevertheless,  she  stood 
something  in  awe,  partly  arising  from  the  difference  in  their  ages, 
partly  from  his  devoting  much  time  to  studies  of  which  she 
coidd  imderstand  nothing. 

She  soon  made  him  the  father  of  a  blooming  little  daughter, 
called  Augharad  after  her  mother.  Then  there  came  several 
uneventful  years  in  tlic  household  of  Bodowen ;  and  when  the 
old  women  had  one  and  all  declared  that  the  cradle  would  not 
rock  again,  Mrs.  Griffiths  bore  the  son  and  heir.  His  birth  was 
soon  followed  by  his  mother's  death  :  she  had  been  ailing  and 
low-spirited  during  her  pregnancy,  and  she  seemed  to  lack  the 
buoyancy  of  body  and  mind  requisite  to  bring  her  roiuid  after 
her  time  of  trial.  Her  husband,  who  loved  her  all  the  more  from 
having  few  other  claims  on  his  affections,  was  deeply  grieved  by 
lier  early  death,  and  his  only  comforter  was  the  sweet  little  boy 
whom  she  had  left  behind.  That  part  of  the  squire's  character, 
which  was  so  tender,  and  almost  feminine,  seemed  called  forth 
by  the  helpless  situation  of  the  little  infant,  who  stretched  out 
his  anns  to  his  father  with  the  same  earnest  cooing  that  happier 
children  make  use  of  to  their  mother  alone.  Augharad  was 
almost  neglected,  while  the  little  Owen  was  king  of  the  hou.st;  ; 
still,  next  to  his  fatlior,  none  tended  him  so  lovingly  as  his 
sister.     Slie  was  so  accnistnmcd  to  give;  way  to  him  that  it  was 


3h'4  THE    DOOM    OF    THK    cniFKITHS, 

no  longer  a  luirdsliip.  I'y  night  and  Ity  day  Owen  was  the  con- 
stant companion  of  his  fatlicr,  and  iiuirasing  years  seemed  only 
to  confirm  the  custom.  It  was  an  unnatm-al  life  fur  tlie  child, 
seeing  no  bright  little  faces  peering  into  liis  own  (for  Aughanid 
was,  us  I  said  before,  tivc  or  six  years  older,  and  lier  face,  poor 
motherless  girl !  was  often  anything  but  bright),  hearing  no  diu  of 
clear  ringing  voices,  but  day  after  day  sharing*  the  otherwise 
solitary  hours  of  his  father,  whetlier  in  the  dim  room,  surrounded 
by  wizard-like  antiquities,  or  pattering  his  little  feet  to  keej)  u]) 
witli  his  "  tada"  in  his  mountain  rambles  or  shooting  excursions. 
Wlien  the  pair  came  to  some  little  foaming  brook,  where  the 
stei)piug-stoues  were  far  and  wide,  the  father  carried  his  little 
boy  across  with  the  tenderest  care  ;  when  the  lad  w;\s  weary, 
they  rested,  he  cradled  in  his  father's  arms,  or  the  Squire 
would  lift  him  up  and  carry  liim  to  his  home  again.  The  boy 
was  indulged  (for  his  fatlier  felt  flattered  by  the  desire)  in  his 
Avish  of  sharing  his  meals  and  keeping  tlie  same  hours.  All 
this  indulgence  did  not  render  Owen  nnamiable,  but  it  made 
him  wilful,  and  not  a  luqjpy  child.  He  had  a  tlioughtful  lo<ik. 
not  common  to  the  face  of  a  young  boy.  He  knew  no  games, 
no  merry  sjiorts  ;  his  information  was  of  au  imaginative  and 
speculative  character.  His  father  delighted  to  int^-rest  liim  in 
his  own  studies,  without  considering  how  far  they  were  healthy 
for  so  young  a  mind. 

Of  course  Squire  Griffiths  was  not  unaware  of  the  prophecy 
which  was  to  be  fulfilled  in  liis  generation.  He  would  occiu»ion- 
ally  refer  to  it  when  among  his  friends,  with  sceptical  levity  ;  but 
in  truth  it  lay  nearer  to  his  heart  than  he  chose  to  acknowledge. 
His  strong  imagination  rendered  him  peculiarly  impnssible  oji 
such  subjects  ;  wliile  his  judgment,  seldom  exercised  or  fortified 
by  severe  thouglit,  could  not  prevent  liis  continually  recurring 
to  it.  He  used  to  gaze  on  the  half-sad  coimtenimce  of  the  cliild, 
who  sat  looking  up  into  his  face  with  his  large  dark  I'ves,  so  fondly 
yet  so  in(|uiringly,  till  tlu;  old  hgend  swelled  around  his  heart, 
and  became  too  painful  for  him  not  to  require  s}^npatlly.  Ik- 
sides,  the  overi)owering  love  he  bore  to  tho  child  seemed  to 
demand  fuller  vent  than  tender  words ;  it  made  him  liki',  yet 
dread,  to  ujtbraid  its  oly'ect  for  the  feiu"ful  confnist  forettdd. 
Still  S(iuire  (JrifHths  told  the  legend,  in  a  half-jisting  nuuiner,  ti» 
his  little  son,  when  they  were  roaming  over  the  wild  heaths  in 
the  autunni  days,  "  thc^  s;iddest  of  thi-  year,"  or  while  they  sat 
in  tlie  ouk-wainscoted  room,  surrounded  by  mysterious  relicK 
that  gleanuMl  strangely  forth  by  the  flickering  fire-light.  Tho 
legend  was  wrouglit  into  tho   boy's  mind,  luiil   ho  would  cmvo, 


THE    DOOM    OF    Till"    cmFlITllS,  365 

yet  tremble,  to  bear  it  told  over  auil  over  again,  Avliilc  the  Avordij 
were  iutermiugled  with  caresses  and  questions  as  to  liis  love. 
Occasionally  bis  loNang  words  and  actions  were  cut  short  by  bis 
father's  light  yet  bitter  speech — "  Get  thee  away,  my  lad  ;  thou 
knowest  not  what  is  to  come  of  all  this  love." 

When  Augharad  was  seventeen,  and  Owen  eleven  or  twelve, 
the  rector  of  the  parish  in  which  Bodowen  was  situated,  endea- 
voured to  prevail  on  Squire  Griffiths  to  send  the  boy  to  school. 
Now,  this  rector  had  many  congenial  tastes  \\ath  his  parishioner, 
and  was  his  only  intimate  ;  and,  by  repeated  arguments,  he  suc- 
ceeded in  convincing  the  Squire  that  tlio  unnatm-al  life  Owen 
was  leading  was  in  every  Avay  iujiu'ious.  Unwillingly  was  the 
father  wrought  to  part  from  his  son  ;  but  he  did  at  length  send 
him  to  the  Grammar  School  at  Bangor,  then  under  the  manage- 
ment of  an  excellent  classic.  Here  Owen  showed  that  be  had 
more  talents  than  the  rector  had  given  him  credit  for,  when  ho 
uiHrmed  that  the  lad  had  been  completely  stupefied  by  the  life 
he  led  at  Bodowen.  He  bade  fair  to  do  credit  to  the  school 
in  the  peculiar  branch  of  leaiTiing  for  which  it  was  famous. 
But  he  was  not  i^opular  among  his  schoolfellows.  He  was  way- 
ward, though,  to  a  certain  dcgi'ce,  generous  and  unselfish ;  he 
was  reserved  but  gentle,  exce^jt  when  the  tremendous  bursts  of 
passion  (similar  in  character  to  those  of  his  father)  forced  their 
.vay. 

On  bis  return  from  school  one  Christmas-time,  when  he  bad 
liecn  a  year  or  so  at  Bangor,  be  was  stmmcd  by  bearing  that  the 
undervalued  Augharad  was  about  to  be  married  to  a  gentleman 
of  South  Wales,  residing  near  Aberystwith.  Boys  seldom 
appreciate  their  sisters  ;  but  Owen  thouglit  of  the  many  slights 
with  which  he  bad  requited  the  patient  Augharad,  and  be  gave 
way  to  bitter  regrets,  which,  with  a  selfish  want  of  control  over 
his  words,  he  kept  expressing  to  bis  father,  imtil  the  Squire  wa.«; 
thoroughly  hurt  and  cbagi-incd  at  the  repeated  exclamations  of 
"  What  shall  we  do  when  Augliarad  is  gone  ?"  "  How  dull  wo 
shall  be  when  Augliarad  is  married  !"  Owen's  holidays  were  pro- 
longed a  few  weeks,  in  order  that  he  might  be  jircscnt  at  tlie 
wedding  ;  and  when  all  the  festivities  were  over,  and  the  bride 
and  bridegj'oom  had  left  Bodowen,  the  boy  and  bis  father 
really  felt  how  much  they  missed  the  quiet,  loving  Augharad, 
She  had  pei-formcd  so  many  thoughtful,  noiseless  little  offices, 
on  which  their  daily  comfort  depended  ;  and  now  she  was  gone, 
the  household  seemed  to  miss  the  spirit  that  peacefully  kejjt  it  in 
order ;  the  servants  roamed  about  in  search  of  commands  and 
directions,  the  rooms  had  no  longer  the  unobtrusive  ordering  of 


3()G  THK    DOOM    OF    TIIK    GHIFl'ITIIS. 

taste  to  luakc  them  cliccrfnl,  the  very  fires  burned  dim.  and  wero 
always  sinking  down  into  dull  heaps  of  gray  ashes.  Altogether 
Owen  did  not  regret  his  return  to  IJangor,  and  this  also  the 
mortified  parent  perceived.    Squire  Griffiths  was  a  selfish  parent. 

Letters  in  those  days  were  u  rare  occun-cnce.  Owen  usually 
received  one  during  his  half-yearly  absences  from  home,  and 
occasionally  his  father  paid  him  a  visit.  This  half-year  the  boy 
had  no  visit,  nor  even  a  letter,  till  very  near  the  time  of  his 
leaving  school,  and  then  he  was  astounded  by  the  intelligence 
tliat  his  father  was  married  again. 

Then  came  one  of  his  paroxysms  of  i-age  ;  the  more  disastrous 
in  its  efiects  upon  his  character  because  it  could  find  no  vent  in 
action.  Independently  of  slight  to  the  memory  of  the  first 
wife,  which  childi'cn  are  so  apt  to  fancy  such  an  action  implies, 
Owen  had  hitherto  ccmsidered  himself  (and  with  justice)  the 
first  object  of  his  father's  life.  They  had  been  so  much  to  each 
other ;  and  now  a  shapeless,  but  too  real  something  had  come 
between  him  and  his  father  there  for  ever.  lie  felt  as  if  his 
permission  should  have  been  asked,  as  if  he  should  have  been 
consulted.  Certainly  ho  ought  to  have  been  told  of  the  intended 
event.  So  the  Squire  felt,  and  hence  his  constrained  letter 
which  had  so  much  increased  the  bitterness  of  Owen's  feelings. 

With  all  this  anger,  when  Owen  saw  his  stepmother,  ho 
thought  he  had  never  seen  so  beautiful  a  woman  for  lur  age ; 
for  she  was  no  longer  in  the  Idoom  of  youth,  being  a  widow 
when  liis  father  married  her.  Her  manners,  to  the  Welsh  lad, 
who  had  seen  little  of  female  grace  among  the  families  of  the 
few  anticjuarians  with  whom  his  father  visited,  were  so  fascina- 
tinf  that  he  watclied  her  with  a  sort  of  breathless  adminition. 
Her  measured  grace,  her  faultliss  movements,  her  ti>nesof  voice, 
Bwcet,  till  the  ear  was  sated  witli  their  sweetness,  made  Owen 
less  angry  at  his  lather's  marriage.  Yet  he  fiit,  more  than  ever, 
that  tlie  cloud  was  between  liiiii  and  liis  father  ;  that  the  hasty 
letter  he  had  sent  in  answer  to  the  announcement  of  his  wod- 
diii"  was  not  forgotten,  althougli  no  allusion  was  ever  made  to 
it.  He  was  no  longer  his  fatlurs  confidant  hardly  ever  his 
father's  companion,  for  the  newly-married  wifi^  was  all  in  all  to  the 
Stiuire,  and  his  son  felt  himself  almost  a  eii)hev,  wlur«>  he  had  so 
long  been  everything.  Tho  lady  herself  had  ever  tlu"  softest  eon- 
sidcration  for  her  stepson  ;  almost  too  obtrusive  was  tlie  attention 
paitl  to  his  wishes,  but  still  ho  fancied  that  the  heart  had  no  part 
in  tli(!  winning  advances.  There  was  n  watchful  glance  (»f  the 
eye  that  Owen  once  or  twice  eaugiit  when  she  had  ima<'ined 
liers'lf  unobserved,  and  many  other  nameless  little  cireunistanceK, 


THK    DOOJI    OK    THK    GKIFFITHS.  367 

that  gave  him  a  sti-oii^  feeling  of  want  of  sincerity  in  his  stej)- 
niothor.  Mrs.  Owen  brought  witli  her  into  tlic  family  her  little 
ehihl  by  her  tirst  husband,  a  boy  nearly  three  years  old.  He 
\va.s  one  of  those  elfish,  obsei'vaut,  mocking  children,  over  whoso 
feelings  you  seem  to  have  no  control :  agile  and  mischievous, 
his  little  practical  jokes,  at  first  performed  in  ignorance  of  the 
pain  he  gave,  but  afterward  proceeding  to  a  malicious  pleasure  in 
suftering,  really  seemed  to  afford  some  ground  to  the  supersti- 
tious notion  of  some  of  the  common  people  that  he  was  a  fairy 
changeling. 

Years  passed  on ;  and  as  Owen  grew  older  he  became  more 
observant.  He  saw,  even  in  his  occasional  visits  at  home  (for 
from  school  he  had  passed  on  to  college),  that  a  great  change 
had  taken  place  in  the  outward  manifestations  of  his  father's 
character;  and,  by  degrees,  Owen  traced  this  change  to  the 
influence  of  his  stepmother  ;  so  slight,  so  imperceptible  to  the 
common  observer,  yet  so  resistless  in  its  effects.  Squire  Grif- 
fiths caught  up  his  wife's  humbly  advanced  opinions,  and, 
unawares  to  himself,  adopted  them  as  his  own,  defying  all  argu- 
ment and  oppositi(m.  It  was  the  same  with  her  wishes  ;  they 
met  their  fulfilment,  from  the  extreme  and  delicate  art  with 
which  she  insinuated  them  into  her  husband's  mind,  as  his  ovm. 
She  sacrificed  the  show  of  authority  for  the  power.  At  last,  when 
Owen  perceived  some  oppressive  act  in  his  father's  conduct 
toward  his  dependants,  or  some  unaccountable  thwarting  of  his 
own  wishes,  he  fancied  he  saw  his  stepmother's  secret  influence 
thus  displayed,  however  much  she  might  regi*et  the  injustice  of 
his  father's  actions  in  her  conversations  with  him  when  they 
were  alone.  His  father  was  fast  losing  his  temperate  habits, 
and  frequent  intoxication  soon  took  its  usual  etiect  upon  the 
temper.  Yet  even  hero  was  the  spell  of  his  wife  upon  him. 
Before  her  he  placed  a  restraint  upon  his  passion,  yet  she  was 
l)ei'fectly  aware  of  his  in-itable  disposition,  and  directed  it  hither 
and  thither  with  the  same  apparent  ignorance  of  the  tendency  of 
her  words. 

Meanwhile  Owen's  situation  became  peculiarly  mortifying  to 
a  youth  whose  caidy  remembrances  afforded  such  a  contrast  to 
his  present  state.  As  a  child,  he  had  been  elevated  to  the  con- 
sequence of  a  man  before  his  years  gave  anj'  mental  check  to  the 
selfishness  whicli  such  conduct  was  likely  to  engender  ;  he  could 
reminiber  when  his  will  was  law  to  the  servants  and  dependants, 
and  his  sympathy  necessary  to  his  fatlicr  :  now  he  was  as  a 
ciplier  in  his  father's  house  ;  and  the  Squir»>,  estranged  in  the  first 
iust.ince  by  a  feeling  of  the  injury  he  liad  done  his  son  in  not 


^C,R  Tin;  DOOM  OF  Tin;  oimffitiir. 

sooner  iicquaintiiig  liiin  with  liis  juirjxiscd  marriage,  seemed  ratlior 
to  avoid  tliaii  to  sei  k  liiiii  as  a  companion,  and  too  frequcutly 
showed  tlio  most  utter  indilfennec  to  tlic  feelings  and  wishes 
which  a  young  man  of  a  liigh  and  independent  spirit  might  bo 
su])posed  to  indulge. 

Perhaps  Owen  was  not  fully  aware  of  the  force  of  all  tbcso 
circumstances ;  for  an  actor  in  a  family  drama  is  seldom  imini- 
jjassioncd  enough  to  be  perfectly  observant.  But  be  became 
moody  and  soured  ;  brooding  over  his  imlovcd  existence,  and 
craving  with  a  limiian  heart  after  Bympathy. 

This  feeling  took  more  full  possession  of  his  mind  when  bo 
had  left  college,  and  returucd  home  to  lead  an  idle  and  purpose- 
less life.  As  the  heir,  there  was  no  worldly  necessity  for  exertion  : 
his  father  was  too  much  of  a  Welsh  squire  to  dream  of  the  moral 
necessity,  and  he  himself  had  not  sufficient  strength  of  mind  to 
decide  at  once  upon  abandoning  a  place  and  mode  of  life  which 
abounded  in  daily  mortifications ;  yet  to  this  course  his  judg- 
ment was  slowly  tending,  when  some  circumstances  occurred  to 
detain  him  at  Bodowen. 

It  was  not  to  be  expected  that  harmony  would  long  bo  pre- 
served, even  in  appearance,  between  an  unguarded  and  soured 
young  man,  such  as  Owen,  and  his  wary  stepmother,  when  ho 
had  once  left  college,  and  come,  not  as  a  visitor,  but  as  thu 
luir  to  his  father's  house.  Some  cause  of  dilierence  occurred, 
where  the  woman  subdued  ker  hidden  anger  sufliciently  to 
l>ecome  convinced  that  Owc^n  >vas  not  entirely  the  dujjc  she  had 
believed  him  to  be.  Henceforward  there  was  no  peace  between 
them.  Not  in  vulgar  altercations  did  this  show  itself;  but  in 
moody  reserve  on  Owen's  part,  and  in  undisguised  and  con- 
temi)tuous  pursuance  of  her  own  i)laus  by  his  stei)motlK'r.  Bo- 
<lowen  was  no  longer  a  ])hu'e  where,  if  Owen  was  not  loved  or 
attended  to,  he  could  at  least  lind  peace,  and  care  for  himself : 
he  was  thwarted  at  every  step,  and  in  every  wish,  by  his  father's 
desire,  aj^jarcntly,  while  the  wife  sat  by  with  a  smile  of  triumph 
on  her  beautiful  lips. 

So  Owen  went  f(jrth  at  the  early  day  dawii,  sometimes 
roaming  about  on  the  shore  or  the  ujdand,  shooting  or  tishing, 
as  the  season  might  be,  but  ortcuer  "  stretclud  in  indolent  rej>oso" 
oil  thoshort,  sweet  grass,  indulging  in  gloomy  and  morbid  reveries. 
He  would  fancy  that  this  iiKirtilicd  state  of  existence  was  n 
ilream,  a  Imrrible  dream,  from  which  he  should  awake  and  linil 
himself  again  the  sole  object  and  darling  of  liis  father.  An«l 
ilien  ho  would  start  up  and  strive  to  sliake  olV  the  incubus, 
'i  here    was    the   molten  sunset    of    his  childish  memory;  the 


i 


THE    DOOM    OF    THE    CiillFFITIIS.  309 

gorgeous  crimson  piles  of  glory  in  the  west,  fading  away  into 
the  cold  calm  light  of  the  rising  moon,  while  here  and  there 
ii  clond  floated  across  the  western  heaven,  like  a  seraph's  wing, 
in  its  flaming  beauty;  the  earth  was  the  same  as  in  liis 
childhood's  days,  full  of  gentle  evening  sounds,  and  the  har- 
monies of  twilight — the  breeze  came  sweeping  low  over  the 
heather  and  blue-bells  by  his  side,  and  the  tui-f  was  sending  up 
its  evening  incense  of  pei-fume.  But  life,  and  heart,  and  hope 
were  changed  for  ever  since  those  bygone  days  ! 

Or  ho  would  seat  himself  in  a  favomitc  niche  of  the  rocks  on 
Moel  Gest,  hidden  by  a  stunted  growth  of  the  whitty,  or 
momitain-ash,  fi'om  general  observation,  with  a  rich-tinted 
cushion  of  stone-crop  for  his  feet,  and  a  straight  precipice  of 
rock  rising  just  above.  Here  would  he  sit  for  hours,  gazing 
idly  at  the  bay  below  with  its  back-gi-ouud  of  pm-ple  hills,  and 
the  little  fishing-sail  on  its  bosom,  showing  white  in  the 
sunbeam,  and  gliding  on  in  such  harmony  with  the  quiet  beauty 
of  tlie  glassy  sea  ;  or  he  would  pull  out  an  old  school-volume, 
his  companion  for  years,  and  in  morbid  accordance  \sath  the 
dark  legend  that  still  lurked  in  the  recesses  of  his  mind— a  shape 
f)f  gloom  in  those  innermost  haunts  awaiting  its  time  to  come 
forth  in  distinct  outline — would  he  turn  to  the  old  Greek 
ilramas  which  treat  of  a  family  foredoomed  by  an  avenging  Fate. 
The  worn  page  opened  of  itself  at  the  play  of  the  OEdipus 
TjTannus,  and  Owen  dwelt  with  the  craving  disease  upon  the 
prophecy  so  nearly  resembling  that  which  concemed  himself. 
With  his  consciousness  of  neglect,  there  was  a  sort  of  self- 
flattery  in  the  consequence  which  the  legend  gave  him.  He 
almost  wondered  how  they  dm\st,  with  slights  and  insults,  thus 
provoke  the  Avenger. 

The  days  drifted  onward.  Often  he  would  vehemently 
lim-sue  some  sylvan  sport,  till  thought  and  feeling  were  lost  in 
the  violence  of  bodily  exertion.  Occasionally  his  evenings  were 
spent  at  a  small  public-house,  such  as  stood  by  the  imfrequentcd 
wayside,  where  the  welcome,  hearty,  though  bought,  seemed  so 
strongly  to  contrast  with  the  gloomy  negligence  of  home  — 
unsympathising  home. 

One  evening  (Owen  might  be  foiir  or  five-and-twenty), 
wearied  witli  a  day's  shooting  on  the  Clenncny  Moors,  he 
l)asscd  by  the  open  door  of  "  Tlic  (ioat"  at  Pcnmorfa.  The 
light  and  the  cheerincss  within  tempted  him,  poor  self-exhausted 
man  !  as  it  has  done  nmny  a  one  more  wretched  in  worldly 
circumstances,  to  step  in,  and  take  his  evening  meal  where  at 
least  his  presence  was  of  some  conscc|ucncc.     It  was  a  busy  day 

n  n 


370  THE    DOOM    OF    THK    GlilFFITHS. 

in  that  little  liustel.  A  flock  of  sheep,  amounting  to  some 
hundreds,  had  unived  at  PeniiKjrfa.  on  their  road  to  England, 
and  thronged  the  space  before  the  lionse.  Inside  was  the 
shrewd,  kind-hearted  hostess,  hustling  to  and  fro,  with  merry 
greetings  for  every  tired  drover  who  was  to  pass  the  niglit  in  her 
house,  while  the  sheep  were  penned  in  a  field  close  hy.  Ever  and 
anon,  she  kept  attending  to  the  second  crowd  of  guests,  who  were 
celebvating  a  rural  wedding  in  her  house.  It  was  busy  work  t4» 
Martlia  Thomas,  yet  her  smile  never  flagged  ;  and  when  Owen 
Griffiths  had  finished  his  evening  meal  she  was  there,  ready  with 
a  hope  that  it  had  done  him  good,  and  was  to  his  mind,  and  a  word 
of  intelligence  that  the  wedding-folk  were  about  to  diinco  in  the 
kitchen,  and  the  harper  was  the  famous  Edward  of  Corwen. 

Owen,  partly  from  gotxl-natured  compliance  with  his  hostess's 
im])lied  wisli,  and  partly  from  curiosity,  lounged  to  the  passage 
which  led  to  the  kitchen — not  the  every-day,  working,  c(»oking 
kitchen,  wliich  was  behind,  but  a  good-sized  room,  where  the 
mistress  sat,  when  her  work  was  done,  and  where  the  country 
people  were  commonly  entertained  at  such  merry-makings  as  the 
present.  The  lintels  of  the  door  fonned  a  fnime  for  tlie  animatv'd 
picture  which  Owen  saw  within,  as  he  leaned  against  the  wall  in 
the  dark  passage.  The  red  light  of  tlie  tire,  with  every  now  ami 
then  a  falling  piece  of  turf  sending  forth  a  fresli  blaze,  shone  full 
upon  four  young  men  who  were  dancing  a  measure  something  like 
a  Scotch  reel,  keeping  admirable  time  in  tluir  rajiid  movements  to 
the  capital  tmie  the  harper  was  2)laying.  They  had  tlieir  hats  on 
when  Owen  first  took  his  stand,  but  as  they  grew  mon>  and 
more  animat(;d  they  Hung  them  away,  and  ])resently  their  shoes 
were  kicked  off  with  like  disregard  to  tlie  spot  wliere  they 
might  happen  to  aliglit.  Shouts  of  apj)lause  followed  juiy 
remarkable  exertion  of  agility,  in  which  eaih  seemed  to  try  to 
excel  his  companions.  At  lengtli,  wearied  and  exluiusted,  they 
8at  do\\Ti,  and  tlie  harper  gradually  ehangid  to  one  of  thost; 
wild,  ins[)iring  national  airs  for  which  he  was  so  famous.  The 
thronged  audience  sat  earmst  and  breathless,  an<l  you  might 
have  heard  a  jiin  drop,  except  when  sonu'  maiden  passed 
hurriedly,  with  flaring  candle  and  busy  look,  through  to  tho 
real  kitchen  lu'yond.  When  he  had  finished  his  beautiful  tlemo 
on  '•  The  March  of  the  men  of  Harlech,"  he  changed  the  measure 
again  to  "  Tri  chant  o'  bunnaii '"  (Three  hundred  pounds),  and 
immediately  a  most  uiimusical-looking  man  began  chanting 
"  Pciiiiilliiiii,"  or  a  sort  of  recitative  stanzas,  which  wore  soon 
taken  up  by  another,  and  this  aiiiuseiuciit  lasted  so  long  that 
Owen  grew  weary,  and  was  thinking  of  retreating  fn»m  his  pobt 


THE    DOOM    OF   THP:    GRIFFITHS.  371 

by  tho  door,  when  •some  little  bustle  was  occasioned,  on  tlio 
opposite  side  ot"  the  room,  by  the  entrance  of  a  middle-aged  man, 
and  a  young  girl,  apparently  his  daughter.  The  man  advanced 
to  tho  b(Mich  occupied  by  the  seniors  of  the  party,  who  welcomed 
him  with  the  usual  pretty  Welsh  greeting,  '"  I'a  sut  nuie  dy 
galon  ?"'  ("  How  is  thy  heart  V")  and  drinking  his  health  jjassed 
on  to  him  the  cup  of  excellent  curn\  The  girl,  evidently  a 
village  belle,  was  as  warndy  greeted  by  the  young  men,  while 
the  girls  eyed  her  rather  askance  with  a  half-jealoiis  look, 
which  Owen  set  down  to  the  score  of  her  extreme  prettiness. 
Like  most  Welsh  women,  she  was  of  middle  size  as  to  height, 
but  beautifully  made,  with  tlie  most  perfect  yet  delicate  romul- 
ness  in  every  limb.  Her  little  mob-cai>  was  carefully  adjusted 
to  a  face  wliich  was  excessively  pretty,  though  it  never  could 
be  called  handsome.  It  also  was  round,  with  tlie  slightest 
tendency  to  the  oval  shape,  richly  coIouhmI,  t]u)ug]i  somewhat 
olive  in  comi)lexion,  with  dimples  in  cheek  and  chin,  and  tho 
most  scarlet  lips  Owen  had  ever  seen,  that  were  too  short  to 
meet  over  the  small  pearly  teeth.  The  nose  was  the  most 
defective  feature  ;  but  the  eyes  were  splendid.  They  were  so 
long,  so  lustrous,  yet  at  times  so  very  soft  under  their  thick 
fringe  of  eyelash  !  Tlie  nut-brown  hair  was  carefully  braided 
beneath  the  border  of  delicate  lace  :  it  was  evident  the  little  villago 
beauty  knew  how  to  make  the  most  of  all  her  attractions,  for  the 
gay  colours  which  were  displayed  in  her  neckerchief  Avere  in 
complete  harmony  with  the  complexion. 

Owen  was  much  attracted,  while  yet  he  was  amused,  by  tho 
evident  coquetry  the  girl  displayed,  collecting  aromid  her  a 
whole  bevy  of  young  fellows,  for  each  of  whom  she  seemed  to 
have  some  gay  speech,  some  attractive  look  or  action.  In  a  few 
minutes  young  Griffiths  of  Eodowen  was  at  her  side,  brought 
thither  by  a  variety  of  idle  motives,  and  as  her  undivided 
attention  was  given  to  the  Welsh  heir,  her  admirers,  one  by  one, 
droj^ijcd  off,  to  seat  themselves  ny  some  less  fascinating  but  more 
attentive  fair  one.  The  more  Owen  conversed  with  the  girl, 
the  more  he  was  taken  ;  she  had  more  wit  and  talent  than  he 
had  fancied  j)()ssil)le  ;  a  self-al)andou  and  thoughtfidiu'ss,  to 
l)oot,  that  soeiued  full  of  charms  ;  and  tlien  her  voice  was  so 
ch;ar  and  sweet,  and  her  actions  so  full  of  grace,  tliat  Owen  was 
tascinat(;d  before  he  was  Avell  awai'e,  an<l  kept  looking  into  her 
bright,  blusliing  face,  till  her  ujilit'tcd  flashing  eye  fell  beneath 
his  e;irnest  gaze. 

While  it  thus  hai)i)ened  that  they  were  sflent  she  from 
confusion  at  the  miexpected  warmth  of  his  admiration,  he  from 

n  II  2 


372  Tin:  DOOM  ok  thk  uniFFinis. 

an  unconseiouKncss  of  anytliing  Ijut  the  beautiful  chiiugcs  in  her 
Hcxilc  fouiitciiiiiicc  — the  man  whom  Uwen  took  for  her  father 
came  up  aiid  a(hlrts.sed  some  observation  to  his  daughter,  frouj 
whence  he  glided  into  some  commonplace  though  respectful 
remark  to  Owen,  and  at  length  engaging  him  iu  somo  slight, 
local  conversation,  he  led  the  way  to  tlie  account  of  a  spot  on 
the  peninsula  of  Penthryn,  where  teal  abounded,  and  concluded 
wnth  begging  Owen  to  allow  him  to  show  him  the  exact  place, 
saying  that  whenever  the  young  Squire  felt  so  inclined,  if  ho 
would  honour  him  by  a  call  at  his  house,  ho  would  take  him 
aci'oss  in  his  boat.  While  Owen  listened,  his  attention  was  not 
so  much  absorbed  as  to  be  unaware  that  the  little  beauty  at  his 
side  was  refusing  one  or  two  who  endeavoured  to  draw  her  from 
her  place  by  invitations  to  dance.  Flattered  by  his  own 
construction  of  her  refusals,  he  again  directed  all  his  attention 
to  her,  till  she  was  called  away  by  her  father,  who  was  leaving 
the  scene  of  festivity.  Before  he  left  he  reminded  Owen  of  his 
promise,  and  added — 

'•  Perhaps,  sir,  you  do  not  know  me.  My  name  is  Ellis 
Pritcliard,  and  I  live  at  Ty  Glas,  on  this  side  of  Mod  Gest ;  any 
one  can  jioint  it  out  to  you." 

When  the  father  and  daughter  hatl  left,  Owen  slowly  prej>arcd 
fur  his  ride  liomc  ;  but  encountering  the  ho.stess,  he  could  not 
resist  asking  a  few  (juestions  relative  to  Ellis  Pritcliard  and  his 
pretty  daughter.  She  answered  sliortly  but  rcs2>ectfully.  and 
then  said,  rather  lusitatingly — 

'•  Master  (iriffiths,  you  know  the  triad.  '  Tri  pheth  tebvg  y 
naill  i'r  Hall,  ysgnbwr  lieb  yd,  mail  deg  hcb  ddiawd,  a  nierch 
deg  heb  ei  geirda'  (Three  tilings  are  alike  :  a  tine  barn  without 
corn,  a  line  cup  witliout  drink,  a  line  woman  without  luT 
reputati(Ui)."  She  hastily  (quitted  him,  and  Owen  rode  slowly  ti» 
his  uiihapjiy  lioiue. 

Ellis  Pritcliard,  half  fariiur  and  half  lishei-man.  was  shrewd, 
and  keen,  and  worldly  ;  yet  he  was  good-natureil,  and  sulhciently 
generous  to  have  become  rather  a  popular  man  among  his  equals. 
He  had  been  struck  with  tin;  young  S(iuire's  attenti()n  to  his 
pretty  daughter,  and  was  not  insensible  to  the  advantages  to  be 
derived  from  it.  Nest  would  not  be  the  tirst  peasant  girl,  by  any 
means,  who  had  been  tmnsplantid  to  a  Welsh  nianor-house  as 
its  mistress;  and,  lu-cordingly,  h«'r  father  hail  shrewdly  giviii 
tlu!  admiring  young  man  some  pittext  for  furtlier  «q>por(uuiti<  h 
of  S'-eing  her. 

Ah  for  Nestrherself,  she  had  somewhat  of  lur  father's  world- 
^noBB,  juiil  was  fully  alive  to  tho  sujierior  station  of  liei  ne.v 


Tin:    DOOM    OF   Till-:    GItlFFITU.S.  •}7.-} 

adiniror,  and  quite  prepared  t(i  slight  all  her  old  sweethearts 
vn  his  aecount.  But  then  slie  had  something  more  of  feeling  in 
her  reckoning  ;  she  had  not  been  insensible  to  the  earnest  yet 
comparatively  retiucd  homage  which  Owen  jiaid  her ;  she  had 
noticed  his  expressive  and  occasionally  handsome  eomiteuancc 
with  admiration,  and  was  flattered  by  his  so  immediately  singling 
lier  out  fr<jm  her  companions.  As  to  the  hint  which  Martha 
Thomas  had  thi'own  out,  it  is  enough  to  say  that  Nest  was  very 
giddy,  and  that  she  was  motherless.  She  had  high  S2)irits  and  a 
great  love  of  admiration,  or,  to  use  a  softer  term,  she  loved  to 
please  ;  men,  women,  and  children,  all,  she  delighted  to  gladden 
with  her  smile  and  voice.  She  coquetted,  and  flirted,  and  wenf 
to  the  extreme  lengths  of  Welsh  courtship,  till  the  seniors  of  the 
village  shook  their  heads,  and  cautioned  their  daughters  against 
her  acquaintance.  If  not  absolutely  guilty,  she  had  too  frequently 
been  on  the  verge  of  guilt. 

Even  at  the  time,  Martha  Thomas's  hint  made  but  little  im- 
pression on  Owen,  for  his  senses  were  otherwise  occui)ied ;  but 
in  a  few  days  the  recollection  thereof  had  wholly  died  away,  and 
one  warm  glorious  summer's  day,  he  bent  his  steps  toward  Ellis 
Pritchard's  with  a  beating  heart  ;  for,  except  some  very  slight 
flirtatious  at  Oxford,  Owen  had  never  been  touched  ;  his  thoughts 
his  fiincy,  had  been  otherwise  engaged. 

Ty  Glas  was  built  against  one  of  the  lower  rocks  of  Moel 
Gest,  which,  indeed,  formed  a  side  to  the  low,  lengthy  house. 
The  materials  of  the  cottage  were  the  shingly  stones  which  had 
fallen  from  above,  plastered  rudely  together,  with  dee})  recesses 
for  the  small  oblong  windows.  Altogether,  the  exterior  was 
much  ruder  than  Owen  had  expected  ;  but  inside  there  seemed 
no  lack  of  comforts.  The  house  was  divided  into  two  apart- 
ments, one  large,  roomy,  and  dark,  into  which  Owen  entered 
immediately  ;  and  before  the  blushing  Nest  came  from  the  inner 
chamber  (for  she  had  seen  the  young  Squire  coming,  and  hastily 
pone  to  make  some  alteration  in  her  dress),  he  had  had  time  to 
look  around  him,  and  note  the  various  little  particulars  of  the 
room.  Beneath  the  window  (which  commanded  a  magnilicent 
view)  was  an  oaken  dresser,  replete  with  drawers  and  cupboards, 
and  brightly  polished  to  a  rich  dark  colour.  In  the  farther  part 
of  tlie  room  Owen  could  at  first  distinguish  little,  entering  as  he 
did  from  the  glaring  sunlight,  but  he  soon  saw  that  thei'e  were 
two  ojikcn  beds,  closed  up  after  the  manner  of  the  Welsh  :  in 
fact,  the  domitories  of  Ellis  Pritchard  and  the  man  who  served 
under  him,  both  on  sea  and  on  land.  There  v/as  the  large  wheel 
u.s^d  for  spinning  wool,  loft  standing  on  the  middle  of  the  floor, 


374  THE    DOOM    OF    THE    GRIFFITHS. 

ns  if  in  use  only  :i  few  miniitts  Ixfore  :  and  around  tlic  ample 
chiniiiey  liiuif^  Hitches  of  bacon,  dried  kids'-flcsh,  and  tish,  tliat 
was  in  process  of  sniokini^  for  winter's  store. 

Before  Nest  had  shyly  dared  to  enter,  her  father,  who  had 
been  mending  his  nets  down  below,  and  seen  Owen  winding  up 
to  the  house,  came  in  and  gave  liim  a  hearty  yet  respectful  wel- 
come ;  and  then  Xest,  downcast  and  blushing,  full  of  the  con- 
Bciousness  which  her  father's  advice  and  conversation  had  not 
failed  to  insjjirc,  ventured  to  join  them.  To  Owen's  mind  this 
reserve  and  shyness  gave  her  new  charms. 

It  was  too  bright,  too  hot,  too  anj-thing  to  think  of  going  to 
shoot  teal  till  later  in  the  day,  and  Owen  was  delighted  to  accept 
a  hesitating  invitation  to  share  the  noonday  meal,  Some  ewe- 
milk  cheese,  very  hard  and  dry,  oat-cake,  slips  of  the  dried  kids'- 
flesh  broiled,  after  having  been  previoiisly  soaked  in  water  for  a 
few  minutes,  delicious  butter  and  fresh  butter-milk,  with  a  liquor 
called  "  diod  gi'iafol  "  (made  from  the  beri'ies  of  the  Morbus  attcu- 
jmria,  infused  in  water  and  then  fermented),  composed  the  frugal 
repast ;  but  there  was  something  so  clean  and  neat,  and  witlial 
such  a  true  welcome,  that  Owen  ha/1  seldom  enjoyed  a  meal  so 
much.  Indeed,  at  that  time  of  day  tlie  Welsh  s(juiris  ditiVred 
from  the  farmers  more  in  the  plenty  and  rough  abinulance  of  their 
manner  of  living  than  in  the  refinenirnt  of  style  of  tlieir  table. 

At  the  present  day,  down  in  Llyn.  the  Wilsh  gentry  are  not  a 
wit  behind  their  Saxon  equals  in  the  exjK-nsive  elegances  of  lift-  ; 
but  then  (when  there  was  but  one  jiewter-service  in  all  Northum- 
berland) there  was  nothing  in  Ellis  Tritchards  mode  of  living 
that  grated  «m  the  young  Squire's  sense  of  retintuunt. 

Little  was  said  by  that  young  i)air  of  wooers  during  the  meal : 
the  father  had  all  the  conversation  to  himself,  apparently  heed- 
less of  the  ardent  looks  and  inattentive  mien  of  his  giiest.  As 
Owen  became  more  serious  in  his  feelings,  he  grew  more  timid 
in  th(!ir  expression,  and  at  niglit,  when  they  returned  from  their 
shooting-i'xcursion,  the  caress  he  gave  Nest  was  almost  as  bash- 
fully olVered  as  received. 

This  was  but  the  first  of  a  series  of  days  devoted  to  Nest  in 
reality,  though  at  iirst  lu!  thought  some  little  disguise  of  his 
object  was  necessary.  The  past,  tlii'  future,  was  all  forgotten  in 
those  hai)py  days  of  love. 

And  every  worldly  plan,  every  womanly  wile  was  ]>ut  in 
]n'actic(!  by  Kllis  I'ritchard  and  his  daughti-r,  t«)  render  his  vi«itK 
agreeabhi  and  alluring.  Ind<>ed,  the  vi-ry  cin-umstunee  of  his 
lieing  welcome  was  enough  to  attract  the  j)oor  young  man,  to 
whom  the  feeling  bo  produced  was  m-w  and  full  of  clmrms.     Hn 


THE    DOOM    OF    TIIK    GHIFFITIIS.  375 

left  SI  Lome  wLtre  the  certii'iity  of  being  tliwaiteil  uiudc  him 
chary  iu  expnssing  his  wislue  ;  wlierc  no  tones  of  love  ever  fell 
on  his  ear,  save  those  addressed  to  others  ;  where  his  presence  or 
absence  was  a  matter  of  utter  indifference  ;  and  when  he  entered 
Ty  Glas,  all.  down  to  the  little  cur  which,  ^\•ith  clamorous  bark- 
ings, claimed  a  part  of  his  attention,  seemed  to  rejoice.  Hib  ac  • 
coimt  of  his  days  employment  fomid  a  willing  listener  in  Ellis ; 
and  when  he  passed  on  to  Nest,  busy  at  her  wheel  or  at  her  chm-n, 
the  deepened  colom-,  the  conscious  eye,  and  the  giadual  yielding 
of  herself  up  to  his  lover-like  caress,  had  worlds  of  chamis.  Ellis 
Pritchard  was  a  tenant  on  the  Bodowen  estate,  and  therefore  had 
reasons  in  plenty  for  ^^"ishing  to  keep  the  yoimg  Squire's  visits 
secret ;  and  Owen,  unwilling  to  disturb  the  simny  calm  of  these 
halcyon  days  by  any  storm  at  home,  was  ready  to  use  all  the 
artifice  which  Ellis  suggested  as  to  the  mode  of  his  calls  at  Ty 
Glas.  Nor  was  he  imawtu-e  of  the  probable,  nay,  the  hoped-for 
teiTuination  of  these  repeated  days  of  happiness.  He  was  quite 
c:<mscious  that  the  father  mshcd  for  nothing  better  than  the  marri- 
age of  his  daughter  to  the  heir  of  Bodowen  ;  and  when  Nest  had 
hidden  her  face  in  his  neck,  which  was  encircled  by  her  clasping 
ur.ns,  and  murmured  into  his  ear  her  acknowledgment  of  love, 
he  felt  only  too  desirous  of  finding  some  one  to  love  him  for 
ever.  Though  not  highly  principled,  he  would  not  have  tried  to 
obtain  Nest  on  other  terms  save  those  of  marriage  :  he  did  so 
pine  after  enduring  love,  and  f\incied  he  should  have  bound  her 
heart  for  evermore  to  his,  when  they  had  taken  the  solemn  oaths 
of  matiimony. 

There  was  no  great  difficulty  attending  a  secret  marriage  at 
such  a  place  and  at  such  a  time.  One  gusty  autmun  day,  Ellis 
ferried  them  round  Penthryn  to  Llandutrwyn,  and  there  saw  his 
little  Nest  become  futm-e  Lady  of  Bodowen. 

How  often  do  we  see  giddy,  coquetting,  restless  girls  become 
sobered  by  marriage  ?  A  great  object  in  life  is  decided  ;  one  on 
wliich  their  thoughts  have  been  running  in  all  their  vagarioe, 
and  they  seem  to  verify  the  beautiful  fable  of  Undine.  A  new 
soul  beams  out  in  the  gentleness  and  repose  of  their  future  lives. 
An  indescribable  sf^ftness  and  tenderness  takes  place  of  the 
wearying  vanity  (jf  their  former  endeavours  to  attract  admiration. 
Something  of  this  sort  took  place  in  Nest  Pritchard.  If  at  first 
she  had  been  anxious  to  attract  the  young  Squire  of  Bodowen, 
long  before  her  marriage  this  feeling  had  merged  into  a  truer  lovo 
than  she  had  ever  felt  before  ;  and  now  that  he  was  her  own,  her 
husband,  her  whole  soul  was  bent  toward  making  him  amends, 
as  far  as  in  her  lay,  for  the  misery  which,  with  a  woman's  tact, 


376  THK    DOeJM    OF    T1;K    (iUIFFITllS. 

gbe  saw  that  ho  had  to  endure  at  his  home.  Her  greetings  wero 
ubouudiug  ill  delicately-expressed  love ;  her  study  of  his  tiv^tes 
uuwearyiug,  iii  the  arrangement  oi  her  dress,  her  time,  her  very 
thoughts. 

No  wonder  that  he  looked  baek  on  his  wedding-day  with  a 
thankfulness  which  is  seldom  the  result  of  unequal  marriages. 
No  wonder  that  his  heart  beat  aloud  as  formerly  wlien  he  wound 
up  the  little  i)ath  to  Ty  Glas,  and  saw — keen  though  the;  winter's 
wind  might  be — that  Nest  was  standing  out  at  the  door  to  watch 
for  his  dimly-seen  ai)i)roach,  while  the  candle  fliU'ed  in  tl;e  little 
window  as  a  beacon  to  guide  him  aright. 

The  angry  words  and  unkind  actions  of  home  fell  deadened 
on  his  heart  ;  he  thought  of  the  love  that  was  surely  his.  and  of 
the  new  promise  of  love  that  a  short  time  would  bring  forth,  and 
he  could  almost  have  smiled  at  the  impotent  cfiForts  to  distmb 
his  peace. 

A  few  more  months,  and  the  young  father  was  gi-eeted  bv  a 
feeble  little  cry,  when  he  hastily  entered  Ty  Glas,  one  morning 
early,  in  consequence  of  a  summons  conveyed  mysteriously  to 
Bodowen  ;  and  the  pale  mother,  smiling,  and  feebly  holding  up 
her  babe  to  its  father's  kiss,  seemed  to  him  even  more  lovely 
than  the  bright  gay  Nest  who  had  won  his  heart  at  tlie  little  inn 
of  Penmorfa. 

But  the  curse  was  at  work  !  The  fidiilment  of  tlic  prophecy 
was  nigh  at  hand  ! 


CHAPTER  II. 


It  was  the  autumn  after  the  birth  of  their  boy  ;  it  had  bocii  ti 
glorious  summer,  with  bright,  hot,  sunny  weather  ;  and  now  tlu> 
year  was  fading  away  as  si-asonably  into  nullow  days,  with 
mornings  of  silver  mists  and  clear  frosty  nights.  Tin-  bloom- 
ing look  of  the  time  of  flowers,  was  past  and  gone  ;  but  instead 
there  were  even  richer  tints  abroad  in  tlie  sun-C(doured  leaves, 
the  lichens,  the  gidden  blossomed  furze;  if  it  wius  the  time  of 
fading,  there  was  a  glory  in  the  tlecay. 

Nest,  in  her  loving  anxiety  to  surround  her  dwelling  with 
every  charm  for  her  husband's  sake,  had  turned  ganleuer,  and 
tlie  little  corners  of  the  rude  court  before  the  house  wert>  tilled 
with  many  a  delicate  mountain-flower,  tninsi)lanted  mor(<  fiU"  its 
beauty  tlian  its  mrity.  The  sweetbrier  bush  may  even  yet  Ik< 
Keen,  old  and  gray,  which  shi>  and  Owen  jilunti-d  a  green  slipling 
beneath  tlie  window  of  her  little  cliaiuber.       In  thoxo  niomeutii 


THE    DOOM    OF    Till-:    GKIFlTniS.  3<7 

Owen  forgot  all  besides  the  present  ;  all  the  cares  and  griefs 
he  liad  known  in  the  past,  and  all  that  nught  await  him  of  woe 
and  death  in  the  futm-e.  Tlic  boy,  too,  was  as  lovely  a  eliild  as 
the  fondest  parent  was  ever  blessed  with  ;  and  crowed  with 
delight,  and  clapped  his  little  hands,  as  his  mother  held  him  in 
her  anns  at  the  cottage-door  to  watch  his  father's  ascent  uj^ 
the  rough  path  that  led  to  Ty  Glas,  one  briglit  autumnal  morn- 
ing ;  and  when  the  three  entered  the  house  together,  it  was 
difKcult  to  say  wliich  was  the  happiest.  Owen  carried  his  boy, 
and  tossed  and  i)la3'ed  with  him,  while  Nest  sought  out  some 
little  article  of  work,  and  seated  herself  on  the  dresser  beneath 
the  window,  where  now  busily  plying  the  needle,  and  then 
again  looking  at  her  husband,  slie  eagerly  told  him  the  little 
pieces  of  domestic  intelligence,  the  winning  ways  of  the  child, 
the  result  of  yesterday's  fishing,  and  such  of  the  gossip  of 
Penmorfa  as  came  to  the  ears  of  the  now  retired  Nest.  She 
noticed  that,  when  she  mentioned  any  little  circumstance  which 
bore  the  slightest  reference  to  Bodowcn,  her  husband  appeared 
chafed  and  uneasy,  and  at  last  avoided  anything  that  miglit  in 
the  least  remind  him  of  home.  In  truth,  he  had  been  suttering 
much  of  late  from  the  irritability  of  his  father,  shown  in  trifles 
to  be  siu-e,  but  not  the  less  galling  on  that  account. 

"While  they  were  thus  talking,  and  caressing  each  other  and 
the  child,  a  shadow'  darkened  the  room,  and  before  they  coiild 
catch  a  glimpse  of  the  object  tliat  had  occasioned  it,  it  vanished, 
and  Sfiuire  Griffiths  lifted  the  door-latch  and  stood  before  them. 
He  stood  and  looked — first  on  his  son,  so  difl'erent,  in  his 
buoyant  expression  of  content  and  enjoyment,  with  liis  noble 
child  in  his  arms,  like  a  proud  and  hapi)y  father,  as  he  was, 
from  the  depressed,  moody  young  man  he  too  often  appeared  at 
Bodowen  ;  then  on  Nest — poor,  trembling,  sickened  Nest ! — • 
who  dropped  her  work,  but  yet  durst  not  stir  from  her  seat,  on 
the  dresser,  while  she  looked  to  her  liusband  as  if  for  protection 
from  his  father. 

The  Squire  was  silent,  as  he  glared  from  one  to  the  other, 
his  features  white  with  restrained  inission.  When  he  spoke,  his 
M'ords  came  most  distinct  in  their  forced  coniposiuc  It  was  to 
his  son  he  addressed  himself: 

"  That  woman  !  who  is  she  ?" 

Owen  hesitated  one  moment,  and  then  rcj)lied,  in  a  steady, 
yet  (piiet  voice : 

"  Father,  that  woman  is  my  wife." 

He  would  have  added  some  apology  for  the  long  concealment 
of  his  marriag(! ;  liavc  appealed  to  his  father's  forgiveness  ;  but 


378  I'HJ'^    1>*>"-^I    <"•'    ^'l'-    UKIFFITIIS. 

the  foam  flew  from  Sfjuirc  Owcu's  lips  as  he  burst  furtk  with 
iuvective  ayaiiist  Nest  :  — 

"You  liave  married  her!  It  is  as  tliey  tuhl  me!  Married 
Nest  Pritehard  yr  l)uteii !  And  you  stand  there  as  if  you  had 
not  disgraced  yourself  for  ever  and  ever  with  your  accursed 
wiving  !  And  the  fair  harlot  sits  there,  in  lier  mocking  motlesty, 
practising  the  miniming  airs  that  will  become  her  state  as  future 
Lady  of  Bodowen.  But  I  will  move  heaven  and  earth  before 
that  false  woman  dai-kcn  the  doors  of  my  father's  house  as 
mistress  !" 

All  this  was  said  with  such  rapidity  that  Owen  had  no  time 
for  the  words  that  thronged  to  his  lips.  "  Father !"  (ho 
burst  forth  at  length)  "  Father,  whosoever  told  you  that  Nest 
Pritehard  was  a  harlot  told  you  a  lie  as  false  as  hell  !  Ay  !  a 
lie  as  false  as  hell !'  ho  added,  in  a  voice  of  thunder,  while  he 
advanced  a  step  or  two  nearer  to  the  Scjuirc.  And  tlien,  in  a 
lower  tone,  he  said — 

"  She  is  as  pure  as  your  own  wife ;  nay,  God  heli)  me  !  as 
the  dear,  precious  mother  who  brought  me  forth,  and  then 
left  me — with  no  refuge  iu  a  mother's  hearts  to  struggle  on 
through  life  alone.  I  tell  you  Nest  is  as  pure  as  that  dear, 
dead  mother  !" 

"  Fool — poor  fool !" 

At  this  moment  the  child — the  little  Owen — who  had  kept 
gazing  from  one  angry  countenance  to  the  other,  and  with 
earnest  look,  trying  to  imderstand  what  had  broiight  the  lierco 
glare  into  the  face  where  till  now  he  had  read  nothing  but  love, 
in  some  way  attracted  the  Stjuin's  attention,  and  increased  his 
wrath. 

"  Yes,  he  continued,  "  poor,  weak  fool  that  you  are,  hugging 
the  child  of  another  as  if  it  win;  your  own  otVspring  I"  C)wen 
iuvobnitarily  caressed  the  alVriglitt  d  ihild,  and  half  smiled  at  the 
iiiii»lication  of  his  father's  words.  This  the  Squire  perceived,  and 
raising  his  voice  to  a  scivanj  of  rage,  he  went  on  : 

"  I  bid  you,  if  you  call  yoiuself  my  son,  to  cast  away  that 
miserable,  shameless  woman's  oft'spring ;  cast  it  away  this  instant 
'   this  instant !" 

In  this  ungovernable!  rage,  seeing  that  Owen  was  far  from 
r-oniplying  with  his  conuniuul,  he  snatched  the  jioor  infant  fronj 
)l:e  loving  arms  that  held  it,  and  throwing  it  to  his  mother,  left 
tin:  house  inarticulate  with  fury. 

Nest  who  liad  been  j)ale  and  still  as  nuirble  during  tliis 
(i  rrible  dialogue,  looking  on  and  lisb'ning  as  if  faKcinat<>dliy  the 
w.iids   that  smote  lier  heart     oixiied  her  arms   to  receive   and 


THE    DOOM    OF    TIIR    GRIFFITHS,  379 

cherish  her  precious  babe  ;  but  the  boy  was  not  destined  to  reach 
th(j  white  refuge  <tf  lier  breast.  The  furious  action  of  tlio 
Stjuire  had  been  ahnost  without  aim,  and  the  infant  fell  against 
tb.e  sharp  edge  of  the  dresser  down  on  to  the  stone  floor. 

Owen  sprang  up  to  take  the  child,  but  he  lay  so  still,  so 
motionless,  that  the  awe  of  death  came  over  the  father,  and  he 
stooped  down  to  gaze  more  closely.  At  that  moment,  the 
upturned,  filmy  eyes  rolled  convulsively — a  spasm  passed  along 
the  body — and  the  lijis,  yet  warm  with  kissing,  quivered  into 
cvcx-lasting  rest. 

A  word  from  her  husband  told  Nest  all.  She  slid  down  from 
her  seat,  and  lay  by  her  little  son  as  corpse-like  as  he,  imheeding 
all  the  agonizing  endeaiTncnts  and  jiassionate  adjiU"ations  of  her 
husband.  And  that  poor,  desolate  husband  and  father  !  Scarce 
one  little  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  he  had  been  so  blessed  in  his 
consciousness  of  love  !  the  bright  promise  of  many  years  on  his 
infant's  face,  and  the  new,  fresh  soul  beaming  forth  in  its 
awakened  intelligence.  And  there  it  was  ;  the  little  clay  image, 
tliat  would  never  more  gladden  up  at  the  sight  of  him,  nor 
stretch  forth  to  meet  his  embrace  ;  whose  inarticulate,  yet  most 
eloquent  cooings  might  haunt  him  in  his  dreams,  but  would 
never  more  be  heard  in  waking  life  again  !  And  by  the  dead 
babe,  almost  as  utterly  insensate,  the  poor  mother  had  fallen  in  a 
merciful  faint  —  the  slandered,  heart-j)ierced  Nest !  Owen 
struggled  against  the  sickness  that  came  over  him,  and  busied 
himself  in  vain  attempts  at  her  restoration. 

It  was  now  near  noon-day,  and  Ellis  Pritchard  came  home, 
little  dreaming  of  the  sight  that  awaited  him ;  but  though 
stimned,  he  was  able  to  take  more  effectual  measures  for  his  jioor 
daughter's  recovery  than  Owen  had  done. 

By-and-by  she  showed  symptoms  of  returning  sense,  and  was 
placed  in  her  own  little  bed  in  a  darkened  room,  where,  without 
(!ver  waking  to  complete  consciousness,  she  fell  asleep.  Then  it 
was  tliat  her  husband,  suffocated  by  pressure  of  miserable 
tliought,  gently  drew  his  hand  from  her  tightened  clasp,  and 
printing  one  long  soft  kiss  on  lujr  white  waxen  forehead,  hastily 
stole  out  of  the  room,  and  out  of  the  house. 

Near  the  base  of  Moel  Gest — it  miglit  be  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
from  Ty  Glas — was  a  little  neglected  solitary  copse,  wild  and 
tangled  with  the  trailing  branches  of  the  dog-rose  and  the 
tendrils  of  the  white  lu-yony.  Toward  tlie  middle  of  this  thicket 
lay  a  deep  crystal  pool  a  clear  mirror  for  tlu^  bhu;  heavens 
above  —and  roimd  the  margin  floated  t]i(!  Ijroad  gi-een  leaves  of 
the  water-lily,  and  when  the  regal  sun  shone  down  in  his  noon- 


380  Tin:  hodm  of  tiii:  ckikfiths. 

day  gloi'y  tlio  flowers  aro.st;  from  tluii-  cool  dcptli?*  to  welcome 
and  {^rcL't  hiiu.  Tlic  cojisc  Wiis  musical  witii  many  sounds ;  the 
wai'bling  of  birds  rcjoicinj;;  in  its  shades,  the  ceaseless  hum  ol 
the  insi:cts  that  hovered  over  the  jxxd,  the  chime  of  the  distant 
waterfall,  the  occasional  bleating  of  the  sheci)  from  the  mountain- 
top,  were  all  blended  into  tlu;  delicious  harmony  of  nature. 

It  had  been  one  of  Owen's  favourite  resorts  when  he  had  been 
a  lonely  wanderer— a  ])ilgrim  in  search  of  love  in  the  yeai-s 
gone  by.  And  thitlier  he  W(;nt,  as  if  by  instinct,  when  he  left 
Ty  Glas ;  quelling  the  uprising  agony  till  he  should  reach  that 
little  solitary  spot. 

It  was  the  time  of  day  wluMi  a  change  in  the  asjiect  of  the 
weather  so  frequently  takes  place  ;  and  the  little  i)ool  was  no 
longer  the  reflection  of  a  blue  and  sunny  sky :  it  sent  back  the 
dark  and  slaty  clouds  above,  and,  every  now  and  then,  a  rough 
gust  shook  the  jminted  autumn  leaves  from  their  branches,  and  all 
other  nmsic  was  lost  in  the  sound  of  the  wild  winds  piping  down 
from  the  moorlands,  whicli  lay  up  and  beyond  the  clefts  in  the 
mountain-side.  Presently  the  rain  came  on  and  beat  down  in 
torrents. 

But  Owen  heeded  it  not.  He  sat  on  the  dank  ground,  his  face 
buried  in  his  hands,  and  his  wh(de  strength,  jdiysical  andmeut^il, 
employed  in  quelling  the  rusli  of  blood,  which  rose  and  boiled 
and  gurgled  in  his  brain  as  if  it  W(mld  madden  him. 

The  phantom  of  his  dead  ehihl  rose  I'ver  before  him,  and 
seemed  to  cry  aloud  for  vengeance.  And  when  the  poor  yoiuig 
man  thought  upon  the  victim  whom  he  required  in  his  wihl 
longing  for  revenge,  he  shuddered,  for  it  was  his  father! 

Again  and  again  he  tried  not  to  think  ;  but  still  the  circle  of 
tliought  came  round,  eddying  through  his  brain.  At  length  lu- 
mastered  his  passions,  and  lluy  were;  calm  ;  then  he  forced  him- 
self to  arrange  some  jilan  for  the  futinc. 

He  had  not,  in  tlus  i)assionatr  hiury  of  the  nu)ment,  seen  that 
liis  fatlier  liad  left  the  coUiige  bi  lore  he  was  aware  of  the  fatal 
siei'ideiit  tliat  befell  the  child.  Owen  thought  he  had  seen  all  ; 
and  once  he  i)lainied  to  go  to  the  Squir*-  and  tell  him  of  the 
anguish  of  heart  Ik;  had  wrought,  and  awe  him,  as  it  were,  by  the 
dignity  ot  grief.  IJut  then  again  h«!  dur.st  not  -  he  distrusted 
liis  self-control  the  «dd  pnqilieey  rose  iq>  in  its  horror — lu> 
dreaded  his  doom. 

At  last  he  ditermined  to  leave  his  father  for  ever;  to  tako 
Nest  to  some  distant  country  when?  sh(>  might  forget  her  lirst- 
born,  and  where  lu'  himself  miglit  gain  a  livelilii^od  by  his  own 
exertions. 


TllK    DOOM    OF    Till:   (.Kiri'lTllS.  3SI 

But  when  he  tried  to  descend  to  the  various  little  aiinngc- 
meuts  which  were  involved  in  tlic  execution  of  tliis  plan,  he 
remembered  tliat  all  his  money  (and  in  this  resjicct  Squire  Grif- 
titlis  was  no  niggard)  was  locked  up  in  his  escritoire  at  Bodowen. 
In  vain  he  tried  to  do  away  with  this  matter-of-fact  difficulty  ; 
go  to  Bodowen  he  must :  and  his  only  hope — nay  his  determi- 
nation— was  to  avoid  liis  fatlier. 

He  rose  and  took  a  hy-path  to  Bodowen.  Tlie  liouse  looked 
even  more  gloomy  and  desolate  than  usual  in  the  heavy  down- 
l)oiU'ing  rain,  yet  Owen  gazed  on  it  rtith  something  of  regixt — 
for  sorro\\'ful  as  his  days  in  it  had  been,  he  was  about  to  leave 
it  for  many  many  years,  if  not  for  ever.  He  entered  by  a  side 
door  Oldening  into  a  passage  that  led  to  his  own  room,  where  ho 
kept  his  books,  his  gims,  his  tishing- tackle,  his  writing  materials, 
et  cetera. 

Here  he  hm-riedly  began  to  select  the  few  articles  he  intended 
to  take  ;  for,  besides  the  dread  of  interruption,  he  w'as  feverishly 
anxious  to  travel  fiir  that  very  night,  if  only  Nest  was  capable 
of  performing  the  journey.  As  he  was  thus  employed,  he  tried 
to  conjecture  what  his  lather's  feelings  would  be  on  finding  tliat 
his  once-loved  son  was  gone  away  for  ever.  Would  he  then 
awaken  to  regi'ct  for  the  conduct  which  had  driven  him  from 
home,  and  bitterly  think  on  tlie  loving  and  caressing  boy  who 
liauutcd  his  footsteps  in  former  days  ?  Or,  alas  !  would  he  only 
feel  that  an  obstacle  to  his  daily  happiness — to  his  contentment 
with  his  wife,  and  liis  strange,  doting  alfection  for  the  child — was 
taken  away  ?  Would  they  make  merry  over  the  heir's  departiu'e  ? 
Then  he  thought  of  Nest — the  young  cliildlcss  mother,  wliose 
lieart  had  not  yet  realized  her  fulness  of  desolation.  Poor 
Nest !  so  loving  as  she  was,  so  devoted  to  her  child — how  should 
ho  console  her?  He  pictured  her  away  in  a  strange  land, 
pining  for  her  native  mountains,  and  refusing  to  be  comforted 
because  her  child  was  not. 

Even  this  thought  of  tlie  liomc-sickness  that  might  possibly 
beset  Nest  liardly  made  him  hesitate  in  his  determination  ;  so- 
strongly  had  tlio  idea  taken  possession  of  liim  that  only  by 
putting  miles  and  leagues  between  him  and  his  fatlu^r  could  ho 
avert  tlie  doom  which  seemed  blending  itself  with  the  very 
purposes  of  his  life  as  long  as  he  stayed  in  proximity  witli  the 
slayer  of  liis  child. 

He  had  now  nearly  completed  his  hasty  work  of  preparation, 
and  was  fidl  of  tender  thoughts  of  his  wii'e,  when  tlie  door 
opened,  and  the  elfish  Ilobert  peered  in,  in  search  of  some  of 
'li.s  brother's  possessions.     On  seeing  Owen   he  hesitated,   but 


3.S2  TIIK    DOOM    OF   THK    ClUFFITHS. 

then  came  boldly  fr)r\viir(l,  anil   laid  his  hand  on  Owen's  ami, 
saying, 

•'  NcKta  yr  hntcii  I     }Io\v  is  Nest  yr  biiten  ?" 

He  looked  maliciously  into  Owen's  face  to  mark  the  eflfect  of 
his  words,  but  was  terrified  at  the  expressaon  he  read  there.  He 
started  off  and  ran  to  the  door,  wliile  Owen  tried  to  check  him- 
self, saying  continually,  '•  He  is  but  a  child.  He  does  not 
imderstand  the  meaning  of  what  he  says.  He  is  but  a  child  I* 
Still  Kobcrt,  now  in  fancied  security,  kept  calling  out  his  in- 
sulting words,  and  Owen's  hand  was  ou  his  gun,  gi-asping  it  >\k  if 
to  restrain  his  rising  fury. 

IJut  when  Ilobert  passed  on  daringly  to  mocking  words 
relating  to  the  i)oor  dead  child,  Owen  could  bear  it  no  longer ; 
and  before  the  boy  was  well  aware,  Owen  was  liercely  holding 
him  in  an  iron  clasp  with  one  hand,  while  he  struck  him  hard 
with  the  other. 

In  a  minute  he  checked  himself.  He  paused,  relaxed  his  gras]), 
and,  to  his  horror,  he  saw  Eobert  sink  to  the  groimd ;  in  fact, 
the  lad  was  half-stunned,  half-frightened,  and  thought  it  best  to 
assume  insensibility. 

Owen  — miserable  Owen— seeinj^  him  lie  there  prostrate,  wa.*; 
bitterly  repentant,  and  would  have  dratj;^ed  him  to  the  carved 
settle,  and  done  all  ho  could  to  restore  him  to  his  senses,  but  at 
this  instant  the;  Squire  came  in. 

I'robably,  when  the  household  at  Bodowen  rose  that  morn- 
ing, there  was  but  one  among  them  i^niurant  of  the  heir's 
relation  to  Nest  Pritchard  and  her  child  ;  for  secri-t  as  he  tried 
to  make  his  visits  to  Ty  (ilas,  they  had  been  too  freiiuent  not  ti> 
b(!  noticed,  and  Nests  altered  conduct— no  longer  fre»juenting 
dances  and  merry-makings  was  a  strongly  corroborative  cir- 
cinnstance.  Hut  IMrs.  (Jrithths'  intluence  reigned  paramount,  if 
uiuicknowledgt;d,  at  JJodowen,  and  till  she  stuictioned  the  dis 
closure,  none  would  dare  ti>  till  the  Squire. 

Now,  however,  the  time  drew  mar  wlu-n  it  suited  her  to  make 
her  husband  awart;  of  the  connection  his  son  liad  formed  ;  so,  with 
many  tears,  and  much  seeming  reluctance,  she  l)roke  the  intelli- 
gence to  him  taking  good  can,  at  the  same  time,  to  inform  him 
of  the  light  cliaracter  Nest  had  b  >rne.  Nor  did  .she  conliiie  this 
evil  rei)utation  to  her  conduct  before  her  nnirriage,  but  insinuated 
that  even  to  this  day  she  was  a  "  woman  of  the  f^rove  and  biiike  ' 
—for  c(!nturies  the  Welsh  term  of  opi»rol-)rium  fi>r  the  loosest 
t'emahi  characters. 

Scpiiro  (iriihths  easily  tracked  Owen  to  Ty  (!las;  and  witluuit 
niiy  aim  but  the  gmtilieation  of  his  furious  anger,  f«>llowod  him 


J 


THE    DOt)M    OF    Till-:    CIMFFITHS.  383 

to  upbraid  us  wc  have  seen.  But  lie  left  the  eottage  even  nK)ra 
enrageil  against  his  son  than  he  had  entered  it,  and  returned  homo 
to  hear  the  evil  suggestions  of  the  stepmother.  He  had  heard  a 
slight  seufflc  in  which  he  caught  the  tones  of  liobert's  voice,  as 
he  passed  along  the  hall,  and  an  instant  afterwards  he  saw  the 
apparently  lifeless  body  of  his  little  favourite  dragged  along  by 
the  euli)rit  Owen — the  marks  of  strong  passion  yet  visible  on  his 
face.  Not  loud,  but  bitter  and  deep  were  the  evil  words  which 
the  father  bestowed  on  the  son  ;  and  as  Owen  stood  proudly  and 
sullenly  silent,  disdaining  all  exculpation  of  himself  in  the 
presence  of  one  who  had  wrought  him  so  much  graver — so  fatal 
an  injury — Robert's  mother  entered  the  room.  At  sight  of  her 
natural  emotion  the  wTatli  of  the  Squire  was  redoubled,  and  his 
wild  suspicions  that  this  violence  of  Owens  to  Robert  was  a 
premeditated  act  ai)peared  like  the  proven  truth  through  the  mists 
of  rage.  He  summoned  domestics  as  if  to  guard  his  own  and  his 
wife's  life  from  the  attempts  of  his  son ;  and  the  servants  stood 
wondering  around — now  gazing  at  Mrs.  Griffiths,  alternately 
scolding  and  sobbing,  while  she  tried  to  restore  the  lad  from  his 
really  bruised  and  half-unconscious  state ;  now  at  the  fierce  and 
angry  Squire ;  and  now  at  the  sad  and  silent  Owen.  And  he — 
he  was  hardly  aware  of  their  looks  of  wonder  and  terror :  his 
father's  words  fell  on  a  deadened  car ;  for  before  his  eyes  there 
rose  a  pale  dead  babe,  and  in  that  lady's  violent  sounds  of  grief 
he  heard  the  wailing  of  a  more  sad,  more  hopeless  mother.  For 
by  this  time  the  lad  Robert  had  ojiened  his  eyes,  and  though 
evidently  suffijring  a  good  deal  fi'om  the  effects  of  Owen's  blows, 
was  fully  conscious  of  all  that  was  passing  around  him. 

Had  Owen  been  left  to  his  own  nature,  his  heart  would  have 
worked  itself  to  doubly  love  the  boy  whom  he  had  injured  ;  but 
he  was  stubboi-n  from  injustice,  and  hard(;ned  by  suffering.  lie 
refused  to  vindicate  himself;  he  made  no  effort  to  resist  the 
imprisonment  the  Squire  had  decreed,  until  a  surgeon's  opinion 
of  tlic  real  extent  of  Robert's  injuries  was  made  known.  It  was 
not  luitil  the  door  was  locked  and  barred,  as  if  upon  some  wild 
and  furious  beast,  that  the  recollection  of  i>oov  Nest,  without  his 
comforting  i)resencc,  came  into  his  mind.  Oh  !  thought  he,  how- 
she  would  be  wearying,  pining  for  his  tender  sympathy ;  if, 
indeed,  she  hud  recovered  the  shock  of  mind  sufficiently  to  bo 
Bcnsible  <»f  consolation  !  What  would  she  think  of  his  absence? 
(Jould  she  imagine  he  believed  his  father's  words,  and  had  left 
her,  in  this  her  sore  trouble  and  bereavement  ?  The  thought 
madened  him,  and  he  looked  ai'ound  for  some  mode  of  escape. 

He  had  been  confined  in  a  small  unfurnished  room  on  the  first 


384  THE    DOOM    OF    THE    GRIFFITHS. 

floor,  wuinscotud,  ami  carved  all  round,  with  a  massy  door,  calcu- 
lated to  resist  the  attempts  of  a  dozen  strong  men,  even  liad  ho 
afterward  been  able  to  escape  from  the  house  uns(.en,  unheanl. 
The  window  was  placed  (as  is  common  in  old  Welsh  houses)  over 
the  fire-place  :  with  branching  chimneys  on  eitlier  hand,  forming 
a  sort  of  projection  on  the  outside.  By  this  outlet  his  cscaixj 
was  easy,  even  had  he  been  less  determined  and  desperate  than 
he  was.  And  when  he  had  descended,  with  a  little  care,  a  little 
winding,  he  might  elude  all  observation  and  pursue  his  oi'igiual 
intention  of  going  to  Ty  Glas. 

The  storm  had  abated,  and  watery  simbcams  were  gilding  the 
b.ay,  as  Owen  descended  from  the  window,  and,  stealing  along  in 
the  broad  afternoon  shadows,  made  his  way  to  the  little  plateau 
of  green  turf  in  the  garden  at  the  top  of  a  steep  precipitous  rock, 
down  the  abrupt  face  of  which  he  had  often  dropped,  by  means 
of  a  well-secured  rope,  into  the  small  sailing-boat  (his  father's 
present,  alas !  in  days  gone  by)  which  lay  moored  in  the  deep 
sea-water  below.  lie  had  always  kept  his  boat  there,  because  it 
was  the  nearest  available  spot  to  the  house ;  but  before  he  could 
reach  the  place — luilcss,  indeed,  he  crossed  a  broatl  sun-lighted 
piece  of  ground  in  full  view  of  the  windows  on  that  side  of  the 
house,  and  without  the  shadow  of  a  single  sheltering  tree  or 
shrub — he  had  to  skirt  round  a  rude  semicircle  of  underwood, 
which  would  have  been  considered  as  a  shrubbery  hail  any  one 
taken  pains  with  it.  Step  by  step  he  stealthily  moved  along — 
hearing  voices  now.  again  seeing  his  father  and  stepmother  in  no 
ilistant  walk,  the  Squire  evidently  caressing  and  considing  his 
wife,  who  seemed  to  be  urging  some  point  with  great  vehemence, 
ii^ain  forced  to  crouch  down  to  avoid  being  seen  by  the  cook, 
returning  from  the  rude  kitclun-gardtii  with  a  handful  of  herbs. 
This  was  the  way  the  doomed  heir  of  15odowen  left  his  ancestral 
house  for  ever,  and  hoped  to  leave  behind  him  his  doom.  At 
length  ho  reached  the  plateau — ho  breathed  more  freely.  Il(i 
stooped  to  discover  the  hidden  coil  of  rope,  kept  safe  and  dry  in 
a  hole  under  a  great  round  Hat  piece  of  rock  :  his  head  was  l»cnt 
down  ;  he  did  not  see  his  fallur  ni>])r()aeh.  nor  did  lu*  iiear  Ids 
f(»otstep  for  the  rush  of  blood  to  his  head  in  the  stooping  etVurt 
of  lifting  tli(!  stone;  the  S(iuire  hail  grai)pled  with  him  befon-  lie 
roRO  up  again,  In-fore  he  fully  knew  whoso  hands  detained  him, 
now,  when  his  lilKsrty  of  person  and  action  seemed  secure.  Ho 
made  a  vigorous  struggle  to  free  himsi'lf ;  he  wrestled  with  his 
father  for  a  moment  he  jjushed  him  hard,  and  drove  him  on  to 
tlio  great  displaced  stone,  all  >nis(eady  in  its  balance. 

Down   went  the  Sipiire,  down   in*^)  tli(>  deej)  waters  below    - 


THE  DOOM  OF  THE  GRIFFITHS.         385 

down  after  him  went  Owen,  half  consciously,  half  unconsciously, 
partly  coinp(.llccl  by  the  sudden  cessation  of  any  opposing  body, 
partly  from  a  vclicmcnt  irrepressible  impulse  to  rescue  his  father. 
But  he  had  instinctively  chosen  a  safer  place  in  the  deep  sea- 
water  pool  than  tliat  into  which  his  push  had  sent  his  fatlicr. 
The  Squire  had  hit  his  head  with  much  violence  against  the  side 
of  the  boat,  in  his  fall ;  it  is,  indeed,  doubtful  whether  he  was  not 
killed  before  ever  he  sunk  into  the  sea.  But  Owen  knew  nothing 
save  that  the  awful  doom  seemed  even  now  present.  lie  plimgcd 
down,  he  dived  below  the  water  in  search  of  the  body  which  had 
none  of  the  elasticity  of  life  to  buoy  it  up  ;  he  saw  his  father  in 
those  depths,  he  clutched  at  him,  he  brought  him  up  and  cast 
him,  a  dead  weight,  into  the  boat,  and  exhausted  by  the  effort,  he 
had  begun  himself  to  sink  again  before  he  instinctively  strove  to 
rise  and  climb  into  the  rocking  boat.  There  lay  his  father,  with 
a  deep  dent  in  the  side  of  his  head  where  the  skull  had  been 
fractm-ed  by  his  fall ;  his  face  blackened  by  the  arrested  course 
of  the  blood.  Owen  felt  his  pulse,  his  heart — all  was  still.  Ho 
called  him  by  his  name. 

"  Father,  father !"  he  cried,  "come  back!  comeback!  You 
never  knew  how  I  loved  you  !  how  I  could  love  you  still — if— 
Oh  God !" 

And  the  thought  of  his  little  child  rose  before  him.  "  Yes, 
father,"  he  cried  afresh,  "  you  never  knew  how  he  fell — how  he 
died  !  Oh,  if  I  had.  but  had  patience  to  tell  you  !  If  you  would 
but  have  borne  with  me  and  listened  !  And  now  it  is  over  !  Oh 
fivther !  father !" 

Whether  she  had  heard  this  wild  wailing  voice,  or  whether  it 
was  only  that  she  missed  her  husband  and  wanted  him  for  some 
little  every-day  question,  or,  as  was  perhaps  more  likely,  she  liad 
discovered  Owen's  escape,  and  come  to  inform  her  husband  of  it, 
I  do  not  know,  but  on  the  rock,  right  above  his  head,  as  it 
seemed,  Owen  heard  his  stepmother  calling  her  husband. 

He  was  silent,  and  softly  pushed  the  boat  right  \mder  the  rock  till 
the  sides  grated  against  the  stones,  and  the  overhanging  branches 
concealed  him  and  it  from  all  not  on  a  level  with  the  water. 
Wet  as  he  was,  he  lay  down  })y  his  dead  father  the  better  to  con- 
ceal himself;  and,  somehow,  the  action  recalled  those  early  days 
of  childhood — the  first  in  the  Squire's  widowhood — when  Owen 
had  shared  his  father's  bed,  and  used  to  waken  him  in  tlie  morn- 
ing to  hear  one  of  the  old  Welsh  legends.  How  long  he  lay 
thus — body  chilled,  and  brain  hard-working  through  the  heavy 
pressure  of  a  reality  as  terrible  as  a  niglitmare — he  never  knew ; 
but  at  length  he  roused  himself  up  to  think  of  Nest. 

c  c 


386  THE    DOOM    OF    THE    OHIFFITHS. 

Drawing  out  a  gi-cat  sail,  he  covered  up  the  body  of  his  father 
with  it  whei'e  he  hiy  in  the  bottom  of  the  lioat.  Then  with  his 
numbed  hands  he  took  the  oars,  and  jtulled  out  into  tho  more 
open  sea  toward  C'riceaeth.  lie  skirted  along  the  coast  till  he 
found  a  shadowed  cleft  in  the  dark  rocks  ;  to  that  j)oint  he  rowed, 
and  anchored  his  boat  close  in  land.  Then  he  moimtcd.  stagger- 
ing, half  longing  to  fiill  into  tlie  dark  waters  and  be  at  rest — half 
instinctively  finding  out  the  surest  foot-rests  on  that  precii)itous 
face  of  rock,  till  he  was  high  up.  safe  landed  on  the  turfy  summit. 
He  ran  oif,  as  if  piu'sued,  toward  Pemnorfa ;  he  ran  with  miul- 
dened  energy.  Suddenly  he  paused,  turned,  mn  again  with  tho 
same  sijccd,  and  threw  himself  prone  on  the  smnmit,  looking 
down  into  his  boat  with  straining  eyes  to  see  if  there  had  been 
any  movement  of  life — any  displacement  of  a  fold  of  sail-cloth. 
It  was  all  quiet  deep  down  below,  but  as  he  gazed  the  shifting 
light  gave  the  ai)2)eai'ance  of  a  slight  movement.  Owen  ran  to  a 
lower  part  of  the  rock,  stripped,  plimged  into  the  water,  and 
swam  to  the  boat.  When  there,  all  was  still — a\\-fully  still !  For 
a  minute  or  two,  he  dared  not  lift  up  the  cloth.  Then  reflecting 
that  the  same  terror  might  beset  him  again — of  leaving  his  father 
imaided  while  yet  a  spark  of  life  lingered — he  removed  the  shroud- 
ing cover.  The  eyes  looked  into  his  with  a  dead  stare  I  Ho 
closed  the  lids  and  bomid  up  the  jaw.  Again  he  looked.  Tlxis 
time  he  raised  himself  out  of  the  water  and  kissed  the  brow. 

"  It  was  my  doom,  father  !  It  would  have  been  better  if  I  had 
died  at  my  birth  !" 

Daylight  was  fading  away.  Precious  daylight !  lie  swam 
back,  dressed,  and  set  off  afresh  for  Ponmorfa.  When  he  opened 
the  door  of  Ty  (Has,  Ellis  Pritcliard  looked  at  liiui  reproachfully, 
from  his  seat  in  the  darkly-shadowed  chinmey-corner. 

"You're  come  at  last,"  said  he.  "One  of  our  kind  (i.  c, 
station)  would  not  liave  left  his  wife  to  moin-n  by  herself  over 
her  dead  child  ;  nor  would  one  of  our  kind  liave  let  his  fatlier 
kill  his  own  true  son.  I've  a  good  mind  to  take  her  from  you 
for  ever." 

"  I  did  not  tell  him,"  cried  Nest,  looking  piteously  v.t  her 
liusband  ;   "  he  made  nw.  tell  liim  part,  and  guessed  the  rest." 

She  was  nursing  her  babe  on  her  knee  as  if  it  was  alive.  Owen 
stood  before  Kllis  Pritehard. 

"  Po  silent,"  said  he,  (luietly.  "  Neither  words  n»>r  deeds  but 
\shat  are  deerei-d  can  couw  to  ]>ass.  I  was  st-t  to  do  my  work, 
tliis  hundred  years  and  more.  'I'ho  time  waited  for  nu-.  and  tho 
man  waited  for  me.  I  have  done  wluit  was  foretold  «>f  mo  for 
generations  I" 


THE    DOOM    OF    TlIK    GRIFFITHS.  387 

Ellis  Pritchard  knew  the  old  talc  of  the  prophecy,  and  bo  • 
licvcd  in  it  in  a  dull,  dead  kind  of  way,  but  somehow  never 
thought  it  would  come  to  pass  in  his  time.  Now,  however, 
he  understood  it  all  in  a  moment,  though  he  mistook  Owen's 
nature  so  much  as  to  believe  that  the  deed  was  intentionally 
done,  out  of  revenge  for  the  death  of  his  boy  ;  and  viewing  it  iu 
this  light,  Ellis  thought  it  little  more  than  a  just  pimishmcnt  for 
the  cause  of  all  tlie  wild  despairing  sorrow  he  had  seen  his  only 
child  suffer  during  the  hours  of  tliis  long  afternoon.  But  he 
knew  the  law  would  not  so  regard  it.  Even  the  lax  Welsh 
law  of  those  days  could  not  fail  to  examine  into  the  death  of  a 
man  of  Squire  GrifiSth's  standing.  So  the  acute  Ellis  thought 
how  he  could  conceal  the  culprit  for  a  time. 

'•  Come,"  said  he  ;  "  don't  look  so  scared  !  It  was  yoiu*  doom, 
not  yoiu"  fault ;"  and  he  laid  a  hand  on  Owen's  shoulder. 

"  You're  wet,"  said  he,  suddenly.  "  Where  have  you  been  ? 
Nest,  yoiu-  husband  is  di-ipping,  drookit  wet.  That's  what  makes 
him  look  so  blue  and  wan." 

Xest  softly  laid  her  baby  in  its  cradle  ;  she  was  half  stupefied 
with  crying,  and  had  not  understood  to  what  Owen  alluded,  when 
lie  spoke  of  his  doom  being  fulfilled,  if  indeed  she  had  heard  the 
Avords. 

Her  touch  thawed  Owen's  miserable  heart. 

"  Oh,  Nest !"  said  he,  clasping  her  in  his  arms ;  "  do  joxi  love 
me  still — can  you  love  me,  my  own  darling  ?" 

"  Why  not  ?"  asked  she,  her  eyes  filling  with  tears.  "  I  only 
love  you  more  than  ever,  for  you  were  my  poor  baby's  father !" 

"  But,  Nest—     Oh,  tell  her,  Ellis  !  yon  know." 

"  No  need,  no  need !"  said  Ellis.  "  She's  had  enough  to 
think  on.     Bustle,  my  girl,  and  get  out  my  Simday  clothes." 

"  I  don't  xmderstand,"  said  Nest,  jiutting  her  hand  np  to  her 
head.  "  What  is  to  tell  ?  and  wliy  are  you  so  wet  V  God  help 
me  for  a  poor  crazed  thing,  for  1  cannot  guess  at  the  meaning 
of  your  words  and  your  strange  looks  !  I  only  know  my  baby  is 
dead  !"  and  she  burst  into  tears. 

"  Come,  Nest  !  go  and  fetcli  him  a  cliango,  quick  !"  and  as 
f;he  meekly  obeyed,  too  languid  to  strive  further  to  understand, 
Ellis  said  rajjidly  to  Owen,  in  a  low,  Inuried  voice — 

"  Are  you  meaning  that  the  Squire  is  dead  ?  Si)eak  low,  lest 
she  hear  ?  Well,  well,  no  need  to  talk  about  how  lie  died.  It 
was  sudden,  I  see  :  and  we  must  all  of  us  die  ;  and  he'll  have  to 
be  buried.  It's  well  the  night  is  near.  And  I  slumldnot  wonder 
now  if  you'd  like  to  travel  for  a  bit ;  it  would  do  Nest  a  power 
of  good ;  and  then — there's  many  a  one  goes  out   of  his  own 

c  c  2 


388  THE    DOOM    OF  THE   GRIFFITHS. 

house  aud  never  comes  back  again  ;  and — I  tnist  he's  not  lyin  r 
in  his  own  house— and  there's  a  stir  for  a  bit,  and  a  search,  ami 
a  wonder — and,  by-and-by,  tho  heir  just  steps  in,  as  quiet  as 
can  be.  And  that's  wliat  you'll  do,  and  bring  Nest  to  Bfidowen 
after  all.  Nay,  child,  better  stockings  nor  those  ;  find  the  blue 
woollens  I  bought  at  Llanrwst  fair.  Only  don't  lose  heart. 
It's  done  now  and  can't  be  lielped.  It  was  the  piece  of  work 
set  you  to  do  from  the  days  of  the  Tudors,  they  say.  And  he 
deserved  it.  Look  in  yon  cradle.  So  tell  us  where  he  is,  aud 
I'll  take  heart  of  grace  and  sec  what  can  be  done  for  him." 

But  Owen  sat  wet  and  haggard,  looking  into  the  peat  fire  as  if 
for  visions  of  the  past,  and  never  heeding  a  word  Ellis  said.  Nor 
did  he  move  when  Nest  brought  the  armful  of  dry  clothes. 

"  Come,  rouse  up,  man  I"'  stiid  Ellis,  growing  impatient. 

But  he  neither  spoke  nor  moved. 

*'  What  is  the  matter,  father  ?"  asked  Nest,  bewildered. 

Ellis  kept  on  watching  Owen  for  a  minute  or  two,  till  on  his 
daughter's  rei^etition  of  the  question,  he  said — 

"Ask  him  yourself,  Nest." 

"  Oh,  husband,  what  is  it  ?"  said  she,  kneeling  down  and 
bringing  her  face  to  a  level  with  his. 

"  Don't  you  know  ?"  said  he,  heavily.  "  You  won't  love  me  wlitii 
you  do  know.     And  yet  it  was  not  my  doing  :  it  was  my  doom." 

"  What  does  he  mean,  father  r'  asked  Nest,  looking  up;  but 
she  cauglit  a  gesture  from  Ellis  urging  her  to  go  cm  (questioning 
her  husband. 

"  I  will  love  you,  husband,  \\hatever  has  happened.  Only  let 
me  know  the  worst." 

A  pause,  during  which  Nest  and  Ellis  hung  breathless. 

"  My  father  is  dead,  Nest." 

Nest  caught  her  breath  with  a  sharp  gasp. 

"  God  forgive  him  !  '  said  she,  thinking  on  her  babe. 

"  (iod  forgive  mc  !''  said  Owen. 

"  You  did  not — "     Nest  sto])ped. 

"  Yes,  I  did.  Now  you  know  it.  It  was  my  doom.  How 
could  1  help  it  ?  The  devil  lu-lped  me—  he  jilaced  the  stone  s«) 
that  my  father  fell.  I  jumped  into  the  water  to  save  him.  I 
did,  indeed,  Nest.  I  was  nearly  drowned  mvse-lf  But  he  was 
dead  -dead  -  killed  by  the  fallV' 

"  Then  ho  is  safe  at  the  bottom  of  the  sta  '.•'"  said  Ellis,  with 
hungry  eagerness. 

"  No,  he  is  not ;  he  lies  in  my  bctat,"  sjiid  Owen,  sliivering  ii 
little,  more  at  the  thotight  of  his  last  glimpse  at  his  father's  faeo 
l/iaii  from  cold. 


THE    DOOM    OF    THK    QRIFFITIIS.  389 

"  Oh,  luisLiiiid,  eliango  your  wet  clothes !"  iiloackJ  Nest,  to 
nhom  the  death  of  the  old  man  was  simply  a  horror  with  which 
she  had  nothing  to  do,  while  her  husband's  discomfort  was  a 
present  trouble. 

While  she  helped  him  to  take  o£F  the  wet  garments  which  he 
would  never  have  had  energy  enough  to  remove  of  himself,  Ellis 
was  busy  preparing  food,  and  mixing  a  great  tiunbler  of  s])irits 
and  hot  water.  He  stood  over  the  unfortunate  young  man  and 
compelled  him  to  eat  and  drink,  and  made  Nest,  too,  taste  some 
moutlifuls — all  the  while  planning  in  his  own  mind  how  best 
to  conceal  what  had  been  done,  and  wlio  had  done  it ;  not  alto- 
gether without  a  certain  feeling  of  vulgar  trinmi)h  in  the  reflec- 
tion that  Nest,  as  she  stood  there,  carelessly  dressed,  dishevelled 
in  her  grief,  was  in  reality  the  mistress  of  Bodowen,  than  which 
Ellis  Pritchard  had  never  seen  a  grander  house,  though  ho 
believed  such  might  exist. 

By  dint  of  a  few  dexterous  questions  he  found  out  all  he 
wanted  to  know  from  Owen,  as  he  ate  and  drank.  In  fact,  it 
was  almost  a  relief  to  Owen  to  dilute  the  horror  by  talking  about 
it.  Before  the  meal  was  done,  if  meal  it  could  he  called,  Ellis 
knew  all  he  cared  to  know. 

"  Now,  Nest,  on  with  your  cloak  and  haps.  Pack  up  what 
needs  to  go  with  you,  fur  both  you  and  your  husband  must  be 
half  way  to  Liverpool  by  to  morrow's  morn.  I'll  take  you  past 
Rhyl  Sands  in  my  fishing-boat,  with  yours  in  tow ;  and,  once 
over  the  dangerous  part,  I'll  return  with  my  cargo  of  fish,  and 
learn  how  much  stir  there  is  at  Bodowen.  Once  safe  hidden  in 
Liverpool,  no  one  will  know  where  you  are,  and  you  may  stay 
quiet  till  your  time  comes  for  returning." 

"  I  will  never  come  home  again,"  said  Owen,  doggedly.  "  The 
place  is  accursed !" 

"  Hoot !  be  guided  by  me,  man.  Why,  it  was  but  an  accident, 
after  all !  And  we'll  land  at  the  Holy  Island,  at  the  Point  of 
Llyn  ;  there  is  an  old  cousin  of  mine,  the  parson,  there — f(jr  the 
Pritchards  have  known  better  days,  Squire — and  we'll  bury  him 
there.  It  was  but  an  accident,  man.  Hold  up  your  head  !  You 
and  Nest  will  come  home  yet  and  fill  Bodowen  with  children, 
and  I'll  live  to  sec  it." 

"  Never  I"  said  Owen.  "  I  am  the  last  male  of  my  race,  and 
the  son  has  murd(;red  his  father  I" 

Nest  came  in  laden  and  cloaked.  Ellis  was  for  hurrying  them 
off.     The  fire  was  extinguished,  the  door  was  locked. 

"Here,  Nest,  my  darling,  let  me  take  your  bundle  while  I 
guide  you  down  the  steps."     But  her  husband  bent  his  head,  aud 


390  THE   DOOM   OF   THE   GRIFFITHS. 

Bpokc  never  a  word.  Nest  gave  her  father  the  bundle  (alreadj 
loaded  with  such  things  as  he  liirasclf  hud  seen  fit  to  take  ■,  but 
clasped  another  softly  and  tightly. 

"  No  one  shall  help  me  with  this,"  said  she,  in  a  low  voice. 

Her  father  did  not  understand  her ;  her  husband  did,  and 
placed  his  strong  helping  ann  round  her  waist,  and  bles.sed  her. 

"  "We  will  all  go  together,  Xest,"  said  he.  "  But  where ':" 
and  he  looked  up  at  the  stonu-tossed  clouds  coming  up  from 
windward, 

"  It  is  a  dirty  night,"  said  EUis,  turning  his  head  round  to 
speak  to  his  companions  at  last.  "  But  never  fear,  we'll  weather 
it  ?"  And  he  made  for  the  place  where  his  vessel  was  moored. 
Then  he  stopped  and  thought  a  moment. 

"  Stay  here  !"  said  he,  addressing  his  companions.  "  I  may 
meet  folk,  and  I  shall,  maybe,  have  to  hear  and  to  speak.  You 
wait  here  till  I  come  back  for  you."  So  they  sat  down  close 
together  in  a  comer  of  the  path. 

"Let  me  look  at  him,  Nest !"  said  Owen. 

She  took  her  little  dead  son  out  from  under  her  shawl  ;  they 
looked  at  his  waxen  face  long  and  tenderly  ;  kissed  it,  and  covered 
it  up  reverently  and  softly. 

"  Nest,"  said  Owen,  at  last,  "  I  feel  as  though  my  father's 
spirit  had  been  near  us,  and  as  if  it  had  bent  over  our  i>oor 
little  one.  A  strange  chilly  oir  met  me  as  I  stooj>ed  over  him. 
I  could  fancy  the  spirit  of  oiu-  pure,  blameless  child  guiding 
my  father's  safe  over  the  paths  of  the  sky  to  the  gates  of 
heaven,  and  escaping  those  accursed  dogs  of  hell  that  were 
darting  up  from  the  north  in  pm-suit  of  souls  not  five  minutes 
fince. 

"  Don't  talk  so,  Owen,"  said  Nest,  curling  up  to  him  in  the 
darkness  of  the  copse,     ''  "Who  knows  what  may  be  listening  V" 

The  i»iiir  were  silent,  in  a  kind  of  nameUss  tirror,  till  they 
lieard  Ellis  Pritchard's  loud  whisper.  "  Where  are  ye  ?  {\inie 
along,  soft  and  steady.  There  were  folk  about  even  now,  and 
the  Scjuirc  is  missed,  and  madam  in  a  friglit," 

They  went  swiftly  down  to  the  litth-  liarbour,  and  embarked 
on  board  Ellis's  boat.  Tiie  sea  luavud  and  n)ekfd  even  there  ; 
the  torn  clouds  went  Inirryiug  overhead  in  a  wild  tumultuous 
manner, 

Tliey  put  out  into  i\\v  bay  ;  still  in  sihiiee,  except  when 
some  word  of  eommand  was  spoken  by  Ellis,  wlm  t«iok  the 
nnuiagi'iiiciit  of  the  vessel,  Tluy  made  for  the  n)eky  slioro, 
wlicrc  Owen's  bout  liad  l)een  moored.  It  was  not  theru.  It 
hjul  broken  loose  uinl  disapptiUfd. 


THE    DOl):\I    (IF    THE    (ilUEFITIIS.  391 

Owen  sat  down  aud  covered  his  face.  This  hist  event,  bo 
simple  and  natural  in  itself,  struck  on  his  excited  and  sujier- 
stitious  mind  in  an  extraordinary  manner.  lie  had  hojjcd  for  a 
certain  reconciliation,  so  to  say,  by  laying  his  father  and  his 
child  both  in  one  gi-ave.  But  now  it  appeared  to  hhn  as  if 
there  was  to  be  no  forgiveness ;  as  if  his  father  revolted  even 
in  death  against  any  such  peaceful  imion.  Ellis  took  a  practical 
view  of  the  case.  If  the  Stpiires  body  was  found  drifting  about 
in  a  boat  known  to  belong  to  his  son,  it  would  create  terrible 
suspicion  as  to  tlic  manner  of  his  death.  At  one  time  in  the 
evening,  Ellis  had  thought  of  persuading  Owen  to  let  him  bury 
the  Squire  in  a  sailor's  gi-avc  ;  or,  in  other  words,  to  sew  him 
uj)  in  a  spai'e  sail,  and  weigliting  it  well,  sink  it  for  ever.  He 
had  not  broached  the  subject,  from  a  certain  fear  of  Owen'y 
passionate  repugnance  to  the  plan  ;  otherwise,  if  he  had  con- 
sented, they  might  have  retm'ned  to  Penmorfa,  and  passively 
awaited  the  course  of  events,  seciu'e  of  Owen's  succession  to 
Bodowen,  sooner  or  later ;  or  if  Owen  was  too  much  over- 
whelmed by  what  had  hapjiened,  Ellis  woidd  have  advised  him 
to  go  away  for  a  short  time,  and  return  when  the  buzz  and  the 
talk  was  over. 

Xow  it  was  different.  It  was  absolutely  necessary  that  they 
should  leave  the  country  for  a  time.  Through  those  stormy 
waters  they  must  plough  tlicir  way  that  very  night.  Ellis 
had  no  fear — would  have  had  no  fear,  at  any  rate,  with  Owen 
as  he  had  been  a  week,  a  day  ago ;  but  with  Owen  wild,  despair- 
ing, helpless,  fate-pursued,  what  could  he  do  ?"' 

They  sailed  into  the  tossing  darkness,  and  were  never  more 
seen  of  men. 

The  house  of  Bodowen  has  sunk  into  damp,  dark  ruins ;  and 
a  Saxon  stranger  holds  the  lands  of  the  Griffiths. 


392 


You  cannot  think  liow  kindly  Mrt>.  iJawson  thaukcd  Miss 
Duncan  for\n-iting  and  reading  this  st(trv.  »She  shook  my  poor, 
pale  governess  so  tenderly  by  the  hand  that  the  teai's  came  into 
lier  eyes,  and  the  colour  into  her  cheeks. 

"  I  thought  you  had  been  so  kind  ;  I  liked  hearing  about 
Lady  Ludlow  ;  I  fancied,  perhaps,  I  could  do  something  to  give 
a  little  i^leasure,"  were  the  half-finished  sentences  Miss  Duncan 
stammered  out.  I  am  sure  it  was  the  wish  to  earn  similar  kind 
words  from  Mrs.  Dawson,  that  made  Mrs.  Preston  try  and  rum- 
mage through  her  memory  to  sec  if  she  could  not  recollect  some 
fact,  or  event,  or  history,  which  miglit  interest  Mrs.  Dawson 
and  the  little  party  that  gathered  round  her  sofa.  Mrs.  I'restou 
it  was  who  told  us  the  following  tale  : 

"  Half  a  Lipb-timk  .\oo." 


HALF    A    LIFE-TIME    AGO. 


CHAPTER  I. 


Half  a  life-time  ago,  there  lived  in  one  of  the  Westmoreland 
dales  a  single  woman,  of  the  name  of  Susan  Dixon.  She  was 
owner  of  the  small  farm-house  M'hero  she  resided,  and  of  some 
thirty  or  forty  acres  of  land  by  which  it  was  surrounded.  Slie 
had  also  an  hereditary  right  to  a  sheep-walk,  extending  to  the 
wild  fells  that  overhang  Blca  Tarn,  In  the  language  of  the 
country  she  was  a  Stateswoman.  Her  house  is  yet  to  be  seen 
on  the  Oxenfell  road,  between  Skelwith  and  Coniston.  You  go 
along  a  moorland  track,  made  by  the  carts  tliat  occasionally 
came  for  turf  from  the  Oxenfell.  A  brook  babbles  and  brattles 
by  the  wayside,  giving  you  a  sense  of  companionship,  which 
relieves  the  deep  solitude  in  which  this  way  is  usually  ti'aversed. 
Some  miles  on  this  side  of  Coniston  there  is  a  farmstead — a 
gi'ay  stone  house,  and  a  square  of  farm-buildings  surrounding  a 
green  si)ace  of  rough  turf,  in  the  midst  of  which  stands  a 
mighty,  fimercal  imibrageous  yew,  making  a  solcnm  shadow, 
as  of  death,  in  tlie  very  heart  and  centre  of  the  light  and  heat  of 
the  brightest  smnmer  day.  On  the  side  away  from  the  house, 
this  yard  slopes  down  to  a  dark-brown  j^ool,  which  is  su2ii)licd 
with  fresh  water  from  the  overflowings  of  a  stone  cisteni,  into 
which  some  rivulet  of  the  brook  before-mentioned  continually 
and  melodiously  falls  bubbling.  The  cattle  drink  out  of  this 
cistern.  The  household  bring  their  pitchers  and  fill  them  witli 
drinking-water  by  a  dilatory,  yet  pretty,  process.  The  water- 
carrier  brings  with  her  a  leaf  of  the  houiid's-tongue  fern,  and, 
inserting  it  in  tlie  crevice  of  the  gray  rock,  makes  a  cool,  green 
spout  for  the  sparkling  stream. 

Tlie  house  is  no  specimen,  at  tlie  present  day,  of  what  it  was 
in  the  lif(;timo  of  Susan  Dixon.  Then,  every  small  diamond 
pane  in  tlie  windows  glittered  with  cleanliness.  You  might 
have  eaten  aS  the  floor ;  you  could  see  yoins(df  in  the  pewter 
plates  and  the  polished  oaken  awmi-y,  or  dresser,  of  the  stattj 
kitchen   into   which   you   entered.      Few  strangers   penetrated 


394  HALF    A    LIFE-TIMi:    AGO. 

further  than  tliis  room.  Oucc  or  twice,  wandering  tourists, 
attracted  by  the  lonely  pictm-esquenes.s  of  the  situation,  and  tlie 
exquisite  cleanliness  of  the  liouse  itself,  made  tlieir  way  into 
this  house-place,  and  ofl'ercd  money  enough  (as  they  thought)  to 
tempt  the  hostess  to  receive  them  as  lodgers.  They  would  give 
no  trouble,  they  said  ;  they  would  be  out  rambling  or  sketehiug 
all  day  long ;  woiUd  be  perfectly  content  with  a  share  of  the 
food  which  she  provided  for  herself;  or  would  i)rocme  what 
they  required  from  the  Waterhead  Inn  at  Coniston.  But  no 
liberal  sum — no  fair  words — moved  her  from  her  stony  manner, 
or  her  monotonous  tone  of  indifferent  refusal.  No  persuasion 
coiUd  induce  her  to  show  any  more  of  the  house  than  that  tirst 
room  ;  no  appearance  of  fatigue  procured  for  tlie  wiary  an  in- 
vitation to  sit  dovra  and  rest ;  and  if  one  more  bold  and  less 
delicate  did  so  without  being  asked,  Susan  stood  by,  cold  and 
apparently  deaf,  or  only  rei)lying  by  the  briefest  monosyllables, 
till  the  imwelcome  visitor  had  departed.  Yet  those  with  whom 
she  had  dealings,  in  the  way  of  selling  her  cattle  or  her  fiuiu 
produce,  spoke  of  her  as  keen  after  a  bargain — a  hard  one  to 
have  to  do  with  ;  and  she  never  spared  herself  exertion  or 
fatigue,  at  market  or  in  the  field,  to  make  the  most  of  her 
produce.  She  led  the  hay-makei*s  with  her  swift,  steady  rake, 
and  her  noiseless  evenness  of  motion.  Slie  was  about  among 
the  earliest  in  the  market,  examining  samples  of  oats,  i)ricing 
them,  and  tlien  turning  witli  grim  satisfaction  to  her  own 
cleaner  corn. 

She  was  served  faithfully  and  long  by  those  who  were  rather 
lier  fellow-labourers  than  her  servants.  She  was  even  and  just 
in  her  dealings  witli  thiin.  If  she  was  jjcculiar  and  silent,  tliey 
knew  her,  and  knew  that  sht'  niiglit  be  relied  on.  Some  of 
them  had  kno\ni  her  from  lier  iliildhood  ;  and  deep  in  tluir 
hearts  was  an  unspoken  -  almost  unconscious-- pity  for  lur, 
for  they  knew  her  story,  though  they  never  sj)oke  of  it. 

Yes;  tlie  time  had  been  wluii  tluit  tall,  gaunt,  hard-featured, 
angular  woman — who  never  smiled,  and  hardly  iver  spoki- 
an  unnecessary  word  had  been  a  liiu'-looking  girl,  brighl- 
spiritcd  and  rosy  ;  and  wlun  the  hearth  at  the  Yew  Nook  had 
been  as  bright  as  she,  witli  family  love  and  youthful  hopi'  and 
mirth.  Fifty  or  fifty-one  yiars  ago,  William  Dixon  an<( 
liis  wife  Margaret  were  alive  ;  and  Susiui,  tluir  daiighttr, 
was  al)out  «ighteeii  years  old  ten  years  ohhr  than  thr  only 
other  child,  a  boy  named  after  his  father.  William  and 
Margaret  Dixon  were  ratliir  superior  jieopli-,  tif  a  cliunut*  r 
belonging — as  far  as  T  have  seen     exclusively  to  the  idass  of 


HALF   A   LIFE-TIM1-:    AOO.  395 

Westmoreland  and  Cumberland  statesmen— just,  independent, 
upright ;  not  given  to  mucli  speaking ;  kind-hearted,  but  not 
demonsti-ative ;  disliking  change,  and  new  ways,  and  new 
j)eople ;  sensible  and  shrewd  ;  each  liousehold  self-contained, 
and  its  members  having  little  cmiosity  as  to  their  neig'hbom's, 
with  whom  tlicy  rarely  met  for  any  social  intercourse,  save  at 
the  stated  times  of  sheep-shearing  and  Christmas  ;  having  a 
certain  kind  of  sober  pleasm'o  in  amassing  money,  which 
occasionally  made  them  miserable  (as  they  call  miserly  people 
up  in  the  north)  in  their  old  ago ;  reading  no  light  or 
ephemeral  literature,  but  the  giiive,  solid  books  brought  round 
by  the  pedlars  (such  as  tho  "Paradise  Lost  "  and  " Regained, " 
"'The  Death  of  Abel,"  "  The  Spiritual  Quixote,"  and  "  Tho 
Pilgi'im's  Progress  "),  were  to  bo  found  in  nearly  every  house  :  tho 
men  occasionally  going  ofl"  lakiug,  i.e.  playing,  i.e.  drinking  for 
days  together,  and  having  to  be  hunted  \\]>  by  anxious  wives,  who 
dared  not  leave  their  husbands  to  the  chances  of  the  wild 
precipitous  roads,  but  v.alked  miles  and  miles,  lantern  in  hand, 
in  the  dead  of  night,  to  discover  and  guide  the  solemnly- 
drunken  liusband  home  ;  who  had  a  dreadful  headache  the  next 
dar,  and  the  day  after  that  came  forth  as  grave,  and  sober,  and 
virtuous  looking  as  if  there  were  no  such  thing  as  malt  and 
spirituous  liquors  in  the  world ;  and  who  were  seldom  reminded 
of  their  misdoings  by  their  wives,  to  whom  such  occasional 
outbreaks  were  as  things  of  coxu'se,  when  once  the  immediate 
anxiety  produced  by  them  was  over.  Such  were — such  are — the 
characteristics  of  a  class  now  passing  away  from  the  face  of  the 
land,  as  their  compeers,  the  yeomen,  have  done  before  them. 
Of  such  was  William  Dixon.  He  was  a  shrewd  clever  farmer,  in 
his  day  and  generation,  when  shrewdness  was  rather  shown  iu 
the  breeding  and  rearing  of  shrep  and  cattle  than  in  tlio 
cultivation  of  land.  Owing  to  this  character  of  his,  statesmen  from 
a  distance  from  beyond  Kendal,  or  from  Borrowdale,  of  gi-eater 
wealth  than  lie,  would  send  their  sons  to  be  farm-servants  for  a 
year  or  two  with  him,  in  order  to  learn  some  of  his  methods  before 
setting  up  on  land  of  their  owTi.  When  Susan,  his  daughter,  was 
about  seventeen,  one  Michael  Hurst  was  farm-servant  at  Yew  Nook. 
He  worked  with  the  master,  and  lived  with  the  family,  and  was 
in  all  respects  treated  as  an  equal,  except  in  the  field.  His 
father  was  a  wealthy  statesman  at  Wythburnc,  up  beyond 
Cirasmcre ;  and  through  Michael's  servitude  the  families  htul 
become  acquainted,  and  the  Dixons  went  over  to  tlie  High  Beck 
slieep-shearing,  and  the  Hursts  came  down  by  Ited  Bank  and 
Lov.ghrig  Tarn  and  across  tho  Oxcnfell  when  there  was  the 


J96  HALF    A    I.IFK-TIMP:    AGO. 

Cliristinas-tidc  feasting  at  Yew  Xook.  The  fathers  8trolle«l 
round  the  fields  together,  examined  cattle  and  sheep,  and  looked 
knowing  over  each  other's  horses.  The  mothers  inspected  the 
dairies  and  household  arrangements,  each  openly  admiring  the 
plans  of  the  other,  hut  secretly  preferring  their  own.  Both 
fathers  and  mothers  cast  a  glance  from  time  to  time  at  Michael 
and  Susan,  who  were  thinking  of  nothing  less  than  farm  or 
dairy,  hut  whose  unspoken  attachment  was,  in  all  ways,  sci 
suitable  and  natural  a  thing  that  each  parent  rejoiced  over  it, 
although  with  characteristic  reserve  it  was  never  spoken  about — 
not  even  between  husband  and  wife. 

Susan  had  been  a  strong,  independent,  healthy  girl  ;  a  clever 
help  to  her  mother,  and  a  spirited  companion  to  her  father ; 
more  of  a  man  in  her  (as  he  often  said )  than  her  delicate  little 
brother  ever  would  have.  He  was  his  mother's  darling,  although 
she  loved  Susan  well.  There  was  no  positive  engixgement 
between  Michael  and  Susan — I  doubt  whetlier  even  plain  words 
of  love  had  been  spoken  ;  when  one  winter-time  Margaret  Dixon 
was  seized  with  inflammation  consequent  upon  a  neglected  cold. 
She  had  always  been  strong  and  notable,  and  had  been  too  busy 
to  attend  to  the  early  symptoms  of  illness.  It  would  go  otf,  sht 
said  to  the  woman  wlio  helj^ed  in  the  kitchen  ;  or  if  she  did  not 
feel  better  when  they  had  got  the  hams  and  bacon  out  of  hand, 
she  would  take  some  herb-tea  and  nurse  up  a  bit.  But  Death 
could  not  wait  till  the  hams  and  bacon  were  cured  :  ho  came  on 
with  rapid  strides,  and  shooting  arrows  of  2)t)rtentous  agony. 
Susan  had  never  seen  illness  — never  knew  how  much  she  loved 
her  mother  till  now,  when  she  felt  a  dreadful,  instinctive 
certainty  that  she  was  losing  her.  Her  mind  was  thronged  with 
recollections  of  the  many  times  she  had  slighted  her  nu>ther's 
wishes ;  her  heart  was  full  of  the  echoes  of  careless  and  angry 
reidies  tliat  she  had  spoken.  AVhat  would  she  not  now  give  to 
liave  opjjortunities  of  service  and  obedience,  and  trials  of  her 
patience  and  love,  for  tluit  dear  mother  who  lay  gasping  in 
torture  !  And  yet  Susiin  had  been  a  good  girl  and  lui  atVcc- 
tionato  daughter. 

The  sliar])  pain  went  ofl',  and  delicious  ease  came  on  ;  yet  still 
her  mother  sunk.  In  the  midst  of  tliis  languid  peace  she  wan 
dying.  She  motioned  Susan  to  her  bedside,  for  she  etmld  only 
whis]>er;  and  tlien,  while  the  fatlur  wa.s  out  of  tlu>  room,  sho 
spoke  »is  much  to  the  eager,  liungering  eyes  of  her  daughtrr  by 
the  motion  of  In  r  lips,  as  by  tho  slow,  feeble  sounds  of  he; 
voice. 

"Susan,  lass,  thou  must  not  fnt.     It  is  (lod's  will,  and  thou 


HALF    A    LIFE-TIME    AGO.  397 

w-ilt  hare  a  deal  to  do.  Keep  father  straight  if  thou  canst ;  and 
if  he  goes  out  Ulvcrstone  ways,  see  that  thou  meet  him  before  ho 
gets  to  the  Old  Quarry.  It's  a  dree  bit  for  a  man  who  has  had 
a  drop.  As  for  lile  Will  "—Here  tlie  poor  woman's  faee  began 
to  work  and  her  fingers  to  move  nervously  as  they  lay  on  the 
bed-quilt  -  "  lile  Will  will  miss  me  most  of  all.  Father's  often 
vexed  with  him  because  he's  n(jt  a  quick  strong  lad ;  he  is  not, 
my  poor  lih;  chap.  And  father  thinks  he's  saucy,  because  he  cannot 
always  stomach  oat-cake  and  porridge.  There's  better  than 
three  pound  in  th'  old  black  tea-pot  on  tlic  top  shelf  of  the  cup- 
board. Just  keep  a  piece  of  loaf-bread  by  you,  Susan  dear,  for 
Will  to  come  to  when  he's  not  taken  his  breakfast.  I  have,  may 
be,  spoilt  him ;  but  there'll  be  no  one  to  spoil  him  now." 

She  began  to  cry  a  low,  feeble  cry,  and  covered  up  her  face 
that  Susan  might  not  see  her.  That  dear  face !  those  precious 
moments  while  yet  the  eyes  could  look  out  with  love  and 
intelligence.  Susan  laid  her  head  down  close  by  her  mother's 
ear. 

"  Mother  I'll  take  tent  of  Will.  Mother,  do  you  hear  ?  He 
?hall  not  want  ought  I  can  give  or  get  for  him,  least  of  all  the 
kind  words  which  you  had  ever  ready  for  us  both.  Bless  you  I 
bless  you  !  my  ovra  mother." 

"  Thou'lt  promise  me  that,  Susan,  wilt  thou  ?  I  can  die  easy 
if  thou'lt  take  charge  of  him.  But  he's  hardly  like  other  folk  ; 
lie  tries  father  at  times,  though  I  think  father'll  be  tender  of  him 
when  I'm  gone,  for  my  sake.  And,  Susan,  there's  one  thing 
more.  I  never  spoke  on  it  for  fear  of  the  bairn  being  called  a 
tell-tale,  but  I  just  comforted  him  up.  He  vexes  Michael  at 
Times,  and  Michael  has  struck  him  before  now.  I  did  not  want 
to  make  a  stir  ;  but  he's  not  strong,  and  a  word  from  thee,  Susan, 
will  go  a  long  way  with  Michael." 

Susan  was  Jis  red  now  as  she  had  been  pale  before  ;  it  was  the 
tirst  time  that  her  influence  over  Michael  had  been  openly 
acknowledged  by  a  third  person,  and  a  flash  of  joy  came  athwart 
the  solemn  sadness  of  the  moment.  J I  or  mcjthcr  had  spoken  too 
much,  and  now  came  on  the  miserable  faintness.  She  never 
spoke  again  coherently  ;  but  when  her  children  and  her  husband 
stood  by  her  bedside,  slie  took  lib;  Will's  hand  and  put  it  into 
Susan's,  and  looked  at  her  witli  inq)lorIng  eyes.  Susan  clasj)ed 
her  arms  round  Will,  and  leaned  her  head  upon  his  little  cmdy 
one,  and  vowed  within  herself  to  l)e  as  a  mother  to  him. 

Henceforward  she  was  all  in  all  to  her  brother.  She  was  a 
more  spirited  and  amusing  companion  to  him  than  his  mother 
liad  been,  from  her  gi'cater  activity,  and  perhaps,  also,  from  her 


398  HALF    A    I.TFE-TIMK    AGO. 

oi'iginality  of  character,  which  often  prompted  Iicr  to  perform 
her  habitual  actions  in  some  new  and  racy  manner.  She  was 
tender  to  lile  Will  when  slie  was  prompt  and  sharp  with 
everybody  else — with  Michael  most  of  all;  for  somehow  the 
girl  felt  tliat,  unprotected  by  her  mother,  she  must  keep  up  her 
own  dignity,  and  not  allow  her  lover  to  sec  how  strong  a  hold 
he  had  ujion  her  heart.  He  called  her  hard  and  cruel,  and  left 
her  so  ;  and  she  smiled  softly  to  herself,  when  his  back  was 
turned,  to  think  how  little  he  guessed  how  deeply  he  was  loved. 
For  Susan  was  merely  comely  and  fine  looking ;  Michael  was 
strikingly  handsome,  admired  by  all  the  girls  for  miles  round,  and 
quite  enough  of  a  country  coxcomb  to  know  it  and  plmne  himself 
accordingly.  He  Avas  the  second  son  of  his  father  ;  the  eldest 
would  have  High  Beck  farm,  of  coui-se,  but  there  was  a  good 
penny  in  the  Kendal  bank  in  store  for  Michael,  When  harvest 
was  over,  he  went  to  Chapel  Langdale  to  learn  to  dance  ;  and  at 
uight,  in  his  raorry  moods,  he  would  do  his  steps  on  the  flag 
floor  of  the  Yew  Xook  kitchen,  to  the  secret  admiration  of 
Susan,  who  had  never  learned  dancing,  but  who  flouted  him  per- 
petually, even  while  she  admired,  in  accordance  with  the  rule  she 
seemed  to  have  made  for  herself  about  keei)ing  him  at  a  distance  so 
long  as  he  lived  imder  the  same  roof  with  her.  One  evening  ho 
sulked  at  some  saucy  remark  of  hers  ;  lie  sitting  in  the  chimney- 
corner  witli  his  arms  on  his  knees,  and  his  head  bent  forwards, 
lazily  gazing  into  the  wood-fire  on  the  hearth,  and  luxuriating 
in  rest  after  a  hard  day's  labour ;  she  sitting  among  the 
geraniums  on  the  long,  low  window-seat,  trying  to  catch  the 
last  slanting  rays  of  tlu:  autnunial  light  to  enable  lur  to  iinish 
stitcliing  a  shirt-collar  for  Will,  who  lounged  full  length  on  the 
Hags  at  the  otlier  side  of  the  heartli  to  Michael,  poking  the 
burning  wood  from  time  to  time  with  a  long  hazel-stick  to  bring 
o'lt  tlic  leap  of  glittering  sparks. 

"  And  if  you  can  dance  a  threesome  reel,  what  good  does  it  do 
ye?"  asked  Susan,  looking  askance  at  IMichael,  who  had  just 
boon  vaunting  his  j)rofieii'ncy,  "Does  it  hel])  you  jthiugh,  or 
reap,  or  even  climb  the  rocks  to  take  n  niven's  nest  ?  If  I 
were  a  man,  I'd  be  ashamed  to  give  in  to  such  st)ftness," 

"  If  you  were  a  man,  you'd  be  glad  to  do  anything  A\hieh 
made  tlu!  pretty  girls  stand  round  and  admire." 

"  As  they  do  to  you,  eli  I  Ho,  Michael,  tliat  would  not  be  my 
way  o'  being  a  man  !" 

"  What  would  then  ?"  asked  lie,  after  a  pausi-.  iluring  whieli 
he  had  exi)ectcd  in  vain  tliat  slif  would  jjo  on  wii'i  h.  r  >.  nti  iu't>. 
No  answer. 


HALF    A    LIFE-TIME   AGO.  399 

"  I  should  not  like  you  as  a  man,  Susy ;  you'd  be  too  bard  and 
headstrong." 

"Am  1  Imnl  unci  htailstroug ?"  asked  she,  with  as  indiftcrcut 
a  tone  ixs  she  could  assume,  but  vhich  yet  had  a  touch  of  pique 
in  it.     His  quick  ear  detected  the  intiexion. 

'•  No,  Susy  !  You're  wilful  at  times,  and  that's  right  enough. 
I  don't  like  a  girl  witliout  spirit.  There's  a  mighty  jiretty  girl 
comes  to  the  dancing  class  ;  but  she  is  all  milk  and  water.  Her 
tycs  never  flash  like  yours  when  you're  put  out ;  why,  I  can  see 
them  flame  across  the  kitchen  like  a  cat's  in  the  dark.  Now,  if 
you  were  a  man,  I  should  feel  queer  before  those  looks  of 
yom-s  ;  as  it  is,  I  rather  like  them,  because " 

"  Because  what  ?"  asked  she,  looking  up  and  perceiving  that 
he  had  stolen  close  up  to  her. 

"  Because  I  can  make  all  right  in  this  way,"  said  he,  kissing 
her  suddenly. 

"  Can  you  ?"  said  she,  wrenching  herself  out  of  his  gi-asp  and 
panting,  half  with  rage.  "  Take  that,  by  way  ol  proof  that 
making  right  is  none  so  easy."  And  she  boxed  his  ears  pretty 
sharply.  He  went  back  to  his  seat  discomfited  and  out  of  temper. 
She  coidd  no  longer  see  to  look,  even  if  her  face  had  not  burnt 
and  her  eyes  dazzled,  but  she  did  not  choose  to  move  her  seat, 
so  she  still  i)reserved  her  stooping  attitude  and  pretended  to  go 
on  se\\'ing. 

"  Eleanor  Hebtbwaite  may  be  milk-and-water,"  muttered  he, 
"  but —  Confoimd  thee,  lad  !  what  art  thou  doing  ?"  exclaimed 
Michael,  as  a  great  piece  of  burning  wood  was  cast  into  his  face 
by  an  unlucky  poke  of  Will's.  "  Thou  gi-eat  lounging,  clumsy 
chap,  I'll  teach  thee  better !"  and  with  one  or  two  good  round 
kicks  he  sent  the  lad  whimpering  away  into  the  back-kitchen. 
When  he  had  a  little  recovered  himself  from  his  passion,  he  saw 
Susan  standing  before  him,  her  face  looking  strange  and  almost 
ghastly  by  the  reversed  position  of  the  shadows,  arising  from  the 
firelight  shining  upwards  right  xmder  it. 

"  I  tell  thee  what,  Michael,"  said  she,  "  that  lad's  motherless, 
hut  not  friendless." 

"  His  own  father  leathers  him,  and  why  should  not  I,  when 
he's  given  me  such  a  burn  on  my  face '?"  said  Michael,  putting 
up  his  hand  to  his  cheek  as  if  in  pain. 

"  His  father's  his  fiither,  and  there  is  nought  more  to  be  said. 
But  if  he  did  bum  thee,  it  was  by  accident,  and  not  o'  purpose  ; 
as  thou  kicked  him,  it's  a  mercy  if  his  ribs  are  not  broken." 

"  He  howls  loud  enough,  I'm  sure.  I  might  lia'  kicked  many 
a  lad  twice  as  hard,  and  they'd  ne'er  lia'  said  ought  but  '  damn 


400  HALF   A   LIFE-TIME   AGO. 

ye  ;'  but  you  lad  must  needs  cry  out  like  a  stuck  pig  if  one  tenches 
him  ;"  replied  Michael,  sullenly. 

Susan  went  back  to  the  window-seat,  and  looked  absently  out 
of  the  window  at  the  driftiuf:;  clouds  for  a  minute  or  two,  while 
her  eyes  filled  witli  tears.  Then  she  got  up  and  made  for  the 
outer  dcAjr  which  led  into  the  back-kitchen.  Before  she  reached 
it,  however  she  heard  a  low  voice,  whose  music  made  her  thrill, 
say— 

•'  Susan,  Susan  !" 

Her  heart  melted  within  her,  but  it  seemed  like  treachery  to 
her  poor  boy,  like  faitlilessncss  to  her  dead  mother,  to  turn  to 
her  lover  while  the  tears  which  he  had  caused  to  flow  were  yet 
imwiped  on  Will's  cheeks.  So  she  seemed  to  take  no  heed,  but 
passed  into  the  darkness,  and,  guided  by  the  sobs,  she  foimd 
her  way  to  where  Willie  sat  crouched  among  the  disused  tubs 
and  churns. 

"  Come  out  wi'  me,  lad  ;"  and  they  went  out  into  the  orchanl, 
where  the  fruit-trees  were  bare  of  leaves,  but  ghastly  in  their 
tattered  covering  of  gray  moss  :  and  the  soughing  November 
wind  came  with  long  sweeps  over  the  fells  till  it  rattled  among 
the  crackling  boughs,  imderneath  which  the  brother  and  sister 
sat  in  the  dark  ;  he  in  her  lap,  and  she  hushing  his  head  against 
her  shoulder. 

"  Thou  should'st  na'  play  wi'  fire.  It's  a  naughty  trick. 
Thoul't  suffer  for  it  in  worse  ways  nor  this  beft)ro  thou'st  done, 
I'm  afeared.  I  should  Im'  hit  thee  twice  as  lungcous  kicks  as 
Mike,  if  I'd  been  in  his  place.  He  did  ua'  hurt  thee,  I  am  sure," 
she  assumed,  half  as  a  ([ucstion. 

"  Yes  but  he  did.  He  turned  me  quite  sick."  And  he  let  his 
head  fall  languidly  down  on  his  sister's  breast. 

"Come,  lad!  come,  lad!"  said  she  anxiously,  "Be  a  man. 
It  was  not  much  that  I  saw.  Why,  when  first  the  red  cow  came 
she  kicked  me  far  harder  for  ofl'oring  to  milk  her  l^fore  her  legs 
were  tied.  See  thee  !  here's  a  ixpjiermiut-drop,  and  I'll  make 
thee  a  pasty  to-night;  only  don't  give  way  so,  for  it  hurts  niu 
sore  to  think  that  Michael  has  done  thee  any  harm,  my  jtrt'tty." 

Willie  roused  himsfll'  up,  and  j)ut  back  the  \\vt  and  rufUiHl 
hair  from  his  heated  face ;  and  hv  and  Susan  rose  uj),  and  hand- 
in-hand  went  towards  the  house,  walking  slowly  and  (juietly 
exccjjt  ft»r  a  kind  of"  sob  which  Willi(<  cotild  not  repress.  Susiui 
look  him  to  tlu'  pump  and  waslicd  liis  tear-stained  face,  till  she 
thought  she  had  ol)litt  rated  ull  traces  of  the  rec(>nt  di.'<turbauce, 
arranging  his  curls  for  him,  and  then  she  kisced  him  tenderly, 
and  led  him  in,  hoping  to  find  Michticd  in  the  kitchen,  and  make 


UM.F  A  i.ii'ixn.Mi:  Aco.  401 

all  straight  lu'twcou  tliciu.  But  tho  blaze  luul  dro^jpcd  down 
into  daiknoss  ;  tlic  wood  was  a  lioaj)  of  <fray  ashes  in  wliith  (lio 
sparks  ran  hither  and  thither  ;  but  even  in  the  gro^jing  darkness 
.Susan  knew  by  the  sinking  at  lier  heart  that  Michael  was  not 
there.  She  tlu'ew  another  brand  on  the  liearth  and  lighted  tho 
<'andh\  and  sat  down  to  her  work  in  silence.  Willie  cowered  on 
his  stool  by  the  side  of  the  tire,  eyeing  his  sister  from  time  to  time, 
and  soriy  and  opjiressed,  he  knew  not  why,  by  the  sight  of  lier 
grave,  almost  stern  fiice.  Xo  one  came.  They  two  were  in  tlio 
lu)nse  alone.  The  old  woman  who  helped  Susan  with  the  house- 
hold work  had  gone  out  for  the  niglit  to  some  friend's  dwelling. 
William  Dixon,  the  father,  was  uji  on  the  fells  seeing  after  his 
Blieep.     Susan  had  no  heart  to  prepare  the  evening  meal. 

"  Susy,  darling,  are  you  angry  with  me  V  said  Willie,  in  his 
little  jiiping,  gentle  voice.  He  had  stolen  up  to  his  sister's  side. 
"  I  won't  never  play  with  the  fire  again ;  and  I'll  not  cry  if 
Michael  does  kick  me.  Only  don't  look  so  like  dead  mother 
— don't — don't — please  don't  I''  he  exclaimed,  hiding  his  face  on 
her  shoulder. 

"  I'm  not  angry,  Willie,"  said  she.  "Don't  be  feared  on  me. 
Yon  want  your  supper,  and  you  sliall  have  it ;  and  don't  you  bo 
feared  on  Michael.  He  sliall  give  reason  for  every  hair  of  your 
liead  that  he  touches — he  shall." 

When  W^illiam  Dixon  came  home  he  found  Susan  and  Willie 
sitting  together,  hand-in-hand,  and  apparently  pretty  cheerful. 
He  bade  them  go  to  bed,  for  tliat  he  would  sit  np  for  Michael  ; 
and  the  next  morning,  when  Susan  came  down,  she  foimd  that 
Michael  liad  started  an  hour  before  with  the  cart  for  lime.  It 
was  a  long  day's  work  ;  Susan  knew  it  would  be  late,  perhaps 
hxtcr  than  on  the  preceding  niglit,  before  he  returned — at  any  rate, 
past  her  usual  bed-time  ;  and  on  no  account  would  she  stop  up 
a  minute  beyond  that  hour  in  the  kitchen,  whatever  she  might 
do  in  her  bed-room.  Here  she  sat  and  watched  till  past  midnight ; 
and  when  she  saw  him  coming  np  the  brow  with  the  carts,  she 
knew  full  well,  even  in  that  faint  moonlight,  that  his  gait  was 
tli(!  gait  of  a  man  in  liquor.  But  though  she  was  annoyed  and 
mortified  to  find  in  what  way  he  had  chosen  to  forget  her,  the  fact 
did  not  disgust  or  shock  her  as  it  would  have  done  many  a  girl, 
even  at  that  day,  who  liad  not  been  brought  up  as  Susan  had, 
among  a  class  who  considered  it  no  crime,  but  rather  a  mark  of 
spirit,  in  a  man  to  get  drunk  occasionally.  Nevertheless,  she 
chose  to  hold  herself  very  high  all  the  next  day  when  Michael 
was,  j)erf'orc;e,  oliliged  to  give  up  any  attempt  to  do  heavy  work, 
and  hung  about  the  out-buildings  and  farm  in  a  very  disconsolato 

D   D 


402  IIAI.F   A   LIFE-TIME   AGO. 

and  sickly  state.  Willie  had  far  more  pity  on  him  than  Snsan- 
Before  evcninjj;,  Willie  and  he  were  fast,  and,  (in  his  side,  osten- 
tatious friends.  Willie  rode  the  horses  down  to  water ;  Willie 
helped  him  to  chop  wood.  Susan  sat  gloomily  at  her  work, 
hearing  an  indistinct  hut  cheerful  conversation  gt)ing  on  in  the 
shippon,  while  the  cows  were  being  milked.  She  almost  felt 
irritated  M-itli  her  little  brother,  as  if  he  were  a  traitor,  and  had 
gone  over  t<)  the  enemy  in  the  very  battle  that  she  was  lighting 
in  his  cause.  She  was  alone  with  no  one  to  speak  to,  while  they 
l)rattled  on  regardless  if  slie  were  glad  or  soiry. 

Soon  Willie  burst  in.  "  Susan  !  Susan  !  come  with  me  ;  I've 
something  so  pretty  to  show  you.  Kound  tlie  corner  of  the  bam 
— run  !  run  !'  (He  was  dragging  her  along,  half  reluctant,  half 
desirous  of  some  change  in  that  weary  day.  Iiound  the  comer 
of  the  barn  ;  and  caught  hold  of  by  Michael,  who  stood  thei-e 
awaiting  her. 

"O  Willie  !"  cried  she  "  you  naughty  boy.  There  is  nothing 
pretty — what  have  you  brought  me  here  for  ?  Let  mc  go  ;  1 
won't  be  held." 

"  Only  one  word.  Nay,  if  you  wish  it  so  much,  you  may  go." 
said  Michael,  suddenly  loosing  his  hold  as  she  struggled.  Jiut 
now  she  was  free,  she  only  di-ew  oft'  a  step  or  two,  munuuring 
something  about  Willie. 

"You  are  going,  then?''  said  INIichael,  with  seeming  sadness. 
"  You  won't  hear  mc  say  a  word  of  what  is  in  my  heart.  " 

"How  can  I  tell  whether  it  is  what  1  should  like  to  hear  '.' " 
replied  she,  still  drawing  l>a(k. 

"  That  is  just  what  I  want  you  to  tell  me  ;  I  want  you  to  hear 
it  and  tlien  to  tell  nie  whether  you  like  it  or  not." 

"  Well,  you  may  speak,"'  replied  she,  turning  lur  back,  and 
beginning  to  plait  the  liem  of  her  apnai. 

He  came  close  to  her  ear. 

"I'm  sorry  I  hint  Willie  the  other  night,  lli'  has  forgiven 
mc.     Can  you  ?' 

"You  hurt  him  very  batlly,"  she  replied.  "  r>ut  you  are  right 
to  be  sorry,     I  forgive  you.  " 

"  Stoj),  stop !"  said  he,  laying  his  liand  upon  lur  arm. 
"There  is  something  mont  I've  got  to  say.  I  want  you  to  be 
my what  is  it  they  call  it,  Susan  ".•' " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  she,  half-laughing,  but  trying  to  get 
away  witli  all  her  might  now;  and  she  was  a  strong  girl,  but  she 
could  not  manage  it. 

"  You  do.     My what  is  it  1  waJit  you  to  boV" 

"  I  tell  you  I  don't  know,  and  \v\i  had  "best  be  (juiet,  and  just 


HALF    A    LIl'K-TIME    AGO,  403 

let  me  go  iu,  or  I  shall  tliink  you're  as  bad  now  as  you  were  last 
night." 

"  And  how  tlid  you  know  what  I  was  last  night  ?  It  was  past 
twelve  when  I  came  home.  Were  you  watching  ?  Ah,  Susan  ! 
be  my  wife,  and  you  shall  never  have  to  watch  for  a  drunken 
husband.  If  I  were  your  husband,  I  would  come  straight  home, 
and  count  every  minute  an  hoiw  till  I  saw  yoxu*  bonny  face.  Now 
you  know  what  I  want  you  to  be.  I  ask  you  to  be  my  wife. 
Will  you,  my  own  dear  Susan?"' 

She  did  not  speak  for  some  time.  Then  she  only  said  "  Ask 
father."  And  now  she  was  really  otf  like  a  lapwing  roimd  the 
corner  of  the  barn,  and  up  in  her  own  little  room,  crying  with  all 
her  might,  before  tlie  triumphant  smile  had  left  Michael's  face 
where  he  stood. 

The  "  Ask  father  "  was  a  mere  form  to  be  gone  through.  Old 
Daniel  Hurst  and  William  Dixon  had  talked  over  what  they 
covdd  respectively  give  their  childien  before  this  ;  and  that  was 
the  parental  way  of  arranging  such  matters.  When  the  probable 
amount  of  worldly  gear  that  he  could  give  his  child  had  been 
named  by  each  father,  the  young  folk,  as  they  said,  might  take 
their  own  time  in  coming  to  the  point  which  the  old  men,  with 
the  prescience  of  experience,  saw  they  were  drifting  to  ;  no  need 
to  hurry  them,  for  they  were  both  young,  and  Michael,  though 
active  enough,  was  too  thoughtless,  old  Daniel  said,  to  be  trusted 
Av-itli  the  eutii-e  management  of  a  farm.  Meanwhile,  his  father 
would  look  about  him,  and  see  after  all  the  farms  that  were  to 
be  let. 

Michael  had  a  shrewd  notion  of  this  preliminary  understand- 
ing between  the  fathers,  and  so  felt  less  daunted  than  he  might 
otherwise  have  done  at  making  the  application  for  Susan's  hand. 
It  was  all  right,  there  was  not  an  obstacle  ;  only  a  deal  of  good 
advice,  which  the  lover  thought  might  have  as  well  been  spared, 
and  whicli  it  must  be  confessed  he  did  not  much  attend  to,  al- 
though he  assented  to  every  part  of  it.  Then  Susan  was  called 
down  stairs,  and  slowly  came  dropping  into  view  down  the  steps 
which  led  from  the  two  family  aj)artmcnts  into  tlie  }iouse-i)Iace. 
She  tried  to  look  composed  and  quiet,  but  it  could  not  bo  done. 
She  stood  side  by  side  with  her  lover,  with  her  head  drooping, 
her  cheeks  burning,  not  daring  to  look  up  or  move,  wliile  her 
father  made  the  newly-betrothed  a  somewhat  formal  address  in 
which  ho  gave  his  consent,  and  many  a  piece  of  worldly  wisdom 
beside.  Susan  listened  as  well  as  she  could  for  tlie  beating  of 
her  heart  ;  but  wlicn  her  father  solemnly  and  sadly  referred  to 
his  own  lost  wife,  she  could  Iteep  from  sobbing  no  longer ;  but 

D  D  2 


404  HALF    A    r.IFE-TIMi:    AGO. 

throwing  her  apron  over  her  face,  she  siit  down  on  the  bench  by 
tlie  dresser,  and  fairly  gave  way  to  pi'ut-ujt  tears.  Oh,  how 
strangely  sweet  to  be  comforted  as  she  was  comforted,  by  tender 
caress,  and  many  a  low-whispered  promise  of  love  !  Her  father 
sit  hy  the  fire,  thinking  (if  the  days  that  were  gone  ;  ^Villie  was 
still  out  of  doors  ;  but  Susan  and  Michael  felt  no  one's  presence 
or  absence—  they  only  knew  they  were  together  as  betrothed 
husband  and  wife. 

In  a  week,  or  two,  they  were  formally  told  of  the  aiTangements 
to  be  made  in  their  favoui".  A  small  farm  in  the  neighbourhoo<l 
hajDiiened  to  fall  vacant ;  and  Micliael's  father  offered  to  tuke  it 
for  him,  and  be  responsible  for  the  rent  for  the  lirst  year,  while 
William  Dixon  was  to  contribute  a  cci'tain  amount  of  stock,  and 
both  fathers  were  to  helji  towards  the  funiishing  of  the  house, 
Susan  received  all  this  information  in  a  quiet,  indifferent  way ; 
she  did  not  care  much  for  any  of  these  prei)ai'ations,  which  were 
to  hurry  her  through  the  happy  hours ;  she  cared  lei;st  of  all  f<u- 
the  money  amount  of  dowry  and  of  substance.  It  jarred  on  her 
to  be  made  the  confidante  of  occasional  slight  rei>iuings  of 
Michael's,  as  one  by  one  his  future  father-in-law  set  aside  a 
beast  or  a  pig  for  Susan's  portion,  which  were  not  always  the 
best  animals  of  their  kind  upon  the  farm.  But  he  also  com- 
plained of  his  o\Mi  fathers  stinginess,  which  somewhat,  though 
not  much,  alleviated  Susan's  dislike  to  being  awakened  out  of 
her  pure  dream  of  love  to  the  consideration  of  worldly  wi  alth. 

But  in  the  midst  of  all  this  bustle,  Willie  moped  and  pined. 
He  had  the  same  chord  of  delicacy  running  through  his  mind 
tliat  made  his  body  feeble  and  weak.  He  kept  out  of  tlie 
way,  and  was  apparently  occupii-d  in  whittling  and  carving  un- 
couth heads  on  hazel-sticks  in  an  out-house.  But  he  positively 
avoided  Michael,  and  shrunk  away  even  from  Susan.  She  was 
too  much  occupied  to  notice  this  at  first.  Michael  ]»ointed  it 
out  to  her,  saying,  with  a  laugh.    - 

"  Look  at  Willie  !  he  might  be  a  cast-off  lover  and  jealous  of 
mc,  he  looks  so  dark  and  downcast  at  me."  a\Iichail  spoke  this 
jest  out  loud,  and  Willie  burst  into  tears,  and  ran  out  of  tlie  house 

"Let  me  go.  Lit  me  go!"  said  Susan  (for  her  lover's  ani> 
was  round  her  waist).  "  I  must  go  to  him  if  he's  fretting.  1 
promised  mother  I  woidd  !  "  She  pulled  herself  away,  and  went 
in  SI  arcli  of  the  boy.  She  souglit  in  byre  and  barn,  through  thu 
irchard,  where  indeed  in  this  halKss  winter-time  there  was  no 
;.'nuit  conceahneiit ;  up  into  the  room  where  the  wool  was  usually 
htored  in  the  later  summer,  and  at  last  she  found  him,  sitting 
lit  l»ay,  like  some  hunted  creature,  uj*  In-hind  the  wood-slai  k. 


HALF    A    l.IFK-TlMi:    ACO.  40.) 

"  What  arc  yc  gone  for,  lad,  untl  me  seeking  you  everywhere  ?" 
ftskod  she,  breathless. 

••  I  did  not  know  you  would  seek  nie.  I've  Ijeen  away 
many  a  time,  and  no  one  has  cwed  to  seek  me,"  said  he,  crying 
afresh. 

"  Nonsense,"  replied  Susan,  "  don't  be  so  foolish,  yo  little 
good-for-nought."  But  she  crept  up  to  him  in  the  hole  he  hud 
made  underneath  the  great,  brown  sheafs  of  wood,  and  squeezed 
herself  down  by  him,  "  What  for  should  folk  seek  after  you, 
when  you  get  away  from  them  whenever  you  can  V"  asked  she. 

'"  They  don't  want  mo  to  stiiy.  Nobcnly  wants  me.  If  I  go 
with  father,  he  says  I  hinder  more  than  I  help.  You  used  to 
like  to  have  mo  with  you.  But  now,  j'ou've  taken  up  with 
Michael,  and  you'd  rather  I  was  away  ;  and  I  can  just  bide 
away  ;  but  I  cannot  stand  Michael  jeering  at  me.  He's  got  you 
to  love  him  and  that  might  serve  him." 

"  But  I  love  you,  too,  dearly,  lad!''  said  she,  patting  her  arm 
round  his  neck. 

"  Which  on  us  do  you  like  best  V"  said  he,  wistfully,  after  a 
little  pause,  putting  her  arm  away,  so  that  he  might  look  in  her 
face,  and  sec  if  she  spoke  truth. 

She  went  very  red. 

"  You  should  not  ask  such  questions.  They  are  not  fit  for 
you  to  ask,  nor  for  me  to  answer." 

''  But  mother  bade  you  love  me  !"  said  he,  plaintively. 

"  And  so  I  do.  And  so  I  ever  will  do.  Lover  nor  husband 
shall  come  betwixt  thee  and  me,  lad — ne'er  a  one  of  them.  That 
I  i)romise  thee  (as  I  promised  mother  before),  in  the  sight  of 
(Jod  and  with  her  hearkening  now,  if  ever  she  can  hearken  to 
CiU'thly  word  again.  Only  I  cannot  abide  to  have  thee  fretting, 
just  because  my  heart  is  large  enough  for  two." 

"  And  thou'lt  love  me  always  ?" 

"  Always,  and  ever.  And  the  more -the  more  thou'lt  love 
Michael,"  said  she,  dropping  her  voice. 

"  I'll  try,"  said  the  boy,  sighing,  for  he  remembered  many  a 
harsh  word  and  blow  of  which  his  sister  knew  nothing.  She 
would  have  risen  up  to  go  away,  but  he  held  her  tight,  for  hero 
and  now  she  was  all  his  own,  and  he  did  not  know  when  such  a 
time  might  come  again.  So  the  two  sat  crouched  up  and  silent, 
till  they  heard  the  hora  blowing  at  the  lield-gate,  which  was  the 
summons  home  to  any  wanderers  Ijclonging  to  the  farm,  and  at 
this  hour  of  the  evening,  signified  that  supper  was  ready.  Then 
the  two  went  in. 


40()  HALF   A    LIFE-TIME    AGO. 


CHAPTER  II. 


Spsan  and  Michael  were  to  be  niarriod  iu  April.  He;  bad  ab't^adj 
•jfoiic  to  take  i)ossession  of  bis  new  farm,  tbree  or  four  miles  iway 
from  Yew  Nook — but  that  is  neighbouriug,  according  to  tho 
iiecoptation  of  the  word  in  tliat  thinly-populated  district, — when 
William  Dixon  fell  ill.  He  came  home  one  evening,  complain- 
ing of  head-ache  and  2'aiiis  in  his  limbs,  but  seemed  to  loathe 
the  posset  which  Susan  prepared  for  him  ;  tho  treacle-posset 
which  was  tho  homely  country  remedy  against  an  incii)ient  cold. 
He  took  to  his  bed  with  a  sensation  of  exceeding  weariness,  and 
an  odd,  iniusual  lookiug-back  to  the  days  of  his  youth,  when  he 
was  a  lad  living  with  his  parents,  in  this  very  house. 

The  next  morning  he  had  forgotten  all  his  life  since  then, 
and  did  not  know  his  own  childi'eu  ;  crying,  like  a  newly-weaned 
baby,  for  his  mother  to  come  and  soothe  away  his  terrible  pain. 
The  doctor  from  Coniston  said  it  was  the  typhus-fever,  and 
warned  Susan  of  its  infectious  character,  and  shook  his  head  over 
his  patient.  There  were  no  near  friends  to  come  and  share  her 
anxiety  ;  only  good,  kind  old  Peggy,  who  was  faithfulness  itself, 
and  one  or  two  labourers'  wives,  who  wouhl  fuin  have  helped  her, 
bad  not  their  hands  been  tied  by  their  resi)onsibility  to  their  own 
families.  But,  someb.ow,  Susan  neither  feiui-d  nor  flagged.  As 
for  fear,  indeed,  she  had  no  time  to  give  way  to  it,  fur  every 
energy  of  both  body  and  mind  was  recpiired.  Bi'sides.  the  young 
have  had  too  little  experience  of  the  danger  of  infection  to  dread 
it  much.  She  did  indeea  wish,  from  time  to  time,  that  Micliat  1 
had  been  at  honu^  to  have  taken  Willie  over  to  his  father's  at 
High  Beck;  but  then,  again,  the  hid  was  docile  and  useful  to 
her,  and  his  fecklessiiess  in  many  things  might  make  him  harshly 
treated  by  strangers  ;  so,  perhai)s,  it  was  as  well  that  Michael 
was  away  at  Aj)i)leby  fair,  or  even  beyond  thftt — gone  into  York- 
shire alter  horses. 

Her  father  gi'ew  worse  ;  and  tlu'  doctor  insisted  on  sending  over 
a  nurse  from  ('oniston.  Not  a  protVssed  nurse  -Coniston  could 
not  have  supported  sucOi  a  one  ;  but  a  widow  who  wa«  reiuly  to 
go  where  the  doctor  sent  her  for  the  sjike  of  the  payment.  Wlun 
she  came,  Susan  suddenly  gave  way  ;  she  wjis  felh'd  by  the  fever 
herself,  and  lay  luiconscious  for  long  weeks.  Her  conseiousuess 
returned  to  her  one  spring  afteinoou  :  early  spring ;  April, — ■ 


HALF    A    I.IFK-TIMK    AGO.  407 

lior  wcddiug-mouth.  There  was  a  little  fire  bui-uiug  iu  tlio 
small  corner-grate,  auil  the  tiickeriug  of  the  blaze  was  oiKJUgh 
for  her  to  notice  iu  her  weak  state.  She  felt  that  there  was 
some  one  sitting  on  the  window-side  of  her  bed,  behind  the 
curtain,  but  she  did  not  care  to  know  who  it  was ;  it  was  even 
too  gi'eat  a  trouble  for  her  languid  mind  to  consider  who  it  was 
likely  to  be.  She  would  rather  shut  her  eyes,  and  melt  off 
again  into  the  gentle  luxm-y  of  sleep.  The  next  time  she 
wakened,  the  Conistou  nm"se  i)erccived  her  movement,  and  made 
lier  a  cup  of  tea,  which  she  di'ank  with  eager  relish ;  but  still 
they  did  not  speak,  and  once  more  Susan  lay  motionless — not 
usleep,  but  strangely,  pleasantly  conscious  of  all  the  small 
chamber  and  household  sounds ;  the  fall  of  a  cinder  on  the 
hearth,  the  fitful  singing  of  the  half-empty  kettle,  the  cattle 
tramping  out  to  field  again  after  they  had  been  milked,  the  aged 
step  on  the  creaking  staii* — old  Peggy's,  as  she  knew.  It  came 
to  her  door  ;  it  stopped ;  the  person  outside  listened  for  a 
moment,  and  then  lifted  the  wooden  latch,  and  looked  in. 
The  watcher  by  the  bedside  arose,  and  went  to  her.  Susan 
^v•ould  have  been  glad  to  see  Peggy's  face  once  more,  but  was 
far  too  weak  to  turn,  so  she  lay  and  listened. 

"  How  is  she  r"  whispered  one  trembling,  aged  voice. 

"  Better,"  replied  the  other.  "  She's  been  awake,  and  had  a 
cup  of  tea.     She'll  do  now." 

"  Has  she  asked  after  him  ?" 

'•  Hush  !  No  ;  she  has  not  spoken  a  word." 

'■  Poor  lass  !  poor  lass  !" 

The  door  was  shut.  A  weak  feeling  of  sorrow  and  self-pity 
came  over  Susan.  What  was  \ATong?  Whom  had  she  loved? 
And  dawning,  dawning,  slowly  rose  the  sun  of  her  former  life, 
and  all  particulars  were  made  distinct  to  her.  She  felt  that 
some  sorrow  was  coming  to  her,  and  cried  over  it  before  she 
knew  what  it  was,  or  had  strength  enough  to  ask.  In  the  dead 
of  night,— and  she  had  never  slept  again, — she  softly  called  to 
the  watcher,  and  asked — 

"Who?" 

"  Who  wliivt  ?"  replied  the  woman,  with  a  conscious  affright, 
ill-veiled  by  a  poor  assumption  of  ease.  "  Lie  still,  tlierc's  a 
darling,  and  go  to  sleep.  Sleep's  better  for  you  than  all  the 
doctor's  stuff." 

"  Who  "r""  repeated  Susan.     "  Something  is  WTong.     Who  ?" 

'•  Oh,  dear !"  said  the  woman.  "  There's  nothing  wrong, 
Willie  has  taken  the  turn,  and  is  doing  nicely." 

'■  Father  ?" 


408  HALF    A    LIFK-TIME    AGO, 

"Well!  lie's  all  riglit  now,"  she  auswered,  lookiug  another 
way,  as  if  seeking  for  soimthing. 

"  Then  it's  Miehael  !  Oh,  me  !  oh,  me  !"  She  set  up  a  suc- 
cession of  weak,  plaintive,  h^'sterical  eries  before  the  nurse  eouhl 
pacify  licr,  by  declaring  that  Michael  had  been  at  the  house  not 
three  hom-s  before  to  ask  after  her,  and  looked  as  well  and  as 
hearty  as  ever  man  did. 

"  And  you  heard  of  no  harm  to  him  since  ?"  inquired  Susan. 

"  Bless  the  lass,  no,  for  siu-e  !  I've  ne'er  heard  his  name  named 
since  I  saw  him  go  out  of  the  yard  as  stout  a  man  as  ever  trod 
shoe-leather." 

It  was  well,  as  the  nurse  said  afterwards  to  Peggy,  that 
Susan  had  been  so  easily  jiacilied  by  the  equivocating  answer  in 
respect  to  her  father.  If  she  liad  pressed  the  questions  home  in 
his  case  as  she  did  in  Michael's,  she  would  have  Icai-nt  that  lie 
was  dead  and  biu'icd  more  than  a  month  before.  It  was  well, 
too,  that  in  her  weak  state  of  convalescence  (which  lasted  long 
after  this  first  day  of  consciousness)  her  perceptions  were  nut 
sharp  enough  to  observe  the  sad  change  that  had  taken  place  in 
Willie.  His  bodily  strength  returned,  his  api)etite  was  some- 
thing enormous,  but  his  eyes  w-andercd  continually  ;  his  regard 
could  not  be  arrested ;  his  speech  became  slow,  impeded,  and 
incoherent.  People  began  to  say,  that  the  fever  had  taken  away 
the  little  wit  Willie  Dixon  had  ever  j^ossessed,  and  that  they 
feared  that  he  would  end  in  being  a  "  natuml,"  as  they  call  an 
idiot  in  the  Dales. 

The  luil)itual  aft'eetion  and  obedience  to  Susan  lastid  longer 
than  any  other  feeling  that  the  boy  had  had  previous  to  his  ill- 
ness ;  and,  i)crha2)s,  this  made  her  be  the  last  to  perceive  what 
every  one  else  had  long  anticipated.  Slie  felt  the  awakening 
rude  when  it  did  come.     It  was  in  this  wise  : — 

One  June  evening,  she  sat  out  of  doors  under  the  yew-ti*eo, 
knitting.  She  was  pale  still  from  her  recent  illness ;  and  her 
languor,  joined  to  the  fact  of  her  blaek  dress,  made  her  hmk 
more  than  usually  interesting.  She  was  no  longer  the  buoyant 
self-sulVicient  Susan,  e(iual  to  every  occasion.  Tl»e  nion  \\ere 
bringing  in  the  cows  to  be  milked,  and  Micliael  was  about  in  (lit> 
yard  giving  orders  and  directions  willi  somewhat  the  air  of  a 
master,  for  the  farm  bilongtHl  of  right  to  Willie,  and  Susan  had 
sueceeded  to  the  guardiansliip  of  her  brother.  ]\li<hael  and  she 
were  to  Ite  married  as  soon  as  she  was  strong  enough  so,  per- 
haps, his  autlioritative  manner  was  justilied  ;  but  the  labourei"S 
did  not  lil<(!  it,  althougli  thi-y  said  little.  Tliey  remem''er"d 
him  u  stripling  on  thi:  farm,  k:iowiiig  fur  less  than  they  di  i,  lUid 


HALF    A    LIFK-TIME    AGO.  40*J 

oftt'ii  gluil  to  slultcr  Ill's  ignorance  of  all  agi-icultural  matters 
behind  their  superior  knt)\vleilge.  They  would  have  taki'U 
orders  from  Susiui  with  far  more  willingness  ;  nay,  Willie  liini- 
sclf  might  have  commanded  them  ;  and  from  the  old  lieredi- 
ttuy  feeling  toward  the  owners  of  land,  they  would  have  obeyed 
him  with  far  greater  cordiality  than  they  now  showed  to  Michael. 
But  Susan  was  tired  with  even  three  rounds  of  knitting,  and 
seemed  not  to  notice,  or  to  care,  how  things  went  on  around  her  ; 
and  Willie  -  poor  Willie  I — there  he  stood  loimging  against  the 
door-sill,  enormously  grown  and  devcloj)ed,  to  be  svu'c,  but  with 
restless  eyes  and  ever-open  mouth,  and  every  now  and  then 
setting  up  a  strange  kind  of  howling  cry,  and  then  smiling  va- 
-i^antly  to  himself  at  the  soun<l  he  had  made.  As  the  two  old 
labourers  passed  him,  they  looked  at  each  other  ominously,  and 
shook  their  heads. 

"  Willie,  darling,"  said  Susan,  "  don't  make  that  noise — it 
makes  my  head  ache."' 

She  spoke  feebly,  and  Willie  did  not  seem  to  hear ;  at  any 
rate,  he  continued  his  howl  from  time  to  time, 

"  Hold  thy  noise,  wilt'a  ?"'  said  Michael,  roughly,  as  he  passed 
near  him,  and  threatening  him  with  his  list.  Susan's  back  was 
turned  to  the  pair.  The  expression  of  Willie's  face  changed 
from  vacancy  to  fear,  and  he  came  shandjliug  up  to  Susan,  who 
put  her  arm  round  him,  and,  as  if  protected  by  that  slielter,  he 
began  making  faces  at  Michael.  Susan  saw  what  was  going  on, 
and,  as  if  now  first  struck  by  the  strangeness  of  her  brother's 
manner,  she  looked  anxiously  at  Michael  for  an  explanation. 
Michael  was  irritated  at  Willie's  defiance  of  him,  and  did  not 
mince  the  matter. 

"It's  just  that  the  fever  has  left  him  silly— he  never  was  as 
wise  as  other  folk,  and  now  I  doubt  if  he  will  ever  get  right." 

Susan  did  not  speak,  but  she  went  very  pale,  and  her  lijj  qui- 
vered She  looked  long  and  wistfully  at  Willie's  face,  as  he 
watched  the  motion  of  tlie  ducks  in  the  great  stable-pool.  He 
laughed  softly  tc;  himself  every  now  and  then. 

'•  Willie  likes  to  sec  tlie  ducks  go  overhead,"  said  Susan,  iu 
stinctively  ado])ting  the  form  of  speech  she  would  have  used  to 
a  young  child. 

"'  Willie,  boo  !  Willie,  boo  I"  he  rejdied,  clajiping  his  hands, 
and  avoiding  her  eye. 

"  Speak  properly,  Willie,"  said  Susan,  making  a  strong  effort 
at  .self-control,  and  trying  to  arrest  his  attention. 

"You  know  wlio  I  am — tell  me  my  name  I"  She  grasjicd  his 
wm  almost  painfully  tiglit  to  make  him  attend.     Now  he  looked 


410  HALF    A    LIFE-TIME    A(;0. 

at  her,  aud,  for  an  instant,  a  gleam  of  recognition  qnivered  over 
liin  face  ;  but  tlie  exertion  was  evidently  painful,  and  he  began 
to  cry  at  the  vainness  of  the  etl'oii  to  recall  her  name.  He  hid 
his  lace  upon  her  shoulder  with  the  old  affectionate  trick  of 
manner.  She  put  liini  gently  away,  and  went  into  the  house 
into  her  own  little  bedroom.  She  locked  the  door,  and  did  not 
reply  at  all  to  Michaels  calls  for  her,  hardly  spoke  to  old 
Peggy,  who  tried  to  tempt  her  out  to  receive  some  homely  sym- 
pathy, and  througli  the  ojion  casement  there  still  come  the 
idiotic  soimd  of  "  Willie,  boo  !  Willie,  boo  !'' 


CHAPTEK  III. 

Aftek  the  stun  of  the  blow  came  the  realization  of  the  conse- 
quences. Susan  would  sit  for  hours  trying  patiently  to  recall 
and  piece  together  fragments  of  recollection  and  consciousness 
in  her  brother's  mind.  She  would  let  him  go  and  pursue  some 
senseless  bit  of  i^lay,  and  wait  luitil  she  could  catch  his  eye  or 
his  attention  again,  when  slie  would  resume  her  self-im})oscd 
task.  Blichael  eonii)lained  tliat  slie  never  had  a  word  for  him, 
or  a  minute  of  time  to  spend  with  him  now ;  but  she  only  said 
she  must  try,  w^hilc  there  was  yet  a  chance,  to  bring  back  her 
brother's  lost  wits.  As  for  marriage  in  this  state  of  imccrtainty, 
she  liad  no  heart  to  think  of  it.  Tlien  ISIicliael  stormed,  and 
absented  liimsclf  for  two  or  thieo  days;  but  it  was  of  no  use. 
AVhen  lie  came  back,  he  saw  that  she  had  been  crying  till  her 
eyes  were  all  swollen  xxy^,  and  lie  gathered  from  Peggy's  scold- 
ings (which  she  did  not  spare  him)  that  Susan  had  eaten  nothing 
since  he  went  away.     But  she  was  as  inflexible  ixs  ever. 

"  Not  just  yet.  Only  not  just  yet.  And  don't  say  apxin  that 
I  do  not  love  you,"  said  she,  suddenly  hiding  herself  in  liis  arms. 

And  so  matters  went  on  through  August.  The  croj)  of  oats 
was  gatlu'red  in  :  the  wheat-tield  was  not  ready  as  yet,  wiien  one 
line  day  IMichael  dn»ve  uj)  in  a  borrowed  shandrv,  and  oll'ercd  to 
take  Willie  a  ride.  His  manner,  when  Susan  asked  him  where 
he  was  going  to,  was  rathi'r  confused  ;  but  the  answer  was 
straight  and  clear  enough. 

He  had  l)iisiness  in  Ambleside.  He  would  never  lose  sight 
t>f  the  lad,  and  have  him  back  safi>  and  sound  before  dark." 
So  Susan  let  him  g(». 

liefore  night  they  wore  at  homo  again  :  Willie  in  high  delight 


HALF    A    LIFIXriMi;    AGO.  411 

.it  a  little  rattling  paper  windmill  tliat  Micliael  had  bouglit  for 
him  in  the  street,  and  striving  to  imitate  this  new  soinid  with 
})irpttual  buzzings.  Miehael,  too,  looked  pleased.  Susan  knew 
tlie  look,  althougli  afterwards  slie  remembered  that  he  had  tried 
to  veil  it  from  her,  and  had  assumed  a  gi-ave  appearance  of 
sorrow  wlienever  he  caught  her  eye.  He  put  up  his  horse  :  for, 
although  he  had  tliree  miles  further  to  go,  the  moon  was  up— 
the  bonny  harvest-moon — and  lie  did  not  care  how  late  he  had 
to  drive  on  such  a  road  by  such  a  light.  After  the  supper  which 
Susan  had  prepared  for  the  travellers  was  over,  Peggy  went 
np-stairs  to  see  Willie  safe  in  bed  ;  for  he  had  to  have  the  same 
care  taken  of  liim  that  a  little  child  of  fom-  years  old  requires, 

Michael  drew  near  to  Susan. 

'•  Susan,"  said  he,  '•  I  took  Will  to  sec  Dr.  Preston,  at  Kendal. 
He's  the  tirst  doctor  in  the  county.  I  thought  it  were  better  for 
us— for  you — to  know  at  once  what  chance  there  were  for  him." 

"  Well !''  said  Susan,  looking  eagerly  up.  She  saw  the  same 
strange  glance  of  satisfaction,  the  same  instant  change  to 
apparent  regret  and  pain.  "  What  did  he  say  ?"  said  she. 
"  Speak  !  can't  you  ?" 

"  He  said  he  would  never  get  better  of  his  weakness." 

"  Never !" 

"  No ;  never.  It's  a  long  word,  and  hard  to  bear.  And 
there's  worse  to  come,  dearest.  The  doctor  thinks  he  will  get 
badder  from  year  to  year.  And  he  said,  if  he  was  us — you — 
lie  woidd  send  him  off  in  time  to  Lancaster  Asylum.  They've 
ways  there  both  of  keeping  such  people  in  order  and  making 
them  happy.  I  only  tell  you  what  he  said,"  continued  he,  seeing 
tlie  gathering  storm  in  her  face. 

"  There  was  no  harm  in  his  saying  it,"  she  replied,  with  gi-eat 
self-constraint,  forcing  herself  to  speak  coldly  instead  of  angrily. 
'•  Folk  is  welcome  to  their  opinions." 

They  sat  silent  for  a  minute  or  two,  her  breast  heaving  with 
siij^pressed  feeling. 

•'  He's  counted  a  very  clever  man,"  said  Michael  at  length. 

"  He  may  be.  He's  none  of  my  clever  men,  nor  am  I  going 
to  be  guided  by  him,  whatever  lie  may  think.  And  I  don't 
tliank  them  tliat  wcait  and  took  my  poor  lad  to  have  such  harsh 
notions  fonned  al)out  him.  If  Id  been  there,  I  could  have 
called  out  the  sense  tliat  is  in  him." 

"  Well !  I'll  not  say  more  to-night,  Susan.  You're  not  takinf* 
it  rightly,  and  I'd  l^est  be  gone,  and  leave  you  to  think  it  over. 
I'll  not  deny  tlusy  are  liard  words  to  hear,  but  there's  sense  in 
them,  as    I    take  it ;     and  I    reckon  you'll    have   to    come    to 


412  HALF    \    LIFE-TIME    AGO. 

cm.  Anyhow,  it's  a  bad  way  of  thauking  me  for  my  pains,  and 
T  don't  take  it  well  in  you,  Susan,"  said  he,  getting  up,  as  if 
offended. 

"  Michael,  I'm  beside  myself  with  sorrow.  Don't  blame  me 
if  I  speak  sharp.  He  and  me  is  the  only  ones,  you  see.  And 
mother  did  so  charge  me  to  have  a  care  of  him  !  And  this  is 
what  he's  come  to,  poor  lile  chap !"  She  began  to  cry,  and 
Michael  to  comfort  her  with  caresses. 

"  Don't,"  said  she.  "  It's  no  use  trying  to  make  me  forget 
poor  Willie  is  a  natui-al.  I  could  hate  myself  for  being  happy 
with  yoii.  even  for  just  a  little  minute.  Go  away,  and  leave  me 
to  fiice  it  out." 

"  And  you'll  think  it  over,  Susan,  and  remember  what  the  doc- 
tor says  ?" 

"  I  can't  forget,"  said  she.  She  meant  she  could  not  forget 
what  the  doctor  had  said  about  the  hopelessness  of  her  brother's 
case  ;  Michael  had  referred  to  the  plan  of  sending  Willie  to  an 
asylum,  or  madhouse,  as  they  were  called  in  that  day  and  place. 
The  idea  had  been  gathering  force  in  Michael's  mind  for  some 
time  ;  he  had  talked  it  over  with  his  l\ither,  and  secretly  rejoiced 
over  the  possession  of  the  farm  aud  huul  which  would  then  be 
his  in  fact,  if  not  in  law,  by  right  of  liis  wife.  He  liad  always 
considered  the  good  penny  ]ier  father  could  give  her  in  liis 
catalogue  of  Susan's  charms  and  attractions.  But  of  late  he  had 
gro^^Ti  to  esteem  lier  as  tlie  lieiress  of  Yew  Nook.  He,  too, 
should  have  land  like  his  brother — land  to  possess,  to  cultivate, 
to  make  profit  from,  to  bequ(>ath.  For  some  time  he  had  won- 
dered that  Susan  had  been  so  much  absorbed  in  Willie's  jiresent, 
that  she  had  never  seemed  to  look  forward  to  his  future,  state. 
Michael  liad  long  felt  the  boy  to  be  a  trouble  ;  but  of  late  he 
had  absolutely  loathed  him.  His  gibbering,  his  uncouth  ges- 
tures, his  loose,  shambling  gait,  all  irritated  Michael  inexpres- 
sibly. He  did  not  come  near  the  Yew  Nook  for  a  couple  of 
days.  He  thought  that  he  would  leave  her  time  to  become 
anxious  to  see  him  and  reconciled  to  his  ]dan.  They  were 
strange  lonely  days  to  Susan.  They  were  the  lirst  she  had  spent 
face  to  face  with  the  sorrows  that  had  turned  her  frctm  a  girl 
into  a  woman ;  for  hitherto  Michael  had  never  let  twinty-fi>ur 
hours  pass  by  without  coming  to  see  her  since  she  had  had  the 
fever.  Now  that  he  was  absi  lit,  it  seemed  as  though  some  cau8«.> 
of  irritation  was  removed  from  Will,  who  was  mueji  more  gentle 
and  tractable  tlinii  he  had  been  for  many  weeks.  Su.'yin  thought 
that  she  observed  lilni  making  efforts  at  her  bidding,  and  there 
'Vttti  something  jiiteouii  in  the  way  in  which  he  crept  uj)  to  hei*. 


llAI.r   A    l.IFE-TIMi:    A(iO.  413 

i»nd  looked  wistfnlly  in  Ler  face,  as  if  asking  hor  to  restore  liim 
the  faculties  tliat  lie  felt  to  be  wanting. 

"  I  never  will  kt  thee  go,  lad.  Never  !  There's  no  knowing 
where  they  would  take  thee  to,  or  what  they  would  do  with  thee. 
As  it  says  in  the  Uihle, 'Nought  but  death  shall  part  thee  and  me!'" 

The  country-side  was  full,  in  those  days,  of  stories  of  the 
brutal  treatment  offered  to  the  insane ;  stories  that  were,  in  fact, 
l)ut  too  well  founded,  and  the  truth  of  one  of  which  only  would 
have  been  a  sufficient  reason  for  the  strong  prejudice  existing 
against  all  such  places.  Each  succeeding  hour  that  Susan 
passed,  alone,  or  with  the  poor  affectionate  lad  for  her  sole  com- 
panion, served  to  deepen  her  solemn  resolution  never  to  part 
Avith  him.  So,  when  Michael  came,  he  was  annoyed  and  sur- 
prised by  the  calm  way  in  which  she  spoke,  as  if  following 
Dr.  Preston's  advice  was  utterly  and  entirely  out  of  the  ques- 
tion. He  had  expected  nothing  less  than  a  consent,  reluctant  it 
might  be,  but  still  a  consent ;  and  he  was  extremely  irritated. 
He  could  have  repressed  his  anger,  but  he  chose  rather  to  give 
way  to  it ;  thinking  that  he  could  thus  best  work  upon  Susan's 
affection,  so  as  to  gain  his  point.  But,  somehow,  he  over-reached 
himself ;  and  now  he  was  astonished  in  his  turn  at  the  passion 
of  indignaticm  that  she  burst  into. 

"  Thou  wilt  not  bide  in  the  same  house  with  him,  say'st  thou  ? 
There's  no  need  for  thy  biding,  as  far  as  I  can  tell.  There's 
solemn  reason  why  I  should  bide  with  my  own  flesh  and  blood 
and  keep  to  the  word  I  pledged  my  mother  on  her  death-bed 
but,  as  for  thee,  there's  no  tie  that  I  know  on  to  keep  thee  fro' 
going  to  America  or  Botany  Bay  this  very  night,  if  that  were  thy 
inclination.  1  will  have  no  more  of  your  threats  to  make  mo 
send  my  bairn  away.  If  thou  marry  me,  thou'lt  help  me  to  take 
charge  of  Willie.  If  thou  doesn't  choose  to  marry  me  on  those 
terms — why,  I  can  snap  my  fingers  at  thee,  never  fear.  I'm  not 
so  far  gone  in  love  as  that.  But  I  will  not  have  thee,  if  thou 
say'st  in  such  a  hectoring  way  that  Willie  must  go  out  of  the 
house — and  the  house  his  own  too — before  thoul't  set  foot  in 
it.     Willie  bides  here,  and  I  bide  with  him." 

"  Thou  hast  may-be  spoken  a  word  too  much,"  said  Michael, 
pale  with  rage.  "  If  I  am  free,  as  thou  say'st,  to  go  to  Canada, 
or  Botany  Bay,  I  reckon  I'm  free  to  live  where  I  like,  and  that 
will  not  be  with  a  natural  who  may  turn  into  a  madman  somo 
day,  for  aught  I  know.  Choose  between  him  and  me,  Susy,  for 
I  swear  to  thee,  thou  shan't  have  both." 

"  I  have  chosen,"  said  Susan,  now  perfectly  composed  and 
still.     "Whatever  comes  of  it,  I  bide  with  Willie." 


414  HALF    A    LIFE-TIME    AGO. 

"  Very  well,"  replied  Michael,  trying  Id  assume  an  cqnal 
comijosui'c  of  manner.  "  Then  111  wish  yun  a  very  good  night."* 
He  went  out  of  the  house  door,  half-expecting  to  be  called  back 
again  ;  but,  instead,  he  heard  a  hasty  stej)  inside,  and  a  bolt 
di*a\vn. 

"Whew  !"  said  he  to  himseK,  "  I  think  I  must  leave  my  lady 
alone  for  a  week  or  two,  and  give  her  time  to  come  to  her  scoscs. 
She'll  not  find  it  so  easy  as  she  thinks  to  let  me  go." 

So  he  went  past  the  kitchen-window  in  nonchalant  style,  and 
was  not  seen  again  at  Yew  Nook  lor  some  weeks.  How  did  he 
pass  the  time '?  For  the  first  day  or  two,  ho  was  imusually  cross 
with  all  things  and  people  that  came  athwart  him.  Then 
wheat-harvest  began,  and  he  was  busy,  and  exidtaut  about  his 
heavy  crop.  Then  a  man  came  from  a  distance  to  bid  for  the 
lease  of  his  farm,  which,  by  his  father's  atlvice,  had  been  oti'ered 
for  sale,  as  he  himself  was  so  soon  likely  to  remove  to  the  Yew 
Nook.  Ho  had  so  little  idea  that  Susan  really  would  remain 
finn  to  her  determination,  that  he  at  once  begim  to  haggle  with 
the  man  who  came  after  his  farm,  showed  him  the  crop  just  got 
in,  and  managed  sldlfully  enough  to  make  a  good  bargain  for 
himself.  Of  course,  the  bargain  had  to  be  sealed  at  the  i)ublic- 
house ;  and  the  companions  he  met  with  there  soon  becjune 
friends  enough  to  temjjt  him  into  Langdale,  whei-e  again  he  met 
with  Eleanor  Hebthwaite. 

How  did  Susan  pass  the  time  ?  For  the  first  day  or  so,  she 
was  too  angry  and  oflended  to  cry.  She  went  about  her  house- 
hold duties  in  a  quick,  sharp,  jerlcing,  yet  absent  way  ;  shrink- 
ing one  moment  from  Will,  overwhelming  him  with  remorseful 
caresses  the  next.  The  third  day  of  ]\[iehaers  absence,  she  had 
the  relief  of  a  good  fit  of  crying  ;  and  after  that,  she  grew  softer 
and  more  tender  ;  she  felt  how  haishly  she  had  sjxiken  to  him, 
and  remend)ered  how  angry  she  had  been.  She  made  excusis 
for  him.  "  It  was  no  wonder,"'  she;  said  to  herself,  '*  that  he  had 
been  vexed  with  her  ;  and  no  wonder  he  would  not  givi'  in,  when 
she  had  never  tried  to  speak  gently  or  to  reason  witli  him.  She 
was  to  blame,  and  she  would  till  him  so,  and  till  liim  once  again 
ail  that  her  mother  had  bade  her  to  be  to  Willie,  and  all  the 
horrible  stories  she  had  heard  about  madhousc8,  and  he  would 
be  on  her  side  at  once." 

And  so  she  watched  for  his  coming,  intending  to  apologise  as 
soon  as  ever  she  saw  him.  She  hurried  over  her  liousehold  work, 
in  order  to  sit  (piietly  at  her  sewing,,  and  ln'ar  the  first  distant 
Bound  of  his  well-known  step  or  whistle.  l>ut  even  tlie  sound 
of  her  Hying  needle  seemed  too  hmd     perhaps  she  \\i\»  losing  an 


HALF    A    LIFK-TIMI-:    AGO.  41.3 

exq^uisitc  instant  of  anticipation  ;  so  sho  stopped  sewing,  and 
looked  longing!}'  out  through  the  geranium  leaves,  in  order  tliat 
ber  eye  might  catch  the  first  stir  of  the  branches  in  the  wood- 
^xith  by  which  he  generally  came.  Now  and  then  a  bird  niiglit 
spring  out  of  the  covert ;  otherwise  the  leaves  were  heavily  still 
iu  the  sultry  weather  of  early  autumn.  Then  she  would  take  up 
her  sewing,  and,  with  a  spasm  of  resolution,  she  would  determine 
that  a  certain  task  should  be  fuliilled  before  she  would  again  allo\v 
herself  the  poignant  luxury  of  expectation.  Sick  at  heart  was  sho 
when  the  evening  closed  in,  and  the  chances  of  that  day  dimi- 
nished. Yet  she  stayed  u\)  longer  than  usual,  thinking  that  if  ho 
were  coming — if  ho  were  only  2)assing  along  the  distant  road — 
the  sight  of  a  light  in  the  window  might  encourage  him  to  make 
his  appearance  even  at  that  late  houi",  while  seeing  the  house  all 
darkened  and  shut  up  might  quench  any  such  intention. 

Very  sick  and  weary  at  heart,  she  went  to  bed ;  too  desolate 
and  despairing  to  cry,  or  make  any  moan.  But  iu  the  morning 
hope  came  afresh.  Another  day — another  chance !  And  so  it 
went  on  for  weeks.  Peggy  understood  her  young  mistress's  sorrow 
full  well,  and  respected  it  by  her  silence  on  the  subject.  Willie 
seemed  happier  now  that  the  irritation  of  Michael's  presence  was 
removed ;  for  the  poor  idiot  had  a  sort  of  antipathy  to  Michael, 
which  was  a  kind  of  hearts  echo  to  the  repugnance  in  which  tho 
latter  held  him.  Altogether,  just  at  this  time,  Willie  was  the 
happiest  of  the  tlu'ec. 

As  Susan  went  into  Couiston,  to  sell  her  butter,  one  Satirrday. 
some  inconsiderate  person  told  her  that  she  had  seen  Michael 
Hurst  the  night  before.  I  said  inconsiderate,  but  I  might  rather 
have  said  unobservant ;  for  any  one  who  had  spent  half-an-hour 
in  Susan  Dixon's  company  might  have  seen  that  she  disliked 
having  any  reference  made  to  the  subjects  nearest  her  heart,  were 
they  joyous  or  grievous.  Now  she  went  a  little  paler  than  usual 
(and  she  had  never  recovered  her  colour  since  she  had  had  tho 
fever),  and  tried  to  keep  silence.  But  an  irrepressible  pang  forced 
out  the  question — 

"  Where  ?" 

"  At  Thomas  Applethwaite's,  in  Langdale.  They  had  a  kind 
of  hai-vest-home,  and  he  were  there  among  tho  young  folk,  and 
very  thick  wi'  Nelly  Hebthwaite,  old  Thomas's  niece.  Thou'lt 
have  to  look  after  him  a  bit,  Susan  !" 

She  neither  smiled  nor  sighed.  The  neighbour  who  had  been 
speaking  to  her  was  stnick  with  the  gray  stillness  of  her  face. 
Susan  herself  felt  how  well  her  s(df-command  was  obeyed  by  every 
little  muscle,  and  said  to  hersc  If  in  her  Spartan  manner,  "  I  can 


41()  HALF    A    I.lli;-TlMi:    AGO. 

bear  it  without  cither  wincing  or  bh-wchinu."  She  went  heme 
early,  at  a  tearing,  jjassionatc  pace,  trampling  and  breaking 
through  all  obstacles  of  briar  or  hush.  "Willie  Wiisnio])ing  in  her 
absence — hanging  listlessly  on  the  farm-yard  gate  to  watch  for 
her.  When  he  saw  her,  he  set  uji  one  of  his  strange,  inarticulate 
cries,  of  which  she  was  now  learning  the  meaning,  and  came 
towards  her  v.ith  his  loose,  galloping  run,  head  and  limbs  all 
shaking  and  wagging  with  jileasant  excitement.  Suddenly  she 
turned  from  him,  and  burst  into  tears.  She  sat  down  on  a  stone 
by  the  wayside,  not  a  hundred  yards  from  home,  and  buried  her 
face  in  her  hands,  and  gave  way  to  a  passion  of  peut-uj)  sorrow : 
so  terrible  and  full  of  agony  were  her  low  cries,  that  the  idiot 
stood  by  her,  aghast  and  silent.  All  his  joy  gone  for  the  time, 
but  not,  like  her  joy,  turned  into  ashes.  Some  thought  struck 
him.  Yes !  the  sight  of  her  woe  made  him  think,  great  as  the 
exertion  was.  lie  ran,  and  stumbled,  and  shambled  home,  buz- 
zing with  his  lips  all  the  time.  She  never  missed  him.  lie  carao 
back  in  a  trice,  bringing  with  him  his  cherished  paper  windmill, 
bought  on  that  fatal  day  when  ]\Ii(liael  had  taken  him  into 
Kendal  to  have  his  doom  of  perpetual  idiotcy  jironounced.  He 
thrust  it  into  Susan's  face,  her  hands,  her  lap,  regai-dless  of  the 
injury  his  frail  jday thing  thereby  received.  He  leai)t  before  her 
to  think  how  he  had  cured  all  heart-sorrow,  buzzing  louder  than 
ever.  Susan  looked  up  at  him,  and  that  glance  of  her  sad  eyes 
sobered  him.  lie  began  to  whimi)er,  he  knew  not  why  :  and  she 
now,  comforter  in  her  turn,  tried  to  soothe  him  by  twirling  his 
windmill.  But  it  was  broken  ;  it  made  no  noise  ;  it  woulil  not  go 
round.  This  seemed  to  afflict  Susan  more  than  him.  She  tried 
to  make  it  riglit,  although  she  saw  the  task  was  hopeless ;  and 
while  she  did  so,  the  teai's  rained  down  unheeded  from  her  bout 
head  on  the  paper  toy. 

"It  won't  do,"  said  she,  at  last.  ''It  v. ill  never  do  again." 
And,  somehow,  she  took  the  accident  and  her  words  as  omens  of 
the  love  that  was brokin,  and  that  she  fi'arc^d  could  never  be  piece<i 
tig  ither  more.  Slu;  rose  up  and  took  "Willie's  hand,  and  the  two 
■went  slowly  into  tlu;  house. 

To  her  surprise,  IMichatd  I  lurst  sat  in  the  house-place.  1  louse- 
placc  is  a  sort  of  betti'r  kitchen,  where  no  cookery  is  done,  but 
which  is  reserved  for  state  occasions.  Michael  had  gone  in  there 
because  he  was  accompanied  by  his  only  sister,  a  woman  older 
than  hiiiiKclf,  who  was  well  married  beyond  Kiswiek,  and  who  now 
came  for  Die  first  time  to  make  acijuaintance  with  Sus4in.  Michael 
had  primed  his  sister  witli  his  wislus  regarding  AVill.  and  the 
position  in  which  h(;  stood  with  Susan  ;  lUid  arriving  at  Yew  Nt>ok 


HALF    A    I.IFi:-TIMK    AGO.  417 

in  tho  absence  of  the  lattor,  he  liaJ  not  scrnplcd  to  conduct  his 
sister  into  the  guost-rooni,  as  he  hchl  Mrs.  (ialc's  woi-hlly  posi- 
tion in  respect  and  adnuration,  and  therefore  wished  her  to  bo 
favonrably  impressed  with  all  tho  signs  of  property  which  he  was 
beginning  to  consider  as  Susan's  greatest  charms.  lie  had 
secretly  said  to  himself,  that  if  Eleanor  llebthwaitc  and  Susau 
Dixon  were  equal  in  point  of  riches,  he  would  sooner  have  Eleanor 
by  far.  He  had  begun  to  consider  Susan  as  a  termagant;  and 
when  he  thought  of  his  intercourse  with  her,  recollections  of 
her  somewhat  warm  and  hasty  temper  came  far  more  readily 
to  his  mind  than  any  remembrance  of  her  generous,  loving 
natm'e. 

And  now  she  stood  face  to  face  with  him ;  her  eyes  tear-swollen, 
her  garments  dusty,  and  here  and  there  torn  in  consequence  of 
her  rapid  progress  through  the  bushy  by-paths.  She  did  not 
make  a  favourable  impression  on  the  well-clad  Mrs.  Gale,  dressed 
in  her  best  silk  gomi,  and  therefore  unusually  susceptible  to  the 
appearance  of  another.  Nor  were  Susan's  manners  gi-acious  or 
cordial.  How  could  they  be,  when  she  remembered  what  had 
passed  between  Michael  and  herself  the  last  time  they  met  ?  For 
her  penitence  had  faded  away  under  the  daily  disappointment 
of  these  last  rreary  weeks. 

But  she  was  hospitable  in  substance.  She  bade  Peggy  huiTy 
on  the  kettle,  and  busied  herself  among  the  tea-cups,  thankful 
that  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Gale,  as  a  stranger,  would  prevent  the 
immediate  recurrence  to  the  one  subject  which  she  felt  must  bo 
present  in  Michael's  mind  as  well  as  in  her  own.  But  Mrs,  Gale 
was  withheld  by  no  such  feelings  of  delicacy.  She  had  como 
ready-primed  with  the  case,  and  had  undertaken  to  bring  the 
girl  to  reason.  There  was  no  time  to  be  lost.  It  had  been  pre- 
arranged between  the  brother  and  sister  that  he  was  to  stroll  out 
into  the  farm-yard  before  his  sister  introduced  the  subject ;  but 
she  was  so  confident  in  the  success  of  her  arguments,  that  she  must 
needs  have  the  triumph  of  a  victory  as  soon  as  possible  ;  and, 
accordingly,  she  brought  a  hail-storm  of  good  reasons  to  bear 
upon  Susan.  Susan  did  not  reply  fur  a  long  time ;  she  was  so 
indignant  at  this  intermeddling  of  a  stranger  in  tho  deep  family 
sorrow  and  shame,  Mrs,  Gale  thought  she  was  gaining  tho  day, 
and  urged  her  arguments  more  pitilessly.  Even  Michael 
winced  for  Susan,  and  wondered  at  her  silence.  He  shrunk  out 
of  siglit,  and  into  the  sliadow,  hoj)ing  tliat  his  sister  might  pro- 
vail,  but  annoyed  at  the  hard  way  in  wliich  she  kept  putting  the 
case. 

Suddenly  Susan  turned  round  from  the  occupation  she  had 


418  HALF   A    LIFE-TIME   AGO. 

pretended  to  be  engaged  in,  and  said  to  him  in  a  low  voice,  which 
yet  not  only  vibrated  itself,  but  made  its  hearers  thrill  through 
all  their  obtiLseness : 

•'  ]Michael  Hurst !  docs  your  sister  speak  truth,  think  you  *?" 

Both  women  looked  at  him  for  his  answer ;  ^Irs.  Gale  without 
anxiety,  for  had  she  not  said  the  very  wurds  tliey  had  ppokeu 
together  before  ?  had  she  not  used  the  very  argiuuents  that  ho 
himself  had  suggested  ?  Susan,  on  the  contrary,  looked  to  his 
answer  as  settling  her  doom  for  life ;  and  in  the  gloom  of  her 
eyes  you  might  have  read  more  despair  than  hope. 

He  shuffled  his  position.     He  shuffled  in  his  words. 

"  What  is  it  you  ask  ?     My  sister  has  said  many  things.*' 

"  I  ask  you,"  said  Susan,  trying  to  give  a  cryst^U  clearness  both 
to  her  expressions  and  her  jironunciation,  "if,  knowing  as  you  do 
how  Will  is  afflicted,  you  will  help  me  to  take  that  charge  of  him 
•which  I  promised  my  mother  on  her  death -bed  that  I  would  do ; 
and  which  means,  that  I  shall  keep  him  always  with  me,  and  do 
all  in  my  power  to  make  his  life  happy.  If  you  will  do  this,  T 
will  be  yom*  ^ife  ;  if  not,  I  remain  unwed." 

"  But  he  may  get  dangerous  ;  he  can  be  but  a  trouble  ;  his  being 
nerc  is  a  pain  to  you,  Susan,  not  a  pleasure."' 

"  I  ask  you  for  either  yes  or  no,"  said  she,  a  little  contempt  at 
his  evading  her  q'.iestion  mingling  with  her  tone.  He  perceived 
it,  and  it  nettled  him. 

"  And  I  have  told  you.  I  answered  your  question  the  last  time 
I  was  here.  I  said  I  would  ne'er  keep  house  with  an  idiot  ;  no 
more  I  will.     So  now  you've  gotten  your  answer." 

"I  have,"  said  Susan.     And  she  sighed  deeply. 

"  Come,  now,"  said  Mrs.  (Jale.  encouraged  by  the  sigh  ;  "  ono 
would  think  you  don't  love  Michael,  Susan,  to  bc^  so  stubborn  in 
yielding  to  what  I'm  sure  would  be  best  for  the  latl." 

"  Oh !  she  does  not  care  for  me,"  said  Michael.  "  I  don't 
believe  she  ever  did." 

"Don't  I?  Haven't  I?'' asked  Susan,  her  eyes  blazing  out 
fire.  She  left  the  room  directly,  and  sent  Peggy  in  to  make  the 
tea  ;  and  catching  at  Will,  who  was  lounging  about  in  the  kitchen, 
she  went  ujj-stairs  with  him  and  bolted  herself  in.  straining  the 
boy  to  her  heart,  and  keeping  almost  breathless,  lest  any  noiso 
she  made  might  cause  him  to  break  out  into  the  howls  and  tumnds 
which  slic  ( tmld  not  bear  that  those  below  shoiUd  hear. 

A  knock  at  the  door.      It  was  IVggy. 

"  He  wants  for  to  kih!  you,  to  wish  you  good-bye." 

"  I  cannot  come.     Oh,  Peggy,  siiul  them  away." 

It  waa  hor  only  cry  for  Byu»i>uthy  ;  and  the  old  servant  under- 


HALF    A    LIFE-TIME    AGO.  4J9 

Btoofl  it.  She  Kciit  tlicm  away,  somehow ;  not  politely,  as  I  have 
Ijceu  given  to  iniderstantl. 

"  Good  go  with  them,"  said  Peggy,  as  she  grimly  watclicd  their 
retreating  ligiircs.  "•  We're  rid  of  bad  rubbish,  auyliow."  And 
she  turned  into  tlie  house,  with  the  intention  of  making  ready 
some  refreshment  for  Susan,  after  her  hard  day  at  the  market, 
and  her  harder  evening.  But  in  the  kitehen,  to  which  she  passed 
through  tlic  empty  house-place,  making  a  face  of  contemptuous 
dislike  at  the  used  tea-cups  and  fragments  of  a  meal  yet  stand- 
ing thei'e,  she  foimd  Susan,  with  her  sleeves  tucked  up  and  her 
working  apron  on,  busied  in  preparing  to  make  clap-bread,  one 
of  the  hardest  and  hottest  domestic  tasks  of  a  Daleswoman.  She 
looked  up,  and  first  met,  and  then  avoided  Peggy's  eye ;  it  was 
too  full  of  sympathy.  Her  own  cheeks  were  flushed,  and  her 
own  eyes  were  dry  and  burning. 

"  Where's  the  board,  Peggy  ?  Wo  need  clap-bread  ;  and,  I 
reckon,  I've  time  to  get  through  with  it  to-night."  Her  voice 
had  a  sharp,  dry  tone  in  it,  and  her  motions  a  jerking  angularity 
about  them. 

Peggy  said  nothing,  but  fetched  her  all  that  she  needed.  Susan 
beat  her  cakes  thin  with  vehement  force.  As  she  stooped  over 
thera,  regai-dless  even  of  the  task  in  which  she  seemed  so  much 
occupied,  she  was  sui-prised  by  a  touch  on  her  mouth  of  some- 
thing— what  she  did  not  see  at  first.  It  was  a  cup  of  tea,  deli- 
cately sweetened  and  cooled,  and  held  to  her  lips,  when  exactly 
ready,  by  the  faithful  old  woman.  Susan  held  it  off  a  hand's 
breath,  and  looked  into  Peggy's  eyes,  while  her  o\vn  filled  with 
the  strange  relief  of  tears. 

"  Lass  !"  said  Peggy,  solemnly,  "  thou  hast  done  well.  It  is 
not  long  to  bide,  and  then  the  end  will  come." 

"  But  you  are  very  old,  Peggy,"  said  Susan,  quivering. 

"  It  is  but  a  day  sin'  I  were  yoimg,"  replied  Peggy ;  but  slio 
stojiped  the  conversation  by  again  pushing  the  cup  with  gentle 
force  to  Susan's  dry  and  thirsty  lijjs.  When  slic  had  drnnl^-en 
she  fell  again  to  her  labour,  Peggy  heating  the  heartli,  and  doing 
all  that  she  knew  would  bo  required,  but  never  speaking  anotlicr 
word.  Willie  basked  close  to  the  fire,  enjoying  th.e  animal  luxury 
of  wannth,  for  the  autumn  evenings  were  beginning  to  be  cliilly. 
It  was  one  o'clock  before  they  thought  of  going  to  bed  on  IJiat 
memorable  night. 


K  i;  2 


420  HALF   A   LIFE-TIME   AGO. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

The  vehemence  with  which  Susan  Dixon  threw  herself  into  occti- 
pation  could  not  last  for  ever.  Times  of  languor  and  remem- 
brance would  come — times  when  she  recui-red  with  a  passionate 
yearning  to  bygone  days,  the  recollection  of  which  was  so  vivid 
and  delicious,  that  it  seemed  as  though  it  were  the  reality,  and 
the  present  bleak  bareness  the  dream.  She  smiled  anew  at  the 
magical  sweetness  of  some  touch  or  tone  which  in  memory  she 
felt  and  heard,  and  drank  the  delicious  cup  of  poison,  although 
at  tlie  very  time  she  know  wJiat  the  consequences  of  racking  jjain 
would  be. 

"  This  time,  last  year,"  thought  she,  "  we  went  nutting  together 
— this  very  day  last  year ;  just  such  a  day  as  to-day.  Piu-ple  and 
gold  were  the  lights  on  the  hills ;  the  leaves  were  just  turning 
brown  ;  here  and  there  on  the  sunny  slopes  the  stubble-fields 
looked  tawny  ;  do^^•n  in  a  cleft  of  yon  purple  slate-rock  the  beck 
icll  like  a  silver  glancing  thread  ;  all  just  as  it  is  to-day.  And 
he  climbed  the  slender,  swaying  nut-trees,  and  bent  the  branches 
for  me  to  gather ;  or  made  a  passage  through  tlie  hazel  cojises, 
from  time  to  time  claiming  a  toll.  Who  could  have  thought  ho 
loved  me  so  little  ? — who  ? — who  ?  " 

Or,  as  the  evening  closed  in,  she  would  allow  herself  to  ima- 
gine that  she  heard  his  coming  step,  just  that  she  might  recall 
the  feeling  of  exquisite  delight  which  had  passtd  by  witliout  the 
due  and  passionate  relish  at  the  time.  Then  she  would  wonder 
liow  she  could  have  had  strength,  the  cruel,  self-i)iercing  strengtli, 
to  say  what  she  had  done  ;  to  stab  herself  with  tliat  stem  resolu- 
tion, of  which  the  scar  would  remain  till  her  dying  day.  It 
might  have  been  right ;  but,  as  she  sickened,  she  wislud  she  had 
not  instinctively  chosen  the  riglit.  How  luxurious  a  life  liaunted 
by  no  stern  sense  of  duty  must  be  !  And  many  led  tliis  kind  of 
life  ;  why  couhl  not  slie  V  O,  for  one  hour  again  of  his  sweet 
company  !  If  he  came  now,  she  would  agree  to  whatever  ho 
proposed. 

It  was  a  fcvt'r  of  the  mind.  She  ])assed  through  it,  and  camo 
out  heultliy,  if  weak.  She  was  capable  once  more  of  taking  jdea- 
suro  in  following  an  unseen  guide  through  briar  and  bnik«'.  She 
rcturnitl  with  tenfold  afl'eetion  to  her  i)rotecting  care  of  \Villie. 
She  acknowledged  to  Iierself  that  he  was  to  be  lier  all-in-all  in 
life.     She  roiule  him  her  conslmit  eom|ianion.      For  his  SJike.  -is 


HALF    A    LIFE-TIME    ALiO.  421 

the  real  owr.er  of  Yew  Nook,  and  she  as  his  steward  and  guardian, 
she  began  that  course  of  careful  saving,  and  that  love  of  acquisi- 
tion, which  afterwards  gained  for  lier  the  reputation  of  being 
miserly.  She  still  tliought  that  he  might  regain  a  scanty  jior- 
tion  of  sense — enough  to  require  some  simple  pleasures  and  ex- 
citement, which  woidd  cost  money.  And  money  should  not  be 
wanting.  Peggy  rather  assisted  her  in  the  formation  of  her 
parsimonious  habits  than  otherwise ;  economy  was  the  order  of 
the  district,  and  a  certain  degree  of  respectable  avarice  the 
characteristic  of  her  age.  Only  Willie  was  never  stinted  nor 
hindered  of  anything  that  the  two  women  thought  could  give  him 
pleasure,  for  want  of  money. 

There  was  one  gratification  which  Susan  felt  was  needed  for 
the  restoration  of  her  mind  to  its  more  healthy  state,  after  she 
had  passed  througli  the  whirling  fever,  when  duty  was  as  nothing, 
and  anarchy  reigned ;  a  gratification  that,  somehow,  was  to  be 
her  last  bui'st  of  unreasonableness  ;  of  which  she  knew  and  recog- 
nised pain  as  the  svure  consequence.  She  must  see  him  once 
more, — herself  imseen. 

The  week  before  the  Chi-istmas  of  this  memorable  year,  she 
went  out  in  the  dusk  of  the  eaidy  winter  evening,  wrapped  close 
in  shawl  and  cloak.  She  wore  her  dark  shawl  under  her  cloak, 
putting  it  over  her  head  in  lieu  of  a  bonnet ;  for  she  knew  that 
she  might  have  to  wait  long  in  concealment.  Tlien  she  tramped 
over  the  wet  fell-path,  shut  in  by  misty  rain  for  miles  and  miles^ 
till  she  came  to  the  place  where  he  was  lodging ;  a  farm-house 
in  Langdalc,  with  a  steep,  stony  lane  leading  up  to  it :  this  lane 
was  entered  by  a  gate  out  of  the  main  road,  and  by  the  gate  were 
a  few  bushes—  thonis ;  but  of  them  the  leaves  had  fallen,  and 
they  oflfered  no  concealment :  an  old  wreck  of  a  yew-tree  grew 
among  them,  however,  and  imderneath  that  Susan  cov.ered  down, 
shrouding  her  face,  of  which  the  colour  might  betray  her,  with 
a  comer  of  her  shawl.  Long  did  she  wait ;  cold  and  cramped 
she  became,  too  damp  and  stifl'  to  change  her  posture  readily. 
And  after  all,  he  miglit  never  come  !  But,  she  would  wait  till 
daylight,  if  need  were ;  and  she  pulled  out  a  crust,  with  which 
she  had  i)rovidently  supjilied  herself.  The  rain  had  ceased, —  a 
didl,  still,  brooding  weather  had  succeeded  ;  it  was  a  night  to 
hear  distant  sounds.  Slie  heard  horses'  hoofs  striking  and  splash- 
ing in  the  stones,  and  in  the  pools  of  the  road  at  her  back.  Two 
horses  ;  not  well-ridden,  or  evenly  guided,  as  she  could  tell. 

Michael  Hurst  ami  a  companion  drew  near  ;  not  tipsy,  but  not 
sober.  They  stojjped  at  the  gate  to  bid  each  other  a  maudlin 
farewell.      Michael  stooped  forward  to  catch  the  latch  with  the 


422  HALF    A    I.IFi:-TIMI-:    AOO. 

hook  of  the  stick  which  he  caiTied  ;  he  dropped  the  stick,  and  it 
fell  with  one  end  close  to  iSusau, — indeed,  \nth  the  slightest 
change  of  posture  she  could  have  opened  the  gate  for  him.  He 
swore  a  gi'cat  oath,  and  struck  his  horse  with  his  closed  fist,  as 
if  that  animal  had  heen  to  blame  ;  then  he  dismoimted,  opened 
the  gate,  and  fumbled  about  for  his  stick.  When  he  had  found 
it  (Susan  had  touched  the  other  end)  his  first  use  of  it  was  to  flog 
his  horse  well,  and  she  had  much  ado  to  avoid  its  kicks  and 
plunges.  Then,  still  swearing,  he  staggered  up  the  lane,  for  it 
was  evident  he  was  not  sober  enough  to  remount. 

By  daylight  Susan  was  back  and  at  her  daily  labours  at  Yew 
Nook.  When  the  spring  came,  Michael  Hiu-st  was  married  to 
Eleanor  Hcbthwaite.  Others,  too,  were  mai-ried,  and  christen- 
ings made  their  firesides  merry  and  glad  ;  or  they  travelled,  and 
came  back  after  long  years  with  many  wondrous  tales.  More 
rarely,  perhaps,  a  Dalesman  changed  his  dwelling.  But  to  all 
households  more  change  came  than  to  Yew  Xook.  There  the 
seasons  came  roimd  with  monotonous  sameness  ;  or,  if  they 
brought  mutation,  it  was  of  a  slow,  and  decaying,  and  depi-essiug 
kind.  Old  Peggy  died.  Her  silent  sympathy,  concealed  under 
much  roughness,  was  a  loss  to  Susan  Dixon.  Susan  was  not  yet 
thirty  when  tliis  happened,  but  she  looked  a  middle-aged,  not  ti> 
say  an  elderly  woman.  People  afimued  that  she  had  never  re- 
covered her  comjdexion  since  that  fever,  a  dozen  years  ago,  which 
killed  her  father,  and  left  Will  Dixon  lui  idiot.  But  besides  her 
gray  sallowness,  the  lines  in  her  face  were  strong,  and  deeji,  and 
hard.  The  movements  of  her  eyeballs  were  slow  and  heavy  ;  the 
WTinkles  at  the  corners  of  lier  mouth  and  eyes  were  planted  finn 
and  sure ;  not  an  ounce  of  unnecessary  flesh  was  there  on  her 
bones — every  muscle  started  strong  and  ready  for  use.  She 
needed  all  this  bodily  strength,  to  a  degree  that  no  himiau  crea- 
tui-c,  now  Peggy  was  dead,  knew  of :  for  Willie  had  gi-o\\Ti  up 
large  and  strong  in  body,  and,  in  general,  docile  enough  in  mind  ; 
but,  every  now  and  then,  he  ])eeame  iirst  moody,  and  thiii  violent. 
Tliesc  paroxysms  lasted  but  a  day  vr  two ;  and  it  was  Su.sjurs 
anxious  care  to  keej)  their  very  existence  liidden  and  unknown. 
It  is  true,  that  t)ceasioiial  j)assers-by  on  that  lonely  road  lieard 
soinids  at  night  of  knocking  about  of  furniture,  blows,  and  erics, 
as  of  some  tearing  diinon  within  the  solitary  farm-house  ;  but 
these  fits  of  viohiice  usually  oceuired  in  the  night ;  and  whatever 
had  been  their  couseijucncc',  Susan  had  tidied  and  redded  up  all 
wigus  of  aught  unusual  before  the  morning.  For,  above  all,  she 
dnuded  lest  some  one  might  lind  out  in  what  danger  and  peril 
kIic  tccasionally  was,  and  might  assume  a  right  to  take  away  her 


HALF    A    I.IFK-TIMK    AGO.  423 

Orothcr  from  her  care.  The  one  idea  of  taking  charge  of  hini 
biul  deepened  and  deepened  with  years.  It  was  graven  into  her 
mind  as  the  object  for  which  she  lived.  The  sacrifice  she  had 
made  for  this  object  only  made  it  more  precious  to  her.  Besides, 
she  scjiaratcd  the  idea  of  the  docile,  affectionate,  loutish,  indolent 
Will,  and  kept  it  distinct  from  the  terror  which  the  demon  that 
occasionally  possessed  him  inspired  her  with.  The  one  was  her 
flesh  and  her  blood — the  child  of  her  dead  mother ;  the  other  was 
some  fiend  who  came  to  torture  and  convulse  the  creature  she  so 
loved.  She  believed  that  she  fought  her  brother's  battle  in 
holding  do^%^l  those  tearing  hands,  in  binding  whenever  she 
could  those  uplifted  restless  arms  prompt  and  prone  to  do  mis- 
chief. All  the  time  she  subdued  him  with  her  cunning  or  her 
strength,  she  spoke  to  him  in  pitying  mm-mm-s,  or  abused  the 
third  i^erson,  the  fiendish  enemy,  in  no  immeasurcd  tones.  To- 
wai-ds  morning  the  paroxysm  was  exhaustcjd,  and  he  would  fall 
asleep,  perhaps  only  to  waken  with  evil  and  renewed  vigoul". 
But  when  he  was  laid  down,  she  would  sally  out  to  taste  the  fresh 
air,  and  to  work  off  her  wild  sorrow  in  cries  and  mutterings  to 
herself.  The  early  laboui-ers  saw  her  gestures  at  a  distance,  and 
thought  her  as  crazed  as  the  idiot-brother  who  made  the  neigh- 
boiu'hood  a  haimted  place.  But  did  any  chance  person  call  at 
Yew  Xook  later  on  in  the  day,  he  would  find  Susan  Dixon  cold, 
calm,  collected ;  her  manner  cmi,  her  wits  keen. 

Once  this  fit  of  violence  lasted  longer  than  nsual.  Susan's 
strength  both  of  mind  and  body  was  nearly  worn  out  ;  she 
wrestled  in  prayer  that  somehow  it  might  end  before  she,  too, 
was  driven  mad  ;  or,  worse,  might  be  obliged  to  give  uj)  life's 
aim,  and  consign  "Willie  to  a  madhouse.  From  that  moment 
of  prayer  (as  she  afterwards  supcrstitiously  thought)  Willie 
calmed — and  then  he  drooped — and  then  he  sank — and,  last  cf 
all.  he  died  in  reality  from  physical  exliaustion. 

But  ho  was  so  gentle  and  tender  as  he  lay  on  liis  dying  bed  ; 
such  strange,  child-like  gleams  of  retm-ning  intelligence  camo 
over  his  face,  long  after  the  power  to  make  his  dull,  inarticu- 
late sounds  liad  departed,  that  Susan  was  attracted  to  him  by  a 
stronger  tic  than  she  had  ever  felt  before.  It  was  something  to 
have  even  an  idiot  loving  her  with  dumb,  wistful,  animal  affec- 
tion ;  sometliing  to  have  any  creatm-e  looking  at  her  with  such 
beseeching  eyes,  imploring  protection  from  the  insidious  enemy 
stealing  on.  And  yet  she  knew  that  to  liim  death  was  no 
enemy,  but  a  true  friend,  restoring  light  and  health  to  his  poor 
clouded  mind.  It  was  to  her  that  death  was  an  enemy  ;  to  her, 
the  survivor,  when  Willie  died  ;    there  was  no  one  to  love  her, 


i24  HALF    A    LIFE-TIMK    AGO. 

Worse  doom  still,  there  was  no  oue  left  on  earth  for  her  to 
love. 

You  now  know  why  no  wandering  tourist  coidd  persuade  her 
to  receive  him  as  a  lodger  ;  why  no  tired  traveller  coidd  melt 
her  heart  to  afford  him  rest  and  refreshment  ;  why  long  habits  of 
seclusion  had  given  her  a  moroseness  of  manner,  and  how  care 
for  the  interests  of  another  had  rendered  her  keen  and  miserly. 

But  there  was  a  third  act  in  the  drama  of  her  life. 


CHAPTER  V. 


In  spite  of  Peggy's  projihccy  that  Susan's  life  should  not  seem 
long,  it  did  seem  wearisome  and  endless,  as  the  years  slowly 
uncoiled  their  monotonous  circles.  To  be  sure,  she  might  havo 
made  change  for  herself,  but  she  did  not  care  to  do  it.  It  was, 
indeed,  more  than  "  not  caring,"  which  merely  implies  a  certain 
degree  of  vis  inertice  to  be  subdued  before  an  object  can  bo 
attained,  and  that  the  object  itself  docs  not  seem  to  be  of 
sufficient  importance  to  call  out  the  requisite  energy.  On  the 
contrary,  Susan  exerted  herself  to  avoid  cliange  and  variety. 
She  had  a  morbid  dread  of  new  faces,  which  originated  in  her 
desire  to  keep  poor  dead  Willie's  state  a  profoxuid  secret.  She 
had  a  contempt  for  new  customs  ;  and,  indeed,  her  old  ways 
prospered  so  well  under  her  active  hand  and  vigilant  eye,  that 
it  was  difficidt  to  know  how  tlicy  coidd  bo  ini]»roved  upon. 
She  was  regidarly  present  in  Coniston  market  with  the  best 
butter  and  the  earliest  chickens  of  the  season.  Those  were  the 
common  farm  produce  that  every  farmer's  wife  about  had  to 
sell ;  but  Susan,  after  she  liad  disjxjscd  of  the  more  feminine 
articles,  turned  to  on  the  man's  side.  A  bettor  judge  of  a  horeo 
or  cow  there  was  not  in  all  the  ccuntry  round.  Yorkshire 
itself  might  havo  attempted  to  jockey  her,  and  would  havo 
fiiiled.  Her  corn  was  sound  and  clean  •,  her  pcitatoes  well 
preserved  to  the  latist  spring.  People  began  to  talk  of  tlio 
hoards  of  money  Susan  Dixon  must  have  laid  up  somewhere; 
and  one  young  ne'er-do-wet;!  of  a  furnu'r's  son  midirtook  to 
make  love  to  the  woman  of  forty,  who  looked  lifty-livr,  if  a  day. 
Ho  made  up  to  her  by  opening  a  gate  on  tlie  road-j)ath  home,  as 
she  was  riding  on  a  bare-baeked  liorse,  liir  purcliase  not  an  luuir 
ago.  She  was  olf  before  him,  refusing  his  civility  ;  but  the 
remounting  was  not  so  easy,  and  ratlier  tlian  fail  she  did  not 
ChooBO    to  attempt  it.      Slie  walkid,   and   lie   walked   alongside. 


HALF    A    LlFi:-l'lMK    AGO.  425 

improving  bis  opportimity,  wliich,  as  he  vainly  thought,  hatl 
been  cousciously  gruutcd  to  him.  As  they  drew  uear  Yew 
Nook,  he  vcntui'oJ  on  some  exjjrcssion  of  a  wisli  to  keep 
eompauy  with  her.  His  words  were  vague  and  chunsily 
arranged.  Susan  turned  round  and  coolly  asked  him  to  ex^jlaiii 
himself.  lie  took  courage,  as  he  thought  of  her  reputed  wealth, 
and  exi)rcssed  his  wishes  this  second  time  pretty  plainly.  To 
bis  surprise,  the  reply  she  made  was  in  a  series  of  smart  strokes 
across  his  shoulders,  administered  through  the  medium  of  a 
supple  hazel-switch. 

"  Take  that !"  said  she,  almost  breathless,  "  to  teach  thee 
how  thou  darcst  make  a  fool  of  an  honest  woman  old  enough 
to  bo  thy  mother.  If  thou  com'st  a  step  nearer  the  house, 
there's  a  good  horse-pool,  and  there's  two  stout  fellows  who'll 
like  no  better  fim  than  ducking  thee.     Be  off  wi'  thee  !" 

And  she  strode  into  her  own  premises,  never  looldng  round 
to  see  whether  he  obeyed  her  injunction  or  not. 

Sometimes  three  or  four  years  would  pass  over  without  her 
hearing  Michael  Hm-st's  name  mentioned.  She  used  to  wonder 
at  such  times  whether  he  were  dead  or  alive.  She  would  sit 
for  hoiu-s  by  the  dying  embers  of  her  fire  on  a  winter's  evening, 
trying  to  recall  the  scenes  of  her  youth ;  trying  to  bring  up 
living  pictures  of  the  faces  she  had  then  kno^^-n — Michael's 
most  especially.  She  thought  it  was  possible,  so  long  had 
been  the  lapse  of  years,  that  she  might  now  pass  by  him  in  the 
street  imknowing  and  unknown.  His  outward  form  she  might 
not  recognize,  but  himself  she  should  feel  in  the  thrill  of  her 
whole  being.     He  coiild  not  pass  her  imawares. 

What  little  she  did  hear  about  him,  all  testified  a  downward 
tendency.  He  drank — not  at  stated  times  when  there  was  no 
other  work  to  be  done,  but  continually,  whether  it  was  seed- 
time or  harvest.  His  children  were  all  ill  at  the  same  time ; 
then  one  died,  while  the  others  recovered,  but  were  poor  sickly 
things.  Xo  one  dared  to  give  Susan  any  direct  intelligence  of 
her  former  lover  ;  many  avoided  all  mention  of  his  name  in  her 
presence ;  but  a  few  spoke  out  either  in  indifference  to,  or 
ignorance  of,  those  bygone  days.  Susan  heard  every  word, 
every  whisper,  every  sound  that  related  to  him.  But  her  eye 
never  changed,  nor  did  a  muscle  of  her  face  move. 

Late  one  November  night  she  sat  over  her  fire  ;  not  a  human 
being  besides  herself  in  the  house  ;  none  but  she  had  ever  slept 
there  since  Willie's  death.  The  fann-labourers  had  foddered 
the  cattle  and  gone  home  hours  before.  There  were  crickets 
chirping  all  round  the  warm  hearth-stones  ;  there  was  the  clock 


4:i;()  HALF    A    LIFE-TIME    AGO. 

tickiug  with  the  peculiar  beat  Susan  had  known  from  her  child- 
hood, and  wliich  then  and  ever  since  she  had  oddly  associated 
\nth  the  idea  of  a  mother  and  child  talking  together,  one  loud 
tick,  and  quick — a  feeble,  sharj)  one  following. 

The  day  had  been  keen,  and  piercingly  cold.  The  whole  lift 
of  heaven  seemed  a  dome  of  iron.  Black  and  frost-boimd 
was  the  earth  under  the  cruel  cast  wind.  Now  the  wind  had 
di-opped,  and  as  the  darkness  had  gathered  in,  the  weather-wise 
old  labom'crs  prophesied  snow.  The  soimds  in  the  air  arose 
again,  as  Susan  sat  still  and  silent.  They  were  of  a  diflerent 
character  to  what  they  had  been  during  the  prevalence  of  the 
east  wind.  Then  they  had  been  shrill  and  piping  ;  now  they 
were  like  low  distant  growling  ;  not  immiisical,  but  stningely 
threatening.  Susan  went  to  the  window,  and  drew  aside  the 
little  cm-tain.  The  whole  world  was  white — the  air  was  blinded 
mth  the  swift  and  heavy  fall  of  snow.  At  present  it  came 
down  straight,  but  Susan  knew  those  distant  sotmds  in  tho 
hollows  and  gulleys  of  the  hills  i^ortcndcd  a  driving  wind  and 
a  more  cruel  storm.  She  thought  of  her  sheep  ;  were  they  all 
folded?  the  new-born  calf,  was  it  bedded  well?  Before  the 
drifts  were  formed  too  deep  for  lier  to  pass  in  and  out — and  by 
the  morning  she  judged  that  they  would  be  six  or  seven  feet 
deep — she  would  go  out  and  see  after  the  comfort  of  her  beasts. 
She  took  a  lantern,  and  tied  a  shawl  over  her  liead,  and  went 
out  into  the  open  air.  She  had  tenderly  jirovided  for  all  her 
animals,  and  was  returning,  when,  boi-ne  on  the  blast  as  if  some 
spirit-cry — for  it  seemed  to  come  rather  down  from  the  skies 
than  from  any  creature  standing  on  earth's  level  —she  heard  a 
voice  of  agony  ;  she  could  not  distinguish  words  ;  it  seemed 
rather  as  if  some  bird  of  prey  was  being  caught  in  the  whirl  of 
the  icy  wind,  and  torn  and  tortured  by  its  violence.  Again  ! 
up  high  above  !  Susan  put  down  her  lantern,  and  shouted  loud 
in  retm-n ;  it  was  an  instinct,  for  if  the  creatm-o  were  not 
hmnan,  which  she  liad  doubted  but  a  moment  before,  wliat  good 
could  her  responding  cry  do?  And  her  cry  was  seized  on  by 
the  tyrannous  wind,  and  borne  farther  away  in  the  oj)pi>sito 
direction  to  tluit  from  which  the  call  of  agony  had  proceeded. 
Again  sho  listened  ;  no  soiuid :  then  again  it  rang  thnnigh 
space  ;  and  this  time  she  was  sure  it  was  luinian.  She  turned 
into  the  house,  and  heaped  turf  and  wood  on  the  lire,  wliieh, 
careless  of  her  own  sensations,  she  liad  allowi'd  to  fade  and 
almost  die  out.  Sho  put  a  new  eaiuUe  in  lu-r  huitern  ;  sho 
<liang(!d  her  shawl  for  a  maud,  and  leaving  the  door  on  lateh, 
sho    sallic^d   out.      Just   at   the   moment    when    lier    car   lirst 


UAI.l'    A    LIFE-TIME    AGO.  42' 

e»countered  the  weird  noises  of  the  storm,  on  issuing  forth 
into  the  open  air,  she  thought  she  hoard  the  words,  "  0  God  ! 
0  help !"  They  were  a  guide  to  her,  if  words  the}'  were,  for 
they  came  straight  from  a  rock  not  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
from  Yew  Nook,  but  only  to  be  reached,  on  account  of  its 
precipitous  character,  by  a  round-about  path.  Thither  she 
steered,  defying  wind  and  snow ;  guided  by  here  a  thorn- 
tree,  there  an  old,  doddered  oak,  which  liad  not  quite  lost 
their  identity  under  the  whelming  mask  of  snow.  Now  and 
then  she  stopped  to  listen ;  but  never  a  word  or  sound  heard 
she,  till  right  fi'om  where  the  copse-wood  grew  thick  and 
tangled  at  the  base  of  the  rock,  round  which  she  was  winding, 
she  heard  a  moan.  Into  the  brake — all  snow  in  appearance — 
almost  a  plain  of  snow  looked  on  from  the  little  eminence 
where  she  stood  —she  plunged,  breaking  down  the  bush,  stum- 
bling, bruising  herself,  fighting  her  way ;  her  lantern  held  be- 
tween her  teeth,  and  she  herself  using  head  as  well  as  hands 
to  butt  away  a  passage,  at  whatever  cost  of  bodily  injmy.  As 
she  climbed  or  staggered,  owing  to  the  unevcnness  of  the  snow- 
covered  ground,  where  the  briars  and  weeds  of  years  were 
tangled  and  matted  together,  her  foot  felt  something  strangely 
soft  and  yielding.  She  lowered  her  lantern  ;  there  lay  a  man, 
prone  on  his  face,  nearly  covered  by  the  fast-falling  flakes  ;  he 
must  have  fallen  from  the  rock  above,  as,  not  knowing  of  the 
circiutous  path,  he  had  tried  to  descend  its  steep,  slippery  face. 
Who  could  tell?  it  was  no  time  for  thinking.  Susan  lifted 
him  up  with  her  wiry  strength ;  he  gave  no  help — no  sign  of 
life ;  but  for  all  that  he  might  be  alive  :  he  was  still  warm ; 
she  tied  her  maud  round  him ;  she  fastened  the  lantern  to  her 
apron-string  ;  she  held  him  tight :  half-carrying,  half-di'agging 
— what  did  a  few  bruises  signify  to  him,  compared  to  dear  life, 
to  precious  life  !  She  got  him  thi-ough  the  brake,  and  do^^Ti 
the  path.  There,  for  an  instant,  she  stopped  to  take  breath ; 
but,  as  if  stung  by  the  Furies,  she  pushed  on  again  with  almost 
superhuman  strength.  Clasping  him  round  the  waist,  and 
leaning  his  dead  weight  against  the  lintel  of  the  door,  she  tried 
to  undo  the  latch ;  but  now,  just  at  this  moment,  a  trembling 
faintncss  came  over  her,  and  a  fearful  dread  took  possession  of 
her — that  here,  on  the  very  threshold  of  her  home,  she  might 
be  found  dead,  and  buried  imdcr  the  snow,  when  the  farm- 
servants  came  in  tlie  moniing.  This  teiTor  stirred  her  up  to 
one  more  effort.  Then  she  and  her  companion  were  in  the 
wannth  of  the  quiet  haven  of  that  kitchen  ;  she  laid  him  on  the 
settle,  and  gank  on  the  floor  by  his  side.     How  long  sLo  re- 


■i28  HALF    A    LIFE-TIME   AGO. 

raaincd  in  tliis  swoon  slic  could  not  tell ;  not  very  long  slio 
judged  bj--  the  fire,  which  was  still  red  and  sullenly  glov\-ing 
when  she  came  to  herself.  She  lighted  the  candle,  and  bent 
over  her  late  biu'dcn  to  ascertain  if  indeed  he  were  dead.  She 
stood  long  gazing.  The  man  lay  dead.  There  could  be  no 
doubt  about  it.  His  filmy  eyes  glared  at  her,  unshut.  But  Susan 
was  not  one  to  be  af&"iglited  by  the  stony  aspect  of  death.  It  was 
not  that ;  it  was  the  bitter,  woefid  recognition  of  Michael  Hurst ! 

She  wiiS  convinced  he  was  dead  ;  but  after  a  while  she  refused 
to  believe  in  her  conviction.  She  stripped  oft'  his  wet  outer- 
garments  with  trembling,  hm-ried  hands.  She  brought  a  blanket 
down  from  her  own  bed ;  she  made  up  the  fire.  She  swathed 
him  in  fresh,  warm  wrapjiiugs,  and  laid  him  on  the  flags  before 
the  fire,  sitting  herself  at  his  head,  and  holding  it  in  her  lap, 
while  she  tenderly  wiped  his  loose,  wet  hair,  cmdy  still,  although 
its  colour  had  changed  from  nut-bro^\-n  to  iron-gray  since  she 
had  seen  it  last.  From  time  to  time  she  bent  over  the  face 
afresh,  sick,  and  fiiin  to  believe  that  the  flicker  of  the  fire-light 
was  some  slight  convulsive  motion.  But  the  dim,  staring  eyes 
struck  chill  to  her  heart.  At  last  she  ceased  her  delicate,  busy 
cares  ;  but  she  still  held  the  head  softly,  as  if  caressing  it.  She 
thought  over  all  the  possibilities  and  chances  in  the  mingled 
yarn  of  their  lives  that  might,  by  so  slight  a  tm-n,  have  ended 
far  otherwise.  If  her  mother's  cold  had  been  early  tended,  so 
that  the  responsibility  as  to  her  brother's  weal  or  woe  had  not 
fallen  upon  her ;  if  the  fever  had  not  taken  such  rough,  cruel 
hold  on  Will ;  nay,  if  Mrs.  Gale,  that  hard,  worldly  sister,  had 
not  accompanied  him  on  his  last  visit  to  Yew  Nook— his  very 
last  before  tliis  fatal,  stormy  night ;  if  she  had  hoard  his  cry, — 
cry  uttered  by  those  pale,  dead  lips  with  such  wild,  dcsparing 
agony,  not  yet  three  hours  ago  !  —0  !  if  she  had  but  hoard  it 
sooner,  he  naight  have  been  saved  before  that  blind,  false  step 
had  precipitated  him  down  the  rock  !  In  going  over  this  weary 
chain  of  imrealizod  possibilities.  Susan  learnt  the  force  of 
Peggy's  words.  Life  was  short,  looking  back  upon  it.  It  seemed 
but  yesterday  since  all  the  love  of  her  being  had  boon  i)oured 
out,  and  run  to  waste.  The  intervening  years  — the  long  mono- 
tonous years  that  bad  turned  her  into  an  old  woman  before  her 
time — were  but  a  droam. 

Tlie  hibdurers  coming  in  the  dawn  of  the  winter's  day  wero 
surprised  to  see  the  iire-liglit  through  the  low  kitolun-window. 
They  knocked,  and  lioaring  a  moaning  answer,  tlioy  entered, 
fearing  that  sonuithiug  had  befallen  their  mistress.  For  all 
explanation  they  got  these  woi-ds 


HALF    A    LIFE-TI.ME    AGO.  429 

"  It  is  Micli;u'l  Hurst.  He  was  belated,  and  fell  down  tho 
liaven's  Cr.i}^.     Where  does  Eleanor,  his  wife,  live  ?" 

How  iMichael  Hurst  got  to  Yew  Nook  no  one  but  Susan  ever 
knew.  They  thought  he  had  dragged  himself  there,  with  some 
8orc  internal  bruise  sapping  away  his  minuted  life.  They 
could  not  have  believed  the  superhuman  exertion  which  had 
first  sought  him  out,  and  then  dragged  him  hither.  Only  Susan 
knew  of  that. 

She  gave  him  into  the  charge  of  her  servants,  and  went  out 
and  saddled  her  horse.  Where  the  wind  had  drifted  the  snow 
on  one  side,  and  the  road  was  clear  and  bare,  she  rode,  and 
rode  fast ;  where  the  soft,  deceitful  heaps  were  massed  up,  she 
dismounted  and  led  her  steed,  plimging  in  deep,  with  fierce 
energy,  the  pain  at  her  heart  urging  her  onwards  ^vith  a  sharp, 
digging  spur. 

The  gray,  solemn,  winter's  noon  was  more  night-like  than 
the  depth  of  summer's  night ;  dim-purple  brooded  the  low  skies 
over  the  white  earth,  as  Susan  rode  up  to  what  had  been 
Michael  Hurst's  abode  while  living.  It  was  a  small  farm-house 
carelessly  kept  outside,  slatternly  tended  within.  The  pretty 
Nelly  Hcbthwaite  was  pretty  still ;  her  delicate  face  had  never 
suffered  from  any  long-endm-ing  feeling.  If  anything,  its  ex- 
pression was  that  of  plaintive  sorrow;  but  the  soft,  light  hair 
had  scarcely  a  tinge  of  gray ;  the  wood-rose  tint  of  complexion 
yet  remained,  if  not  so  brilliant  as  in  youth ;  the  straight  nose, 
the  small  mouth  were  untouched  by  time.  Susan  felt  the 
contrast  even  at  that  moment.  She  knew  that  her  own  skin 
was  weather-beaten,  furrowed,  brown, — that  her  teeth  were  gone, 
and  her  hair  gray  and  ragged.  And  yet  she  was  not  two  years 
older  than  Nelly, —  she  had  not  been,  in  youth,  when  she  took 
accoimt  of  these  things.  Nelly  stood  wondering  at  the  strange- 
enough  horse-woman,  who  stopped  and  panted  at  the  door, 
holding  her  horse's  bridle,  and  refusing  to  enter. 

"  Where  is  Michael  Hurst  ?"  asked  Susan,  at  last. 

"Well,  I  can't  rightly  say.  He  should  have  been  at  home 
last  night,  but  he  was  off,  seeing  after  a  public-house  to  be  let 
At  Ulvcrstone,  for  our  farm  does  not  answer,  and  we  were 
thinking " 

"  He  did  not  come  home  last  night  ?"  said  Susan,  cutting 
short  the  storj',  and  half-affirming,  half-questioning,  by  way  of 
letting  in  a  ray  of  the  aw-ful  light  before  she  let  it  fidl  in,  in  its 
consuming  wrath. 

"  No !  lio'll  be  stopping  somewhere  out  Ulvcrstone  ways. 
I'm  surp  we've  need  of  him  at  home,  for  I've  no  one  but  lilo 


430  HALF    A    LIFE-TIME   AGO. 

Tommy  to  help  me  tend  the  beasts.  Things  have  not  gone  well 
•vWth  us,  and  we  don't  keep  a  servant  now.  But  you're  trembling 
all  over,  maam.  You'd  better  come  in,  and  take  something 
'.varm,  while  your  horse  rests.  That's  the  stable-door,  to  your 
left." 

Susan  took  her  horse  there  ;  loosened  his  girths,  and  rubbed 
him  dovra  with  a  wisp  of  straw.  Then  she  looked  about  her 
for  hay  ;  but  the  place  was  bai'c  of  food,  and  smelt  damp  and 
Tinused.  She  went  to  the  house,  thaukfid  for  the  respite,  and 
got  some  clap-bread,  which  she  mashed  up  in  a  pailful  of  luke- 
wai'm  water.  Every  moment  was  a  respite,  and  yet  every 
moment  made  her  di'cad  the  more  the  task  that  lay  before  her. 
It  woidd  be  longer  than  she  thought  at  first.  She  took  the 
saddle  otf,  and  hung  about  her  horse,  which  seemed,  somehow, 
more  like  a  friend  than  anything  else  in  the  world.  She  laid 
her  cheek  against  its  neck,  and  rested  there,  before  retiu-ning  to 
the  house  for  the  last  time. 

Eleanor  had  brought  down  one  of  her  own  gowns,  which 
hung  on  a  chair  against  the  fire,  and  had  made  her  imknown 
visitor  a  cup  of  hot  tea.  Susan  could  hardly  boar  all  these 
little  attentions :  they  choked  her,  and  yet  she  was  so  wet,  so 
weak  with  fatigue  and  excitement,  that  she  coidd  neither  resist 
by  voice  or  by  action.  Two  cliildren  stood  awkwardly  about, 
puzzled  at  the  scene,  and  even  Eleanor  began  to  wish  for  some 
explanation  of  who  her  strange  \asitor  was. 

"You've,  maybe,  heard  Jnm  speaking  of  me?  I'm  called 
Susan  Dixon." 

Nelly  coloui-ed,  and  avoided  meeting  Susan's  eye. 

"  I've  heard  other  folk  spt^ak  of  you.  Ho  never  named  your 
name." 

This  respect  of  silence  came  like  balm  to  Susan :  balm  not 
felt  or  heeded  at  the  time  it  was  applied,  but  very  grateful  in 
its  ciFects  for  all  tliat. 

*'  lie  is  at  my  house,"  continued  Susan,  determined  not  to 
stop  or  quaver  in  the  operation — the  pain  which  must  bo  in- 
flicted. 

"  At  your  house  ?  Yew  Nook  ?"  questioned  Eleanor,  sur- 
prised, "llow  came  ho  there?" — half  jealously.  "Did  ho 
take  shelter  from  the  coming  storm  y  Tell  me, — there  is  some- 
thing—tell me,  woiiiuu  !"' 

"  Ho  took  no  shelter.      Would  to  (Jod  ho  had  !" 

"O!  would  to  (Jod!  wt)uld  to  (Jod  !"  shrieked  out  Eleiuior, 
learning  all  from  the  woful  import  of  those  dreary  eyes.  Her 
crios  thrilled  through  the  house  ;  the  children's  piping  woiliugs 


HALF   A   LIFE-TIME    AGO.  431 

ftnd  passionate  cries  on  "  Daddy  !  Daddy  !"'  pierced  into  Snsan'fi 
very  marrow.  But  she  reniaincd  as  still  and  tearless  as  tlio 
great  round  face  upon  the  clock. 

At  last,  in  a  lull  of  crying,  she  said, — not  exactly  questioning, 
but  as  if  partly  to  herself 

'•  You  loved  him,  then  ?" 

"  Loved  him  !  he  was  my  husband  !  Ho  was  the  father  of 
three  bonny  bairns  that  lie  dead  in  Grasmerc  clmrchyard.  I 
wish  youd  go,  Susan  Dixon,  and  let  mo  weep  without  your 
watching  me  !    I  wish  you'd  never  come  near  the  j)lace." 

'•  Alas  !  alas  !  it  woidd  not  have  brought  him  to  life.  I  would 
have  laid  down  my  own  to  save  his.  My  life  has  been  so  very 
ead  !     No  one  would  have  cared  if  I  had  died.     Alas  !  alas  !" 

The  tone  in  which  she  said  this  was  so  utterly  mournful  and 
despairing  that  it  awed  Nelly  into  quiet  for  a  time.  But  by- 
and-by  she  said,  "  I  would  not  turn  a  dog  oiit  to  do  it  harm  ; 
V)ut  tlie  night  is  clear,  and  Tommy  shall  guide  you  to  the  Eed 
Cow,  But,  oh,  I  want  to  be  alone !  If  you'll  come  back  to- 
morrow, I'll  be  better,  and  I'll  hear  all,  and  thank  you  for 
every  kindness  you  have  shown  him, — and  I  do  believe  you've 
showed  him  kindness, — though  I  don't  know  why." 

Susan  moved  heavily  and  strangely. 

She  said  something — her  words  came  thick  and  unintelligible. 
She  had  had  a  paralytic  stroke  since  she  had  last  spoken.  She 
could  not  go,  even  if  she  would.  Nor  did  Eleanor,  Avhcu  she 
became  aware  of  the  state  of  the  case,  wish  her  to  leave.  She 
had  her  laid  on  her  own  bed,  and  weeping  silently  all  the  while 
for  her  lost  husband,  she  nursed  Susan  like  a  sister.  She  did 
not  know  what  her  guest's  worldly  position  might  be  ;  and  she 
might  never  be  repaid.  But  she  sold  many  a  little  trifle  to 
purchase  such  small  comforts  as  Susan  needed.  Susan,  lying 
still  and  motionless,  learnt  much.  It  was  not  a  severe  stroke  ; 
it  might  be  the  forerunner  of  others  yet  to  come,  but  at  some 
distance  of  time.  But  for  the  present  she  recovered,  and  re- 
gained much  of  her  fonner  health.  On  her  sick-bed  she  matured 
her  plans.  Wlien  she  returned  to  Yew  Nook,  she  took  Michael 
Hurst's  widow  and  cliildren  with  her  to  live  then;,  and  fill  up 
the  haimted  hearth  with  living  forms  that  should  banish  the 
ghosts. 

And  so  it  fell  out  that  the  latter  days  of  Susan  Dixon's  life 
were  better  than  the  former. 


432 


When  tliis  narrative  was  finished,  Mrs.  Dawson  called  on  our 
two  gentlemen,  Signor  Sperano  and  ]Mr.  Preston,  and  told  them 
that  they  had  hitherto  been  amused  or  interested,  but  that  it  was 
now  their  turn  to  amuse  or  interest.  They  looked  at  eaeh  other 
iis  if  this  ai)plieati(m  tif  liers  took  them  by  surjirise.  and  seemed 
altogether  as  nmch  abashed  as  well-gi"own  men  can  ever  be. 
Signor  Sperano  was  the  first  to  recover  himself :  after  thinking 
a  little,  he  said — 

"  Your  will,  dear  lady,  is  law.  Next  Monday  evening,  I  will 
bring  you  an  old,  old  story,  which  I  found  among  the  papers  of 
the  good  old  priest  who  first  welcomed  me  to  England.  It  was 
but  a  poor  return  for  his  generous  kindness  ;  but  I  had  the 
opportunity  of  nursing  him  through  the  cholera,  of  which  he 
died.  He  left  me  all  that  he  had — no  money — but  his  scanty 
furnitiu-e,  his  book  of  prayers,  his  crucifix  and  rosary,  and  his 
papers.  How  some  of  those  papers  came  into  his  hands  I  know 
not.  They  had  evidently  been  written  many  years  before  the 
venerable  man  was  bom ;  and  I  doubt  whether  he  had  ever 
examined  the  bundles,  which  had  come  down  to  him  from  some 
old  ancestor,  or  in  some  strange  bequest.  His  life  was  too  busy 
to  leave  any  time  for  the  gratification  of  mere  curiosity  ;  I,  alas  ! 
Iiave  only  had  too  much  leism-e." 

Next  Monday,  Signor  Sperano  read  to  us  the  story  which  I  will 
call 

"  The  Poou  Clabk." 


THE    POOR    CLARE. 


CHAPTER  I. 


December  12tli,  17-47. — My  life  Las  been  strangely  boimd  up 
with  extraordinary  incidents,  some  of  which  occurred  before  I 
had  any  connection  with  the  principal  actors  in  them,  or  indeed, 
before  I  even  know  of  their  existence.  I  suppose,  most  old  men 
arc,  like  me,  more  given  to  looking  back  upon  their  own  career 
with  a  kind  of  fond  interest  and  aflfectionate  remembrance,  than 
to  watching  the  events — though  these  may  have  far  more  interest 
for  the  multitude — immediately  passing  before  their  eyes.  If 
this  should  be  the  case  with  the  generality  of  old  people,  how  much 
more  so  with  me  !  ....  If  I  am  to  enter  upon  that  strange 
story  connected  with  poor  Lucy,  I  must  begin  a  long  way  back. 
I  myseK  only  came  to  the  knowledge  of  her  family  history  after 
I  knew  her ;  but,  to  make  the  tale  clear  to  any  one  else,  I  must 
arrange  events  in  the  order  in  which  they  occurred — not  that  in 
which  I  became  acquainted  with  them. 

There,  is  a  great  old  hall  in  the  north-east  of  Lancashire,  in 
a  part  they  called  the  Trough  of  Bolland,  adjoining  that  other 
district  named  Craven.  Starkey  Manor-house  is  rather  like  a 
number  of  rooms  clustered  round  a  gray,  massive,  old  keep  than 
a  regularly-built  hall.  Indeed,  I  suppose  that  the  house  only 
consisted  of  a  great  tower  in  the  centre,  in  the  days  when  the 
Scots  made  their  raids  terrible  as  far  south  as  this  ;  and  that 
after  the  Stuarts  came  in,  and  there  was  a  little  more  security  of 
property  in  those  parts,  the  Starkeys  of  tliat  time  added  the 
lower  building,  which  runs,  two  „torios  high,  all  round  the  base 
of  the  keep.  There  has  been  a  grand  garden  laid  out  in  my 
days,  on  the  southern  slope  near  the  house :  but  when  I  first 
knew  the  place,  the  kitchen-garden  at  the  farm  was  the  only 
liiece  of  cultivated  ground  belonging  to  it.  The  deer  used  to 
come  \\-ithin  sight  of  the  drawing  room  windows,  and  might  havo 
browsed  quite  close  up  to  tlie  house  if  tlioy  had  not  been  too  wild 
and  shy.  Starkey  Manor-house  itself  stood  on  a  projection  or 
peninsula  of  high  land,  jutting  out  from  the  abrupt  hills  thai 

F  F 


434  THE   POOR   CLAKE. 

form  the  sides  of  the  Trough  of  Bolland.  These  hills  wcro 
rocky  and  bleak  enougli  towards  their  suiuniit ;  lower  donn  they 
were  clothed  with  tangled  copsewood  and  green  depths  of  fern, 
out  of  which  a  gi'ay  giant  of  an  ancient  forest-tree  would  tower 
here  and  there,  throwing  up  its  ghastly  white  branches,  as  if  in 
imprecation,  to  the  sky.  These  trees,  they  told  me,  were  the 
remnants  of  that  forest  which  existed  in  the  days  of  the  Hept- 
archy, and  were  even  then  noted  as  landmai-ks.  No  wonder  that 
their  upper  and  more  exposed  branches  were  leafless,  and  that 
the  dead  bark  had  peeled  away,  from  sai)less  (dd  age. 

Not  far  from  the  house  there  were  a  few  cottages,  apimrently 
of  the  same  date  as  the  keep  ;  probably  built  for  some  retainers 
of  the  family,  who  sought  shelter — they  and  their  families  and 
their  small  flocks  and  herds — at  the  hands  of  their  feudal  lord. 
Some  of  them  had  pretty  much  fallen  to  decay.  They  were 
built  in  a  strange  fashion.  Strong  beams  had  been  simk  firm  in 
the  ground  at  the  requisite  distance,  and  their  other  ends  had 
been  fastened  together,  two  and  two,  so  as  to  form  the  shape  of 
one  of  those  rounded  waggon-headed  gipsy-tents,  only  very  much 
larger.  The  spaces  between  were  filled  with  mud,  stones,  osiers, 
rubbish,  mortar — anything  to  keep  out  the  weather.  Tho  fires 
were  made  in  the  centre  of  these  rude  dwellings,  a  hole  in  tho 
roof  forming  the  only  chimney.  No  Highland  hut  or  Irish  cabin 
could  be  of  rougher  construction. 

The  owner  of  this  property,  at  the  beginning  of  the  present 
century,  was  a  Mr.  Patrick  Byrne  Starkoy.  His  family  had  kept 
to  the  old  faith,  and  were  stanch  lioman  Catholics,  esteeming 
it  even  a  sin  to  marry  any  one  of  Protestant  descent,  however 
willing  he  or  she  might  have  been  to  embrace  the  llomisl) 
religion.  Mr.  Patrick  Starkoy 's  fathc  r  had  been  a  follower  ol 
James  the  Second  ;  and,  during  the  disastrous  Irish  campaign 
of  that  monarch  he  had  fallen  in  love  witli  an  Irish  luauty,  a 
Miss  Byrne,  as  zealous  for  her  religion  and  for  the  Stuarts  ixs 
Jiimself.  He  had  returned  to  Inland  after  his  escape  to  Fiiuice, 
and  married  her,  bearing  lier  back  to  the  coiui  at  St.  CJermains, 
But  some  licence  on  the  part  of  the  disorderly  gentlemen  wlio 
surrounded  King  James  in  his  lixile,  liad  insidttd  liis  beautiful 
wife,  and  disgusted  liim  ;  so  he  removed  fn>m  St.  (.Jirmains  to 
Antwerp,  whence,  in  a  few  years'  time,  he  qui«tly  returned  to 
Starkey  Manor-house  some  of  his  Luneushire  neigld)oui*s 
having  lent  their  good  ofllces  to  reconcile  him  to  the  powers  that 
were.  Ho  was  as  firm  a  Catholic  as  ever,  and  as  stiuieh  un 
advocate  for  tho  Stuarts  and  tho  divine  rights  of  kings  ;  but  hiu 
religion  almost  amounted  to  ascoticisni,  and  the  conduct  of  those 


THI-:    POOIl   CLARE.  435 

witL  whom  lie  had  been  brought  in  sueh  chisc  contact  ut  St. 
Gcrmains  woiihl  little  bear  the  inspection  of  a  stern  moralist. 
So  he  gave  his  allegiance  where  he  could  not  give  his  esteem,  and 
learned  to  respect  sincerelj'  the  upright  and  moral  character  of 
one  whom  he  yet  regarded  as  an  usurper.  King  William's 
government  had  little  need  to  fear  siich  a  one.  So  he  returned, 
as  I  have  said,  with  a  sobei-ed  heart  and  imi^overishcd  fortunes, 
to  his  ancestral  house,  which  ha<l  fallen  sadly  to  ruin  while  the 
owner  had  been  a  courtier,  a  soldier,  and  an  exile.  The  roads 
into  the  Trough  of  Bolland  were  little  more  than  cart-ruts ; 
indeed,  the  way  up  to  the  house  lay  along  a  ploughed  field 
before  you  came  to  the  decr-i^ark.  Madam,  as  the  country-folk 
used  to  call  Mrs.  Starkey,  rode  on  a  pillion  behind  her  husband, 
holding  on  to  him  with  a  light  hand  by  his  leather  riding-belt. 
Little  master  (he  that  was  afterwards  Squire  Patrick  Byrne  Star- 
key)  was  held  on  to  his  pony  by  a  serving-man.  A  woman  past 
middle  age  walked,  \\-ith  a  firm  and  strong  step,  by  the  cart  that 
held  much  of  the  baggage  ;  and  high  up  on  the  mails  and  boxes, 
sat  a  girl  of  dazzling  beauty,  perched  lightly  on  the  topmost 
trunk,  and  swaying  herself  fearlessly  to  and  fro,  as  the  cart 
rocked  and  shook  in  the  heavy  roads  of  late  autumn.  The  girl 
wore  tlio  Antwerp  faille,  or  black  Spanish  mantle  over  her  head, 
and  altogether  her  ajijiearancc  was  such  that  the  old  cottager, 
who  described  the  possession  to  me  many  years  after,  said  that 
all  the  country-folk  took  her  for  a  foreigner.  Some  dogs,  and 
the  boy  who  held  them  in  charge,  made  up  the  company.  They 
rode  silently  along,  looking  ^nth  grave,  serious  eyes  at  the 
people,  who  came  out  of  the  scattered  cottages  to  bow  or  cm-tsy 
to  the  real  Squire,  "  come  back  at  last,"  and  gazed  after  the 
little  procession  ^vith  gaping  wonder,  not  deadened  by  the  soimd 
of  the  foreign  language  in  which  the  few  necessary  words  that 
passed  among  them  were  spoken.  One  lad,  called  from  his 
gtaring  by  the  Squire  to  come  and  help  about  the  cart,  accom- 
panied them  to  the  Manor-house,  He  said  that  when  the 
lady  had  descended  from  her  pillion,  the  middle-aged  woman 
whom  I  have  described  as  walking  while  the  others  rode,  stepped 
quickly  forward,  and  taking  Madam  Starkey  (who  was  of  a  slight 
and  delicate  figm-e)  in  her  aiTns,  she  lifted  her  over  the  threshold, 
and  set  her  down  in  her  husband's  house,  at  the  same  time 
uttering  a  passicmatc  and  outlandish  blessing.  The  Squire  stood 
by,  smiling  gravely  at  first ;  but  when  the  words  of  blessing 
were  pronounced,  he  took  off  his  fine  feathered  hat,  and  bent  his 
head.  The  girl  with  the  black  mantle  stepped  onward  into  the 
Bhadow  of  the  dark  hall,  and  kissed  tlic  lady's  hand  ;  and  that 


430  THE    POOR    CLAltE. 

was  all  the  lad  coiild  tell  to  the  group  that  gathered  round  him 
on  his  return,  eager  to  hear  everything,  and  to  know  how  mucb 
the  Squire  had  given  him  for  his  services. 

From  all  I  could  gather,  the  Manor-house,  at  the  time  of  the 
Squire's  return,  was  in  the  most  dilapidated  state.  The  stout 
gi'ay  walls  remained  firm  and  entire  ;  but  the  inner  chambers 
had  been  used  for  all  kinds  of  purposes.  The  great  with- 
drawing-room  had  been  a  barn  ;  the  state  tapestry-chamber  had 
held  wool,  and  so  on.  But,  by  and-by,  they  were  cleared  out ; 
and  if  the  Squire  had  no  money  to  spend  on  new  fuioiiturc,  ho 
and  his  wife  liad  the  knack  of  making  the  best  of  the  old.  He 
was  no  despicable  joiner ;  she  had  a  kind  of  grace  in  whatever 
she  did,  and  imparted  an  air  of  elegant  picturesqueness  to  what- 
ever she  touched.  Besides,  they  had  brought  many  rare  things 
from  the  Continent ;  perhaps  I  should  rather  say,  things  that  were 
rare  in  that  part  of  England — carvings,  and  crosses,  and  beautiful 
pictures.  And  then,  again,  wood  was  plentifid  in  the  Trough  of 
Bolland,  and  great  log-tires  danced  and  glittered  in  all  the  dark, 
old  rooms,  and  gave  a  look  of  home  and  comfort  to  everything. 

Why  do  I  tell  you  all  this  "?  I  have  little  to  do  with  tho 
Squire  and  Madame  Starkey ;  and  yet  T  dwell  upon  them,  as  if 
I  were  imwilling  to  come  to  the  real  people  with  whom  my  liftr 
was  so  strangely  mixed  up.  IMadam  liad  been  nm'scd  in  Ireland 
by  the  very  woman  who  lifted  her  in  lier  arms,  and  welcomid 
her  to  her  husband's  home  in  Lancashire.  Excepting  for  tin- 
short  period  of  her  own  mai'ried  life,  Bridget  Fitzgerald  had 
never  left  her  nm-sling.  Her  marriage— to  one  above  her  in 
rank — had  been  imhappy.  Her  husband  had  died,  and  left  her 
in  even  greater  poverty  than  that  in  whicli  she  was  when  he  had 
first  met  with  her.  She  had  one  child,  the  beautiful  daughter 
who  came  riding  on  tho  waggon-load  of  furniture  that  «as 
brought  to  the  Manor-house,  Madame  Starkey  had  taken  hei 
again  into  her  service  when  she  became  a  widow.  She  and  lier 
daughter  had  followed  "  the  mistress  "  in  all  her  fortunes  ;  they 
had  lived  at  St.  (Jermains  and  at  Antwerp,  and  were  now  conio 
to  her  liomo  in  Lancashire.  As  soon  as  Britlget  liad  arrived 
there,  the  Squire  gave  her  a  cottage  of  her  own,  and  to<.ik  more 
jiains  in  furnishing  it  for  her  than  he  did  in  anything  else  out 
(jf  his  own  house.  It  was  only  nominally  her  residence.  Sho 
was  constantly  up  at  the  great  house  ;  indeed,  it  was  but  a  sliort 
cut  across  the  woods  from  her  own  home  to  the  home  of  her 
nursling.  Her  daughter  Mary,  in  liki-  manner,  moved  from  one 
]mius(!  to  the  other  at  her  own  will.  I\radam  loved  both  mother 
and  child  dearly.     Tluv  had  great    intluc'.ieo    over    her,  uud. 


THE    rOOR    CI.AIJE.  437 

tlirongli  her,  over  her  husband.  Whatever  Bridget  or  Mary 
willed  was  sure  to  come  to  pass.  They  were  not  disliked  ;  fur, 
though  wild  and  passionate,  they  were  also  generous  by  nature. 
But  the  other  servants  were  afraid  of  them,  as  l/eing  in  secret 
the  ruling  spirits  of  the  household.  The  Squire  hud  lost  his 
interest  in  all  secular  things  ;  Madam  was  gentle,  affectionate, 
nnd  yielding.  Both  husband  and  wife  were  tenderly  attached 
to  each  other  and  to  their  boy ;  but  they  grew  more  and  more 
to  shim  the  trouble  of  decision  on  any  point ;  and  hence  it  was 
that  Bridget  could  exert  such  despotic  power.  But  if  every- 
one else  yielded  to  her  "  magic  of  a  superior  mind,"  her  daughter 
not  imfrequently  rebelled.  She  and  her  mother  were  too  much 
alike  to  agree.  There  were  wild  quarrels  between  them,  and 
wilder  reconciliations.  There  were  times  when,  in  the  heat  of 
passion,  they  coiild  have  stabbed  each  other.  At  all  other  times 
they  both — Bridget  especially — would  have  willingly  laid  dowi> 
their  lives  for  one  another.  Bridget's  love  for  her  child  lay 
very  deep — deeper  than  that  daughter  ever  knew ;  or  I  should 
think  she  would  never  have  wearied  of  home  as  she  did,  and 
prayed  her  mistress  to  obtain  for  her  some  situation — as  waiting- 
maid — beyond  the  seas,  in  that  more  cheerful  continental  life, 
among  the  scenes  of  which  so  many  of  her  happiest  years  had 
been  spent.  She  thought,  as  youth  thinks,  that  life  would  last 
for  ever,  and  that  two  or  three  years  were  but  a  small  portion  of 
it  to  pass  away  from  her  mother,  whose  only  child  she  was. 
Bridget  thought  differently,  but  was  too  proud  ever  to  show 
what  she  felt.  K  her  child  wished  to  leave  her,  why — she 
should  go.  But  people  said  Bridget  became  ten  years  older  in 
the  course  of  two  months  at  this  time.  She  took  it  that  Mary 
wanted  to  leave  her.  The  truth  was,  that  Mary  wanted  for  a 
time  to  leave  the  place,  and  to  seek  some  change,  and  would 
thankfully  have  taken  her  mother  with  her.  Indeed  when 
Madam  Starkeyhad  gotten  her  a  situation  with  some  gi-and  lady 
abroad,  and  the  time  drew  near  for  her  to  go,  it  was  Mary  who 
clung  to  her  mother  with  passionate  embrace,  and,  with  floods 
of  tears,  declared  that  she  would  never  leave  her ;  and  it  was 
Bridget,  who  at  last  loosened  her  anns,  and,  gi'ave  and  tearless 
herself,  bade  her  keep  her  word,  and  go  forth  into  the  wide 
world.  Sobbing  aloud,  and  looking  back  continually,  Mary 
went  away.  Bridget  was  still  as  death,  scarcely  drawing  her 
breath,  or  closing  her  stony  eyes ;  till  at  last  she  turned  back 
into  her  cottage,  and  heaved  a  ponderous  old  settle  against  the 
door.  There  she  sat,  motionless,  over  the  gi'ay  ashes  of  her 
extinguished  fire,  deaf  to  Madams  sweet  voice,  as  she  bcg^^ed 


438  THE   POOR   CLARE. 

leave  to  enter  an^  comfort  her  nui-se.  Deaf,  stdiiy,  and  motion- 
less, slic  sat  for  more  than  twenty  hours  ;  till,  for  the  third  time. 
Madam  eame  aeross  the  snowy  path  from  the  gieat  house,  cai-ry- 
ing  with  her  a  yoimg  spaniel,  whieh  had  heen  Mary's  jjct  up  at 
the  hall ;  and  which  had  not  ceased  all  night  long  to  seek  for 
its  absent  mistress,  and  to  whine  and  moan  after  her.  With 
tears  Madam  told  this  story,  thi-ough  the  closed  door — teaio 
excited  by  the  terrible  look  of  anguish,  so  steady,  so  im- 
movable— so  the  same  to-day  as  it  was  yesterday — on  her 
nui'se's  face.  The  little  creature  in  lici-  amis  began  to  utter  its 
piteous  cry,  as  it  shivered  with  the  cold.  Bridget  stirred  ;  she 
moved — she  listened.  Again  that  long  whine;  she  thought  it 
<v'as  for  her  daughter  ;  and  what  she  had  denied  to  her  nmsling 
and  mistress  she  gi-auted  to  the  dumb  creature  that  Mary  had 
cherished.  She  opened  the  door,  and  took  the  dog  fi-om 
Madam's  arms.  Then  Madam  came  in,  and  kissed  and  com- 
foi'ted  the  old  vroman,  who  took  but  little  notice  of  her  or 
anything.  And  sending  up  Master  Patrick  to  the  hall  for  tiro 
and  food,  the  sweet  yoimg  lady  never  left  her  nurse  all  that 
night.  Next  day,  the  Squire  himself  came  do\ni,  canying  a 
beautiful  foreign  pictui'c — Our  Lady  of  tlie  Ht)ly  Heart,  the 
Papists  call  it.  It  is  a  pictm-e  of  the  Virgin,  lur  heart  pierced 
with  arrows,  each  arrow  representing  one  of  her  great  woes. 
That  picture  Imng  in  Bridget's  cottage  when  I  tirst  s;xw  her ;  I 
have  that  picture  now. 

Years  went  on.  Mary  was  still  abroad.  Bridget  was  still 
and  stem,  instead  of  active  and  passionate.  The  little  dog, 
Mignon,  was  indeed  her  darling,  I  have  heard  that  she  talked 
to  it  continually  ;  although,  to  most  peo])le,  she  was  so  silent. 
The  Squire  and  Madam  treated  her  with  the  gi-eatest  considei"a- 
tion,  and  well  they  might ;  for  to  them  she  was  as  devoted  and 
faithful  as  ever.  Mary  wrote  pretty  often,  and  seemed  satistied 
with  lier  life.  But  at  length  the  letters  ceased — I  hardly  know 
whether  before  or  after  a  gi'cat  and  terrible  sorrow  came  ujion 
the  liouse  of  the  Starkeys.  The  S(]uire  sickened  i>f  a  putrid 
fever ;  and  Madam  cauglit  it  in  nursing  him.  and  died.  You 
may  be  sure,  Bridget  ht  no  other  woman  tend  lii-r  but  herself; 
and  in  the  very  arms  that  had  retiived  her  at  her  birth,  that 
sweet  young  woman  laid  lier  luad  down,  and  gave  up  her 
breath.  The  S(i[uire  recovered,  in  a  fashion.  Ho  was  never 
sti'ong — he  had  never  the  heju't  to  smile  again.  He  hunted  and 
prayed  more  than  ov«r;  and  people  did  say  that  he  tried  to  cut 
off  the  entail,  and  leave  all  tlie  property  away  to  found  a 
monastery  abroad,   of   whidi   ho    ])niytd    that  some    day  little 


THE   rOOR  CLARE.  435 

Squire  Patriri  might  be  the  reverend  father.  But  ho  could  not 
do  this,  for  the  strietness  of  the  entail  and  the  laws  against  the 
Papists.  So  ho  could  only  api)oint  gentlemen  of  his  (nvn  faith 
as  guardians  to  his  sou,  witli  many  charges  about  the  lad's  soid, 
and  a  few  about  the  land,  and  the  way  it  was  to  be  held  while 
he  was  a  minor.  Of  course,  Bridget  was  not  forgotten.  He 
sent  for  her  as  he  lay  on  his  death-bed,  and  asked  lier  if  she 
would  rather  have  a  sum  down,  or  have  a  small  annuity  settled 
upon  her.  She  said  at  once  she  would  have  a  sum  down  ;  for  she 
thought  of  her  daughter,  and  how  she  could  bequeath  the  money 
to  her,  whereas  an  annuity  would  have  died  with  her.  So  the 
Squire  left  her  her  cottage  for  life,  and  a  fair  sum  of  money. 
And  then  he  died,  with  as  ready  and  willing  a  heart  as,  I  suppose, 
ever  any  gentleman  took  out  of  this  world  with  him.  The  young 
Squire  was  carried  oflfby  his  guardians,  and  Bridget  was  left  alone. 

I  have  said  that  she  had  not  heard  from  Mary  for  some  time. 
In  her  last  letter,  she  had  told  of  travelling  about  with  her 
mistress,  who  was  the  English  wife  of  some  great  foreign  oflficer, 
and  had  spoken  of  her  chances  of  making  a  good  marriage, 
without  naming  the  gentleman's  name,  keeping  it  rather  back  as 
a  pleasant  surprise  to  her  mother  ;  his  station  and  fortime  being, 
as  I  had  afterwards  reason  to  know,  far  superior  to  anything 
she  had  a  right  to  expect.  Then  came  a  long  silence ;  and 
Madam  was  dead,  and  the  Squire  was  dead  ;  and  Bridget's  heart 
was  gnawed  by  anxiety,  and  she  knew  not  whom  to  ask  for  news 
of  her  child.  She  could  not  write,  and  the  Squire  had  managed 
her  communication  with  her  daughter.  She  walked  off  to  Hurst ; 
and  got  a  good  priest  there — one  whom  she  had  kno\ATi  at 
Antwei-p — to  wTite  for  her.  But  no  answer  came.  It  was  like 
crying  into  the  awful  stillness  of  night. 

One  day,  Bridget  was  missed  by  those  neighbours  who  had 
been  accustomed  to  mark  her  goings-out  and  comings-in.  She 
had  never  been  sociable  with  any  of  them  ;  but  the  siglit  of  her 
had  become  a  part  of  their  daily  lives,  and  slow  wonder  arose  in 
their  minds,  as  morning  after  moniing  came,  and  her  house- 
door  remained  closed,  her  window  dead  from  any  glitter,  or 
light  of  fire  within.  At  length,  some  one  tried  the  door ;  it 
was  locked.  Two  or  three  laid  their  heads  together,  before 
daring  to  look  in  through  the  blank  unshuttered  window.  But, 
at  last,  they  summoned  up  courage  ;  and  then  saw  that  Bridget's 
absence  from  their  little  world  was  not  the  result  of  accident  or 
death,  but  of  premeditation.  Such  small  articles  of  furniture 
as  could  be  seciu-ed  from  the  effects  of  time  and  damp  by  being 
packed  up,  were  stowed  away  in  boxes.     The  pictiu-e  of  the 


440  TH75    POOR  CLARE. 

Madonna  was  taken  down,  and  gone.  In  a  word,  Bridget  bad 
stolen  away  from  her  home,  and  left  no  trace  wliither  she  waa 
departed.  I  knew  afterwards,  that  she  and  her  little  dog  had 
wandered  off  on  the  long  search  for  her  lost  daughter.  She 
was  too  illiterate  to  have  faith  in  letters,  even  liad  she  had  the 
means  of  writing  and  sending  many.  But  she  liad  faith  in  her 
own  strong  love,  and  believed  that  her  passionate  instinct  would 
guide  her  to  her  child.  Besides,  foreign  travel  was  no  new 
thing  to  her,  and  she  could  speak  enough  of  French  to  explain 
the  object  of  her  journey,  and  had,  moreover,  the  advantage  of 
Deing,  from  her  faith,  a  welcome  object  of  charitable  hospitality 
at  many  a  distant  convent.  But  the  coimtry  people  roimd 
Starkey  Manor-house  knew  nothing  of  all  this.  They  wondered 
what  had  become  of  her,  in  a  torpid,  lazy  fashion,  and  then  left 
off  thinking  of  her  altogether.  Several  years  passed.  Both 
Manor-house  and  cottage  were  deserted.  The  young  Squire 
lived  far  away  under  the  direction  of  his  guardians.  There 
were  inroads  of  wool  and  corn  into  the  sitting-rooms  of  the 
Hall ;  and  there  was  some  low  talk,  from  time  to  time,  among 
the  hinds  and  country  people  whether  it  would  not  be  as  well  to 
break  into  old  Bridget's  cottage,  and  save  such  of  her  goods  as 
were  left  from  the  moth  and  rust  which  must  be  making  sad 
havoc.  But  this  idea  was  always  quenched  by  the  rccoDec- 
tion  of  her  strong  character  and  passionate  anger  ;  and  tales  of 
her  masterful  spirit,  and  vehement  force  of  will,  were  wliispered 
about,  till  the  very  thought  of  offending  her,  by  touching  any 
article  of  hers,  became  invested  with  a  kind  of  horror :  it  was 
believed  that,  dead  or  alive,  she  would  not  fail  to  avenge  it. 

Suddenly  she  came  home ;  with  as  little  noise  or  note  of 
preparation  as  she  had  departed.  One  day  some  one  noticetl  a 
thin,  blue  curl  of  smoke  ascending  from  her  chimney.  Her 
door  stood  open  to  the  noonday  sun  ;  and,  ere  many  hours  had 
elapsed,  some  one  had  seen  an  old  travel-and-sorrow-stainod 
woman  dipping  her  pitclier  in  the  well  ;  and  said,  that  the  dark, 
solenm  eyes  tliat  looked  up  at  him  were  more  like  Bridget 
Fitzgerald's  than  any  one  else's  in  this  world  ;  and  yet,  if  it 
were  she,  she  looked  as  if  she  had  been  scorched  in  the  lltunes 
of  hell,  so  brown,  and  sciU'ed,  and  tierce  a  creatiwo  did  she  seem. 
By-and-by  many  saw  lier  ;  and  those  who  met  her  eye  onco 
cared  not  to  be  cauglit  looking  at  her  again.  Slie  had  got  into 
the  habit  of  perptitually  talking  to  herself;  nay,  more,  answering 
herself,  and  varying  her  tones  according  to  the  sidi'  she  t(.)ok  at 
the  moment.  It  was  no  wonder  that  thiisi>  who  <hired  to  listi^i 
outside  her  door  at  niL^ht   believed  tluit  she  hehl  converse  with 


THE   POOR   CLARE.  441 

Bome  spirit ;  in  short,  she  was  unconsciously  earning  for 
herself  the  dreadful  reputation  of  a  witch. 

Her  little  dog,  which  had  wandered  half  over  the  Continent 
with  her,  was  her  only  companion  ;  a  dumb  remembrancer  of 
happier  days.  Once  he  was  ill ;  and  she  carried  him  more  than 
tliree  miles,  to  ask  about  his  management  from  one  who  had  been 
groom  to  the  last  Squire,  and  had  then  been  noted  for  his 
skill  in  all  diseases  of  animals.  Whatever  this  man  did, 
the  dog  recovered ;  and  they  who  heard  her  thanks,  inter- 
mingled with  blessings  (that  were  rather  promises  of  good 
fortune  than  prayers),  looked  grave  at  his  good  luck  when, 
next  year,  his  ewes  twinned,  and  his  meadow-grass  was  heavy 
and  thick. 

Now  it  so  happened  that,  about  the  year  seventeen  hundred 
and  eleven,  one  of  the  guardians  of  the  yoimg  squire,  a  certain 
Sir  Philip  Tempest,  bethought  him  of  the  good  shooting  there 
must  be  on  his  ward's  property  ;  and  in  consequence  he  brought 
down  four  or  five  gentlemen,  of  his  friends,  to  stay  for  a  week  or 
two  at  the  Hall.  From  all  accounts,  they  roystered  and  spent 
pretty  freely.  I  never  heard  any  of  their  names  but  one,  and 
that  was  Squire  Gisbome's.  He  was  hardly  a  middle-aged  man 
then  ;  he  had  been  much  abroad,  and  there,  I  believe,  he  had 
known  Sir  Philip  Tempest,  and  done  him  some  service.  He  was 
a  daring  and  dissolute  fellow  in  those  days :  careless  and 
fearless,  and  one  who  would  rather  be  in  a  quarrel  than  out  of  it. 
He  had  his  fits  cf  ill-temper  besides,  when  he  would  spare 
neither  man  nor  beast.  Otherwise,  those  who  knew  him  well, 
used  to  say  he  had  a  good  heart,  when  he  was  neither  drmik,  nor 
angry,  nor  in  any  way  vexed.  He  had  altered  much  when  I 
came  to  know  him. 

One  day,  the  gentlemen  had  all  been  out  shooting,  and  with 
but  little  success,  I  believe;  anyhow,  Mr.  Gisbomo  had  none, 
and  was  in  a  black  humour  accordingly.  He  was  coming  home, 
having  his  gun  loaded,  sportsman-like,  when  little  Mignon 
crossed  his  path,  just  as  he  turned  out  of  the  wood  by  Bridget's 
cottage.  Partly  for  wantonness,  partly  to  vent  his  spleen  upon 
some  living  creature,  Mr.  Gisborne  took  his  gun,  and  fired  — ho 
liad  b(;tter  have  never  fired  gun  again,  than  aimed  that  luilncky 
filiot,  he  hit  Mignon,  and  at  the  creature's  sudden  cry,  Bridget 
came  out,  and  saw  at  a  glance  what  liad  been  done.  Slie  took 
Mignon  up  in  her  arms,  and  looked  liard  at  the  woimd  ;  the 
poor  dog  lofjked  at  lier  with  liis  glazing  eyes,  and  tried  to  wag 
his  tail  and  lick  her  hand,  all  covered  with  blood.  Mr. 
Gisborne  spoke  in  a  kind  of  sullen  penitence  : 


442  THK    POOIt    CLAUE. 

'•  You  should  have  kept  the  dog  out  of  my  way — a  littlo 
jioachiug  varmint."' 

At  this  very  moment,  Mignon  stretched  out  his  legs,  and 
stitiened  in  her  arms — her  lost  Mary's  dog,  who  had  wandered 
and  sorrowed  witli  her  for  years.  She  walked  right  into 
Mr.  Gisborne's  i)ath,  and  fixed  his  unwilling,  sullen  look,  with 
her  dai'k  and  terrible  eye. 

"  Those  never  throve  that  did  me  harm,"  s;iid  she.  "  I'm  alone 
in  the  world,  and  helpless  ;  the  more  do  the  saints  in  heaven 
hear  my  prayers.  Hear  me,  ye  blessed  ones  !  hear  me  while  I 
ask  for  sori'ow  on  this  bad,  cruel  man.  He  has  killed  the 
only  creature  that  loved  me — the  dumb  beast  that  I  loved. 
Bring  down  heavy  sorrow  on  his  head  for  it,  O  ye  saints  I  He 
thought  that  I  was  helpless,  because  ho  saw  me  lonely  and 
poor ;  but  are  not  the  armies  of  heaven  for  the  like  of  me  'i" 

"  Come,  come,"  said  he,  half  remorseful,  but  not  one  whit 
afraid.  "  Here's  a  cro^\-n  to  buy  thee  another  dog.  Take  it, 
and  leave  off"  cursing  !     I  care  none  for  thy  threats." 

"Don't  youV"  said  she,  coming  a  stoj)  closer,  and  changing 
her  imprecatory  cry  for  a  whisper  which  miule  the  gamekeeper's 
lad,  following  Mr.  Gisborne,  crecji  all  over.  "You  shall  live 
to  sec  the  creatui'e  you  love  best,  and  who  alone  loves  you — ay, 
a  human  creature,  but  as  innocent  and  fond  as  my  poor,  dead 
darling — you  shall  see  this  creature,  ior  whom  death  \M)uld  bo 
too  happy,  become  a  terror  and  a  loathing  to  all,  for  this  blood's 
sake.  Hear  me,  O  holy  saints,  who  never  fail  them  that  have  no 
other  help  !" 

She  tlirew  up  her  right  hand,  filled  with  pnor  IMigu^n's  life- 
drops  ;  they  spirted,  one  or  two  of  them,  on  his  shooting-dress, — an 
ominous  sight  to  the  follower.  But  the  master  only  laughed  a 
little,  forced,  scornful  laugh,  and  went  on  to  the  Hall.  Before 
he  got  there,  however,  he  took  out  a  gold  jiiece,  and  bade  the 
boy  carry  it  to  the  old  woman  on  his  retmn  to  the  village.  The 
lad  was  "  afeared,"  as  he  told  me  in  after  years  ;  he  came  to  the 
cottage,  and  hovered  about,  not  daring  to  enter.  He  peeped 
through  the  window  at  last ;  and  by  the  flickering  wood-lhuue. 
he  saw  Bridget  kneeling  before  the  pietiu'c  of  Our  Lady  of  the 
Holy  Heart,  with  dead  INIignon  lying  bi-tween  her  and  the 
Madonna.  She  was  juiiying  wildly,  as  licr  outstretclud  arms 
betokened.  The  lad  sluiink  away  in  redmibled  terror ;  luid 
contented  himself  with  slii)ping  the  gold-piece  under  the 
ill-fitting  door.  The  next  day  it  was  thrown  out  ufion  the 
midden  ;  and  there  it  lay,  no  one  daring  to  touch  it. 

Meanwhile  Mr.  Gisborne,  half  curious,  half  uneasy,  thought 


THE   POOR    CLAIU:.  443 

to  lessen  Lis  uncomfortrtblc  fccliugs  l»y  asking;  Sir  Philip  who 
Bridget  was  ?  Ho  could  ouly  describe  her — he  did  not  know 
her  name.  Sir  Philip  was  equally  at  a  loss.  But  an  (jld 
servant  of  the  Starkcys,  who  had  resumed  his  livery  at  the  Hall 
on  this  occasion — a  scoundivl  wlioni  Bridget  had  saved  from 
dismissal  more  than  once  diu-ing  her  palmy  days — said : — 

'•  It  will  bo  the  old  witch,  that  his  worship  means.  She 
needs  a  ducking,  if  ever  a  woman  did,  does  tliat  Bridget 
Fitzgerald." 

"  Fitzgerald  !"'  said  botli  the  gentlemen  at  once.  But  Sir 
Philip  was  the  first  to  continue  : — ■ 

••  I  must  have  no  talk  of  ducking  her,  Dickon.  Why,  sho 
must  he  the  very  woman  poor  Starkcy  hade  mo  have  a  care  of ; 
but  when  I  came  hei'o  last  she  was  gone,  no  one  knew  where, 
I'll  go  and  sec  her  to-morrow.  But  mind  you,  sirrah,  if  any 
harm  comes  to  her,  or  any  more  talk  of  her  being  a  witch — I've  a. 
pack  of  hounds  at  homo,  who  can  follow  the  scent  of  a  hnng 
knave  as  well  as  ever  they  followed  a  dog-fox ;  so  take  care  how 
you  talk  about  ducking  a  faithful  old  servant  of  your  dead 
master's." 

"  Had  she  ever  a  daughter  ?"  asked  Mr.  Gisbome,  after  a 
while. 

'•  I  don't  know — yes !  l"ve  a  notion  she  had ;  a  kind  of 
waiting  woman  to  Madam  Starkey." 

"  Please  your  worship,"  said  humbled  Dickon,  "  Mistress 
Bridget  had  a  daughter — one  Mistress  Mary — -who  went  abroad, 
and  has  never  been  heard  on  since ;  and  folk  do  say  that  has 
crazed  her  mother." 

Mr.  Gisbornc  shaded  his  eyes  with  his  hand. 

"  I  could  wish  she  had  not  cursed  me,"  he  muttered.  "  She  may 
have  power — no  one  else  could."  After  a  while,  he  said  aloud, 
no  one  understanding  rightly  what  he  meant,  '•  Tush  !  it  is 
impossible  !" — and  called  for  claret ;  and  he  and  the  other 
gentlemen  set-to  to  a  drinking-bout. 


CHAPTER  II. 

I  NOW  come  to  the  time  in  wliicli  I  myself  was  mixed  up  with 
the  people  that  I  have  been  \vriting  about.  And  to  make  you 
understand  how  I  became  connected  with  them,  I  must  give  you 
some  little  accoimt  of  myself.  My  fatlior  was  the  yoimgor  son 
of  a  Devonshire  gentleman  of  moderate  property  ;  my  eldest 
uncle  succeeded  to  tho  estate  of  his  forefathers,  my  second  be- 


444  THE    POOR    CLARE. 

came  an  eminent  attorney  in  London,  and  my  father  took  orders. 
Like  most  poor  clergymen,  he  had  a  hirgc  family  ;  and  I  havo 
no  doubt  was  glad  enough  when  my  London  uncle,  who  was  a 
bachelor,  oflFered  to  take  charge  of  me,  and  bring  me  up  to  be  his 
successor  in  business. 

In  this  way  I  came  to  live  in  London,  in  my  uncle's  house, 
not  far  from  Gray's  Inn,  and  to  bo  treated  and  esteemed  as  his 
son,  and  to  labour  with  him  in  his  office.  I  was  very  fond  of 
the  old  gentleman.  lie  was  the  confidential  agent  of  many 
country  squires,  and  liad  attained  to  his  present  position  as 
much  by  knowledge  of  human  nature  as  by  knowledge  of  law  ; 
though  he  was  learned  enough  in  the  latter.  He  used  to  say  his 
business  was  law,  his  pleasure  heraldry.  From  his  intimate 
acquaintance  with  family  history,  and  all  the  tragic  courses  of 
life  therein  involved,  to  hear  him  talk,  at  leisure  times,  about 
any  coat  of  arms  that  came  across  his  path  was  as  good  as  a  jday 
or  a  romance.  Many  cases  of  disputed  property,  dependent  on 
a  love  of  genealogy,  were  brought  to  him,  as  to  a  great  authority 
on  such  points.  If  the  lawyer  who  came  to  consult  him  was 
young,  ho  would  take  no  fee,  only  give  him  a  long  lecture  on 
the  importance  of  attending  to  heraldry  ;  if  tlie  lawyer  was  of 
mature  ago  and  good  standing,  he  would  mulct  him  jjretty  well, 
and  abuse  him  to  me  afterwards  as  negligent  of  one  great  branch 
of  the  profession.  His  house  was  in  a  stately  new  street  called 
Ormond  Street,  and  in  it  he  had  a  handsome  library  ;  but  all 
the  books  treated  of  things  that  were  past ;  none  of  them  ])lanncd 
or  looked  forward  into  the  future.  I  wcu-ked  away—  juirtly  for 
the  sake  of  my  family  at  home,  jjiutly  l)ccause  my  umlc  had 
really  taught  me  to  enjoy  the  kind  of  i)ractice  in  which  he  him- 
self took  such  delight.  I  suspect  I  wi>rkid  too  hard  ;  at  any 
rate,  in  seventeen  hundred  and  eighteen  I  was  far  from  well, 
and  my  good  uncle  was  disturbed  by  my  ill  looks. 

One  day,  he  rang  the  bell  twice  into  the  clerk's  room  at  the 
dingy  office  in  (Jrays  Inn  Lane.  It  was  the  summons  for  me, 
and  I  went  into  his  j)rivate  room  just  as  a  gentleman-  whom  I 
knew  well  enough  by  sight  as  an  Irish  lawyer  of  nu>re  reputation 
than  he  deserved — was  leaving. 

My  uncle  was  slowly  rubbing  his  hands  togi  tlier  and  con- 
sidering. I  was  there  two  «)r  three  minutes  before  he  spt>ke. 
Thtiu  he  told  me  tliat  I  must  pack  up  my  portmanteau  that  very 
afternoon,  and  start  tliat  night  by  jiost-liorst>  for  West  Chester. 
I  should  get  tliere,  if  all  went  well,  at  the  end  of  five  days'  time, 
and  must  then  wait  for  a  packet  to  cross  over  to  Duldin  ;  from 
tliinee  I  must  i)roceed  to  a  certain  town  nanieil   Kildooii,  j>iid  in 


THE   POOR   CLARE.  445 

that  neighbourhood  I  was  to  remain,  making  certain  inquiries 
as  to  the  existence  of  any  descendants  of  the  younger  branch  of 
a  family  to  whom  some  vahiable  estates  had  descended  in  the 
female  line.  Tlic  Irisli  lawyer  whom  I  had  seen  was  weary  of 
the  case,  and  would  willingly  have  given  up  the  property,  with- 
out further  ado,  to  a  man  who  appeared  to  claim  them  ;  but  on 
laying  his  tables  and  trees  before  my  uncle,  the  latter  had  fore- 
seen so  many  possible  prior  claimants,  that  the  lawyer  had 
begged  him  to  undertake  the  management  of  the  whole  business. 
In  his  youth,  my  uncle  would  have  liked  nothing  better  than 
going  over  to  Ireland  liimself,  and  ferreting  out  every  scrap  of 
I^aper  or  j)archment,  and  every  word  of  tradition  resi)ecting  the 
family.     As  it  was,  old  and  gouty,  ho  deputed  me. 

Accordingly,  I  went  to  Kildoon.  I  suspect  I  had  something 
of  my  uncle's  delight  in  following  up  a  genealogical  scent,  for 
I  very  soon  found  out,  when  on  the  spot,  that  Mr.  Kooney,  the 
Irish  lawyer,  would  have  got  both  himself  and  the  first  claimant 
into  a  terrible  scrape,  if  he  had  pronoimced  his  opinion  that  the 
estates  ought  to  be  given  up  to  him.  There  were  three  poor 
Irish  fellows,  each  nearer  of  kin  to  the  last  possessor  ;  but,  a 
generation  before,  there  was  a  still  nearer  relation,  who  had 
never  been  accounted  for,  nor  his  existence  ever  discovered  by 
the  lau-yers,  I  venture  to  think,  till  I  routed  him  out  from  the 
memory  of  some  of  the  old  dependants  of  th«  family.  What  had 
become  of  him  ?  I  travelled  backwards  and  forwards ;  I  crossed 
over  to  France,  and  came  back  again  witli  a  slight  clue,  wliich 
ended  in  my  discovering  that,  wild  and  dissipated  himself,  he 
had  left  one  child,  a  son,  of  yet  worse  character  than  his  father ; 
that  this  same  Hugh  Fitzgerald  had  married  a  very  beautiful 
serving-woman  of  the  Byrnes — a  person  below  him  in  hereditary 
rank,  but  above  him  in  character  ;  tliat  he  had  died  soon  after 
his  marriage,  leaving  one  child,  whether  a  boy  or  a  girl  I  could 
not  learn,  and  that  the  mother  had  returned  to  live  in  the  family 
of  the  B\Tnes.  Now,  the  chief  of  this  latter  family  was  serving 
in  the  Duke  of  Berwick's  regiment,  and  it  was  long  before  I 
could  hear  from  him :  it  was  more  than  a  year  before  I  got  a 
short,  haughty  letter— I  fancy  he  had  a  soldier  s  contemjit  for  a 
civilian,  an  Irishman's  hatred  for  an  Englishman,  an  exiled 
Jacobite's  jealousy  of  one  who  prospered  and  lived  tranquilly 
under  the  government  he  looked  upon  as  an  usurpation. 
"  Bridget  Fitzgerald,''  ho  said,  "  had  been  faithful  to  tlic  for- 
tunes of  his  sister — had  followed  her  abroad,  and  to  England 
when  Mrs.  Starkey  Ind  thought  lit  to  retmn.  Both  liis  sister  and 
her  husband  were  dcp.d  ;  he  knew  nothing  of  Bridget  Fitzgerald 


446  THE   POOR   CLAlJii:. 

at  the  present  time  :  probably  Sir  Philip  Tempest,  his  ncphow'g 
guardian,  might  be  able  to  give  me  some  information."  1  have 
not  given  the  little  contemptuous  terms ;  the  way  in  which 
faithful  service  was  meant  to  imply  more  than  it  said — all  that 
has  nothing  to  do  with  my  story.  Sir  Philip,  when  applied  to, 
told  me  that  he  paid  an  annuity  regularly  to  an  old  woman 
named  Fitzgerald,  living  at  Coldholme  (the  village  near  Starkey 
Manor-house  J.  "Whether  she  had  any  descendants  he  could  not 
say. 

One  bleak  March  evening,  I  came  in  sight  of  the  places  de- 
scribed at  the  beginning  of  my  story.  I  could  hardly  imder- 
stand  the  rude  dialect  in  which  the  direction  to  old  Bridget's 
house  was  given. 

"  Yo'  see  yon  fmdeets,"  all  run  together,  gave  me  no  idea  that 
I  was  to  guide  myself  by  the  distant  lights  that  shone  in  the 
windows  of  the  Hall,  occupied  for  the  tinie  by  a  fiirmcr  who 
held  the  post  of  steward,  while  the  Squire,  now  four  or  live  and 
twenty,  was  making  the  gi-and  tour.  However,  at  last,  I  reached 
Bridget's  cottage — a  low,  mo6S-gro\Mi  place ;  the  palings  that 
had  once  surromided  it  were  broken  and  gone  ;  and  the  under- 
wood of  the  forest  came  up  to  the  walls,  and  must  have  darkened 
the  windows.  It  was  about  seven  o'clock — not  late  to  my 
London  notions — but,  after  knocking  for  some  time  at  the  door 
and  receiving  no  reply,  I  was  driven  to  conjecture  that  the 
occupant  of  the  house  was  gone  to  bed.  So  I  betook  myself  to 
the  nearest  church  I  had  seen,  thi'eo  miles  back  on  the  road  I 
had  come,  sure  that  close  to  that  1  shoiUd  find  an  inn  of  somo 
kind ;  and  early  the  next  morning  I  sec  off  back  to  Coldholme, 
by  a  field-path  which  my  host  assured  me  I  shoidd  find  a  shorter 
<'ut  than  the  road  I  had  taken  the  night  before.  It  was  a  cold, 
pliarp  morning ;  my  feet  left  prints  in  the  sjirinkling  of  hoar- 
frost that  covered  the  ground  ;  nevertheless,  I  saw  an  old 
woman,  whom  I  instinctively  suspected  to  be  the  object  of  my 
search,  in  a  sheltered  covert  on  one  side  of  my  path.  I  lingeretl 
and  watclied  her.  She  must  liave  been  consideiidtly  above  tho 
middle  size  in  her  prime,  for  when  she  raised  hei-self  from  tlio 
stooping  position  in  whidi  1  first  saw  her,  tliere  was  sonuthing 
fine  and  connnanding  in  tho  erectncss  of  her  figurt\  Sho 
drooped  again  in  a  minuto  or  two,  and  seemed  looking  for 
sometliing  on  the  ground,  as,  with  bent  head,  she  turned  off  from 
the  spot  where  I  guzrd  upon  lur,  and  was  hist  to  my  sight.  I 
fancy  I  missed  my  way,  and  niiule  a  round  in  spite  of  the  land- 
lord's directions  ;  for  by  thi;  time  I  had  reached  Bridget's  cottugn 
she  was  there,  with  no  sembhince  of  liurried  walk  or  discom- 


THE    POOU    CLARE.  447 

posuro  of  any  kiiul.  The  door  was  slightly  ajiir.  I  Icnoclicd, 
nud  the  majcstit-  tigure  stood  before  me,  silently  awaiting  tho 
explanation  of  my  errand.  Her  teeth  were  all  gone,  so  the  nosu 
and  chin  were  brought  near  together ;  the  gray  eyebrows  were 
straight,  and  almost  hung  over  her  deep,  cavernous  eyes,  and  tho 
thick  white  hair  lay  in  silvery  masses  over  the  low,  wide,  wTiuii- 
Icd  forehead.  For  a  moment,  I  stood  uncertain  how  to  shape 
my  answer  to  tho  solemn  questioning  of  her  silence. 

"  Yoiu-  name  is  Bridget  Fitzgerald,  I  believe  '?" 

She  bowed  her  head  in  assent. 

"  I  have  something  to  say  to  you.  May  I  come  in  ?  1  am 
unwilling  to  keep  you  standing." 

'•You  cannot  tire  me,"  she  said,  and  at  first  she  seemed 
inclined  to  deny  me  the  shelter  of  her  roof.  But  tho  next 
moment — she  had  searched  the  very  soul  in  me  with  her  eyes 
during  that  instant — she  led  me  in.  and  dropped  the  shadowing 
hood  of  her  gray,  di'aping  cloak,  which  had  previously  hid  part 
of  the  character  of  her  countenance.  The  cottage  was  rude  and 
bare  enough.  But  before  the  pictm'O  of  tho  Virgin,  of  which  I 
have  made  mention,  there  stood  a  little  cup  filled  with  fresh 
primroses.  While  she  paid  her  reverence  to  the  Madonna,  1 
imderstood  why  she  had  been  out  seeking  through  the  clumps  of 
green  in  the  sheltered  copse.  Then  she  turned  round,  and 
bade  me  be  seated.  The  expression  of  her  face,  which  all  this 
time  I  was  studying,  was  not  bad,  as  the  stories  of  my  last 
night's  landlord  had  led  me  to  expect ;  it  was  a  wild,  stem, 
fierce,  indomitable  countenance,  seamed  and  scarred  by  agonies 
of  solitary  weeping  ;  but  it  was  neither  cunning  nor  malignant. 

"  My  name  is  Bridget  Fitzgerald,"  said  she,  by  way  of  opening 
our  conversation. 

"  And  your  husband  was  Hugh  Fitzgerald,  of  Knock-Mahon, 
near  Kildoon,  in  Ireland  ?" 

A  faint  light  came  into  the  dark  gloom  of  her  eyes. 

"  He  was." 

"  May  I  ask  if  you  had  any  children  by  him  ?" 

The  light  in  her  eyes  grew  quick  and  red.  She  tried  to  speak, 
I  could  see  ;  but  something  rose  in  her  throat,  and  choked  her, 
and  imtil  she  could  speak  calmly,  she  would  fain  not  speak  at  all 
before  a  stranger.     In  a  minute  or  so  she  said — 

"  I  had  a  daughter — one  Mary  Fitzgerald," — then  her  strong 
nature  mastered  her  strong  will,  and  she  cried  out,  with  a 
trembling  wailing  cry:  "Oh,  man!  what  of  her? — what  of 
ber  V" 

She  rose  from  her  scat,  and  came  and  clutched  at  my  arm,  and 


448  THE   POOR   CLARE. 

looked  in  my  eyes.  There  she  read,  as  I  suppose,  my  utter 
ignorance  of  what  had  become  of  her  child  ;  for  she  went 
blindly  back  to  her  chair,  and  sat  rocking  herself  and  softly 
moaning,  as  if  1  were  not  there ;  I  not  daring  to  speak  to  the 
lone  and  awful  woman.  After  a  little  pause,  she  knolt  down 
before  the  picture  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Holy  Heart,  and  sj)(  ^ke  to 
her  by  all  the  fanciful  and  poetic  names  of  the  Litany. 

"  0  Rose  of  Sharon  !  0  Tower  of  David  !  O  Star  of  the 
Sea  !  have  ye  no  comfoii.  for  my  sore  heart  ?  Am  I  for  ever  to 
hope?  Grant  me  at  least  despair  !" — and  so  on  she  went,  heed- 
less of  my  presence.  Her  prayers  grew  wilder  and  wilder,  till 
they  seemed  to  me  to  touch  on  the  borders  of  madness  and 
blasphemy.     Almost  involuntai'ily,  I  spoke  as  if  to  stop  her. 

"  Have  you  any  reason  to  think  that  your  daughter  is  dead '? 

She  rose  from  her  knees,  and  came  and  stood  before  me. 

"  Mary  Fitzgerald  is  dead,"  said  she.  "  I  shall  never  see  her 
again  in  the  flesh.  No  tongue  ever  told  me  ;  but  I  know  she  is 
dead.  I  have  yearned  so  to  see  her,  and  my  heart's  will  is 
fearful  and  strong :  it  would  have  drawn  her  to  me  before  now, 
if  she  had  been  a  wanderer  on  the  other  side  of  the  world. 
I  wonder  often  it  has  not  drawn  her  out  of  the  grave  to  come 
and  stand  before  me,  and  hear  me  tell  her  how  I  loved  her. 
For,  sir,  we  parted  unfriends.' 

I  knew  nothing  but  the  dry  particulars  needed  for  my  lawyer's 
quest,  but  I  could  not  help  feeling  for  the  desolate  woman  ;  and 
she  must  have  read  the  unusual  sympathy  with  her  %\-istfiil  eyes. 

"  Yes,  sir,  we  did.  She  never  knew  how  I  loved  her  ;  and  we 
parted  imfriends  ;  and  I  feai*  me  that  I  wished  her  voyage  might 
not  turn  out  well,  only  meaning, — 0,  blessed  Virgin  I  you  know 
I  only  meant  that  she  should  come  homo  to  her  mother's  anus  as 
to  the  happiest  jjlacc  on  earth  ;  but  my  wishes  arc  terrible — 
their  power  goes  beyond  my  thought — and  there  is  no  hope  for 
me,  if  my  words  brought  Miu-y  harm." 

"  But,"  I  said,  '•  you  do  not  know  that  she  is  dead.  Even 
now,  you  hoped  she  might  be  alive.  Listi-n  to  me,"  and  I  told 
her  the  tale  1  have  already  told  you,  giving  it  all  in  the  driest 
manner,  for  I  wanted  to  recall  tlie  clear  sense  that  1  felt  almost 
sure  she  liad  possessed  in  lier  younger  days,  and  by  keeping  up 
her  nttention  to  details,  restniin  the  vague  wildness  of  her  grief. 

She  listened  with  deej)  attention,  putting  from  time  to  time 
such  questions  as  convinced  nie  I  had  to  do  with  no  coniuiou 
jntilligenee,  however  dinnned  and  shorn  by  solitude  and  myste- 
rious Korrow.  Then  slie  took  up  hw  talc  ;  and  in  few  bri«  f 
v.'ords,  tidd  me  of  her  wanderings  abroad  in  vain  siareh  uftor  lier 


I'Hi:  roou  cL.vni:.  44JI 

dunglitcr  ;  sometimes  in  the  wake  of  ariuiis,  soinctinios  in  camji, 
sometimes  in  city.  The  lady,  whose  waiting-woman  Mary  had 
<j;one  to  be,  had  died  soon  after  the  date  of  her  hist  htter  liomo  ; 
Jii'r  husband,  the  foreign  officer,  had  been  serving  in  ilungary, 
whither  Bridget  had  foUowed  him,  but  too  hxte  to  iind  him. 
Vague  rumours  reached  her  that  Mary  had  made  a  great  mar- 
riage :  and  this  sting  of  doubt  was  added, — whether  the  mother 
miglit  not  be  close  to  her  child  under  her  new  name,  and  even 
luaring  of  her  every  day,  and  yet  never  recognizing  the  lost 
one  under  the  appellation  she  then  bore.  At  length  the  tliought 
took  possessicm  of  her,  that  it  was  possible  tliat  all  this  timo 
Mary  might  be  at  home  at  Coldholme,  in  the  Trough  of  Bolland, 
in  Lancashire,  in  England ;  and  home  came  Bridget,  in  that 
vain  hope,  to  her  desolate  liearth,  and  empty  cottage.  Here  sho 
Lad  thought  it  safest  to  remain  ;  if  Mary  was  in  life,  it  was  hero 
she  would  seek  for  her  mother. 

I  noted  down  one  or  two  particulars  out  of  Bridget's  narra- 
tive that  I  thought  miglit  be  of  use  to  rac  :  for  I  was  stimulated 
to  further  search  in  a  strange  and  extraordinary  manner.  It 
seemed  as  if  it  were  impressed  ujion  me,  that  1  must  take  up 
the  quest  where  Bridget  had  laid  it  down  ;  and  this  for  no  reason 
that  had  previously  influenced  me  (such  as  my  imcle's  anxiety  on 
the  subject,  my  own  reputation  as  a  lawyer-,  and  so  on),  but  from 
some  strange  power  which  had  taken  possession  of  my  will  only 
that  very  morning,  and  which  forced  it  in  the  direction  it  chose, 

'•  I  vnU.  go,"  said  I.     ''  I  will  si)arc  nothing  in  the  search 
Trust  to  me.     I  will  learn  all  that  can  be  learnt.     You  shall 
know  all  that  money,  or  pains,  or  wit  can  discover.     It  is  truo 
she  may  be  long  dead :  but  she  may  have  left  a  child."' 

"  A  child  !"  she  cried,  as  if  for  the  first  time  this  idea  had 
struck  her  mind.  "  Hear  him,  Blessed  Virgin  !  he  says  she  may 
liaveleft  a  child.  And  you  have  never  told  me,  though  I  have 
prayed  so  for  a  sign,  waking  or  sleeping !" 

'•  Nay,"  said  I,  "  I  know  nothing  but  what  you  tell  me.  You 
say  you  heard  of  her  marriage." 

But  sho  caught  nothing  of  what  I  said.  She  was  praying  to 
tlie  Virgin  in  a  kind  of  ecstasy,  which  seemed  to  render  her 
unconscious  of  my  very  presence. 

From  Coldholme  I  went  to  Sir  Philip  Tempest's,  The  wife 
of  the  foreign  officer  had  been  a  cousin  of  his  father's,  and  from 
liim  I  thought  I  might  gain  some  particulars  as  to  the  existence 
of  the  Count  de  la  Tour  d'Auvergne,  and  where  I  could  find 
him  ;  for  I  know  questions  de  vive  voix  aid  the  flagging  recol- 
lection,   and  I  was  determined  to  lose  no  chance  for  want  of 

0  a 


450  THE    rOOR   CLARE. 

trouble.  But  Sir  Philip  had  gone  abroad,  and  it  would  be  soiE'' 
time  before  I  could  receive  au  answer.  So  I  followed  my 
uncle's  advice,  to  -whom  I  had  mentioned  how  wearied  I  felt, 
both  in  b(jdy  and  mind,  by  my  \\'ill-o'-thc-wisp  search.  Ho 
immediately  told  me  to  go  to  Harrogate,  there  to  await  Sir 
Philip's  reply.  I  should  be  near  to  one  of  the  places  connected 
\vith  my  search,  Coldholme  ;  not  far  from  Sir  Philip  Tempest,  in 
case  he  rctm-ued,  and  I  wished  to  ask  him  any  further  questions  ; 
and,  in  conclusion,  my  imclc  bade  me  try  to  forget  all  about  my 
business  for  a  time. 

This  was  far  easier  said  than  done.  I  have  seen  a  child  on  a 
common  blown  along  by  a  high  wind,  without  power  of  standing 
still  and  resisting  the  tempestuous  force.  I  was  somewhat  iu 
the  same  predicament  as  regarded  my  mental  state.  Something 
resistless  seemed  to  m-gc  my  thoughts  on,  through  every  possible 
course  by  which  there  was  a  chance  of  attaining  to  my  object. 
I  did  not  see  the  sweei)ing  moors  when  I  walked  out  :  when  I 
held  a  book  iu  my  hand,  and  read  the  words,  their  sense  did  not 
penetrate  to  my  brain.  If  1  slept,  1  went  on  with  the  same 
ideas,  always  flowing  in  the  same  direction.  This  could  not 
last  long  without  having  a  bad  eftect  on  the  body.  I  bad  an 
illness,  which,  although  I  was  racked  with  pain,  was  a  positive 
relief  to  me,  as  it  compelled  mo  to  live  in  the  present  suffering, 
and  not  in  the  visionary  researches  I  had  been  continually 
making  before.  My  kind  uncle  came  to  nurse  me  :  and  after 
the  immediate  danger  Avas  over,  my  life  seemed  to  slip  away  in 
delicious  languor  for  two  or  three  montlis.  I  did  not  ask — so 
much  did  I  dread  falling  into  the  old  channel  of  thought — 
whetlier  any  reply  had  been  received  to  my  letter  to  Sir  Philip. 
1  tm-ned  my  whole  imagination  right  away  from  all  that  subject. 
My  uncle  remained  with  me  tnitil  nigh  midsummer,  and  then 
retm'ned  to  his  business  in  London  ;  leaving  me  purfectly  well, 
although  not  completely  strong,  i  was  to  follow  him  in  a 
fortnight ;  when,  as  he  said,  "•  wo  would  look  over  lettei-s,  and 
talk  about  several  things."  I  knew  what  this  little  speech 
alluded  to,  and  shrank  from  tlie  train  of  tliought  it  suggested, 
which  was  so  intimately  connectiHl  with  my  first  feelings  of 
illness.  How(;ver,  I  had  a  fortnight  more  to  roam  on  thoso 
invigorating  Yorksliirc  m()oi"S. 

In  those  days,  tluio  was  om^  large,  rambling  inn,  at  llarrogale. 
closo  to  tlio  Medicinal  Spring  ;  l)ut  it  was  aln-ady  becoming  tot> 
wnall  for  tlm  acconunodation  of  tlic  influx  of  visitors,  and  many 
lodged  round  ahout,  in  lln^  farm-houses  »)f  the  district.  It  was 
so  curly  in  the  bcosou,  that  T  had  the  inn  pretty  much  to  myself; 


THK    rOOll   CLAUE.  451 

tnd,  indeed,  felt  rather  like  a  visitor  in  a  private  house,  ho 
intimate  had  tlic  landlord  and  landlady  become  with  me 
during  my  long  illness.  SIic  would  chide  me  for  being  out  so 
late  on  the  moors,  or  for  having  been  too  long  without  food, 
quite  in  a  motherly  way  ;  while  he  consulted  me  about  vintages 
and  wines,  and  taught  me  many  a  Yorkshire  wi-inkle  about 
hoi-ses.  In  my  walks  I  met  other  strangers  from  time  to  time. 
Even  before  my  uncle  had  left  me,  I  had  noticed,  with  half- 
torpid  curiosity,  a  young  lady  of  very  striking  appearance,  who 
went  about  always  accompanied  by  an  elderly  companion, — 
hardly  a  gentlewoman,  but  with  something  in  her  look  that 
prepossessed  mc  in  her  favour.  The  younger  lady  always  put 
her  veil  down  when  any  one  approached ;  so  it  had  been  only 
once  or  twice,  when  I  had  come  upon  her  at  a  sudden  turn  in 
the  path,  that  I  had  even  had  a  glimpse  at  her  face.  I  am  not 
sui'c  if  it  was  beautiful,  though  in  after-life  1  gi-ew  to  think  it 
60.  But  it  was  at  this  time  overshadowed  by  a  sadness  that 
never  varied  :  a  pale,  quiet,  resigned  look  of  intense  suffering, 
that  irresistibly  attracted  mc, — not  with  love,  but  with  a  sense 
of  infinite  compassion  for  one  so  young  yet  so  hopelessly 
imhappy.  The  companion  wore  something  of  the  same  look  : 
quiet  melancholy,  hopeless,  yet  resigned.  I  asked  my  landlord 
who  they  were.  He  said  they  were  called  Clai'ke,  and  wished 
to  be  considered  as  mother  and  daughter  ;  but  that,  for  his  part, 
he  did  not  believe  that  to  be  their  right  name,  or  that  there  was 
any  such  relationship  between  them.  They  had  been  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Harrogate  for  some  time,  lodging  in  a  remote 
farm-house.  The  people  there  would  tell  nothing  about  them  ; 
saying  that  they  paid  handsomely,  and  never  did  any  harm ; 
so  why  should  they  be  speaking  of  any  strange  things  that  might 
happen  ?  That,  as  the  landlord  shrewdly  observed,  showed  there 
was  something  out  of  the  common  way  :  he  had  heard  that  the 
elderly  woman  was  a  cousin  of  the  farmer's  where  they  lodged, 
and  so  the  I'cgard  existing  between  relations  might  help  to  keep 
them  quiet. 

"  What  did  he  think,  then,  was  the  reason  for  their  extreme 
seclusion?"  asked  1. 

"  Nay,  he  could  not  tell, — not  he.  He  had  heard  that  the  young 
lady,  for  all  as  quiet  as  she  seemed,  played  strange  pranks  at 
times."  He  sIkxjIv  his  head  when  I  asked  him  for  more  par- 
ticulars, and  refused  to  give  them,  which  made  me  doubt  if  ho 
knew  any,  for  ho  was  in  general  a  talkative  and  communicative 
man.  In  default  of  other  interests,  after  my  uncle  left,  I  set 
myself  to  watch  these  two  people.     I  hovered  about  their  walks 

a  a  2 


4.52  Tin:  roon  glare. 

dra^vTi  towards  them  '.vitli  a  strange  fascination,  which  was  not 
diminished  by  their  evident  annoyance  at  so  frequently  meeting 
me.  One  day,  I  had  the  sudden  good  fortune  to  be  at  hand 
when  they  were  ahirmed  by  the  attack  of  a  bull,  which,  in  those 
unenclosed  gi-azing  districts,  was  a  particularly  dangerous 
occurrence.  I  have  other  and  more  important  things  to  relate, 
than  to  tell  of  the  accident  which  gave  me  an  opportunity  of 
rescuing  them  ;  it  is  enough  to  say,  that  this  event  was  the  be- 
ginning of  an  acquaintance,  reluctanth'  acquiesced  in  by  them, 
but  eagerly  prosecuted  by  me.  I  can  hardly  tell  when  intense 
curiosity  became  merged  in  love,  but  in  less  than  ten  days  after  my 
uncle's  departm'e  I  was  passionately  enamoured  of  Mistress  Lucy, 
as  her  attendant  called  her  ;  carefully — f(U-  this  I  noted  well — 
avoiding  any  address  which  appeared  as  if  there  was  an  equality 
of  station  between  them.  I  noticed  also  that  Mrs.  Clarke,  the 
elderly  woman,  after  her  first  reluctance  to  allow  me  to  pay  them 
any  attentions  had  been  overcome,  was  cheered  by  my  evident 
attachment  to  the  yoimg  girl ;  it  seemed  to  lighten  her  hea\-y 
bui'den  of  care,  and  she  evidently  favoured  my  visits  to  the  farm- 
house where  they  lodged.  It  was  not  so  with  Lucy.  A  more 
attractive  person  I  never  saw,  in  spite  of  her  depression  of  manner, 
and  shrinking  avoidance  of  me.  [  felt  sure  at  once,  that  what- 
ever was  the  source  of  her  grief,  it  rose  from  no  fault  of  her  own. 
It  v/as  difficult  to  draw  her  into  conversation  ;  but  when  at  times, 
for  a  moment  or  two,  I  beguiled  her  into  tj\lk,  I  could  see  a  nire 
intelligence  in  her  face,  and  a  gi-ave,  trusting  look  in  the  soft, 
gray  eyes  that  were  raised  for  a  minute  to  mine.  I  made  every 
excuse  I  possibly  could  for  going  there.  I  soiight  wild  tlowtrs 
for  Lucy's  sake  ;  1  planned  walks  for  Lucy's  sake  ;  I  watchtd 
the  heavens  by  night,  in  hopes  that  some  unusual  beauty  (tf  sky 
would  justify  me  in  tempting  Mrs.  Clarke  and.  Lucy  forth  upon 
the  moors,  to  gaze  at  the  great  pur])le  dome  above. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  Lucy  was  aware  of  my  lovo  ;  but  tluit, 
for  some  motive  which  1  could  not  guess,  she  would  fain  have 
repelled  me  ;  but  then  again  I  saw,  or  fancied  I  saw,  that  lier 
heart  spoke  in  my  favoiu",  and  that  there  was  a  struggli-  going  on 
in  licr  mind,  which  at  times  (I  loved  so  diarly)  1  could  havo 
begged  her  to  spare  herself,  even  though  the  hapjiiness  of  my 
whole  life  should  have  been  the  sacrifice  ;  for  her  complexion 
grew  pah;r,  her  aspect  of  sorrow  more  hopeless,  her  delicate  fnime 
yot  slighter.  During  this  pca'iod  I  had  written,  1  should  sjiy,  to 
my  undo,  to  beg  to  be  allowed  to  jirolong  my  stay  at  Hjut«.>- 
gate,  not  giving  any  reason  ;  l)ut  such  was  liis  tenderness 
towards  me,  that   in  a  few  days  I  lieanl  from  him,  giving  mo  a 


THE    I'OOU    CLARE.  453 

willing  permission,  and  only  charging  mc  to  take  care  of  myself, 
and  not  vmo  too  much  exertion  diu-ing  the  hot  weather. 

One  sultry  evening  I  drew  near  tlie  farm.  The  windows  of 
their  pai-lour  were  open,  and  I  heard  voices  when  I  turned  the 
comer  of  the  liouse,  as  1  jiassed  the  first  window  (there  were  two 
windows  in  their  little  ground-floor  room).  1  saw  Lucy  dis- 
tinctly ;  but  wlien  I  liad  knocked  at  their  door — tlie  house-door 
stood  always  ajar  —  she  was  gone,  and  I  saw  only  Mrs.  Clarke, 
turning  over  the  work-things  lying  on  the  table,  in  a  nervous 
and  purposeless  manner.  I  felt  by  instinct  that  a  conversation 
of  some  importance  was  coming  on,  in  which  I  should  bo 
expected  to  say  what  was  my  object  in  paying  these  frequent 
visits.  I  was  glad  of  the  opportunity.  My  uncle  had  several 
times  alluded  to  the  pleasant  possibility  of  my  bringing  home  a 
yoimg  wife,  to  cliccr  and  adorn  the  old  house  in  Ormond  Street. 
He  was  rich,  and  I  was  to  succeed  him,  and  had,  as  I  knew,  a 
fair  reputation  for  so  young  a  lawyer.  So  on  my  side  I  saw  no 
obstacle.  It  was  true  that  Lucy  was  shrouded  in  mystery  ;  her 
name  (I  was  convinced  it  was  not  Clarke),  birth,  parentage,  and 
previous  life  were  unknown  to  me.  But  1  was  sni-c  of  her  goodness 
and  sweet  innocence,  and  although  I  knew  that  there  must  be 
something  painful  to  be  told,  to  account  for  her  mournful  sad- 
ness, yet  I  was  willing  to  bear  my  share  in  her  grief,  whatever 
it  might  be. 

Mrs.  Clarke  began,  as  if  it  was  a  relief  to  her  to  plimge  into 
the  subject. 

"  We  have  thought,  sir — at  least  I  have  thought — that  you 
knew  very  little  of  us,  nor  we  of  you,  indeed  ;  not  enough  to 
warrant  the  intimate  acquaintance  wo  have  fallen  into.  1  beg 
youi'  pardon,  sir,"  she  went  on,  nervously ;  "  I  am  but  a  jilain 
kind  of  woman,  and  I  mean  to  use  no  rudeness ;  but  I  must  say 
straight  out  that  I — we — think  it  would  be  better  for  you  not  to 
come  so  often  to  see  lis.     She  is  very  unprotected,  and -" 

"  Why  should  I  not  come  to  see  you,  dear  madam  ?"  asked  I. 
eagerly,  glad  of  the  opportunity  of  explaining  myself.  "  I  come 
I  own,  because  I  have  learnt  to  love  Mistress  Lucy,  and  wish  to 
teach  her  to  love  me." 

Mistress  Clarke  shook  her  head,  and  sighed. 

"  Don't,  sir — neither  love  her,  nctr,  for  the  sake  of  all  you  hold 
sacred,  teach  her  to  love  you !  If  I  am  too  late,  and  you  love 
her  already,  forget  her, — forget  these  last  few  weeks.  O  !  I  should 
never  have  allowed  you  to  come  !"  she  went  on  passionately  ; 
"  but  what  am  I  to  do  ?  We  are  forsaken  by  all,  except  the  gi'eat 
God,  and  even  He  permits  a  strange  and  evil  power  to  afflict  us 


454  THE    POOR   CLARE. 

— what  am  I  to  do !  Where  is  it  to  end  ?"  She  wTiuig  her 
hands  in  her  distress  ;  then  she  turned  to  me  :  "  Go  away,  sir  ! 
go  away,  before  you  learn  to  care  anymore  for  her.  I  ask  it  for 
your  o^\■n  sake — I  implore  !  You  have  been  good  and  kind  to 
us,  and  we  shall  always  recollect  you  with  gratitude  ;  but  go  away 
now,  and  never  come  back  to  cross  our  fatal  path  !" 

"  Indeed,  madam,"  said  I,  "  I  shall  do  no  such  thing.  You  lu-ge 
it  for  my  own  sake.  I  have  no  fear,  so  urged — nor  wish,  except 
to  hear  more — all.  I  cannot  have  seen  Mistress  Lucy  in  all  the 
intimacy  of  this  last  fortnight,  without  acknowledging  her  good- 
ness and  innocence  ;  and  without  seeing — pai-don  me,  madam — 
that  for  some  reason  you  are  two  very  lonely  women,  in  some 
mysterious  sorrow  and  distress.  Now,  though  I  am  not  powerful 
myself,  yet  I  have  friends  who  are  so  wise  and  kind  that  they 
may  be  said  to  possess  power.  Tell  me  some  jjai-ticulars.  Why 
are  you  in  grief — what  is  your  secret — why  are  you  here  ?  I 
declare  solemnly  that  notliing  you  have  said  has  daimted  mo  in 
my  wish  to  become  Lucy's  husband  ;  nor  will  I  shrink  from  any 
difficulty  that,  as  such  an  aspirant,  I  may  have  to  encounter. 
Y'ou  say  you  are  friendless — why  cast  away  an  honest  friend  ?  I 
will  tell  you  of  people  to  whom  you  may  write,  and  who  will 
answer  any  questions  as  to  my  chanicter  and  prospects.  I  do 
not  shun  inquiry." 

She  shook  her  head  again.  "  You  had  better  go  away,  sir.  You 
know  nothing  about  us." 

"  I  know  your  names,"  said  I,  "  and  I  have  heard  you  allude 
to  the  part  of  the  country  from  which  you  came,  which  I  hai)peu 
to  know  as  a  wild  and  lonely  place.  Tlicre  are  so  few  j)eople 
living  in  it  that,  if  I  chose  to  go  there,  I  could  easily  ascertain  all 
about  you;  but  I  would  rather  hear  it  from  yourself."  You  sec 
I  wanted  to  pique  her  into  telling  me  something  definite. 

"  You  do  not  know  our  true  names,  sir,"  said  she,  hastily. 

Well,  I  may  have  conjectured  as  much.  But  tell  me.  then,  I 
conjure  you.  Give  me  your  reasons  for  distrusting  my  willing- 
ness to  stand  by  what  I  have  said  with  regard  to  Mistress  Lucy." 

"  Oh,  what  can  I  doV"  exclaimed  she.  *•  if  1  am  turning  away 
a  true  friend,  as  he  says  ? — Stay  I"  coming  to  a  sudden  dieisioii 
— "  I  will  tell  you  something— I  cannot  tell  you  all  yt)U  would 
not  believe  it.  But,  jierhaps,  I  can  till  you  enough  to  previut 
your  going  on  in  your  hopeless  attachment.  1  am  not  Lucy's 
mother." 

"So  I  conjectured,"  T  said.      "Go  on." 

"  1  do  not  ('vcn  know  whether  she  is  the  legitimate  or  illegiti- 
mate cliild  of  licr  fntln  r.      Jiiit  he  is  cruelly  turned  against  her; 


THE  pooK  CI. A  in:.  4.05 

and  bcr  motlicr  is  long  dead  ;  and  for  a  toiTildc  reason,  she 
has  no  otlier  creature  to  keep  constant  to  lier  bnt  me.  Slie — 
only  two  years  ago  —such  a  darling  and  sucli  a  pride  in  her  father's 
house  !  Why,  sir,  there  is  a  niysterv  that  might  ha2)pen  in  con- 
nection with  her  any  moment  ;  and  then  you  woidd  go  away  like 
all  the  rest ;  and,  when  you  next  heard  her  name,  j'ou  woidd 
loathe  her.  Others,  who  liave  loved  her  longer,  have  done  so 
before  now,  ]My  iwor  child  !  whom  neither  God  nor  man  has 
mercy  upon — or,  siu'ely,  she  would  die  !" 

The  good  woman  was  stopped  by  her  crying.  I  confess,  T 
was  a  little  stunned  by  her  last  words  ;  but  oidy  for  a  moment. 
At  any  rate,  till  I  knew  definitely  what  was  this  mystei'ious  stain 
upon  one  so  simple  and  i)ure,  as  Lucy  seemed,  I  would  not  desert 
her,  and  so  1  said  ;  and  she  made  me  answer  : — 

"  If  you  are  daring  in  your  heart  to  think  harm  of  my  child, 
sir,  after  knowing  her  as  you  have  done,  you  are  no  good  man 
yourself ;  but  I  am  so  foolish  and  helpless  in  my  gi-cat  sorrow, 
that  I  wovdd  fain  hope  to  find  a  fi-iend  in  jon.  1  cannot  help 
trusting  that,  although  you  may  no  longer  feel  toward  her  as  a 
lover,  you  will  have  pity  upon  us  ;  and  perhaps,  byyoiir  learning 
you  can  tell  us  where  to  go  for  aid." 

"  I  implore  you  to  tell  me  what  this  mystery  is,"  I  cried,  al- 
most maddened  by  this  suspense. 

"  1  cannot,"  said  she,  solemnly.  "  I  am  mider  a  deep  vow  of 
secrecy.  If  you  are  to  be  told,  it  must  be  by  her."  She  left  the 
room,  and  I  remained  to  ponder  over  this  strange  interview, 
I  mechanically  tui'ned  over  the  few  books,  and  with  eyes  that 
saw  nothing  at  the  time,  examined  the  tokens  of  Lucy's  frequent 
presence  in  that  room. 

When  I  got  home  at  night,  I  remembered  how  all  these  trifles 
.spoke  of  a  pure  and  tender  heart  and  innocent  life.  Mistress 
Clarke  returned  ;  she  had  been  crying  sadly. 

"  Yes,"  said  she,  "  it  is  as  I  feared  :  she  loves  you  so  much 
that  she  is  willing  to  run  the  fearful  risk  of  telling  you  all  her- 
self— she  acknowledges  it  is  but  a  poor  chance  ;  but  your  sym- 
pathy will  Ije  a  balm,  if  you  give  it.  To-morrow,  come  here  at 
ten  in  the  morning ;  and,  as  you  hope  for  pity  in  your  hour  of 
agony,  repress  all  show  of  four  or  repugnance  you  may  feel  to- 
wards one  so  grievously  afflicted." 

I  half  smiled.  "  Have  no  fear,"  I  said.  It  seemed  too  absm'd 
to  imagine  my  feeling  dislike  to  Lucy. 

"Her  father  loved  her  well,"  said  she,  gravely,  "  yet  he  drovo 
her  out  like  some  monstrous  thing." 

Just  at  this  moment  came  a  peal  of  ringing  laugliter  from  th? 


456  THE   POOR   CLARE. 

garden.  It  was  Lucy's  voice  ;  it  sounded  as  if  she  were  stand- 
ing just  on  one  side  of  the  ojjcn  casement — and  as  though  sho 
were  stiddenly  stirred  t<j  merriment — merriment  verging  on 
boisterousness,  by  the  doings  or  sayings  of  some  other  person. 
I  can  scarcely  say  why,  but  the  sound  jarred  on  me  inexpressibly. 
She  knew  the  subject  of  oiu*  conversation,  and  must  have  been 
at  least  aware  of  the  state  of  agitation  her  friend  was  in  ;  she 
herself  usually  so  gentle  and  quiet.  I  half  rose  to  go  to  the 
window,  and  satisfy  my  instinctive  cui-iosity  as  to  what  had  pro- 
voked this  burst  of  ill-timed  laughter ;  but  Mrs.  Clarke  threw 
her  whole  weight  and  power  upon  the  hand  with  which  she 
pressed  and  kept  me  down. 

"  For  God's  sake  !"'  she  stiid,  white  and  trembling  all  over, 
"  sit  still ;  be  quiet.  Oh  !  be  patient.  To-morrow  you  will 
know  all.  Leave  us,  for  we  are  all  sorely  afflicted.  Do  not  sock 
to  know  more  about  us." 

Again  that  laugh — so  musical  in  sound,  yet  so  discordant  to 
my  heart.  She  held  me  tight — tighter ;  without  positive  vio- 
lence I  could  not  have  risen.  I  was  sitting  with  nn'  back  to  the 
window,  but  I  felt  a  shadow  pass  between  the  sun's  warmth  and 
me,  and  a  strange  shudder  ran  through  my  frame.  In  a  minute 
or  two  she  released  me. 

"  Go,"  repeated  she.  "  Be  warned,  I  ask  you  once  more.  I 
do  not  think  you  can  stand  this  knowledge  that  you  seek.  If  I 
had  had  my  own  way,  Lucy  should  never  have  yielded,  luid  pro- 
mised to  tell  you  all.     Who  knows  what  may  come  of  it  ?  " 

"  I  am  firm  in  my  wish  to  know  all.  I  return  at  ten  to- 
mori'ow  morning,  and  then  expect  to  see  Mistress  Lucy  herself. ' 

I  tiu-ned  away  ;  having  my  own  suspicions,  I  confess,  as  to 
Mistress  Clarke's  sanity. 

Conjectures  as  to  the  meaning  of  her  hints,  and  imcomfortablo 
thoughts  connected  witli  that  strange  laughter,  filled  my  mind. 
I  could  hardly  sleei).  I  rose  early  ;  and  long  before  the  hoiir  I 
luxd  appointed,  I  was  on  the  path  over  the  common  that  kd  tu 
the  old  farm-house  where  tliev  lodged.  I  suppose  tliat  Lucy 
had  j)asscd  no  bettor  a  night  than  1 ;  for  there  she  was  also, 
slowly  pacing  witli  her  cwu  ste[),  her  eyes  bent  down,  her  wholo 
look  iiiost  .saintly  and  pure.  She  started  when  1  came  eluse  t<» 
her,  and  grew  jjaler  as  1  reminded  lier  of  my  appointment,  and 
spoke  with  something  nf  IIh^  impatience  of  obsttu-li*  that,  seeing 
her  once  more,  had  ealli  d  up  afresh  in  my  mind.  All  strango 
and  terriljle  hints,  and  giddy  merriment  were  forgotten.  My 
heart  gave  fortii  words  of  fire,  and  my  tongue  uttired  them. 
Her  ci>lour    went   and   ciiine,    as  slie  listened;  but,  \\]ui\  I   had 


THE    TOOK    CLARK.  4o7 

rndcd  inv  passionate  speeches,  she  lifted  her  soft  eyes  to  me,  ami 
^liiid  — 

"  But  you  know  that  yoti  have  Ronietliiup;  to  learn  about  mo 
yet.  I  only  want  to  Siiy  this  :  I  shall  not  think  less  of  you — 
less  well  of  you,  I  mean — if  you,  too,  fall  away  from  me  when 
you  know  all.  Stop  !"'  said  she,  as  if  feai'ing  another  burst  of 
mad  words.  "  Listen  to  me.  My  father  is  a  man  of  great 
wealth.  I  never  knew  my  mother  ;  she  must  have  died  when  I 
was  very  young.  When  first  I  remember  anything,  I  was  living 
in  a  gi'cat,  lonely  house,  with  my  dear  and  faithful  Mistress 
Clarke.  My  father,  even,  was  not  there ;  ho  was  —he  is—  ii 
soldier,  and  his  duties  lie  abroad.  But  he  came  from  time  t(> 
time,  and  every  time  I  think  he  loved  me  more  and  more.  He 
bi'ouglit  me  rarities  from  foi-eign  lands,  whieh  i)rove  to  me  now 
how  much  he  must  have  thought  of  me  during  his  absences.  I 
can  sit  down  and  measure  the  depth  of  his  lost  love  now,  by  sucli 
standards  as  these.  I  never  thought  whether  he  loved  me  or 
uot,  then  ;  it  was  so  natural,  that  it  was  like  the  air  I  breathed. 
Yet  he  was  an  angry  man  at  times,  even  then ;  but  never  with 
lue.  He  was  very  reckless,  too  ;  and,  once  or  twice,  I  heard  a 
whisper  among  the  servants  that  a  doom  was  over  him,  and  that 
he  knew  it,  and  tried  to  drown  his  knowledge  in  wild  activity, 
and  even  sometimes,  sir,  in  wine.  So  I  gi'ew  up  in  this  graml 
mansion,  in  that  lonely  place.  Everything  around  me  seemed 
at  my  disposal,  and  I  think  every  one  loved  me  ;  I  am  sure  I 
loved  them.  Till  about  two  years  ago— I  remember  it  well — 
my  father  had  come  to  England,  to  us ;  and  he  seemed  so  jiroud 
and  so  pleased  mth  me  and  all  I  had  done.  And  one  day  his 
tongue  seemed  loosened  with  wine,  and  he  told  me  much  that  I 
had  not  known  till  then, — how  dearly  he  had  loved  my  mothej-, 
yet  how  his  wilful  usage  had  caused  her  death  ;  and  then  he 
went  on  to  say  how  he  loved  me  better  than  any  creature  ou 
earth,  and  how,  some  day,  he  hoped  to  take  me  to  foreign  i)laces, 
for  that  ho  could  hardly  bear  these  long  absences  from  his  only 
child.  Then  he  seemed  to  change  suddenly,  and  said,  in  m 
strange,  wild  way,  tliat  I  was  not  to  believe  what  he  said  ;  that 
there  was  many  a  thing  he  loved  better  — his  horse  — his  dog — I 
know  nf>t  what. 

"  And  'twas  only  the  next  morning  that,  when  I  came  into  his 
room  to  ask  his  blessing  as  was  my  wont,  he  received  me  with 
fierce  and  angry  words.  '  Why  had  I,'  so  lu;  asked,  '  been  de- 
lighting myself  in  such  wanton  mischief  dancing  over  tho 
tender  plants  in  tho  flower-beds,  all  set  with  the  famous  Dutch 
bulbs  he  had  broutrht  from  Holland  ?'     I  had  never  been  out  of 


4.58  THE   POOR  CLAKE. 

doors  that  moruiug,  sir,  and  I  could  not  conceive  wliat  he  meant, 
and  so  I  said ;  and  tlicu  lie  swore  at  me  for  a  liar,  and  said  I 
was  of  no  true  blood,  for  he  had  seen  me  doing  all  that  mischief 
himself— with  his  own  eyes.  What  could  I  say?  He  would 
not  listen  to  me,  and  even  my  tears  seemed  only  to  irritate  him. 
That  day  was  the  beginning  of  my  great  sorrows.  2sot  long 
after,  he  reproached  me  for  my  undue  familiarity — all  unbecom- 
ing a  gentlewoman —  with  his  gi-ooms.  I  had  been  in  the  stable- 
yard,  laughing  and  talking,  he  said.  Now,  sir,  I  am  something 
of  a  coward  by  nature,  and  I  had  always  dreaded  horses ;  be- 
sides that,  my  father's  servants — those  whom  he  brought  with 
him  from  foreign  parts — were  wild  fellows,  whom  I  had  always 
avoided,  and  to  whom  I  had  never  spoken,  except  as  a  lady  must 
needs  from  time  to  time  speak  to  her  father's  people.  Yet  my 
father  called  me  by  names  of  which  I  hiudly  know  the  meaning, 
but  my  heart  told  me  they  were  such  as  shame  any  modest 
woman  ;  and  from  that  day  he  turned  quite  against  me ; — nay, 
sir,  not  many  weeks  after  that,  he  came  in  with  a  riding-whip  in 
his  hand  ;  and,  accusing  me  harshly  of  evil  doings,  of  which  I 
knew  no  more  than  you,  sir,  he  was  about  to  strike  me,  and  I, 
all  in  bewildering  tears,  was  ready  to  take  his  stripes  as  great 
kindness  compared  to  his  harder  words,  when  suddenly  he 
stopped  his  arm  mid-way,  gasped  and  staggered,  crying  out. 
'  The  curse — the  curse  !'  I  looked  up  in  terror.  In  the  gi-eat 
mirror  ojiposite  I  saw  myself,  and  right  behind,  another  wicked, 
fearful  self,  so  like  me  that  my  sold  seemed  to  quiver  within  me, 
as  though  not  knowing  to  whicli  similitude  of  body  it  belonged. 
My  father  saw  my  double  at  the  same  moment,  either  in  its 
dreadful  reality,  whatever  that  might  be,  or  in  the  scarcely  less 
terrible  reflection  in  tJie  mirror  ;  but  what  came  of  it  at  that 
moment  I  cannot  say,  for  I  suddenly  swooned  away ;  and  when 
I  ciime  to  myself  I  was  lying  in  my  bed.  and  my  faithful  Clarke 
sitting  by  me.  I  was  in  my  bed  ft)r  days  ;  and  even  while  I  lay 
tlicro  my  double  was  seen  by  all,  flitting  about  the  house  and 
gardens,  always  about  some  misihi(>vous  or  detestable  work. 
What  wonder  that  every  om;  shrank  from  me  in  dri-ad^  that  my 
father  drove  me  forth  at  length,  wluii  the  disgnuo  of  which  I 
was  the  cause  was  j)ast  his  i)atience  to  bear.  ^listress  l^liU'ko 
came  with  me  ;  and  here  wc  try  to  live  such  a  life  of  piety  and 
prayer  as  may  in  time  sit  mo  free  from  the  cmse.  " 

All  the  time  she  had  been  s])eaking,  I  had  been  weighing  lier 
story  in  my  mind.  1  had  hitlu"rto  ])ut  cases  of  witdu  rat't  on 
one  side,  as  mere  superstitions ;  and  my  nncle  and  1  had  had 
many  an  argument,  he  sunporting  himself  by  the  oi)iuiou  of  liin 


THE    POOH    CJ.ARE.  459 

good  fncntl  Sir  Mattliow  Hale.  Yet  tbis  sounded  like  the  tiilo 
of  ouo  bewitched  ;  or  was  it  merely  the  effect  of  a  life  of  extremo 
seclusion  telling  on  the  nerves  of  a  sensitive  girl  ?  My  scepti- 
cism inclined  me  to  the  latter  belief,  and  when  she  paused  I 
said  : 

"  I  fancy  that  some  physician  could  have  disabused  your 
father  of  his  belief  in  visions "' 

Just  at  that  instant,  standing  as  I  was  opposite  to  her  in  the 
full  and  perfect  morning  light,  I  saw  behind  her  another  figure 
— a  ghastly  resemblance,  complete  in  likeness,  so  far  as  form  and 
feature  and  minutest  touch  of  dress  could  go,  but  with  a  loath- 
some demon  soul  looking  out  of  the  gray  eyes,  that  were  in 
turns  mocking  and  voluptuous.  My  heart  stood  still  within  me  ; 
every  hair  rose  up  erect ;  my  flesh  crept  with  hoiTor.  I  could 
not  see  the  grave  and  tender  Lucy — my  eyes  were  fascinated  by 
the  creatm-e  beyond.  I  know  not  why,  but  I  put  out  my  hand 
to  clutch  it ;  I  grasped  nothing  but  empty  air,  and  my  whole 
blood  ciu'dled  to  ice.  For  a  moment  I  could  not  sec  ;  then  my 
sight  came  back,  and  I  saw  Lucy  standing  befoi-e  me,  alone, 
deathly  pale,  and,  I  coidd  have  fancied,  almost,  shrunk  in  size. 

"  It  has  been  near  me  V"  she  said,  as  if  asking  a  question. 

The  sound  seemed  taken  out  of  her  voice ;  it  was  husky  as 
the  notes  on  an  old  harpsichord  when  the  strings  have  ceased  to 
vibrate.  She  read  her  answer  in  my  face,  I  suppose,  for  I  could 
not  speak.  Her  look  was  one  of  intense  fear,  but  that  died  away 
into  an  aspect  of  most  humble  patience.  At  length  she  seemed 
to  force  herself  to  face  behind  and  aroimd  her  :  slic;  saw  the 
purple  moors,  the  blue  distant  hills,  quivering  in  tlic  sunlight, 
but  nothing  else. 

"  Will  you  take  me  home  ?"  she  said,  meekly. 

I  took  her  by  the  hand,  and  led  her  silently  tlirough  the  bud- 
ding heather — we  dared  not  speak  ;  for  we  could  not  tell  but 
that  the  dread  creature  was  listening,  altliough  misccn,^but  that 
IT  might  appear  and  push  us  asunder.  I  never  loved  her  more 
fondly  than  now  when — and  that  was  the  unspeakable  misery— 
the  idea  of  her  was  becoming  so  inextricably  blended  witli  the 
shuddering  thought  of  it.  She  seemed  to  understand  what  I 
must  be  feeling.  She  let  go  my  hand,  which  she  had  kept 
clasped  until  then,  when  we  reached  the  garden  gate,  and  went 
forwards  to  meet  hor  anxious  friend,  who  was  standing  by  the 
window  looking  for  her.  I  could  not  enter  the  house  :  I  needed 
silence,  society,  leisure,  change — I  knew  not  what — to  shake  off 
the  sensation  of  that  creature's  presence.  Yet  I  lingered  about 
the  gai'den — I  hardly  know  why  ;  I  partly  suppose,  because  I 


460  THE    POOR   CLAUE. 

feared  to  encounter  the  resemblance  again  on  the  solitary 
common,  where  it  had  vanished,  and  partly  from  a  feeling  of  in- 
expressible compassion  for  Lucy.  In  a  few  minutes  Mistress 
Clai-ke  came  fortli  and  joined  me.  We  walked  some  paces  in 
silence. 

"  You  know  all  now,"  said  she,  solemnly, 

"  1  saw  IT,"  said  I,  below  my  breath. 

"  And  you  shrink  from  us,  now,"  she  said,  with  a  hopelessness 
which  stirred  up  all  that  was  brave  or  good  in  me. 

"  Not  a  whit,"  said  I.  "  Human  flesh  shi-inks  from  encounter 
with  the  powers  of  darkness  :  and,  for  some  reason  unknown  to 
me,  the  pure  and  holy  Lucy  is  their  victim." 

"  The  sins  of  the  fathers  shall  be  visited  upon  the  children," 
she  said. 

"  Who  is  her  father  ?"  asked  T.  "  Knowing  as  much  as  1  do, 
I  may  sm-ely  know  more — know  all.  Tell  me,  I  entreat  you, 
madam,  all  that  you  can  conjecture  respecting  this  demoniac 
persecution  of  one  so  good." 

"  I  will ;  but  not  now.  I  must  go  to  Lucy  now.  Come  this 
afternoon,  I  will  see  you  alone  ;  and  oh,  sir !  I  vrUl  trust  that 
you  may  yet  find  some  way  to  help  us  in  oui*  sore  trouble  I" 

I  was  miserably  exhausted  by  the  swooning  afli-ight  which 
had  taken  possession  of  me.  When  I  reached  the  inn,  I  stag- 
gered in  like  one  overcome  by  wine.  1  went  to  my  own  private 
room.  It  was  some  time  before  I  saw  that  the  weekly  post  had 
come  in,  and  brought  me  my  letters.  There  was  one  fmm  my 
uncle,  one  from  my  home  in  Devonshire,  and  one,  re-directed 
over  the  first  adtlress,  sealed  with  a  gi*eat  coat  of  arms.  It  was 
from  Sir  Philip  Tempest :  my  letter  of  inquiry  respecting  Mary 
Fitzgerald  had  reached  him  at  Liege,  where  it  so  happened  that 
the  Coimt  do  la  Tour  d'Auvergiie  was  qiiai'tered  at  the  very 
time.  He  remembered  his  wife's  bcautifid  attendant ;  she  had 
had  high  words  with  the  deceased  countess,  resj)ectiug  her  inter- 
course with  an  English  gentleman  of  got)d  sttuuling,  who  was 
also  in  tlie  foreign  service.  Tlie  coinitcss  augiu'od  evil  t»f  his 
intentions ;  while  IMary,  ]tr()ud  and  vehement,  asserteil  that  lie 
would  soon  marry  her,  and  resented  her  mistress's  warnings  as 
an  insult.  Tlie  consequence  was,  that  she  had  left  l^Iadame  do 
la  Tour  d'Auvergne's  service,  and,  as  the  Count  believtd.  had 
gone  to  live  with  the  Englishman  ;  whether  lie  had  iimnied  her, 
or  not,  ho  could  not  say.  "But,"  added  Sir  Pliilip  Tiiiqiest, 
"you  may  easily  hear  what  particulars  you  wish  to  know  re- 
Bpe(;ting  Mary  Fit/.gcrald  from  the  Kiiglisliiiian  liiiiiself,  if,  iis  I 
euspect,  he  is  no  othtr  than  luy  luiglibonr  and  former   aequain- 


THE    POOR   CLAIIK.  46) 

taucc,  Mr.  Gisbornc,  of  Skipforcl  Hull,  in  the  West  RiJiug.  I 
um  kil  to  the  bclii'f  that  ho  is  no  othir,  by  sovonil  small  2)ar- 
ticulais,  iiono  of  which  are  in  themselves  conclusive,  but  which, 
taken  together,  furnish  a  mass  of  i)resumptive  evidence.  As 
far  as  I  could  make  out  from  the  Count's  foreign  i)rommcia- 
tion,  Gisborne  was  tlie  name  of  the  Englishman  :  I  know  that 
Gisborne  of  Skipford  was  abroad  and  in  the  foreign  service  at 
that  time  — he  was  a  likely  fellow  enough  for  such  an  oxjiloit, 
and,  above  all,  certain  expressions  recur  to  my  mind  which  he 
used  in  reference  to  old  Bridget  Fitzgerald,  of  Coldholmc,  whom 
he  once  encountered  while  staying  with  me  at  Starkey  Manor- 
house.  I  remember  that  the  meeting  seemed  to  have  produced 
some  extraordinary  effect  upon  his  mind,  as  though  he  had 
suddenly  discovered  some  connection  which  she  might  have  had 
with  his  i)rcvious  life.  I  beg  you  to  let  me  know  if  I  can  be  of 
any  further  service  to  you.  Your  imcle  once  rendered  me  a 
good  tm-n,  and  I  will  gladly  repay  it,  so  far  as  in  me  lies,  to  his 
nephew." 

I  was  now  apparently  close  on  the  discovery  which  I  had 
striven  so  many  months  to  attain.  But  success  had  lost  its 
zest.  1  put  my  letters  down,  and  seemed  to  forget  them  all  in 
thinking  of  the  morning  I  had  passed  that  very  day.  Nothing 
was  real  but  the  unreal  presence,  which  had  come  like  an  evil 
blast  across  my  bodily  eyes,  and  burnt  itself  dowii  ui)on  my 
brain.  Dinner  came,  and  went  away  imtouched.  Early  in 
the  afternoon  I  walked  to  the  farm-house.  I  found  Mistress 
Clarke  alone,  and  I  was  glad  and  relieved.  She  was  c\'idently 
prepared  to  tell  me  all  I  might  wish  to  hear. 

'•  You  asked  me  for  Mistress  Lucy's  true  name  ;  it  is  Gis- 
borne," she  began. 

"  Not  Gisborne  of  Skipford  ?"  I  exclaimed,  breathless  with 
anticipation. 

"  The  same,"  said  she,  quietly,  not  regarding  my  manner. 
"  Her  father  is  a  man  of  note  ;  altliough,  being  a  Roman 
Catholic,  he  cannot  take  that  rank  in  this  country  to  which  his 
station  entitles  him.  The  consequence  is  that  he  lives  much 
abroad^has  been  a  soldier,  I  am  told." 

"  And  Lucy's  mother  ?"  I  asked. 

She  shook  her  head.  "  I  never  knew  her,"  said  she.  "  Lucy 
was  about  three  years  old  when  I  was  engaged  to  take  charge  of 
her.     Her  mother  was  dead." 

"  But  you  know  her  name  ? — you  can  tell  if  it  was  Mary 
Fitzgerald  ?" 

She  looked  astonished.     "  That  was  her  name.     But,  sir,  bow 


4()!i  THE    POOR   CLARE. 

came  you  to  be  so  well  ucquainted  with  it?  It  was  a  mystery 
to  the  whole  household  at  Skij)t'orcl  Court.  She  was  some 
beautiful  youug  woman  wlioiu  he  lured  away  from  her  proteetore 
while  he  was  abrotul.  1  have  heard  said  he  practised  some 
terrible  deceit  upon  her,  ami  when  she  came  to  know  it,  she 
was  neither  to  have  nor  to  hold,  but  rushed  oft"  from  his  very 
arms,  and  threw  herself  into  a  rapid  stream  and  was  drowned. 
It  stimg  him  deep  with  remorse,  but  I  used  to  think  the  remem- 
brance of  the  mother's  cruel  death  made  him  love  the  child  yet 
dearer." 

I  told  her,  as  briefly  as  might  be,  of  my  researches  after  the 
descendant  and  heir  of  the  Fitzgeralds  of  Kildoon,  and  added — 
something  of  my  old  lawyer  spirit  returning  into  me  for  the 
moment — that  I  had  no  doubt  but  that  we  should  prove  Lucy  to 
be  by  right  possessed  of  large  estates  in  Ireland. 

No  flush  came  over  her  gi-ay  face  ;  no  light  into  her  eyes. 
"  And  what  is  all  the  wealth  in  the  whole  world  to  that  poor 
girl  ?"  she  said.  "  It  will  not  free  her  fi-om  the  ghastly  be- 
mtchment  which  persecutes  her.  As  for  money,  what  a  pitiful 
thing  it  is  !  it  cannot  touch  her." 

"  No  more  can  the  Evil  Creatm-e  harm  her,"  I  said.  "  Her 
holy  natiu-e  dwells  apart,  and  cannot  be  defiled  or  stainetl  by 
all  the  devilish  arts  in  the  whole  world." 

"  True  !  but  it  is  a  cruel  fate  to  know  that  all  shrink  from  her, 
sooner  or  later,  as  from  one  possessed — accm-scd.  ' 

"  How  came  it  to  pass  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Nay,  I  know  not.  Old  rumours  there  ai'C,  that  were  bruited 
through  the  household  at  Skipford." 

"  Tell  me,"  I  demanded. 

"  They  came  from  servants,  who  would  fain  account  for  every- 
thing. They  say  that,  many  years  ago,  ]Mr.  Gisborne  killed  a 
dog  belonging  to  an  old  witch  at  Coldht)lme  ;  that  she  cursed, 
with  a  dreadful  and  mysterious  curse,  the  creature,  whatever  it 
might  be,  that  he  should  love  l)est  ;  and  that  it  stnick  sO' 
deeply  into  his  heart  that  for  years  he  kept  liiniself  aloof  fi-om 
any  temptation  to  love  aught.  IJut  who  could  helj)  loving  Lucy  ?" 

*'  You  never  heard  the  witch's  name  '.■'"   I  gasped. 

"  Yes — they  called  lu-r  Bridget ;  they  said  he  would  never 
go  near  the  sjjot  again  for  terror  of  her.  Yet  he  was  a  bravo 
man  !" 

"Ijisteu,"  said  I,  taking  hold  of  lur  arm,  the  bettir  to  arrest 
her  full  attention  :  ''  if  wliat  I  susju'ct  holds  true,  that  man  stole 
Bridget's  only  child  the  very  ]\Iary  Fitzgerald  who  was  Lucy's 
mother ;  if  so,  JJridget  ciased  him  in  ignorance  of  the  deeper 


THK    POOR    r!,AHE.  4fi3 

wrong  he  had  done  her.  To  this  lioiir  she  yciiruK  after  hor  lost 
child,  and  questions  the  saints  whether  she  be  living  or  not. 
The  roots  of  that  curse  lie  deeper  than  she  knows  :  she  unwit- 
tingly banned  him  f<n'  a  deeper  guilt  than  that  of  killing  a  dunib 
beast.  The  sins  of  the  fathers  arc  indeed  visited  upon  the 
children." 

"  But,"  said  Mistress  Chu'ke,  eagerly,  "  she  Avould  never  let 
evil  rest  on  hor  own  gi-andchild  ?  Surely,  sir,  if  what  you  say 
be  true,  there  arc  hopes  for  Lucy.  Let  us  go — go  at  once, 
and  tell  this  fearfid  woman  all  that  you  suspect,  and  beseech 
her  to  take  off  the  spell  she  has  put  upon  her  innocent  grand- 
child."' 

It  seemed  to  me,  indeed,  that  something  like  this  was  the  best 
course  we  coidd  pm-sue.  But  first  it  was  necessary  to  ascertain 
more  than  what  mere  rumoiu*  or  careless  heai-say  could  tell.  My 
thoughts  turned  to  my  uncle — he  could  advise  me  wisely — ho 
ought  to  know  all.  I  resolved  to  go  to  him  without  delay  ;  but 
I  did  not  choose  to  tell  Mistress  Clarke  of  all  the  visionary 
plans  that  flitted  tlu'ough  my  mind.  I  simply  declared  my 
intention  of  proceeding  straight  to  London  on  Lucy's  affairs. 
I  bade  her  believe  that  my  interest  on  the  young  lady's  behalf 
was  greater  than  ever,  and  that  my  whole  time  shoidd  be  given 
uj)  to  her  cause.  I  saw  that  Mistress  Clarke  distrusted  me, 
because  my  mind  was  too  full  of  thoughts  for  my  words  to  flow 
freely.  She  sighed  and  shook  her  head,  and  said,  "  Well,  it  is 
all  right !"  in  such  a  tone  that  it  was  an  implied  reproach.  But 
I  was  firm  and  constant  in  my  heart,  and  I  took  confidence  from 
that. 

I  rode  to  London.  I  rode  long  days  drawn  out  info  the  lovely 
simimer  nights  :  I  could  not  rest.  I  reached  London.  I  told 
my  uncle  all,  though  in  the  stir  of  the  gi-eat  city  the  horror  had 
faded  away,  and  I  could  hardly  imagine  that  he  would  believe 
the  account  I  gave  him  of  the  fearful  double  of  Lucy  which  I 
had  seen  on  the  lonely  moor-side.  But  my  uncle  had  lived 
many  years,  and  learnt  many  things  ;  and,  iii  the  deep  secrets 
of  family  history  that  had  been  confided  to  him,  he  had  hoard  of 
cases  of  innocent  people  bewitched  and  taken  possession  of  by 
evil  spirits  yet  more  fearful  than  Lucy's.  For,  as  he  said,  to 
judge  from  all  I  told  him,  that  resemblance  had  no  j)ower  over 
her — she  was  too  ])ure  and  good  to  be  tainted  by  its  evil,  haunt- 
ing presence.  It  had,  in  all  probability,  so  my  uncle  conceived, 
tried  to  suggest  wicked  thoughts  and  to  tempt  to  wicked  actions  ; 
but  slie,  in  her  saintly  maidenhood,  had  passed  on  undefiloJ  by 
evil  thought  or  deed.     It  could  not  touch  her  soul :  but  true,  it 


404  THE   POOR    ri.AHK. 

jsi  t  her  apart  from  all  Rwcct  love  or  common  human  intercourse. 
My  uncle  threw  liimself  with  an  cnerj^y  more  like  six-anJ-tweuty 
than  sixty  into  the  consideration  of  the  whole  case.  He  under- 
took the  jn'oving  Lucy's  descent,  and  volunteered  to  go  and  find 
out  Mr.  Gishornc,  and  obtain,  firstly,  the  legal  proofs  of  her 
descent  from  the  Fitzgeralds  of  Kildoon,  and,  secondly,  to  try 
iuid  heai*  all  that  he  could  resi)ecting  the  working  of  the  curse, 
and  whether  any  and  what  means  had  been  taken  to  exorcise 
that  terrible  appearance.  For  he  told  me  of  instances  where, 
by  prayers  and  long  fasting,  the  evil  possessor  had  been  driven 
forth  with  howling  and  many  cries  from  the  body  which  it  had 
come  to  inhabit ;  he  spoke  of  those  strange  New  England  cases 
which  had  liappencd  not  so  long  before  ;  of  Mr.  Defoe,  who  had 
written  a  book,  wherein  he  had  named  many  modes  of  sub- 
duing apparitions,  and  sending  them  back  whence  they  came ; 
and,  lastly,  he  spoke  low  of  dreadful  ways  of  comi^elling  witches 
to  undo  their  witchcraft.  But  I  could  not  endure  to  licar  of 
those  tortures  and  bm-nings.  I  said  that  Bridget  was  rather  a 
wild  and  savage  woman  than  a  malignant  witch  ;  and,  above  all, 
that  Lucy  was  of  her  kith  and  kin  ;  and  that,  in  putting  her  to 
the  trial,  by  water  or  by  fire,  we  shoidd  be  torturing — it  might 
be  to  the  death — the  ancestress  of  her  we  sought  to  redeem. 

My  uncle  tliought  awhile,  and  then  said,  that  in  this  last 
matter  I  was  right — at  any  rate,  it  shoidd  not  be  tried,  with  his 
consent,  till  all  other  modes  of  remedy  had  failed  ;  and  he 
assented  to  my  proposal  that  I  should  go  myself  and  see  Bridget, 
and  tell  her  all. 

In  accordance  with  this,  I  went  down  once  more  to  tlie  way- 
side inn  near  Coldholme.  It  was  late  at  night  when  I  arrived 
there ;  and,  while  I  supped,  I  inquired  of  the  landlord  more 
particidars  as  to  Bridget's  ways.  Solitary  and  savage  hud  been 
her  life  for  many  years.  Wild  and  despotic  were  her  words  and 
manner  to  those  few  people  who  came  across'  lier  path.  The 
oountry-folk  did  her  imperious  bidding,  because  they  feared  to 
<lis()bey.  If  they  jdeasod  her,  they  prospered  ;  if,  on  tlie  con- 
trary, they  neglected  or  tmversed  lier  behests,  misfortune,  small 
or  great,  fell  on  them  and  theirs.  It  was  not  detestation  so  much 
fts  an  indefinable  terror  that  she  excited. 

In  the  morning  I  went  to  see  lier.  She  was  standing  on  the 
green  outside  her  cottage,  and  reciivcd  mo  with  the  sullen 
grandeur  of  a  throneless  queen.  I  read  in  her  face  that  she 
recognized  mo,  and  that  I  was  net  imwelcome ;  but  she  stootl 
Hilent  till  I  had  opened  my  errand. 

"  I   have  news  of  your  daughter,"  said  I,  resolved  to  speak 


THE    rOOU    CLACE.  4()A 

iitruiglit  to  all  tluit  I  knew  she  felt  of  love,  and  not  to  eparo 
Ikt.      "  She  is  dtiul  I" 

The  stera  tigure  scarcely  trembled,  but  her  hand  sought  the 
suj)port  of  the  door-j)ost. 

'•  I  kni;\v  that  she  was  dead,"  said  she.  decji  and  low,  and  then 
was  silent  for  an  instant.  "  My  tears  that  should  have  flowed 
for  her  were  biu-nt  up  long  years  ago.  Young  man,  tell  mo 
about  her." 

"Not  yet,"  said  I,  having  a  strange  power  given  me  of  con- 
fronting one,  whom,  nevertheless,  in  my  secret  soul  I  dreaded. 

"  You  had  once  a  little  dog,"  I  continued.  The  words  called 
out  in  her  more  show  of  emotion  than  the  intelligence  of  liei* 
daughter's  death.     She  broke  in  upon  my  8i>eech  : — 

"  I  had  !  It  was  hers — the  last  thing  I  had  of  hers— and  it 
was  shot  for  wantonness !  It  died  in  my  arms.  The  man  who 
killed  that  dog  rues  it  to  this  day.  For  that  dimab  beast's  blood, 
his  best-beloved  stands  accm'sed." 

Her  eyes  distended,  as  if  she  were  in  a  trance  and  saw  the 
working  of  her  ciirse.     Again  I  spoke  : — 

"  0,  woman  !"  I  said,  '•  that  best-beloved,  standing  accurse<l 
befoi'e  men,  is  your  dead  daughter's  child." 

The  life,  the  energy,  the  passion,  came  back  to  the  eyes  with 
which  she  pierced  through  me,  to  see  if  I  spoke  truth  ;  then, 
without  another  question  or  word,  she  threw  herself  on  the 
gi-ound  with  fearful  vehemence,  and  clutched  at  the  innocent 
daisies  with  convulsed  hands. 

"  Bone  of  my  bone  !  flesh  of  my  flesh  !  have  I  cursed  thee — 
and  art  thou  accursed '?" 

Sf)  she  moaned,  as  she  lay  prostrate  in  her  great  agony.  1 
stood  aghast  at  my  own  work.  She  did  not  hear  my  broken 
sentences  ;  she  asked  no  more,  but  the  dumb  confinnation  which 
my  sad  looks  had  given  that  one  fact,  that  her  curse  rested  on 
her  o\Mi  daughter's  child.  The  fear  grow  on  me  lest  she  should 
die  in  her  strife  of  body  and  soul ;  and  then  might  not  Lucy 
remain  under  tlie  spell  as  long  as  she  lived  ? 

Even  at  this  moment,  I  saw  Lucy  coming  through  the  wood- 
land path  that  led  to  Bridget's  cottage  ;  Mistress  Clai'ke  was 
with  her  :  1  filt  at  my  heart  that  it  was  she,  by  the  balmy  peace 
which  the  look  of  her  sent  over  me,  as  she  slowly  advanced,  « 
glad  surprise  shining  out  of  her  soft  quiet  eyes.  That  was  as  her 
gaze  met  mine.  As  her  looks  fell  on  the  woman  lying  stitl", 
convulsed  on  the  earth,  th(;y  bticame  full  of  tcnider  pity  ;  an  1 
she  came  forward  to  try  and  lift  her  uj).  Seating  herself  on 
the  turf,  she  took  Bridget's  head  into  her  lap  ;  and,  with  genti3 

II   n 


466  THE    POOH    CLAHE. 

touches,  she  airangecl  the  dishevelled  gray  huir  streaming  thick 
find  wild  from  bcueuth  her  mutch. 

"  God  help  her  1"  mm-mured  Lucy,     '•  How  she  suflfers  !" 

At  her  desire  we  sought  for  water ;  but  wheu  we  returned, 
Bridget  had  recovered  her  wandering  senses,  and  was  kneeling 
with  clasped  hands  before  Lucy,  gazing  at  that  sweet  sjid 
face  as  though  her  troubled  natui'e  diank  in  heulth  and  peace 
from  every  moment's  contemplation.  A  faint  tinge  on  Lucy's 
pale  cheeks  showed  me  that  she  was  awaie  of  our  return  ;  other- 
wise it  appeared  as  if  she  was  conscious  of  her  influence  for 
good  over  the  passionate  and  troubled  v,  oman  kneeling  before 
her,  and  would  not  willingly  avert  her  grave  and  loving  eycsi 
from  that  Nmnkled  and  careworn  countenance. 

Suddenly — in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye — the  creature  appeared, 
there,  behind  Lucy  ;  fearfully  the  same  as  to  outward  semblance, 
but  kneeling  exactly  as  Bridget  knelt,  and  clasping  her  hands 
in  jesting  mimicry  as  Bridget  clasped  hers  in  her  ecstasy  that 
was  deepening  into  a  prayer.  Mistress  Clarke  cried  out — 
Bridget  arose  slowly,  her  gaze  fixed  on  the  creatm-e  beyond  : 
dramng  her  breath  with  a  hissing  sound,  never  moving  her 
terrible  eyes,  that  were  steady  as  stone,  she  made  a  dart  at  the 
phantom,  and  caught,  as  I  had  done,  a  mere  handful  of  empty 
iiir.  We  saw  no  more  of  the  creatm-e — it  vanished  as  suddenly 
its  it  came,  but  Bridget  looked  slowly  on,  as  if  watching  some 
receding  form.  Lucy  sat  still,  white,  trembling,  drooping — I 
think  she  would  have  swooned  if  1  had  not  been  there  to  upliold 
her.  While  1  was  attending  to  her,  Bridget  pjissed  us,  without 
a  word  to  any  one,  and,  entering  her  cottage,  she  barred  herself 
in,  and  left  us  without. 

All  our  endeavours  were  now  directed  to  get  Lucy  back  to 
the  house  where  she  had  tarried  the  night  before.  Mistress 
Clarke  told  me  that,  not  hearing  from  mo  (some  letter  nnist 
liave  miscarried),  she  had  gi'own  impatient  and  despairing, 
and  had  urged  Lucy  to  the  enterprise  of  coming  to  seek  her 
grandmotlier  ;  not  telling  her,  indeed,  of  the  dread  reputatitm 
she  possessed,  or  how  we  suspected  her  t>f  liaving  so  fiiu-fiilly 
blighted  that  innocent  girl  ;  but,  at  the  same  time,  lioping  miu-h 
from  the  mysttiious  stirring  of  blood,  which  ^Mistress  Clarkr 
trusted  in  for  the  removal  of  the  curse.  They  hud  come,  by 
a  different  route  from  that  which  1  had  taken,  to  a  village  inn 
not  far  from  Coldholme,  only  the  night  before.  This  was  (h(; 
first  interview  between  ancestress  and  descendant. 

All  through  the  sultry  noon  1  wiindired  along  the  tangled 
hrusli-wood  of  the  old  neglected  forest,  thinking  where  to  tuni 


THE    POOR    ri,A15E.  467 

for  rcmcfly  in  a  matter  so  complicated  and  mysterious.  Meet- 
ing a  coimtryman,  1  asked  my  way  to  the  nearest  clergyman, 
and  went,  Loping  to  obtain  some  counsel  from  him.  But  he 
proved  to  be  a  coarse  and  common-minded  man,  giving  no  time 
or  attention  to  the  intricacies  of  a  case,  but  dashing  out  a  strong 
opinion  involving  immediate  action.  For  instance,  as  soon  as 
I  named  Bridget  Fitzgerald,  he  exclaimed : — 

"  The  Coldholmc  witch  !  the  Irish  papist !  I'd  have  had  her 
ducked  long  since  but  for  that  other  papist,  Sir  Philip  Tempest. 
He  has  had  to  threaten  honest  folk  about  here  over  and  over 
again,  or  they'd  have  had  her  up  before  the  justices  for  her  black 
doings.  And  it's  the  law  of  the  land  that  witches  should  bo 
burnt !  Ay,  and  of  Scripture,  too,  sir  !  Yet  you  see  a  i)apist, 
if  he's  a  rich  squire,  can  overrule  both  law  and  Scripture.  Id 
caiTy  a  faggot  myself  to  rid  the  country  of  her  !" 

Such  a  one  could  give  me  no  help.  I  rather  drew  back  what 
I  had  already  said ;  and  tried  to  mate  the  parson  forget  it,  by 
treating  him  to  several  pots  of  beei",  in  the  village  inn,  to  which 
we  had  adjoiumed  for  om*  conference  at  his  suggestion.  I  left 
him  as  soon  as  I  could,  and  retiurjcd  to  Coldholme,  shajiing  my 
way  past  deserted  Starkey  Manor-house,  and  coming  upon  it  by 
the  back.  At  that  side  were  the  oblong  remains  of  the  old 
moat,  the  waters  of  which  lay  placid  and  motionless  imder  the 
crimson  rays  of  the  setting  sun  ;  with  the  forest-trees  lying 
straight  along  each  side,  and  their  deep-green  foliage  mirrored 
to  blackness  in  the  burnished  surface  of  the  moat  below — and 
the  broken  sun-dial  at  the  end  nearest  the  hall — and  the  heron, 
standing  on  one  leg  at  tlie  water's  edge,  lazily  looking  down  for 
fish — -the  lonely  and  desolate  house  scarce  needed  the  broken 
windows,  the  weeds  on  the  door-sill,  the  broken  shutter  softly 
flapping  to  and  fro  in  the  twilight  breeze,  to  fill  up  the  picture 
of  deserticm  and  decay.  I  lingered  about  the  place  unti'  the 
growing  darkness  warned  me  on.  And  then  I  passed  along  tlie 
path,  cut  by  tlie  orders  of  the  last  lady  of  Starkey  Manor-House, 
that  led  me  to  Bridget's  cottage.  I  resolved  at  once  to  see  her  ; 
and,  in  spite  of  closed  doors — it  might  be  of  resolved  will  — she 
should  see  me.  So  I  knocked  at  her  door,  gently,  loudly, 
fiercely.  I  shook  it  6o  vehemently  tliat  a  Icngtli  the  old  hinges 
gave  way,  and  with  a  crash  it  fell  inwards,  leaving  me  suddenly 
face  to  face  witli  Bi'idget  —I,  red,  heated,  agitated  witli  my  so 
long  baffled  efforts— slie,  stiff  as  any  st<uie,  standing  right  facing 
me,  lier  eyes  dilated  with  terror,  lier  ashen  lips  treiidjling,  but 
her  body  motionless.  In  her  hands  she  licld  her  crucifix,  as  if 
by  that  h(dy   symbol  she  souglit  to  oppose  my  entrance.     At 

H   It   2 


468  THE    rOoU    «  I.AilE. 

sight  ot  mc,  her  whole  frame  rehixed,  lUid  she  s;iuk  back  npni  a 
chair.  Some  mighty  tension  had  given  way.  Still  her  eyes 
looked  fearfully  into  the  gloom  of  the  outer  air,  ma«le  more 
opaque  by  the  glimmer  of  the  lamp  inside,  which  sJie  ha<l 
placed  before  the  picture  of  the  Virgin. 

"  Is  she  there  '.■'"  asked  Bridget,  hoarsely. 

"  No  !     Who  ?     1  am  alone.     You  remember  me." 

"Yes,"  replied  she,  still  terror  stricken.  "But  she— that 
creature— has  been  looking  in  upon  me  through  that  window  all 
day  long.  I  closed  it  up  with  my  shawl ;  and  then  1  saw  licr 
feet  below  the  door,  as  long  as  it  was  light,  and  1  knew  sho 
heard  my  very  breathing — nay,  worse,  my  very  jji-ayers ;  and 
I  could  not  pray,  for  her  listening  choked  the  words  ere  they 
rose  to  my  lips.  Tell  me,  who  is  she  '? — what  means  that  double 
girl  I  saw  this  morning  V  One  had  a  look  of  my  dead  !Mary ; 
but  the  other  curdled  my  blood,  and  yet  it  was  the  siune  I" 

She  had  taken  liold  of  my  arm,  as  if  to  secure  herself  some 
human  companionsliip.  She  shook  all  over  with  the  slight, 
never-ceasing  tremor  of  intense  terror.  1  told  her  my  tale  as  1 
have  told  it  you.  sparing  none  of  ilie  details. 

How  Mistress  Clarke  had  informed  me  tliat  the  resomblaiico 
had  driven  Lucy  forth  from  her  fathers  house— how  1  had 
disbelieved,  until,  witli  mine  own  eyes,  1  had  seen  another  Lucy 
standing  ])ehind  my  Lucy,  tlie  same  in  form  and  feature,  but 
witli  th(;  demon-soul  looking  out  of  the  eyes.  I  told  her  all.  1 
say,  believing  that  she — wliose  ciu'se  was  working  so  upon  the 
life  of  her  innocent  grandL-hild — was  the  only  i)ers<m  who  could 
find  the  remedy  and  the  redemption.  AVhen  1  had  done,  slit;  sat 
silent  for  many  miimtes. 

"  Y'^ou  love  Mary's  child '.•'"  she  asked. 

"  1  do,  in  S2)ite  of  the  fearful  working  of  the  cui-se — 1  love  licr. 
Yet  I  slirink  from  her  ever  since  that  day  on  the  moor-sido. 
And  men  must  shrink  from  one  so  accompanied  ;  friends  and 
lovers  must  stand  afar  oti".  Oh,  Bridget  Fitzgemld  !  loosen  the 
curse  !     Set  her  free  !" 

"Where  is  she  V" 

1  eagerly  caught  at  tlie  idea  tliat  her  presence  was  needed,  in 
order  that,  by  some  strange  pmyer  or  exorcism,  the  spell  might 
bo  reversed. 

"1  will  go  and  bring  her  to  you,"  I  exclaimed.  But  Bridget 
tightened  her  hold  upon  my  arm. 

"  Not  8o,"  said  she,  in  a  low,  hoai'so  voice.  "  It  wouM  kill 
mo  to  see  hor  again  as  I  saw  her  this  nu>rniiig.  And  I  must 
live  till  J  have  worked  my  work.     Leave  me  !"  said  sh ',  sud- 


TiiK  rooi,  (  i.Ai;::.  409 

Jc'iily,  ami  uj^ain  tukiug  up  the  cross.  '■  1  doty  tlic  demon  I  have 
callfil  up.     Leave  me  to  wrestle  with  it !"' 

She  stood  up,  as  if  in  an  ecstasy  of  iiisjjiratiou,  from  which  all 
fear  was  banished.  I  lingered — why  1  can  hardly  tell — until 
once  more  she  bade  me  begone.  As  I  went  along  the  foi'cst  way, 
J  looked  back,  and  saw  lur  planting  the  cross  in  the  empty 
threshold,  where  the  door  had  been, 

The  next  morning  Lucy  and  I  went  to  seek  her,  to  bid  her 
join  her  prayci's  with  ours.  The  cottage  stood  oi)en  and  wide  to 
our  gaze.  No  human  being  was  there:  the  cross  remained  on 
the  threshold,  but  Bridget  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  III. 


"What  was  to  be  done  next  ?  was  tlie  question  that  T  asked  myself. 
As  for  Lucy,  she  would  fain  have  submitted  to  the  doom  that  lay 
U2)on  her.  Her  gentleness  and  piety,  imder  the  jjressure  of  so 
horrible  a  life,  seemed  over-passive  to  me.  She  never  com- 
plained. Mrs.  Clarke  complained  more  than  ever.  As  for  me, 
I  was  more  in  love  with  the  real  Lucy  than  ever  ;  but  I  shrunk 
from  the  false  similitude  with  an  intensity  proportioned  to  my 
love.  I  found  out  by  instinct  that  Mrs.  Clarke  had  occasional 
temptations  to  leave  Lucy.  The  good  lady's  nerves  were 
shaken,  and,  from  what  she  said,  I  could  almost  have  concluded 
that  the  object  of  the  Double  was  to  drive  away  from  Lucy  this 
last,  and  almost  earliest  friend.  At  times,  I  could  scarcely  bear 
to  own  it,  but  I  myself  felt  inclined  to  turn  recreant ;  and  I 
would  accuse  Lucy  of  being  too  patient— too  resigned.  Ono 
after  another,  she  won  the  little  children  of  Coldholme.  (Mrs. 
Clarke  and  she  had  resolved  to  stay  there,  for  was  it  not  as  good 
a  place  as  any  other,  to  such  as  they  ?  and  did  not  all  our  faint 
hopes  rest  on  Bridget — never  seen  or  heard  of  now,  but  still  we 
trusted  to  come  back,  or  give  some  token  ?)  So,  as  I  say,  one 
after  another,  the  little  children  came  about  my  Lucy,  won  by 
her  soft  t(mes,  and  her  gentle  smiles,  and  kind  actions.  Alas ! 
one  after  another  they  fell  away,  and  shrunk  i'nnn  her  path 
with  blanching  terror  ;  and  we  too  surely  guessed  the  reason  why. 
It  was  the  last  drop.  1  could  bear  it  no  longer.  I  res(dvcd  no 
more  to  linger  around  tlu^  spot,  but  to  gf)  l)ack  to  my  un(dc,  and 
among  the  learned  divines  of  tlie  city  of  London,  seek  for  somo 
I'ower  whereby  to  annul  the  curse. 

My   uncle,  meanwhile,  had  obtained  all  the   requisite  tcsti-* 


470  THE   POOR   CLARE. 

monials  relating  t(j  Lucy's  dcsceut  and  birtli,  from  the  Iiish 
lawyers,  and  frinn  INIr.  Gisborne.  The  hitter  gentleman  liad 
written  from  abroad  (he  was  again  serving  in  the  Austrian 
army),  a  letter  alternately  passionately  self-reproachful  and 
stoically  repcllant.  It  was  evident  that  when  he  thought  of 
Mary — her  short  life — how  he  had  wronged  her,  and  of  her 
violent  death,  he  could  hardly  find  words  severe  enough  for  his 
o\\'n  conduct ;  and  from  this  point  of  view,  the  curse  that 
Bridget  had  laid  upon  him  and  his,  was  regarded  by  him  as  a 
prophetic  doom,  to  the  utterance  of  which  she  was  moved  by  a 
Higher  Power,  working  for  the  fulfilment  of  a  deeper  vengeance 
than  for  the  death  of  the  poor  dog.  But  then,  again,  when  he 
came  to  speak  of  his  daughter,  the  i-epugnance  which  the 
conduct  of  the  demoniac  creature  had  produced  in  his  mind,  was 
but  ill-disguised  under  a  show  of  profound  indift'orence  as  to 
Lucys  fate.  One  almost  felt  as  if  he  would  have  been  as 
content  to  put  her  out  of  existence,  as  he  would  have  been 
to  destroy  some  disgusting  reptile  that  bad  invaded  his  chamber 
or  his  couch. 

The  gi'eat  Fitzgerald  property  was  Lucy's  ;  and  that  was  all 
— was  nothing. 

My  uncle  and  I  sat  in  the  gloom  of  a  London  November 
evening,  in  our  house  in  Ormond  Street.  I  was  out  of  health, 
and  felt  as  if  I  were  in  an  inextricable  coil  of  misery.  Lucy  and 
I  wrote  to  each  other,  but  that  was  little  ;  and  we  dared  not  see 
each  other  for  dread  of  the  fearful  Third,  who  had  more  than 
once  taken  her  place  at  our  meetings.  My  inicle  had,  on  the 
day  I  speak  of,  bidden  prayers  to  be  i)ut  up  on  the  ensuing 
Sabbath  in  many  a  church  and  meeting-house  in  London,  for 
one  gi-ievously  tormented  by  an  evil  sjjirit.  He  luul  faith  in 
prayers — I  had  none  ;  I  was  fast  losing  faitli  in  all  things.  So 
we  sat,  he  trying  to  interest  me  in  the  cdd  tiilk  of  other  days,  I 
ojjpressed  by  one  thought — when  our  old  servant,  Anthony, 
opened  tlic  door,  and,  without  speaking,  showed  in  a  very 
gentlemanly  and  prepossessing  man,  wlio  had  something  re- 
markal)le  about  his  dress,  betraying  his  profi-ssion  to  Ik)  that  of 
tlie  Ivoman  Cath(dic  priesthood.  He  glanced  at  my  imclo  first, 
then  at  me.     It  was  to  me  he  bowed. 

"  I  did  not  give  my  name,''  sjiid  he,  "  because  you  woultl 
hardly  have  recognised  it;  unhss,  sir,  wlu'u,  in  the  nortli,  you 
lieard  of  Fatlicr  Bernard,  the  ehaphiin  at  Stoney  Hurst  ?" 

I  remendnred  afterwards  tliat  1  had  heiud  t>f  him,  but  at  the 
time  I  liad  utterly  forgotten  it  ;  so  I  professed  myself  a  eom- 
plcto  stranger  to  him  ;   whih;  my  evir-hospitablo  uncle,  although 


THE    POOR    CLAItK.  471 

hating  ft  papist  us  imicli  as  it  wiis  in  his  nature  to  hate  anytliing, 
pLiced  a  chair  for  the  visitor,  and  bade  Anthony  bring  ghisses, 
and  a  fresh  jug  of  cUirct. 

Father  Bernard  received  this  courtesy  with  the  graceful  easo 
and  pleasant  acknowledgement  which  belongs  to  a  man  of  the 
world.  Then  he  turned  to  scan  me  Anth  his  keen  glance. 
After  some  slight  conversation,  entered  into  on  his  part,  I  am 
certain,  with  an  intention  of  discovering  on  what  terms  of  con- 
fidence I  stood  with  my  iincle,  he  paused,  and  said  gi'avely — 

'"  I  am  sent  here  with  a  message  to  you,  sir,  fi'om  a  woman  to 
whom  you  have  shown  kindness,  and  who  is  one  of  my  penitents, 
in  Antwerp — one  Bridget  Fitzgerald." 

"  Bridget  Fitzgerald  !"  exclaimed  I.  "  In  Antwei-p  ?  Tell 
me,  sir,  all  that  you  can  about  her." 

"  There  is  much  to  be  said,''  he  replied.  ''But  may  I  inquire 
if  this  gentleman — if  your  imcle  is  acquainted  with  the  par- 
ticulars of  which  you  and  I  stand  informed  '?" 

"  All  that  I  know,  he  knows,"  said  I,  eagex'ly  laying  my  hand 
on  my  uncle's  arm,  as  he  made  a  motion  as  if  to  quit  the  room. 

"  Then  I  have  to  speak  before  two  gentlemen  who,  however 
they  may  differ  from  me  in  faith,  are  yet  fully  impressed  with  the 
fact  that  there  are  evil  powers  going  about  continually  to  take 
cognizance  of  oirr  evil  thoughts  ;  and,  if  their  Master  gives  them 
power,  to  bring  them  into  overt  action.  Such  is  my  theory  of 
the  natiire  of  that  sin,  which  I  dare  not  disbelieve^as  some 
sceptics  would  have  us  do — the  sin  of  witchcraft.  Of  this 
deadly  sin,  you  and  I  are  aware,  Bridget  Fitzgerald  has  been 
guilty.  Since  you  saw  her  last,  many  pi-ayers  have  been  offiercd 
in  our  churches,  many  masses  sung,  many  penances  undergone, 
in  order  that,  if  God  and  the  holy  saints  so  willed  it,  her  sin 
might  be  blotted  out.     But  it  has  not  been  so  \\-illed." 

'•  Explain  to  me,"  said  I,  "  who  you  are,  and  how  you  come 
connected  with  Bridget.  Why  is  she  at  Antwerp  ?  I  pray  you, 
sir,  tell  me  more.  If  I  am  impatient,  excuse  mc  ;  I  am  ill  and 
feverish,  and  in  consequence  bewildered." 

There  was  something  to  mc  inexpressibly  sootliing  in  tli<; 
tone  of  voice  witli  wliicli  he  began  to  narrate,  as  it  wore  from 
the  beginning,  his  acquaintance  with  Bridgc^t. 

"I  had  known  !llr.  and  Mrs.  Starkey  during  their  residence 
abroad,  and  so  it  fell  out  naturally  that,  wlien  I  came  as 
chaplain  to  the  Sherbumes  at  Stoney  Ilurst,  our  acquaintance 
was  renewed  ;  and  thus  I  became  tlie  confessor  of  tlie  whole 
family,  isolated  as  they  were  from  the  offices  of  the  Church, 
Sherburne  being  their  nearest  neighbour  who  jjrofeGsed  the  truo 


472  TllK    TOOK    r;i.A15E. 

faith.  Of  course,  you  arc  aware  tliat  facts  rcvealec]  in  con- 
fession are  sealed  as  in  the  grave  ;  but  I  learnt  enough  of 
Bridget's  character  to  be  convinced  that  I  had  to  do  with  no 
common  woman  ;  one  powerful  for  good  as  for  evil.  I  believe 
that  I  was  able  to  give  her  spiritual  assistance  from  time  to 
time,  and  that  she  looked  upon  me  as  a  servant  of  that  Holy 
Church,  which  has  such  wonderful  power  of  moving  men's 
hearts,  and  relieving  them  of  the  burden  of  their  sins.  I  have 
known  her  cross  the  moors  on  the  wildest  nights  of  storm,  to 
confess  and  be  absolved ;  and  then  she  would  retuni,  cabned 
and  subdued,  to  her  daily  work  about  her  mistress,  no  one 
witting  where  she  had  been  during  the  hours  tliat  most  pas.sed 
in  sleep  upon  their  beds.  After  her  daughter's  departure  - 
after  Mary's  mysterious  disappearance — I  laid  to  impose  many 
a  long  penance,  in  order  to  wash  away  the  sin  of  impatient 
repining  that  was  fast  leading  her  into  the  deeper  guilt  of 
blasphemy.  She  set  out  on  that  hmg  journey  of  which  you 
have  possibly  heard— tliat  fruitless  journey  in  search  of  Mary 
— and  during  her  absence,  my  superiors  ordered  my  return  to 
my  former  duties  at  Antwerj),  and  for  many  years  I  heai-d  no 
more  of  Bridget. 

"  Not  many  months  ago,  as  I  was  passing  homewards  in  the 
evening,  along  one  of  the  streets  near  St.  Jacques,  leading  into 
the  Meer  Straet,  I  saw  a  woman  sitting  crouched  uj)  under  tlic 
shrine  of  the  Holy  Mother  of  Sorrows.  Her  hood  was  drawn 
over  her  head,  so  that  the  shadow  caused  by  tlie  light  of  the 
lamj)  above  fell  deep  over  her  face ;  her  hands  were  clas])ed 
round  her  knees.  It  was  evident  that  she  was  some  oni-  in 
hoi)eless  trouble,  and  as  such  it  was  my  duty  to  stop  and  sj)eak. 
T  naturally  addressed  her  lirst  in  Flemish,  believing  her  to  be 
one  of  the  lower  class  of  inliabitants.  She  sliook  lur  luiul,  but 
did  not  look  up.  Tlien  I  tried  French,  and  she  rti>lied  in  that 
language,  but  speaking  it  so  indili'i'rently,  that  1  was  sure  she 
was  either  English  or  Irish,  and  consrciuently  spoke  to  lu-r  in 
my  own  native  tongue.  She  recognized  my  voice  ;  and.  starting 
up,  caught  at  my  robes,  dragging  me  before  the  bhssrd  sln-ine, 
anil  throwing  herself  down,  and  fon-ing  me,  as  imich  by  her 
eviileiit  desire  as  by  her  action,  to  kneel  beside  her,  slie  ex- 
claimed : 

'' '  C)  Holy  Virgin  !  you  will  never  hearken  to  me  again,  but 
Iiiar  him  ;  for  you  know  him  of  old,  that  he  does  your  biihling, 
and  strives  to  lunil  broken  hearts.     Heiu*  him  !' 

'•  She  tunuul  to  me. 

*"She  will  hear  yon,  if  you  will  only  pniy.     She  never  liearH 


TUK    TOOK    CI.AItE,  473 

mc :  she  and  all  the  saints  in  heaven  cannot  hear  niv  iirayerB, 
for  the  Evil  One  carries  tlieni  oti',  as  he  carried  that  first  away, 
O,  Father  Bernard,  pnty  fur  nic  !' 

"  1  prayed  for  one  in  sore  distress,  of  what  nature  I  could 
uot  say  :  but  the  Holy  Virgin  would  know.  Bridget  held  me 
fast,  gasping  with  eagerness  at  the  sound  of  my  words.  When 
1  had  ended,  L  rose,  and,  making  the  sign  of  the  Cross  over 
her,  1  was  going  to  bless  her  in  the  name  of  the  Holy  Church, 
when  she  shrank  away  like  some  territied  creature,  and  said — 

"  '  1  am  guilty  of  deadly  sin,  and  am  not  shriven.' 

"  '  Arise,  my  daughter,'  said  I,  '  and  come  with  me.'  And  I 
led  the  way  into  one  of  the  confessionals  of  St.  Jaques. 

"  She  knelt ;  I  listened.  No  words  came.  The  evil  powers 
had  stricken  her  dumb,  as  I  heard  afterwards  they  had  many  a 
time  before,  when  she  apjn'oached  confession. 

"  She  was  too  poor  to  pay  for  the  necessary  forms  of  exor- 
cism ;  and  hitherto  those  priests  to  whom  she  had  addressed 
herself  were  either  bo  ignorant  of  the  meaning  of  her  broken 
French,  or  her  Irish-English,  or  else  esteemed  her  to  be  one 
crazed — as,  indeed,  her  wild  and  excited  manner  might  easily 
have  led  any  one  to  think — that  they  had  neglected  the  sole 
means  of  loosening  her  tongue,  so  that  she  might  confess  her 
deadly  sin,  and,  after  due  penance,  obtain  absolution.  But  I 
knew  Bridget  of  old,  and  felt  that  she  was  a  penitent  sent  to 
me.  I  went  through  those  holy  offices  appointed  by  om-  Chm-ch 
for  the  relief  of  such  a  case.  I  was  the  more  bound  to  do  this, 
as  I  found  that  she  had  come  to  Antwerp  for  the  sole  purpose 
of  discovering  me,  and  making  confession  to  me.  Of  the  nature 
of  that  feai-fui  confession  I  am  forbidden  to  speak.  Much  of  it 
you  know  ;  possibly  all. 

'•It  now  remains  for  her  to  free  herself  from  mortal  guilt, 
and  to  set  others  free  from  the  consequences  thereof.  No 
prayers,  no  masses,  will  ever  do  it.  although  they  may  strengthen 
her  with  that  strength  by  which  alone  acts  of  deepest  love  and 
purest  self-devotion  may  be  pcrfoi-med.  Her  words  of  passion, 
and  cries  for  revenge — her  unholy  prayers  could  never  reach 
the  ears  of  the  holy  saints!  Other  powers  intercepted  them, 
and  \vrouglit  so  that  the  cirrses  thrown  up  to  heaven  have  fallen 
on  her  own  flesh  and  blood ;  and  so,  through  her  very  strength 
of  love,  have  bi  -lised  and  crushed  her  heart.  Henceforward  her 
former  self  nmst  be  buried, — yea,  buried  quick,  if  need  be, — 
|but  never  more  to  make  sign,  or  utter  cry  on  earth  !  She  has 
become  a  Poor  Clare,  in  order  that,  by  perpetual  penance  and 
constant  service  of  others,  she  may  at  length  so  act  as  to  obtain 


474  THE    POOR    CI.A15E. 

final  absolution  and  rest  fur  her  soul.  Until  then,  the  innocent 
must  suffer.  It  is  to  jilead  for  the  innocent  that  I  come  tt> 
you ;  not  in  the  name  of  the  witch,  Bridget  Fitzgerald,  but  of 
the  penitent  and  servant  of  all  men,  the  Poor  Clare,  Sister 
jMagdalen." 

"  Sir,"  said  I,  "  I  listen  to  your  request  with  respect ;  only 
I  may  tell  you  it  is  not  needed  to  urge  me  to  do  all  that  I  can 
on  behalf  of  one,  love  for  whom  is  j)art  of  my  very  life.  If  for 
a  time  I  have  absented  myself  from  her.  it  is  to  think  and  work 
for  her  redemption.  I,  a  member  of  the  English  Church — my 
imcle,  a  Pmitan — pray  morning  and  night  for  her  by  name  : 
the  congregations  of  London,  on  the  next  Sabbath,  will  pray 
for  one  unknown,  that  she  may  be  set  free  from  the  Powers  of 
Darkness.  Moreover,  I  must  tell  you,  sir,  that  those  evil  ones 
touch  not  the  great  calm  of  her  soul.  She  lives  her  own  pure 
and  loving  life,  unharmed  and  untainted,  though  all  men  fall  off 
from  her.     I  woidd  I  could  have  her  faith  !"' 

My  uncle  now  spoke. 

"  Nephew,"  said  he,  "  it  seems  to  me  that  this  gentleman, 
although  professing  what  I  consider  an  erroneous  creed,  has 
touched  upon  the  right  point  in  exhorting  Bridget  to  acts  of 
love  and  mercy,  whereby  to  wipe  out  her  sin  of  hntc  and  ven- 
geance. Let  us  sti'ive  after  our  fashion,  by  almsgiving  and 
visiting  of  the  needy  and  fatherless,  to  make  our  pi-ayers  accept- 
able. Meanwhile,  I  myself  will  go  do\Mi  into  the  north,  and 
take  charge  of  the  maiden.  I  am  too  old  to  be  daunted  by  man 
or  demon.  I  will  bring  her  to  this  house  as  to  a  liome :  and 
let  the  Double  come  if  it  will  I  A  company  of  godly  divines 
shall  give  it  the  meeting,  and  we  will  try  issue." 

Tlie  kindly,  brave  old  man  !  But  Fatlicr  Bernard  sat  on 
nmsiug. 

"  All  liate,"  said  he,  "  cannot  be  quenched  in  hor  heart ;  all 
Christian  forgiveness  cannot  have  entered  into  her  soul,  or  tho 
demon  would  have  lost  its  power.  Yo:i  said,  I  tliiuk,  that  her 
grandc^liild  was  still  tormented  '?" 

"Still  tormented!"  1  replied,  sadly,  thinking  of  Mistress 
Clarke's  last  letter 

lie  rose  to  go.  We  afterwards  heard  that  the  occlusion  of 
liis  coming  to  Lond(m  was  a  secret  })olitiial  mission  on  behalf 
of  the  Jacobites.  Nevertheless,  lu-  was  a  good  and  a  wise 
man. 

Months  and  months  ))assed  away  without  any  change.  Lucy 
I  ntreated  my  imcle  to  leave  her  when"  shi'  was,  -dreiuling,  na 
J  learnt,  lest  if  she  came,  with  lier  fearful  companion,  to  dwell 


THE   I'OOrw    CLAIIE.  47.'i 

in  the  SiUiic  house  with  mc,  that  my  love  conkl  not  stand  tlio 
repeated  shocks  to  which  I  slioiild  be  doomed.  And  tljis  sliu 
thoii<j;ht  from  no  distrust  of  the  strength  of  my  atiectioii,  but 
from  a  kind  of  pitying  sympatliy  for  the  terror  to  tlie  nerves 
which  she  clearly  observed  that  the  demoniac  visitation  caused 
in  all. 

I  was  restless  and  miserable.  I  devoted  myself  to  good 
works ;  but  I  performed  them  from  no  sjnrit  of  love,  but  solely 
from  the  hope  of  rewai'd  and  payment,  and  so  the  reward  was 
never  gi-auted.  At  length,  I  asked  my  uncle's  leave  to  travel ; 
and  I  went  forth,  a  wanderer,  with  no  distincter  end  than  that 
of  many  another  wanderer — to  get  away  from  myself.  A  strange 
impulse  led  me  to  Antwerp,  in  spite  of  the  wars  and  commotions 
then  raging  in  the  Low  Countries — or  rather,  perhaps,  the  very 
craving  to  become  interested  in  something  external,  led  me  into 
the  thick  of  the  struggle  then  going  on  with  the  Austrians. 
The  cities  of  Flanders  were  all  full  at  that  time  of  civil  dis- 
tiu'bances  and  rebellions,  only  kept  down  by  force,  and  the 
presence  of  an  Austrian  garrison  in  every  place. 

I  arrived  in  Antwerp,  and  made  inquiry  for  Father  Bernard. 
He  was  away  in  the  coimtry  for  a  day  or  two.  Then  I  asked 
my  way  to  the  Convent  of  Poor  Clares  ;  but,  being  healthy  and 
jH'Osperous,  I  could  only  see  the  dim,  pent-up,  gray  walls,  shut 
closely  in  by  narrow  streets,  in  the  lowest  part  of  the  town. 
My  landlord  told  me,  that  had  I  heen  stricken  by  some  loath- 
some disease,  or  in  desperate  case  of  any  kind,  the  Poor  Clares 
woiild  have  taken  me,  and  tended  me.  He  spoke  of  them  as 
an  order  of  mercy  of  the  strictest  kind,  dressing  scantily  in  the 
coarsest  materials,  going  barefoot,  living  on  what  the  inhabitants 
of  Antwei-p  chose  to  bestow,  and  sharing  even  those  fragments 
and  crumbs  with  the  poor  and  helpless  that  swarmed  all  aroimd  ; 
receiving  no  letters  or  communication  with  the  outer  world ; 
utterly  dead  to  everything  but  the  alleviation  of  suffering.  He 
Kiniled  at  my  inquiring  whether  I  could  get  speech  of  one  of 
them  ;  and  told  me  that  they  were  even  forbidden  to  speak  for 
the  purposes  of  begging  their  daily  food  ;  while  yet  they  lived, 
and  fed  others  upon  what  was  given  in  charity. 

'•  But,"  exclaimed  I,  "  supposing  all  men  forgot  them  !  Would 
they  quietly  lie  down  and  die,  without  making  sign  of  their 
extremity  ?" 

"  If  such  were  the  rule,  the  Poor  Clares  would  willingly  do 
it ;  but  their  founder  appointed  a  remedy  for  such  extreiuo 
easos  as  you  suggest.  They  have  a  bell — 'tis  but  a  small  one, 
as  I  have  heard,  and  has  yet  never  been  rung  in  the  memory 


476  THE  roou  glare. 

of  man  :  v.lion  flic  Poor  Clares  have  been  without  food  for 
twenty-four  hours,  they  may  ring  this  bell,  and  then  trust  tc 
our  good  people  of  Antwerp  for  rushing  to  the  rescue  of  tho 
Poor  Clares,  who  have  taken  such  blessed  care  of  us  in  all  our 
straits." 

It  seemed  to  me  that  such  rescue  v,-ould  bo  late  in  the  day  ; 
but  I  did  not  say  what  I  thought.  I  rather  tiu-ned  the  conver- 
sation, by  asking  my  landlord  if  he  knew,  or  had  ever  heard, 
anything  of  a  eci-tain  Sister  Magdalen. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  rather  under  his  breath,'' news  will  creep  out, 
even  from  a  convent  of  Poor  Clares.  Sister  Magdalen  is  either 
a  great  sinner  or  a  great  saint.  She  docs  more,  as  I  have 
heard,  than  all  tlie  other  nuns  put  together ;  yet,  when  last 
month  they  would  fain  have  made  Iier  mother-superior,  she 
begged  rather  that  they  would  place  her  below  all  the  rest,  and 
make  her  the  meanest  servant  of  all." 

"  You  never  saw  her  ?"  asked  I. 

"  Never,"  he  replied. 

I  was  weary  of  waiting  for  Father  Bernard,  and  yet  I 
lingered  in  Antwerp.  The  political  state  of  things  became 
worse  than  ever,  increased  to  its  height  by  the  scarcity  of  food 
consequent  on  many  deficient  harvests.  I  saw  groups  of  tierce, 
squalid  men,  at  every  corner  of  the  street,  glaring  out  with 
wolfish  eyes  at  my  sleek  skin  and  handsome  clothes. 

At  last  Father  Bernard  returned.  We  liad  a  long  conversa- 
tion, in  which  he  told  me  that,  curiously  enough,  Mr.  Gisbornc, 
Lucy's  father,  was  serving  in  one  of  the  Austrian  regiments, 
then  in  garrison  at  Antwerp.  I  asked  Father  Bernard  if  he 
would  make  us  acquainted  ;  which  he  consented  to  do.  But,  a 
day  or  two  afterwards,  he  told  me  that,  on  hearing  my  name, 
Mr.  Gisborne  had  declined  responding  to  any  advances  on 
my  part,  saying  he  had  adjured  his  country',  and  hati'd  his 
countrymen. 

Probably  he  recollected  my  name  in  connection  with  that  of 
his  daughter  Lucy.  Anyhow,  it  was  dear  enough  tliat  I  had 
«o  chance  of  making  his  acquaintance.  Father  Bernard  con- 
firmed me  in  njy  suspicions  of  tlie  hidden  fennentation,  for 
some  coming  evil,  working  among  the  "blouses"  of  Antwerp, 
and  ho  would  fain  have  hud  me  depiirt  from  out  tho  city  ;  but  1 
rather  craved  the  excitement  of  ihuigi  r,  and  stid)b(irnly  refused 
to  leave. 

Ono  day,  when  I  was  walking  with  him  in  the  Place  Verfi', 
he  bowed  to  an  Austrian  officer,  who  was  crossing  towards  the 
cathedral . 


TIIK    I'OOn    n.AKE.  4/  i 

"  Tluit  is  !\rr.  Gisborne,"  said  lie,  tis  soon  as  the  gentleman 
*as  past. 

I  turned  to  look  at  the  tall,  slight  fi;^'ur<;  of  the  officer.  He 
can-icd  himself  in  a  stately  manner,  although  he  was  past 
middle  age,  and  from  his  years  might  have  liad  some  cxcuKe 
for  a  slight  stoop.  As  I  looked  at  the  man,  he  turned  round,  • 
Lis  eyes  met  mine,  and  I  saw  his  face.  Deeply  lined,  sallow, 
and  scathed  was  that  countenance  ;  scarred  by  passion  as  well 
as  by  the  fortunes  of  war.  'Twas  but  a  moment  oixr  eyes  met. 
We  each  turned  round,  and  went  on  oiu'  separate  way. 

But  his  whole  appearance  was  not  one  to  be  easily  forgotten ; 
the  thoroiigh  ai)pointment  of  the  dress,  and  evident  thought 
bestowed  on  it,  made  but  an  incongruous  whole  with  the  dark, 
gloomy  expression  of  his  countenance.  Because  he  was  Lucy's 
father,  I  sought  instinctively  to  meet  him  everywhere.  At  last 
he  must  have  become  aware  of  my  pertinacity,  for  he  gave  me  a 
haughty  scowl  whenever  I  passed  him.  In  one  of  these  en- 
counters, however,  I  chanced  to  be  of  some  service  to  him. 
He  was  tm-ning  the  corner  of  a  street,  and  came  suddenly  on 
one  of  the  groujjs  of  discontented  Flemings  of  whom  I  have 
spoken.  Some  words  were  exchanged,  when  my  gentleman  out 
with  his  sword,  and  with  a  slight  but  skilful  cut  drew  blood 
from  one  of  those  who  had  insulted  him,  as  he  fancied,  though 
I  was  too  far  off  to  hear  the  words.  They  would  all  have 
fallen  upon  him  had  I  not  rushed  forwards  and  raised  the  cry, 
then  well  known  in  Antwerp,  of  rally,  to  the  Austrian  soldiers 
who  were  perpetually  patrolling  the  streets,  and  who  came  in 
numbers  to  the  rescue.  I  think  that  neither  Mr.  Gisbonie  nor 
the  mutinous  group  of  plebeians  owed  me  much  gratitude  for 
my  interference.  He  had  planted  himself  against  a  wall,  in  a 
skilful  attitude  of  fence,  ready  with  his  bright  glancing  rapiei* 
to  do  battle  with  all  the  heavy,  fierce,  imarmed  men,  some  six 
or  seven  in  number.  But  when  his  own  stddicrs  came  up,  ho 
sheathed  his  sword  ;  and,  giving  some  careless  word  of  com- 
mand, sent  them  away  again,  and  continued  his  saunter  all 
alone  do\\'n  the  street,  the  workmen  snarling  in  his  rear,  and 
more  than  half-inclined  to  fall  on  mo  for  my  cry  for  rescue. 
I  cared  not  if  they  did,  my  life  seemed  so  dreary  a  burden  just 
then  ;  and,  perhaps,  it  was  this  daring  loitering  among  them 
that  prevented  their  attacking  me.  Instead,  they  suffered  me  to 
fall  into  conversation  with  them  ;  and  I  heard  some  of  their 
gi'ievanccs.  Sore  and  heavy  to  be  borne  were  they,  and  no 
wonder  the  sufferers  were  savage  and  desperate. 

The  man  whom  Gisborne  had  wounded  across  his  face  would 


47s  THE   rOOR   CLARE. 

fain  have  got  out  of  me  the  name  of  his  aggressor,  but  T  refuged 
to  tell  it.  Another  of  the  group  heard  his  inquiry,  and  made 
answer — 

"  I  know  the  man.  Ho  is  one  Gisbome,  aide-de-camp  to  the 
General-Commandant.     I  know  him  well." 

He  began  to  tell  some  story  in  connection  with  Gisbome  in 
a  low  and  muttering  voice  ;  and  while  he  was  relating  a  taK-. 
which  I  saw  excited  their  evil  blood,  and  which  they  evidently 
wished  me  not  to  hear,  I  sauntered  away  and  back  to  my 
lodgings. 

That  night  Antwerp  was  in  ojicn  revolt.  The  inhabitants  rose 
in  rebellion  against  their  Austrian  masters.  The  Austrians, 
holding  the  gates  of  the  city,  remained  at  first  pretty  quiet  in 
the  citadel ;  only,  from  time  to  time,  the  boom  of  the  gi-oat  cannon 
swept  sullenly  over  the  town.  But  if  they  expected  the  disturb- 
ance to  die  away,  and  spend  itself  in  a  few  hours'  fury,  they 
were  mistaken.  In  a  day  or  two,  the  rioters  held  possession  of 
the  principal  municipal  buildings.  Then  the  Austrians  poured 
forth  in  bright  flaming  array,  calm  and  smiling,  as  they  marched 
to  the  posts  assigned,  as  if  the  tierce  mob  were  no  more  to  them 
then  the  swarms  of  buzzing  summer  flics.  Their  practised 
manoeuvres,  their  well-aimed  shot,  told  with  terrible  effect  ;  but 
in  the  place  of  one  slain  rioter,  three  sprang  up  of  his  blood  to 
avenge  his  loss.  But  a  deadly  foe,  a  ghastly  ally  of  the  Aus- 
trians, was  at  work.  Food,  scarce  and  dear  for  montlis,  was  now 
hardly  to  be  obtained  at  any  price.  Desperate  efi'orts  were  l)cing 
made  to  bring  provisions  into  the  city,  for  the  rioters  had  friends 
without.  Close  to  the  city  port,  nearest  to  the  Scheldt,  a  great 
struggle  took  place.  I  was  there,  helping  the  rioters,  whose 
cause  I  had  adopted.  We  had  a  savage  encounter  with  the  Aus- 
trians. Numbers  fell  on  both  sides  ;  I  saw  them  lie  bleeding 
for  a  moment;  then  avolley  of  smoke  obscured  them;  and  wlieu 
it  cleared  away,  tliey  were  dead — trampled  upon  or  smothered, 
pressed  down  and  hidden  by  the  fre.shly-wouuded  wlumi  those 
last  gmis  had  brought  low.  And  then  a  gray-rolx'd  and  grey- 
veiled  tigm'o  came  right  across  the  flashing  guns  luid  stooped 
over  some  one,  whose  life-blot)d  was  ebbing  away  ;  sometiuus  it 
was  to  give  him  drink  from  cans  wliich  they  carried  slung  at 
their  sides  ;  sometimes  I  saw  the  cross  held  above  a  dying  man. 
and  rapid  2)ruyers  were  being  uttered,  unheard  by  nien  in  that 
liellish  din  and  clangour,  but  listened  to  by  I  me  above.  1  saw 
all  this  as  in  a  dream  :  the  reality  of  that  stern  time  was  battle 
and  carnage.  But  I  knew  that  these  gi"ay  ligures.  their  bare  fei  t 
all  wet  with  blood,  ami  their  faces  hiddin  by  tliiir  veils,  were 


THE    rOOU    CLAKE,  47 ti 

the  Poor  Cliiros  — scut  forth  now  because  dire  agony  was  abroad 
and  imminent  danger  at  hand.  Therefore,  they  left  their  ch)is- 
tcred  shelter,  and  came  into  that  thick  and  evil  melee. 

Close  to  nie— driven  past  me  by  the  struggle  of  many  fighters 
— came  the  Antwerp  burgess  with  the  scarce-healed  scar  ujjon  his 
face  :  and  in  an  instant  more,  he  was  thrown  by  the  jiress  uj)on 
the  Austrian  officer  Gisborne,  and  ere  either  had  recovered  the 
shock,  the  bm-gess  had  recognized  his  opponent. 

"  Ha  !  the  Englishman  Gisborne  !"  he  cried,  and  threw  him- 
self upon  him  ^Nith  redoubled  fury.  He  had  struck  him  hard — • 
the  Englishman  was  down  ;  when  out  of  the  smoke  came  a  dark- 
gray  figure,  and  threw  herself  right  under  the  uplifted  flashing 
sword.  The  burgess's  arm  stood  arrested.  Neither  Austrians 
nor  Anversois  willingly  harmed  the  Poor  Clares. 

"  Leave  him  to  me  !"  said  a  low  stern  voice.  "He  is  mine 
enemy — mine  for  many  years." 

Those  words  were  the  last  I  heard.  I  myself  was  struck  down 
by  a  bullet.  I  remember  nothing  more  for  days.  When  I  came 
to  myself,  I  was  at  the  extremity  of  weakness,  and  was  craving  for 
food  to  recruit  my  strength.  My  landlord  sat  watching  me. 
He,  too,  looked  pinched  and  shrunken  ;  he  had  heard  of  my 
wounded  state,  and  sought  me  out.  Yes  !  the  struggle  still  con- 
tinued, but  the  famine  was  sore  :  and  some,  he  had  heard,  had 
died  for  lack  of  food.  The  tears  stood  in  his  eyes  as  he  spoke. 
But  soon  he  shook  oflf  his  weakness,  and  his  natural  cheerfulness 
returned.  Father  Bernard  had  been  to  see  me — no  one  else. 
(Who  should,  indeed  ?)  Father  Bernard  would  come  back  that 
afternoon — he  had  promised.  But  Father  Bernard  never  came, 
although  I  was  up  and  dressed,  and  looking  eagerly  for  him. 

My  landlord  brought  me  a  meal  which  he  had  cooked  himself : 
of  what  it  was  composed  he  would  not  say,  but  it  was  most  excel- 
lent, and  with  every  mouthful  I  seemed  to  gain  strength.  Th« 
good  man  sat  looking  at  my  evident  enjoyment  with  a  happy  smile 
of  sympathy ;  but,  as  my  appetite  became  satisfied,  I  began  to 
detect  a  certain  wistfulness  in  his  eyes,  as  if  craving  for  the  food  I 
had  so  nearly  devoured— for,  indeed,  at  that  time  I  was  hardly 
aware  of  the  extent  of  the  famine.  Suddenly,  there  was  a  sound 
of  many  rushing  feet  past  our  window.  My  landlord  opened  one 
of  the  sides  of  it,  the  better  to  loam  what  was  going  on.  Then 
wo  heard  a  faint,  cracked,  tinkling  bell,  coming  shrill  upon  the 
air,  clear  and  distinct  from  all  other  sounds.  "  Holy  IMother  !" 
exclaimed  my  landlord,  "  the  Poor  Clares  !" 

He  snatched  uj)  tlie  fragmc'iits  of  my  meal,  and  crammed  them 
into  my  liands,  bidding  me  follow.     Down  stairs  he  ran,  clutch- 


480  Tin;  pook  clahe. 

ing  at  more  food,  as  tlic  women  of  his  house  eagerly  lield  it  oiu 
to  him  ;  and  in  a  moment  we  were  in  the  street,  moving  along 
with  the  great  current,  all  tending  towards  the  Convent  of  tho 
Poor  ("lares.  And  still,  as  if  piercing  our  ears  with  its  inarti- 
culate cry,  came  the  shrill  tinkle  of  the  hell.  In  that  strange 
crowd  were  old  men  tremhling  and  stjhhing,  as  they  cairied  theii 
little  pittance  of  food  ;  women  with  tears  rimning  down  their 
cheeks,  who  had  snatched  up  what  jirovisions  they  had  in  the 
vessels  in  which  they  stood,  so  that  the  harden  of  these  was  in 
many  cases  much  greater  than  that  which  they  contained ;  chil- 
dren, with  flushed  faces,  grasping  tight  the  morsel  of  hitten  cake 
or  hrcad,  in  their  eagenicss  to  carry  it  safe  to  the  help  of  the 
Poor  Clares  ;  strong  men — yea,  hoth  Anversois  and  Austrians — 
pressing  onward  with  set  teeth,  and  no  word  spoken ;  and  over 
all,  and  through  all,  came  that  sharp  tinkle — that  cry  for  help  iu 
extremity. 

We  met  the  first  torrent  of  people  returning  with  blanched 
and  piteous  faces  :  they  were  issuing  out  of  the  convent  to  make 
way  for  the  offerings  of  others.  "  Haste,  haste  !"  said  they.  "  A 
Poor  Clare  is  dying  !  A  Poor  Clare  is  dead  for  hunger  !  God 
forgive  us  and  our  city  !" 

We  pressed  on.  The  stream  bore  us  along  where  it  would. 
We  were  carried  through  refectories,  bare  and  crumbless  ;  into 
cells  over  whose  doors  the  conventual  name  of  the  occupant  was 
written.  Thus  it  was  that  I,  with  others,  was  forced  into  Sister 
Magdalen's  cell.  On  her  couch  lay  (lisbonie,  pale  inito  death, 
but  not  dead.  By  his  side  was  a  cup  of  water,  and  a  small  morsi  1 
of  mouldy  bread,  which  he  hud  pushed  out  of  his  reach,  and 
could  not  move  to  obtain.  Over  against  his  bid  were  these  words, 
coi)ied  in  the  English  version  :  "  Therefore,  if  thine  enemy 
hunger,  feed  him  ;  if  he  thirst,  give  him  drink." 

Some  of  us  gave  him  of  our  food,  and  left  him  eating  greedily, 
like  some  famished  wild  animal.  For  now  it  was  no  longer  the 
sharp  tinkle,  but  tliat  <me  solenni  toll,  which  in  all  Christian 
countries  tells  of  the  passing  of  the  sjiirit  out  of  earthly  life  into 
eternity  ;  and  again  a  munnur  gathered  and  grew,  lus  of  many 
pcoph;  s])eaking  with  awed  breath,  "A  Poor  Clare  is  dying  I  a 
Poor  Clare  is  dead  !" 

Borne  along  once  mon^  by  the  motion  of  the  crowd,  we  were 
carried  into  the  chapel  ludongiug  to  tho  Poor  Clares.  On  n  bier 
before  the  high  altar,  lay  a  woman  lay  Sister  ]\Iagdalen  — lay 
Bridget  Fitzgerald.  IW  her  sidt!  stood  Father  Hernard,  in  his 
robes  of  ofliee,  and  holding  tho  crucifix  on  liigh  while  he  jiro- 
DOiinccd  the  solemn  absolution  of  tho  Church,  as  to  one  who 


THE    POOR    Cl.AHK.  4S1 

btid  newly  confessed  heiTclf  of  deadly  sin.  I  pushed  on  with 
passionate  force,  till  I  siond  close  to  the  dying  woman,  as  she 
received  extreme  unction  amid  the  breatliless  and  awed  hush  of 
the  multitude  aroimd.  Her  eyes  were  glazing,  her  limbs  wero 
stiSeniug ;  but  when  the  rite  was  over  and  tinishcd,  she  raised 
her  gaunt  figure  slowly  up,  and  her  eyes  brightened  to  a  strange 
intensity  of  joy,  as,  with  the  gesture  of  her  finger  and  the 
trance-like  gleam  of  her  eye,  she  seemed  1  ke  one  who  watched 
the  disappearance  of  some  loathed  and  fearful  creatiu'e. 

"  She  is  freed  fi'om  the  cui-sc  !"  said  she,  as  she  fell  back  dead. 


Now,  of  all  our  party  who  had  first  listened  to  my  Lady  Ludlow. 
Mr.  Preston  wiis  tlic  only  one  who  had  not  told  us  something, 
either  of  information,  tradition,  history,  or  legend.  We  naturally 
turned  to  him  ;  but  we  did  not  like  asking  him  directly  for 
his  contribution,  for  he  was  a  grave,  reserved,  and  silent  man. 

He  imdcrstood  us,  however,  and,  rousing  himself  as  it  were, 
he  said — 

'■  I  know  you  wisli  me  to  tell  you,  in  my  tm'n,  of  something 
\\  liich  I  have  learnt  dm-ing  my  life.  I  could  tell  you  something 
of  my  own  life,  and  of  a  life  dearer  still  to  my  memory  ;  but  I 
have  sliimk  from  narrating  anything  so  pm'cly  personal.  Yet, 
shrink  as  I  will,  no  other  but  those  sad  recollections  will  present 
themselves  to  my  mind.  I  call  them  sad  when  I  think  of  the  end 
of  it  all.  However,  I  am  not  going  to  moralize.  If  my  dear 
brother's  life  and  death  does  not  speak  f(jr  its(df,  no  words  of 
mine  will  teach  you  what  may  be  learnt  fi'om  it." 


I    I 


THE    HALF    BROTHERS. 


My  iiiotlicv  was  twice  married.  She  never  spoke  of  her  first 
husband,  and  it  is  only  from  other  peoi^le  that  I  have  learnt 
what  little  I  know  about  him.  I  believe  she  was  scarcely  seven- 
teen when  she  was  married  to  him :  and  he  was  barely  one- 
aud-twenty.  lie  rented  a  small  farm  uj)  in  Cumlxrrland, 
somewhere  towards  the  sea-coast  ;  but  he  was  perhaps  too 
young  and  inexperienced  to  have  the  charge  of  land  and  cattle  : 
anyhow,  his  affiiirs  did  not  prosjicr,  and  he  full  into  ill  health, 
and  died  of  consumjition  before  they  liad  been  tlu'ee  yeai-s  man 
and  wife,  leaving  my  mother  a  young  widow  of  twenty,  with  a 
little  child  only  just  able  to  walk,  and  the  fann  on  her  hands 
for  four  years  more  by  the  lease,  with  half  the  stock  on  it  dead, 
or  sold  off  one  by  one  to  pay  the  more  pressing  debts,  and  with 
no  money  to  purchase  more,  or  even  to  buy  the  i)rovisions  needed 
for  the  small  consmnptiou  of  every  day.  There  was  another 
child  coming,  too  ;  and  sad  and  sorry,  I  Ixdieve.  she  was  to 
think  of  it.  A  dreary  mnter  she  must  have  liad  in  her  lone- 
some dwelling,  with  never  another  near  it  for  miles  around  ; 
her  sister  canu;  to  bear  her  company,  and  they  two  planned  and 
plotted  how  to  make  every  penny  they  could  niise  go  as  far 
as  possible.  I  can't  tell  you  how  it  happened  that  my  little 
sister,  whom  I  never  saw,  came  to  sicken  and  die  ;  but,  as  if  my 
poor  mother  s  cup  was  not  full  enough,  only  a  fortnight  before 
(Jregory  was  born  tlie  little  girl  took  ill  of  scarlet  fever,  and  in 
a  week  she  lay  dead.  IMy  mother  was,  I  beliive,  just  stunned 
with  this  last  blow.  'My  aunt  has  told  me  that  she  did  not 
cry  ;  aunt  Fanny  would  have  been  thankful  if  slie  had  ;  but  she 
sat  holding  the  ])oor  woe  lassie's  hand,  and  looking  in  her 
pretty,  ])ale,  dead  face,  without  so  much  as  sliedding  a  tear. 
And  it  was  all  the  same,  when  they  had  to  take  her  away  to  Ih> 
biu'ied.  She  just  kissed  the  child,  and  sat  her  down  in  the 
window-seat  to  watch  the  little  black  tmin  of  j)t>oplo  (neigh- 
biiurs — my  aunt,  and  one  far-oil"  cousin,  wlio  were  all  the  friends 
they  could  muster)  go  winding  away  anunigst  th(>  snow,  which 
had  fallen  thinly  over  the  country  tlie  night  befoiv.     When  my 


THE    HALF-BROTHERS,  4S3 

aunt  cftiiic  back  frcnu  the  funeral,  she  foimd  my  mother  in  the 
Biiiiie  phifc,  and  as  dry-eyed  as  ever.  So  she  continued  until 
lifter  (ivogory  was  born  ;  and,  someliow,  his  coming  seemed  to 
loosen  the  tears,  and  she  cried  day  and  night,  till  my  aunt  and 
the  other  watcher  looked  at  each  other  in  dismay,  and  Wduld 
fain  have  stopped  her  if  they  had  but  Imown  how.  But  she  l)iide 
them  let  her  alone,  and  not  be  over-anxious,  for  every  drop  she 
shed  eased  her  brain,  which  had  becm  in  a  terrible  state  before 
for  want  of  the  power  to  cry.  Slie  seemed  after  that  to  think 
of  nothing  but  her  new  little  baby  ;  she  had  hardly  ap^vsared  to 
remember  either  hi'r  husband  or  her  little  daughter  tliat  lay 
diad  in  Brigliam  chiu'chyard — at  least  so  aunt  Fanny  said  ;  but 
she  was  a  great  talker,  and  my  mother  was  very  silent  by  nature, 
and  I  think  aunt  Fanny  may  have  been  mistaken  in  believing' 
that  my  mother  never  thought  of  her  husband  and  child  just 
because  she  never  spoke  about  them.  Amit  Fanny  was  older 
than  my  mother,  and  had  a  way  of  treating  her  like  a  child  ; 
but,  for  all  tliat,  slic  was  a  kind,  warm-hearted  creature,  who 
thought  more  of  lier  sister's  welfare  than  she  did  of  her  own  : 
and  it  was  on  her  bit  of  money  that  they  principally  lived,  and 
on  what  the  two  could  earn  by  working  for  the  great  Glasgow 
sewing-merchants.  But  by-and-by  my  mother's  eye-sight  began 
to  fail.  It  was  not  that  she  was  exactly  blind,  for  she  could  see 
well  enough  to  guide  herself  about  the  house,  and  to  do  a  good 
deal  of  domestic  work  ;  but  she  could  no  longer  do  fine  sewing 
and  earn  money.  It  must  have  been  with  the  heavy  crying  she 
liad  had  in  her  day,  for  she  was  but  a  young  creature  at  this  time, 
and  as  pretty  a  young  woman,  I  have  heard  people  say,  as  any 
on  the  country  side.  She  to('k  it  sadly  to  heart  that  she  could 
no  longer  gain  anything  towurds  the  keep  of  herself  and  her 
child.  My  aunt  Fanny  wouhl  fain  hav(i  pca-suaded  her  that  she 
had  enough  to  do  in  managing  their  cottage  and  minding 
Gregory  ;  but  my  mother  knew  tliat  tliey  were  pinched,  and 
that  aunt  Fanny  herself  had  not  as  much  to  cat,  even  of  the 
commonest  kind  of  food,  as  slie  covdd  liave  done  with  ;  and  as 
for  Grc'gory,  lie  was  not  a  strong  lad,  and  needed,  not  more  food 
-—for  he  always  had  caiough,  wlnx^ver  went  short — but  better 
nourishment,  and  more  flesh-meat.  One  day — it  was  aunt 
Fanny  who  told  me  all  this  about  my  jioor  mother,  long  after 
her  death — as  the  sisters  were  sitting  together,  aunt  Fanny 
working,  and  my  mother  hushing  (iregory  to  sleep,  William 
Preston,  who  was  afterwards  my  father,  came  in.  He  was 
recktmed  an  old  l)achelor  ;  I  suppose  lie  was  long  past  forty,  and 
lie   was  one  of  the    wealthiest  farmers  thereabouts,  and   had 

I  I  2 


484  THE    HALF-BROTHERS. 

Known  my  gi-andfather  well,  and  my  mother  and  my  aunt  in 
their  more  prosperous  days.  He  sat  down,  and  began  to  twirl  his 
hat  by  way  of  being  agreeable  ;  my  aunt  Fanny  talked,  and  ho 
listened  and  looked  at  my  mother.  But  he  said  very  little, 
either  on  that  visit,  or  on  many  another  that  he  paid  before  he 
spoke  out  what  had  l)een  the  real  purpose  of  his  calling  so  often 
all  along,  and  from  the  very  first  time  he  came  to  their  house. 
One  Sunday,  however,  my  aunt  Fanny  stayed  away  from  church, 
and  took  care  of  the  child,  and  my  motlier  went  alone.  When 
she  came  back,  she  ran  straight  upstairs,  without  going  into  the 
kitchen  to  look  at  Gregory  or  speak  any  word  to  her  sister,  and 
aunt  Fanny  heard  her  cry  as  if  lur  heart  was  breaking ;  so  she 
went  up  and  scolded  her  right  well  through  the  l)oltid  door,  till 
at  last  she  got  her  t;)  open  it.  And  then  she  threw  herself  on 
my  aunt's  neck,  and  told  her  that  William  Preston  had  asked 
her  to  marry  him,  and  had  ^jroinised  to  take  good  charge  of  her 
boy,  and  to  let  him  want  for  nothing,  neither  in  the  way  of  keep 
nor  of  education,  and  that  she  had  consented.  Aunt  Farmy 
was  a  good  deal  shocked  at  this :  for,  as  I  have  said,  she  had 
often  thought  that  my  mother  had  forgotten  her  first  husband 
very  quickly,  and  now  here  was  proof  positive  of  it,  if  she  could 
so  soon  think  of  marrying  again.  Besides  as  aunt  Fanny  used 
to  say,  she  herself  would  have  been  a  far  more  suitsible  match 
for  a  man  of  William  Preston's  age  tlian  Helen,  wlio,  though 
she  was  a  widow,  had  not  seen  her  four-and-twcntienth  sunnner. 
However,  as  aunt  Fanny  said,  they  liad  not  tisked  lur  advice  ; 
and  there  was  much  to  be  said  on  the  other  side  of  the  question. 
Helen's  eyesight  would  never  be  good  for  much  again,  and  as 
William  Preston's  wife  she  would  never  need  to  do  anytliing.  if 
she  chose  to  sit  with  her  hands  before  her  ;  and  a  l>oy  was  a 
gi'eat  charge  to  a  widowed  mother:  and  now  there  would  l)e  a 
decent  steady  man  to  see  aftt^r  him.  So,  by-and-by,  aunt  Fanny 
seemed  to  take  a  brighter  view  tif  the  marriage  than  did  my 
mother  herself,  who  hardly  ever  looked  up,  and  never  smiled 
after  the  day  when  slie  promised  William  Preston  to  bo  his 
wife.  But  much  as  she  had  loved  (Jregory  before,  she  seemed 
to  love  him  more  now.  She  was  continually  talking  to  him 
when  tlioy  wore  alone,  though  ho  was  far  too  yoinig  to  under- 
stand her  moaning  words,  or  give  her  any  comfort,  excej)!  by 
his  caresses. 

At  last  William  Preston  and  slie  W(>re  wed  :  and  she  went  to 
bo  mistress  of  a  wi^ll-stocked  house,  not  above  half-an-hour's 
walk  fnmi  where  aujit  Fanny  lived.  I  believe  sln«  did  uU  tlmt 
slic  could  to  ploar.j   nu  father;  and  a  more  dutiful  wife,  1  have 


THE   HALF-BROTHERS.  48.5 

heard  him  Tnmsclf  say,  could  never  have  been.  But  slio  did  not 
love  him,  and  ho  soon  found  it  out.  She  loved  (iregory,  and 
she  did  not  love  him.  Perhaps,  love  would  have  como  in  tim«, 
if  he  had  been  jmtiont  enough  to  wait ;  but  it  just  turned  him 
BOiir  to  see  how  her  eye  brightened  and  her  colour  came  at  the 
sight  of  that  little  child,  while  for  him  who  had  given  her  so 
much,  she  had  only  gentle  words  as  cold  as  ice.  He  got  to 
t  lunt  her  with  the  difference  in  her  manner,  as  if  that  would 
bring  love  :  and  he  took  a  positive  dislike  to  Gregory, — he  was 
so  jealous  of  the  ready  love  that  always  gushed  oiit  like  a  spring 
of  fresh  water  when  he  came  near.  He  want<id  her  to  love  him 
more,  and  perhaps  tliat  was  all  well  and  good  ;  but  he  wanted 
her  to  love  her  child  less,  and  that  was  an  evil  wish.  One  day, 
he  gave  way  to  his  temjicr,  and  cursed  and  swore  at  Gregory, 
who  had  got  into  some  mischief,  as  children  will ;  my  mother 
mr^de  some  excuse  for  him  ;  my  father  said  it  was  hard  enough 
to  have  to  keep  another  man's  child,  without  having  it  perpetually 
lield  up  in  its  naughtiness  by  his  wife,  who  ought  to  be  always 
in  the  same  mind  that  he  was  ;  and  so  from  little  they  got  to 
more  ;  and  the  end  of  it  was,  that  my  mother  took  to  her  bed 
])ufore  her  time,  and  I  was  born  that  very  day.  My  father  was 
glad,  and  proud,  and  sorry,  all  in  a  breath ;  glad  and  proud  that 
a  son  was  born  to  him  ;  and  sorry  for  his  poor  wife's  state,  and 
t;>  think  how  his  angry  words  had  bi'ought  it  on.  But  he  was  a 
man  who  liked  better  to  be  angi-y  than  sorry,  so  he  soon  found  out 
tliat  it  was  all  Gregory's  fault,  and  owed  him  an  additional 
grudge  for  having  hastened  my  birth.  He  had  another  grudge 
against  him  before  long.  My  mother  began  to  sink  the  day 
after  I  was  born.  My  father  sent  to  Carlisle  for  doctors,  and 
would  have  coined  his  heart's  blood  into  gold  to  save  her,  if 
that  could  have  been  ;  but  it  could  not.  My  aunt  Fanny  used 
to  say  sometimes,  that  she  thought  that  Helen  did  not  wish  to 
live,  and  so  just  let  herself  die  away  without  trying  to  take  hold 
on  life  ;  but  when  I  questioned  her,  she  owned  that  my  mother 
dill  all  the  doctors  bade  her  do,  with  the  same  sort  of  uncom- 
l)laining  patience  with  which  she  had  acted  through  life.  One 
of  her  last  requests  was  to  have  Gregory  laid  in  her  bed  by  my 
side,  and  then  she  made  him  take  hold  of  my  little  hand.  Her 
husband  came  in  while  she  was  looking  at  us  so,  and  when  he 
bont  tenderly  over  her  to  ask  her  how  she  felt  now,  and  seemed 
to  gaze  on  us  two  little  half-bnjthers,  with  a  gi'avo  sort  of  kind- 
liness, she  looked  uj)  in  his  face  and  smiled,  almost  her  firet 
smile  at  him ;  and  such  a  sweet  smile  !  as  more  besides  aimt 
Fanny  have  said.    In  an  hour  she  was  dead.     Auut  Fanny  camo 


4»6  THE    HALF-BROTHEKS. 

to  live  with  us.  It  was  the  best  tiling  that  couki  be  done.  My 
father  would  have  been  glad  to  retui*n  to  his  old  mode  of 
bachelor  life,  but  what  could  he  do  with  two  little  childixn  ? 
He  needed  a  woman  to  take  care  of  him,  and  who  so  fitting  a« 
his  wife's  elder  sister  ?  So  she  had  the  charge  of  me  from  my 
birth ;  and  for  a  time  I  was  weakly,  as  was  but  natural,  and  she 
was  always  beside  me,  night  and  day  watching  over  me,  and  my 
father  nearly  as  anxious  as  she.  For  his  lantl  had  come  down 
from  father  to  son  for  more  than  three  hundred  years,  and  he 
would  have  cared  for  me  merely  as  his  flesh  and  blood  that  was  to 
inherit  the  land  after  him.  But  he  needed  something  to  love, 
for  all  that,  to  most  people;  he  was  a  stern,  hard  man,  and  lie 
took  to  me  as,  I  fancy,  he  had  taken  to  no  human  being  before  — 
as  he  might  have  taken  to  my  mother,  if  she  had  had  no  fomicr 
life  for  him  to  be  jealous  of.  I  loved  him  back  again  right 
heartily.  I  loved  all  around  me,  I  believe,  for  everybody  w;u< 
kind  to  me.  After  a  time,  I  overcame  my  original  weakliness  of 
constitution,  and  was  just  a  bonny,  strong-looking  lad  whom 
every  passer-by  noticed,  when  my  father  took  me  with  him  to  the 
nearest  town. 

At  home  I  was  the  darling  of  my  aimt,  the  tenderly-beloved 
of  my  father,  the  pet  and  plaything  of  the  old  domestics,  the 
"  young  master  "  of  the  farm-laboiu'ers,  before  whom  I  played 
many  a  lordly  antic,  assuming  a  sort  of  authority  which  sjit 
oddly  enough,  I  doubt  not,  on  such  a  baby  as  I  was. 

Gregory  was  throe  years  older  than  I.  Aunt  Fanny  was 
always  kind  to  him  in  deed  and  in  action,  but  she  did  not  often 
think  about  him,  she  had  fallen  so  completely  into  the  habit  of 
being  engrossed  by  me,  from  the  fact  of  my  having  come  into 
her  charge  as  a  delicate  baby.  IMy  father  never  got  over  his 
grudging  dislike  to  his  ste2)son,  who  had  so  innocently  wrestled 
with  him  for  the  jjossession  of  my  mother's  heart.  I  mistrust 
me,  too,  that  my  father  always  considered  him  as  the  cause  t»f 
my  mother's  death  and  my  cuirly  delicacy  ;  and  utterly  unreason- 
able as  this  may  seem,  I  believe  my  father  rather  cherished  his 
feeling  of  alienation  to  my  brother  as  a  duty,  than  strove  t«> 
repress  it.  Yet  not  for  the  world  would  my  father  have  grudged 
him  anything  that  money  could  i)urehase.  That  was,  as  it  were,  in 
the  bond  wlieii  he  had  wedded  luymnther.  (iregory  was  luni])isli 
and  loutish,  awkward  and  ungainly,  marring  whatt-ver  he  meddled 
in,  and  many  a  hard  word  and  sliarp  sedlding  did  he  get  frmu 
the  people  about  the  farm,  who  Jiardly  waitt-d  till  my  father's 
back  was  turned  before  tlw.y  rated  tlie  stepson.  I  am  ashamed  — 
my  heart  is  soro  to  thiuk  how  I  full  into  the  fashion   of  the 


THE    HALF-BHOTHERS.  487 

family,  and  slighted  my  poor  orphan  stop-brother,  I  dou't 
think  I  ever  scouted  him,  or  was  wilfully  ill-uaturcd  to  him  ; 
but  the  habit  of  beiug  considered  in  uU  things,  and  being  treated 
as  something  uncommon  and  superior,  made  me  inscdent  in  my 
prosperity,  and  I  exacted  more  than  Gregory  was  always  williut^ 
to  grant,  and  tlien,  irritated,  I  sometimes  rejieated  the  disparag- 
ing words  I  ha<l  heard  others  use  with  regard  to  him,  without 
fully  undcrstamling  their  meaning.  Whether  he  did  or  not  I 
cannot  tell.  I  am  afraid  he  did.  He  used  to  turn  silent  and 
quiet— sullen  and  sulky,  my  father  thought  it:  stuj)id,  aunt 
Fanny  used  to  call  it.  But  every  one  said  he  was  stupid  aii'l 
iluU,  and  this  stupidity  and  dullness  grew  upon  him.  He  would 
sit  without  sj)caking  a  word,  sometimes,  for  hom'S  ;  then  my 
father  would  bid  him  rise  and  do  some  piece  of  work,  maybe, 
about  the  farm.  And  he  would  take  three  or  four  tellings  before 
he  would  go.  When  we  were  sent  to  school,  it  was  all  the  same. 
He  could  never  be  made  to  remember  his  lessons ;  the  school- 
master gresv  weary  of  scolding  and  flogging,  and  at  last  advised 
my  father  just  to  take  him  away,  and  set  him  to  some  farm-work 
that  might  not  be  above  his  comi)rehension.  I  think  he  was 
more  gloomy  and  stupid  than  ever  after  this,  yet  he  was  not  a 
cross  lad  ;  he  was  patient  and  good-natured,  and  woidd  try  to 
do  a  kind  turn  for  any  one,  even  if  they,  had  been  scolding  or 
cuffing  him  not  a  minuti>  before.  But  very  often  his  attempts 
at  kindness  ended  in  some  mischief  to  the  very  people  he  was 
trying  to  serve,  owing  to  his  awkward,  ungainly  ways.  I 
suppose  I  was  a  clever  lad  ;  at  any  rate,  I  always  got  i)lcnty  of 
praise  ;  and  was,  as  we  called  it,  the  cock  of  the  school.  Thy 
schoolmaster  said  I  could  learn  anything  I  chose,  but  myfathei, 
who  had  no  great  learning  himself,  saw  little  use  in  much  tor 
me,  and  took  me  away  betimes,  and  kept  me  with  him  about  the 
farm.  Gregory  was  made  into  a  kind  of  shepherd,  receiving  his 
training  under  old  Adam,  who  was  nearly  past  his  work.  I  think 
old  Adam  was  almost  the  first  person  who  had  a  goodopinicm  of 
Gregory.  He  stood  to  it  that  my  brother  liad  good  i)art8,  though 
he  did  not  rightly  know  how  to  bring  them  out ;  and,  for  know- 
ing the  bearings  of  the  Fells,  ho  said  he  had  never  seen  a  lail 
like  him.  My  father  would  try  to  bring  Adam  round  to  speak 
of  Gregory's  faults  and  slujrtcomings  ;  but,  instead  of  that,  he 
would  praise  him  twice  as  much,  as  soon  as  he  found  out  what 
was  my  father's  object. 

One  winter  time,  when  I  was  about  sixteen,  and  Gregory 
iJnetf^n.  i  was  sent  by  my  father  on  an  errand  to  a  place  about 
bevcn  miles  ditstant  by  the  road,  but  only  about  four  by  thy 


488  THE    HALF-BUOTHER8. 

Foils.  He  bade  me  return  by  the  road,  whichever  way  1  took  in 
going,  for  the  evenings  closoil  in  early,  and  were  often  thick  and 
misty ;  besides  which,  old  Adam,  now  paralytic  and  bedridden, 
foretold  a  d(jwnfall  of  snow  before  long.  I  soon  got  to  my 
joiu'ney's  end,  and  sjon  had  dune  my  business  ;  earlier  by  an 
hour,  1  thought,  than  my  father  had  expected,  so  1  took  tlio 
decision  of  the  way  by  which  1  would  return  into  my  own  hands, 
and  set  off  back  again  over  the  Fells,  just  as  the  tirst  shades  of 
evening  began  to  fall.  It  looked  dark  and  gloomy  enough  ;  but 
everything  was  so  still  that  I  thought  I  should  have  plenty  of 
time  to  get  home  before  the  snow  came  down.  Off  I  set  at  a 
pretty  quick  pace.  But  night  came  on  quicker.  The  right 
path  was  clear  enough  in  the  day-time,  although  at  several 
points  two  or  three  exactly  similar  diverged  from  the  same  place  ; 
but  when  there  was  a  good  light,  the  traveller  was  guided  by  the 
sight  of  distant  objects, — a  piece  of  rock, — a  fall  in  the  ground — 
which  were  quite  invisible  to  me  now.  I  plucked  up  a  brave  heart, 
however,  and  took  what  seemed  to  me  the  right  road.  It  was 
wrong,  nevertheless,  and  led  me  whither  I  Imew  not,  but  to  some 
wild  boggy  moor  where  the  solitude  seemed  painful,  intense,  as 
if  never  footfall  of  man  had  come  thither  to  break  the  silence. 
I  tried  to  shout' — with  the  dimmest  possible  hope  of  being 
heard — rather  to  reassure  myself  by  the  sound  of  my  own  voice  ; 
but  my  voice  came  husky  and  short,  and  yet  it  dismayed  me  ;  it 
seemed  so  weird  and  strange,  in  that  noiseless  expanse  of  black 
darkness.  Suddenly  the  air  was  filled  thick  with  dusky  flakes,  my 
face  and  hands  were  wet  with  snow.  It  cut  me  off  from  the 
slightest  knowledge  of  where  I  was,  for  1  lost  every  idea  of  the 
direction  from  which  I  had  come,  so  that  1  could  not  even 
retrace  my  steps  ;  it  hemmed  me  in,  thicker,  thicker,  with  a 
darkness  that  might  be  felt.  The  boggy  soil  on  which  1  stood 
quaked  under  me  if  I  remained  long  in  one  place,  and  yet  I 
dai-ed  not  move  far.  All  my  youthful  hardiness  seemed  to 
leave  me  at  once.  I  was  on  the  point  of  crying,  and  only  very 
shame  seeuKid  to  keep  it  down.  To  save  myself  from  shedding 
tears,  I  shouted  — terrible,  wild  shouts  for  bare  life  they  were.  1 
turned  sick  as  I  paused  to  listen  ;  no  answering  sound  came  but 
the  unfeeling  echoes.  Only  tho  noiseless,  pitiless  snow  kei>t 
falling  tliicker,  thicker — faster,  faster  !  1  was  growing  numb  and 
sleepy.  I  tried  to  move  about,  but  I  dared  not  go  far,  for  fear 
of  tho  precipices  which,  1  knew,  abounded  in  certain  i)laces  on 
tho  Fells.  Now  and  then,  1  stood  still  and  shouted  again  ;  but 
my  voice  was  getting  clioked  with  tears,  as  1  thought  of  tho 
deswilato    helpless  dcalli    I    was   to   die,  and   how  little  they  at 


THE    IIALF-BltOTHKi  S.  489 

Lome,  sitting  rtmnd  the  warm,  red,  bright  tire,  wotttd  wlmt  was 
hceome  of  me, —  and  how  my  poor  father  \v((uhl  grieve  for  me — 
it  would  snrely  kill  him — it  would  break  his  heart,  poor  old 
man  !  Aunt  Fanny  too — was  this  to  be  the  end  of  all  her  cares 
for  mc  ?  1  began  to  review  my  life  in  a  strange  kind  of  vivid 
dream,  in  which  the  various  scenes  of  my  few  boyish  years 
passed  before  mo  like  visions.  In  a  pang  of  agony,  caused  V)y 
such  remembrance  of  my  short  life,  I  gathered  uj)  my  strength 
and  Cidled  out  once  more,  a  lung,  desixiiring,  wailing  cry,  to 
which  1  had  no  hope  of  obtaining  any  answer,  save  from  the 
echoes  around,  dulled  as  the  somid  might  be  by  the  thickened 
air.  To  my  surprise  1  heard  a  cry — almost  as  long,  as  wild  as 
mine — so  wild  tliat  it  seemed  imearthly,  and  1  almost  thought  it 
must  be  the  voice  of  some  of  the  mocking  spirits  of  the  Fells, 
about  whom  I  had  heard  so  many  tales.  My  heart  suddenly 
began  to  beat  fast  and  loud.  1  could  not  reply  for  a  minute  or 
two.  1  nearly  fancied  1  had  lost  the  power  of  utterance.  Just 
at  this  moment  a  dog  barked.  Was  it  Lassies  bark — my 
brother's  collie  ? — an  ugly  enough  brute,  with  a  white,  ill- 
looking  face,  that  my  father  always  kicked  whenever  he  saw  it, 
partly  for  its  own  demerits,  partly  because  it  belonged  to  my 
brother.  On  such  occasions,  Gregory  would  whistle  Lossie  away, 
and  go  off  and  sit  with  her  in  some  outhouse.  My  father  had 
once  or  twice  been  ashamed  of  himself,  when  the  poor  collie 
had  yowled  out  with  tlie  suddenness  of  the  pain,  and  had  relieved 
himself  of  his  self-reproach  by  blaming  my  brother,  who,  he  said, 
had  no  notion  of  training  a  do;.^,  and  was  enough  to  ruin  any 
collie  in  Christendom  with  his  stupid  way  of  allowing  them 
to  lie  by  the  kitchen  fire.  To  all  which  Gregory  would  answer 
nothing,  nor  even  seem  to  hear,  but  go  on  looking  absent  and 
moody. 

Yes!  there  again  !  It  was  Lassie's  bark  I  Now  or  never! 
I  lifted  up  my  voice  and  shouted  "  Lassie  1  Lassie  !  for  God's 
sake,  Lassie  !"  Another  moment,  and  the  great  white-faced  Lassie 
was  carving  and  gambolling  with  delight  round  my  feet  and 
legs,  looking,  however,  up  in  my  face  with  her  intelligent, 
apprehensive  eyes,  as  if  fearing  lest  I  might  greet  her  with  a 
blow,  as  1  had  done  oftentimes  before.  But  1  cried  with 
gladness,  as  I  stooped  down  and  patted  her.  My  mind  was 
sharing  in  my  body's  weakness,  and  1  could  not  reason,  but  1 
knew  that  help  was  at  hand.  A  gray  figure  came  more  and  more 
distinctly  out  of  the  tliick,  close-pressing  darkness.  It  was 
Gregory  wrapped  in  his  maui 

"Oh,  Gre^tory!"  said  !,  and  I  fell  upon  his  neck,  unable   to 


490  THE    HALF-BROTHERS. 

bpeak  another  word.  He  never  spoke  much,  and  made  me  no 
answer  for  sonic  little  time.  Then  he  told  me  we  must  move, 
we  must  walk  for  the  dear  life — we  must  find  oxu'  road  home,  if 
possible  ;  but  we  must  move,  or  we  should  be  frozen  to  death. 

"  Don't  you  know  the  way  home  ?"  asked  I. 

"  I  thought  I  did  when  I  set  out,  but  I  am  doubtful  now.  The 
snow  blinds  me,  and  I  am  feared  that  in  moving  about  just  now, 
I  have  lost  tlie  right  gait  homewards." 

He  had  his  shepherd's  staff  with  him,  and  by  dint  of  plimging 
it  before  us  at  every  step  we  took — clinging  close  to  each  other, 
we  went  on  safely  enough,  as  far  as  not  falling  down  any  of  the 
steep  rocks,  but  it  was  slow,  dreary  work.  My  brother,  I  saw, 
was  more  guided  by  Lassie  and  the  way  she  took  than  anytliing 
else,  trusting  to  her  instinct.  It  was  too  dai'k  to  see  far  before 
us  ;  but  he  called  her  back  continually,  and  noted  from  what 
quarter  she  returned,  and  shaped  our  slow  steps  accordingly. 
Jiut  the  tedious  motion  scarcely  kept  my  very  blood  from  fi*eez- 
iiig.  Every  bone,  every  fibre  in  my  body  seemed  first  to  aclic, 
and  then  to  swell,  and  then  to  tm-n  numb  with  the  intense  cold. 
My  brother  bore  it  better  than  I,  from  Inuang  been  more  out 
upon  the  hills.  He  did  not  speak,  except  to  call  Lassie.  I 
strove  to  be  brave,  and  not  complain ;  but  now  I  felt  the  deadly 
fatal  sleep  stealing  over  me. 

"  I  can  go  no  farther,"  I  said,  in  a  drowsy  tone.  I  rcmcmb(}r 
I  suddenly  became  dogged  and  resolved.  Sleep  I  would,  wtiu 
it  only  for  five  minutes.  If  death  were  to  be  the  consecjuence, 
Bleej}  I  would.  Gregory  stood  still.  I  suj)pose,  he  recognized 
the  peculiar  i)hase  of  suftering  to  whicth  I  had  bet^n  brouglit  by 
the  cold. 

"It  is  of  no  use,"  said  he,  as  if  to  himself.  '*  We  are  no 
nearer  home  than  we  were  when  we  started,  as  fiu*  as  I  can  tell. 
Our  only  chance  is  in  Lassie.  Here  I  roll  thee  in  my  maud, 
lad,  and  lay  tliee  down  on  this  sheltered  side  of  this  bit  of  rock. 
Creep  close  luider  it,  lad,  and  I'll  lie  by  thee,  and  strive  to  keep 
the  warmth  in  us.  Stay !  hast  gotten  aught  about  thee  tiiey'U 
know  at  home  ?" 

I  fflt  him  unkind  thus  to  keep  me  from  slumber,  but  on  liis 
repeating  the  question.  I  pulled  out  my  pocket-handkerchief,  of 
some  showy  pattern,  which  Aunt  Fanny  had  hcnuued  for  mo  — 
(iregory  took  it,  and  tied  it  round  Lassie's  neck. 

"  Hie  thee,  Lassie,  hie  thee  homo  !  "  And  tlio  white-faced  ill- 
fuvom'ed  brute  was  off  like  a  shot  in  the  darkness.  Now  I 
niiglit  lie  down  -  now  I  might  sloop.  In  my  drowsy  stupor  I 
felt  tliat  I  was  being  tenderly  covered  up  by  my  brother ;  but 


THE    HALF-BKOTIIERR.  491 

what  with  I  neither  knew  nor  cared — I  was  too  dull,  too  selfiRh, 
too  nunil)  to  think  and  reason,  or  I  might  have  known  that  in 
that  bleak  bare  ])lacc  there  was  nought  to  wrap  me  in,  save  what 
was  taken  oil' another.  I  was  glad  enough  wlien  he  ceased  his 
cares  and  lay  down  by  me.     I  took  his  hand, 

"  Thou  canst  not  remember,  lad,  how  we  lay  together  thus  by 
our  dying  mother.  She  i)nt  thy  small,  wee  band  in  mine—  I 
reckon  she  sees  us  now  ;  and  belike  we  shall  soon  be  with  her. 
Anyhow,  God's  will  be  done." 

"  Dear  Gregory,"  I  muttered,  and  crejjt  nearer  to  him  for 
warmth.  He  was  talking  still,  and  again  about  our  mother, 
when  I  fell  asleej).  In  an  instant — or  so  it  seemed — there  were 
many  voices  about  me — many  faces  hovering  round  me — the 
sweet  luxury  of  warmth  was  stealing  into  every  part  of  me.  I 
was  in  my  own  little  bed  at  home.  I  am  thankful  to  say,  my 
first  word  was  "  Gregory?" 

A  look  passed  from  one  to  another  —my  father's  stern  old  face 
strove  in  vain  to  keep  its  sternness ;  his  mouth  quivered,  his 
eyes  filled  slowly  with  unwonted  tears. 

"  I  would  have  given  him  half  my  land — I  would  have  blessed 
him  as  my  son, — oh  God  !  I  would  have  knelt  at  Lis  feet,  and 
asked  him  to  forgive  my  hardness  of  heart." 

I  heard  no  more.  A  whirl  came  through  my  brain,  catching 
me  back  to  death. 

I  came  slowly  to  my  consciousness,  w-ceks  afterwards.  My 
fathers  hair  was  white  when  I  recovered,  and  his  hands  shook 
as  he  looked  into  my  face. 

We  spoke  no  more  of  Gregory.  We  could  not  speak  of  liim  ; 
but  he  was  strangely  in  our  thoughts.  Lassie  came  and  went 
with  never  a  word  of  blame  ;  nay,  my  father  would  try  to  stroki; 
her,  but  she  shrank  away  ;  and  he,  as  if  reproved  by  the  poor 
dumb  beast,  would  sigh,  and  be  silent  and  abstracted  for  a  time. 

Aunt  Fanny— always  a  talker— told  me  all.  How,  on  that 
fatal  night,  my  father,  instated  by  my  j^ndonged  absence,  and 
probably  more  anxious  than  be  cared  to  show,  had  been  fierce; 
and  irnperioTiH,  even  beycmd  his  wont,  to  Gregory ;  had  up- 
})niided  liim  with  his  father's  poverty,  his  own  stupidity  wliich 
made  liis  services  good  for  notliing  -  for  so,  in  spite  of  tlie  old 
shepherd,  my  father  always  chose  to  consider  them.  At  last, 
(Gregory  had  risen  up,  and  whistled  Lassie;  out  with  him  -  poor 
Lassie,  crouching  underneath  his  cliair  for  fear  of  a  kick  or  a 
blow.  Some  time  before,  there  had  been  some  talk  l)etween  my 
father  and  my  aimt  respecting  my  return  ;  and  wlien  aunt  Fanny 
told  me  all  this,  she  said  she  fancied  that  Gregory  miglit  have 


492  THE    HALF-BROTHERS. 

noticed  the  coming  storm,  and  pone  out  Bilcntly  to  meet  me 
Three  hours  afterwards,  wheu  all  were  running  about  in  wild 
alarm,  not  knowing  whither  to  go  in  search  of  me — not  even 
missing  Gregory,  or  heeding  his  absence,  poor  fellow — poor,  poor 
felFow  ! — Lassie  came  home,  with  my  handkerchief  tied  round  her 
neck.  They  knew  and  understood,  and  the  whole  strength  of  the 
farm  was  turned  out  to  follow  her,  with  wTaps,  and  Idankots,  and 
brandy,  and  every  thing  that  could  be  thought  of.  I  lay  in 
chilly  sleep,  but  still  alive,  beneath  the  rock  that  Lassie  guided 
them  to.  I  was  covered  over  with  my  brother's  plaid,  and  his 
thick  shepherd's  coat  was  carefully  wrapped  roimd  my  feet.  He 
was  in  his  shirt-sleeves — his  arm  thrown  over  me — a  quiet  smile 
(he  had  hardly  ever  smiled  in  life)  upon  his  still,  cold  face. 

My  fiither's  last  words  were,  "  God  forgive  me  my  hardness  of 
heart  towards  the  fatherless  child  !" 

And  what  marked  the  depth  of  his  feeling  of  repentance,  per- 
haps more  than  all,  considering  the  passionate  love  he  bore  my 
mother,  was  this  :  we  foimd  a  paper  of  directions  after  his  death, 
in  which  he  desired  that  he  might  lie  at  the  foot  of  the  grave,  in 
which,  by  his  desire,  poor  Gregory  had  been  laid   with  oiB 

■^JOTHKB. 


rillXTEI)    BY 

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LONDON 


ir-LXJSTR  ATEI>      EOITIOIST 

LIFE  AND  WORKS 
C  H  A  R  L  O  T  T  K      BRONTE 

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VILLETTE.     By  Charlotte  Bronte. 

THE  TENANT  OF  WILDFELL  HALL.     By  Anne  Bronte. 

WUTHERING  HEIGHTS.     By  Emily  Bronte.     AGNES  GREY.    By  Anne  BronlJ. 

With  Preface  and  Memoir  of  the  Sisters,   by  Charlotte  Bronte. 
THE   PROFESSOR.       By  Charlotte    Bronte.     To  which  are  added  the  Poems   o\ 

Charlotte,  Emily,  and  Anne  Bronte. 


By     Mrs.     GASKELL. 

2J.   td.  each. 


WIVES  AND  DAUGHTERS. 
NORTH  AND  SOUTH. 
SYLVIAS  LOVERS. 
CRANFORD.  and  other  Tai-ks. 


MARY  BARTON,  and  othkr  Tales 

RU  I'H,  ANi>  OTHER   Talk-;. 
LIZZIE  LEIGH,  and  other  Tales. 
LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 


By     LEIGH     HUNT. 

zs.  6d.  each. 

IMAGINATION  AND   FANCY  :  or,  Selections  from  the  English  Poeu. 

THE  TOWN:   Its  Memorable  Characters  and  Events.     Illustrated. 

AUI'OBIOGRAPHY  OK  LEIGH  HUNT. 

.MEN,  WO.MEN,    AND    BOOKS;    a   SelecLon   of  Sketches.   Essays,  and   CriticaJ 

Memoirs. 
WIT  AND  HUMOUR:  Selected  from  the  Eng'ish  Poets. 
A  JAR  OF  HONEY  FRO.M  MOUNT  HYBLA  ;  or,  Sweetsfrom  Sicily  in  Particular. 

and  Pastoral  Poetry  in  General 
TABLE  TALK..      To   which  are  added   IMAGINARY     CONVERSATIONS   OF 

POPE  AND  SWIFT. 

Uniform  with  the  ahoz'e,  2s.  6d.  each. 

THE  SMALL  HOUSE  AT  ALLINGTON.     By  Anthony  Trollop*. 

THE  CLAVERINGS.     By  Anihony  Trollope. 

F RAM  LEY  PARSONAGE.     By  Anthony  Trollope. 

ROMOLA.     By  Giori^c  Eliot. 

TRANSFORMATION.     By  Nath.iniel  Hawthorne. 

DEERHKOoK..      By   Harriet  Mariiiieau. 

HOUSEHOLD   EDUCATION,      liy   H.arriet  Martineau 

AUIOBIOGRA.^'HY  OF  LUTrULLAH. 

LECTURES  ON    THE   ENGLISH    HUMOURISTS  OF  THE   EIGHTEENTH 

CENTURY.     By  W.  M.  Thackeray. 
THE  FOUR  GEORGES.     With  Illustrations  bv  the  Auihor      By  W.   M.  Thackeray 
PAUL  THE  POPE  AND  PAUL  THE  FRl.VR.     liy  T.  A.  Trollope. 
THE   ROSE-GARDEN.     By  the  Author  of  '  Unawares." 
CHRONICLES  OF  DUSTYPORE.     A  Tale  of  Modern  Anilo-Indian  Society.     By 

the  .•\ull:or  of  '  Wheat  .and  Tares.' 
IN  THE  SILVER  ACJE.     By  Holme  Lee. 
CARITA.     By  Mrs.  Oliphant. 

WITHIN  THE  PRECINCTS.     By  Mrs.  Oliphnnt. 
SOMi;  LITERARY  RECOLLECTIONS.     By  lames  Pnyn. 
EXTKACrS  FROM  THE  WRITINGS  OF  W.  M.  THACKERAY. 


London  :  SMITH,  ELDER,  &  CO.,   15  Waterloo  Place. 


SMITH,  ELDER,  &  CO.'S  POPULAR  LIBRARY-^^«''>'"^^- 

Pit  tonal  Covers  ^  />ru.e  2s,  each. 
By    \A/^ILKIE    COLLINS. 

NO  NAME.  AFTER  DARK.  ARMADAH. 

•  •  Xhe  aiove  may  also  bt  had  tn  Lmtp  Cloth,  price  is.  td.  each. 

By    the    Author    of 
'JOHN     HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN  ' 
ROMANTIC  TALES. |  DOMESTIC  STORIES. 

By    HOLME     LEE, 

AGAINST  WIND  AND  TIDE.  BASIL  GODFREY'S  CAPRICE. 

SVLVAN   HOLTS  DAUGHTER. 

KATHIE  BRANDE. 

WARP  AND  WOOF.  ^„.^„„^o 

ANNIS  WARLEIGH-S   FORTUNES. 


MAUDE  TALBOT. 
COUNTRY  STORIES. 
KATHERINE'S  TRIAL. 


MR.   WVNVARDS  WARD. 


THV   WORTl  FBANK  DIARY.  MR    WYNVARD 

THE  ^^ORTLEBAmt^UiA^^^^^^^  ^^^^^^  BARRINGTON 


Uniform  with  the  above. 
RECOLLECTIONS  AND  ANECDOTES  OF  THE  CAMP,  THE  COURT,  AND 

THE  CLUBS.     By  Captain  Gronow. 
GRASP  YOUR  NETTLE.     By  E.  Lynn  Linton. 
AGNES  OF  SORRENTO.     By  Mrs.  H.  B.  Stowe. 

TALES  OF  THE  COLONIES:  or,  Adventures  of  an  Emigrant.      By  C.  Rowcroft. 
LAVINIA.     By  the  Author  of  '  Dr.  Antonio'  and  '  Lorenzo  BenonL' 
HESTER  KIRTON.     By  Katharine  S.  Macquoid. 
BY  THE  SEA.     By  Katharine  S.  Macquoid. 
THE  HOTEL  DU  PETIT  ST.  JEAN. 
VER.\.     By  the  Author  of  'The  Hotel  Uu  Petit  St.  Jean." 
IN  THAT  STATE  OF   LIFE.     By  Hamilton  Aidd. 
.MORALS  AND  MYSTERIES.     By  Hamilton  Aide. 
MR.  AND  MRS.   FAULCONBRIDGE.     By  Hamilton  Ald^. 
SIX  MONTHS  HENCE.     By  the  Author  of  'Behind  the  Veil  '&c. 
THE  SrORY  OF  THE  PLEBISCITE.      By  MM.  Erckmann-Chatria"*- 
i.aBRIEL  DENVER.      By  Oliver  Madox  Brown. 
TAKE  CARE  WHOM  YOU  TRUST.     By  Compton  Reade. 
PEARL  AND  E.MERALD.     By  R.  E.  Francillon. 
ISEULTE.     By  the  Author  of  'The  Hotel  du  Petit  St.  Jean.' 
PENRUDDOCKE.     By  Hamilton  Aide. 
A  GARDEN  OF  WOMEN.     By  Sarah  Tytler. 
BRIG.\DIER  FREDERIC.     By  MM.  Erckmann-Chatrian. 
»MOLLY  BAWN.     By  the  Author  of  Phyllis  '  &c. 

MATRIMONY.     By  W.  E.  Ncrris. 
•PHYLLIS.     By  the  Author  of  '  Molly  Bawn  '  &c. 

MADEMOISELLE  DE  MERSAC.     By  W.  E.  Norris. 
•.MRS.  GEOFFREY.     Bv  the  Author  of  '  Molly  Bawn." 

BEN   MILNERS  WOCilNG.     By  Holme  Ler. 
'AIRY  FAIRY  LILIAN.     By  the  Author  of  'Molly  Bawn.' 

FOR  PERCIVAL.     By  Margaret  Vei.ev. 
"ROSSMOYNE.     By  the  Author  of  '  Molly  Bawn.' 
•MEH.\L.-\H.     By  the  Author  of  "John  Herring.' 
•DORIS.     By  the  Author  of  '  Molly  Bawn.' 
•JOHN  HERRING.     By  the  Author  of  '  Mehalah.' 

Nl)   NEW   THI.NG.     By  W.  E.  Norris 

RAINBOW  GOLD.     By  D.  Christie  Murray. 

FORTI.^.     By  the  Author  of  Molly  Bawn.' 
•GREEN    PLEASURE   AND  GREY   GRIEF.     By  the  Author  of 'Molly  Bawn. 
•BEAUTY'S  DAUGHTERS.     By  the  Author  of 'Molly  Bawn.' 
•FAITH  AND  UNFAITH.     By  the  Author  of  '  Molly  Bawn  '  &C. 

LOVE  THE  DEBT.     By  Richard  Ashe  King  (' Basil). 
'LADY  BKANKS.MERE.     By  the  Author  of  '  .Molly  Bawn  '  &c. 
'^COUR T  ROYAL.     Bv  the  Author  of  '  Mehalah,'  '  John  Herring,"  &c. 

THE  HEIR  OF  THE  AGES.     By  James  Payn. 

DE>IOS.     By  George  Gissing.  Author  of  "Thyrza.' 
•LOYS,  LORD  BERRKSFORD,  and  other 'I'lles.     By  the  Author  of  '  MolK  R^wn. 

LOLA  :  a  Tale  of  the  Rock.   By  Arthur  Griffiths,  Author  of  the  '  ChroiuclcNf  f  Newgate.' 
•  These  Volumes  can  also  be  had  in  Limp  Cloth,  fcp.  8vo.  is.  M.  each. 


London:  SMITH.   ELDER,  &   CO  .    15  Waterloo  Place. 


WORKS 
ELIZABETH    BARRETT    BROWNING 

POEMS  BY  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING. 

Fourteenth  Edition.     5  vols.     \Vith  Portrait.     Crown  Svo.   30J. 


AURORA  LEIGH. 

With  Portrait.     Twenty-second  Edition.     Crown  Svo.  "js.  da.  ; 
gilt  edges,  8j.  6t/. 


A  SELECTION  FROM  THE  POETRY  OF  ELIZABETH 
BARRETT  BROWNING. 

With    Portrait    and    Vignette. 

First  Series.     Thirteenth  Edition.     Crown  Svo.  7^.  dd.  ; 
gill  edges,  8j.  (yd. 

*^*  Cheaper  Edition.      Crown  %vo.  3^.  61/. 

Second  Series.     Chfap^r  Edition.     Crown  ?>vo.  3^.  6d. 


POEMS. 

Fcp.  8vo.  half-cloth,  cut  or  uncut  edges,  \s. 

With  a  Prefatory  Note  by  Mr.  Robert  Browning,  rcctifyin,-  the 
inaccuracies  in  the  Memoir  by  Mr.  J.  H.  Inc.r.am  which  is  pr  fixtd 
to  Messrs.  Ward,  Lock,  &  Co.'s  volume  of  Mrs.  ISrowning's  P  )cnis. 

NOTICE.- The  Volumos  contalnlngr  Selections  from  the  Poems  of 
Elizabeth  Barrett  Brownlnp  published  by  Messrs.  Roiitleripre  &  Sens, 
and  by  Mcssr-s.  Ward,  Lock,  &  Co.,  do  not  contnin  the  latest  altera- 
tions and  additions  made  by  the  Author-  which  alterations  and 
additions  are  numerous  and  Important. 


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